Ghosts of War

by Brad Taylor

  Alex Romanov, a thin, white-haired man sitting to Putin’s right, toyed with his cane and said, “Perhaps we should take the offer.”

  “Then we lose Belarus. We lose everything we were attempting to gain.”

  “We go to war, and we will lose much more than that.”

  Putin knew the men around the room were growing skittish at the rattling of sabers. They had stood with him on the machinations with Belarus, but had become alarmed at how it had spiraled out of control. They had interests that went far beyond politics, and feared the financial repercussions of a war.

  They could not tell him what to do, of course, but he held no illusions as to their power, and neither did his personal staff. Before flying here from Moscow, his most trusted aide had said one thing: Beware the Ides of March. Putin may be the emperor, but like Caesar, it didn’t make him invincible.

  Putin said, “What if Simon begins talking? How can we guarantee he won’t raise the truth at a later date?”

  A younger man with a scar on his cheek, seated farther down, said, “Each day that passes makes him less believable. The president of the United States said he would announce Simon’s sole culpability. If Simon says something at a later date, it will look like a desperate man attempting anything to save himself. It will mean the United States is in on the conspiracy.” He smiled, showing yellow teeth. “And who would believe that?”

  Romanov said, “Don’t forget, he’s charged in the death of President Warren. It’s not inconceivable that we will get the opportunity to take care of him. Remember what happened to Lee Harvey Oswald? The Americans have no love for assassins.”

  That thought made Putin smile. In truth, part of his reticence was purely to punish Simon. No man on earth had ever dared to cause him so much trouble. Maybe patience would allow that punishment to occur.

  He went around the room, seeing the concurrence on each man’s face.

  He said, “So be it.”

  —

  Private First Class Joe Meglan was one of the last to board the MC-130, having been tasked with the final scrub of the perimeter. He drove around it in an RSOV, looking on with a small bit of nostalgia, because at one point, he was sure they were going to war and that he would die inside the hole he’d dug.

  They’d had the radio reports coming in every ten minutes, and had known that if the Russians wanted to take their airfield, they would do so. Unlike some of the press reporting coming out of America, he understood that they were but a trip wire for commitment of United States forces, and resented the people who screamed at the president to “show strength.”

  Show strength, my ass. You pick up a gun and get your ass over here.

  It was the difference between involvement and commitment, like ham and eggs. The chicken was involved, but the pig was committed.

  One thing was for sure, he’d never make fun of the FBI again. Who would have thought this whole crisis would be precipitated by some crazy Russian with a grudge against President Putin? It was surreal, but he’d listened to President Hannister announce the arrest, and the tireless work from the FBI that had made it happen.

  He would now come home a hero for his actions, but those guys were the ones who deserved the praise. If they hadn’t broken open the case and tracked that nutjob down, there was a good chance he’d be coming home in a box.

  He remembered the relief they’d all felt when President Putin agreed with President Hannister’s statement, following up with a press conference of his own. Of course, he’d demanded the extradition of the instigator to his judicial system, but—as he was implicated in the death of a United States president—nobody saw that happening anytime soon.

  When the Russian armor began to roll back to the border, they’d spent the last three days bringing in vehicles to extract the 82nd paratroopers from the Air Force One crash site. And now, it was time for him to go home.

  He swung back to the tarmac, telling his squad leader he’d seen nothing of note. The squad leader replied, “Let’s go. First in, last out.”

  They loaded the vehicle, cinching it down in the aircraft, then he’d buckled into the webbing of the MC-130, his squad leader next to him. He said, “If this wasn’t combat, what was it?”

  His squad leader considered for a moment, then said, “Just the new world order.”

  The bird lifted off, and Joe said, “So no combat infantryman’s badge?”

  His squad leader laughed and said, “Don’t worry. I’m sure we’ll be catching our original deployment to Afghanistan.”

  81

  I rolled over and cocked my eye at the clock, seeing it wasn’t yet ten A.M., which meant I wasn’t getting up. A pillow hit the back of my head, and Jennifer said, “I see you’re awake. Come on! This is getting old. You’ve caught up on your sleep.”

  I rolled over and said, “Not when you keep me up at night.”

  She put a hand on her hip and said, “Okay, if that’s what’s causing the issue, I can fix it. Starting tonight.”

  I laughed and sat up, saying, “Don’t you ever want to sleep in? Just stay in bed until you have to tell the maids to go away?”

  “Not when I’m in Vienna. We only have two more days here before our flight home, and I don’t want to spend them in a hotel room.”

  Which was a poke in my eye, and she knew it. The Rock Star bird had come for the team in Warsaw, delivering us to Vienna, and we’d been suitably rewarded with rooms at the Ritz-Carlton, then conveniently separated from Taskforce control.

  I understood why, given our connection over here with the Israelis and the always-present concerns over cover, but it was still a little shitty. We’d had to buy our own tickets back, and I’ll be damned if Jennifer hadn’t been upgraded to business class. Which didn’t make me want to get out of bed any sooner.

  She said, “You’ve got no excuse. We weren’t roped into Simon’s interrogation. You should feel lucky.”

  She did have a point. Knuckles and Retro were tied into Simon and the FBI, and because Retro had flown across the pond on the Rock Star bird with Veep, so was the vice president’s son. All of them now connected by a lease agreement for an aircraft, affecting a cover that had to remain secret. They’d go home together. I’d fly coach.

  Jennifer tried one more time. “Hey, Shoshana and Aaron are leaving tomorrow. We should at least go out with them once.”

  Growing wary, I said, “What’s that mean?”

  “You know, go out together. Like a double date.”

  I knew it.

  I rolled out of bed, saying, “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. Shoshana’s . . . a little loopy.”

  She said, “No, she’s not. You should get to know her. She’s really trying, and Aaron is . . . a little weird himself.”

  I remembered the house, and Aaron’s transformation. I said, “Yeah, they only seem to click when they’re killing people.”

  She threw a towel at me and said, “I’m trying to break them of that predilection. Get cleaned up.”

  And then my phone rang.

  I saw that it was Knuckles, and said, “What’s up, you looking for a coach seat?”

  He was all business. “Pike, I got some information on Mikhail. He’s here, in Vienna.”

  Jennifer saw my face harden and started to ask a question. I held up a finger and said, “How do you know?”

  “Simon’s trying to rope him into the conspiracy, but the FBI doesn’t give a shit, because he’s an Israeli citizen and not on any lists they have. They took notes, telling me they’d give it to Israel, but they don’t seem to really care, what with Simon tied up in a neat bow and all.”

  “You got those notes?”

  “Better. I went back in to Simon by myself. Mikhail’s here in Vienna, and he’s trying to sell that damn Torah. He’s got a buyer, and I have all the information on him. The FBI doesn’t have any o
f it.”

  I said, “No shit. I was just telling Jennifer we should double-date with those assassins.”

  I heard him laugh, then, “Yeah, I figured that’s what you’d say.”

  I hung up, and Jennifer said, “What was that about?”

  “Exactly what you wanted. We get to go on a date with the Israelis.”

  I dialed the phone, Aaron answered, and I heard “Tell me you aren’t getting hammered by Jennifer for a double date.”

  “As a matter of fact, I am, but I’ve been resisting until now.”

  He laughed and said, “They’re colluding, but I’m not sure Shoshana’s ready. It would be embarrassing.”

  “Well, that depends. I’m calling for the bill collector, and I think she’s ready for that.”

  82

  Carrying a leather messenger bag over his shoulder, Mikhail window-shopped up the street, burning off his time while running a surveillance detection route. He passed by the Hofburg palace, the grand structure overlooking the Michaelerplatz circle, and took the roundabout to the west, heading toward the glitzy shopping section of downtown Vienna. He paused at the Demel pastry and chocolate shop, going inside and browsing while occasionally looking out the window to see if anyone was on him.

  He wound through the store, using the choke points and narrow pathways to ensure he was clean. He determined he was.

  He exited back on the street, checked his time, and saw he was close. He walked up Kohlmarkt, passing Tiffany’s jewelers, then took a left on a smaller pedestrian path called Naglergasse. He walked past the turn he wanted to enter, glancing down it. He saw nothing of concern.

  He did an about-face, entering a narrow alley with a few eclectic shops. At the end was the Bockshorn Irish Pub. His meeting spot for the transfer of the Torah.

  He’d had a rough few days, but now, he’d get the cash he needed to escape the nightmare that had sucked him down like a spider flicked into a toilet.

  Simon’s name had been splashed all over the news, but so far, Mikhail hadn’t seen anything about himself. The attack in Poland had not occurred, which meant it wasn’t going to, although there had been absolutely nothing on television talking about breaking up any terrorist actions. The last he’d heard was a phone call from Oleg saying the woman had escaped.

  And then the voice of the bill collector.

  But now, it would all be behind him. He’d take the fifty thousand euros he was getting from this sale and travel to South Africa, where a man of his skills was still valued.

  He pushed into the small pub, letting his eyes adjust to the dim lighting. He saw the narrow bar snaking away from him to his front, two drinkers leaning over it, the entire place cluttered with memorabilia from one event or another, a scattering of lamps providing the only light. It was almost like a cave, and a little bit claustrophobic, which is exactly what he wanted. He’d be able to control anything that happened in here. Not that he’d need to, dealing with a seventy-year-old man.

  He glanced to his right, toward a small room, seeing nobody. He surveyed the main bar for a threat, saw none, and nodded at the bartender. He went right, looking for his contact.

  The room was really nothing more than a hallway with tables running down it. At the far end he saw a man with a full beard, a fedora hiding his face. Next to him was a briefcase.

  He walked up, getting the man’s attention. He said, “You can find the most interesting things shopping these small alleys.”

  “So I’ve heard. But they don’t sell what I’m looking for.”

  Satisfied with the answer, proving the man was his contact, Mikhail sat down, saying, “I don’t want to spend any more time here than I need to. Inside this bag is the Torah. Look at it, satisfy yourself, but don’t take forever.”

  The man raised his head, and Mikhail recognized the eyes. Recognized him. He snapped his hand to his waist and, in Yiddish, said, “What, are you going to try to kill me right here? In the bar?”

  Calmly, Aaron said, “No, don’t be silly. I’m not going to kill you. That wouldn’t be right. I’m not the bill collector.”

  Mikhail caught movement behind him, and turned.

  Aaron said, “But I brought her with me.”

  He had a brief flash of recognition just before the blade penetrated his ribs. Shoshana above him, the dark angel expanding out of her, enveloping them both.

  He gasped in shock, grabbing her arm. The knife bit deeper and he felt the rage coming through the steel. She twisted, expanding the wound channel, excising every horrible thing he had forced her to do. He tried to stand, but she bore down, spearing him in place.

  He fought against her, weakly batting at her arms. She said not a word, working the knife. Aaron refused to move. Never even raised a hand, content to simply watch.

  And Mikhail succumbed to the inevitability of Shoshana’s rage, the demon inside her consuming him. He dropped his hands and sagged back, his last vision on mortal earth the dark angel, extracting the payment of his soul.

  —

  Sitting at a small outdoor café, our work done, Jennifer was growing concerned. She said, “What’s taking so long?”

  “I don’t know. Let ’em work. We did our track. The rest is up to them.”

  She glanced at me and said, “You don’t feel responsible at all?”

  “For what?”

  “I’m just thinking about . . . Never mind.”

  “No, what were you going to say?”

  She leaned forward and took my hands, saying, “We just set a man up to be killed. Doesn’t that affect you at all? I mean, even if it’s right. Don’t you think about it?”

  I squeezed her hands and said, “What I thought about was you telling me a horrific story in the back of a van. That’s all I thought about.”

  She took that in, then said, “Yeah . . . but . . . it’s not the same thing. We just killed a guy in cold blood.”

  “No, we didn’t. We killed a parasite. Just because you happen to be born with a human body doesn’t make you human.”

  She said nothing. I said, “If you’d have killed him on the train, would you have second-guessed yourself?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Then why are you doing it now? That fuck was trying to cause the death of half of Europe in a world war. And he sure as shit screwed up Shoshana.”

  She cocked her head at that and said, “That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”

  I took a sip of my beer, saying nothing. She said, “It is, isn’t it? You do care about her, and she told you something. She opened up to you, and you wanted to make it right.”

  I said, “Look, all I did was facilitate their operation as payback for helping us. That’s it. We owed them for their help, and I honored that.”

  She squinted her eyes and said, “That’s bullshit.”

  I was saved by seeing Aaron walking down the street, Shoshana next to him holding a messenger bag. The same bag I’d seen Mikhail carrying twenty minutes ago. I waved, and Shoshana waved back, a childlike grin on her face.

  They sat down, Aaron pulling off the fake beard and Shoshana opening the case. I said, “Looks like it went okay.”

  Shoshana held out the Torah and said, “Yeah, we bring this back and we’ll get more work than we can handle.”

  Jennifer said, “What did you do to get it?”

  Shoshana seemed to shrink a bit in the chair. She said, “I did what was required.”

  I started to interrupt, scared that Jennifer would take away what Shoshana had just achieved. I needn’t have worried. Jennifer leaned forward and said, “Shoshana, I don’t ask because I fear for him. I fear for you.”

  Shoshana absorbed the words, believing she had earned Jennifer’s disapproval, and I could see it hurt. Like Aaron, Jennifer had somehow become the dark angel’s mentor. She remained silent for a moment,
then defiantly spit out, “I killed him. And it was good. Is that what you want to hear?”

  Jennifer saw the change in demeanor, the statement bringing closure for someone she held dear. She said, “Yes, Pumpkin King, that’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”

  Shoshana was shocked at the response, not expecting it from Jennifer and her strict moral compass, and because it had come from her, it meant all the more. Her face lit up in a smile, and I said, “Well, this is pretty much what I thought a double date in Vienna would be like with you two. Me and Jennifer tracking a guy, you and Aaron killing him. Much better than dinner and a movie.”

  I saw my sarcasm take a small slice of her newfound sense of purpose for her life, and I immediately backpedaled. I leaned forward and said, “Shoshana, I’m going to let you in on a little secret. After all of your ‘research’ into my relationship with Jennifer, looking for the perfect answer, you missed the most obvious thing: We’re all Pumpkin Kings. We’re all trying to find our way.”

  She said nothing, but her eyes told me all I needed to know. She was good. I changed the subject, saying, “Will they pay the contract?”

  Relieved at the turn of conversation, Aaron said, “Maybe, but we made more from just retrieving it.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Let’s just say that the man who was going to purchase it is from an old Jewish family, and he was more than willing to lose the money to keep his name out of the press.”

  I said, “Devious. What’re you going to do with your newfound largess? Outside of paying us, I mean?”

  Shoshana said, “Pay you? Why on earth would we do that? After all the crap you’ve dragged us through?”

  I said, “You got the Torah, correct? And through my work. Sounds like the contract was fulfilled.”

  She wound up, and I cut her off. “I’m teasing, Carrie. Jennifer says you want to go on a real double date. You know, one where you don’t slaughter someone.”