A Vision of Fire

“I sympathize,” Caitlin replied. “I do. I pay more for insurance than I do for rent and office space combined, and that’s saying something in Manhattan. But health issues trump insurance. They must. Otherwise, why are we in this business?”

“Fair point,” Qanooni said as Tanaka made a thoughtful “hmm” sound.

“I’m not wrong about this,” Caitlin prodded.

“But of course,” Qanooni chided. “When was the last time you were wrong?”

“Cameroon, 2010,” she answered. “It was twilight and I mistook a spotted hyena for a dog. I invented the backward broad jump and set a record for it, all in one.”

Caitlin’s phone buzzed, buzzed again. It was a call from Benjamin Moss.

“Director Qanooni, Ms. Tanaka, I do have to go now but I’ll follow up by e-mail. Thank you for your time…”

The director thanked her—and reprised the issue of liability instead of saying good-bye. Caitlin’s phone stopped buzzing, then started again. Ben was calling a second time instead of leaving a voice mail.

Caitlin ended the online meeting, sat back in her chair, and let her eyes rest momentarily on her office walls, full of landscape photos from Thailand, Cuba, the Philippines, her framed degrees and awards—certificates that made her career in adolescent psychiatry easier but didn’t matter, not fundamentally.

She called Ben back—he picked up on the first ring.

“Ben, I have a session in one minute, so this has to be—”

“Can you cancel it?”

“What? No—”

“Cai, I’m serious,” he said. “I need you at the United Nations as soon as you can get here.”

“I’m serious too, Ben, I’ve got—” There was a knock on her door. “One minute!” she called, knowing it was her assistant, probably announcing her client. “Ben, my eleven o’clock is here.”

“Please cancel the appointment,” Ben implored. “You know I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”

Caitlin frowned. “This is important too. At least tell me what it’s about.”

“I can’t tell you over the phone. This area gets electronically swept by every government on the planet. Please, Cai.”

“It’s that serious?”

“That serious.”

Caitlin rose and started toward the door. “Give me five minutes here and I’ll come over.”

“Thanks. I’ll text you where to meet.”

Caitlin ended the call, opened the door, and explained the situation. After rescheduling with her client, she caught a cab and headed for the United Nations.

Ben’s text read 48th and 2nd. As Caitlin’s cab pulled along the curb, she spotted him pacing in front of an apartment tower. He was wearing a tailored suit and a grim expression. She watched her old friend as the cabbie processed her card. A long, dim portico with square arches stretching behind him made his taut stride seem even more restless, as if the arches were boxing him in. He was carefully eyeing every cab that passed. When he eventually registered hers he brightened slightly and hurried over.

She had only noticed fear in Benjamin Moss twice since she met him as an undergrad at New York University: on September 11, 2001, watching the Twin Towers burn from the foot of Washington Square Park, and in Thailand after the tsunami of 2004 as bodies began to wash up onto the shore. But he seemed fearful now.

They hugged. The air felt unusually chilly, even though the sun was shining directly on them.

“I owe you big-time,” he said.

“Time and a half,” she said. “Why am I here?”

With a gentle hand Ben steered Caitlin back to the portico. He stopped there and glanced surreptitiously at the doorman. Caitlin suddenly felt trapped with Ben in his imaginary cage.

“Ben, what’s going on?”

“How’s Jacob?” he asked quietly. “Still ten?”

“He’s fine. Taking cooking classes. He wants to take Tai Chi now like the people in the park.”

“I know a good teacher,” he said. “From China.”

“Ben? Where’s the graveyard and why are you whistling?”

He took a breath. Ben was a translator at the United Nations. She had seen him at work: there was always the briefest delay between what he heard and what he said as he processed exactly how to say it. He was doing that now.

“Early this morning the Indian ambassador to the UN was walking his daughter to school,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper. “You may have heard about it—”

“Attempted assassination,” she said.

“Right. The police commissioner put the Counterterrorism Bureau on it and all they’ve turned up is a nameless guy and a fuzzy surveillance video showing two men on their motorcycle racing down York Avenue.”

“No one’s claimed responsibility?”

Ben shook his head. “The NYPD thinks the men were lone wolves but both India and Pakistan are pointing fingers.”

“So no one even knows why this happened?”

Ben shook his head. “Lots of people have reasons for wanting him dead, or at least sidelined. He’s a pacifist who’s too high-profile to simply recall. More importantly, peace talks started a week ago and most of the United Nations delegates and the Security Council requested that he attend them, over the misgivings of India and Pakistan.”

“And you’re his interpreter,” Caitlin said.