Final Winter

by Brendan DuBois

  Brian instantly knew what Monty was doing. Holding the weapon out, flattening himself, narrowing his silhouette for whatever offensive fire might be coming from the elevator car. Brian imitated the serviceman’s stance. He held his own pistol out, wished for a hand-held radio right at this moment - wouldn’t it be fucking excellent to call in a 10-13 and get some serious backup here? Like the muscle boys from Emergency Services. That would be—

  Monty said, ‘Care for some advice ?’

  ‘Would love some advice.’

  ‘That door opens up, we see anybody we don’t recognize, anybody not showing proper ID, anybody threatening in any way, we blow their asses into next Tuesday. Got it?’

  ‘Yeah, got it.’

  ‘Another thing. If Stacy’s there, if she’s being held as a human shield, if she’s being held hostage—’

  ‘No time for that. It begins and ends right here.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  It seemed like the elevator motor was louder. Brian thought of something and said, ‘Monty?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘How come you won’t tell anybody what branch of the service you’re in?’

  ‘No time for that, pal.’

  The elevator doors slid open.

  ~ * ~

  Hamad stepped out, SKS-12 ready. He thought he saw movement. He wasn’t sure. He moved forward and—

  ~ * ~

  Brian felt his finger squeeze the trigger as he noticed the barrel of a weapon sticking out through the open elevator door and—

  ~ * ~

  Hamad came forward, seeing nothing, moving and—

  A blow to the head.

  And it was done.

  ~ * ~

  Brian caught his breath. Coming out of the elevator, a 9mm Uzi in her manicured hands and a protective vest over her lovely torso, was Stacy Ruiz. She was alone. Brian and Monty stood up and she said in a measured, even voice: ‘We’re in lockdown for a while.’

  ‘What’s up?’ Monty said.

  Stacy kept her voice even, though Brian sensed there was trembling going on somewhere back there. ‘Just got word. Tiger Team Four got hit, outside of Hartford.’

  ‘How bad?’ Brian asked.

  ‘Bad enough. We’re at Threat Condition Delta for a while. We’ve shut down the upstairs.’

  Monty nodded, put his weapon away. ‘The noise we heard down here - shutters?’

  Stacy slung the Uzi over her left shoulder. ‘Yeah. Doors locked automatically, the metal shutters slid down over the ground-floor windows. And I switched us over to auxiliary power, just in case. You probably saw a power flicker down here. We’re now on recycled air. Pretty much nothing can get in here and hurt us except for a suitcase nuke, and I don’t think one will be wasted on us at the moment.’

  Brian said, ‘Good move,’ as he returned his own 9mm to his shoulder holster.

  Stacy’s eyes flashed at him. ‘just doing my job, that’s all.’

  Monty said, ‘Thank the Christ somebody is. Come on, let’s spread the news.’

  They went back to the conference room door, still locked, and their pounding and shouts didn’t produce any response. Monty said, ‘Guys back there are too good. Phone?’

  ‘Inside the elevator,’ Stacy said.

  Back to the elevator and Monty handed the phone over to Brian, pulling the receiver free from a receptacle under the panel. ‘Hope you can remember your own extension.’

  ‘I believe I can.’

  He dialed the four digits and it was picked up after the first ring. ‘Scott.’

  ‘Adrianna, it’s all right. Stacy’s with us. We’re in lock-down. Threat Condition Delta.’

  He could hear her breathing on the other line. ‘Brian?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If you’re under any duress, please say the phrase “not a chance”. If everything’s all right, please say the phrase “you bet your life”.’

  He said, ‘You bet your life, and your fucking ass, that we’re fine. Okay?’

  Adrianna hung up. Monty looked on. ‘That’s the second time you’ve dropped an f-bomb on the princess this morning. She’s a sensitive lady. I don’t think she’s gonna like it.’

  ‘Yeah, well, what’s she going to do? Send me back to New York? I’d love to go to New York City right now, honest to Christ I would.’

  There came the sound of the conference room door being unlocked and opening up, and Brian shook his head as he led Monty and Stacy into the room. Only one of the two doors was open, and Victor was there, hands shaking, aiming a fire extinguisher at the three of them. Frozen carbon dioxide cloud versus automatic weapons. A hell of a last stand, if it had to be done. Then they all sat around the conference room table, Stacy now looking embarrassed, holding the Uzi in both her manicured hands, and Brian noted that after she put the weapon’s safety on she slid it under the table.

  But she kept the vest on, which Brian found distracting. He’d rather looked forward to the view of her cleavage, he thought as the afternoon dragged on and the phone rang a few times and they received word that nine of their colleagues had been killed up in Connecticut. None wounded. There were six survivors from the lower level of the building.

  Adrianna looked around at them and said, ‘We’re done for the day. We’ll take the Final Winter matter up again, tomorrow morning, seven a.m. Please be prompt.’

  As he stood up, Brian was surprised that Adrianna hadn’t looked right at him with that comment about being here on time. Then he was surprised again when she came up to him and said, ‘Brian, do you have plans for dinner?’

  ‘Not a one.’

  ‘Good. Please join me at my place, will you?’

  Brian thought back to how the day had started, with the news of the upcoming anthrax attacks. Then he pondered on the thought that they would have to come up with a plan to immunize hundreds of millions of people without their knowledge and consent and tried to absorb the implications of the news that a terrorist attack had knocked off some of their comrades.

  And now there was a dinner offer from the princess. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘That’d be fine.’

  All in all, Brian thought, walking with Adrianna to the elevator, it had been one hell of a day.

  ~ * ~

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Adrianna Scott lived a fifteen-minute drive from the office park, in a collection of townhouse condos that called them-selves Fox Hollow Estates. Brian followed her Toyota Celica with his own rented Lexus - why the hell not, if you’re working on the road, why not rent something fancy? - and he took a space next to hers. Within a minute or so they were in her home, a narrow two-story building that was the end unit of a row of dwellings.

  Adrianna turned on the lights in the kitchen as they went in. She said, ‘I get to pay extra each month for the privilege of living on an end unit, and most days I think it’s worth it. Means there’s at least three walls that don’t bring in sound from the neighbors. Hold on, will you? I want to go upstairs and change. I’ll be right back down. Grab something from the fridge, if you’d like. Oh. And one house rule, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘I’ve been here sixty seconds, and already you’re tossing rules at me?’

  She ran a hand through her hair, the gesture making her look tired. ‘No shop talk, not for a while. About today or about what happened up in Hartford. We’ll have plenty of time to talk about it later.’

  ‘Usually I hate rules, but that’s a good one.’

  Adrianna went upstairs to the left and Brian went to the kitchen, which was off to the right. The kitchen was small but tidy. Even the cookbooks seemed to be sorted by size. He went to the refrigerator, opened it up. Saw a collection of Heinekens on the bottom shelf, picked up one of the green bottles and popped it open. He debated whether to pour it in a glass or not and decided what the hell. He took a sip from the ice-cold bottle as he wandered through the rest of the condo. The floor was polished hardwood and next to the kitchen was a small dining area — round wooden table with four wooden chair
s. Beyond the eating area was a living room — couch and two chairs, television set on a dark wooden stand, and a set of bookshelves.

  He went up, examined the books. Medieval art history, it looked like. And the history of Rome as well. Some reference books. And a Second World War history book: The Army That Never Was. He picked .it up, gave it a quick glance, saw what it was about. The story of General George Patton and how he was assigned during the build-up to the Normandy invasion in 1944 to be in charge of a mythical army group that the Germans thought was going to invade France. He remembered seeing something about that in the George C. Scott movie. He put the book back on the shelf.

  Near the bookshelves was a fireplace, closed off. On the mantelpiece were two old brass candlesticks, flanking a photograph in a thick frame. Brian went forward, examined the photo. A much younger Adrianna Scott, standing behind an older woman who was sitting in a formal chair. Both women were wearing black velvet-like dresses trimmed with lots of white and red ribbons. Adrianna’s hands were on the shoulders of the older woman. He took another sip of beer.

  ‘My aunt,’ Adrianna announced, coming into the living room. Gone were the charcoal-gray skirt and black pullover, replaced by dark blue sweat pants and a white sweat shirt that said NAVY in big blue letters. The ponytail was gone as well. Now her hair hung loose, and she suddenly looked smaller and younger.

  ‘Nice photo,’ Brian said.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, reaching up to gently stroke the frame. ‘It was taken right after I graduated from high school in Cincinnati. Auntie Elyse raised me after my parents died in a car accident. She was the only real family I had, and I splurged some money to have this photo taken. Auntie Elyse said no, I shouldn’t spend the money, but I did. And I’m glad I did...she passed away soon after the photo was taken.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that,’ he said. ‘Sorry, too, about your parents.’

  ‘Oh, it’s all right,’ she said. ‘I lost mom and dad when I was five years old. Don’t have many memories of your parents when you’re five years old. And I was fortunate - well, if that can be said - I’m fortunate that I got to stay with Auntie Elyse. I couldn’t live in our old house - and she was a good mom to me, as good as a woman could be, taking care of her niece.’

  Adrianna turned to him, still looking small and young. ‘Now it’s just me.’

  Brian didn’t know what to say. She shrugged and said, ‘And I know it’s been a while, too, but I’m sorry about your dad.’

  The beer bottle felt slippery in his hand. ‘Thanks. And thousands of other people lost loved ones that day, too. I’m no different.’

  Adrianna said, ‘All right. We drifted into shop talk and that was my fault. I’ll get dinner going, if you promise to take off that jacket and try to relax.’

  Brian raised the Heineken bottle to her in a toast. ‘That’s a deal.’

  ~ * ~

  The coat did come off, and Brian debated for a moment about taking off the shoulder holster. What the hell, it was dinner - the holster and the pistol came off and he put the rig on one of the living-room chairs, draping his coat over it. He then joined Adrianna in the kitchen. She worked well and efficiently, defrosting and then heating up some alfredo sauce, quickly stir-frying some chunks of chicken and pieces of vegetables, boiling some pasta, and within a half-hour they were seated at the round table, eating the fettuccine dish and drinking glasses of a Californian pinot noir. A few minutes after he started eating, Brian said, ‘You’re not very talented, you know.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Adrianna said, fork held in mid-air.

  ‘You heard me. You’re not very talented as a chef.’

  ‘I’m not?’

  He was enjoying the expression on her face but decided to take a bit of mercy on her. ‘No, you’re extremely talented. This is the best meal I’ve had in a long while.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I think.’

  ‘No, I’m not being a jerk,’ he said. ‘I save that for other times. After a while, Adrianna, Red Lobster or Chili’s or any other variation of a chain restaurant gets to be boring. This is a treat.’

  Now Adrianna smiled. ‘Okay, thanks. This time, for real. No thinking.’

  ‘Very good.’

  They ate for a while longer and she said, ‘Ask you a personal question?’

  ‘Go right ahead.’

  ‘Why did you become a cop?’

  Brian smiled at her. ‘What makes you think I had a choice?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Sorry. Old and no longer so funny joke. You see, being a cop was the family business. Dad was a cop, granddad was a cop, both uncles and a number of cousins were cops. There you go. I got out of high school, worked a couple of jobs here and there, and took the test. There was no real thinking about it. I just did it. That’s all.’

  ‘Uh’huh.’

  He took another bite, chewed and swallowed. ‘All right. That was my boring story. Now it’s your turn. How did you end up being an officer with the CIA?’

  ‘Very good,’ Adrianna said, rewarding him with another smile.

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Most people call us agents. We’re not agents. We’re officers.’

  ‘Yep. And I’m not most people, as you’ve noticed. So. On with your story, boss.’

  She shrugged. ‘Not much to it. Went to college after high school - Northwestern. Majored in medieval history. Got good grades but towards the end of my four years came to that chilling conclusion: what use was a medieval-history major? Only thing ahead of me was grad school, and I was getting tired of the school routine. Then the student newspaper ran an advertisement, saying the CIA was recruiting college grads, and I went in for an interview, did an okay job, and got a follow-up phone call a couple of months later. That’s it.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, that’s not it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Good try, boss, but that’s not it. There’s a hell of a jump from being a medieval-history major to entering the CIA. It’s not like dumping all that book learning about the Middle Ages to become a lawyer or an accountant. That’s not it. So. What was it?’

  She toyed with a piece of pasta with her fork, looking down at her plate, and then she looked up. ‘Nicely done, detective. Nicely done. You still looking for an answer?’

  ‘That’s what I do. Ask questions and look for answers. Go on.’

  Adrianna carefully put the fork down, like it was a move she had practiced by herself. She dabbed at her lips with a napkin and said, ‘Remember what it was like in the early ‘90s?’

  ‘Sure. I was there.’

  ‘Uh-huh. The collapse of the Soviet Union, China coming around to a market economy, peace even breaking out in Central America and parts of the Middle East. It was the “end of history” - remember that? Everyone was going to play nice and everyone was going to adopt the Western ideals of democracy and freedom. Yeah. Right. That’s when I looked at my history and remembered the last time this old globe had a solitary hyperpower, around the time of Christ.’

  ‘The Romans.’

  ‘No gold star for that answer, detective, because it was an easy one. So there I was, looking at my beautiful country, and I got scared. I had a sense that history hadn’t gone away, was still out there, ready to bite our ass. That while we were obsessing over who controlled Congress, who got a blow job in the Oval Office, and how many stock options certain dotcommers were getting, serious men with serious grievances were getting ready to do us harm. That was when I decided to respond to that CIA advertisement, and I’ve never regretted it, not once.’

  ‘And when was this?’

  ‘A few years before 9/11.’

  And what were you doing then?’

  ‘Classified.’

  That made Brian smile, ‘Please, boss . . .’

  Adrianna laughed. ‘Truth be told? Your basic research analyst. That’s all. Then after 9/11 ... lots of things changed at Langley. Stuff that still isn’t known publicly.’

  ‘Like to share?’
>
  A small shrug. ‘You know what’s the biggest problem the CIA faces?’

  ‘A good dental plan?’

  Again, he was pleased to see her smile. ‘Actually, we have an excellent dental plan. No, the problem with the CIA is that there’s a huge gap between the management and the officers, whether those in the field, in embassies or in Langley. Whatever work the officers did ... we called it the silo effect. Information from different departments and groups would go up to supervisors, without cross-checking, without cross-referencing. Like grain silos on a Kansas plain, reaching up, inaccessible to each other. And that was within the CIA. Within the so-called intelligence community - more like a dysfunctional family than a community, if you ask me - it was even worse, with silos marked NSA, CIA, FBI, National Reconnaissance Office, so forth and so on, reaching up. Before 9/11, I was tasked to an inter-agency group that recommended breaking barriers, designing small, mobile intelligence teams that would have maximum authority and minimal oversight. When our report was done, it was filed and forgotten, and I went back to analyzing crude-oil output in Kazakhstan. Then the planes hit, my name and others were pulled from that group, and there we are. Hopefully, problem solved.’