Last Instructions Page 11

  • Remember to buy a power adapter in the U.S.

  •Stock up on Marlboro + whiskey this evening

  I reread the introduction that appears in the warhead’s instruction manual and review the list of models that preceded the model in my possession, then I search the Internet for information on Russia’s latest warheads. After drawing up a table that includes several models, I use a marker to highlight the capabilities of my warhead. It’s relatively old and there are models today that are far more efficient and powerful.

  The initials RDS, РДС in Cyrillic script, stand for РeaКТИВНЫЙ ДВИГaТeЛЬ СПeЦИaЛЬНЫЙ, or Special Jet Engine, and the Russians used this term as a codename for their nuclear bombs in an effort to confuse the Americans—without any real success. The instruction manual I have includes information on the older models, but the Internet offers very little information on the newer ones, aside from the types of missiles the particular warhead can be fitted to and their respective ranges.

  A hydrogen bomb is modeled on the Teller-Ulam design, which, in essence, is a combination of nuclear fission and fusion in a single warhead. A powerful fission bomb is used to ignite fusion reactions around a plutonium core, thereby causing the buildup of a large quantity of X-ray photons inside the warheads’ tightly sealed casing, which is filled with polystyrene. The polystyrene turns into plasma, the plasma compresses the 2ndary material, Lithium-6 usually, and the plutonium trigger within begins a process of nuclear fusion, causing a chain reaction, and the fusion of the Lithium-6 becomes tritium that bonds with deuterium to form Helium-4, a single neutron and energy of 17.59 electron volts. Matter that turns into energy. It’s interesting to see how a material with similar characteristics to cooking salt can cause a blast hundreds of times more powerful than a single-stage atomic bomb.

  My warhead is a transition model between the old ones and tactical nuclear weapons for medium-range missiles. It doesn’t weigh tons like the initial American- and Russian-made bombs, but neither is it elegant like the United States’ more recent tactical artillery shells or their suitcase nuclear devices that were manufactured in the early 1960s.

  It isn’t as powerful as a hydrogen bomb either.

  It’ll still satisfy my needs.

  03/19/2016—Morning, 14 weeks and 1 day since waking

  I pull off the road west of Tijuana and park the RV on the shores of Presea El Carrizo, a high-lying lake surrounded by mountains. I’ll be crossing the border into the United States this evening and I need to ready the vehicle for the drive. I remove the ceiling panel and dismantle the grenades, securing them again with strips of duct tape before placing them in a plastic bag. I throw in the pistol, the extra magazine, and the bullets and toss it all into the lake. After crossing the border into Mexico, I retrieved the pistol from behind the microwave oven and slept with it every night, laying out my sleeping bag in a spot from which I could keep watch over both the tent and the RV. The tent served as bait in the event of an attempt by someone to attack me or steal the RV like that guy with the severe fire allergy. Already on my 2nd night in Mexico, a group of 3 young men fired a few rounds into the tent and tried to steal the vehicle. I shot all 3 of them while they were standing beside the RV and trying to figure out how to restart the vehicle after it cut out on them a few seconds after their 1st attempt, and then I ate the tasty cornbread that I found in one of their bags with the spicy red salsa I had in the RV’s refrigerator. Mexican food is delicious.

  I throw the lead apron into the lake, too, and it sinks below the surface in no time at all. I can’t risk being questioned at the border. I make a neat pile out of all the equipment I purchased and have been storing in the RV and on its roof. I fill the RV’s gas tank to the brim with fuel from the jerrycans and then pour the remainder on the pile of equipment and set it on fire. The RV looks neglected and dirty and I give it a good scrub down with water from the lake and dishwashing detergent. It looks as good as new by the time I’m done. I clean the inside, too, getting rid of all food and drink aside from a single bottle of water that I leave in the refrigerator. Everything else goes into the bonfire, including the leftover whiskey and cigarettes. They won’t do me any good at the U.S. border.

  The only things I don’t burn are the Russian-language instruction manuals for the warhead. I wrap them in several plastic bags and bury them in the ground on the shore of the reservoir, close to where I was standing when I threw the lead apron into the water. I hang on to the operation manual only.

  Among the passports I have is an American one. I thought initially that I’d use it to enter the United States, but I don’t know if they’ve run any checks on it over the past 9 years and it may be invalid by now. Furthermore, my English isn’t American English, and that, too, could arouse suspicion at the border—not to mention the hassle of the paperwork that would be required to transfer the vehicle into the name of the individual listed in the American passport. I’ll stick with the Swedish passport and use it to cross the border.

  I fold up the tent and sleeping bag and pack them away in the RV. I then take a shower and put on clean clothes, turn on the fuel pump switch, get into the vehicle, and drive to the border crossing.

  On reaching the border, I head for the multilane crossing point and make my way to the zone for foreign passport holders. I drive to a station where they examine my passport. A border guard asks me to place the 4 fingers of my right hand on the fingerprint reader. And then my right thumb. And then to do the same with my left hand. And then to look into the camera. “How long do you plan to stay in the United States?” he asks.

  “3 or 4 months, sir,” I respond. “I’m making my way through the Americas, from my starting point in Bolivia and all the way up into northern Canada.”

  “Do you have sufficient funds to be in the United States for 4 months?”

  “Yes, sir. I have $7,500 in cash and that should be plenty because I sleep in the RV and don’t have to pay for hotels. I’m an outdoor kinda traveler, not a shopping mall one. My plans over the coming days include a drive through the Colorado River Reserve toward the Grand Canyon. And then I’ll continue north from there.”

  “Your passport is worn out. I suggest you renew it.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll get a new passport when I return to Sweden in a few months’ time. This one really has been through the mill.”

  “You have no plans to leave your vehicle in the United States on a permanent basis, correct?”

  “That’s correct, sir. I’ll be selling it in Canada at the end of my trip.”

  “Move on to the vehicle inspection station,” he says, pointing in the relevant direction.

  My RV undergoes a comprehensive inspection. They go over it from top to bottom, opening every storage compartment and using a sniffer dog to scan the interior for signs of drugs. The border guard grimaces when he opens the compartment on the side of the RV where the sewage extraction pipe is stored, and he quickly shuts it again. A 2nd officer examines the vehicle’s registration papers. “I have to replace that sewage pipe,” I say. “It ruptured somewhere in Bolivia and I haven’t been able to find a suitable replacement anywhere. I can finally deal with it now that I’m here.”

  The border guard doesn’t respond. He enters some data into his terminal and hands back the registration papers and my passport. “You’re clear to go, Mr. Salstrom,” he says.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  I get back into the RV and begin the long drive ahead to McLean, Virginia. I’m currently on the West Coast and need to get to the East. To do it in one shot, without stopping, would take 38 hours. I’m planning on a week of driving, with stops and rest along the way.

  I pull over at a rest stop along the I-8 East at noon. I fill up the RV and go to a Starbucks for a chicken and smoked bacon sandwich. While eating my meal with a large glass of orange juice, I compile a list:

    1.  2 white porcelain vases

    2.  Plastic flowers

    3.  
Box cutter

    4.  Band-Aids

    5.  Duct tape

    6.  Hammer

    7.  Nails

    8.  Wood saw

    9.  Hacksaw

  10.  Screws

  11.  Chargeable power screwdriver

  12.  2 strong wooden boards measuring 2 × 1 meters

  13.  8 wooden beams—2 meters in length each

  14.  6 metal rods—2 meters in length each

  15.  Silicone sealant

  16.  Roll of heavy duty nylon sheeting

  17.  Rubber gloves

  18.  Box of matches

  19.  2 large jacks

  20.  Garbage disposal bags

  21.  6 metal pulley wheels

  22.  Roll of metal strip

  23.  Food for breakfasts and dinners in the RV

  24.  Powerful vacuum cleaner with an operating switch that can be left in a fixed ON position

  25.  110V AC to 24V DC power converter

  26.  Electrical adapter that can be screwed into a lightbulb socket and fitted with an electric outlet

  27.  Home UPS system

  28.  Android phone with a $500 prepaid SIM card

  29.  Phone charger

  30.  Smart-house electrical system with one smart socket

  31.  Multi-outlet

  32.  Wire cutter

  33.  Electrical cable (2 meters)

  34.  Stepladder

  35.  Flashlight and batteries

  36.  Extension cord

  37.  Black marker

  38.  Lock (internal cylinder) for a door (confirm type when I have the key to the storage unit)

  I spend the night in a trailer park again. The bumper sticker on the RV parked next to me reads: WE’RE BURNING THROUGH OUR CHILDREN’S INHERITANCE, and an elderly couple is sitting outside the vehicle. They’re eating dinner and invite me to join them. They ask me questions about Sweden and I make up stories about my native land. When they ask where I’m going, I tell them I’m on a very important mission and would have to kill them if I were to say anything more.

  The 3 of us laugh.

  December 7, 2016

  The buzz and a series of clicks informed Amiram and Efrat of the arrival of their daily meal. They’d been imprisoned in complete darkness for three days now. The metal bowl in their cage filled with dog kibble, and two bottles of mineral water dropped down. The food dispenser that was fixed to one of the cage’s sides kicked into motion at the same time every day—they picked up on this during the first two days, when their cell phone batteries were still up and running. Once the batteries ran out, they had no light and no way of telling the time, or knowing whether it was day or night. Efrat didn’t think she’d be able to hold out under such conditions for very long, in darkness, with the audio recording that played over and over again every five minutes on an endless loop.

  You betrayed me, Amiram.

  Your husband betrayed me, Efrat.

  This is just the beginning.

  You’re going to be here for a very long time.

  Remember, the cage is your home, keep it clean.

  “It’s driving me crazy,” Amiram sighed. They were sitting side by side with their backs against the bars. He hadn’t told Efrat about the contents of the notebook. He didn’t want to subject her to the same sense of despair that had befallen him. All he told her was that the man who had imprisoned them there was a rogue agent who wanted to exact revenge on the Organization through them, and that they needed to hold out until the Organization tracked him down and came to their rescue.

  “Perhaps we can try to send a message out from here?” Efrat said as she fumbled around in the dark and picked up one of the empty water bottles on the floor. “If we can cut through this bottle and tear off a piece, maybe we can scratch a message onto the plastic and throw the piece into the toilet, and maybe it’ll find its way to someone who will read it?”

  “We don’t know where we are. We don’t really have anything to write or anything to write with. And what are the chances of someone poking around in the sewage and picking up a filthy piece of plastic? We have no choice. We have to wait. If he wanted to kill us, he wouldn’t be giving us water and food in here. He’ll show up at some point, and perhaps we’ll be able to convince him to release us somehow.”

  He didn’t really believe what he said.

  December 9, 2016

  - I don’t think it’s causing him much pain at all.

  - I think you’re right.

  Lorenzo and Ricardo looked at Sharon Tuvian lying at their feet. His hands and feet were bound with zip ties that were fixed to hooks in the floor of their hotel room in Netanya. The hooks had been fixed in place the day before. Ricardo had positioned them such that whoever was tied to them would be lying in the pose that appears in that Da Vinci illustration. The other hotel guests paid no attention at all to the sound of the drilling when Ricardo screwed them into the floor—and that was a good thing. Because if by chance the fucker managed to spit out the rag in his mouth and scream, no one would really care much. And the fucker didn’t scream. Didn’t say a word. Either he was really, really stupid, or there was something that frightened him more than the twins standing over him. Ricardo had already extracted one of Tuvian’s wisdom teeth without the use of an anesthetic. He had also relieved him of the small toe of his left foot without even a squeak from the man.

  - If we chop off a few more toes, do you think you’ll still be able to stand up straight?

  - He’s not going to answer. Perhaps he’s mute. Do you think he’s mute?

  - No, I think he’s just a quiet one.

  - Perhaps he isn’t answering because we’re using the name he assumed here in Israel and not his original name? Maybe he’ll answer if we call him Shariri? Doesn’t that make sense?

  - No, I don’t think that’s the issue.

  - Tell me, Ricardo, I’ve been wanting to ask you something since the day we landed here.

  - What?

  - Why were you served your food before anyone else on the flight over?

  - Because I ordered a vegetarian meal. I logged into the KLM website before the flight and requested a vegetarian meal.

  - Yet you sat next to me yesterday and devoured a 500 gram medium-rare burger.

  - One has nothing to do with the other. I order vegetarian meals on airplanes because the flight attendants serve them long before they get to you with their meal cart. That way I get to eat before everyone else, and everyone around me sees me doing so and gets pissed because they haven’t been served yet. I chew noisily and swallow with gusto just to annoy them even more. Sometimes I request a kosher meal, or halal, or gluten-free. Whatever I feel like. As long as I get mine first.

  - You’re a sick man. Are you aware, Ricardo, that I traveled to Colombia a few months ago to sort a few things out?

  - Yes, I heard you were there. You’re a real man of the world wandering around like that in Nepal and Colombia. But I didn’t hear anything about the reason for your trip.

  - I had to kill some woman.

  - So it was a business trip then?

  - Yes, you could say so. I was reimbursed for my travel expenses.

  - Who was she?

  - Who cares? That’s not what I wanted to tell you about. I wanted to tell you about the ants.

  - Ants?

  - Yes, there’s a unique species of ant there, a very dangerous one.

  - Where?

  - In Colombia.

  - What are they called?

  - Who?

  - The ants. Do they have a name? What type of ant?

  - I have no idea. Just really big ants. Black ones.

  - Too bad.

  - Who gives a shit, Ricardo, if the fucking ants are called Black Chickloderma Ants or Booga Ants?

  - It’s important. Names aren’t simply chosen randomly. They me
an something.

  - The important thing is what these ants do.

  - Let’s suppose you didn’t have a name. What would I call you? Tall Man?

  - I’d call you: Obsessive Man Who Won’t Let It Go. That’s what I’d call you.

  - I’m simply making a case, for argument’s sake, on the importance of a name. That’s all. There’s no need to make a big deal out of everything like a teenage girl who can’t get her hair to look right before school. That’s all.

  - Okay, so do you want to hear about the ants?

  - Yes, very much so. Those black ants—are they venomous?

  - No, not at all. Yet they can still kill a man just like that—Boom!

  - Were you tripping there on peyote or something?

  - I’m telling you, Ricardo, these ants can kill a man in a minute. They have a unique method.

  - What method?

  - They rest quietly in a circle around their victim and keep an eye on him, patiently waiting for him to fall asleep.

  - And then?

  - And then all at once a thousand or so ants crawl into his mouth and nose to create a ball of ants in his throat, and he chokes to death.

  - What?

  - You heard me. By the time the person wakes up, he already has a black ball of ants stuck in his throat. They showed me a picture of it from an autopsy done on a local from the Florencia region, of the doctors pulling a black ball of ants out of his throat.

  - But don’t the ants die by doing that?

  - Yes. Most of the ants in the victim’s throat die, but they sacrifice themselves for the greater good, so that the others can eat. The ants can live off the body of a person or a lamb or a dog for an entire year. But they can’t do the same to a horse or a cow. Their windpipes are too wide and the ants can’t block them. With a person it’s easier.