End Times

by P A Duncan

  “Crispy critters.”

  “What?” Vejar shouted.

  “In Vietnam, we referred to the dead enemy who’d been fried by napalm as crispy critters. What I meant to say was, we had no further law enforcement casualties. That’s the important point for me. The people inside Calvary Locus had a choice: come out to safety or stay with Caleb. They chose to stay with him and paid the price. That’s unfortunate, but they’re the ones who wanted…” Fitzgerald smirked when he realized he could put the U.N. bitch’s words to good use. “Who wanted the express elevator to heaven.”

  Vejar glared at him. “I don’t like that attitude, Agent Fitzgerald, and I don’t like the casual disregard for the children in Calvary Locus.”

  The world will be just fine with fewer bastards in it, he thought, but he pushed his face into a semblance of sympathy. “Caleb was the one who refused to let the children go to safety. I’m a father, so I regret his stubbornness led to the death of innocent children. Caleb died as he lived, and four ATF agents’ families have closure.”

  “And the families of the People of the Eternal Light?”

  “The people in that compound killed four federal agents. You keep forgetting that.”

  Vejar’s eyes narrowed at him, but he stared back at her. She didn’t intimidate him, and he showed her that.

  She looked at Agent Knerr. “Do you agree the U.N. plan wouldn’t have worked?”

  Agent Knerr’s eyes flicked to Fitzgerald, who raised an eyebrow. Knerr cleared his throat, his eyes on the table. “Madame Attorney General, I’m a negotiator, not a tactician. Agent Fitzgerald is the best person to make that call.”

  Vejar threw up her hands. “This is getting nowhere.”

  The first correct thing the bitch had said all evening.

  “Agent Knerr, Agent Taunton, please go home and get some well-deserved rest. Agent Fitzgerald, you will wait in the reception area while Director Steedley and I discuss something. I’ll call you back in a moment.”

  Fitzgerald frowned but left the office with Knerr and Taunton. They quick-stepped it to the elevators and didn’t turn around once they were inside. Bastards.

  He looked at the closed door to Vejar’s conference room. She and Steedley were in there. Talking about him. They were part of the reason why this country was going to hell. Steedley had focused only on his upcoming retirement and saw the murder of the ATF agents as a personal inconvenience.

  And Vejar… Pretty soon the halls of the Justice Department would be painted in rainbow colors, and the FBI would be forced to hire fags.

  He could always transfer back to the ATF. He’d been gone long enough management had had a significant turnover. No one would remember him. ATF was in the Treasury Department, and that was headed by a man, even if he were a Democrat.

  What were they saying about him in there?

  That damned U.N. plan. He should never have allowed them to propose it. The crackpot idea had distracted too many of his men from the real mission, bringing cop-killers to justice. The cop who’d been his father’s best friend on the force had hunted down his father’s killer. Killed while resisting arrest, read the official report. Those were the days when no one questioned how you dealt with a cop killer.

  “Never let a cop-killing low-life get away,” his grandfather, a retired cop, had told Fitzgerald when he’d joined the force. “Do whatever you need to do to make sure of that, and your father will rest easy.”

  His father was resting easy tonight, and that was all that mattered.

  Who’d called the fucking U.N. anyway? What business did they have interfering?

  Those two. Bukharin and Fisher. Both of them had laid hands on him, both times where he had no witnesses. He’d find a way to make them regret the day they butted into FBI business. It might take him years, but he’d find a way. He always did.

  His Army buddy hadn’t called him back. But, wait. That wasn’t his only Army buddy.

  With his eye on the closed doors, he dialed another buddy’s office number. The call went to voicemail, but no matter.

  “Hey, Lovell, it’s Fitz. Look, I came across something in a case I’m working, a lead on a local drug dealer. Russian mob most likely. Give me a call when you get a chance, and I’ll give you a deposition.”

  That made him feel better.

  One of the double doors swung open, and Fitzgerald jammed his phone back in his pocket. Steedley closed the door behind him.

  “The AG’s tired,” Steedley said. “We’ll continue debriefing tomorrow morning. Come with me.” Steedley headed for the elevator and waited until they were inside before he spoke again. “She wanted your ass in a sling.”

  “I figured. Did you show her the letter?”

  “Yes. That changed her mind. Where do you get this stuff?”

  “I have friends who are loyal to this country.”

  “Of course you do. We need to talk about your future.”

  Fitzgerald smiled and said, “Yes, I’ve been thinking it’s time for me to move up to a job in HQ. I’m sure you’ll work something out.”

  Steedley hit the Emergency Stop button and turned on Fitzgerald.

  “You’re a bastard, Fitzgerald. A sleazy, fucking bastard. You’re a fucking disgrace to the FBI. If it were up to me, I’d be nailing your hide on the outside of the FBI building as a reminder not to fuck with me, but you hold the cards. All of them. You’ll get your Washington job, but the new FBI director will get a thorough briefing about you. Now, shut the fuck up. I mean it. Do not say another fucking word to me.”

  Steedley sent the elevator on its way again.

  Bukharin-Fisher Household

  Mount Vernon, Virginia

  For a moment Alexei debated whether or not to look at what he knew lay in his clenched fist. The cool, metal cylinders spoke volumes. He opened his hand. Fifty-caliber shell casings from a sniper’s rifle, three of them. He picked one up and studied the primer. The firing pin had struck dead center, and the manufacturer’s name was clear, even without his reading glasses.

  Back in his quarters in North Carolina, a Delta Force sniper would have realized by now he hadn’t gathered all his brass, a cardinal rule. What difference will it make, he might think. In all the confusion, at such a large crime scene, no one would find what he’d left behind.

  Or maybe this was Slater’s way of doing something. Snipers had “Police Your Brass” tattooed on their brains in training. They knew the importance of leaving nothing identifiable behind. Maybe finding these wasn’t an accident.

  And maybe Slater was pointing out the owners of this brass weren’t Delta. If not, Alexei would find out who they were. Eventually.

  Alexei dug in another desk drawer for a plastic evidence bag, dropped the casings inside, and sealed it. On the bag’s label he wrote, “Sniper shell casings found on the grounds of Calvary Locus, Killeen, Texas, April 19, 1993.” Below that he signed his name and locked the bag in the office safe. For when he would need them.

  He shouldn’t have had Mai pour the vodka out. He needed another drink.

  He’d come to this country to escape militarism and oppression, to keep his son from the same, but his adopted country had possibly used U.S. troops against its own citizens. Part of him couldn’t believe it, didn’t want to believe it, but he’d held the cold, hard evidence in his hands.

  Let there be no more to this mission, he thought. If there were, it would end badly. He knew, was certain of that in his gut, as certain as he was of his name. This was a road he didn’t want to walk.

  After climbing the stairs to the second floor, Alexei went first to Natalia’s room. He stood in the doorway and watched her sleep. As befitting someone a few weeks away from being a teenager, the room was a curious mixture of sophistication and childhood: posters of rock stars juxtaposed with stuffed animals and beloved dolls.

  Natalia slept on her side, hair spread out on her pillow. She resembled her late mother more than her distant father, but Alexei could also see the look of he
r namesake there, his mother, who’d tamed the land and the Communist Party in Ukraine.

  He eased the door closed, thinking about the children whose parents had died today, everyone in Calvary Locus who was now so much charred bone. He renewed his commitment to protecting Natalia not only from the Isaac Calebs of the world but also the Hollis Fitzgeralds.

  When he crawled into bed, he pressed the length of himself against Mai’s naked back, taking more comfort from the contact with her warm flesh. Thankfully for his sanity, she turned to him, took his embrace, and covered herself with it.

  Part II

  Profiling

  28

  A Lesson in Tradecraft

  Northern Virginia

  June 1993

  Olga Lubova uncovered the mirror on the sun visor of her car and pretended to powder her nose. The small mirror showed her a dark blue sedan parked across the street from the middle school. The car had D.C. license plates, and two men sat inside. They wore black suits, white shirts, and aviator glasses. The driver alternated between peering at Olga’s vehicle with binoculars and taking pictures.

  One thing the KGB had taught her—and she had passed on to her trainees—was to blend in with her surroundings. That she could do, but these two men could not.

  “F. B. I.,” she muttered, with a Cold War sneer. “Lyubitel’skiye shpiony. Oni dumyut ya ne mogu videt’ ikh?” Amateurs. Do they think I cannot see them?

  Olga tucked her compact away as Natalia and her two best friends approached. Olga checked the visor mirror again and saw the FBI agent’s camera shift to take photos of the girls.

  “Sukin syn,” she muttered again. Son of a bitch.

  The three girls piled into the back seat.

  “Good afternoon, ladies,” Olga said. She ignored the chorus of replies as she pulled away from the curb, eyes scanning. The blue sedan pulled out, too.

  She could call the police and report their suspicious presence at the school, but one look at their FBI credentials and the police would go no further, probably tip their hats in deference.

  They couldn’t go home, not with FBI agents following. Olga handed her cell phone to Natalia. “I am feeling like afternoon at the mall,” Olga said. “Let other ladies call for permission.”

  The exited squeals were almost deafening.

  Olga turned onto a major road. The blue sedan hung back and let several cars come between them. She begrudged them some respect for trying not to be obvious.

  After all permissions were obtained, Olga drove a circuitous route to the mall, to make certain she hadn’t imagined the surveillance. She hadn’t.

  When Olga turned down a little-used road near Fort Belvoir, the blue sedan stayed on the main road, but a late model Volvo turned onto the street behind Olga.

  A coordinated operation.

  The station wagon stayed with them, not close until Olga parked inside the mall’s parking garage. The Volvo parked two rows away, in a spot where its occupants could watch Olga and the girls.

  Inside the mall, they made a curious parade: three twelve-year-old girls flitting in and out of stores, followed by one middle-aged woman, in turn, shadowed by a team of FBI agents. Instead of the usual business-suit, white-shirt, black-tie giveaway, the duo had dressed in casual clothing, and they held hands as they tailed Olga and Natalia.

  Olga had no concerns about Natalia’s safety. This was surveillance. Unlike the KGB to Olga’s knowledge, the FBI didn’t kidnap teenage girls to use as leverage. A serious flaw in their tradecraft, she thought.

  If she were back in the old Soviet Union, Olga would have identified the agents, hauled their families into the Lubyanka, and used them to teach a valuable lesson about privacy. Here in America, she found the tables turned on her; she had to obey American laws.

  She understood the FBI’s protocol for surveillance and also knew there’d be no opportunity for kicking FBI ass without making a scene or leaving Natalia unguarded. How disappointing.

  However, she reached into her purse switched on a high-tech camera from The Directorate’s R&D. Its lens hid in a decorative metal emblem on the side of the purse. With Nelson’s permission, Bukharin had often given her such things to field test. Each time she touched the purse’s clasp, she took a picture of the agents. Turnabout was fair play.

  That, and she couldn’t resist putting one over on an old Cold War adversary.

  Olga was glad she was on Bukharin’s side when she told him about this.

  Cooking was Alexei Bukharin’s therapy. He’d always enjoyed the challenge in the preparation and presentation of good cuisine. Having been French-trained for a mission as a dictator’s chef had awakened a genuine interest in cooking. From the earliest days of their partnership, he’d taken an interest in Mai’s diet. Had he not, she would have subsisted on oatmeal or bangers and mash, the only two dishes she could prepare with any confidence in the outcome.

  When Olga had come to live with them, he’d relinquished the kitchen to her, with reluctance. Now, he got only the occasional foray into what had become her domain.

  Tonight was one of those occasions. Olga was off to a lecture at the Smithsonian, a requirement for a class for her degree—in what he was almost afraid to ask. Since it wasn’t a school night, Natalia had a sleepover, and Alexei had gone to a gourmet shop in D.C. for all the supplies he needed to make a romantic dinner for himself and Mai. Fresh Atlantic salmon, flown down that morning from Newfoundland. An excellent Merlot for making a wine sauce and for them to finish off the bottle. New potatoes and fresh basil for a mash. Seasonal fruits and berries for a dessert compote. For their rare evening alone, he’d planned on candles, good music, and some pre-coital adventure, involving perhaps the fruit.

  With several possible images in mind, Alexei headed his dark maroon Jaguar XJ6 away from D.C. and took the high occupancy vehicle lanes of I-395 south before they became carpool only for the evening rush hour.

  His mind must have focused on his fantasies a bit too much. A flicker of blue light made him look in the rearview mirror. A state trooper. A glance at the speedometer showed why the trooper was interested.

  Alexei slowed and pulled over onto the right shoulder, lowered his window, and turned off the car. He retrieved the registration from the glove box and freed his wallet. He waited, hands at two and ten on the steering wheel. In the side mirror, he watched the young trooper approach, hand resting on his service weapon.

  “Afternoon, sir,” the trooper said when he leaned down to the open window.

  “Good afternoon, officer. I was going a bit fast. My apologies,” Alexei said, handing over his license and registration before the trooper could ask.

  The trooper’s face scrunched in suspicion, making Alexei think his usual traffic stops didn’t garner this much cooperation.

  “Yes, sir,” the cop said. “I clocked you at seventy in a fifty-five.” The trooper looked into the empty back seat. “Please wait inside your car while I check your license and registration.”

  “Of course, officer.”

  Mai would get a belly laugh from this. She drove as though she were in the cockpit of her plane on takeoff and had talked her way out of tickets on at least two continents. With the notable exception of Hollis Fitzgerald, her classy accent swayed cops. Alexei’s was unusual enough to label him as foreign and perhaps untrustworthy.

  After several minutes of drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, he thought of the perishable fish in the trunk. Alexei checked his rearview mirror and saw the trooper in his car, speaking into his radio transmitter. A second state trooper car appeared and parked in front of Alexei, angled so Alexei couldn’t pull back into traffic. A third car pulled up behind the first trooper, who emerged from his car. The other two huddled with him, their eyes on Alexei as they talked.

  What the hell… Oh, he hadn’t handed over his gun permits, and when the trooper ran his license plate number through the system, the results would have revealed he was a concealed permit holder.

  A tr
ooper walked to stand at the front of the Jag; another took up a position by the trunk as the first officer approached the window again.

  “Is there a problem, officer?” Alexei asked.

  “Sir, keep your hands where they are.”

  “Again, is there a problem?”

  The trooper opened the Jag’s door and instructed Alexei to unfasten his seatbelt—slowly and with one hand. Alexei complied and returned his hand to the wheel.

  “Keeping your hands where I can see them, sir, please step out of the car and move away from your vehicle to the front of mine. Understood, sir?”

  “Of course.”

  Alexei complied, with no sudden moves and keeping his hands away from his body. He started to mention his gun permits, but a car sped by on the highway, the relative wind from its passage fluttering his jacket open.

  “Gun!” shouted one trooper.

  All three pulled their weapons and pointed them at Alexei. He froze and didn’t plan on moving until one of them said so.

  “On the ground!” they all shouted.

  Mindful he was in one of his best suits, Alexei lay face down on the shoulder of the road and watched as commuters slowed down to rubberneck.

  “Hands on the back of your head, interlace your fingers,” came the command.

  He felt a gun muzzle pressed to the back of his neck and had to suppress his usual reaction to that.

  “Do not move!”

  The pat-down began. A trooper extracted Alexei’s gun from his shoulder holster, and a pair of handcuffs jangled.

  After fastening one bracelet of the cuffs on Alexei’s right wrist, the trooper moved that hand to the small of Alexei’s back.

  “Place your left hand next to your right. Slow!”

  The trooper cuffed both hands and grasped Alexei by the collar. “Up, on your knees. Now stand.”