Glamorama

"How's that possible?" I ask, confused.

"Depending on what planet you live on, Victor, it's not so hard."

A long patch of silence.

"There's a small problem, Palakon."

"If it's small it's not a problem, Mr. Ward."

"Oh, I think this is," I say, my voice getting tiny.

"Just take Jamie Fields back to the United States," Palakon says. "That's all you need to do."

"There's a small problem," I repeat.

"My patience ran out the minute we met, Mr. Ward. What is it?"

"Well, you see," I say, leaning in for emphasis, smiling involuntarily, my heart tightening, whispering loudly, "They're all murderers."

Palakon sighs wearily. "Excuses, excuses. Oh Mr. Ward, you can do better than that. You're not that lazy."

In a calm and purposeful fashion I try to express everything that has been happening: how they memorize maps, passwords, warning signals, airline timetables, how they learn to strip, assemble and load an array of light machine guns-M16s, Brownings, Scorpions, RPGS. Kalashnikovs-to throw off tails, how one day they had to eliminate everything in our computer system that connected them to Libya. I tell Palakon about the detailed maps of various American and Israeli embassies scattered throughout the house, that at any given time three million dollars in cash is hidden in a closet downstairs next to the gym, that we know certain people only by code names, that intermediaries lunch frequently in the house and there are so many parties. I tell Palakon about how fake passports are arranged and how those passports are constantly being shredded and burned, how Bobby is always traveling to Belgrade or to Zagreb and visas are applied for in Vienna and there are anxious consultations and trips to villas in outlying suburbs. How I am constantly being introduced to just another young Palestinian with a "troubled past" or to someone who was partially blinded by an Israeli letter bomb, patriots who had strayed from the path, people offering pretexts for refusing to negotiate, beautiful men boasting of secret alliances.

I tell Palakon about the bombing of the Institute of Political Studies, the bombing at Cafe Flore, the bombing on the metro at Pont Royal. I tell Palakon about a car lined with 120 pounds of explosives that rolled down a hill in Lyons and smashed into a police station, killing eight people, four of them children, injuring fifty-six. I explain the attempted bombing of the Louvre, how Jamie Fields poisoned the pool at the Ritz, the whispered references to TWA flights leaving Charles de Gaulle, how new social security numbers were invented, aerial reconnaissance photos were taken, certain vanishings accomplished. I tell Palakon about a chaotic party, then about another chaotic party, while I'm gripping the comforter and it all seems so insubstantial that I'm reminded of a Basque separatist movement's motto one of the scriptwriters showed me one day in a red spiral notebook: "Action Unites. Words Divide."

Palakon studies me. He sighs, then keeps sighing for what seems like minutes.

"If I believe you, Mr. Ward-and I don't know if I'm there yet-what does this have to do with-"

"Hey, I didn't make this up," I shout. "I'm not that good an actor."

"I'm not saying you made it up, Victor," Palakon says, shrugging. "What I'm thinking, however, is that perhaps you have a more active imagination than I realized. Maybe you've seen too many movies, Mr. Ward."

Something suddenly flashes in front of me. A somber realization.

"The hat," I say. "They have the hat."

Palakon glances over at the Christian Bale guy.

Palakon looks back at me.

"What do you mean?" Palakon asks tentatively.

"They have the hat," I say. "The hat you told me to bring."

"Yes?" Palakon asks, drawing out the word. "What... exactly are you saying?"

"I found the hat that Lauren Hynde gave me," I say. "It was in their bathroom. It was in their bathroom-Jamie and Bobby's."

"I'm confused," Palakon says. "Did you give it to them?"

"No. I didn't."

"But..." Palakon shifts around uncomfortably in his chair until he is sitting erect, his back straight. A new, ominous mood fills the room. "What are you saying? How did they get it?"

"I don't know," I say. "It disappeared from my cabin on the QE2," I say. "I found it an hour ago in a bathroom drawer," I say.

Palakon stands up, starts pacing, scowling to himself He's taking stances that say: this changes everything.