The Brigade

by H. A. Covington

  “Okay,” said Bresler. “Any idea as to who we’re looking for? I mean what kind of person? A profile, as the cops in the old days would say?”

  “The key may lie in the fact that this seems so far to be an entirely Portland Police Bureau operation,” said Hill. “If this was federal I would say we’re looking for a man or maybe a woman, but more likely a man, with a strong military background, most likely in intelligence, but who probably has concealed that fact from the NVA and claims to have been just a grunt in Tikrit or something like that. He wouldn’t conceal his military past completely, that would be impossible to do among men who have actually fought in the Middle East as so many of our Volunteers have, but he would be using a false name, and he would have impeccable and checkable references to back up his bogus identity. My guess is he wouldn’t be burning minor arms dumps and single Volunteers. He would be doing like the FBI used to do to the Cosa Nostra back in the old days when they actually fought crime, when they sent in guys like Donnie Brasco. He would be primarily an intelligence gatherer, trying to work his way up the ladder, identify as many of our people as he could and transmit as much info as he could to his paymasters so they could hit us all at once with one big massive raid. Federal bureaucrats love big sweeps like that, so they can get their faces on TV and win that big promotion and maybe go into politics and launch a Congressional career.

  “But the Portland police?” Hill went on, sipping his now lukewarm coffee. “Local law enforcement bureaucracies are intensely conservative and change-resistant institutions. My guess is they’d stick with what they know, which is get some petty criminal on the inside by some kind of hold they had on him or her, probably a heavy-duty prison rap they let the rat slide out from under. They tend to ignore big pictures and go for the quick fix, the quick bust to show immediate results. Quantity rather than quality. That’s the way street cops get their faces on TV and get their promotions. That seems to be what is happening in this case. They’re picking off random bits and pieces, an arms dump here, a Volunteer or two there. Their informer is probably under intense pressure to show results, to keep handing them busts and improve the stats. Whoever it is, the Mami and the Monkey are running them.”

  “So maybe we need to concentrate on snatching one or both of them and read them the Gospel According To Dershowitz?” suggested Bresler.

  “A thought, a definite thought,” said Hill in agreement.

  “When we catch whoever it is, what happens then?” asked Bresler.

  “You know what happens then,” said Hill.

  “Yes, I know,” said Bresler irritably. “I mean, is there some kind of set procedure for this kind of thing? A court martial or something? I’ve never had to deal with it before, thank God.”

  “It varies according to circumstances,” said Hill. “It won’t be your worry, anyway. We have found that it’s a good idea to keep the Army’s dirty laundry as well out of sight as possible, even from the comrades. A disappearance is better for morale than an open execution. There is a special team of Third Section personnel who will handle it. If all goes right, one day a certain comrade will be gone, the others will be told that the person has been re-assigned, and that’s that. Need to know and so forth.”

  “No,” said Bresler decisively. “We won’t do it like that. When the time comes, you call me. Wayne, I think a lot of this fine bunch of lads and lassies we have managed to assemble out of the wreckage of this continent’s Caucasian population. Those two kids we had in here tonight are a good example. I got a good vibe off them. Northwest Volunteers are the best and the bravest and the very last hope for an ancient people and civilization, and if there is anyone who has betrayed them and betrayed the sacred trust we have taken upon ourselves, then I want to look right into their eyes just before I pull the trigger, so I know damned well that they will never, ever betray their own blood again. You can tell Matt Redmond for me that First Portland Brigade cleans its own house.”

  “Okay, if that’s the way you want it,” said Hill with a nod.

  “That’s the way I want it,” said Bresler.

  Later that night, Hill sat in his small room high above the city and looked down toward the Columbia River. The moon and the stars were out, and by their pale light he could see a fog collecting down over the water. His mind was too active for him to sleep. “Here, mousey, mousey!” he breathed to himself. He never thought of informers as rats, but as little mice, nibbling away at the sacks of grain in a barn or the loaf of bread in a pantry from behind, unseen except for the droppings they left that fouled the food and made it unfit to eat. “Come on, mousey, just stick your head out of your hole for a moment or two, so I can get a glimpse of you. Then you are mine, little furry one. I know you’re out there somewhere, and I will find you.”

  XIV

  Under New Management

  O weary night, abate thy hours!

  Shine comforts from the east

  That I may go back by daylight,

  From these that my poor company detest,

  And sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow’s eye,

  Steal me awhile from my own company.

  A Midsummer Night’s Dream—Act III, Scene 2

  Kicky McGee was amazed that there had been no uproar over the November killing of the former ambassador to South Africa and his Bantu wife; there was only the usual de-briefing the next day, and Jarvis and Martinez seemed more interested in the kind of firearms used and the booby trap on the vehicle than in the double homicide itself. “Look, doesn’t it bother you that these guys killed a couple of people and you got them on tape, or CD or whatever you use?” she demanded incredulously. “Wouldn’t this be a good time to shut this thing down and start arresting people? You’ve got them on the Big M now. Christ, what more do you want?”

  “The two deaths were regrettable, certainly,” said Lainie Martinez, “But as it happens, former ambassador Whitman was a Republican and a political opponent of the President, and our chief is a Democrat and a Clinton supporter, of course, so it’s not viewed by the Bureau as seriously as you might think. We’ll choose our own time to conclude Operation Searchlight and move in, Kristin, don’t worry about that. We’re actually glad this happened, because now the NVA will know that you can keep your cool when the wet work goes down, and they’ll begin using you on more serious operations.”

  “Oh, wow, just what I was hoping for,” replied Kicky sardonically. Kicky was not yet aware that Linda Hirsch had grown impatient, and accordingly her handlers had already begun making arrests based on the evidence she had provided them, or what they had deduced themselves from the information she had provided them, and they had been doing so for several months already without telling her. She eventually picked up on it, and when she realized they were raiding NVA targets all around her it drove her into even worse depths of despair than she had been living with since her ordeal as an undercover had begun. One day in January she finally confronted Lainie Martinez, during one of her regular debriefings in the Justice Center interview room they used. “Are you just plain trying to get me killed?” she had yelled desperately. “These people are not fucking fools! By now they’ve got to know they’ve got a snitch on the inside somewhere, and they’re probably looking for me! One of these days I’m going to get a call to go out on a hit with them, and it will be my own! Why didn’t you at least tell me, damn you?”

  “So you wouldn’t throw a panicky hissy fit like you’re doing now. Relax, Kristin,” said Martinez dismissively. “We’re being selective, and we’re not arresting anyone who has had any extensive direct contact with you. There’s no reason for them to suspect you. We’ve got to make some busts to justify the pretty hefty budget we’re investing in this project, in you. That’s the way this business works. We can’t spend endless taxpayers’ dollars for no results at all. Taxpayers’ dollars some of which have been going to you. You’ve been getting five hundred a week tax free ever since last summer, as I’m sure you know if you check your balance with that A
TM card we gave you.”

  “Yeah, it’s a nice little nest egg now,” admitted Kicky. “Too bad I can’t draw any of it.”

  “We froze it to make sure you don’t cash in and do a midnight flit on us, Kristin,” said Martinez. “Don’t worry, when this is all over we’ll un-freeze it and you will have enough to start a whole new life with your little girl, wherever you want.” Kicky had the strongest doubts that they ever intended to let her go, one way or the other, but she was trapped like a fly in amber and she simply couldn’t figure any way out. The global positioning indicator was still in the ring on her finger, and they had made it clear to her that any attempt to remove it, or tamper with any of the monitoring devices on her person or in her cab or in her trailer would be regarded as a terminal breach of contract and would lead to evil consequences in the form of losing her daughter, and probably more electric therapy before she ended up going up the chimney in the Justice Center’s secret crematorium. Kicky had asked Lainie about the crematorium once, and the Hispanic woman had neither confirmed nor denied its existence. She had just smiled and said, “Gotta love that Patriot Act.”

  So Kicky continued with her nightmare existence, snatching a few hours every other day with her daughter and her increasingly haggard and distraught mother, driving the cab for pocket money, and running various errands for the NVA in almost all of her spare time now, including more punishment beatings, arsons, and bomb deliveries, although no more outright assassination runs. The pressure was beginning to get to her. Sometimes her longing for the crack pipe or even a bottle of Jack Daniels, anything to escape into oblivion for a few hours, became almost overwhelming, and at night alone in her bed she had to jam a sheet into her mouth and bite down on it to keep from screaming. She couldn’t sleep, but she refused an offer of sleeping pills from the police pharmacy; she was afraid that they might be construed as a violation of General Order Number Ten by the NVA, and also that they might be traced back to their source. But mostly she was afraid to sleep, afraid that she would wake up and someone would be standing by her bed killing her, from the NVA, from the police, from whatever hell existed. Her nerves were worn to fiddle strings, she wasn’t eating properly, and although she didn’t lose too much weight her face was becoming haggard and hollow-eyed.

  Her police handlers either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Her NVA comrades did. Jimmy Wingo was riding with her one day on a supply run, and after they left several suitcases and cardboard boxes in the garage of an apparently unoccupied suburban house, on the way back into town, he asked her in a concerned tone, “Look, Kicky, how are you holding up? You’re looking a little strained lately.”

  “I am,” she admitted. “I’m not sleeping so good. I guess it is kind of getting to me.” She was silent for a while, and somehow she knew she had to say something else. “It’s my little girl. My Mom’s got her, you know I told you that and . . . well, It Takes A Village has been nosing around. Mom was living in a trailer in Oregon City, and a couple of weeks ago some bitch from Child Protective Services shows up when she was out at work and Ellie was in day care, and leaves a card in the door.”

  “Christ!” said Jimmy, genuinely concerned. “I hope she beat feet out of there with the kid, fast!”

  “Yeah, believe me, white people who live in trailers know that when CPS comes cruising, you don’t wait for a second visit if you want to keep your babies,” said Kicky. “If they show up again they’re going to want to know about me, where I am and what I’m doing. I talked with Mom on the phone and . . . well, I told her to take Ellie somewhere and not let me know where. She said she would. Didn’t argue. I think she knows what I’m doing, or knows it’s something illegal, anyway. But it’s going to be a while before I see my baby again. And yes, it’s a strain, and I’ve had trouble sleeping at night, and it’s no fun and it’s probably showing. But you and the guys don’t have to worry about me.”

  “We don’t,” Wingo assured her. “We’ve all got some ghastly loose ends like that floating around in our lives. You know if there’s anything I can do, you only have to come to me.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “Jimmy, can I ask you something?” She knew she was treading into dangerous waters here, and that having this conversation when she knew the cops were listening was in its own subtle way one of the worst things she had done yet to this man, but she couldn’t resist. “How come you’ve never tried to hit on me? Is it because of, you know, well, what I used to do for a living?”

  “Mmmm, in a way, yeah, but not the kind of way you’re probably thinking,” said Wingo carefully. “Shit, how can I say this? Of course I’m interested. Any man who sees you is interested, and you know it. But if I ever made a move on you, there’s always the chance you might think I was, ah, making assumptions about you. It might have come across as disrespectful. That make any sense?”

  “Yeah,” she said with a smile. “Thanks, Jim.” It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him disrespectful be damned, it had been a long dry spell, and why not stop off at her place on the way back? But then she remembered what was in her earrings and what was in her trailer, and she cursed herself. I must be losing it, she thought to herself. Now she was afraid he’d try to take it further. She knew she couldn’t just leave it, though. “Uh, look, I really appreciate that. I have to be at work at four, I mean today, but maybe sometime . . .”

  “I got to be someplace too,” said Wingo with a chuckle. “That’s one trouble with revolutions. They’re not a singles bar. Romanticized bullshit aside, there’s not really much time for recreation. Everybody’s always got to be somewhere urgent, and it’s kind of hard to fit hooking up into the schedule. If the timing ever works out and it’s right for both of us, we’ll know when. I hope that happens someday, Kick.”

  In her next debriefing session Lainie took her to task. “You should have come on a lot stronger,” she scolded. “I keep telling you, you need to make a play for some of these racist oafs and get them in the sack. No telling what you could pick up through pillow talk. That’s what female spies have always done. Jesus, it’s not like you’re Anne of Green Gables or anything.”

  “I’m a different kind of whore now!” Kicky snapped back at her.

  Soon afterwards, Kicky’s world went to hell. Big-time.

  * * *

  It began at one of the weekly interdepartmental conferences in the Justice Center between the Portland Police Bureau, the FBI, the Department of Homeland Security, the Secret Service, the BATFE, and half a dozen other agencies and organizations responsible for fighting domestic terrorism in the Northwest.

  Ostensibly the purpose of these conferences was to share information and to formulate and execute a combined and cohesive strategy in dealing with the NVA threat. In actual practice they tended to degenerate into turf wars, petty digressions over inconsequential things, personality conflicts, mutual sniping and empire building, squabbling over money and resources, and general cat-fighting and feuding. The FBI regarded themselves as the prima donnas of law enforcement. They considered the DHS (correctly) to be dweebs and political appointee hacks, the BATFE (again correctly) to be mindless thugs, and the Portland cops (partially correctly) to be bumbling flatfeet of limited intelligence. The Portland cops regarded the feds of all departments (correctly) as arrogant and narcissistic assholes. The DHS operatives were indeed political flacks whose major job qualification was loyalty to the current administration, all of whom thought of themselves as James Bond, and the BATFE agents were sullen and hostile to everyone else at the table, feeling that they were being shoved aside. The government’s lack of success against the Volunteers was never any mystery to anyone who attended just one of these meetings. The simple fact was that the people governing the United States of America were all stunningly incompetent.

  Lately, though, Chief Linda Hirsch had been presiding at the head of the table wearing the self-satisfied expression of the cat who got the cream. Her people were showing results, killing and bringing in Volunteers and weapons and
NVA assets, while the mighty FBI were chasing their tails. Portland FBI Special Agent In Charge Elliot Weinstein, the late Rabang Miller’s quondam lover, was mightily pissed off. He was a small and wiry Jew with a bristling reddish moustache, bulging eyes and thick glasses that made him look like some comical Woody Allen character. He wasn’t; he was one of the sharpest agents in the Bureau, or he had been until the shit had hit the fan in Portland and he kept coming up with a barrel of bupkis. Being baffled and run rings around by racist and anti-Semitic goyim, whom he held in utter contempt, enraged Weinstein to the point of madness. Like many male Jews, his interaction with the bossy, matriarchal, and often depraved women of his own race was problematical, and he had made a point of marrying a blonde Wellesley girl as a trophy wife. He found Hirsch’s open lesbianism revolting, her physiognomy repulsive, and he recognized in her an ambition and ruthless drive to climb the American ladder equal to his own, which he mistrusted and which made him wary and nervous. “Chief, once more I have to protest against the lack of coordination between the Portland police and the Federal arm, with regard to the operation you conducted in mid-town last night,” he said in a sulky voice. “You know that Homeland Security regulations require the presence of Federal officers, preferably FBI, in any domestic terrorist operation. Your people are out there doing a cowboy act with no federal supervision or input at all.”