The Brigade

by H. A. Covington

  “James McCann,” said Lainie.

  “Yeah, I think they call him Big Jim, but that’s all I know about him. I don’t even know what he does, never mind where he is. As for Billy Jackson, whenever I see him we exchange maybe a dozen words. I don’t think the man knows what small talk is. How in God’s name am I supposed to get this information out of these guys? They’re the most suspicious people on earth. They have to be.”

  “We don’t expect miracles, Kristin,” said Lainie soothingly. “Just keep your ears open, like you always do, but if you see an opening, we do expect you to be proactive and make use of it. Do you understand?”

  The rest of the afternoon was devoted to testing Kicky’s new monitoring chip after the bandage was removed. Andy McCafferty smiled with approval as he took off his headphones. “Amazing,” he said. “Better reception than we were getting before.”

  “Now we have something else new for you,” said Weinstein with an oily smile. He held out his palm.

  “Ewww!” said Kicky. “What the hell is that? A dead cockroach?”

  “That’s what it’s supposed to look like,” said Weinstein. “We call it a bug-bug, since it’s a bug in every sense of the word. These little items have basically the same kind of microchip inside them as the one you’re carrying in your arm, although without the GPI circuits they can be made even smaller. These are audio monitoring devices, Kicky. I will give you this one, and later some more. I want you to carry it somewhere in your purse or on your person, and if you are in a situation where it seems that something might be going down in your absence that we need to listen in on, I want you to plant it for us someplace inconspicuous, in a corner or on top of a cabinet or under a sink, anywhere else where a dead roach wouldn’t seem out of place and won’t attract notice. When you do, I want you to make some remark about cockroaches to whomever you’re with. We’ll be listening in and we’ll know you planted the bug-bug, and we’ll activate it. Detective McCafferty, I’ll give you the serial number and activation code for this particular piece of hardware. Ms. McGee, I understand that a low-ranking NVA gofer like yourself won’t be invited to sit in while the big bosses have a pow-wow, but if you’re deft enough in planting this for us, we can be there in spirit if not in the flesh.”

  “You realize that you are increasing my level of risk to the point where I will almost certainly be caught eventually?” said Kicky bitterly. “What do I get in return, and when does all this bad craziness end? When can I take Ellie and my mother and get the hell out of here?”

  “We’ll up your pay to a thousand dollars a week, tax-free of course,” said Weinstein. “That’s no problem at all.”

  “That’s no damned good if I can’t draw any money out of the account!” snapped Kicky. “I’m asking you again, when the hell is this going to be over?”

  “Oh, it’s not going to be over for a long, long time, Ms. McGee,” said Weinstein. “You’ve got a long and fruitful career as a domestic terrorist ahead of you, as long as we can stretch it out. Don’t worry about your safety, my dear, because believe me, I will treasure you. You and I are going to go far together, little shiksa.” Even more than the FBI agent’s words, Kicky was perturbed by something she detected in the goggling brown eyes behind the spectacles, the familiar first glint of lust. Jamal Jarvis picked up on it, too, and his white teeth flashed grinning in his black face. He had never dared to put the moves on Kicky, either out of career considerations or possibly because Lainie Martinez always made sure he was never alone with her. But he clearly found the thought of Weinstein nailing her to be a pleasant one, even if he could not. Yeah, you gonna fuck dat little piece of pale tattooed pussy, ain’t you, Jew boy? he thought gleefully.

  As it happened, at that moment Kicky got a beep on her NVA phone. She answered it with the cops and FBI all watching her. “Yeah?” she said.

  Wingo’s voice on the other end said, “You still feeling sick?”

  “Yeah, I think I got that bug that’s been going around,” Kicky replied, staring at the mechanical cockroach in her hand.

  “Well, take it easy and try and get some rest. I’ll see you at the Hong Kong Garden when you get well and we’ll grab some Chinese.” He hung up.

  She looked up at them. “They want me to call in sick to my job at the cab company,” she said. “They must have something special going on. They usually don’t want me to break my routine. I’m supposed to meet them at a corner on Southeast 31st Street as soon as possible.”

  “That’s got to be it!” breathed Weinstein in triumph. “They want you for something in connection with this meeting. The Army Council man must be in Portland!”

  The result of the night’s subsequent activity was the bizarre and chaotic mess that Lieutenant Wayne Hill of Third Section was later to describe to Gary Bresler. Kicky was picked up in a battered Subaru Outback by Billy Jackson and Jimmy Wingo, who was driving. “Get in the back,” Wingo told her.

  “Get ’em up,” said Jackson as soon as she was in the car, and Kicky raised her arms as he ran a portable metal detector over her whole body. Kicky was by now used to being periodically scanned. She knew it was a standard precaution, and was no more unnerved by it than usual. She was wearing a pullover sweater that concealed the new red bump below her left armpit, but the detector missed it. There was the usual bleep when it went over her handbag, and Kicky turned it out to show her keys, coin purse, and the usual assortment of junk. Jackson folded the detector and put it away, then handed her the usual 9-millimeter Beretta in an interior clip holster and an extra magazine. “One up the spout, safety’s on,” he said. She put the gun inside her belt at the small of her back and stuck the loaded magazine in her back pocket. They drove to a nearby elementary school parking lot and met Lavonne, who was driving a dark blue Nissan. Lavonne got into the Outback with them. “Okay, here’s the program for the evening,” said Jackson. “Two Volunteers per car, boy-girl in each, girl driving one, boy the other. We’ve got full tanks of gas, and we’re going to go cruising around town in a circle until I get a call from Oscar. Then we’re going to go to a place where he tells us to go, and I will check it out. If everything looks copacetic, I give him the all clear. Some of our comrades will then arrive and hold a little get-together, which should not last more than a couple of hours, max. During this time we will be hanging in the area, a little cruising, a little strolling on the street, whatever seems appropriate to keep us around but unnoticed. We’ll be keeping an eye out for any unpleasant party-crashers who might want to interrupt our friends’ evening. When they leave, we leave. Simple. Thumper and Lavonne go in the Nissan, Jodie rides with me.” Kicky felt the phone in her waist holster vibrate. She could almost feel the tension and anticipation back in the operations center.

  It was even greater than she knew. “Oscar!” said Farley, his beefy red face between his headphones slack with surprise. “My God, maybe she’s going to meet Oscar tonight?”

  “That would make sense,” agreed Weinstein. “We don’t know exactly who or what Oscar is, but we know he’s mucho potente, a major player.”

  “That’s muy potente, sir,” said Lainie in annoyance.

  “Maybe he’s the Army Council honcho?” suggested Jamal Jarvis.

  “Mmmm, don’t think so,” said Lainie. “She’s picked a few vibes about Oscar before. He’s some kind of spook or intelligence officer, sounds like, Third Section, I think.”

  “Oh, God, if we can actually catch a Threesec operative!” gasped Farley in almost orgasmic anticipation.

  “If we can catch him, we can use him to zero in on the Big Fellow himself,” said Weinstein grimly. “Matt Redmond. Former DEA agent, former state detective from North Carolina, now head of the NVA’s entire intelligence apparatus, along with his bitch wife Heather Redmond. Killer of FBI Assistant Director Charles Bennett and morally responsible for the death of Special Agent Andrea Weinmann and a dozen other agents as well, and that was back in the days of Clinton the First, never mind now.” [See Fire and Rain
and Slow Coming Dark by the author.] “Third Section are the real bad-asses, the heaviest hitters and assassins of all. Farley, get hold of our SWAT guys and scramble them.”

  “God damn it, Elliot, this is still technically a Portland PB operation!” howled Linda Hirsch. “She’s our fucking snitch and I will not let you just come swaggering in here and grab everything for yourself! If there are high-ranking terrorists meeting tonight then let us go in, and at least have the decency to split the press conference, if it’s going to be my last!”

  Weinstein sighed, “Oh, all right, dammit, no time to argue! How soon can you have a Ready Response Team for us, Chief? But this is the last time! And you yourself stay here!”

  “No, let her come, Elliot,” joked Farley. “Big lady like the Chief would be great cover for me to hide behind!”

  “Yeah, dat’s where we usually find you fed muthafukkas when it comes time to throw down!” growled Jarvis. “Hidin’ behind our cop asses!”

  Billy Jackson drove the Subaru, and for once Kicky got to ride along as passenger. But he was no more inclined to small talk than ever before, and Kicky wisely did not attempt to pump him for information as to what was going on. She figured she would find out soon enough, and so her conversation consisted of pointing out occasional police vehicles, to which Jackson inevitably replied, “I see them.”

  Finally she said, “Do you want me to just shut up about cop cars, sir?”

  “Not at all,” he said seriously. “Two pairs of eyes are always better than one. You might see one that I don’t. When you’re not driving, you should always be observing.”

  Finally a call came in on Jackson’s cell phone. He listened briefly and said, “Okay.” He pulled off into an office parking lot and the Nissan followed and pulled up beside him, Wingo in the passenger seat.

  “It’s McMinnville,” Jackson told him. “Follow me. When we get there, I will park and Jodie and I will go into the premises. You guys park and stand watch. We should be in there five minutes or so. When I come out, if everything looks cool I’ll let Oscar know.” They pulled out and started heading westward into Yamhill County, still a semi-rural area that had not yet been completely swallowed up by the Greater Portland metropolis.

  “Kind of far out of town, isn’t it, sir?” Kicky ventured to ask.

  “I don’t think they wanted this meeting in the middle of the city where E & E might be difficult if it breaks bad,” said Jackson. He said no more, and Kicky kept silent.

  “You have a van or something big enough for the monitoring gear?” asked Weinstein back in the operations center.

  “Oak Harbor moving van, Agent Weinstein,” said Lainie. “It’s got all the wires and hookups and also room for some troops.”

  “Okay, let’s roll,” said Weinstein, who had already sent Farley for their own FBI body armor, ID jackets, and a pair of M-16s. “We’ll track them from the van.”

  When the two NVA scout cars arrived in McMinnville it was dark. They cruised down North Adams Street and Jackson pulled over beside a storefront that seemed to be empty. “Follow me,” he said, getting out of the car, taking with him a small green plastic sports bag. Kicky did so. They went down an alley and found a small parking lot, with two or three vehicles. Jackson did a quick count of the spaces and looked along the residential street behind the store for more. “Okay, looks like enough parking. Let’s go inside.” The rear door of the store was unlocked. Jackson turned on the lights, and Kicky saw that the store was apparently under renovation, with piles of lumber and Masonite drywall lying in stacks, unplastered walls, joists, etc. “There have been people working in here at night, so we should be able to risk the lights for a few minutes,” said Jackson. He went into the back room and saw that a folding table had been set up with eight folding metal chairs around it. “Okay, the setup crew has been here,” said Jackson. He took out his metal detector and also a strange electronic meter-looking instrument. “I’ll check for bugs. You take a look around for anything that appears odd or out of place, anything that might constitute a security risk.”

  Kicky did so while Jackson scanned the place for monitoring devices. “There’s some stairs here leading to the second story,” she said.

  “We’ll have men up there, but go take a look,” called Jackson. Kicky went upstairs and found a small empty apartment, its door unlocked, with cheap plastic and metal furniture, a sagging double bed in the damp and musty bedroom, several moldy objects in a turned-off refrigerator that had once been edible. She turned on the lights, looked around, and came downstairs and into the back room with the table and chairs.

  “I don’t see anything that looks dangerous,” she told Jackson.

  “Okay,” the company commander replied. He closed his metal detector and then shut off the meter and returned them to the sports bag. He stepped out into the shop area and opened his phone, and spoke briefly in a low tone to someone on the other end. Kicky took the opportunity to pull the bug-bug shaped like a roach out of a small sheet of rolled toilet paper in her purse and stick it up high on an exposed ceiling joist. Jackson stuck his head back inside. “I just told Oscar everything looks clear. Let’s go back to the vehicle.”

  “Yeah, nothing here but the cockroaches,” said Kicky in a firm voice, not too loud. As she was getting back into the Subaru she felt the phone at her hip vibrate, and she knew that she had been heard, and that McCafferty had activated the listening device.

  They pulled into a parking space about a block away from the empty store, where they could get a clear view of the front under the street lights. Jimmy and Lavonne cruised by in the Nissan and disappeared from Kicky’s sight; Jackson got a call on his phone a minute or so later. “All right, they’re in place. The comrades who will be meeting are now on their way from their various locations. Before we begin, you and I are going to go down to that espresso shop and get one small cup of strong coffee each. Not a large one. While we are there, we both use the bathroom. This is going to last several hours, and I don’t want either of us to have to take a potty break and thus be out of position if anything breaks bad. Hence the small cup of coffee only. You damned sure don’t want to be caught in a firefight with a full bladder, or you’ll piss yourself. You won’t mean to, you may not even know it, but you will. A couple of rules in the life: any time you get a chance to sleep, take it, and any time you get a chance to empty your bowels and bladder, take it, even if you don’t need to. You never know when you’ll get another chance.” They both left the car and walked down the street to the coffee shop.

  “That guy’s got to be an ex-cop who’s done surveillance before,” muttered Don Farley to himself in the van, listening in to Kicky’s mike as they entered the McMinnville city limits. As it happened, Jimmy and Lavonne were availing themselves of a similar nature break at a gas station around the corner from where they were parked, and therefore neither party noticed the Oak Harbor van pull up and park a block away from where Jimmy and Lavonne were parked.

  When Jackson and Kicky got back to the Subaru with their small coffees and settled into the front seat, Billy said, “We’ll stretch our legs every twenty minutes or so during the surveillance, pretend to window-shop or something. Foot traffic along the sidewalk won’t be too heavy on a weeknight. One more thing. If at any time we ourselves come under surveillance or we are challenged, and the situation looks like something we can talk our way out of without any shooting, we will have to pretend to be lovers, or possibly husband and wife, which is a standard and generally acceptable and explicable explanation for a man and a woman to be sitting together in a parked vehicle. It’s one of the reasons we try and use boy-girl teams as much as possible. This entails a certain amount of play-acting and deception, as you can guess. If it suddenly becomes necessary for me to take liberties, comrade, I apologize in advance, and I assure you that no disrespect is intended.”

  “Uh, yeah, okay,” said Kicky, bemused.

  “Jesus, that guy sounds like he has a two-by-four stuck up his ass,”
commented Farley, listening on the headphones.

  “Muthafukka probably gets off on killin’ people, not fuckin’ wimmins,” said Jarvis.

  “Actually, Jackson is supposed to have become involved in the NVA when his fiancée was abducted, raped, and murdered by two African-American men on the morning of their wedding day,” said Lainie. “The perpetrators forced her to ingest a lye-based drain cleaner after they sexually assaulted her. The D.A. refused to call it a hatecrime because the accused weren’t white males, although personally I think gender should have been factored in, even if it was a bit of a stretch. They pleaded out to Man One and got fourteen years apiece. Jackson seems to have become unhinged after that. I have no sympathy for the man. The system held up its end, he had his day in court, and his dissatisfaction with the verdict is no excuse for racist murder. Agent Weinstein, the Rapid Response Team is ready and waiting about six blocks down. I told them to keep well clear of the area so we don’t alarm anyone who shows up. I do suggest that if you intend to keep Operation Searchlight going, I pass the word that the Subaru with our operative in it be allowed to escape in the event of our moving in.”