Angel in the Full Moon

by Don Easton

  Moustache Pete was the first to notice the dark car pull up to the curb a short distance ahead of them—and the attractive woman who stepped out from the passenger seat as they approached.

  The man driving the car also got out and walked toward the rear of the car just as Moustache Pete and the Fat Man were about to walk past.

  “Police!” the woman yelled, while pointing a pistol at Moustache Pete’s face. “Don’t move!”

  Moustache Pete and the Fat Man’s mouths gaped open and they saw the flash of a badge in her other hand.

  “Both of you, put your hands up!” yelled the man behind them.

  Moustache Pete and the Fat Man both turned to see a second gun being pointed at them. They put their hands up and Moustache Pete asked, “What is this about? What have we done?”

  “You fit the description perfectly,” said the woman, “of two men who clubbed and robbed a man in an alley just two blocks from here.”

  “It wasn’t us,” said Moustache Pete, glancing at the Fat Man, who let out a big sigh and began to smile.

  “Gee, I’ve never heard that before,” replied the woman, sarcastically. “Put your hands on the roof of the car and back your feet away. You’re going in for a lineup.”

  Within seconds, Moustache Pete and the Fat Man found themselves handcuffed with their hands behind their back and placed in the back seat.

  “You will see that it is not us,” said Moustache Pete as the man buckled their seat belts across their laps. “How long will this lineup take?”

  “Shut the fuck up, Petya Globenko,” the man hissed. “I don’t want to hear a word from you ... ever.”

  Moustache Pete’s eyes opened wide and his mouth hung open.

  “You know who we are?” asked the Fat Man in astonishment.

  “Same goes for you, Styopa Ghukov,” the man snarled. “You’re finished. We know all about you.” He handed the woman the keys and said, “You drive. I’ll watch these bastards.”

  Moustache Pete and the Fat Man exchanged nervous glances. There was no denying the rage in the man’s eyes.

  This is somehow personal to him, Moustache Pete realized. I am sure we have never met ... He looked at the woman’s face in the rearview mirror and fell back in his seat as she peeled away from the curb. He glanced back at the man beside her. The man sat sideways in the seat watching them.

  When they stopped at the next set of traffic lights, the woman leaned across and kissed the man on the cheek and the nape of his neck. “You did it,” she said softly. “I love you.”

  “Told you I would, babe,” he replied. “A little pre-wedding gift for you,” he added with a grim smile. “What did you think when I said, put your hands up! Did I sound like a real cop? I always wanted to say that.”

  The woman chortled and said, “You did sound like one. Doesn’t CSIS teach you how to arrest people?”

  Moustache Pete and the Fat Man quickly exchanged a few words in Russian and Moustache Pete looked at the man and said, “You are with the Canadian Security Intelligence Service!”

  “Ah,” the man said, looking at the woman and adding, “Our two Ivans in the back seat are cluing in.” He glanced at them and said, “Just for your info, my fiancée is a police officer.”

  “But you are not,” said Moustache Pete. “What is this about? Where are you taking us?” he demanded.

  “Relax, Ivan. You would have been arrested by my office tomorrow morning anyway. I’m just doing it a day early.”

  “Arrested for what? We have done nothing wrong.”

  “No, not yet. But we know that you were about to.”

  “My brother!” yelled the woman, her eyes burning with anger as she looked in the rearview mirror. “You sons of bitches! He was in the World Trade Center when it collapsed. He was the only family member I had left!”

  “I don’t understand!” yelped The Fat Man.

  “The Trade Center?” asked Moustache Pete. “We had nothing to do with that. You have made a mistake. We are retired schoolteachers. You have arrested the wrong men.”

  “Maybe you had nothing to do with the Trade Center,” she said, “but your friends did.”

  “Our friends?” asked Moustache Pete.

  “Only this time you’ve got something far more murderous up your sleeves,” said the woman.

  “If I were you,” said the man, raising his hand and wagging his index finger to emphasis the point, “I would just sit quietly. If you want to talk, I suggest you do it later tonight when you arrive in Guantanamo Bay.”

  “Guantanamo!” exclaimed both men from the back seat.

  “Yeah, I don’t really believe in the extradition process. My buddies in the CIA feel the same way.”

  “You cannot do this!” said Moustache Pete. “I wish to call the Russian embassy. It is my right.”

  The man shook his head and said, “My friends down south have assured me that you will speak to nobody again ... not even each other, for as long as you live.” He gave a sinister grin and added, “Except for their interrogators, of course. I think they will make you say plenty.”

  “You will stop the car immediately,” said the Fat Man. “We have the right to call the Russian embassy,” he demanded.

  “You ignorant, dumb bastards,” said the man. “Who do you think it was, Styopa, who told us about your degree in microbiology? Or your degree in history, Petya? How you did not teach at all—except at military institutions.”

  Moustache Pete and the Fat Man glanced at each other in surprise.

  “Believe me,” the man continued. “Russia’s only interest in you now is to ensure that you do end up in the hands of the Americans. The war on terrorism has united many countries. Russia, Cuba—countries who used to be enemies ... have now united.”

  The man glanced at the woman and added, “Except for fucking Vietnam. They’re still too hung up on past conflicts to cooperate on anything. I can just imagine how many more terrorists we would have discovered if they had cooperated.” He turned to the men in the back and said, “We do know you went there as well.”

  “Your own people at CSIS, they will find out if you carry out this ... this plan,” said Moustache Pete.

  The man sneered and said, “My people will be told that you became paranoid over that incident at the Vancouver airport. Remember? Where you had your picture taken just before you went to Costa Rica. You have talked of it. The CIA will say that you spotted CSIS agents following you in Canada and decided to flee to the U.S. where you were arrested.”

  “That was you?” asked the Fat Man. “You took our photograph at the Vancouver airport?”

  “No, that was a Russian attaché. They said it was an accidental blunder, but we know better. You were an embarrassment to them. They hoped to prevent you from meeting with the al-Qaeda operative that you later met in Cuba.”

  “Al-Qaeda?” said both captives in unison.

  “Mother Russia believed they could scare you into returning to Russia so that they could arrest you. Now that we know you met with al-Qaeda in Cuba and plan to attack the States, Russia is more than happy to let the Americans have you.” The man looked at the woman and said, “I wonder which would be worse? Russian or American interrogation? Probably the same.”

  “You’re still lucky,” said the woman harshly, while glancing in the rearview mirror. “You’ll both get to spend the rest of your lives in Cuba—which is a hell of a lot more than I can say for my brother. Personally I hope you die of the heat ... while the rats nibble at your toes.”

  Bien finished his steak sandwich and took another sip from the glass of red wine. Dúc raised a bottle to refill his glass, but Bien put his hand over the top and shook his head.

  “What is wrong, my friend?” asked Dúc.“You do not like wine? In over two hours you have only had two glasses! Perhaps I should have ordered you a Huda?”

  “No, the wine is good,” said Bien, but I am tired and should return to my hotel.”

  Dúc nodded and said, “First, there
is something I would like to speak to you about. A business proposition. One that could be lucrative for the both of us.”

  Bien raised his eyebrows in response.

  “About the women you ... see ... who fly to Vancouver with packages,” added Dúc. “I have an idea.”

  Bien looked looked sharply at Dúc and said, “I think that such a discussion should only take place between you and I. Are you able to give me a ride back to my hotel room?”

  Dúc smiled and said, “You are absolutely correct, this is no place to discuss issues of a sensitive nature. Let me finish my wine and then I will drive you to your hotel.”

  Later, Bien slipped a steak knife into his jacket pocket.

  chapter thirty-five

  Laura glanced at the highway sign indicating the way to the U.S. border and caught Jack’s eye. He turned in the seat and said, “Hey, you Russkies! See that,” he said, pointing to the sign. “One hour and you will be the most welcome guest of the US government.”

  “This is a terrible, terrible mistake,” Moustache Pete said. “I do not understand why you would think that we are—”

  “Shut up!” yelled Laura. “One more peep out of either of you and I’ll pull off in some farmer’s field and shoot the both of you!”

  Jack glanced back at the Russians before looking at Laura. “Honey, I love you, but please settle down,” he said, affectionately squeezing her shoulder as she drove. “For my purposes, it would not hurt if these men decided to cooperate now and give us the names of other al-Qaeda agents that they are involved with.”

  “Let the Americans talk to them,” she said. “I don’t need to hear them yap.”

  “They could have information valuable to Canada,” Jack replied. “Other lives could be at stake here.” He looked at the Russians and said, “I know you will tell everything eventually. It is inevitable,” he shrugged.

  Laura shook her head silently and stared ahead in anger.

  Jack eyeballed Moustache Pete and said, “How about it? With your military background, surely you know that, in time, you will be broken. The longer it takes, the more painful it will be. Why not make it easier on yourselves? You have no people to ever rescue you ... or even a country to go to.”

  “You are wrong,” said Moustache Pete. “We are not terrorists. I swear on my mother’s grave.”

  “You are foolish not to cooperate,” said Jack, “unless of course, you are a masochist and enjoy pain. The two Arabs you met at the Al Medina restaurant in Havana? Well, one of them has been under watch for years. He is very high up in al-Qaeda. A financer, I am told. As you have now probably figured out, he is only allowed to operate so that we can identify people such as yourselves. Do you deny meeting him there?”

  “No, I do not deny that, but—”

  “Your interest in navigational charts ....” Jack said, letting out a laugh before continuing, “You really are poorly trained. I was even in the West Marine store with you a little while ago when you were asking about Seattle and inquiring about navigational charts for Puget Sound. You should remember my face. Believe me, the Americans were not amused by that.”

  Moustache Pete tipped his head back, briefly closing his eyes while shaking his head.

  “Vietnam is the only country that refuses to cooperate. Tell us who you met there, it might go well for you. You were in the military. You know what is in store for you if you do not cooperate.”

  The tears rolled down Fat Man’s chubby cheeks as he pleaded, “We are not terrorists ... please.” He looked at his friend and spoke rapidly in Russian, but stopped when Jack leaned over and backhanded him across the face.

  “Either speak English or shut the fuck up!” Jack yelled.

  “Sir,” said Moustache Pete. “Believe me when I tell you that I did not know that the gentlemen we met in Havana were—”

  “Gentlemen!” yelled Laura. “You call cowardly killers gentlemen!” She glanced at Jack and said, “That’s it, I’m looking for a place to pull over. The other side of the tunnel ... past Deas Island ... there’s some bush along River Road.”

  “It was simply a figure of speech,” said Moustache Pete quickly. “Personally, I did not care for either one of them.”

  “Yeah, right,” Laura replied.

  “You are a police officer,” pleaded Moustache Pete, before taking a sideways glance at the Fat Man. “We have some information that is very valuable to the police. You can check it out. We are smugglers ... not terrorists. If you let us explain—just stop and talk to us for fifteen minutes ... we can prove it.”

  “They’re looking for a chance to escape,” said Laura, speeding up. “Watch ’em.”

  “We are handcuffed!” cried Moustache Pete. “We can’t escape. You are a police officer ... you may even know of the crime that we wish to tell you about.”

  “What? Somebody importing vodka illegally?” said Jack, contemptuously.

  “No! Someone ... a little girl ... she is in great danger,” said Moustache Pete. “Promise to let us go and we will tell you how to find her. It will save her life.”

  Laura lowered her head so that her eyes could not be seen in the rearview mirror and stared ahead without speaking.

  Moustache Pete turned to Jack, but he had turned his back to him and also sat quietly staring out over the hood of the car.

  Please,” said Moustache Pete. “Do not treat what I say with indifference. I am not lying. This little girl ... we have heard that she had a sister who was murdered by the same man. If it is not true, then you can give us to the Americans. But you will see that it is true. Please ...”

  Jack and Laura discovered that they were now at the most difficult part of their charade. Something they hadn’t expected just happened.

  They knew that if seen, the tears in their eyes might give everything away.

  “I hate this time of year,” said Dúc, starting the engine as Bien got in the car beside him. “It is barely four o’clock and it is getting dark already,” he said, while turning on the windshield wipers.

  “I have something I want you to look at,” said Bien, handing Dúc a folded piece of paper.

  “What is it?” asked Dúc.

  “Look ... and you will understand.”

  Dúc unfolded the paper and looked. He gasped when he looked at the black and white photograph of Hang holding Linh’s hand. His hands shook as he turned to look at Bien, but froze when he felt the serrated blade of the knife slice a jagged line under his chin, before stopping with the point pressing into this throat.

  “These are my daughters!” yelled Bien. “Look at them! Look closely at their beautiful faces! Look at how old they are! Look at their eyes—so full of life!”

  Dúc looked down at the photograph as droplets of blood from his chin dripped onto the picture. He was still in shock when Bien repositioned the knife so that the tip was directed upwards under the bottom side of his rib cage.

  Pops had just arrived home from work and was hanging his jacket in the closet when he heard the knock at his back door. He hesitated, but heard Dúc’s voice and opened the door.

  Dúc’s wide eyes and pasty-white face stared up at him. Another Vietnamese man stood behind him. Why is Dúc clutching his throat? Blood is seeping through his fingers!

  Pops moved to close the door but he was too late. Bien propelled Dúc forward, smashing him against the door and stepping inside the foyer behind him.

  “My daughter!” yelled Bien. “Take me to her now or I will slash his throat and yours right after!”

  “Your daughter?” Pops replied.

  “Linh!” yelled Bien. “Linh!” he yelled again.

  “She cannot hear you,” said Dúc, nervously. “I told you, he has a room in the basement. I am sure she is okay,” he added, looking nervously at Pops for confirmation.

  “Take me to her, or I will kill you now and find her myself!” said Bien.

  Pops stepped back and said, “Okay, okay.” He pointed to the stairs leading to the basement and said, �
�She’s down there.”

  “No,” said Bien. “First ... Dúc, you hold the back of his shirt as he walks. I will hold you. If you let go of him, you will die first!”

  Pops slowly led the way into the basement and opened the hidden door.

  “Linh!” yelled Bien. Her screams and the sound of her sobs answered in a hysterical response.

  “See? She’s in there, waiting for you,” said Pops. “Go and see her,” he said, gesturing to the passageway entrance.

  Bien started crying, but shook his head. “You go first,” he said.

  The sound of Linh crying and screaming now howled out of the passageway like a megaphone.

  “I didn’t hear you,” said Pops. “Go to her. She needs you!”

  “No!” screamed Bien. “You go first!” he yelled so there could be no doubt that Pops heard him.

  Pops nodded and Bien watched as he struggled through the opening.

  Bien clung on to Dúc and shoved him through the passageway ahead of him.

  Seconds later, Bien’s mouth dropped open in shock at the sight of his naked daughter standing in chains.

  He was more horrified to see a pistol in Pops’s hand with the end of the barrel stuck in Linh’s ear.

  “You have a choice now,” said Pops, calmly. “You can put the knife down or hold it and watch me shoot your daughter ... and then you. Although I must admit, I may do it in the reverse order.”

  “No! You put the gun down or I will kill Dúc,” replied Bien, quickly putting the knife back to Dúc’s throat.

  Pops started laughing and said, “I was going to kill him anyway for bringing you here. Please ... go ahead. You can kill him now and I will not even try and stop you. I would consider it a favour.”

  Bien jerked his arm, as if he were going to cut Dúc’s throat. Dúc cried out in fear and Bien saw the disappointment flash across Pops’s face at the ruse.

  “Okay,” sighed Pops. “I’ll tell you what I am going to do. I am sure that someone probably knows that you came here with Ducky Boy. If I stay, I know that it is just a matter of time before I am found. Put the knife down and let Dúc chain you up at the other end of the room. Do that and I will not hurt you or your daughter. Dúc and I will leave and when we are safe, we will call someone so that you are found—if you have not been found already.”