Midas

21

Nuri Al-Bazaad sat in his Buick, in the parking lot of the fast-food restaurant, and used the cell phone he’d been given to make the call he’d been instructed to make. When the voice on the other end answered, all it said was, “How long?” Nuri had already calculated the time it would take to get out of his car, walk into the restaurant, and find what he needed to find.

“Two minutes and twenty seconds,” he said into the phone.

The voice said, “You have three minutes. Starting. . now.”

Nuri was already moving when he hung up the phone. Out the door, across the lot, past the five or six big American cars parked there. Through the heavy glass door. Step inside. He looked around, as he’d done during his test run, but things had changed. They had moved. No. Just two of them had moved. The third one was right where she’d been.

Nuri had to make a decision. He went for the two. They were standing in front of a small counter that held ketchup and mustard and napkins and plastic forks and spoons. He went up to the person he was supposed to go up to. They had said not to talk, just to stand there, but he wanted to speak, wanted to say something that might be comforting. So he walked right to her, leaned forward, and spoke into her ear.

“You’re very lucky,” he said.

She backed away from him and he saw a look of fear cross her face.

“You’re lucky,” he said again. “Soon there will be music everywhere. Like surround sound. And there will be great warmth. You will all be protected and happy.”

The woman looked at him like he was mad. Then she turned back to the table, back to the second child, who was smiling. The child waved to her mother.

The mother began to scream.

And then Nuri’s cell phone rang.