The Amazon Job

by Vince Milam

  “Sorry. I’ve been remiss in the licorice department. So MOIS has gone rogue?”

  “So it would appear. If an attack on the US became a reality, Russian fingerprints on the event would be evident. As a general rule, one would wish to prevent a cool war from becoming hot.”

  “I didn’t share the Russian connection with anyone.”

  “Again, it is not about you, dear. I would rather imagine our Israeli friends have leveraged the Russian-Iranian relationship for their great advantage. Upped the ante, as it were.”

  “Okay. Thanks and good to know. Lots of activity, the big boys engaged. Got it. Except for the Russians. They’ll back further away.”

  “Or not.”

  Yeah, or not. Russians tended toward full frontal—see a problem, address it straight on.

  “All of which raises the question,” she continued. “How far are you willing to go with this endeavor, Poirot?”

  An item I’d given more than a passing thought to for the last twenty-four hours. A mental line drawn in the sand, with a simple realization—small Case Lee fish, big clandestine pond. I wouldn’t chase her to London or Paris or Singapore. A position hardened with Jules’s revelation that the major players had joined the hunt. But US turf was another story, and tied into Marcus’s admonition. When the time to strike fast and sure presented itself, fast and sure actions were mandatory. Plus the major matter of the toxic sample was a mental irritant. I didn’t trust anyone with it. Period. Except, perhaps, the Swiss. They’d bury it under a mountain. Maybe. Although since this gig had morphed with dramatic fashion into a remove-the-problem operation, I doubted the Swiss would mind if I handled the matter, sample and all. Hard to say. Man, what a freakin’ mess.

  I expressed thoughts and concerns to Jules. She accepted them without judgment, and walked a conversational path under the premise of Amsler’s domestic activities. And under the premise I, and the Clubhouse, would remain engaged. Fair enough, and better than dwelling on things well outside my control.

  “How far am I willing to go? Pretty damn far. On US soil, to the hilt.”

  “Such ferocity is both laudable and, I’m afraid, required. Now tell me what you know of Dr. Amsler’s red-white-and-blue ire,” she said, scratching under her chin.

  I did. Included Kim’s input along with Vampire’s words and poster collection.

  “Would you assess her intentions as viable?” Jules asked. “Mass death, civil disruption?”

  “Yes. She’s clever and committed. With a feral component. She smelled me, Jules. Knew I was homing in on her.”

  “An attribute often found among her ilk. Those of ill intent. This would fall under the category of bad news.”

  “No kidding. She’s capable of carrying out whatever plan she’s cooked up with the Iranians. Yeah, she’s serious as a heart attack.”

  Jules placed the cigar on the edge of the old desk and slid open a wooden drawer. Dropped my index card in and produced another. Slid it across the desktop, kept her bony fingers pressed against it while she talked.

  “Global possibilities abound. Let us focus on but one possibility. One which coincides with a few points of connectivity.”

  She released the index card. It contained a San Diego address and a phone number. I memorized both and returned the card. Clients weren’t allowed to leave the Clubhouse with hard copy.

  “Okay. Got it. Who is this?”

  “Your all-too-risky report mentioned Dr. Amsler’s beau. A Dr. William Archer.”

  “You think she’s headed in his direction?”

  Jules snorted, shook her head, slumped back. She eyeballed me and delivered another headshake.

  “I do not think any such thing. This shall devolve into the tedious if you continue your nasty habit of assumptive conditions.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s what I do.”

  “And a cross I must bear. We have no idea where Dr. Amsler currently resides, nor her destination. None. Assumptions under these conditions have no footing.”

  “Okay.”

  “We are discussing an amalgam of intersecting, and interesting, facts. Points of connectivity.”

  “Okay.”

  Satisfied with her chastisement, she sat back up and continued. Life in the freakin’ Clubhouse.

  “He is a biochemist. Birds of a feather in more ways than one.”

  “How’s that?”

  “He has expressed anarchist tendencies within internet chat rooms. Nothing that would alert the authorities, mind you. Personal opinions cloaked with banality.”

  “So he’s another wingnut.”

  A tight-lipped smile returned. “Oh to live with such a black-and-white worldview.”

  “I’m a simple man.”

  “You are a good and fine man. Simple in some regards, yes. However I am stout of back and able to bear several crosses.”

  I smiled back. “Good knowing.”

  “It is Dr. Archer’s workaday world we must consider. His employer is a large manufacturer of agricultural chemicals. Do mull that over for a minute, dear.”

  I did. The connection was nebulous at first, followed by horrific awareness. Ag chemicals. Applied most often in one of two ways, the most prevalent method through large sprayers and irrigation equipment. The circular fields across the States, viewed from any airline window, used center-pivot irrigation systems. Massive aluminum arms performed a slow roll and dispersed irrigation water… as well as chemical herbicides, pesticides, and fertilizers. If a center-pivot wasn’t utilized, agricultural chemicals were applied in the same manner through spray arms behind a tractor. Dispersed effective application, the hallmark of agricultural chemicals.

  Another application technique: aerial. Crop-duster airplanes. Either way, it didn’t take a great deal of imagination to visualize a dozen ways large population centers could be exposed to the toxin. Tap into the water supply. Small street bombs with toxin rather than shrapnel the killing element. Or a crop-duster flyover. With enough toxin synthesized, one pass over New York or Los Angeles or any large city and millions would be killed. Oh, man.

  I rehashed what I could and should have done differently, reflections on how the gig had evolved and the luck of the draw. Circling whirlpool thoughts. Shovel. Hole. Kept digging. I faded away for a few seconds. Jules struck another match and relit the cigar, snapping me out of it.

  “Tiptoeing through the woe-is-me tulips, dear?”

  “A little bit. This is nothing but bad wrong. About as bad as it gets. What a mess.”

  “What we must bear in mind is that several steps must occur for such an endeavor to reach fruition.”

  “Yeah. Synthesis on a decent-sized scale. But not a massive scale. Depending on potency, a couple gallons of this stuff would fit the bill. She’d also require help. Help beyond her wingnut lover.”

  “You have always had a talent for segue. Allow me to do so.”

  “This whole mess stacks up. Lover boy, ag company.”

  “There is more. Another fact that may come into play. A buttressing of the possibility we discussed.”

  I sighed, shook my head, and acknowledged my white-hot anger toward Amsler. Followed by an acknowledgement she hadn’t done anything harmful. Yet.

  “Don’t know if I can take any more good news.”

  “Understand we discuss one of multiple possible scenarios. There are no guarantees we track the appropriate avenue.”

  “Understood. But still.”

  “But still, indeed. Southern California is well known as the home of the largest Persian concentration of espionage activity.”

  “Iranians?”

  “If you so choose—they’ve been Persians for two thousand years. Since the early eighties, a great number of Persians fled their country. Regime change, the Ayatollah, et al. Many settled within Southern California and with great success integrated into society. Scientists, engineers, and academics. By and large, productive citizens. Tehran did not view this in a positive light.”

  “Lot
of defense contractors within the area as well.”

  “The Clubhouse is rubbing off on you, dear. Well done. The point is, Tehran focused on the Golden State’s southern section for espionage incursion. They attempted to apply leverage against the US Persian expatriates. Intimidation, threats—the usual. They are still there. In force.”

  Motivation—check. Amsler and Iran’s government despised the US. The Great Satan.

  Technical resources—check. This asshat William Archer would lend his expertise toward synthesizing the toxin.

  Peripheral support—check. MOIS in SoCal.

  “It all adds up. So what’s the catch? This is too clean. The dots connect too easily.”

  “Truly my ministrations over the years have produced fruit. Why, you are positively imbued with skepticism!”

  She leaned back, chuckled, puffed the cigar, and hummed an off-key show tune. “Cabaret”, maybe. Hard to say.

  “Glad you’re happy. I’m not. You think I should head to San Diego and shadow Archer?”

  She sat up, remnants of what may have passed for a smile displayed.

  “No. A premature act. If our Dr. Amsler possesses a fine nose, as you’ve stated, she may pick up your scent and alter her plans. Wait for the trail to appear, Daniel Boone. I would suggest you wait and prepare.”

  Another pause. I sat with hands across belly, legs extended, and shifted in the hard chair for a comfortable position. She smoked and eyeballed me.

  “Allow us to take succor and nourishment from the ongoing effort,” Jules continued. “Larger players now have the good doctor on their radar. I shall do the same. She will make a mistake. A credit card used, a bank transaction, an errant phone call. A trail will appear. The Clubhouse shall hear of it. A bit late, perhaps, but I shall hear.”

  “Alright. I’ll be on standby, twiddling my thumbs.”

  “Twiddle away. But a final thought if signs point toward Southern California. Are you committed?”

  “When haven’t I been?”

  “If the possibility we discussed becomes reality, it will be on homeland soil. Where governmental department power plays and politics hold court. Are you committed to ensure it doesn’t arrive at their operational doorstep?”

  She and Marcus had the same mindset. Both intimated terminal conclusion for Amsler. And now Archer as well. Toss in a handful of MOIS agents and a decent-sized body count could mount. With Jules’s cryptic worldview, a mere drop in the bucket. Marcus understood the reality of violent death all too well, but maintained his usual sanguine black-and-white, good-and-bad perspective. Not me. Not yet. A back-pocket option—the original terms of my contract—remained. Haul Amsler back to Switzerland. Handcuff her, hogtie her, whatever. The Swiss would have a transatlantic private jet at my disposal pronto. The toxic sample was another issue. But first, find her crazy butt.

  “You, me, Kim Rochat. The only three people who know of the boyfriend connection. Unless Kim spilled the beans with Swiss authorities. So I’ll have an open playing field. At least for a while.”

  “Within which you will stop them. On US soil. You may note I did not say catch or capture them.”

  “Understood.”

  “One of innumerable dark events lost forever in the fog of history, dear boy. With resolution swift, sure, and final.”

  I returned a hard stare, a sufficient answer for the moment. Jules, well aware of my violent background, construed the look as agreement. She returned a half-smile, closed her eye, and delivered a formal head-nod. A Clubhouse done deal.

  Chapter 30

  The Ace of Spades, moored in New Bern, pulled hard. Family pulled harder. I booked a flight to Charleston, South Carolina. Home of my mom, Mary Lola Wilson, and my sister CC. Sanctuary and a respite while waiting to hear from the Clubhouse.

  Mom took back her maiden name after cancer caused Dad’s passing. Along with the move from Savannah to Charleston, it added a layer of protection for her and CC against people who sought leverage against me. Bounty hunters.

  My younger sister CC. No one ever used her given name of Celice as she wouldn’t respond to it. Born with an intellectual disability, she was capable of simple health and safety skills and participated in activities. Unknown to CC, she was my anchor. Where I lived far too often amid chaos and shadows and death, CC ensured grounding among those things most important. The small miracles, the surrounding marvels. My lifeline to the real. Soul-filling experiences of the wondrous kind. I loved her, and Mom, with core-driven passion.

  Marcus Johnson called as I waited for my flight. Not unexpected as he considered himself now engaged. I had a different opinion. One based upon necessity. At this point, his help wasn’t needed.

  “What’s the word?” he asked, skipping niceties.

  “On standby.”

  “While the witch stirs her cauldron?”

  “Yeah. And if you have a better idea, oracle on high, lay it on the table.”

  “Here’s the best idea for the moment. I’m packed. Give the word, and I’ll be there. So what’s the latest intel? You did visit her.”

  I spilled the beans, explained possibilities, with a heavy focus on Amsler’s boyfriend and his work experience. Marcus didn’t require elaboration about the potential hellish scenarios. The encrypted phones we both used were sufficient protection for such a conversation. And if not, if the NSA could crack the algorithm, so be it. Come join the freakin’ party, boys.

  “So here’s the operational reality,” he said. “You will pull your usual go-it-alone BS until things get too hot. Too hot in this situation means too late. Are you listening to me?”

  “Hard to avoid.”

  His declarative statements, a Marcus Johnson hallmark, brought a grin to my face. And the perversely pleasurable urge to wind him up. I loved the guy, would follow him into hell and back, but years had passed since Delta days. While the rest of us—me, Bo, Catch—had changed and perhaps mellowed, Marcus donned the team lead hat without hesitation. Which included operational declarative directives.

  “What you might want to avoid,” he said, “is swallowing dumbass pills by the handful. Engage me as soon as you hear something.”

  “Man, I miss your dulcet tones. You ever consider a career in advertising voice-overs?”

  “You’re an idiot. I’m part of this solution, so accept it.”

  “I’m thinking those Just For Men commercials.”

  The last couple of years showed graying hair peeking below his Stetson.

  “I’m thinking I’d like to crawl through this phone.”

  “We’re talking erectile dysfunction ads, arthritis meds, lounger ads—you, a crackling fire, dog at your feet.”

  “You through?”

  “Almost. The deal is I will call you. And Lord knows, I appreciate the help. But there’s little point unleashing the Montana Kid until actionable items appear.”

  “Listen to me. As hard as that simple act is for you. Listen. If you travel domestic regarding this threat, actionable items will already be present. Period. You require a partner.”

  Point taken. I told him so and signed off. I altered my potential plans with a stop in Billings, Montana, a decision made less with a sense of relief than one of surety. Surety toward any subsequent activities. Marcus was as solid as they came, and tough as they came, and possessed a decisiveness that I, on occasion, lacked. And something told me rapid and final decisions were part and parcel of whatever would come down. If, the big if. If she showed in the US. Better odds than fifty-fifty. But still.

  When I informed Mom I was heading her way, she offered several declarative statements of her own.

  “Wonderful! It is always a pleasure and joy to see the prodigal son. And you will be relieved to know that I’ve maintained my no-matchmaking status, even though it pains me to no end.”

  For some time, Mom would arrange dates for me with a Mary Lola Wilson-vetted candidate. Nice ladies, every single one, but nothing had ever clicked. To Mom’s dismay and borderline disgust.
So she’d finally abandoned her efforts.

  “A wise decision, Mary Lola.”

  “It has nothing to do with wisdom, son of mine, and everything to do with exasperation. I have not ceased prayers in that regard, but personal efforts will remain on hold. When are you getting in?”

  I told her, and explained I’d take a cab from the Charleston airport.

  “You will do no such thing. Peter will pick you up. This is quite the treat, you arriving by means other than your rancid leaky boat.”

  “I’ll ask the Ace to forgive you for the descriptive.”

  “Ask all you want, and tell your old tub it’s time for the boat boneyard. We’ll eat supper outside. It’s cooled off. CC will be thrilled. We’ll have fried chicken as way of celebration. And pecan pie with vanilla ice cream. You and Peter stop on the way home and pick up the ice cream.”

  Peter Brooks, Mom’s beau, was retired from the insurance business and impressed me as a solid individual. A good man.

  “Will do. So, how are you and Peter doing?”

  “Fine, and we just ended that train of conversation. You, my loving son, are about the last person on earth to provide insight into relationships. Is chicken alright, or would you prefer something else?”

  Mom’s fare—the personal well-being penicillin for pretty much anyone and any ailment. I’d be the last person to argue against it.

  “Chicken sounds great. How’s CC?”

  “Since the weather cooled off, she’s taking Tinker on longer walks. I swear, she and that dog communicate. I don’t know whether thanks or worry is called for. She’ll be so happy to see you.”

  Tinker Juarez, a mutt of indeterminate lineage, was CC’s constant companion.

  “Same here. And same for you. Anything you want me to tell Peter? Some subject you’re too shy to broach?”

  “Hush. Hush and hurry up and get here.”

  We signed off. The best mom on the planet, bar none. The flight, uneventful. The reunion, joyous. CC slammed into me with a hug that wouldn’t quit. I sucked it up and pretended the stitches along my side didn’t holler. Mom applied a gentle hug and kissed me about seventeen times while a tear or three fell. Tinker leapt and barked. Makes a person feel more than welcome and fine.