Never Bloodless

by Steve Richer

  The young American went to the two nearest crates where he picked himself a tactical thigh holster into which was inserted a FEG P-9 pistol, a 9 mm Hungarian copy of the Browning Hi-Power dating back to the 1970s. It was heavy and lacked the polymer frame of newer sidearms but it would do the job. From the second crate he got two spare magazines.

  He looked on as Carver helped hand out assault rifles to the mercenaries. The men were disciplined and were standing in line. Carver was crouching to minimize the strain on his back.

  Preston was pleasantly surprised by the rifle. The APS-95 was a Croatian weapon produced in the 90s. It was actually a knockoff of the South African Vektor R-4 rifle which in turn was a copy of the Israeli Galil.

  The all-black weapon was gas operated and even had a cut-off system in order to fire special rifle grenades. The stock was collapsible and it came with a 1.5X scope. All in all, it was definitely a step up from the AK-47 he had initially wanted to purchase.

  His eyes still on Carver, a funny thought occurred to Preston.

  “You know Carver, maybe I should take a picture. I’m sure your future constituents would love to see what their mayor actually does for a living.”

  “Well, it’s more original than your average gay love affair and crystal meth scandal.”

  They shared a chuckle and Carver tossed a rifle to Preston who inspected it before giving it to one of his soldiers.

  Chapter 45

  Champagne was hard to come by in Katoga. The average citizen had never even seen a bottle. Sparkling white wine, much less genuine French champagne, was reserved for the elite, for government officials on diplomatic missions. From his various shopping endeavors, Preston knew that it wasn’t readily available in regular stores.

  This was why he was now walking through the country’s only airport. An airport was the first contact a foreigner had with a new country and it was an opportunity to dazzle them. The shops, especially in African nations, were stocked with high-end items.

  He entered the liquor store with a backpack slung on only one shoulder; it contained his newly acquired pistol and holster.

  While the shelves didn’t contain as much variety as a similar retailer in North Hollywood, it was the best Katoga had to offer. He walked by rows of wine – much of it from South Africa – and rounded a display of English whiskey. At long last, he reached the champagne section.

  There weren’t any Dom Pérignon or Roederer Cristal. Preston had never heard of any of these brands. He selected a bottle with a label that read Lucien Albrecht Crémant D’Alsace. It was cheaper than a bottle of scotch and it would have to do. He picked it up and walked to the register, brushing off the dust in the process.

  Even at this late hour the place was busy. Airports, he reminded himself, never slept. There was a woman in front of him waiting to have her purchases rang up. She was about his age, was a redhead, and had the creamy skin to go along with it.

  He knew she wasn’t a tourist, there weren’t any in Katoga. She had to be working for a mining corporation or was the wife of an employee. This was confirmed when he saw the company logo on her tote bag. She spoke English in a clipped British accent.

  At her feet was a little girl, no more than four years old. She was a strawberry blonde and her hair was up in pigtails. She was busy examining a fluffy pink stuffed rabbit she was holding in her right hand while at the same time sucking on her left thumb.

  The normally unsentimental Preston felt the corner of his lips curl up into a smile. She was hands down the cutest child he’d ever seen. This surprised him as he’d never been fond of children.

  During his married life they had discussed the issue but his wife hadn’t been ready yet. It had been a blessing that the decision hadn’t been on him because he wouldn’t have known how to tell her he didn’t want any.

  He wasn’t so sure anymore.

  Back then, the reason had been easy. Understandable, really. He was gone most of the time, risking his life in one hotspot or another. He didn’t want to have a son or daughter only for them to become an orphan. The marriage had thankfully ended before reaching that crossroad.

  Thinking about children reminded him of his father. The best time of his life had been with him. Would the feeling be repeated if he had children of his own? The truth was he wasn’t confident he would even be a good father. Nobody had ever accused him of being warm and cuddly. He didn’t know how to talk to kids.

  He looked down at the little girl and decided to try saying something to her.

  “Does your thumb taste good?” he asked a little more genially than his regular tone of voice.

  She looked up at him and shrugged. The mother, busy waiting for the cashier to give her the change back, looked behind her at Preston to ensure he wasn’t a pedophile or anything.

  “Does it taste like strawberries?” Preston added.

  “No,” the little girl answered like it was the dumbest question she’d ever heard.

  “What does it taste like then?”

  “It tastes like thumb. It doesn’t taste like anything.”

  “Why are you sucking it then?”

  She shrugged again and her mother looked back, this time with a smile.

  “That’s a very good question, isn’t it?”

  The woman grabbed her purchase, took her daughter by the hand, flashed another smile at Preston, and left. Thinking about it, maybe kids weren’t that bad.

  After paying for the cheap champagne, he got into his Toyota and returned to his building. It was completely dark now, this city being very badly lit. Before going to his own apartment he decided to drop by Hewitt’s place to show him the bubbly he had picked out for tomorrow night’s celebrations. To an alcoholic that had to be extra meaningful, he judged.

  Preston knocked on the door, three series of three knocks. There was no answer. This was unexpected. Hewitt had specifically told him he would turn in early in anticipation of tomorrow’s big day.

  He was about to turn around and go to his own apartment when an ominous thought crossed his mind. What if the authorities had caught wind of their operation? What if they had performed a preemptive strike against them?

  He tried the doorknob and twisted. It was unlocked. Carefully, he put the champagne down on the floor and unslung his backpack from which he retrieved the FEG handgun.

  He took a deep breath and walked in, looking around. The place was quiet and dark, the only luminosity coming from the moonlight. Something was definitely wrong. He made his way further into the apartment, gun at the ready.

  Then, he spotted Hewitt sprawled on the floor. Before going to his aid, Preston checked the rest of the apartment. Mindful of his steps, he rounded the couch and looked into the kitchen. Empty. Next, he burst into the bedroom, checked the closet and bathroom. There was no one. No threat.

  He returned to the living room, half yelling, “Hewitt!”

  He dropped to his knees and set the weapon down. He turned the Englishman’s head to face him. He felt for a pulse. There was indeed a heartbeat and it was fast.

  “Jesus, what happened?”

  Hewitt opened his eyes hazily and they didn’t look happy.

  “Let go of me, you churlish swag-bellied varlet!” Hewlett screamed drunkenly.

  Startled, Preston recoiled. He then noticed an empty vodka bottle which had rolled under the couch. Everything was obvious now. The man was dead drunk.

  “I’m gonna make some coffee.”

  Preston stood and headed for the kitchen.

  “Did you hear me ask for coffee? Why would I want some fobbing coffee?”

  “To wake you up.”

  “I don’t want to wake up! Why else would I have drunk an entire liter of vodka?”

  The American ignored him and started boiling water.

  “You told me drinking wouldn’t be a problem, Hewitt.”

  “It’s only a problem for those who stay sober. It certainly isn’t a problem for me.”

  Preston returned and helped
the older man onto the couch.

  “It all goes down tomorrow and I need your A-game. I really don’t need your hangover right now.”

  “I’ve been drinking since before you were even an ovary, lad. Hangovers have long since been under control.”

  “I hope to God you’re right.”

  He went back to the kitchen to prepare the coffee as the water boiled.

  “You know,” Hewitt grumbled, calmer now. “There was a time when a hangover was the only logical thing in the world. It was the only legal thing. I spent my entire bloody career destroying other people’s lives. I used to think they deserved it. But who gets to decide merit? Her Majesty’s fucking intelligence service?”

  Preston came back with two cups of coffee which he set down on the table. He sat in front of Hewitt whose eyes were closed.

  “Drink the coffee, Nigel.”

  “My adult life was wasted destroying poor people’s illusions to please a bunch of dankish bureaucrats and industrialists.”

  Hewitt rubbed his face and lied down on the couch. He continued, this time looking the younger guy directly in the eyes.

  “Tell me it’s for the right reasons this time, Preston. I need to know it’s for the right reasons this time around.”

  He closed his eyes again and sleep wasn’t far off. Preston stood and covered Hewitt with a nearby blanket.

  “It’s for the right reasons.”

  The older man was already asleep, snoring lightly. Preston reclined on the other couch. He thought of the operation, of Arly Traore who would save this country. Yes, it was for the right reasons and for once he’d have something of which be proud.

  Chapter 46

  Luck was an investigative technique not taught at police academies. Sure, there was a footnote on instincts and gut feeling, but the concept of luck had never been broached in any class Jasmine had ever attended. It was understandable, really.

  You couldn’t bank on being lucky and catching your perpetrator red-handed. If life was that easy there wouldn’t be a need for an Office of Investigations with Immigration and Customs Enforcement.

  This said, one should never go against a lucky break. When privileged enough to get a stroke of good fortune, one must follow up on it. That was something every cop knew even though it hadn’t been in the curriculum. The useful stuff, Jasmine had once been told, was always picked up on the street.

  From the moment she and Gervasi had landed in Katoga luck hadn’t been on their side. They got stuck in traffic going to the hotel. The car’s air-conditioning was only blowing out hot air which forced them to roll the windows down. In addition to being harassed for money by children, Jasmine got a nasty sunburn on her left forearm.

  Even worse was the failure they suffered when they started trying to track down their suspect.

  With every passing minute, Jasmine got even more convinced McSweeney was a terrorist. There was no trace of him anywhere. His personal credit card hadn’t registered a purchase in weeks and there certainly were no hotel bills to direct them.

  Moreover, there was no US embassy in Katoga where Americans could be registered. The diplomatic mission was actually based in the nearby Democratic Republic of the Congo since Katoga was so small and that, anyway, the relationship with the African dictatorship was strained at best. Jasmine and Gervasi were therefore on their own.

  Faced with a task which could very well be compared to the proverbial needle in a haystack, they dusted off their Policing 101 and hit the sidewalks. Armed with file photographs they had of their suspect, they started asking around about him. They went to restaurants, bars, hotels, and bus stations, all places where foreigners were usually found.

  Jasmine got the idea of looking into car rental businesses. As expected, nobody was willing to talk to this white woman so she greased a few palms, only to be told that the guy in the picture was someone they’d never seen before.

  Either they were lying or her boy was smart enough to have bought a vehicle instead of leasing one. And if he was that clever, he had probably bought it secondhand and paid cash. No trace.

  An option they didn’t quite want to consider was going to the local police. In her experience, more often than not foreign police forces were eager to help American law enforcement agencies.

  While this could theoretically help their investigation – after all, more manpower would make canvassing easier – the fact that they were here unofficially was a bureaucratic nightmare. On top of that, it was likely that corruption was involved and that they would simply tip McSweeney off.

  The next morning, operating on very little sleep and copious amounts of coffee, Jasmine and Gervasi took the shotgun approach and showed McSweeney’s picture to anybody they would encounter. A white face in a black crowd, she kept reminding herself. That was McSweeney’s Achilles heel.

  That was their only advantage.

  From her position within law enforcement, having numerous times dealt with sexual deviants and their victims, Jasmine knew better than to give candy to children. That was taught to every grade school kid in the Western Hemisphere: never take candy from a stranger.

  In spite of this, she discovered that the poor Katogan children were only too willing to cooperate with her when plied with Swedish Berries and Tootsie Rolls. It was also a lot cheaper than dollar bills.

  The ploy worked. There was a distinct possibility that the kids would tell her anything she wanted to hear just to get more candy but she had to follow up on every lead. When one little boy, 11 years old and with an adult’s sense of bargaining, said he had seen the man in the photograph many times, she followed him.

  With Gervasi in tow, they made their way two blocks north of their location and the kid pointed to a building on the corner. He didn’t know which apartment the man occupied but he was adamant he had seen him enter the structure numerous times.

  The boy extended his hand expecting payment, his eyes riveted to the pocket where he knew the foreign lady kept the sweet prize. For her part, Jasmine was reluctant to reward him for something that could be just another wild goose chase.

  And that’s when luck finally kicked in.

  “Hey, would you look at that,” Gervasi purred.

  Jasmine was a little confused but she followed his gaze across the street. A Toyota SUV had just come to a halt and the driver was coming out. It was Preston and he jogged into the building.

  “I believe the appropriate word in a situation like this is bingo.”

  Proud of himself, the little boy extended his hand further. Absentmindedly, Jasmine pulled out the two candy bags and gave them to him.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  As soon as he entered his apartment, Preston tossed his backpack on the couch and proceeded to remove his blue jeans. He looked at his watch; it was a quarter to ten and he was late.

  Well, technically he wasn’t late yet but he considered himself late when he didn’t have time to spare. He was a firm believer in the age-old military concept of hurry-up-and-wait.

  Following his conversation with Hewitt the night before, sleep had been difficult. It was always the same before an operation. He was trained and the plan had been rehearsed, sure, but there were so many variables, so many things that could go wrong and you couldn’t help worrying about each and every one of them.

  There was no such thing as a perfect plan. Worrying and sleep were two things that didn’t go well together, like lobster and whipped cream.

  Preston had woken up tired and had started the day by going to check up on Hewitt. To his utter disgust, the man was as fresh as a spring daisy. He hadn’t lied, he had conquered the woeful hangover. He considered submitting his name for a Nobel Prize.

  Then, Preston went into the city to consult with Carver to make sure the whole thing was ready. Everything was planned for a noon assault. He had returned home to change – the heat was excruciating and his clothes were soaked – and also to gather his belongings.

  Hope for the best and prepare for the worst, they said.
He needed to bring his papers and passport in case the mission was a failure and he had to leave the country in a hurry.

  He was pulling on cargo pants when there was a knock at the door.

  “Shit,” he gnarled.

  He made sure his backpack was within reach in case he had to rapidly grab his pistol. He unzipped the bag slightly for easy access and concealed the opening with a cushion. He went to open the door and was taken aback when he saw the two American federal agents who had previously bothered him back in California.

  “Hello, Mr. McSweeney,” the woman offered.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “We have a long list of questions.”

  “They’ll have to wait for another time.”

  Preston glanced at his watch again; that fucker wasn’t slowing down. He walked back to the living room and Needham and Gervasi followed him in.

  “We’d like to talk about General Fairbanks.”

  Preston had begun putting on his hiking boots and he looked up in surprise.

  He said, “Now you’ve done your homework and you thought ‘Hey, let’s go to Africa, maybe Crazy McSweeney will feel like talking about the worst parts of his life’.”

  “I’m sure the money made up for it,” Gervasi uttered coldly.

  What was that supposed to mean? These guys who had been nosing around after the death of Rodriguez had stalked him all the way to Africa and now they were making these insane accusations?

  Preston’s blood boiled with frustration. He didn’t have time for this shit. Preston went up to his face.

  “You wanna accuse me of something, you go right ahead. Otherwise you grab your shit and you hit the bricks. You have zero jurisdiction here and I have zero time for your little games.”

  Turning away from them, he removed his shirt and threw it away. Jasmine could barely suppress her gasp, surprised by his shameless undressing. She looked away in embarrassment but her eyes were drawn to his broad shoulders.

  Preston found a clean T-shirt lying on the couch and put it on.

  “There’s someplace you’ve got to be?” Gervasi asked.