Final Winter

by Brendan DuBois

  Especially when waiting outside an office. Brian had no good memories of waiting outside any such place while on the Job, especially when it involved something with Internal Affairs, a/k/a the Rat Squad, and this time it was worse. Instead of being interrogated by some flunky from the Rat Squad, this time Brian was the Rat Squad, and he hated it, hated every second of it.

  The door opened. A tall man with broad shoulders that indicated lots of weights being tossed around in a gym some-where leaned out.

  ‘Detective?’

  He stood up. ‘Sir.’

  ‘I’m ready to see you now.’

  Brian walked into the office, heard the muted roar of jets taking off and landing from the base outside, Andrews Air Force Base, and he idly wondered where the hell Air Force One was being kept when he sat down across from the Director, the man in charge of Foreign Operations and Intelligence Liaison, the so-called Tiger Teams. The Director, a former Army Special Forces colonel, was limping as he went around his desk and sat down with a muffled grunt.

  The Director said, ‘You did a good job on the Darren Coover investigation.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  The Director seemed to eye him in a peculiar way. ‘Your tone of voice suggests otherwise.’

  ‘It does, does it? If you don’t like my tone of voice, then release me from my Tiger Team. I wouldn’t mind going back home.’

  The Director smiled. If the gesture was meant to cheer him up, Brian thought, then it didn’t work. ‘We all have places we don’t want to be, detective, but there are places where we belong. For now, you work and you belong with us. And again, you did good work on Darren Coover.’

  The Director opened up a file folder and Brian said, ‘So. What happens to Darren?’

  The older man shrugged. ‘He enjoys viewing pornography of large-breasted women on the Internet. So what? Any other place, especially in the private sector, such interests can get you fired. We’re at war. And in wartime, when you have someone talented working for you — like Darren — I don’t give a shit if he enjoys looking at some knockers.’

  ‘Some war,’ Brian said.

  ‘Only one we’ve got,’ the Director said. ‘And don’t sell yourself short. You’re playing an important role.’

  ‘Some role,’ Brian said, rising to the conversation. ‘You know what I am? I’m a fucking rat, true and simple. I work with these people and do missions with them, travel with them and eat with them, and you’re asking me to betray them, one right after another.’

  The Director said, ‘Catholic, are you?’

  ‘What does that have to do with anything?’

  ‘Too young to have gone to the Latin Mass?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Brian said. ‘And I haven’t been to Mass in a hell of a long while. Look, sir, what I’m saying is—’

  The Director interrupted with a sentence of Latin words. Brian stopped, and said, ‘All right. Say that again, will you?’ ‘I said, “Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?” A Latin phrase from the first century. It loosely translates as, “Who will guard the guardians?” Or, “Who will watch the watchers?” Different phrases, same meaning.’

  The Director spread an arm out, as to emphasize a point, and said, ‘Since 9/11, we’ve been working in the shadows. The Tiger Teams - thank God - haven’t received any news-media attention at all. If any of our work ever does get out to the public, it’s always attributed to intelligence agencies. That’s it. The title and concept of the Tiger Team hasn’t been revealed. Which has allowed us to do tremendous work, here and abroad, in disrupting terrorist cells, disrupting terrorist planning, and even helping some regimes see the error of their ways. We have been given great power to protect this country.’

  The Director leaned forward slightly over the desk. ‘But with that great power comes great responsibility. A little secret for you. Just after 9/11, after the shock and terror, there was an opening, and some took advantage of that opening. We knew there was only a slim opportunity to set something up that would protect us and kill our enemies. Not merely reshuffling office cubicles in some government agency, or setting up a color-coded alert system. Speaking of which...what color are we at today?’

  Brian shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Don’t know. Orange, I guess.’

  The Director smirked. ‘Here you are, a valued member of Tiger Team Seven, and even you don’t know our alert level from the Department of Homeland Security. So there you go. And as I was saying...with this power comes great responsibility. We have minimal oversight, but what oversight there is has to be tough. Which is where you and a number of other Tiger Team members come in. In addition to your regular duties, you check out your comrades. You see what they do. You take a fresh look into their background. Nine-hundred ninety-nine times out of a thousand, there’s nothing there. And what is there is something minor. Like looking at porn while on company time. Big deal. But we can always say later, when the Congressional investigations start - and, my friend, they will start, that you can believe, it’s the nature of the beast - that we had oversight in place. That’s your job. To guard the guardians.’

  ‘The job sucks.’

  The Director said nothing for a moment. Then his voice changed, became softer, more reflective. He said, ‘Two months after 9/11, I was in Afghanistan. I was a liaison to an anti-Taliban group that was operating near Kandahar. We were moving at night and some of the mujahedin had stopped a Toyota pickup truck, running without lights along this long dirt road. Took the men out of the truck. There were four of them. They weren’t from Afghanistan. They were Saudis — volunteers who had come there to fight for the Taliban. To the Afghans there, they were outsiders. Interlopers. Arabs. So you know what happened to them?’

  ‘Something not nice, I’d imagine.’

  The Director said, ‘Here, let me help you with your imagination. Besides myself, there were two other Americans there. And a few dozen mujahedin. And those mujahedin took the four Arabs away and took turns buggering them, and when they were done their throats were slit. Our allies had raped and murdered these men, and left their bodies in the Toyota truck as a warning to other outsiders about what happened to those who were captured by Afghans. And our Afghans were happy and were singing, and there we were, representatives of twenty-first-century America, witnessing a war crime, and we didn’t do a damn thing. That, detective, is what sucks. Sorry you don’t like your job. Get over it.’

  The Director opened up a desk drawer, pulled out a folder which he tossed in Brian’s direction.

  ‘Your next assignment,’ he said. ‘As soon as possible.’

  Brian picked up the folder, opened it up. Adrianna Scott’s photograph looked up at him. He looked to the Director and said, ‘Adrianna? Are you sure?’

  ‘Nobody is immune from oversight. Not even myself, not even her.’

  Brian said, ‘It’s going to be busy this month, with...well, you know. Final Winter and all.’

  The Director nodded. ‘I’m sure you’ll find the time. If you’ll excuse me, detective, I need to get ready for my next meeting. And by the way, the Homeland Security threat level today is yellow. Not orange.’

  Brian was dismissed. So what? He got up and left without a word, the bad feeling leaving an even worse taste in his mouth. The Rat Squad membership was to continue. How joyful. Out in the hallway he looked at the folder and thought, Adrianna. My apologies already. What a fucking job.

  And as he was walking down the hallway, something odd came to him, what the Director had said back there. Or hadn’t said back there.

  About Final Winter.

  With Final Winter breathing down everyone’s neck, you’d think that the Director would have given him a pass about looking into Adrianna’s background.

  Yeah. You would think that.

  But the Director had almost brushed aside Final Winter. Like it wasn’t as important as finding out whether or not Adrianna Scott had really, truly lettered in soccer when she was in high school or some damn thing.

  Odd.
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br />   And before Brian could think about that anymore, his pager started vibrating at his side.

  ~ * ~

  Darren Coover woke up, groggy and tired, mouth sore, body sore, whole damn body aching. Last night had been a wild one, he had just felt the need to let loose, so it meant a night of clubbing and drinking and...well, a few minutes of fumbled passion in the back seat of a Toyota 4Runner, like he was a college kid or some damn thing.

  He just stayed quiet in bed, let his eyes rest, let the seasick feeling in his gut ease. He probably shouldn’t have gone out last night, but with Final Winter and the thought of what was out there pressing against him...he’d just needed it. That was all. The next few weeks were going to be hell and he needed all his energies and focus to pay attention to that. Nothing else.

  Darren opened his eyes, looked up to the white plaster ceiling. He rolled over, checked the clock. Damn. He was late. He reached over to the phone, knocked over a pill bottle, picked up the phone and dialed.

  It was going to be one hell of a day, and he could hardly wait to see this man’s face when he was done.

  ~ * ~

  Montgomery Zane yawned as he left the bathroom after a nice long shower, rubbing his head and back with a soft white bath towel. Charlene was sitting before her vanity unit, running a brush through her hair, and he bent over and kissed the back of her neck. She had on a bathrobe and he enjoyed the view of her freckled cleavage as he brought his head up.

  Charlene noticed the gaze and gently thumped him with her elbow. ‘Get your eyes where they belong and get dressed. You’re gonna be late for work.’

  Monty smiled and tossed the towel back towards the bathroom. ‘Babe, you’re the best excuse for being late there ever was.’

  ‘Hah. Hush and get going now.’

  He started dressing and thought about the day ahead, and about how much he had enjoyed that long motorcycle run, out into the countryside. Probably the last piece of relaxation he was going to have for a long, long time, and he felt queasy for a moment, remembering what he had thought about, out there in the deserted countryside.

  A deserted country. For years and years to come.

  He quickly finished dressing and went back to Charlene. He rubbed her shoulders, kissed the top of her head, did some quick calculations and said, ‘Four weeks from now. What’s going on with you and the kids?’

  She lowered the hairbrush. ‘Four weeks? Hell, hon, trying to figure out what’s going on four days from now is a hell of a stretch. Why four weeks?’

  Monty tried to keep the tone light. ‘Thought you and the kids might go on a trip. Visit my aunt in Georgia, at Miller’s Crossing. That’s all.’

  He noticed her hand tightening around the handle of the hairbrush. ‘Aunt Clara? Honey, God bless your aunt and all, but she lives in a town with one street light and four stop signs, and...’

  Monty kept quiet. Charlene was a very bright woman.

  ‘Georgia,’ she breathed. ‘There’s a reason, isn’t there?’

  Not worth trying to fool a military wife. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good enough reason?’

  Final Winter. Suppose that damn vaccination program didn’t work? And suppose the children got sick from whatever stuff was going to be sprayed from overhead? Then those obscure men in rental cars would start driving around his country, dropping off plastic baggies of death in his cities, and...Jesus.

  ‘The very best,’ he said.

  Tears came to her eyes. ‘Can you tell me anything else?’

  ‘No. And you can’t ask any more questions, Charlene.’

  Her hand went from her hairbrush up to his hand on her shoulder. A gentle squeeze.

  ‘Yes, my love,’ she said through the tears. ‘I think a visit to your aunt will be a wonderful idea. Can you come, too?’

  A pause.

  ‘No. No, I can’t.’

  Charlene squeezed Monty’s hand tighter as her tears continued to flow.

  ~ * ~

  Victor Palmer was in the kitchen of his small apartment, about a half-hour drive from his Tiger Team’s offices. He had just finished breakfast and unread copies of the day’s Washington Post and Baltimore Sun were on the kitchen counter in front of him. Next to the newspapers was a cellphone, a bulky object that most kids would have sneered at for being large and ungainly and without a camera included in the handset.

  Ah, but if those benighted children only knew the things this cellphone could do, the way its classified technology allowed one to make an encrypted and untraceable phone call with the greatest of ease.

  He picked up the phone, looked at the keypad, and then started scrolling through the directory until he reached a number beginning with a 404 area code. He keyed the dial pad and brought the phone up to his ear.

  It rang twice. On the third ring, a woman’s voice answered: ‘CDC, operator four, may I help you?’

  He gave her a four-number extension. Waited.

  ‘You have reached the Alpha Directory,’ an automated voice said. ‘Please enter the subsequent extension.’

  Take a breath. Could drop the phone here, leave. The call unfulfilled. Miss the late-afternoon meeting with the rest of the Tiger Team. Head north. Maybe Canada. Nice simple village. Probably could survive Final Winter or anything else. Nice Canada. Quiet country. Nobody lining up to fly airliners into the CN Tower in Toronto or the Parliament building in Ottawa or to drive suicide trucks into embassy buildings. In this bloody new century, there was something to be said about living in a country that didn’t attract so much hate.

  The voice returned. ‘You have reached the Alpha Directory. Please enter the subsequent extension.’

  He sighed. Slowly keyed in the six numbers. Waited again.

  There was a low-pitched tone, followed by a series of high-pitched ones. The encryption device in his government-issued cellphone, synchronizing with the encryption device at the other end. Hey, how you doin’? One phone to another. Boy, wouldn’t Doc Savage be impressed with that. And maybe this phone’s being answered in Atlanta at the Centers for Disease Control, but maybe not. Doubtful such delicate work as this anthrax vaccine went on in Atlanta, though everything obviously went through the central phone station and—

  A man’s voice. Definitely not automated.

  ‘Harrison.’

  Victor cleared his throat. ‘This is Doctor Palmer calling. I need a status report on the packages you’re developing.’

  ‘Hold on.’

  Victor waited. Looked around the rented apartment, the rented kitchen, the rented kitchen table. Rented by someone whose soul was being rented. How goddamn appropriate. He closed his eyes. Hoping that Harrison would say it wouldn’t work. Hoping Harrison would say that the whole Final Winter scheme had been overruled. Hoping Harrison was struck dead by a coronary before coming back with—

  Harrison returned to the phone. ‘Slightly ahead of schedule. The canisters will be in place at the Upper Mississippi Delta Storage Facility in two weeks.’

  ‘Two weeks,’ Victor said. ‘Got it.’

  ‘Good.’ Then a pause, as if the prim-and-proper government man just had to know. ‘Ask you a question?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Is...is this really going to happen?’

  ‘Looks that way.’

  ‘God help us all.’

  Victor said, ‘Think God’s a bit busy nowadays.’

  And then he hung up.

  ~ * ~

  In the Pacific Ocean near Vancouver Island it was barely daylight as the ferry plowed its way through the cold waters, heading through a fog bank. The visitor stood at the bow, bundled up, hands in his pockets, seeing nothing but the tendrils of gray swirling around him. The wide bow of the ferry rode up and down in the waves, and the visitor kept his balance on the trembling deck.

  A movement at his elbow. The young man called Imad Hakim stood there next to him, shivering, wearing a long wool coat and gloves, a hat and scarf wrapped around the top of his head. Imad held a cup of tea in his gloved
hands, the steam rising up past his dark face.

  Imad muttered something and the visitor said, ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said, I cannot believe how cold it can get in this cursed land, that’s what,’ Imad said. ‘I spent six years here, growing up with my mother’s brother, and still I can’t get used to the cold. I feel like my balls have turned to ice.’