Field of Fire

by Marc Cameron

  “I know,” Garcia said, still looking away. “And that’s becoming a real problem.”

  Chapter 10

  New York City, 9:50 p.m.

  Deputy U.S. Marshal August “Gus” Bowen made his way through a narrow kitchen corridor, nodding to his new set of eyes. Bowen had befriended Bruce, the fat little sous-chef, earlier that evening with the gift of a couple of Cohiba cigars that he’d scored from a deputy working the Dominican protection detail. Bruce had balked at first, looking sideways at Deputy Bowen’s black eye and his raw and swollen nose. The split in his upper lip really required stitches but Bowen didn’t have the time for that. Anyway, it was beginning to scab already. His neatly trimmed salt and pepper goatee covered some of the damage to his face, but there was no way of hiding the fact that he’d been the recipient of a recent beat down.

  His hair had gone prematurely silver following his last tour in Iraq, an outward sign of what his Army shrink called “a bevy of unresolved issues.” The shrink had advised him to take up quiet hobbies to relieve the stress in his life. He already sailed most weekends and had been drawing since junior high. The doc said he should do more of both if he didn’t want to hang up his gun—or worse. So he’d drawn more pictures of boats, and did his best to chill. He eventually moved on to drawing people—and it turned out he was a pretty good artist. He wasn’t about to quit his day job, but he gave away at least one sketch each week to someone he met in the course of his duties.

  Bowen would never admit it, but those same unresolved issues were what earned him the beating the previous night. He’d ended up telling his detail supervisor the injuries were from a bar fight over a beautiful woman—which wasn’t too far from the truth—except they hadn’t been in the bar and the girl a long way from beautiful.

  The Dominican cigars and a quick pencil sketch of the sous-chef standing over a simmering pot had earned Bowen that valuable set of extra eyes in the hotel kitchen. Contacts in the backrooms and basements of hotels and restaurants were priceless sources of information, and Deputy Bowen shamelessly curried favor with as many as possible when working this kind of job. The more eyes and ears he had working for him, the safer his protectee would be.

  Department of State Diplomatic Security Agents attended enough formal functions that they were allowed to voucher the purchase of a tuxedo. The United States Marshals Service had experience protecting witnesses and federal judges, so they helped out State every year during the United Nations General Assembly. Door-kickers didn’t see much use for tuxedos so Bowen was told to voucher the rental of a nice black one for the evening. Accustomed to wearing khaki slacks and polo shirts—or at the most, an off-the-rack suit—the tux made him feel oddly out of place and stood in stark contrast to his injured face. Bowen was in his mid-thirties, a hair over six feet, and trim, with the powerful shoulders of a boxer.

  Enough visiting federal agents needed formal wear for just a few functions that several tailors in Manhattan ran thriving businesses renting custom slacks with invisible slash pockets and belt loops—unheard of on regular tuxedos. Under his jacket, he carried a small Motorola radio, a Benchmade automatic knife, handcuffs, an expandable baton, a .40 caliber Glock, and two spare magazines. The gear made him look slightly less streamlined than James Bond, but his trim appearance helped to smooth the lines. He normally carried a second, smaller Glock of the same caliber in an inside-the-waistband holster near the small of his back. This arrangement proved too bulky for the tux so he made do by putting the second gun in an ankle holster—giving him a loadout of fifty-six rounds of ammunition. Considering the “friends” he’d made over the past year, Bowen knew even that might not be enough.

  Dignitary protection was a matter of securing concentric rings—like the layers of an onion. NYPD handled the outer ring, blocking streets, placing extra patrol in the area, deploying truckloads of highly trained ESU tactical units to both preempt and deal with attacks. Bowen’s job was the middle ring, looking outbound from the protectee and checking the pulse of the people working at the event. He made his way down the line, relaying his information to the Diplomatic Security agent in charge who worked the innermost ring up in the dining room with the rest of the detail protecting the Uzbek foreign minister.

  A light static crackled in the deputy’s clear silicone earpiece. “Babayev Advance, Babayev Advance, Babayev Shift Leader.” It was Special Agent Hancock, second-in-command of the protective detail for Uzbek foreign minister, Shuker Babayev.

  “Babayev Advance here.” The deputy spoke into the small microphone pinned to the inside of his tuxedo shirt collar. “Go for Bowen.”

  “Switch to Foxtrot 6,” Hancock said, using code to direct the conversation away from the open channel shared by the twenty-four other State Department protection details assigned to one of five different frequencies.

  “I got a guy who wants to see you,” Hancock said, when they were both on the same channel.

  Odd, Bowen thought. Visitors were not the norm while on an active protection detail. He assumed it was one of the two dozen deputy marshals assigned to a different delegation who wanted to bullshit about the latest drama going on in Marshals Service HQ.

  “You got a name?” Bowen asked.

  “What’s your location,” Agent Hancock said. “I’ll send him to you.”

  Bowen told the DS agent where he was then asked for a name again.

  Hancock remained coy. “Big dude. Kind of scary lookin’. He says you two are friends.”

  “Okay . . .” Bowen felt his hackles rise. This was straight-up weird, and his gut told him that weird could only mean one thing.

  “Azam is bringing him your way right now,” Hancock said. “I think our Uzbek friend is getting hungry and wants to sample the menu.”

  The Uzbek minister’s single native security agent was a giant teddy bear named Azam. He seemed too gentle a man for his chosen profession but was big enough that Bowen wouldn’t have wanted to see him angry.

  “Roger that,” Bowen said. “I got a guy here who will fix him something to tide him over until they feed us.”

  Bowen had made it past the twin doors of a large walk-in freezer at the back of the kitchen and turned to hunt down the fat little sous-chef.

  Steam snapped at the lids of a half dozen five-gallon soup pots sending the heady odor of lobster bisque into the air, already full of the cursing and tension that went along with feeding three hundred of the world’s elite including the U.S. Secretary of State.

  Agents from several other details filtered in and out of the kitchen, feeding information to their respective detail bosses—but none of them had Bruce in their corner. Bowen asked for some bread and cheese for Azam. The sous-chef gave him a hearty thumbs-up, smiling as if he was part of a conspiracy, then shouted orders to his brigade of prep chefs who chopped, sautéed, and stirred the various sauces and side dishes that were being served at tonight’s banquet. One of them peeled away to see to Bowen’s request.

  Bowen felt his stomach growl and looked at his watch. It was no wonder Azam was hungry. Bowen had come on shift at 0700, and he was starving. He was sure the Uzbek had been on the clock long before that, seeing to the needs of his boss, the Uzbek foreign minister, and working through the daily schedule so he could liaise with the DS agents about timing and routes. Dignitary protection required a certain artistic fluidity, often necessitating a move from one location to another at a moment’s notice. The Uzbek minister was a compulsive shopper during these trips to New York and had kept the eight people charged with protecting his life on the move all day. Bowen and the others on the detail had been able to wolf down a quick slice of pizza over the hood of the armored limo while the minister was inside being fitted for new suits. Other than that, it had been go, go, go all day long and none of them—including Azam—had had anything to eat but for the odd Skittle or breath mint they’d found hiding in a suit pocket.

  New Yorkers seemed to have an affinity for late dining, but this was ridiculous. The Sultan
of Brunei had spent the last two months vacationing in Hawaii and was accustomed to Hawaii Time. Since the Sultan was host and footing the bill for this event, he deemed it appropriate to eat when his internal clock said it was time to sit down to dinner—five p.m. in Hawaii was eleven in New York. And protective agents always ate after their protectees. Bowen felt his stomach growl again and thought how nice it must be to be a bazil-lionaire.

  The annual General Assembly of the UN or UNGA, offered most of the one hundred and ninety-three member nations’ top diplomats an opportunity to visit New York City on an all-expenses-paid shopping trip. But one man’s boondoggle was another man’s opportunity for overtime, so Bowen had jumped at the chance when offered one of the few U.S. Marshals slots to assist Diplomatic Security protective details. Considering the ever-growing threat of terrorism, there was a fair bet the overtime would not be the relatively easy standing post and “smokin’ and jokin’” of times past. With attacks on American soil moving up the scale from possible to probable—Bowen’s chief had chosen him specifically for the assignment. Bowen’s experience in Iraq had earned him a Silver Star, along with silver hair and the “bevy of unresolved issues.” It had also made him one of the go-to deputies in the Marshals Service when it came to boots-on-the-ground tactical knowledge.

  After the gas attacks in Dallas and Los Angeles, there was buzz that the Secretary General of the UN would pull rank and cancel, or at the very least postpone the late-night Plaza dinner. Many of the delegates agreed with the threat assessment, but none of them wanted to appear weak so they kept quiet. Ousted by the former President, Melissa Ryan, long-time romantic partner to the national security advisor had been reappointed Secretary of State by the new president. She’d arrived ten minutes before Bowen left to check the kitchen, flanked by a dozen dour DS agents who glared as if they viewed anyone who got in their path as food.

  In the end, one hundred and sixty foreign minsters and their guests had weighed the possibilities of a gruesome death from poison gas against the benefits of a free meal and were now crowded into the Plaza Hotel’s Grand Ballroom listening to a very talented Chinese woman play the cello. For the poorer countries’ delegations, Bowen suspected this would be the most lavish meal they would have in their lives. For some, accustomed to living off the backs of their people, lobster bisque and macadamia-crusted halibut was nothing out of the ordinary.

  “Bread and cheese is for pigeons and rats,” Bruce the sous-chef said in a heavy Brooklyn accent, waddling up to Bowen with a plate of halibut, a folded linin napkin, and a fork. “I want that you should have real-people food.”

  “I appreciate it,” Bowen said as he saw Azam round the corner beside the walk-in freezer. “It’s not for me. It’s for a friend—” Bowen gave a slow nod when he saw the man walking behind the Uzbek.

  Now it all made sense.

  * * *

  Jacques Thibodaux gave Bowen’s face a sidelong look with his good eye. The other was covered with a black patch that only added to the menacing demeanor of the gigantic Marine. “Oh, yea, yee!” He said under his breath.

  Where every other person at the Plaza Hotel event was wearing either formal attire or a hotel uniform, the massive Cajun had shown up in a skintight T-shirt and faded blue jeans. He carried a heavy leather jacket draped over his arm. “I thought I’d find you were out sailing around the world and instead I see you been playin’ it rough with somebody. What in the hell did you do to your noggin, cher?” he asked.

  Azam stood by, smiling happily while he munched on his plate of food. He spoke excellent English and appeared as interested in the story as Thibodaux.

  Jacques nodded toward the bloody knuckles of Bowen’s right hand. “You know, I delivered my fourth kid on our living floor so I’m pretty much a doctor. Let me know if you need me to take a look at that hand.”

  Bowen chuckled, hoping to move on with whatever spy games had brought the big Marine his direction. Men like Jacques Thibodaux didn’t just drop by to catch up. “It wasn’t much.”

  “Pshaw!” Thibodaux scoffed. “You forget that I’ve seen you fight. Ain’t nobody get that many licks in on you without bein’ on the receiving end of a good ass whippin’.”

  Bowen sighed, knowing he’d have to tell the story before Thibodaux would get to his reason for coming.

  “I was walking back from the Waldorf yesterday after the night crew relieved us and happened on this guy who was beating the shit out of his girlfriend on 50th.”

  Thibodaux gave a somber nod. “Must have been a big guy, judging from the looks of your swollen beak.”

  “Big enough,” Bowen said. “Some kind of bouncer from the way he slammed my face into the sidewalk.” The deputy shook his head, remembering the fight in a whirlwind of painful detail.

  Thibodaux’s eyes narrowed as if he was trying to come to grips with the story. “Don’t you marshals ever call for backup?”

  “That’s the policy,” Bowen said.

  “Why didn’t you then? Hell, cher, this is Midtown Manhattan. The place is crawlin’ with cops.”

  Bowen shrugged. “The math just didn’t work out.”

  The Marine’s brow crawled above his black eye patch. “What’s math got to do with it?”

  “Well,” Bowen said, as if it was all so clear, “You know what they say, ‘When seconds count, the cops are only minutes away.’ Every second I don’t step in, this guy puts another smack on his girlfriend.”

  Thibodaux nodded. “So you just waded in amongst this big sombitch, and he gave you a fat lip . . .”

  “Not quite.” Bowen gave a sheepish chuckle. “The girl gave me the fat lip while I was putting handcuffs on her boyfriend. No good deed goes unpunished, you know.”

  “You’re a good shit, Deputy Gus Gus,” the Cajun said. “Oh, yes you are.” He turned and gave a wink to Azam. “You mind givin’ us a minute?”

  The Uzbek shot a glance at Bowen, as if to ask if he was okay to be left alone with the big Cajun.

  Bowen gave an almost imperceptible nod. “I’ll be fine, my friend,” he said.

  Thibodaux leaned in after Azam had stepped around the corner. He kept his voice low. “Remember that little fais do-do we got you involved in a few months back?”

  “You mean when we committed a bunch of felonies and were nearly thrown in front of a firing squad?” Bowen scoffed. “Yeah, I seem to recall something about that.”

  A contagious grin crept across Thibodaux’s broad face. “That was some fun, don’t you think?” He gave Bowen a mock punch in the arm. “Anyhow, just for grins, what would you say to a little more of the same? Minus the firing squad part.”

  “I’m in the middle of an assignment.”

  “Well, cher,” Thibodaux said. “As it happens, my boss is talking to your boss even as we speak.”

  “Your boss . . .”

  “Ain’t it convenient?” The big Cajun grinned. “My boss is your boss’s boss’s boss. Looks like you and me gonna be partnered up for a while.”

  “Okay, then,” Bowen said. “I’m guessing this has something to do with the poison-gas attacks?”

  “It do indeed.” Thibodaux turned his head slightly so he could look Bowen up and down with his good eye. “I hope you got extra clothes, cause right now you look like you were pretending to be James Bond and got your ass kicked for it.”

  “Of course I have other clothes but they’re all at the DoubleTree.”

  “We’ll swing by your room then.” Thibodaux rubbed his belly with a hand the size of a shovel blade. “The rubber chicken I had on the plane ain’t sittin’ right. You can change your clothes, and I’ll take me a tactical dump.”

  Chapter 11

  Brighton Beach, New York, 11:05 p.m.

  Petyr “The Wolf” Volodin stood naked in front of the grimy bathroom mirror in his filthy apartment and wondered when they would come for him. He was sure it wouldn’t be long. Mr. Anikin was a brutal man who surrounded himself with brutal associates. Their business was pain and
they were extremely good at their job.

  Petyr flexed his muscles, bouncing the eight pointed star tattoos at the top of each pec. The tats had gotten him into a world of trouble, but they drew attention to his muscular shoulders. Most guys worked too much on their biceps. That was all well and good, but in a fight, strong shoulders were all important. Petyr had heard somewhere that shoulders were the human equivalent of antlers on a bull elk, demonstrating social status and the ability to gather a harem.

  “That’s right.” Petyr sneered at his own reflection, trying to psych himself up for what he knew was coming. “I got me some antlers, baby, and I’m gonna kick your ass . . .”

  He stepped back and rubbed a swollen hand over two days of stubble on a blocky jaw. His girl, Nikka, pissed and moaned like he’d shot her whenever he went a day without shaving. She was just too stupid to get his fight philosophy through her dense skull. An opponent could grab a long beard and turn it into a murder-handle, but give ’em a rake with the bristles of an unshaven face and it was instant rug burn. Some fighters called the rake a bitch move, but in Petyr the Wolf’s mind, if it won the fight, there was no such thing. Nine times out of ten, the other guy flinched himself right into an arm bar or rear naked choke. The Wolf shaved his head three days before a fight for the same reason. The tactic wouldn’t go in the big leagues, but in the places he fought, the refs could be persuaded to look the other way at a little stubble.

  Even under the looming threat, Petyr took the time to admire his impressive muscles. At six three and a hulked fighting weight of two-forty, his shoulders were massive. A thirty-two inch waist and sculpted obliques made him look even broader than he was. Admiring his muscles he couldn’t keep from thinking about the tattoos—and the world of shit they’d gotten him into. His shoulders sagged and his wide face fell into a dark frown.

  He never should have let stupid Nikka talk him into getting the tats. Nikka had some issues—there was no doubt about that—but she was incredibly hot, and life was just easier so long as she wasn’t angry. So, he’d gone to her tattoo guy and got the ink she wanted him to get. It had seemed cool at first. The Wolf was “a tough Russian son of a bitch,” Nikka told him, and tough Russian sons of bitches had tattoos of eight-pointed stars on their shoulders and grinning skulls on their bellies. It was true. She’d seen it on TV.