Bad Company

by P A Duncan

  Carroll perked up. “Yes, sir. I’ve done farm work, too. Planting, feeding, herding cattle, handyman work.”

  “I’m talking hard work here, boy. I’m not able to do much of that.”

  “I don’t mind hard work, Mr. Addams.”

  “I’ll make up a list of jobs. I’m thinking five thousand cash would be fair.”

  Five thousand tax-free for a few weeks’ work? That would give him a cushion and let him invest in better quality surplus military stock. Was his luck about to change?

  “That’s very generous, Mr. Addams, and fair. I’ll be glad to help you out.”

  “Yes, John, that’s damned generous,” the woman said. “I don’t recall you mentioning any work that needed doing.”

  “Look around at something other than your prune face in the mirror. This here is a business discussion between the boy and me. Shut up.”

  She clamped her mouth closed and glared at Carroll.

  “I got a couple of new pieces at home you’ll get a kick out of firing, too,” Addams said.

  Happy to have such friends, Carroll smiled and said, “Yes, sir, that would be great. When do you need me?”

  “June and me are on the road for the rest of February and into March. How about the end of March, first part of April?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s fine.”

  From the bib pocket of his coveralls, Addams took a grimy business card and gave it to Carroll. “In a couple of weeks, give me a call, and we’ll set a date. I got a spare room you can use. Three squares a day.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Thank me, young man. I’ll be doing the cooking,” June said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I won’t be any trouble, ma’am.”

  She shrugged and sniffed, apparently not expecting politeness.

  “All right, son,” Addams said. “Do a good job and I’ll throw in a bonus. I may be able to deep discount that 1911.”

  “That’s almost too much to ask, sir, but I won’t pass up the chance.”

  “Figured as much. Go on back to your table. The after-dinner crowd’ll be showing up soon. See you in a few weeks.”

  “Yes, sir. Ma’am.”

  Carroll walked back to his table, a spring in his step. A real job, good money. He felt happy, really happy. He checked his watch and hoped it wasn’t too late to call Siobhan.

  7

  The Devil in the Details

  Mount Vernon, Virginia

  Mai Fisher had long since accepted she was a control freak, that she was happiest when things went her way, in her work or in her life. She hated things beyond her control.

  Like the summer and early fall of 1992.

  After the World Court lawyers had left, she’d spent the rest of the afternoon and evening alone, pushing closed the door in her head she’d had to open to answer their questions. More than once, she’d envied Alexei his detachment or, perhaps, his control. Whatever demons he possessed had marched in an orderly single file back inside his head and locked themselves away, docile.

  Hers could only be like she, stubborn and persistent. They refused to go quietly, and no amount of Irish whiskey had put them in their place.

  For a woman approaching forty with two stillbirths and two miscarriages behind her, acknowledging to stuffy lawyers the Serbian warlord Arkan had not only controlled her freedom but her body, and the child inside it, for almost three months was more than enough to bring buried anger to the surface.

  Instead of taking it out on the lawyers, she’d sniped at Alexei to the point where the lawyers had squirmed in discomfort.

  None of it was his fault. It was pointless to continue blaming the French captain who’d betrayed her to Arkan in exchange for his men’s release.

  A spy behind the lines would normally be shot on sight, even if she were entitled to wear the RAF BDUs in which Arkan captured her. She’d bargained for her life not with any intel Arkan could use but with the life of the child she’d carried, which she learned about mere hours before her capture. A total surprise, and she hadn’t had a chance to tell Alexei. An opportunity to observe Arkan’s atrocities couldn’t be put aside, and no one had expected it to go the way it had.

  Arkan’s mistress, who often rode with him in his personal armored car, turned out to be Mai’s ally.

  “Keep me alive until the baby’s born,” Mai had told her. “You can take it and never have to ruin your figure with pregnancy.”

  A gamble to buy time for Alexei to hunt them down or for Mai to make her own escape, but it had worked. As Arkan and his mistress had hauled Mai around the countryside, she’d witnessed his numerous episodes of ethnic cleansing. And Mai had a good memory.

  After three months of failed negotiations with Arkan, Alexei had bribed her location out of a Belgrade policeman and, like the knight in shining armor she’d never wanted, had rescued her. Safe at a Medicins sans Frontiers field hospital, the doctors broke the news the child’s heart beat was dangerously slow. The emergency C-section hadn’t been quick enough; the doctors delivered a dead baby.

  She had told Alexei never to speak of it, and he hadn’t. Neither had she, until today; because lawyers liked details, which was what she’d had to provide to explain why Arkan had allowed her to live and witness his crimes against humanity.

  The tightness in her throat, the unexpected moisture in her eyes angered her. Jesus Wept, she told herself, stop emoting like a school girl. She forced a generous swallow of straight-up Irish whiskey down her throat and hoped enough time had passed Alexei wouldn’t ask the stupidest of questions: Are you all right?

  The phone for her mission rang, and she let it go to voice mail. She heard the beep and a familiar voice. “Hey, Siobhan, it’s Jay. I wanted to catch up, and…”

  On impulse, she picked up the phone, pressing a button so it would continue to record. “Jay, hi.”

  “Oh, hey, you picked up.”

  “That I did. I was thinking of you,” she lied, and drank more whiskey to drown the remnants of her conscience.

  “That’s cool.”

  “How have you been doing?”

  “Hoping to see you.”

  “I’ve been busy here at the office, but some business trips are in my future.”

  “Oh? That’s great. Getting in anymore practice at a range?”

  “Ah, no time for that. How’s business?”

  “Not great, but I’ve lined up a temporary job that’ll change that.”

  Mai refilled her whiskey glass and mentally kicked herself for answering the phone. She was in no mood for small talk. “What kind of job?” she asked.

  “A guy I know from the circuit, he’s getting up there, and he hired me to get his place cleaned up. A month, six weeks for five thousand cash.”

  Mai listened beyond his words, trying to discern a clue about his location from the background noise. “Where’s this place, then?” she asked.

  “In Arkansas. His name is John Addams, but we call him The Prez. He’s got an amazing gun collection and not only his gun show stock. All kinds of rare pieces, and I could get to shoot some of them.”

  “Sounds like a dream job.”

  “Yeah, so I was, um, wondering…”

  A pause, and again she tried to pick up something from the background. A low hum of noise, not loud and not distinct. A pay phone by a highway or a public phone in a busy place.

  “Yes?” she said, to prompt him.

  “I was, uh, wondering when I’ll get to see you again.”

  She’d seen him without his knowing it, but, yes, it was time for another meet. She turned to her computer and typed, “John Addams, Arkansas gun dealer, rare guns,” in a request to Analysis.

  “Are you using a computer?” Carroll asked.

  “I’m working late, typing letters inviting a lot of rich folk to a charity event. I’ve got to work while we talk.”

  “Oh. Sorry to call at a bad time.”

  That almost made her laugh. “No, I’m glad for the diversion.
I was bored out of me mind.”

  “So, uh, when?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve some trips scheduled, all in the east.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  The dejection almost moved her. “When does your job start?”

  “Late March, early April.”

  “Why don’t you come east?”

  “I, uh, paid the fees for several shows in Nebraska and Arkansas. Maybe, uh, maybe you could take some leave, come to Arkansas?”

  She decided to disappoint him to see the reaction. “I don’t think so. There’s no such thing as taking leave here.”

  “Wow, they make a lot of demands on your time.”

  “I explained about my obligations, you understand. I have to stick to their schedule if I want a roof over my head.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Sometimes, it does.”

  The office door opened, and Alexei entered with a bottle of wine, two glasses, and a plate of cheese and fruit. Mai motioned for him to be quiet.

  “Jay,” she said to the phone, “will you be able to call while you’re on this job, and can I call you there?”

  “Sure, old man Addams will be cool as long as I use my calling card. He’s tight with a nickel.”

  “When the time comes, call and leave me the number. I can hide a few calls in the office’s phone bill. Even if we can’t see each other, we can talk.”

  Alexei’s smile was a cross between amused and sardonic.

  “I don’t want you to get in trouble,” Carroll said.

  “I won’t. Don’t worry.”

  “All right, I’ll give you the number when I get there, but we can still talk, right, until then?”

  “Of course, but, Jay, the boss will be back soon to pick up these invites. I need to get back to it. Thanks for calling.”

  “It was good to talk to, you know, you. Better than leaving a message.”

  “That it is. Drive carefully.”

  “I will. Talk to you soon.”

  “Bye, then.”

  A pause, long enough Mai thought they were going to play the game she’d overheard from Natalia when a boy from school had called her: “You hang up first,” “No, you.” She heard a click and the carrier wave. After she hung up, Alexei poured them some wine.

  “I gather that was our favorite right-winger,” he said, his eyes straying to the open bottle of whiskey.

  His gaze lingered, and she knew he calculated how much she’d drunk. Ignoring the wine, Mai picked up the whiskey and refilled her glass. She ignored the food as well, but Alexei ate as she filled him in on the part of the conversation he hadn’t overheard.

  “Anything from Analysis on this guy Addams?” he asked.

  “A bit soon. If they come up with a connection to one of the significant groups, I’ll venture a trip to the wilds of Arkansas.”

  He stayed quiet, his face neutral as always. “Do you want to talk about the deposition?” he murmured.

  “No.” She drained her glass and filled it again.

  “I know it brought up bad memories.”

  “Which you’re bringing up again.” She knocked back half the glass.

  “We never discussed it at the time.”

  “And we’re not going to fucking discuss it now.”

  “Easy. I’m trying to be considerate.”

  “A considerate husband would not bring it up.”

  “You know, I didn’t find it pleasant to remember that again either.”

  Unnerved he equated their experiences from that summer, Mai refilled her glass and walked to the large windows in the office. The evening was full dark, with only a few lights from boats on the river and on the Maryland bluffs beyond. Her reflection in the glass showed her an angry and bitter woman. To direct anger or bitterness at Alexei was to transfer what belonged on Arkan’s head, but he wasn’t here; Alexei was.

  “I’m not interested in sharing,” she said, “and, by the way, our experiences were vastly different.”

  He approached and stood an arm’s length behind her, concern on his face. That made her angrier, that he was being reasonable. He would do what he always did when she was in this mood: be calm and detached so she would come out looking like the screaming banshee.

  “I’m aware,” he said. “You were brutalized by a madman and his psychopathic girlfriend, but we both lost a child.”

  Mai whirled to face him, but he didn’t retreat from her anger. He never did. “We are not discussing this. Talk about our mission. Anything except this. Keep it up, and I’ll meet John Carroll wherever his next gun show is. Alone.”

  “Why are you angry with me?”

  “You’re here. Arkan isn’t.”

  He considered that, drank some wine, and shrugged. “Fair enough.”

  “I fucking hate when you do that.”

  “What? Be supportive? Would you rather I didn’t?”

  “Sometimes, yes, when it becomes smothering.”

  “A matter of perspective. You want me to argue with you for an excuse to go after John Carroll.”

  “God, that sounded as if you think I’m Natalia’s age. You’re the one who taught me how crucial it was to get to know a subject’s circle of friends.”

  “What can I say? Arkan made me a worrier.”

  “Mission has priority over the personal.”

  “No fair tossing my old words back at me.”

  “I shouldn’t have to do that.”

  “Granted, but our relationship is much different now than when you were a trainee.”

  She realized the whole conversation, his calm, unruffled tone, had been designed to defuse her anger, and that made it flare again. No, she was too tired, too tipsy to win an argument with him.

  “Alexei, maybe John Carroll will end up being a dead end, and the mission is over. But there will always be another mission.”

  His slight frown, his eyes flicking away from her was odd for him. Resignation or reluctance to continue talking, she wasn’t sure.

  “I’ll put my old age sentimentality behind me,” he said, eyes meeting hers again. “I will, however, make some observations.”

  “As if I could stop you.”

  His eyes narrowed in warning. “It’s obvious from his letters, his phone calls, he’s lonely. You’ve established his encounters with the opposite sex are limited. He’s a young, healthy man who—”

  “Alexei, do not go there.”

  “He doesn’t know you don’t work a subject with sex.”

  “Oh, God, whatever will I do if he makes an untoward suggestion?”

  That garnered a fleeting smile. “No need to raise sarcasm to new heights. Make certain he understands this is only a friendship.”

  “Are you speaking as the senior operative in this partnership?”

  “No, I’m speaking as your husband.”

  “A husband who has trouble remembering I’m an adult. Alexei, I’m not going to fuck him for a mission.”

  “I understand that, but you have to be careful. If he’s a fanatic, his ego is fragile. When he realizes you’re fucking with his head, his reaction might be explosive.”

  First Danielle, then Terrell, now Alexei alluding to explosions.

  “Message received,” she said. “I’d like to be alone.”

  He didn’t like the dismissal, but he said, “I’ll leave the plate. Eat something. Don’t drink yourself into a stupor and sleep down here.”

  He left, and she proceeded to do just that.

  8

  Moving Trains

  Working in an underground facility meant Grace Lydell relished the occasions to get above the surface. Fresh, not recycled, air. Well, this was the D.C. suburbs. The air wasn’t that fresh, but she relished it anyway. Grace had started as an analyst for The Directorate upon her graduation from American University in 1963. Her first big analysis? The Kennedy Assassination—oh, the conspiracy theories she could debunk. Now she was the head of the Domestic Analysis Section, but she’d never pass up a face-to-face
briefing at the Bukharin-Fisher household. It was a great house, one Mai fondly called The Monstrosity, and Alexei Bukharin was a great cook.

  Grace had known Alexei since his defection, and they’d become friends, maybe confidantes, after she’d deflected his suave pass. She’d never dated field ops. They were an odd, unemotional bunch who got themselves killed. She didn’t need heartache.

  Lunch was a bowl of scallops and oysters in a white wine sauce over penne pasta. While they ate, they reviewed the report Grace had brought with her. The unseasonably warm March day allowed the three of them to dine on the large deck, and Grace enjoyed the view of the Potomac. She answered Mai’s uncountable questions and elaborated on salient points.

  Mai had put in the query some weeks before: Was there an indication of some act of revenge to occur February 28 or April 19, one year after the debacle at Killeen, Texas? February had been a definite negative. The take on April 19 hadn’t been easy to determine.

  Eyes on a page in the report, Mai said, “Chat room activity and news group postings spiked in the past week.”

  “Expected this close to the anniversary,” Alexei replied.

  “Lots of calls for rallies, applications for permits on the National Mall.”

  Alexei flipped back a few pages and read. “Inconclusive,” he said.

  “April 19 is Patriot’s Day.”

  “An unofficial holiday within the patriot movement.”

  “Lots of references to The Turner Diaries,” said Mai.

  “Again, to be expected.”

  She looked up, waited for him to meet her eyes, and said, “Are you being devil’s advocate or disagreeing with me on principle?”

  Grace watched the couple carefully. Mai didn’t like being questioned for the hell of it. Alexei’s right hand, resting on the table, made a slight motion in Grace’s direction. We have company, he was telling Mai. They might be top field ops, but Grace could read body language and facial nuance better than either of them.

  “I’m pointing out alternative explanations,” Alexei said.

  Mai closed the report and lay it on the table. “I agree with Grace. It could go either way.” Mai smiled at Alexei. “That doesn’t mean you win, by the way.”