by Jack Dayton
He laid there on the grass of the hill, unable to move. His companion, Ruslan, pulled at the heavy cloth of his coat. He yelled at him but even his shouted “come on” was distracted, feeble. It wasn’t real. But it was all real . . . and the only way. A final ‘fuck you’ to the Russians. His breath came faster as he remembered and his chest flooded with the rage and pain of that day.
He had used a dagger just like this. A weapon of beauty and supreme lethality. He prized this instrument of death. He took twisted pride in his mastery of it. He knew it would always be there for him and that he would use it someday again.
* * *
Vance had been to the Royal Norwegian Embassy in the past and knew that it would be tricky finding Aksel. The likelihood that he could march through the front door and simply wait until Aksel walked out, smiling to shake his hand and give him a hug was remote. He just didn’t know what other option existed. He parked the car and walked the short distance to the Chancery, past the neo-classical building that acted as the official diplomatic outlet for the government of Norway. The building was decked out for Christmas with white lights arrayed across the small trees and shrubs aligning the front of the building. The low clouds and impending sunset brought the lights to life in the gloom of the late afternoon DC December. You might even miss the black bunting that graced the main door of the stately building.
Vance walked past the gated curve of the drive and the cheerful countenance of the statue of Crown Princess Martha that welcomed visitors to the Embassy. He continued on 34th Street NW to the Chancery, the administrative section of the Embassy, passing parallel to the covered portico on his left that connected the two buildings. The portico reminded him of a medieval cloister with its half wall of black grate but he knew that it bordered a beautiful garden courtyard that would be abloom with purple heather and pink astilbe of Norway during the summer months. Vines that in summer shaded the portico were bare of leaves now. The walkway connected the two buildings that could not have offered a greater contrast. The classic traditional design of the diplomatic building, warm, accented by carved wood, large fireplaces, elegant carpets was a contrast with the stark, contemporary design of the administrative building. It’s concrete and glass façade represented the archetype of Scandinavian architecture. Its massive structure dwarfed the more formal building, easily accommodating the over 500-member staff, one of the largest of all the embassies in the District.
He walked to the short flight of steps leading to the lobby, past the dark modern bas relief of a deconstructed face, and entered a small vestibule. Beyond the vestibule was a more comfortable lobby with chrome accented black leather chairs and a window to the left behind which a young woman seated at the desk raised her gaze to meet Vance as he approached. Her blond hair was arranged loosely around her face in curves that enhanced her bright, ice blue eyes. The stainless steel keyless entry pad to the right of the door included a doorbell speaker system. Vance rang the doorbell and waited a moment before a cheerful female voice came through. “Good afternoon. Can I help you?”
“Good afternoon. Yes, I am trying to reach an old friend of mine assigned here, Major Aksel Dahl. Would it be possible for you to let him know I am here and would like to speak to him?
“And your name?”
“Gunnery Sergeant Roscoe Vance,” he answered hoping his military connection might advantage him in the attempt to reach Aksel.
“Thank you. One moment please.” There was pause as she looked down. Her brow furrowed slightly. Then the voice returned. “I’m sorry but Major Dahl is not available.”
Vance paused, taking in the array of options the phrase ‘not available’ might represent.
“Not available? What does that mean?” Vance could see she wasn’t prepared to answer in detail and pressed. “I know he is here. Can I speak to him?”
“Well, I am not sure what Major Dahl’s status is. But he is listed as unavailable here on the roster. Again, I am sorry but I don’t have anything further to offer you.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Vance pushed back.
There was another pause. The voice came back on. “Would you please step into the lobby?”
Vance smiled broadly now as he approached the window and the woman slid the heavy glass to the left. “Thank you for letting me in. Cold out there.”
She smiled back and nodded. “Sir, I would like to be able to help you contact your friend but I am not in a position to do any more.”
Vance could see a security officer at a desk back out of sight from the vestibule watching his exchange with the young woman.
“Well, can I at least leave a message for him?”
“I can take the message but I have no control of Major Dahl’s status and whether he will contact you.”
“I understand,” Vance took the pen she offered and the note pad, eyeing the security officer as he moved around his station and stood with his arms folded sitting on the desk watching from his post. He quickly scratched a note, leaving his number and returned the pad.
He thanked her as she took the pad and closed the glass. He looked past her to the security guard watching his every move. Vance was sure he was descended from a Viking bloodline. He turned and walked to the door and went back out through the vestibule. He was about the step down to the street when he heard a loud knocking on the plate glass window on his right that bordered the landing. He turned to see Kiersten Siggordson standing at the middle of the window knocking and motioning for him to come back in.
Vance went back into the vestibule and watched as Ms. Siggordson spoke to the blonde woman first. She nodded as the young woman responded. She then turned to the security officer. The officer answered and she spoke again. He seemed uncomfortable but before he could finish his sentence, she raised her hand to cut him off. She shifted her eyes back to the young woman who exchanged a quick glance with the guard but said nothing.
The young blonde turned to her console then and the loud buzz signaling permission to enter punctuated the conversation. Vance didn’t wait for a verbal invitation but pushed through to the lobby. As he entered again, he saw another door to his left opening and Ms. Siggordson motioning him over.
Vance noticed that she was not the woman who had met him at the door to the McLean mansion. They were all changed by that night, none moreso than she. He last remembered seeing her bent over her dying husband, blood pooling under her knees as she wailed in grief.
Her hair, no longer flowing around her shoulders, was caught back in a tight bun at the nape of her neck, one thin straw-colored strand curving down from a middle part to graze her right cheek. Her dark brown eyes had gray half-moons circling under her dark lashes. The knit black turtleneck dress clung to her thin frame, her black tights and black ankle boots completing her widow’s weeds. Small gold comma earrings were her only concession to feminine adornment.
Mrs. Siggordson nodded to Vance, gently directing him to follow her, gesturing to a hall off the main lobby. Vance followed her lead to a stiff red couch facing the window on which she had tapped out her summons. She seated herself in the matching chair next to him.
“You are the Marine who came to the party, Aksel’s friend, ya?” Her eyes were clear and focused on his face, even as the tinges of sadness were apparent. Her brow was knit and it seemed almost as though she would begin weeping as she sat leaning forward, elbows on knees.
“Yes, ma’am, we were there at your husband’s invitation. I want to tell you how very sorry I am at the loss you and your children have experienced. Colonel Siggordson was a great man and it is heartbreaking for all of us.”
Kiersten Siggordson’s head dropped and she took a moment to regain her composure. When she raised her face she was composed, a steely will displayed in the change in demeanor. Her tender features now sharp with resolve.
“Thank you. You will have to forgive me but I don’t remember your name. I know it is in the police report but I haven’t been able to bring myself to read it.”
/> “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Vance apologized. “I am Gunnery Sergeant Roscoe Vance. Gunny Vance.”
“That’s right. I remember now,” A slight shake of the head and welling in her eyes betrayed that she was back at the moment they had met. “You can understand how hard it is for me to go back to that night, ya? As I am sure it is for you. If what I have heard is true, you also lost someone close to you.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Vance responded. “Major Guidry was a close friend of both mine and Aksel’s. Ma’am, I am trying to reach Aksel but am having no success. Is there a reason that he hasn’t responded to my calls and emails?”
“I don’t know all the details, Gunny, but I do know he is confined to the Embassy. I believe he will be sent back to Oslo by the end of the week. As to why he is not responding, I’m afraid I can’t offer you any insight.”
“Is there any way I can get a message to him? It seems like things are moving rapidly here.”
“Well, I am not sure where he is and I haven’t seen him since that night but I could try to get him a message. That doesn’t mean he will be able to respond, of course. You left your number at the desk, ya?”
“Yes, ma’am, and I understand.”
“You don’t mind if I ask you a question, Gunny?”
“Of course not, ma’am.”
“Did Thor say why he wanted you to come to the party that night? I mean, did he mention the reason for inviting you?”
“The only thing he said was he thought that Aksel would appreciate us being there right now. He never went beyond that and at the time it didn’t register as anything noteworthy.”
“That was all he said?” Her face was a puzzle of confusion now, hungry for something more than the meager off-hand remark he offered.
“I’m sorry but yes, that was all. And I can’t reach Aksel so I can’t ask him what he might have meant.”
“Well, we are both left with questions.”
“Yes, ma’am. But I am not going to stop asking until I get some answers” Vance returned her steady gaze.
The slightest curve in Kiersten Siggordson’s lips conveyed all Vance needed to know. “Okay, Gunny, I will do my best.”
“Ma’am, if I may, what are your plans?”
“My plans? To take Thor home. After that, I don’t know what will happen. I haven’t thought of myself apart from him for so long that nothing beyond him makes sense. My children will have to keep me going for now.” She rose as she finished the statement, a valediction that seemed fitting to end their conversation.
“Thank you, Ma’am and I wish you the best.”
“And to you as well, Gunny. I hope we get our answers.” With that they walked back to the lobby and parted company, each with a mission.
* * *
The gloominess of the day fit Vance’s mood. It would appear his trip to the Embassy would yield little to enlighten him about the reasons for the carnage a week before. He was immersed in his morose reflection, his hand finding the Royal Norwegian Embassy pen he had neglected to return in his pocket. Head down, he exited through the lobby to the vestibule and out the front door. As he stepped down the short flight of steps, he turned left to the sidewalk and almost bumped into a figure blocking the walk. Vance found himself face to face with the surprise appearance of Major Rune Nygaard standing in front of the Chancery building. Nygaard wasted no time.
“So, you weren’t able to find your friend, Gunny Vance.”
“Not yet. But I’m sure he and I will connect eventually.” Vance was mildly surprised that Nygaard remembered him.
Nygaard’s smirk faded a bit. “Well, he won’t be here much longer. I hope you have a chance to make your good-byes.”
“Oh, you never know. It’s a small world and you might be surprised at how often your paths might cross. Like you and me, for instance. Who would’ve predicted that we would ever meet again?”
“I agree. Sometimes life surprises us.” Nygaard’s dour manner had gone from sullen to menace now. “And sometimes it is better not to chase the surprises, is it not? Better to move along?”
Gunny returned Nygaard’s gaze with a look he had mastered when working with the Sunni sheiks in Anbar. It was a straight look, cold and direct. “Good advice. Advice we could all use. Major.”
With that, Vance stepped around the Major and moved down the street to his car. Nygaard watched him wondering how much trouble Vance could be. He was just one Marine.
* * *
Vance took advantage of the traffic stop-and-go to tilt his head left and right, stretching his tense neck muscles. A slight pop on the left side of his neck offered minor relief but Vance knew the source of his tension wouldn’t be alleviated by twisting and stretching. He kept a longer than usual distance from the car in front of him southbound on I-95, absorbing the already familiar landscape of Northern Virginia. The Glob traffic app showed a long dark red line extending from where he was just north of Occoquan to well past Dumfries. He checked it again and was about to throw his phone down into the console when a text popped up.
A 202 number, unrecognized was buzzing him. He opened his message app and tapped the unfamiliar number. A single line of communication.
“Aksel is ready to climb. Tomorrow 0700.”
No need to ask where. It was the place they had claimed for themselves for winter climbs. Vance hoped Aksel was ready to help him understand why he and Guidry had been summoned to a place where Aksel had lost a mentor and they had both lost a friend.
Chapter 7
The desk where Anton Kulyak managed the complex network of his business was as he preferred: uncluttered, unadorned, unassuming. It was a tool to assist him accomplish the least appealing tasks of the import-seed oil-restaurant-drug distribution-money laundering endeavor. He was operating out of the back of Le Vizit Kafe, the place to get authentic Chechen cuisine in the District of Columbia. Or in the whole country as far as he knew. Yes, there were some restaurants that dabbled in the limited cuisine of Chechnya but inevitably this meant their menu evolved into some watered-down Russian/Azerbaijani/Georgian mix.
It mattered little. The restaurant wasn’t the heart of his enterprise. He knew that Abukhan took an exaggerated pride in the purity of his Chechen dishes. His signature specialty, chepalgash, was certainly the type of comfort food Kool would have killed for when he was up in the hills above Grozny resisting the Russians who occupied the city. Or when he was still a mere child, surviving in the basement of his bombed-out apartment, his mother cooking for him and his brother over an open pit, stirring whatever she could find into a soup they never questioned. They knew better than to ask, even as the cat and dog population thinned to nothing.
Of course, the difficulty is luring people to enjoy a dish made with kefir dough with cottage cheese filling what looked like a layer cake when presented. Not exactly Chicken Kiev. The rest of the menu was meat and potatoes . . . literally. Aside from the chudu meat pies, you could mistake the menu for any steak house in the heart of downtown Chicago, except for the gristle. When Kool saw people sitting in the overly formal dining room, he always stopped, squinting. Did he recognize them? He would question the staff. What are they talking about, he wanted to know. What language are they speaking? Usually, the diners were lost, footsore tourists who had decided they couldn’t go any further without food and Le Vizit was the benefactor of their exhaustion. More frequently, those tourists would take one step in, sweaty and thirsty, take one look at the heavy draperies and linen table cloths and usher their moaning children out the door.
The ones that decided to stay or, suspiciously, those who seemed to have selected Le Vizit as a destination were viewed with skepticism. Not by Abukhan, of course. He could afford to enjoy the patrons complimenting the food and expressing surprise at how unexpectedly delicious it was, like they had taken a risk to eat there. But Kool had not survived in a notoriously risky business by being trusting. His days of trusting were over when he was no longer in the company of Marines.
; Today was like many recent days. Abukhan was throwing his utensils around the kitchen, cursing. The staff of young males was trying to stay out of his way. They resembled competitors from Ultimate Fighting more than the typical fresh-faced college students that usually populated wait staff. They were under instructions to strut on their own time. Kool was clear about his expectations. They were to keep their hair, mustaches and beards neatly trimmed and they were to wear their uniform of white tuxedo shirts buttoned to the wrist. No need to display the more disturbing tattoos from their Chechen gang days for the curiosity of the patrons they did have. For all appearances, Le Vizit was an endeavor by immigrants grateful to be in the land of opportunity.
Kool tuned out the percussive noise from the kitchen and tried to concentrate on the folder in front of him on the desk. He looked up when Vakha Timayev, his import manager loomed in the doorway. An air of quiet menace was an accessory to Vakha, one of his trusted friends from the old war, and he dressed the part as well. His balding head was unshaved, leaving a ring of dark hair circling his shiny dome. His black mustache hung down past the corners of his mouth and he preferred to shave once a week so his face, when shaven seemed odd and never failed to catch Kool by slight surprise. Today was a shave day so when Kool gave a quick double-take, Vakha’s sneer was as close as he came to a smile.
“Why don’t you make a decision? Beard or shave?” He enjoyed this repeated jab at his usually inscrutable lieutenant. He closed the folder he was working on, waiting for Vakha.
“Never look same on security camera.”
Kool snorted. As if his facial hair would make a difference. His uniform of leather jacket with the sleeves torn off and leather fingerless gloves were his trademark. His bare arms revealed his war bona fides. The waves of scars and overlapping skin, wrinkled shades of white and pink, wound around his thick forearms, a souvenir of a Russian thermo-baric bomb that found him in Grozny.
“What’s happening today, Vakha?” Kool leaned back in his leather executive chair and waited for the report.
