Adrianna said, ‘That’s very nice, general, but unless we do what we have to do there isn’t going to be a future, most of your stockholders will be dead, and those nice little people won’t be looking for nice little packages. They’re going to be looking at digging graves in their front lawn to bury their children, and they’re going to worry about getting food this winter. That’s the reality. And teeth isn’t going to cut it.’
Bocks was going to say something but the woman plowed right over him. ‘By my side is Doctor Victor Palmer. One of the best and smartest physicians working at the Centers for Disease Control. He could quit this afternoon and by tomorrow have his own hospital wing in New York or Los Angeles or Phoenix, to do whatever kind of research he wants. But he gets paid shit by the government and puts in tremendous hours, and suffers for it, all to protect his countrymen. And for what? Knowing he might fail, that millions might die, and that even if he succeeds people alive this instant will be dead by this time next month because of what he’s devised.’
Adrianna shifted in her seat, her voice sharper. ‘Then you have Detective Doyle. He’d rather be home in New York, rather be involved in his son’s Little League team and schoolwork, and put bad people behind bars, than be working for us. He’s sacrificed time with his son, he’s sacrificed his career with the New York Police Department, and for what? For being involved in something that could see him disgraced, see him sent off to jail. A New York detective whose own father was killed on September eleventh.’
Bocks looked at the detective. ‘That true?’
Doyle looked irritated. ‘Yeah.’
‘Tell me about it.’
He shrugged. ‘Thousands of people lost family or friends that day. My story’s no different.’
Bocks said, ‘Maybe so, but still I want to hear it.’
Doyle cleared his throat, shot a glance at the woman seated next to him - Bocks wondered what kind of dynamic was at work there — and said, ‘The story is simple. My dad’s name was Sean Doyle. Spent nearly thirty years on the Job. Raised me and a brother and a sister. Retired as a sergeant, decided he was going to be a handyman and single-handedly renovate the family home on Ridgeway. But the poor guy didn’t know one end of a hammer from the other and thought heat magically came out of the basement by itself. And my mom - well, she was used to having him out of the house during the day, and truth be told, he was used to being out too. So he got a job as a security officer, for a finance firm in Tower Two. He and nearly everybody else in that firm was killed that day.’
‘Did anybody see him that last day?’
‘An admin aide - Jackie somebody - she thought she saw him go into the offices, to try to get the people out of there, just as the smoke got real thick...that’s about it.’
Bocks looked at the quiet detective, tried to imagine what it must have been like to lose one’s father like that. In his years in the Air Force, Bocks had lost many friends and acquaintances, and tragic as their deaths were they made sense, in a grim sort of way. Aircraft crashes in bad weather or enemy fire or mechanical problems ... in the back of your mind, what you expected could happen to you or somebody you knew. But to die in one of the world’s tallest buildings, from a terrorist attack, when you had retired safely after years on the street? Not only did it not make sense, it was obscene.
Bocks looked at the detective and said, ‘Your dad was a hero. You should be proud.’
‘No, he was just doing his job. That’s all. And nothing else.’
‘I respectfully disagree, detective. He was a hero.’
The detective didn’t say anything else. Bocks shifted to the CIA woman again, and said, ‘You’ve told me about the good doctor and the good detective. But nothing about yourself.’
‘There’s nothing to say,’ she said.
‘Of course there is, and I want to hear it,’ Bocks said.
~ * ~
Adrianna Scott looked at the sharp face of the general, knowing what she’d like to say. She’d like to say:
Arrogant man, it was men like you, men from your Air Force, who killed my family that February morning. Arrogant and powerful men, thousands of miles away, choosing which targets in my blessed city should be destroyed. Men in comfortable offices eating fine meals at the end of the day, choosing the targets here and there, deciding who would live and who would die. And then other arrogant men, in their high-powered machines, flying high above the ground, high above a place where the people would have fought you hand-to-hand if possible, but, the cowards in their machines came far above my land...and in a matter of seconds incinerated my family and hundreds of others.
Now you sit here, she thought, one more arrogant man among others, showing no regret, no remorse, no apology for what you and so many others did to my country, and to other poor countries, from Vietnam to Bosnia to Somalia and so many others, blundering around with your sledgehammer weapons, speaking of piety and democracy and human rights, and slaughtering all those who get in your way.
This is what I would say, arrogant man, that the time has come for this Iraqi woman to use your machines, your arrogance, your power against you, and in a matter of weeks the world will not be able to sleep at night for the crying and rending of the robes and the gnashing of the teeth from those cold and huddled and scared survivors in what was once known as the United States of America.
That was what she wanted to say.
Instead, Adrianna said, ‘The story is nothing exceptional. Nothing like those of the good doctor here and the detective. My parents died at a young age. I lived in a poor neighborhood in Cincinnati. Raised by an aunt who passed away while I was in college. Decided then in college that my country - my homeland - was in danger. No matter what the talk shows or newspapers or opinion polls said, I just knew my country was in danger. I entered the CIA and worked well and quietly until September eleventh.’
She kept her steady gaze on the general, who was looking right back at her with a direct expression. She said, ‘Now we’re approaching an imminent threat that will make September eleventh and everything that followed it look like a schoolboy brawl. Something that will destroy what Lincoln called the world’s “last, best, hope”. And I cannot believe that you, General Bocks, will allow this nation to face something like this without your help, your aid, over the matter of a union and a dental plan. I cannot believe that a man as powerful and as dedicated as you will allow that to happen. Am I right?’
The air seemed heavy. She knew that Victor and Brian, flanking her, were no doubt looking at her but she kept her stare fixed on the general. She wondered what machinations, what thoughts, were going on behind those eyes. The general stared and stared and then he smiled, and she caught herself. No, she thought, not yet. Too soon, too soon.
‘Very well put, Miss Scott,’ he said, shifting in his chair. ‘Very well put. Yes, you’re right. I’m not going to let a simple matter of a dental plan derail what you’ve asked of me. That’s not going to happen.’
Brian said, ‘If you’ve got a strike going down in less than two hours, how in hell are you going to stop it?’
Bocks said, ‘By going back to the past. By going to my roots. By seeing someone who I once thought of as a good friend, and bringing a six-pack of beer and some ribs. And we’ll work it out.’
Adrianna forced herself to breathe slowly, not to let any excitement show. ‘So ... so we can count on you and your carrier company?’
A hammer blow, right to the gut. ‘No,’ Bocks said. ‘Not yet. I require something else.’
She could not speak. Only nod.
~ * ~
Bocks said, ‘No offense to you and your companions here, Miss Scott, but I need to verify your bona fides. All right? Every other op I’ve ever done for the CIA and anybody else in DC, I’ve checked and rechecked what’s been requested of me. Everything from sensitive packages to sensitive people, I’ve risked equipment and aircrews for my nation. But this one...this one dwarfs everything, miss, and I’m not going to proceed until
I’m comfortable. So. Who do you have?’
‘Hold on, general,’ Adrianna said, and he wasn’t sure, but the woman seemed more pale than when she came in. What was going on there? he thought. The pressures? The responsibility? The burden of having to come to this office and plead a case that could end with all of them going to prison?
She went to her leather bag, took out a notepad, scribbled something and passed it over. Bocks glanced at the name and number, nodded. ‘I recognize the name. That’s a big point in your favor. We ran some items into Bagram couple of years back on his say-so. How’s his leg?’
‘He never talks about it.’
‘Figures.’
He put the slip of paper down, picked up the phone, dialed the number. It rang just once and a female voice answered the phone by repeating the last four digits of the number.
‘Four-one-twelve,’ she said.
‘This is General Alexander Bocks, of AirBox air freight,’ he said. ‘I need to speak to your Director. The Colonel.’
‘Hold on, sir,’ came the voice.
Dead silence.
Bocks looked over again at the trio sitting across from his desk. ‘I’m on hold,’ he said. ‘At least there’s no elevator music.’
No reply, nothing, just the somber looks on their faces. He had no envy for what they did and what they lived with, day after day. Running a multimillion dollar business was tough, but the spreadsheets he worked with didn’t have collateral damage of tens of thousands of civilians.
A click. ‘General Bocks?’ came a male voice.
‘That it is, colonel, that it is.’ He switched the receiver to his other hand. ‘I have before me three people who say they work for you. An Adrianna Scott. Doctor Victor Palmer. Detective Brian Doyle. True so far?’
‘You’ve got it.’
‘I’ve just been briefed by Adrianna Scott of an operation called Final Winter. You’re familiar with it?’
‘Yeah, quite familiar. And I’ll remind you, general, we’re not on a secure line.’
‘Understood. Question I have for you, has Final Winter been vetted?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re comfortable with what’s been presented, its outcomes and variables?’
A sigh. ‘Never comfortable with something like this, but as best as I can say, yeah, we’re comfortable.’
Bocks kept his eye on Adrianna. She looked like she had been carved out of marble. ‘I’m concerned about the liability on my part.’
‘There’s protocols that have been signed with you and your company and the Justice Department, am I correct?’
‘Yes, five or six years ago. When I first started...doing favors.’
The colonel laughed. ‘Now that’s a word. Favors. Yeah. General, the liability is covered. Don’t worry about it. The question I have is that Adrianna probably mentioned a tight deadline. Can you do it?’
Bocks took a breath, looked at the solemn faces of the people sitting across from him. ‘I don’t think I have a choice, now, do I.’
‘I don’t have to tell you the debt we’ll owe you if you’re able to provide this assistance, general.’
‘No, no, you don’t.’
Another pause. Bocks said, ‘All right, then, you’ve answered my questions. Thank you.’
‘No, sir, thank you . . .’
Bocks hung up the phone, looked at his visitors.
~ * ~
Adrianna had one thought, and one thought only:
Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up.
Somehow she knew the general would have to do something to verify what she was proposing, but she hadn’t thought that he might go right to the colonel heading the Tiger Teams. The briefing she had given the Director a few days ago had so far worked well; all that anyone knew in the Tiger Team oversight was that Final Winter was merely a harmless bacterial test to determine air patterns and detection methods over various American cities. My God, if Bocks had said one word about anthrax, one word about deaths being caused and lives being saved . . .
Could she have gotten out of the building in time?
Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up.
Bocks shook his head. ‘All right, I’ll take care of my machinists. In the meantime...Miss Scott, it looks like you’ve got me and my aircraft.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Adrianna said, disgusted at how weak her voice sounded, exhilarated at what she had just pulled off.
My word, wouldn’t papa have been proud.
~ * ~
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Now there was a line of traffic forming up before them, as Vladimir Zhukov and Imad drove south to the American border. They had left the Port of Vancouver with their cargo, and while Imad wanted to chat about what mighty blows the two of them were preparing against the infidel oppressor -blah, blah, blah - Vladimir was more concerned about what was ahead of them. Back again on Canadian Route 99, Vladimir was under no illusions of what they were about to face, for the Americans were finally beginning to tighten up their long border with their dull Canadian neighbors, years after that glorious Tuesday morning in September.
At his side was the long leather wallet that held his identification, Imad’s identification, the papers from the Port of Vancouver, and the bills of lading for what they were supposedly carrying back there in the shipping container. According to all the paperwork - which had originated from Shanghai, China - there was nothing back in the trailer but a collection of children’s toys, from dolls to footballs. Which was true, for about the first six feet’s worth of packaging. Once you got past those brightly colored boxes, other items began to appear, specially constructed canisters of metal and plastic, packed in foam and securely fastened, for not one of the canisters could have been put in place with a risk of breakage or rupture, since an accident like that would have quickly killed everyone on the container ship, and the crew of any curious vessel coming by to see why things were amiss on a ship manned by corpses.
Vladimir folded his arms. So far it had gone well. From that shit-hole of a tribal state that dared to call itself a nation, to a number of other hotels and hostels and way stations on the route across Asia and Siberia, his hidden contact out there had pried, prompted, promised, and, of course, had paid him. He had no idea if his contact was a man, a woman, a committee, part of some group or some nation. All he knew was that the contact knew a lot about him, and knew just how to interest him enough to get him to do what he was doing.
It had worked out fine, so far, and Vladimir’s Cayman Islands account had grown fat indeed. But late at night, in the quiet stillness when he opened his eyes and stared out into the darkness, he liked to think that of course it was more than just the money, more than grabbing his chunk of the capitalist system that was strangling the globe. He saw it as a perfect revenge, a perfect dish served so very cold. A time that—
Imad said, ‘We’re getting close.’
‘I see,’ he said.
Up ahead there was an exit for COMMERCIAL TRAFFIC, which he and Imad and this truck certainly were.
Imad looked over at him, licked his lips. Vladimir smiled. ‘Nervous, boy?’
‘Don’t call me boy!’
‘Very well — nervous, child?’
Imad’s face was tense, his lips trembling, as he downshifted the big truck, easing into the Customs lane. Ahead were a number of other tractor-trailer and container trucks, pulling over for inspection, and Imad said, ‘Watch your fucking mouth, Russian. I don’t take that from anyone.’
Vladimir said, ‘Watch your own fucking mouth, Arab, because we want these Customs people to see two ordinary truckers, entering their ordinary country, not knowing that we’re going to slaughter millions of their ordinary people in just a few days. Understand, child?’
Imad said nothing, braking the truck, the air brakes sounding like the howls of some Siberian creature out there on the taiga. Vladimir smiled, couldn’t help himself. It was fun, needling the little shit. Needed to be put
in his place. But he had to watch it, he knew: there were many more kilometers left ahead of them.
~ * ~
In Memphis, they were in Overton Park, about five miles away from her home, and Carrie Floyd watched as her daughter Susan flew a kite, her chubby legs pistoning back and forth as she giggled while the little piece of plastic fabric and string struggled to get up into the sky. Next to Carrie was a light blue blanket, the remains of a picnic lunch and one satiated and somewhat groggy Sean Callaghan, her co-pilot and companion. He was dozing, his head in her lap, and she almost had a fit of giggles at what to call him. She was really too old to be calling him a boyfriend, and ‘companion’ was a term that belonged to those members of the gay community - not that there was anything wrong with that, of course (which almost caused her to burst into laughter again), and ‘significant other’ seemed too cold and sterile. Sean was many things, but cold was not one of them, and she was sure - though she had no evidence - that sterility wasn’t an issue either.
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