Gun Metal Heart

by Dana Haynes

  “You have interrogation before, the Major say. You are tough. You don’t talk. But there?” He mimed touching the inside of his own elbow, where the adhesives pinched Daria’s skin. “Bruce Willis is not dodging bullets. There are no bullets.” He waggled the long, narrow electric device in his right hand. “Squib. Small bomb. Goes boom in movie, it looks—”

  “Got it. Thank you. We had another word for them in Shin Bet. We used them when we faked a hit. They … sorry.” She rolled her eyes. “How rude of me. You were going somewhere with that. Please.”

  Kostic had expected fear. He’d expected anger, or attempts to free herself, or a quick capitulation and information. He had not expected the dark woman in the chair to so thoroughly underestimate the threat to her limbs.

  Viorica said, “The next couple of hours are pivotal. You’ve been an FBI asset, of course. Also DEA, also ATF. Before all that, you were Shin Bet. And before that, you were IDF. And before that, you and Asher ran with … an interesting crowd. Dick and Jane—Fun With Semtex.”

  Daria’s mind reeled. Her poker face abandoned, she allowed the tall blonde to see her shock. Viorica knew things she couldn’t possibly know.

  “But last year, you were a-hangin’ with the CIA. First in Manhattan, then in Paris, then in Milan. The word on the street is: the CIA hates your guts. Which may be the case. Or it might be an elaborate cover to obscure a CIA asset. Vous.”

  “Tu,” Daria corrected, opting for glib to cover her surprise. “You’ve tied me to a chair. You can use the familiar.”

  Viorica laughed. “Here’s the kicker. Remember the blond hunk we stumbled into in that livery building in Florence? I hate coincidence. I looked into him. And presto: He’s ex-CIA.”

  Viorica said, “Ladies and gentlemen: I present Owen Cain Thorson.”

  The silent mammoth in the straining polo shirt carried in a metal chair with arms, identical to Daria’s chair. A full-grown man sat in it. The mammoth didn’t appear to be straining much.

  He set the chair down on the floor with a thunk. Daria recognized the blond American, although he had looked better. His hair was dirty, his skin a sickly jaundice. He wore a stretch bandage over his left cheek, and it had grown dirty, yellow, and damp with seepage. His left ear was bandaged and, from the misshapen lump of plaster, some of the ear was missing. From the tautness of his pant leg, Daria knew he wore a wrap around his right thigh. She had shot him there, on his motorcycle in the French village of Romans-sur-Mercellen. It must have been just a glancing wound.

  The man wore white round adhesives on the insides of his elbows and knees.

  “A Skorpjo team caught him sneaking from Italy into Slovenia,” Viorica said. “You and the CIA, you and the CIA. Hmm … See? There’s my whole thing with coincidence again.”

  Daria said, “Hallo,” to the sickly American. She turned to Viorica. “Sorry. He and I never met before Florence.”

  Thorson spoke and sounded drugged. He didn’t shout but spoke in a steady, reedy cadence. “I’ll kill you. I will kill you. Fucking slut. Fucking terrorist spy bitch. I’ll kill you.” The left side of his face didn’t move in accordance to the rest, as if he suffered nerve damage from the buzz saw Daria had thrown at him.

  Daria said, “Not a fan, I think.”

  Viorica tsked. “Methinks thou doth protest too much.”

  “What is it you need to know?”

  “Is the CIA here in Belgrade? If so, how large a contingent? And what do they know of the plan?”

  As she spoke, Thorson did, too. He might not have realized anyone else was talking. His hooded eyes were locked on Daria. “Kill you. Goddamn spy. Syrian. Won’ matter. Show ’em. Kill you. Bitch…”

  Daria ignored him. “The CIA hates me. I’m involved in your business, first, because you killed a moron named Vince Guzman. A moron whose friend came to me to save him. Second, because I told Dr. Incantada that she’d be safe if she followed my lead, and she died badly.”

  “She died quickly,” Viorica corrected. “Which is the most any of us can hope for. And your story doesn’t ring true. If I were the CIA and needed an operative on European soil, you’re exactly who I’d pick.”

  Daria shrugged. “Wish I could help you.”

  Viorica started to respond then reached into her back pocket and produced a mobile. It was vibrating. She checked an incoming text. Distracted, she said, “Is the CIA watching the ambassador’s residence?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Well. I have to skedaddle. Kostic?”

  She took the hoodlum aside. They moved ten paces away.

  The hulking, ever silent Lazarevic turned to watch them.

  “Kill you,” Thorson spoke in an emotionless monotone. Daria ignored him and adjusted her boots again. “Can’t run. Track you down. Scum. For America. Get you…”

  Across the room, Viorica whispered to Kostic, who lit another cigarette. They seemed to be arguing a little. Viorica began to turn away, and Kostic caught her attention one last time.

  Kostic said, “Do not worry. We will find out what she knows. Lazarevic will have a bit of fun with the girl. Me, too. Then we make sure you never hear of her again.”

  He winked at Viorica.

  And her face lost all of its twisted merriment. “I wouldn’t. Were I you.”

  Kostic’s waited, to see if she were joking.

  “I’d watch her. From a distance. I’d keep guns on her. But I wouldn’t fuck her. Then again,” she patted the big man on the shoulder. “I’m not the boss of you.”

  She turned back to Daria and put on a bright smile. “Any-who … I’m off. Places to be, people to do.”

  “Must you go?”

  Viorica nodded. “It was a pleasure to finally meet the great Daria Gibron. Take care. Ciao.”

  She pivoted on one tall heel and strode out of the warehouse. Leaving Daria and the American in the chairs, facing Kostic and Lazarevic.

  The Slavs began smiling at each other.

  Daria’s mind spun.

  That, she mused, made no sense whatsoever.

  Thirty-Four

  Allison Duffy, deputy chief of mission for the U.S. embassy in Belgrade, had a to-do list as long as her femur. She’d been working on winnowing it down for the last seven hours, but the list had grown considerably longer in that time. Tick off one item and three more popped up.

  Since the ambassador had been reassigned, Allison Duffy was in charge of the embassy for the foreseeable future. And the Tudor-style ambassador’s residence, a half-block from the embassy, remained vacant. It was the perfect venue for an informal state affair.

  A cocktail party with foreign ministers from the rest of the former Yugoslavia was a huge deal with serious ramifications, for good or ill. Carry it off, and this soiree could set the stage for a new round of formal trade negotiations for the region. Such talks could speed up Serbia’s entrance into the European Union and Croatia’s entrance into the Euro Zone. Both of which, in turn, could bolster negotiations between Serbia and the newly independent region of Kosovo.

  Al Jazeera English would be on hand to film the reception, since any forward motion on peace talks in the Balkans was still considered a big deal within the Islamic world.

  Then again, if the cocktail party went poorly, it could set back talks between the Serbs and Kosovars, or between the Serbs and its highly dysfunctional neighbor to the west, Bosnia-Herzegovina.

  But sometimes a cocktail party is just a cocktail party. They didn’t have to gain ground so long as they didn’t lose any.

  Still, her to-do list did not shrink.

  Among the latest, a secure communiqué from the U.S. Department of Defense informing her that a man named Mr. Riordan would be attending. Mr. Riordan was an American businessman with an interest in agriculture.

  The encrypted communiqué made a few things perfectly clear by making them perfectly muddy. For instance, by calling the new guest Mr. Riordan, Defense was informing Allison that he was a military officer working under cover. By l
eaving out his first name, Defense informed her that he was of high rank. By mentioning agriculture, Defense informed her that Mr. Riordan cared about anything other than agriculture.

  Great, Allison thought. She would be saddled with an intelligence officer from the Pentagon.

  The other new addition to her to-do list came from Jay Kent, her public affairs counselor. Jay—a genial but lackluster foreign service officer—told her that an old college friend now employed by the Central Intelligence Agency would be attending the cocktail party. Also under a false name.

  Another spook, she thought. And from a different shop than Mr. Riordan.

  Oh, good.

  Allison Duffy added to her to-do list: Check bona fides of Jay’s friend w/Langley.

  Then she began the task of worrying about her dress and shoes for the event.

  * * *

  General Howard Cathcart showered and shaved and shined his shoes. He opened the windows in his room at the Belgrade City Hotel to let out the steam. Then he used his attaché case with its secure communications rig to inform Colonel Crace in Sandpoint, Idaho, that he was on the ground.

  He also told her that the woman calling herself Major Arcana had left him a bouquet of flowers, a cell phone, and a note telling him to meet her at a cocktail party at the U.S. ambassador’s residence.

  Cathcart had to admit it was a clever stratagem. No way he could drag his six Special Forces soldiers with him. Not inside a home that was, essentially, embassy grounds.

  Cathcart contacted his support personnel back at the Pentagon and arranged to attend the party as a Mr. Riordan.

  He would play the blonde’s game.

  For now.

  * * *

  Dragan Petrovic had Teodore pick him up early so he could shower and change before the cocktail party. He left the Parliament building early, even though he had no intention of arriving at the U.S. ambassador’s residence on time. But during the inevitable investigation, it would appear odd if he hadn’t left early.

  He also wanted to remind Adrijana and his daughters that he would not be home for dinner. He tried to eat dinner at home no fewer than four nights per week.

  He barely made it into the family room when Adrijana appeared and threw a hug around his shoulders. She kissed him. He was surprised but pleased.

  “A good day?” he asked, setting down his case.

  “You devil! A good day!” She kissed him again.

  His eldest daughter, Sofija, raced into the family room. And she hugged him as well.

  “Mother told us! Thank you!”

  Dragan hugged her back. “Ah…?”

  Adrijana made a clucking noise. “Was it supposed to be a surprise? I’m sorry, darling. The invitation arrived at noon. We were just thrilled!”

  “Invitation?”

  “To the American embassy affair!”

  The edges of Petrovic’s vision began to blur.

  “Sofija and Ana are beside themselves! We had to get new gowns. Ljubica said she wouldn’t be caught dead in a gown. I’ll count it as a victory if we get her to bathe! I’m wearing the blue thing, from my brother’s wedding. You remember.”

  His wife and daughter bustled away. Dragan Petrovic stood where he was, rooted, throat dry, heart bursting through his ribs.

  He spotted the invitation on the coffee table. It had come from the American deputy chief of mission herself. It contained Adrijana’s name, and the names of their daughters.

  They were expected.

  Their absence would be noted.

  Especially afterward. During the investigation.

  Dragan Petrovic felt his world crumble under his feet.

  Thirty-Five

  Kostic stepped up behind Daria’s chair and reached around to squeeze her breasts roughly through the Lycra yoga tank.

  “We will be friends. Yes?”

  Daria winced in pain. “Looks that way.”

  The silent Lazarevic returned with a bottle of vodka. He took a swig, handed it to Kostic who did the same, then handed it back. Kostic circled the metal chair.

  Owen Cain Thorson watched the scene, still muttering to himself. His face had taken on a sheen of perspiration, and his hair was matted with sweat. The bandage on his cheek had begun to reek. He never turned away from Daria and never stopped his soft rant.

  Kostic lit a cheap cigarette and took a lungful of smoke. He stood in front of Daria’s chair, their knees touching. Daria looked up at him, her face at his belt height.

  “You remember squibs.” Kostic touched his own elbows. “You behave. You be good or we blow off an arm. What you good for now, we don’t need arms. Yes?”

  He reached for his belt.

  He watched as Daria lifted her arm.

  He blinked.

  That arm could not be lifted. It was tied down.

  In her hand, she held an old-fashioned, steel, straight razor. Which she couldn’t possibly hold.

  Daria slashed horizontally. Kostic took a stumbling step backward.

  Daria lifted her left wrist an inch and used the razor to slice through the left flex-cuff.

  Kostic took another step back. He began to speak, and a pink bubble of blood popped at the corner of his lips.

  Daria used the blade to sever her ankle cuffs before Lazarevic realized something was wrong.

  Kostic tried to call out, and a flow of bubbling, aerated blood drooled over the edge of his lips and down his double chin.

  Lazarevic realized something was wrong. When he saw Daria rise, he let the vodka bottle drop and reached back for the holster on his hip. He grabbed it and swung back around.

  Daria was on her feet and across the room in under a second. She slashed horizontally with the razor. Fully open and locked, the cutthroat razor gave her eight inches of extra reach.

  Lazarevic’s .9 millimeter Makarov clattered to the floor. He glanced down and saw the exposed bones of his wrist.

  Daria reversed the blade and thrust it upward. The Spanish steel handle smashed into the bottom of Lazarevic’s nose. His neck snapped back, and the huge man tumbled like a felled log.

  * * *

  Dazed, Lazarevic lay like that for a little over three minutes. His vision cleared. He had slammed his skull into the floor when he landed. Coming around, he realized he was losing copious amounts of blood. He cradled his right arm against his chest and felt the hand flop like a dead fish. He blinked stupidly, trying to clear his head.

  The Israeli stood over him. Where had she gotten a straight razor? She’d been searched by Major Arcana!

  The Israeli held the cobbled-together power strip that served as a remote control for the squibs. Speaking no Serbian, she cleared her throat and pointed.

  Lazarevic raised his aching head. She’d broken his nose, and he spat blood out of his mouth. He looked down the length of his massive body.

  The squibs now were adhered to his trousers, in the region around his genitals.

  The crazy woman placed a thumb on one of the remote control toggles. Her knuckle turned a little bit white as she began to apply steady, even pressure.

  “English,” the silent Lazarevic said. “I speak most excellent English. Perfect English. I answer anything. Anything you ask. You ask and I answer. It is that simple. Anything.”

  She said, “You’re a dear.”

  Smiling, she turned to the fading ghost of the American agent strapped to his chair. He watched her, eyes haunted. He’d stopped ranting.

  “Be good,” she told him. “I’ll get to you next.”

  * * *

  Viorica walked to the silver van her team had parked next to a corrugated metal utility shed, behind a padlocked gate and just off Avenue Kralja Milana. There she met her two compatriots, Winslow and Danziger, who had been with her since long before the Serbian contract.

  There wasn’t much room in the van, especially since more than two-thirds of the interior had been transformed into a tightly packed replica of Bryan Snow’s workstation back in Sandpoint, Idaho.

&
nbsp; Winslow, a hyperactive caffeine addict with bulging eyes, sat in the bolted-down chair. Danziger rested against one of the computer monitors. All of the monitors were dark. Danziger, a brusque bull of a man, six foot five with a boxer’s cauliflower ears, wore a shoulder holster with a silenced SIG. He took up far more than his share of the interior of the van.

  Winslow said, “Did we get the drones, then?”

  Viorica had created a little closet space in the van for her change of clothes. It included a mirror on an articulating arm, which she could maneuver as needed. She whisked off the jersey jacket, then yanked the white tank up and over her head.

  Danziger had seen mercenary work in Sudan, Rwanda, and Pakistan. He did not shock easily. Winslow averted his eyes and pretended to play with his smartphone.

  Viorica toed off her platform boots and shimmied out of the jeans and thong. She said, “The Americans are parked on the other side of the Danube. The drones can be here in under a minute.”

  For the first time in weeks, she spoke with her native accent.

  The hulking Danziger watched while she selected underwear from the closet. Winslow turned three shades of red, eyes averted, and tapped the icon for a game on his phone. He said, “And … er … the … ah … the Israeli?”

  “What of her?” She pulled a black Lycra garter out of the closet. She wrapped it around her right leg and pressed on the Velcro. It clung tightly to her upper thigh.

  From within the little closet she selected an Italian switchblade stiletto with a blood-red handle. She touched the stud, and the slate-gray knife popped forward, bayonet-style, rather than rotating on a hinge. It was six inches long. The tapered blade and the handle were hammered steel. A touch of the stud and the blade retracted. Viorica slid it into the Lycra band around her thigh, on the inside, where it wouldn’t bulge under clothes.

  She pulled out a black leather Armani skirt and snugged it up her legs. It covered the stiletto and the Lycra band.

  Her tech expert frowned but kept his eyes averted from her long, lean body. He’d noted the old, well-healed bullet wounds, of course. They were hard to ignore. “You have her? She’s out of the way?”