After America ww-2

by John Birmingham

"Because the information concerned the subject's criminal networks in ways that do not intersect with your case."

  "Our case, you mean."

  "Semantics, Ms. Monroe. At any rate, what would be of interest to you was confirmation of the fact that Richardson believed his contact had arrived in London from Berlin at a time that our checks have confirmed Baumer traveled from Tempelhof using the Tariq Skaafe passport."

  Dalby interrupted at that point. "A cover that the Germans have origin traced on our behalf to Neukolln. Mister Baumer's home turf. The biometrics on the passport chip are his."

  Caitlin folded her arms and took in a breath to give herself time to think. The air in the room was antiseptic and cold, and the only light came from two bare long-life bulbs hanging from electric wires. She let her chin rest on her chest for a moment. It was a given that Baumer was out, released by the French for whatever reason. Or released by the local authorities in Guadeloupe, at any rate. She had to concede that it didn't necessarily have to involve the Elysee Palace. The world had spun apart at a dizzying rate the last four years, and lines of authority did not run as clearly as they might once have. What was that quote from Yeats? The centre cannot hold. Somebody important had said that to her once. Had it been Wales, perhaps?

  Whatever.

  If al Banna, or Baumer, or whatever name he was going by now was out and coming for her to work through some kind of ragheaded revenge scenario there was only one thing for it: to get out there and lay her vengeance on him first.

  "So when do I go?" she asked.

  Dalby leaned over and retrieved his battered briefcase from the floor beside his chair. From it he produced a document wallet.

  "You're booked on BA, the 18:35 flight to Tegel tonight. I'm sorry about that. Schonfeld would have been better, but there is a complication. You're not going in as a declared operator, so we'll have to send your equipment beforehand via diplomatic pouch. Gerty is seeing to that right now. You'll be able to get your kit at our layup point in Hermsdorf. There'll be a rental car waiting at the airport, but Berlin Control will swap that over for you when you get to the LUP. You'll have to develop the case yourself after that, I'm afraid. Baumer is a person of interest but not enough interest to justify any more resources at the moment beyond a snatch team when he's identified."

  Caitlin waved off his apology.

  "Don't sweat it, Dalby. I still have some assets off the book over there. I won't need backup."

  He regarded her with very obvious misgivings.

  "I didn't expect you would have taken it even if it were offered," he said. "However, do bear in mind, Caitlin, that while Baumer may be indulging himself in a revenge fantasy, we are not. This is in no way an autonomous operation. Undeclared, yes. But freelance, no. You are there on Echelon business, and we would very much like to have a long chat with Mister Baumer. Isn't that right, Forbes?"

  "Oh, yes." The interrogator grinned. "Very much." In the unforgiving light he looked vulpine.

  "Well, I can't promise anything, Dalby. Especially if things get out of hand. But believe me, if it means Doctor Frankenstein here gets to stick a plunger full of platypus jizz into the Banana's ass, I am totally up for that. You tell me it hurts like a bastard?" she said, looking at the man in the lab coat.

  "Even morphine doesn't help, marm. The only relief is to put them into a coma. Or into the ground."

  "Well, that works for me, too," she said. "But Dalby, my word to you. If it is at all possible to drag this sorry motherfucker back to the Cage, his worthless ass is already here."

  "I suppose that will have to do, Caitlin. I understand that it may not be possible, but please do your best. And I would appreciate regular updates, too. Baumer was a significant recruiter, and although his cells are no longer in play, you shouldn't need telling that our European colleagues remain bedeviled by the consequences of the intifada. The Germans in particular, because of their refugee issues. Getting him back here and developing him properly would go a good long way toward improving our links with the federal intelligence lads. He might not be everyone's top priority at this point in time, but he is mine and yours. And as I said, our continental colleagues will always be interested in him."

  Caitlin shook her head. "You know, there was a time when those guys were our targets, Dalby."

  "I believe I may have already mentioned, Caitlin, that we live in a post-ironic world."

  30

  Texas Administrative Division Miguel pondered the odds. Seven men against twenty-three.

  Twenty-one now, he corrected himself as he rubbed at the dried, tacky blood on the backs of his hands.

  Or rather five men and two boys against twenty-one road agents.

  And their camp whores, too.

  You couldn't forget them. A man was just as dead with a bullet in his back fired by a woman protecting her lice-ridden rapist as he was shot down by the rapist himself. Miguel Pieraro shook his head slightly, so his companions would not notice. These were not good odds.

  He wondered, too, about the mettle of the men he would be fighting alongside. Mormons were not pacifists. Who the hell was in this new world? But neither were they natural killers, unlike the men they were about to confront.

  The small group crept forward as stealthily as they could through the tangle of rusted car bodies, waist-high grass, old bottles, and mystery refuse that cluttered the approaches to their goal. They snuck through overgrown suburban yards for the most part, whenever possible avoiding the open streets where they could be spotted more easily. Not that Miguel expected the road agents to have posted lookouts. Nothing of their operation had impressed him so far. They halted at the back of a shed at least a hundred yards from the Hy Top Club.

  He carried the Winchester in one hand, and his fingers drummed nervously on the wooden grip. At his hip hung the reassuring weight of the Lupara. Once that dog barked there would be no disguising their intentions. The Lupara was a break-open, sawed-off shotgun loaded with number two buckshot. It was an old Italian weapon, once used for wolf hunting but later taken up by the Mafia in Sicily, and was ideal for clearing crowded spaces of men whose lives and limbs meant nothing to you. Unfortunately, because of the women and the need for silence, he was going to have to be very careful about how and when he used it. That was why he carried a third weapon.

  Miguel glanced warily at the two figures to his left, Aronson and the boy, Orin. They were also carrying what looked like heavy clubs in the dark but had M16s slung across their backs. For all that he was wary of the damage his own firearms might do to the women, he was doubly concerned about those unruly cannons. An overlong squeeze of the trigger or poorly controlled aim and half a dozen people could be cut to ribbons regardless of whether they were friend or foe. At least the Mormons had changed from their normal outfit, a white shirt, black tie, and slacks, to dark jeans, shirts, and jackets. Some of them had black or navy blue hooded sweaters, which helped them to blend into the night. They were not camouflaged by any means, but it was adequate; it gave Miguel a spark of hope about them. He motioned them to take a break while he had one last peek at their target.

  They all dropped to one knee. A few of them prayed in silence. Miguel could hear a bit of Aronson's prayer.

  "Oh, Lord, we pray of thee, give us your strength as we stride forward into battle. We ask that you give us your strong right arm and guide us in our quest for justice…"

  Miguel adjusted the night vision goggles to control the bright glow of the burning oil barrels. He scanned the front deck of the club and the driveway to the left, where the agents had dragged couches and recliner rockers from nearby homes to fashion for themselves a handy outdoor party space. He counted eight men in all and two camp whores. As best he could tell, they were all sleeping. There were no signs of the Mormon women. The agents' horses remained tethered in a well-fenced yard a few streets down.

  They were not being guarded.

  "All right," Miguel said in a low voice. "It must be as we discussed back in Leona. Is
there any one of you who doubts your ability to do this? It will not be like shooting a man, which in itself is a difficult enough thing to do. This will be much worse."

  He gave Orin a hard stare as he spoke, and the boy blanched but swallowed hard and nodded.

  "I-I don't know," a voice piped up.

  "Adam, be still now," D'Age warned.

  "No. It is good," Miguel said, taking the measure of the young man to whom Sofia had taken a liking. "Any man who cannot carry this through to the end must speak up now. Once committed, we must not hesitate. To falter in striking is to die. Adam, are you certain you cannot?"

  The boy shook his head. He could not have been more than sixteen years old. Miguel had come to know him a little the last two days because Sofia had taken to riding with the boys when she could. Teenagers, he thought. The end of the world and they still cannot bear to be embarrassed by being seen with their parents. Well, at least his daughter was safely hidden away with the women and the horses for now. Adam seemed to struggle to find his voice in the dark.

  "It is just that… it's…"

  He petered out, sounding ashamed of himself.

  Miguel reached over and gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "It is not a bad thing, Adam," he said. "To know your own mind and conscience, and to listen to it, that is the mark of a real man. Here, give me that."

  He took the sledgehammer from the boy and laid it against the wall of the shed. He could not carry any more himself, his hands being full with his own massive hammer and the Winchester rifle.

  "Give it to me," a deep voice rumbled. It was Benjamin Randall. He stood a good foot higher than Miguel and was twice as wide across the shoulders. He took up young Adam's abandoned hammer and hefted it to test the weight. Then he twirled both cudgels experimentally.

  "Won't be a problem," he grunted.

  Miguel glanced back at the Hy Top to make sure nothing had changed.

  "Good," he said softly.

  "Adam, you will come with me to get the women. I am most certain they are being held in a room at the back of the club. I observe bars on the window and a padlocked steel door, but we can deal with that. Do you think you will be able to fire a gun? If you have to?"

  Miguel was glad to see the young man question himself before nodding, even if he still seemed uncertain.

  "I trust you, Adam. And I will need you to trust me."

  He turned back to the wider circle of men.

  "The boy and I will cut around the block and approach the club from the rear. Give us fifteen minutes to do that. Then move in and take down the men outside as we discussed. There are two women with them. Not yours. If they try to raise the alarm…"

  He left the sentence unfinished.

  "We understand," said Willem D'Age. Miguel took the precaution of going an extra block when circling around behind the Hy Top, taking Adam up South Cedar Street, an unkerbed boggy stretch of dirt road where most of the small fibrocement cottages appeared to have survived intact. A red pickup had struck a power pole outside number 642, bringing it down on the front porch of the white clapboard house, and fat black power cables lay like giant snakes on the road top.

  Maybe that had knocked the electrics out back in '03 and saved the suburb from burning like some others in Crockett, Miguel thought. Two more cars had collided a little farther down the road, and they had burned out, but the flames had not spread at the time. Miguel and his teen shadow skirted them and cut through a scrap of open ground into West Bell Avenue. A few more crashed vehicles and a couple of children's tricycles shrouded with stiff rags were all that remained of the original residents. Signaling to Adam to stay close and keep quiet, the vaquero ghosted another block back toward the center of town before swinging right and heading down a long straight road. South Sycamore, a bent and faded street sign declared it. The glow of the burning oil drums back at the Hy Top silhouetted the tree line between here and there, and he heard the snorting of a horse somewhere in between.

  Miguel slowed down and pressed one finger to his lips.

  The Mormon boy was wide-eyed but resolute.

  The faintly glowing dial of Miguel's watch told him he had three minutes to get into position.

  "I need you to carry this for me. Just carry it, okay?" he said, passing his sledgehammer to Adam. It was a model sometimes called a Canadian ax, with a traditional flat hammer on one side of the iron head tapering to a wedge point on the other. As the two intruders picked their way carefully through the small forest that had colonized at least three blocks behind the Hy Top, Miguel held his Winchester, ready to snap it up and fire.

  He fervently hoped that would not be necessary. They needed to remain hidden from their quarry until the very last moment. Taking up position behind the trunk of a dead white maple, he nodded encouragement to Adam and ruffled his hair to show the lad he was impressed with his fortitude so far. The boy visibly swelled with confidence. It would have been hard for him, losing his family at such an age. In Miguel's judgment, he was very much a young man in need of a strong father.

  They had to wait only another minute before the other members of the raiding party appeared without warning from the dark recesses of the woods that had crept up to the other side of South Cottoonwood. The first to materialize was Big Ben, carrying two hammers, one in each hand as though they were no heavier than children's toys. And then came his brothers, as the Mormons referred to each other, all of them hauling a heavy cudgel of sorts. Sledgehammers, axes, and one crowbar. Miguel grimaced at what was about to take place.

  The Mormons did not break into a sprint. They did not announce themselves with a war cry to summon up the spirits. They almost floated across the street until they were in among the loose collection of lounge room furniture over which the drunken, debauched road agents were draped, passed out in the warm glow of the barrel fires.

  "Come now, quickly," Miguel whispered to Adam, stepping out from behind the tree and taking long, brisk, but careful strides toward the padlocked steel door that led into a small room attached to the back of the club. The stench of urine and cigarette butts slashed through the otherwise clear air.

  When they reached the door, their view of the street in front of the building would be obscured, but Miguel was able to see the first moments of the attack as it unfolded. Big Ben swung his hammers like a gymnast twirling her ribbon at the Olympics and brought them down with a gruesome, sick-making crunch onto the heads of two road agents passed out under a blanket on an old brown couch. Miguel, who had seen many terrible things in his time, both before and after the Disappearance, was forced to blink away the sight, flinching involuntarily just before impact. There was no mistaking the wet organic cracking sound, however, as the men's heads split apart like overripe melons. Not half a second later he saw D'Age and Aronson repeat the awful stroke, each man swinging his weapon, another sledgehammer and an ax, respectively, even as Big Ben recovered his momentum and whirled away from his first victims to bash the life out of another two.

  Miguel heard a strangled, gurgling sound and spun around to see Adam vomiting into a clump of grass. The boy waved him away as if to say it was nothing. The vaquero tried to keep track of the number of agents as they went down, counting out each dull, chopping thud he heard, but it was impossible.

  And then one of the camp whores woke up and screamed.

  Her ululating cry was cut off by another muffled blow, and Miguel had his signal.

  "Get up, boy. Our time has arrived."

  The whey-faced youngster, still dry heaving, nodded and took up position behind Miguel, covering him with an M16 as he went to work on the padlock securing the heavy security door. The first blow rang out like a discordant cathedral bell over the huge graveyard that was the town of Crockett. Miguel's heart tried to leap out of his chest with the huge, jarring boom, but he ignored his galloping fears and swung again, striking the padlock squarely. It disintegrated with a shower of sparks and a metallic crash. He heard screams inside-women's screams-as he wrenched ope
n the door.

  "Get out, get out now," he ordered as the door flew back with a wrenching screech of stiff, tortured steel in an ill-fitting door frame.

  Adam moved up just behind his shoulder.

  "Come on, it's us. Get out of there, you ladies; we have to go now."

  Other voices were shouting: deep male voices, angry and confused.

  The first gunshot cracked open the night as a woman appeared from within the gloom of the prison at the back of the club. Miguel recognized her as the woman he had seen humiliated by the camp whores earlier in the evening. Her face was streaked with tears, her eyes dark sunken pits. She was shivering with fear and shock and seemed not to recognize Adam when she saw him.

  "Come, Sister Jenny. This way, quickly."

  The boy took her by the arm and virtually dragged her from the room as the percussive trip-hammer of automatic weapons fire began around the front of the building. More screams followed and then the boom of a heavy single-shot weapon. Miguel almost stopped in midstride.

  That couldn't be the Remington, he thought. He had told her to stay behind.

  There was no time for that. Sofia would do as she was told.

  "Ladies," he said urgently. "It really is time to go now. Quickly. With young Adam here. My name is Miguel, Miguel Pieraro, and I will be rescuing you tonight. But only if you step this way." Sofia almost lost her meager dinner when Ben brought the sledge down on his first victim's skull. Choking it down, she brought out her Remington and waited for a target to present itself. In the excitement, she nearly opened fire on the first target that resolved in her scope, bracketed against the fires and torchlight of the camp. That would have meant shooting Orin and giving herself away. Sneakiness was the watchword of the evening, she reminded herself. Sneakiness and not shooting the wrong people. She forced herself to wait.

  When the first camp whore screamed, Sofia pivoted toward her, but a sledge silenced the woman before she could fire. The woman's boyfriend struggled to rise off the couch, a bearded, shaggy-haired, potbellied maggot with a red bandanna tied over his head. Ben and the other Mormons were distracted by gunfire from the front of the Hy Top.