Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 46, No. 11, November 1982

Then the demonstrations came, shattered the peace of his quiet classroom, made him think of the old country once again. Police on the campus, swinging their clubs, lobbing their tear gas grenades. He was with his students whom he loved.

After that, some called him names. Same names he’d been called all his life. Some said, said in anger, send him back where he came from!

Where he came from.

And a letter came finally from the State Department, because he was not a citizen.

It was raining the day the letter arrived, a fierce August rain that made him think of boyhood summers far away.

His wife said she would see about it.

And winter came, and the protests on campus increased. And now there were some acts of terrorism around the country. A bomb, a fire, a kidnapping.

He bought a pistol.

And he began spending more time in the chemistry lab at the university.

In Washington there was another bombing, this time at a public building.

One evening his wife announced that she’d obtained an appointment to speak to someone about his status in this country. He told her he was pleased, and helped her pack a bag for the overnight journey.

When she was gone and he was alone in the house, he got out the bomb he’d made from the chemicals.

That night he boarded the late train for Washington.

The city was grim in a February frost. People hurried about, breathing steam, waiting for the President’s next budget message. No one paid him a heed, because he looked so harmless after all.

Senate Office Building,

No guards, no searches.

When will they learn?

He found the door he sought and checked his watch. Yes. Yes, now. He opened the door and saw the secretary half turn in his direction, saw the woman visitor waiting to be admitted, saw the closed door to the Senator’s inner office.

Then he threw the bomb and slammed the door shut.

Running.

People running.

The blast and smoke. Confusion. Someone tugging at his arm until he brushed them aside.

Then free, into the street. Perfect.

The river was smooth that day, flowing smoothly, barely a ripple, reminding him of the rivers back home. He walked for a long time.

Terrorist.

Terrorist bomb kills two in Senator’s office.

Secretary and woman constituant killed by blast.

Terrorist hunted.

Terrorist.

He took the evening train home.

In the morning they came to his house. They were very polite, but they asked so many questions. They asked him about the chemistry lab at the university, and about where he’d been the previous day. They asked him about his wife.

His wife was not home, he told them.

She’d gone to Washington to plead his case before their Senator. She’d been killed by a terrorist’s bomb.

How did you know that, they asked him.

The papers. It was in the papers. And on the television.

Not her name, they told him. Pending notification of next of kin.

And he was next of kin.

It was a terrorist, he kept insisting.

But they arrested him and took him away.