Surly Bonds

by Michael Byars Lewis

  “And it’s her, right?”

  “Yes, it’s her. I thought it was you returning to nurse me back to health.” He shifted his position on the couch to face her more.

  “Well, what did she want?”

  “Me. I couldn’t believe she showed up here. She actually wanted to have a serious conversation at ten in the morning, and me with a hangover.”

  “And?”

  “So, I told her I was too hung over to discuss it at the time. We met for lunch—”

  “At the Garfield Grill,” she said.

  “Yes, at the Garfield Grill.” His eyes squinted, and his head cocked to one side. “Do you want to tell this story? You seem to know more about my weekend than I do.”

  She sat back again, her arms folded across her chest. “I’m sorry, go ahead.”

  “Thank you. Well, we met for lunch and she gave me a line about how sorry she is for screwing someone while we were married. And she is sorry for divorcing me and she is sorry for marrying someone else.”

  “She sounds like a pretty sorry person.”

  “Right. So she lays it on thick. She says she still loves me and she’s not in love with the other jerk. I don’t know if she was sincere or not. If she wasn’t, it was the greatest acting I’ve ever seen her do.”

  Jason stood and walked into the kitchen and returned with two Diet Cokes. He offered one to Kathy, who took it, but didn’t open it.

  “Anyway, at that point, I still suffered a massive hangover. There was no way I could have had that conversation if I had wanted to. I think that kind of disappointed her, she’d come with all her guns loaded.

  “After we left the Garfield Grill, as you so keenly noted, we went our separate ways. We were supposed to go out to dinner, but I told her I didn’t think it was a good idea.” That wasn’t exactly how it went down but there was no reason to upset her with the story about the hotel. His tale wasn’t a lie. It just didn’t contain all the available truths in it. Jason decided he would sit on that piece of information unless it looked like she knew exactly what happened at the Holiday Inn. “Then I left and came to Chicaros to see you. Only when I got there, you had already left with your boyfriend. Would you care to explain that one?”

  Kathy adjusted her posture and wiped the tears from her eyes.

  “He’s not my boyfriend, you know that. You are.”

  “I wasn’t sure that was an official status, but I’m glad you feel that way.” He had the same feelings for her but couldn’t put it into words. He paused to gather his thoughts. “So, tell me, who were you with? And why are you crying so much?”

  She stared straight ahead with her hands in her lap. “It was Vince.”

  Jason sat up in amazement. “Vince? My friend Vince? Of all the damn guys running around this place, you have to take off with my friend?”

  “Conrad, I’m sorry. I didn’t sleep with him or anything,” she said. “I was just so mad at you because your ex-wife was in town. I didn’t know what to do, I needed someone to talk to . . . we didn’t do anything.”

  Jason sat disgusted on the couch, his elbows propped on his knees. He shook his head and thought about his horrible weekend and how it was turning into a nightmarish week.

  “I think I should be alone for a while,” he told her, his face falling into his hands.

  “Jason, I want to talk.”

  He lifted his head. “I’m sorry, I can’t talk. You’ll have to accept that. Look, I don’t want it to be over between us, I don’t think anything has happened that can’t be fixed. Right now, I have a world of crap around me and I’m down to my last roll of toilet paper.”

  Kathy stood to leave. She walked over to him and ran her fingers through his hair.

  “I understand you are hurting Jason. I know I hurt you and I’m sorry,” she said walking to the door, “but you hurt me too. And I know you are pre-occupied with your flying, so I won’t press the issue today.” She opened the door. “And Jason?”

  “Yes?”

  “Kick ass on that next check ride.” Kathy left without waiting for a response.

  MONROE DROVE BOB ALLEN’S truck slowly through the dark streets of Stillwater. Bob Allen sat semi-conscious in the passenger seat. The two had spent the night at a popular honky-tonk which sat on the outskirts of town. Bob Allen had been doing quite well with one of the cocktail waitresses there until her husband showed up and decided she needed to go home. It was one of those nights when too much alcohol and too much cocaine had infested his brain. He’d tried to start two fights earlier, but because he was so well known, the bouncers were able to separate them and keep Bob Allen out of trouble. Monroe kept an eye on him until the bar closed. The two had climbed in Bob Allen’s truck and proceeded to head home. Alone.

  Bob Allen slumped over, his black felt cowboy hat pressed up against the window, and his dirty Wranglers streaked the truck seat with mud and grass. His new white shirt with the pearl capped buttons had been ripped in the second fight of the evening and Monroe wasn’t sure if Bob Allen would remember the incident he had gotten himself into an hour ago.

  Monroe had the radio tuned to a rap station in Oklahoma City, surprised that rap music even existed here. He despised the country and western music Bob Allen and Big Joe played all the time. The cowboy act was too much for him to stomach. He had considered several times to move to one of the coasts, where things were a little trendier, but the money Big Joe paid him was too good to walk away from.

  Monroe pulled on to a side road to avoid driving through the campus and headed north. Big Joe had a place north of town where Bob Allen and Monroe stayed when in this part of Oklahoma. Big Joe’s place was five minutes away when Monroe felt the car shudder. He didn’t hear the initial bang, but the shudder got his attention. It lasted for a few seconds then the car sat back on its left rear. A fierce grinding sound came from the bottom of the truck as the rim of the tire screeched along the pavement.

  “Shit,” Monroe said, as the truck rim sent sparks everywhere and the truck came to a stop. The jolt slammed Bob Allen into the dashboard and out of his alcohol induced slumber and the two stumbled out of the truck.

  “What the hell did you do?” Bob Allen wobbled on the side of the road.

  “I didn’t do a damn thing,” Monroe said as he staggered to the rear of the truck. He shook his head in disbelief at their bad luck, as he surveyed the condition of the vehicle. The rim was flattened in two areas, and the axle appeared bent.

  “Shit, Monroe. What did you do to my truck? Did you go drive through a ditch or something? It’s ruined!” Bob Allen, drunk, weaved in the middle of the dark street. The headlights of the truck tilted up slightly. “Big Joe is gonna have a shit fit when he hears about this. This is the last kind of shit he—”

  BAM!

  The sound echoed across the flat land. Monroe pivoted as the top of Bob Allen’s head vaporized in a crimson mist and the body collapsed on the pavement.

  Monroe dove for the ground and rolled along the road toward the ditch on the side. Who the hell? Why did they want to kill Bob Allen? He reached the ditch in a matter of seconds. Monroe scurried for another thirty yards or so before he crawled up the other side into an empty field of freshly cut grass. His nostrils flared from the musty smell of the grass and he sneezed twice and shattered the silence of the darkness.

  Monroe stood and sprinted through the field. Panic set in as he ran with neither direction nor purpose; his arms flailed as he ran.

  Running away from the road, the truck, and his dead partner, he couldn’t remember when he’d ever run so fast in his life. He’d gone two hundred yards before he reached a pond about the size of a football field. Out of breath, he suffered from cramps in his side. Monroe stumbled to the edge of the pond. When he stepped too close to the water, his feet sank past his ankles in the thick black mud at the water’s edge.

  His feet made that sloshing, sucking sound as he backed out of the mud. Desperate, he searched for another escape route. Big Joe’s place was
n’t too far away. If he could reach Big Joe’s, he’d be safe. He could get help. Monroe looked toward the road and saw a figure, walking across the field toward him. The man held a rifle; fifty feet away and Monroe had nowhere to go. His legs grew weak and his body shook. His breath came in huge gasps now. Monroe’s body told him something his mind was slow to acknowledge. He was about to die.

  “Who are you?” Monroe screamed at the figure walking towards him.

  No answer came from the figure, which approached him. He was ten feet away and aimed the rifle at Monroe’s chest. Monroe squinted in the dark to see his face as he shivered. Small traces of starlight highlighted the face of the killer. It took a moment, but Monroe finally made the connection.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  It was the last thing he ever said.

  26

  September 6, 1995

  * * *

  MIKEAL TOLSTOY WALKED ALONG the street for several blocks through the freezing cold of the early Moscow winter. A cold front swept down from the north the night before and dropped six centimeters of fresh new snow. The street bustled with activity as people returned from work, traveled to the market, and headed to work for the evening shift. Mikeal thought it was unusually cold for this time of year as he rounded the corner to his apartment building. The icy chill pierced the thin gloves that covered his hands, wrapped around two loaves of bread. The market had not been crowded when he first arrived, though he still waited in line for thirty minutes to buy the fresh bread.

  When he reached his building, several residents scurried down the steps past him.

  “Is it not a cold afternoon, Mikeal?” a voice called from behind him.

  Mikeal turned to his neighbor who lived two flats downstairs from him. He was the elderly gentleman from the second floor. Mikeal could not remember where and when they first met, nor could he remember his name.

  “It certainly is, my friend,” he said. The two barely knew each other, and now Mikeal was cornered. Embarrassed by his poor memory, his reaction concealed by the windblown streaks of his red face. His eyes darted back and forth. “Perhaps we should go to my apartment for a glass of vodka to warm up?”

  “Mikeal, that is a wonderful idea.” He seemed to enjoy the idea of conversation with a neighbor for the evening and would enjoy it more if vodka was involved. Truth be told, the idea of a drink suited Mikeal, too. Only stiff vodka would shake the memories of his spy game and calm his nerves.

  The pair plodded upstairs without speaking, and for good reason. By the time the two reached Mikeal’s apartment on the fourth floor, they were winded. He long ago gave up attempts to move to a lower floor. It proved to be an impossible task.

  Walking along the darkened hallway, Mikeal observed the quiet surroundings, except for the ever-present creaking of the floorboards. None of the normal sounds were present: the neighbors across the hall that fought, the baby next door that cried, radios and televisions that blared through the thin walls of the apartments. He felt more perceptive since his adventure several days ago. The feeling reminded him of the war of Nazi aggression. As a boy, the first-time shells landed around his village, it was sheer terror. But after he survived such an event, he felt strong and invincible. Now, his initial fears gone, he thought he could get accustomed to this spy business. He unlocked the door to his apartment, which made a familiar squeak as it opened.

  THE CONCUSSION SHOOK THE STREET and an enormous red, orange, and yellow fireball followed by debris burst out of the side of the apartment building. The fireball quickly dissipated, and flames intertwined with black smoke, rolled out of the massive hole where a window once perched, billowing upward.

  A heavy-set woman grabbed her children and avoided the cascading flow of rubble. Mikeal Tolstoy’s apartment covered the street below. A crowd of bystanders joined the panicked occupants of the building.

  It was unclear when the first official appeared at the scene, perhaps a minute or two after the explosion. Five minutes later, the first firefighters arrived. A quick inspection of the area didn’t indicate a growing fire. There were a few small fires on the fifth floor, but those were quickly extinguished.

  Two men in a black sedan surveyed the scene from further down the street. The size of the explosion was impressive, but now their eyes searched the people on the street. It had been a minor task to rig the Semtex to explode when the door opened.

  “I don’t see him anywhere,” the bald one said.

  “Nyet,” replied his comrade.

  The two sat in silence for ten more minutes and watched the mild chaos develop.

  “Wait here. I’ll go see what they know.”

  “Perhaps he got away. What if someone else was killed in the explosion? Did he have a wife? A girlfriend? If he’s gotten away, we’ll have hell to pay.”

  “No, I don’t think so.” The bald one slid from behind the wheel. He stuffed his hands in his pocket and pulled out his cap, the bald one walked toward the gathering spectators. “Keep the engine running,” he said over his shoulder before he disappeared into the crowd.

  The bald one scanned the faces around the front of the building, searching for signs of Mikeal. He queried the police officers on hand about the tragic accident after informing them of his status with the government. The police officer was surprised more people weren’t killed. Miraculously, no one was in the surrounding rooms, above and below, where the room exploded. Two men, both of whom lived in the building, were confirmed dead.

  That was all the information the bald one could obtain, but it was enough. What the police officer didn’t know . . . the bald one and his partner had quietly evacuated the building by telling tenants about a gas leak caused by a terrorist group. They must leave the building and speak to no one on the way out.

  The bald one returned, slid behind the wheel, and put the transmission in gear. The car leaped forward and pulled away from the curb.

  “He’s dead,” the bald one said.

  His partner removed his hat and revealed his eyebrows; grown so close together they appeared as one straight band of hair. “One-brow” was slightly bigger than the bald one, but it was clear who was in charge.

  “Mikeal Tolstoy was a traitor to his comrades and countrymen,” the bald one said. “Our work here is done. I think you might have used too much explosives. They say two men died. Perhaps the blast could have been smaller.”

  “No. The blast was sufficient to do the job,” One-brow said. “Am I to believe the bodies have not been identified?”

  “It’s him. They walked in the building and minutes later the bomb went off. Now there are two bodies. It’s him, I’m sure.”

  “Let us hope so. If we made a mistake, he might be able to reach the Americans before we have another chance at him.”

  The bald one gave One-brow a double take. “I don’t think Tolstoy was a serious problem. His file was new; several days old at most. He may not have been a traitor, just another soul that needed to be eliminated.”

  “Even so, now he is dead,” One-brow said as he reached into the back of the sedan and pulled out a thick, black briefcase. He set the briefcase on his lap, popped the clasps, and opened the lid, which revealed an unassembled sniper’s rifle. As he transformed the many parts into one, he wondered aloud. “I cannot believe Nikolai did not inform the old man of his plan. What if he is wrong?”

  “It doesn’t matter if Nikolai is wrong or right,” the bald one said. “All that matters is that Palovich must die.”

  AARON CALDWELL FLIPPED THROUGH the file for the third time that day. He sat in his cramped office inside the compound of the American embassy in Moscow. Caldwell never complained about the office space being small; at least it was his. He didn’t share it with anyone, as the other members of the embassy staff left him and his people alone.

  Caldwell stretched the legs of his six-foot two-inch frame under the desk. His thick, brown hair was ruffled, and his deep-set brown eyes surrounded by streaks of red. Stationed in Moscow for
the last three years, Caldwell was not particularly liked by the liberal embassy staff. “The Cold War is over,” they said. He and his kind were a bad memory. Under the embassy’s diplomatic immunity, Caldwell was free to conduct his activities as a field officer for the Central Intelligence Agency. Such things were frowned upon by those outside the circle.

  Caldwell tossed the folder on his desk, leaned back in his chair, and stared out the window. The snow had continued to fall for the last week. The first time he ever saw snow was when he attended courses at the “Farm”. Caldwell came from Bertrandville, south of Metairie, Louisiana, and had studied political science at the University of New Orleans. After four years, he went on to Tulane Law School, where he graduated with honors. Shortly before graduation, he had been approached by recruiters for the CIA. They wanted young men and women willing to accept the challenge to rebuild the dwindling intelligence agency. Fascinated with the opportunity for travel and adventure, Caldwell signed up. Soon, he realized the CIA was not the same world that existed in a James Bond movie. There were a lot of boring meetings and mounds of paperwork that made no sense.

  Four years ago, he jumped at the chance to apply for service at the Moscow division. After a year in Monterey at the Defense Language Institute, Caldwell moved to Moscow. The job had been interesting, but unexciting. In the beginning, Caldwell was disappointed. As time went by and he gained experience and exposure, he came to appreciate the cat-and-mouse game that still went on between the CIA and the KGB.

  “What do you think?” Hank Fielding poked his head in the doorway.

  Caldwell leaned forward, propped both elbows on the table, and clasped his hands. “Something big is going down. Palovich has been a reliable source, but he’s never been this nervous.”

  “Do you think they’ve found out about him? Maybe this is some sort of trap, and they are trying to find out who his contacts are.”