by P A Duncan
“I believe he thinks he’s got something on everyone,” Mai said, hoping to reassure.
“Mai…” Howard stopped, swallowed hard, gave a sniff. “I think if we could have gone in the way we planned, we would have saved a lot of people. It would have been a righteous bust.”
“The most righteous.”
“I hope we work together again.” Howard smiled at her. “If only to lay eyes on that hunk of a husband you have.”
Mai returned the smile. “I’d be death for your career, but thanks.”
Men would have shaken hands, perhaps slapped each other’s backs, but after what both of them had witnessed today, the only meaningful gesture was a warm and womanly embrace.
Mai left Dana Howard behind in the command center and walked about the compound, trying to push memories down. She paused and rubbed gritty eyes. She’d been awake close to twenty-four hours. When she looked up again, she saw the FBI cameraman she’d struck her deal with packing his equipment into a van.
Damn.
She didn’t want to call attention to a meet with him and forced herself to stroll toward him. He smiled at her when she walked up. “Hey, I was wondering if you were going to stop by again,” he said.
“Been busy,” she replied.
He turned a little gray and said, “Yeah, I put the video cameras on auto. I couldn’t look through the viewfinders anymore.” He sighed, his affable expression back in place. “Come on inside. I saved back some things from packing in case I saw you.”
Mai looked around to see if anyone watched and followed him inside.
As he turned on a monitor and a video player, he said, “The guy you were interested, he bugged out a day or so after your request. I got plenty of shots of him before that. Used my personal cameras so, you know, no guilty feelings.”
She nodded and looked at the footage on the monitor. “That’s him,” she said. “Any I.D.?”
“Not so far, but that means he’s not in any criminal database.”
“Military perhaps?”
“With that haircut? Likely. Fort Hood is close by. Maybe he’s recently discharged, like the early-out after the Gulf War. Took that one myself. He was selling bumper stickers.”
The photog shuffled through some stills and held one out to her. The man sat on the bonnet of his car, stacks of bumper stickers beside him. Mai made out a hand-written sign held in place by a windshield wiper: “Bumper Stickers. $1.50 each. 4/$5.”
“Any idea what they say?” Mai asked.
The photog gave her a big smile and said, “I’ve got something better. I had an off-duty agent come in civvies and buy some. I figured you’d want a look at them.” He handed her the bumper stickers.
Mai flipped through them: “Is Your Church ATF-Approved?” “A Man with a Gun is a Citizen.” “Fear a Government that Fears the People.” “Politicians Love Gun Control.” “When Guns are Outlawed, I’ll Become an Outlaw.”
Typical sentiments that had come up in her research. The bumper stickers were a considerable investment. Was that an indication of this guy’s commitment to a cause?
“Why’d you focus on him?” the photographer asked.
She rubbed her eyes again. “A hunch. There was something intense about him. I think he’s someone to watch.” She looked at the photographer. “For me to watch.”
He nodded. “Yeah, I get it. I’ve mostly been stuck here in this trailer, but I heard some of the guys talking about you.”
“Don’t believe everything you hear.”
“No, most of them thought you were kick-ass.”
Any other time she’d be flattered, but her patience was stretched thin. “Anything else?”
“The guy stayed mostly to himself, hung out on the fringes of the larger groups. He could get wound up. Here, take a look, but there’s no sound.”
He fast-forwarded to a spot where the man hovered at the edge of a knot of people. He smiled and chatted with the people around him. Someone out of sight of the camera must have said something. The man’s face transformed into that soulless expression she’d first seen on him. Spots of color flared high on his cheeks. He began to argue, and the exchange got heated before he gave an abrupt turn and stomped away.
That quick switch from pleasant to enraged… She recognized it; she’d felt that way often since last year in Bosnia. Something had altered him before he’d come here. What had transpired here today—could that send him over an edge?
“He didn’t return?” she asked.
“Nope.”
Not physically here, but his earlier trip evinced his interest. No, he’d probably been glued to the television today.
“Gulf War,” she murmured, recalling some veterans of that war had begun approaching VA hospitals with exotic and bewildering symptoms.
“You thinking PTSD?” the photographer asked.
Post-traumatic stress disorder, something she also knew all too well. A definite possibility.
“All right, this is good stuff,” she said. “You still have my card?”
He patted a pocket of his tactical vest. “Why don’t you take the stills and the bumper stickers? I’ll send the videos in a couple of weeks.”
“Great. Thanks.” She took the items he had for her. “I’ll leave you to your packing.”
“Uh, ma’am? For what it’s worth, I think you had the right idea.” He shrugged. “But what do I know? I’m a photographer.”
Mai gave him what she hoped was a sincere smile and left the trailer.
When she reached the Suburban, she saw the driver leaning against it, and the rear, panel doors were open.
“Ready to leave, ma’am?” the driver asked.
“No. My partner is over at the… At Calvary Locus. We’ll have to wait until he gets back.”
“I’ll go get a coffee, then,” he said.
She nodded and went to the rear of the vehicle. Someone had tucked all her and Alexei’s gear inside. The FBI was eager for them to go. No more eager than she. With a glance over both shoulders to make certain no one saw her, Mai unzipped her laptop bag and slipped the photos and bumper stickers inside.
She peered between two of the RVs and saw a thumbnail of what was left of Calvary Locus. At this distance, the people in their white hazmat suits reminded her of maggots on a corpse. She turned away.
And saw an FBI agent hurrying across the compound, shedding his gloves, ballistic and tactical vests, as he ran. He ducked behind an RV, and he still had his gun.
Bloody hell, she thought.
No one else was around, so Mai gathered up the discarded equipment and walked behind the RV. The agent, one hand braced against the side of the vehicle, was bent over at the waist, retching. The acrid smell of vomit reached her, and she waited.
The vomiting stopped, and the agent straightened, leaning against the RV. His eyes squeezed closed, he wept. A hand went to his sidearm, holstered on his thigh.
She recognized him. “Agent Petilli?” Mai said, her voice low, soft, neutral.
His hand relaxed, and he turned to her, dragging a sleeve over his face. “Ms. Fisher,” he said. “I was… I just…”
Compassion was a rare emotion for her. She hadn’t abandoned it, but she found it confining at times. Now wasn’t one of them.
“Agent Petilli, I’ve been in that place before,” she said. “A place where you think if you see one more horror, reality will shatter.”
He gave a slight nod. “The smell. I can’t… It’s all over my clothes.”
Her first time in an ethnically cleansed village, she’d thrown away the clothes she’d been wearing, down to her underwear and boots.
“Why don’t you take off your gun and give it to me?” she said.
He didn’t bother to argue. He unfastened his gun belt and handed it over.
“Where?” he asked. “Where did you…”
“Bosnia.”
“And you’re still at it,” he said.
“At what?”
“Fighting
for…” He broke off and gave her a weak smile. “Truth, justice, the American way.” On the last, he broke again and wept. “I joined the FBI to do good,” he sputtered between sobs. “Not to… Not to…”
“You can still do good,” Mai said. “It may not seem like it now, but you can. You will.”
“Maybe you should take my badge, too. I’m not sure I still want it.”
“Don’t make that decision now. Is there a chaplain here?”
He nodded. “The priest from St. Joseph in Killeen came out a couple of hours ago.”
“Why don’t we go find him?”
After handing off his gear to the FBI quartermaster, Mai stayed with Petilli until the priest had time for him. Petilli wasn’t the only one seeking Father’s services.
She, however, wasn’t tempted. In the growing twilight, she headed back to the Suburban.
The driver was inside behind the wheel, head back on the headrest. Alexei stood by the rear passenger door. His gray-faced, drawn expression alarmed her, and she quickened her pace toward him.
He met her halfway and took her in a tight clench, his face buried in her neck, his fingers digging into her back. When he was ready, he straightened and headed for the Suburban.
They climbed into the rear seat, and the driver roused and started the engine. The roadblock was mostly deserted except for a few weeping people and the police. Bunches of flowers lined the fence.
A few miles down the road, Alexei said to the driver, “Pull over.”
Knowing he would want it that way when he stumbled from the vehicle, Mai stayed seated as he knelt by the side of the road and vomited into the ditch.
27
Knowledge and Understanding
Lack of conversation filled the cabin of the Cessna Citation on the flight from Killeen back to Washington National. After Mai’s pilots had settled the jet in at cruise altitude and speed, Alexei had stretched out on the bench seat, arm over his eyes.
Once she was sure he slept, Mai took out her laptop and started to outline the debriefing for the U.S. government. Once she had a “thick” outline, she checked to see Alexei was still asleep. She took another look at the pictures the cameraman had given her.
The photos were good quality, and the photographer had zoomed in as much as he could. The details of the man’s face were a bit soft, but she could get a general impression of his features. Not strikingly handsome but good-looking. Longer hair would disguise the protruding ears. Maybe he wasn’t discharged from the military and had to have his hair that short. She shuffled through the photos one more time and hid them again.
She reexamined the bumper stickers. Professionally printed. Good color separation. He hadn’t necessarily designed them or composed the slogans. Anyone could purchase such products in bulk and resell them. He was a pro-gun type, then. That issue had popped up consistently in her and Analysis’ research. She’d found it ironic the pro-gun people, who wanted no government interference with how many and what kind of guns they owned, were often also anti-abortion activists, who wanted that same government to oversee every act of potential procreation. Ironic but certainly not unusual among the strange bedfellows in American politics.
Alexei roused when they began their descent, continued his silence during landing and stayed silent on the ride home in a hired car.
Bukharin-Fisher Residence
Mount Vernon, Virginia
Natalia and Olga were in the midst of dinner when Mai and Alexei entered the house, and Natalia, of course, greeted her grandfather first. Mai hoped the girl didn’t notice his detachment.
Alexei shut himself away in their office, and after dinner, Mai went upstairs to check Natalia’s homework. Mai braced herself for questions about what had happened in Killeen. Olga often let Natalia watch more television when Mai and Alexei were away, but Natalia never brought the subject up. Olga must have shown some discretion, and Mai would thank her for it.
When Alexei didn’t appear, Mai indulged herself in a long, hot soak in the spa tub, letting the water and two glasses of whiskey wash the day’s detritus away. Close to midnight, she tapped in the code on the security keypad and entered their office. She brought with her a bowl of vanilla ice cream, slathered in chocolate syrup, Alexei’s rare but favorite indulgence in sweets. A trivial gesture in light of what they’d both witnessed, but his solitary sulk had gone on long enough.
Alexei sat at his desk, sock-clad feet up on its top; she caught a faint odor of smoke. He hadn’t changed clothes. Across the room, a television played in the entertainment center. Alexei clicked the remote, shifting from channel to channel. The scene was the same: Calvary Locus in flames.
The objects on his desk surprised her: a half-empty bottle of vodka and a glass holding two fingers of the clear liquid. He picked up the glass and downed that in a single gulp. He returned the glass to the desk, picked up the bottle with an unsteady hand, and refilled the glass.
Mai set the bowl of ice cream aside. It and vodka wouldn’t make a pleasing combination. She moved between him and the television, perching on the edge of his desk. Without looking at her, he raised his glass for another drink.
“It’s getting late,” Mai said. “We had a long day.”
He looked up at her, drunk, bloodshot eyes telling her to leave him alone.
“You told me you wanted me to stay strong,” she continued. “Here I am. Don’t shut me out.”
He drank again. His voice, accent thicker from the vodka, was low and warning. “Go to bed. I’ll be up later.”
Alexei drank beer or wine, brandy on occasion without much effect on his behavior. Vodka struck him in his soul, what there was of it, and brought out a darker creature, one she hadn’t had to contend with for a long time.
“You know,” she said, “if I’d known there was vodka in the house, I’d have found it and poured it out. We agreed it’s not good for you.”
His sullen, angry face looked up at her again. “If that’s the game you want to play, fine. I’ll have to search the house for your cocaine stash.”
What the hell? He was full of unpleasant surprises tonight. “You won’t find any,” she said.
“For the sake of our relationship, leave me to my vices.”
Mai picked up the bottle. “You know what this does to you. I can handle that. Do you think Natalia should see what this makes you?”
“I wondered how long before you used her against me.”
“Whatever works, Alexei. You taught me that.”
He sat in silence for a while, holding the glass but not drinking from it.
“I used to be able to see things like today without a thought to anything or anyone, without a second thought about collateral damage,” he said.
“I know.”
“The room the FBI called the bunker. Some of the women and all the children took refuge there. The fucking ceiling collapsed because it was a bunker in name only. I saw the body of a girl, Natalia’s age, and I can’t get that sight out of my head.”
Alexei’s eyes filled, and a single tear slid down each cheek. Mai’s fingers clenched the desktop’s edge. Alexei wasn’t a weeper. She’d never seen him manage to produce a tear in the sixteen years he’d been in her life. It was the vodka. That was the only explanation.
He dragged his free hand over his face. “What were they thinking?” he said. “They shadowed Isaac Caleb while he jogged on public roads and when he made his daily trips into Killeen. He only ever had one or two companions with him. An easy take-down. Instead, they charge the place like an avenging army, twice, and suffer the consequences. What the fuck were they thinking?”
More like what was Hollis Fitzgerald thinking with, but Alexei had asked a question with no answer, even if she wished she had one for him.
He handed her the glass. “Take it, pour it down the drain. The bottle, too. It’s the only one in the house,” he said.
Mai took the glass and bottle into the office’s attached bath and emptied them both in the sink. When
she re-entered the office, Alexei had shut the television off. He stood by his desk and unlocked the drawer where he stored his gun. When he took it from his shoulder holster and lay it in the drawer, she understood he’d gotten drunk while still wearing it. Not a smart move. He shrugged the shoulder rig off and dropped it in the drawer as well.
“I have something for you,” Mai said, reaching into the pocket of her sweatpants. She took his hand, placed something in his palm, and closed his fingers around it. For a moment, she kept his hand in both of hers.
“I’ll be up in a minute,” he said.
“Promise?”
His smile was forced. “Promise.”
In their bedroom, Mai undressed and got beneath the covers. Exhaustion pulled her toward sleep, but she made herself stay awake as she listened for his steps on the stairs.
Washington, D.C.
Hollis Fitzgerald wondered how many more stupid questions he’d have to answer before he could go home, take a shower, and sleep in his own bed. Steedley had been content to let Fitzgerald and his team debrief, but the damned attorney general persisted with the what-ifs.
“Agent Fitzgerald?”
He looked at Vejar when she called his name. Big, oafish, unfeminine. He didn’t care if his disgust showed. Even the half-black nominee before Vejar was at least easy on the eyes, even if she couldn’t keep her personal finances in order.
“Yes?” Fitzgerald said. “Are we done?”
“No. We’re not done.”
“Begging your pardon, I have a wife and daughter I haven’t seen in weeks.”
“Indulge me, Agent Fitzgerald. I want to know if the U.N. proposal would have worked.”
Not this crap again, he thought. “No.”
“Based on what?”
“My expertise and professional opinion. If we’d executed their plan, we would have added to the hostage count and lost a lot more men. As it stands, our raid resulted in no casualties.”
Vejar sat back in her chair, eyes wide, mouth working before she managed to say, “What would you call the people in the ashes of Calvary Locus?”
