So far the conversation had been going along the classic lines for a terrorist and a negotiator. It was time to change the script. I said, "No."

His eyes narrowed. "No? What does that mean?"

"It means that Safeer would certainly kill that way, but not Hassan Rashid."

He handled it well. His mind whirled, but his face did not change. He raised the pistol and pointed it at me.

"The glass is bulletproof," I reminded him.

He lowered the pistol. "What do you know about Hassan Rashid?"

I told him what I knew. I told him about the lonely exchange student who came to Van Buren and learned to play basketball. I told him about fatherly Mike Teague, and Mutt and Jeff, and the Pom-Pom Queen. I told him about the Poodle, about the baby, about the monthly payments to Violet Simms. I told him all about myself, and he listened carefully.

"Who else knows all this?" he asked.

"I am the only one," I lied.

"And who are you besides being Benjamin?"

"A man who knows many things. A man who knows how to keep secrets."

"There is no aircraft, is there?"

"No. There never was. There never will be."

"Then you have condemned these women to death."

"I don't think so."

He looked to his left, and down at the floor. He pointed the pistol in that direction, and fired. I heard no screams. He had taped their mouths.

Ben, what the hell is going on? It was Sammy. Was that a shot?

Keep the troops back. I'm inside his head. He fired a shot into the floor, no damage. He's trying to mess with me.

"What do you think now?" Safeer asked.

"I think that Hassan fired that shot. You killed no one."

He looked at me with wonder in his eyes. "How well you seem to know me."

"I know you as a brutal murderer."

"I have killed."

"And I know you as the man who dreams of the little girl on flight 307. The girl with the broken face."

The wonder remained. "You know that, too? What else do you know about me?"

"I know that you are going to die tonight."

He gestured with the pistol. "Then these on the floor will die with me."

I shrugged. "Inshallah."

He shook his head. "No, I do not believe that. Not you people."

"Listen to me, Hassan." I put my face as close to the glass as I could. "You are going to die because you would never surrender. I know that without question. But there is more than one way to die. If you make us take you by force, if you make us kill you, then I can promise you that the whole world will learn about Hassan Rashid. June will learn about the man she once loved. Lila will learn about her father. Even old Mike Teague will…"

"Stop that."

"Is that what you want?"

"You know I don't."

"Then you are left with the obvious alternative. And if that happens, only Safeer dies. Hassan Rashid lives on."

"What makes you think I would do something like that?"

"Because you are weary of living. Because you are weary of killing. Because you are weary of dreaming."

"The little girl with the broken face." He was close to it. I went into his head and saw how close he was.

"Yes, that one."

"Amir did that. Or Murad. Sometimes I cannot remember."

"No, you remember. That is why you dream."

"Did I really do it?" He asked it as a true question.

"You did."

"Yes, I suppose I did. But who killed the children of Gaza, the children of the camps, the children in the Bekaa? Those I did not kill." He shook his head. "Still, it would be good to rest that way."

"A form of peace." He was right on the edge. "What difference does it make, today or tomorrow?"

"I should never have come here, but to hear her one more time…" He looked at me directly, and I knew that he was going to do it. I didn't have to go into his head again. I knew. "You took a big chance with the hostages."

"Perhaps."

"When have I ever been merciful?"

"Never, but perhaps the time had come."

"Perhaps. I have your promise about what the world will know?"

"You have it."

He looked at the pistol as if it were the first pistol he had ever seen. "It is not an easy thing to do."

"Easier than some of the other things you have done."

"Oh yes, Benjamin, I can assure you of that. Much easier. In the words of Muhammad Taqi Partovi Sabzevari…"He paused.

"What words?"

" 'It is Allah who puts the gun in our hand, but we cannot expect him to pull the trigger as well, just because we are faint-hearted.' '

He put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

I turned on my heel, and walked out of the Hall. As I walked out, agents ran in. I leaned against the side of the building, then slid down to sit on the sidewalk with my head on my knees. I felt the rain on the back of my neck. Chicken stood over me. His cheeks were wet, but that could have been the rain. Then Snake and Vince were there, Sammy and Martha with her crutch.

Sammy knelt beside me, and said. "You were terrific. You did it."

I shook my head.

"You did. You've been trying for years, and you finally did it. You finally talked somebody to death."

Is that funny? I wondered. I must ask Calvin. Calvin knows funny. "The potential was always there," I said. "I just never tried hard enough."

Sammy gave me a hand to stand up. "Let's go home."

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Herbert Burkholz is a native New Yorker who has lived much of his adult life in Spain, Mexico, Italy, and Greece. Formerly Writer-in-Residence at the College of William and Mary in Virginia, he is the author of eleven books, and his articles have appeared in The New York Times Magazine, Playboy, and other publications.