by Bill Brewer
Diegert felt his features being inspected by the dark man’s eyes. “What now?”
“You look like you could be Arabian or Argentinian or maybe even Italian. What was your mother?”
“My mother is Ojibwa. It’s a Native American tribe.”
Tiberius’s face lit up. “You have a tribe then. Are the Ojibwa a powerful people?”
Diegert felt Tiberius’s sense of belonging that he associated with tribal membership, but he did not feel that way about the Ojibwa. “I don’t know.”
Tiberius’s brow furrowed and his gaze projected his disappointment. “What do you mean you don’t know? How can you not know the status of your tribe?”
Diegert’s reply was a sullen shrug of his shoulders.
Tiberius sat silent for a moment seemingly letting Diegert’s perplexing response percolate in his mind.
“See, my man, tribe is everything. I am from Nigeria, but that just describes a geographic location, I am Yoruba. In Africa, your tribe is your identity, your history, your culture, your purpose, and meaning. Your mission in life is to protect, preserve and advance your tribe. People see you, and they can tell which tribe you are from by your appearance and your bearing.”
Diegert thought about how all the kids in school knew he was Ojibwa, but he didn’t know any of their backgrounds, they were just white.
Tiberius said, “When I first came to London, I learned that no one had a tribe. They are just lost sheep herded together with no common goal. Each of them struggling to become a millionaire. There is no unity of purpose. If they got rich, they would just spend the money on themselves. No sense of community, it’s stifling and oh so limiting.”
Diegert cocked his head, crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair.
“Your tribe is your source of power in Africa. I am so very much a Yoruba and will always be for the rest of my life. When I think of my tribe’s history, I walk with pride. When I enter a room in Africa, they all look and say, there is a powerful Yoruba man and they know that I have self-respect and confidence. What does it say when an Ojibwa man walks into a room in America?”
Diegert struggled with the question, self-respect and confidence were clearly not what he felt when walking into a room full of Minnesotans. Shame, derision and a wish to be pale white or invisible is what came to mind. He realized he had subsumed everything negative that the people of Broward believed about his Native heritage without questioning the value, strength, and purpose that he may have found by embracing his Ojibwa culture. His mom had tried, but it was too little too late, and besides, she definitely was ashamed and accepted the ostracism that she got from people who judged her for being a half-breed. Wow, to feel like Tiberius does about his tribe struck Diegert as a great source of pride while for him tribal membership was just a great big disappointment.
“I was on a wrestling team,” Diegert replied.
The remark drew a stinging sidelong glance and raised eyebrow fromTiberius.
Diegert dropped his gaze. “I am a very good wrestler. I won the Minnesota State Championship in high school. Our team had won the local, county and sectional titles my senior year and everybody was so proud of that team. When we were winning, people would congratulate us wherever we went. People in school encouraged us to win, and they would come and watch, cheering on the guys. I pulled from the crowd’s adoration. I performed for them, taking pride in my victories, they cheered and applauded each take-down, point, and pin. At the State tournament in Minneapolis, I carried their hopes on to the mat and delivered to them a hard-fought victory as I pinned my opponent. It was the greatest moment of my life.”
Diegert’s pride had risen while he spoke. He was glad to see Tiberius smiling, but as he recalled that time in his life he also felt disappointed.
“When we got back to Broward, the pride, the happiness, the acceptance lasted about two weeks. Then my dad got in a bar fight. He hurt another guy real bad, hitting him with a broken bottle. When he came home, he started beating my mom. The police came, and I was in the middle of it trying to stop him. The local media reported the domestic mess, and I was once again a halvsy from a trash heap of a family.”
Tiberius sat quietly, patiently waiting for Diegert to conclude.
“So you see there is no tribe for me. There is just a family and a pretty lousy one at that.”
Tiberius offered, “I can see that the wrestling team was important to you. And I can see how the championship earned you respect, but it’s focused on a limited event. It fills the mind and the heart that is otherwise empty. The true person that you are and the true value that you hold is not reflected in a single or even a season of performances.”
Diegert looked at Tiberius with a furrowed brow, seeking understanding.
The proud African proclaimed, “Tying your value as a person to your ability to perform in sports is to limit yourself to the fleeting power of youth, which will leave you no matter how well you train. Your school, your community, your tribe should embrace you and value you regardless of the outcome of a performance because your greatest value is in being a member of the tribe. I fear that your people cannot even comprehend the importance of that belief.”
“You’re right, but isn’t Crepusculous doing the same thing?”
“Crepusculous provides us with a whole lot more than your wrestling team ever did. We are on a mission that transcends the world. We protect the provision of all the products and services that Omnisphere-”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Diegert jumped in, “Avery already gave me all that we feed the world stuff. But we also kill people with complete disregard for the law. Do you really believe that’s right?”
“In Nigeria, there were violent times when killing was a matter of survival.”
Diegert jumped in again, speaking sharply. “In times of war and when you are under attack, it is totally right to defend yourself. But Crepusculous attacks pre-emptively. They are the ones killing people before they’ve committed a crime. I want to know if you really think that’s all right?”
“The decision to mark someone for death is not ours to make. When we are assigned, a whole lot of work went into designating that target for elimination.”
“I know you want to believe that,” Diegert leaned forward, “but do you really?”
“Do I really what?” asked Tiberius.
“Do you really trust Avery, Panzer, and Crepusculous that every kill mission is absolutely necessary?”
Now Tiberius leaned in, drawing close to Diegert as he said, “I am a servant and will carry out my role.” Pointing at Diegert he went on, “You will one day be the man ordering the assassinations, then I hope you will carefully consider if every mission to kill is absolutely necessary.”
Tiberius piled his silverware atop his dishes, wiped his mouth with a napkin and stood with his tray in his hands, smiling broadly as he said, “I’m glad we’ll be working together.”
Watching the big man walk away Diegert knew no one wanted to confront the reality of killing for Crepusculous. He wondered if he too shouldn’t think so deeply about being a man of violence and start thinking about being a man of power.
CHAPTER 18
With her surgical wounds sufficiently healed, Carolyn’s hospitalization concluded. This meant she was out of Dr. Gibson’s care and into the exclusive custody of the CIA. The guard, who’d been outside her room, now pushed her wheelchair to the patient discharge exit. As final papers were signed, he motioned for the black Chevy Tahoe to pull forward. Carolyn looked at the vehicle, which screamed America, and wondered if there could be any easier target than an oversized SUV with diplomatic plates.
“Where are we going,” asked Carolyn suspiciously.
“We’ll be transporting you to a secure residence.”
“Yeah but, where?”
“The location is monitored by the agency, so your security is assured.”
Carolyn recognized the language and knew this agent wasn’t going to divulge an
ything more. She shot him a glance of mistrust as she slowly climbed into the back passenger seat, her ribs still smarting.
They had not driven far before the big truck pulled up to a garage door, which automatically opened, allowing the Tahoe to enter. When the vehicle was parked, the guard opened Carolyn’s door and escorted her to the elevator. Inside the cabin she observed the guard press the button for the seventh floor. Lucky, she thought.
Exiting the elevator, she was led to room 721. The apartment door opened into a large area, which combined the living room and kitchen. There was a bathroom at the end of the hall. On either side of the hall was a bedroom. The one on the north side had its own bathroom and a window, which looked out onto the street. After surveying each room, Carolyn stood facing the guard.
“Ma’am, the entire floor is secure. There will be a guard posted in the hallway at all times. The director will contact us when he needs to see you. In the meantime, you will remain here.”
Not really meaning it, but at a loss for anything else to say, she muttered, “Thank you.”
The snap of the lock after the door closed made the apartment feel all the more confining. The kitchen though was well stocked with eggs, cheese, fresh greens for a salad, a nice loaf of bread and cold cuts. For drinks, there was orange juice, bottled water, a six-pack of Stella-Artois and even a bottle of Cabernet-Sauvignon. In the north side bedroom, the clothes in the closet were the right size. The shirts and pants were very utilitarian, but they were brand new, and Carolyn was happy to exchange her blue scrubs for a pair of jeans, a heather T-shirt and a light blue oxford, which she buttoned partway and left untucked.
The bathroom cupboard had lots of thick, soft towels, several choices of shampoo, skin lotion, and requisite feminine hygiene products. To Carolyn’s shocked surprise, she also found a home pregnancy test kit. The presence of this last item struck her as if someone was watching. Setting the box back on the shelf, she looked around expecting someone to have seen her. She saw no cameras, but she had no faith in the coincidence. She couldn’t shake the feeling of her privacy having been violated.
The box, with its picture of a positive red plus on the plastic device, brought back the news she’d been given at the hospital. One night, one fucking moment of human lust and she was now linked to the world’s worst assassin forever.
All the actions for which she was guilty could be explained. Her choices could be justified as critical to the mission. Given what she was now aware of, her conduct could be seen as brave, decisive and significant. All of it sensible and effective at protecting the United States. All of it, except fucking the asset and carrying his child.
Carolyn slammed the cupboard door, walked to the bed, and flung herself upon it. The drop hurt like hell, and she groaned as the pain in her ribcage spread through her abdomen. She stared up at the textured stucco ceiling wondering how much trouble she would be in when Director Ramsey realized she was pregnant. How would she explain it, since the only man she was with, within the timeframe of conception, was Diegert? She had to keep Ramsey focused on the bombs and Strakov’s guilt so that he didn’t take notice or make mention of her eventual belly. She had to get back Stateside before her condition could not be denied.
The thought of an abortion ran through her head, but the immediate wrenching of her gut told her she could never go through with it. Even though it made a lot of sense in this case, Carolyn could never kill a baby no matter what her circumstances. Diegert’s genes may be flawed, and the baby may even grow to be a violent killer, but Carolyn felt that the life within her was a sacred priority to protect.
She carefully rolled to her side, tucking the pillow under her head, softly crying as she fell into a fitful sleep.
****
The shooting range was one of Diegert’s favorite places to be. The power of the guns, the variable targets and the opportunity to improve a skill upon which his life might depend, always made him feel good. Diegert realized he was sharing the range with a female operator. The young woman was practicing with pistols. Diegert was impressed with the speed and accuracy with which she was filling the silhouettes with fatal holes.
Using a stall two spots away from her, he practiced using a submachine gun. Firing three-round bursts took a steady hand and an ability to scan the field for targets. Diegert positioned the silhouettes, so they rotated randomly. He was using up a lot of ammo but was becoming more lethal with each magazine of bullets.
When he stopped firing, he realized the other stall was now quiet. Looking behind him, he was surprised by the woman with whom he was sharing the range.
She was cute, with a broad smile and soft brown eyes. Her dark hair was short with blonde highlights. She was about 5 foot 7 with an athletic build, a confident demeanor and a Glock 17 holstered on her hip.
“Hi, I’m Fiera.”
Diegert took her hand and was pleased by the strength of her grip.
“I’m David, David Diegert.”
Their mutual smiles ushered in a friendly mood.
“You like the MP5?” Fiera asked.
“Yeah, I like the way the bullet stays true as the barrel heats up.” With a nod at her holster, Diegert said, “You use the Glock.”
“Simple and reliable. If all my family and friends were as reliable as my 17, life would be a whole lot easier.”
“What’s that?” Diegert indicated the semicircular device surrounding Fiera’s neck.
Removing the mechanism, Fiera folded it at its two hinges, reducing it to one third its original size. “This is my Ear Shield, it’s the most convenient set of earplugs I’ve ever used.”
Diegert nodded as he placed his much larger earmuffs on their storage hook.
“What’s that around your neck?” she asked as she gazed at the rawhide emerging from Diegert’s collar.
With a bit of hesitancy, Diegert pulled on the thin leather string and revealed his amulet. Fiera immediately leaned forward inspecting the leather circle divided into a dark bottom half, white top half with a foot crossing over both.
“Hmmm… how very interesting.” As she took a step closer, she asked, “Can I touch it?”
Diegert nodded, and she held the warm leather circle between her thumb and forefinger. She turned it around and attempted to read the inscription. She cocked her head to the side, like a curious dog. “This is not in English, or any other language I speak.”
“It’s Ojibwa. It says A man must travel through darkness to find the light.”
“Just men, or women too?”
“Yeah, I suppose women too. It’s an ancient saying, but I guess it needs updating for gender neutrality.”
“Sounds like a universal human statement. So you’re an Indian?”
“Native American actually, one quarter.”
“You Americans, always dividing yourselves into halves, quarters, thirds,” she said with disdain for the cultural habit of sharing one’s mixed heritage.
“My mother is half Ojibwa. The tribe lives in what is now Minnesota and Wisconsin as well as parts of Canada. She gave me the necklace and wanted me to embrace my heritage.”
“And do you?”
“What?”
“Embrace your heritage?”
“I’m wearing the necklace, aren’t I?”
She gave him a sidelong glance. “What’s the meaning of the foot?”
Diegert shrugged. “Travel… movement, I guess.”
“It’s a left foot,” observed Fiera.
Diegert was surprised and immediately looked at the amulet to confirm her observation. Recognizing for the very first time that it was, in fact, a left foot, Diegert said, “I never realized that.”
“Well you’re right-handed aren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“So you’re probably right-footed too.”
“What?”
“Stand straight with your feet shoulder width apart and even.”
Diegert did as directed while Fiera took a couple of steps back from him.<
br />
“Ok now step forward towards me.”
Diegert instinctively began to move by raising his right foot as he stepped towards her.
“See you’re right footed. You took your first step with your right foot.”
Diegert smirked and nodded.
“Most people are. Their dominant hand and their dominant foot are the same,” instructed Fiera.
“So what does that say about my amulet?”
“Ojibwa is not your dominant spirit.”
Diegert’s brow furrowed in contemplation as he considered the depth of this young lady’s statement. Fiera stepped closer once again taking the amulet in her hand. “This is a spiritual symbol, but the non-dominant foot symbolizes it’s not your strongest spiritual force.”
Diegert passed his hand between them separating her hold on the amulet as he turned and walked a few steps to look down the range. Fiera stood still, watching him gaze at the targets she began, “Have you ever tried to write with your left hand?”
Without turning to face her, Diegert responded, “Yeah, it doesn’t work.”
“How about shooting baskets or firing your gun, are you any good with your left?”
“Not as good.” Diegert stepped towards her. He could see the tension in her as she stood her ground.
Looking up at him she said, “Imagine having to do everything with your left hand. Would you find that comfortable?”
Diegert looked down at his open palms. “No.” He curled his fingers into soft fists.
“You would never give up your left hand. It’s useful, necessary, and… meaningful, but it’s not your dominant, go to hand.”
Diegert looked her right in the eyes.
Fiera spoke softly, but directly, “Ojibwa is important and meaningful, but it is not your dominant spirit.”
Diegert felt lost for a moment. Like he had just lost his way and his beliefs. He also felt Fiera’s words rang true. He was beginning to embrace Ojibwa principles because he didn’t have any others. His mom was exerting more and more influence over him, but was it really coming from within him? Or was it like trying to do a combination lock with your left hand? Awkward, uncomfortable and kind of stupid.
