Hide and Seek

by Jeff Struecker

  She paced a lot, wearing a path from the living room to the kitchen to the bedroom to the bathroom and back to the living room. She thought of going outside to walk, but worried she would do what she had already done a dozen times: break down into a blithering, heaving mass.

  Her mind begged for something to do, something useful, productive, engaging; something husband honoring; God honoring.

  She moved into the bedroom, to a small desk J. J. got when he was in middle school. It was here he paid the bills, kept catalogs of high-end racing bicycles and gun catalogs. As many times as her pacing brought her into the room, this was the first time she noticed her eyes avoided the bed. That realization burned in her mind and boiled her heart.

  Breathing turned ragged again, but she was determined not to cry. Not because she was ashamed, but because she couldn’t endure more. Focus. Find something.

  She did. A folder tucked in the corner of the desk, beneath utility bills. Tess pushed the envelopes to the side and picked up the manila folder. Inside were a collection of items: the photo of the sonogram revealing the twins, a photo of a small party celebrating Tess’s pregnancy, an article on how to save money for a child’s college education, and a piece of lined paper with notes made in J. J.’s hand. There were two columns made by a line of blue ink drawn down the middle of the page. At the top of the left column were two words: “Little J. J.”; the top of the right column bore the words “Little Tess.” A short list of names were penned for each category. Under “Little J. J.” were Aaron, Josiah, Elijah, Levi, Dylan, Adam, Paul, Jack, Eric, Rich, and a few others. Under “Little Tess” were: Crystal, Chaundel, Cloe, Gwyn, and Bailey.

  Tess brought a hand to her mouth and choked back a sob. He hadn’t told her he was making a list of names for the twins. On the boy side of the page were other names; names that made a lot less sense: Quincy Bartley, Poindexter Bartley, Erasmus Bartley. Reading the names made her smile. He once said when making a list of ideas it was always good to have ideas to throw away. He found some good throwaways.

  On the back of the page were a few more notes. “President Levi Bartley. Dr. Cloe Bartley. Bailey Bartley, Esq. Colonel Josiah Bartley. Secretary of State Gwyn Bartley. Apparently he thought their daughter either would not marry or would keep her family name.

  Returning the papers, she placed the folder back where she found it. It would be up to her to name their children.

  Her gaze fell to J. J.’s Bible centered on the desktop. It was a well-worn New American Standard. J. J. had several Bible translations but he had “cut his teeth” on this one. The brown leather cover was worn on the spine so much it was difficult to read the engraving.

  She sat and leafed through the pages. Scores of verses were underlined. Notes decorated the margins. She and J. J. met at a chapel service and one of her first impressions was the way he listened to a sermon, pen in hand, Bible on his lap, taking notes wherever he could find white space. She moved a finger over the notes taking in every loop, every stroke, every dot. These were written memories, the handwriting of a father to be saved for the children who would never know him.

  Later, she decided, she would return to the Bible to write down some of J. J.’s favorite verses. Chaplain Bartley would need that, but for this moment she needed something else.

  Tess moved from the desk to the bed, lay on her side, pulled J. J.’s pillow to her face, and buried her nose where her husband’s head once rested.

  ABIROV WALKED INTO MEKLIS'S office. The man had aged in the last few hours. Why not? His country was on the verge of economic collapse, unemployment topped 20 percent, there was pressure from Russia and China to oust the Americans, parliament was growing less supportive with the passing of each day, and now riots in the streets and a crowd of ten thousand surrounding the White House government building.

  On his way in, which required using the underground secret access from Ala-Too Square, he saw several military and police vehicles aflame, lighting the surrounding area with orange flame and sending billows of smoke roiling into the air. A crowd mingled at the square, but his police officers were able to keep the numbers down. The real action was a short distance away at the White House. Very few protesters wanted to miss that.

  Few of his countrymen knew of the secret access but no doubt many suspected it. It was not unusual for such tunnels to exist. Even the Americans had tunnels running from their White House and the buildings where Congress met. History taught government leaders around the world and through time that several means of escape were needed to have a sense of security. There were even escape tunnels created by the ancients in cities like Jerusalem. Twenty-one centuries later, the need for such things still existed.

  Meklis, normally a courteous man, acknowledged Abirov with only a nod. “Before you bring me any more bad news, let me ask about my daughter—or is that the bad news?”

  “No, Mr. President. We have no more word on her and—”

  “I know, you have too few men to conduct a search. We’ve been over that, but I’m a father and I have to ask.”

  “How is your wife holding up, sir?”

  “Not well. The doctor thinks she may be on the verge of a nervous breakdown. She never wanted me to go into politics. She feared for the family. She was right.”

  “You are a good president, sir. When this is over, she will recover and you will continue to lead our country.”

  “The people in the streets seem to disagree, my friend.”

  “They protest poverty, sir. Their complaints should be directed at parliament more than you.”

  Meklis shook his head. “It doesn’t work that way, I’m afraid. I should compliment you on the use of the fire-retardant foam to repel the crowd at Manas.”

  Abirov shrugged. “It is a temporary measure. I have reports that the group has moved forward again and are throwing stones and other objects. The airport only has so much of the material on hand. I’ve ordered that the technique be used again, but that will be the end of that approach.”

  “Do you think they will tire of getting wet?”

  “The night is warm. If this were winter, we could douse them and the cold would send them home. That would only refresh them tonight. The foam is slippery so that is an advantage.”

  Meklis motioned to the seats. His personal assistant entered with a tray of snacks and coffee and set it on the table in front of the long sofa. Abirov settled in a chair.

  “Coffee, Chief?”

  “No thank you, sir. I’ll take refreshment when my men can do the same.”

  “I understand.” The president ignored the tray. “You said you have urgent news.”

  “I do, Mr. President, but I have a favor to ask first. Please don’t ask me how I obtained my information. I say this to protect you, not me.”

  Meklis’s eyes narrowed. Abirov knew him to be a man of principle and law. Learning the information came from torture would only give him more problems to juggle. Abirov decided to confess to the act and resign when the city was back to normal.

  “I’ve never been asked for such a favor before.”

  “I must ask it now, Mr. President. I know I am not part of your cabinet. I am a simple policeman. It is all I ever wanted to be.”

  Meklis looked away, his eyes shifting from side to side.

  “Mr. President, I can make this easier on you. I will tell you what you need to know. I do so, because I believe your life is in danger and time is short. I will tell you I have committed a crime and I did so alone. No one in my department was involved.” He leaned forward as if about to whisper but his voice remained the same. “We took a suspect into custody just outside the American side of the airport. He was in the crowd. He had a metal container which we first believed to be an explosive. It is not. The army has it now and is conducting tests. I couldn’t wait for their results.”

  “You kno
w what’s in it?”

  “Yes, and I’ve alerted the army and my leaders in the field. I did that on my way here. I am now telling you the cylinder is an aerosol can meant to disperse a biotoxin. Had one of my officers not stopped the man, hundreds, maybe thousands would be dead.”

  “How do you know this?” Meklis raised a hand. “Forget that question for now. Are you certain of your information?”

  “Yes, sir. Sadly, I am one hundred percent convinced the information is accurate. It is my belief the man intended to release the material into the crowd near the entrance gate to the American side of Manas International Airport.”

  “To what end? Why would he kill fellow protesters . . . because the act would be blamed on the Americans. People would say the Americans used the bioagent to protect their base.”

  “Yes, sir. My fear is he was not alone. Imagine if someone else is successful where he failed. Or imagine if someone in the crowd a hundred meters from this very office released the toxin? Your opponents would claim you ordered the death of hundreds, maybe thousands of protesters.”

  “I would never do that.”

  “Of course not, Mr. President, but your enemies would not miss the opportunity to lay the blame at your feet. I know nothing of politics or how to lead a country, but I imagine your administration would not be able to recover. I’m certain your security would warn you that such a belief, misguided as it is, would increase assassination attempts. My biggest concern . . .” The words came with difficulty. “My biggest concern is that such a weapon can be used to end your life.”

  Meklis seemed to melt into the sofa. “My wife.”

  “Yes, sir. It is what makes biotoxins so reprehensible. A gunman has to see his victim. If the toxin made it into the building . . .”

  “What do you suggest?”

  Abirov couldn’t speak.

  “Say it, Chief Abirov.”

  “Sir, you need to leave the building. You and your wife.”

  “So you’re with Prime Minister Dootkasy on this? He has suggested I transfer power to him to protect the presidency.”

  “No, sir. I am no friend of the prime minister. Fortunately, my work doesn’t require me to report to him, or even to you, sir. I am appointed by the mayor, so I have a little more freedom to speak. My only concern is your safety. Since you’ve allowed me the privilege of advising you on city security, I came to you personally. I will offer whatever help your security deems necessary.”

  “If I leave the country, it will look like I’m running away from our problems. And if the biotoxin is released then it will look like I either called for the use of the poison, or ran when I learned of it.”

  “Only if people know you left the country. As far as the people will know, you were out of the building doing your job, or that security forced you and your wife to leave because that’s their job.”

  “Lie to the people.”

  “Trust me, Mr. President, that will be the smallest of sins I commit today.”

  CHAPTER 29

  “HOW ARE THEY, DOC?” J. J. sat in the passenger side of the truck cab watching Pete stripping a few wires with his knife.

  “Captain Lennon is pretty good. Exhausted. I’ve cleaned her wounds. They’re superficial by battle standards but you can bet next month’s pay they’re painful. She’s one tough date.”

  “We’ve seen plenty of evidence for that. Jildiz?”

  “Pretty bad, Boss. She needs to be in a hospital. I don’t know how she stays on her feet. I did what I could, but my med kit is tailored for trauma, not asthma.”

  “Understood. You still have them out of sight?”

  “Yes, I found a small print shop a few meters down the street. The door was open. Weps is with them. Aliki has taken over guarding our two friends.”

  “Good . . . wait, the door was open?”

  “Well, sorta.”

  “I’m not gonna ask.”

  “You say Weps and Joker are elsewhere?” Pete lifted his head from beneath the dashboard.

  “Yeah.” Doc sounded puzzled.

  Pete sat up. “Look, I might be wrong about this, and Boss, you know I get along with everybody. I have no problem with new guys. And I know these guys have medals up to their necks . . .”

  “But?”

  “But I think something’s wrong with Joker. He . . . I’m not sure how to say this.”

  “Just say it, Junior.”

  “Joker seems slow, like he’s hesitant, or can’t hear, or both. I don’t know. When we engaged the guys at the truck, he was slow off the dime, like he didn’t want to step out of the alley. Like . . . like he was afraid.”

  “Joker? Afraid. That doesn’t seem right.” J. J. didn’t like what he was hearing, but he trusted Junior as deeply as he trusted any man. They had been through too much not to be pals.

  “Okay, maybe afraid isn’t the right word. He did come out, but he stayed behind me, almost like he was using me as a shield. Maybe it’s something else, but something doesn’t feel right.”

  “As bad as Data?” J. J.’s mind ran back to a former team member named Jerry Zinsser who almost got the team killed because he kept his post-traumatic stress disorder a secret. The man saw horrible things in a firefight in one of Somalia’s port cities. He was the last man of his team left standing. Although cleared by the medics, his disorder came back with a vengeance, to the point he attacked then team leader Eric Moyer. In the end, he proved indispensable to the mission’s success, but it was the end of his spec op days.

  “Can’t tell.”

  J. J. recalled the info in Aliki’s service jacket. He was on a team that lost most of its members. Could he be dealing with a PTSD problem again?

  “Okay, let’s not be too quick to judge. You said he entered the fray, he was a tad slow to do so.”

  “It seemed that way. I had to go around him.”

  “We’ll keep an eye on him. Maybe his team did things differently. Just be sharp.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Now get this beast started. Doc, see if you can get that lock off the trailer door. We can’t fit everyone in the cab and I don’t want to leave anyone behind. You might have to get Weps to pinch off a little C4.”

  Pete was a good soldier but a lousy car thief: it took fifteen minutes for him to get the tractor to start. Jose was a good medic but a lousy locksmith: he needed Weps to blow the lock. The trailer was empty.

  “Good job getting this beast back to life.” J. J. listened to the rumble of the diesel engine. “Now tell me you know how to drive this thing.”

  Pete looked sheepish. “’Fraid not, Boss. This is the first time I’ve been inside one of these.”

  “Great.” J. J. glanced at Jose. “Doc?”

  “I’d endanger more lives than I would save. Sorry.”

  J. J. keyed his mike. “Anyone know how to drive a big rig?”

  A moment later. “I’ll give it a shot.” It was Nagano, and J. J. was hoping for something a little more confident. No one else answered.

  “Get up here, Weps.” J. J. turned to Jose. “I want the women in the cab. I don’t think riding in the back will help Jildiz any. Get the rest of the team in the trailer.” Jose was gone before J. J. finished the order.

  “I’m gonna check the doors, Boss,” Pete said. “It won’t do to be locked in the back should something go down. We need to rig something up so we can open the back without someone having to let us out.”

  “Good idea. Make it quick. I got the uncomfortable feeling company is coming.”

  Three minutes later, Nagano was behind the wheel, Amelia and Jildiz were in the sleeper cab, J. J. sat in the front passenger seat, and the team was in the trailer.

  “You sure you can drive this?” J. J. let suspicion hang in his voice.

  “W
e’ll know in a minute.”

  “Does that mean you’ve never driven a rig like this?” The pit of J. J.’s stomach spiraled down. “I thought you said you could drive this.”

  “To be accurate, Boss, I said I’d give it a shot. No one else was speaking up so I took the truck by the horns.” He examined the stick shift. “Five forward gears; one reverse. Split transmission giving us high/low ratios, so . . . ten forward speeds. How hard can it be?”

  “How do you know that stuff?”

  “I was a gear-head in high school. I rebuilt cars as a hobby. Got a ’64 and a half Mustang.” Nagano found first gear and slowly released the clutch. The beast jolted forward.

  “Smooth,” Amelia said.

  “Thanks, ma’am.”

  “I was being sarcastic, soldier.”

  “Yes, ma’am, so was I.” He found the next gear without trouble. “Wow, she may be old but she’s easy.”

  “You had better be talking about the truck,” Amelia said.

  The comment made J. J. smile. “How’s our friend?”

  “I’m still here,” a weak Jildiz said.

  “Where to, Boss?” Nagano asked.

  “First, let’s get away from the group that torched our vans. Go around the block and head south. Put a few miles between us then we’ll start for our next destination. I see three possibilities: a hospital for Jildiz, the government center, or back to base.” He thought for a moment.

  “The hospital is likely to be packed with wounded protesters,” Amelia said. “And the only hospital large enough to provide the care and protection she needs is in the direction of the fires and protests, assuming the protests are like the last set.”

  “Good point.” J. J. scratched his chin. He and Nagano removed their balaclavas. Two men in ski masks driving through town might garner more attention than they wanted. “Let’s drive toward Manas. Stay on the outskirts of town. When we’re in radio range, we’ll make contact.”