by Bob Mayer
"I was lucky in a way. My first foster parents were decent enough. No hanging me upside down in closets or anything, but they were joyless people. They did day-to-day living as if life is a series of tasks that you just finish, not for any particular reason other than you can't live any more if you don't do it right.
"It was a very quiet way to grow up, if you can call it growing up. Sometimes I think I just got physically bigger and that was the extent of my maturing. Because I had done the right thing for so many years I was able to go to college. I met John in my second year and that was the end of Hannah as a coed.
"By then I was too dependent to see my own life as an opportunity, an adventure. I took the security and direction he offered and helped him make his life the center of our lives. Men like John need women like me; anchors to boring reality, partners in the mundane."
Neeley shook her head. “Hannah, if you believe that your personality was basically fixed and John married you for that reason, then how can you allow for what happened between you and him?”
"What do you mean?"
Neeley tugged on the tight jumpsuit to find a more comfortable fit. "It's pretty obvious, isn't it, that if John had married you for your placid acquiescence, he would have told you about his past. Why should he hide all that if you're the obedient little wife living vicariously through your successful husband?"
Hannah shrugged. "I was the obedient wife. I just existed."
"What changed?" Neeley asked. “That’s not what you’ve been the last couple of days.”
"Besides you coming into my living room with a gun? And John getting killed?" Hannah didn't pause for an answer. "The change really happened before that. When I truly accepted what John had done to me when he split, taking everything, that was all too much. I got mad. Angry. Pissed. I could have lived with all the wasted years being his wife but the son-of-a-bitch should have been grateful for that. Disappearing the way he did and leaving me with nothing; acting like it had all been nothing, now that was going too far. Something snapped in me."
"You want to know what I think?" Neeley said. "I think you just existed until someone like John came along and programmed you. Maybe we're a lot alike. Maybe most women are like this-- the way society, despite its proclamations to the contrary, wants us to be. Notice that they still make Barbie dolls and in the Super Bowl it’s the guys on the field and the women on the sidelines swinging the pom-poms. What’s the female equivalent of the Super Bowl? You don’t see a stadium full of women watching the Miss America Pageant.
“It's like you have a computer just sitting there. It's a good piece of equipment, works fine, no glitches in the hardware, but there's no program loaded in. So along comes some guy needing a computer to support him in living his life. Depending on who they are they're going to have their own software.
"The accountant has his tax stuff, the lawyer's got all the case history stuff and an architect would have some cool drawing software. The point is that now the computer only has the ability to do what they need it to. It could have done anything but instead it ends up very specialized. That’s the way it is for so many women."
Hannah nodded. "Is that what happened to you?"
Neeley cocked her head sarcastically. "No, actually my childhood dream was to be a professional assassin with no identity."
"Sorry. Sometimes I forget you kill people, you're so nice to me."
Neeley turned to look out the window. Nothing but clouds and blue skies. "I never forget."
"But remember," Hannah said, "computers can be reprogrammed. I think what John did to me blew a fuse and I'll never function that way again, making someone else more important than me." She reached out and put a hand on Neeley's arm. "But now you'd better get some rest. We've got a lot to do in a little time and I have a feeling France is going to be a pain in the ass if the last couple of days are any indication."
CHAPTER 22
Nero was alone in his office. He sat in the dark smoking and pondering his soul. Or rather the soul of the country, which he considered one and the same.
The last several phone calls were most interesting. The free lancer’s body had been found in Eldorado Canyon. On top of that, he’d just received news of the debacle in the Rocky Mountain National Park from the Agency. Seven dead, two destroyed choppers and the women were still on the run. Not at all what might be expected from the two women by anyone other than Nero.
Nero was the keeper of all the secrets and when he died, they would be in the possession of his successor. His predecessor had told him there were only two prerequisites for this job: to be able to keep a secret and to be loyal to a higher concept. Nero had none of the burning drive found in most people to share all they knew for profit or position. He got no pleasure from shocking people and he detested the simpering idiots who traded information for acceptance. He would be a hard man to replace, something he had spent many years pondering.
His job was simple-- keep the country safe-- from enemies foreign and domestic, and police the covert world. It was the latter job that Nero had found most difficult to accomplish over the years, especially since Vietnam. The misguided decisions that had to be corrected. The out-of-control politicians who had to be corralled or covered for. The sociopaths who had to be terminated before they destroyed too much. The terrorists, home grown and those from abroad, who could not be dealt with through normal channels and whose threat was so great they demanded the attention of an organization as efficient and ruthless as the Cellar. Nero had seen it all and more over the decades in the shadow. If he had not been ill for the six months preceding the 9-11 disaster, things might have turned out much differently. That illness had caused him to look at something he had put on hold until then—his own mortality and what the lack of his presence would mean for his country.
He also had been forced to accept that he, like the others in the covert world, had misread the signs and failed the country.
It wasn’t that he had not previously considered his death and what it would mean. He had put things in place decades previously in preparation for that possibility. But he had finally accepted it was time to move those preparations forward. Anthony Gant’s death had helped greatly in that matter.
Nero's reverie was broken by the demanding ring of the phone. Nero hit the on button and listened as his Paris contact told him who Senator Collins money was going to. It was not, as Nero had suspected, a mistress. His contact had done an efficient job and Nero memorized the name, address and phone number he was given.
Breaking the connection, Nero then dialed the number in France. A man answered and Nero identified himself as Senator Collins representative. A long silence followed, the live connection indicating the man was hooked. Nero informed him that the payments would be ceasing.
The man exploded with a flurry of vague threats.
Nero's dull metallic voice filled the office. "I called you out of courtesy for past services rendered."
Nero listened a while longer, but the man grew no more specific with his threats. "You are free to do what you want." He smiled at the thought. The man was a fool. People were so naive, especially when it came to themselves.
The voice stridently went on for a few more minutes.
Nero finally interrupted with a question. “Do you know a man named Racine? Have you ever met him?”
The denial was the slightest bit too strong.
“You are certain?” Nero asked. He always believed in giving someone a second chance to jump out of the grave they dug themselves.
The man immediately went into another tirade of threats and denial.
Nero would have sighed if his throat could have handled it. "Of course the Senator has much to fear and of course I know that if you go down, we shall all go down. Dear Sir that has been the refrain I have heard from many my entire professional career."
Nero finally hung up the phone, disgusted with the conversation. He tilted his head toward the door opening. He could smell the gum and follow the man’
s movements from the chewing.
Nero was curious to see how this next act turned out. These two women were doing quite well. He felt it was time they received some breathing room. From the latest information he’d received, they were on their way to France, which could prove to be most interesting given his last conversation.
“Mister Bailey, I have some things I would like you to do.”
CHAPTER 23
Ray Suggs was not a happy man. Earlier he had received a call from some connected guy in New York saying he needed papers for some chick who was a friend of Anthony Gant's. The guy had told him she'd pay twice his usual fee for a couple of sets of papers. It sounded like an OK deal and Ray had let his anticipatory greed rise.
His van was gliding without much mental energy on his part toward the Atlanta Airport. He was eating a veggie bagel sandwich purchased before he got on the highway. There were some alfalfa sprouts hanging on his beard as he lit his after-lunch cigarette. He was a vegetarian smoker, something that drove people crazy. Ray couldn't see the problem; not much different than being a Christian soldier, he thought.
He remembered Anthony Gant well, or as well as you can remember the guy who saves your ass from frying.
Ray could hardly think about that disaster so many years ago in Africa without his blood pressure spiking. As it was, he had been toasted enough that his beloved Army had declined his services any further, thank you very much.
He had never met Anthony Gant before October 3, 1993 but he had met his brother Jack, who was a captain in the Rangers in Mogadishu. How Anthony Gant had arrived there no one, not even the Delta commandos seemed to know.
Suggs was flying one of the support Blackhawks for the raid and he was brought in to pick up some of the wounded and one of the prisoners. To Suggs it looked like everything was falling apart with the amount of incoming fire that was being poured into the friendly forces.
As he prepared to take off from a dusty street in between two buildings, an RPG round hit his helicopter. The next thing he knew, he was engulfed in flames as the chopper hit the ground. His co-pilot was gone, out the window, saving his own butt. Ray knew right then and there he was dead man. A couple of the guys in the rear and the rag-head prisoner they had just loaded were dead.
That was when he met Anthony Gant. This crazy looking guy, fire extinguisher in hand, had appeared in the passageway leading to the rear of the chopper, carving out a small opening in the flames with the device.
"Come on!" Gant had yelled after checking the bodies and confirming they were gone.
Ray's burned hands couldn't unbuckle his harness and Gant had slid between the pilot seats, unsnapped him and dragged him out. Ray clearly remembered being over Gant's shoulder as he ran from the chopper, seeing the aircraft burst into flame even as he felt the pants of his flight suit burning. Gant threw him down in the dirt and extinguished the flames but the damage had been done.
Gant had saved him then, and several months later he had shown up at the VA hospital where Ray was recuperating.
"I hear you're pretty good with photography and calligraphy," Gant had said. And that had been the beginning of Ray's new life although he never found out how Gant had learned about his hobby.
It wasn't so bad working on the edge of the edge. Ray couldn't do a covert special ops but by God he was one of the people who made them possible. His passports and papers were recognized as the best. He worked for the government sometimes and he worked for others beyond the law. He fulfilled a need on both sides and because of that he was basically left alone.
After the quick phone call he was looking forward to the whole business, especially news of Gant, when the bottom dropped. He’d put the information into the computer to prepare the passports and get the proper numbers and names into the system in time for the women’s flight. Less than an hour later, that incredible, rotting fuck Bailey, Nero’s hatchet man had called with a request from his boss. Ray could feel the tendrils of hate and fear intertwine in his gut and drop to his scarred useless legs. He'd nervously wheeled his chair back and forth, keeping the phone cocked under his chin. He'd listened and nodded and the only word he had spoken was an affirmative. It was the only possible answer when Nero asked something.
So Ray wasn't happy. He was gonna crap on someone who was a friend of Gant's and gonna pay him well and he was doing it for Nero. Bailey had also told him Gant was dead, which hadn't made the whole thing any happier. And then there was the connected guy in New York who wasn’t gonna be too happy about this either.
He hoped the woman was a bitch. In his experience it was always easier to betray shitty people. But she was a friend of Gant's and Ray couldn't see Gant being too tolerant of a bitch hanging around. Course, she could be a good-looking bitch. He supposed Gant was like any other man in that his tolerance for difficult behavior was directly inverse to the size of the tits involved.
The airport exit caught his eye and, as he switched on his blinker, he tried to put aside the bad feeling.
**************
Hannah couldn't believe they were already landing in Atlanta. She had slept the remainder of the flight, but instead of feeling rested, she felt sluggish and swollen, wondering if her face was imprinted with the pattern of the tweedy seat cover.
She tried to keep up with Neeley but the latter was being pressed by the tight schedule of their next departure. Neeley hurried out to the parking concourse, searching for her objective. Hannah struggled with her big tote and her too tight pants all the while trying to rouse herself from her lethargic state. "Slow down a little, Neeley."
"Just a sec, I think we're almost there."
Suddenly Neeley halted next to a battered van and dropped her bag.
Hannah inspected the rumpled metal. "Look, it's even parked in a handicapped spot."
The soft whir of a motor caused her to step back as Ray's wheelchair cruised around to their side of the vehicle.
"Oh." Hannah decided to remain mum. The man was eyeing them both in a manner usually reserved for cattle purchases.
"Thought you weren't going to make it," he snorted.
Neeley apologized for their lateness and reiterated their needs.
Without saying another word, he motioned toward the van. Neeley seemed unconcerned but Hannah was hesitant. Something felt wrong to her but she wondered if it was just the squalidness of the entire situation. Following Neeley's lead, she climbed into the darkened interior. After a moment to adjust her vision, Hannah drew a sharp breath. The inside of the van was quite a contradiction to the outside. The interior was clean and modern, with a bank of computers and printers lining one side. Hannah felt her anxiety lessen as she granted Mr. Suggs his degree of professionalism. In a moment he had joined them and began the task at hand.
Hannah brushed her hair vigorously for the photo, giving her some time to feel things out. Hannah decided that Suggs was relaxing a bit although he still had difficulty ignoring their breasts. He seemed genuinely troubled by Neeley's story of Gant's death, withdrawing for a moment and then not really looking at them again.
Hannah noticed his hands were trembling as he gave them the finished products. Neeley gave him the money and that was it, except Hannah stepped forward. “Are you going to fax our passport numbers to the Cellar?”
Ray seemed surprised, and hurt, but he nodded. "Bailey already called."
“Who’s Bailey?” Neeley asked.
“Nero’s right hand,” Ray said. “They must have had an alert on the computer for your names. Showed up right away when I did a run through to get the paperwork started.”
“I was told you owed Gant,” Neeley said.
Ray wearily nodded. “He saved my ass. But he’s dead now.” He didn't lift his head to meet her eyes.
"Is that all it comes down to?" Neeley asked. "Nero runs everything?"
To that, Ray had no answer.
“Do you know who called you to set this up?” Neeley pressed.
She didn’t think it was possible,
but he sounded even more morose. “Yeah, Gant’s Uncle. I’m screwed coming and going on this. And then there’s his brother.”
“What about his brother?” Neeley asked.
Suggs lifted his head. “You think Tony Gant was a hard man then you never met Jack Gant. He was there too. Mogadishu. I hear they never spoke again after it.”
Despite the time constraints of their next flight, Neeley couldn’t walk away. “Why not?”
“Jack was a captain in the Rangers. He led most of the men who got caught on the ground there. Lost seven guys. He took their deaths hard.”
“But why wouldn’t he talk to his brother?” Hannah asked.
“The raid was fucked and Tony was part of it in some way.” Suggs shrugged. “I don’t know. It was a bad time and a bad place.”
Hannah didn’t buy it. One thing she had learned in her social circle was what appeared to be the situation between people was rarely the reality, as her own recent experience had clearly pointed out. She tugged at Neeley’s arm. “We’ve got to go”
As they walked away, Suggs called out: "I'm sorry."
Hannah was letting it all sink in by the time they got to their gate with the boarding passes. "Does everyone work for the highest bidder?"
"Ray doesn't have much choice." Neeley held the passports up. "These are real, Hannah. The numbers are recorded in the State Department and Ray can access the computer and put our identities in there so we won't get stopped at customs if anyone decides to check. It’s virtually impossible to travel on false papers these days. The only way they can be real is if Nero and the Cellar helps Ray. He has to pay them back otherwise he could never stay in business. Giving up our names is part of his payback. It's not that big of a deal; at least from his point of view."
"It's a big deal from my point of view," Hannah said.
Neeley looked around, trying to spot their tail. "No, then we'd be dead. We're just point man, picking our way through the trip wires." She smiled grimly. “Plus, I think he’s going to have to deal with Uncle Joe and that might not be pleasant.”
