“Actually, I’m sure something like that is in the works, although perhaps not for First Portland Brigade,” said Jackson in complete seriousness. “One way or another, the Army will make use of Comrade Collingwood’s undoubted talents.”
Annette was also wearing a large but not too ostentatious diamond engagement ring which Stiggs provided. “It adds to your persona, since most men will assume that an attractive young woman is involved with someone and may wonder why she isn’t,” Bresler had told her. “Media guys like Zucchino always fancy themselves as big studs, raffish James Bond international adventurer seducer types, and he’ll probably consider an engagement ring a challenge.” The final item in her ensemble for the evening was a small stainless steel .380-caliber automatic in a Velcro holster on her right ankle.
“Change in plans, now that we know you will have a chance to intercept him outside. I’ve decided I want you strapped,” said Jackson. “Not just for self defense, but because you may have to pull down on the target and hold him for us if things get hectic. That means that whatever happens, you do not enter the Benson Hotel with him, because you can’t pass the metal detector. I’ve thought about it, and as important as this is I simply can’t justify sending you into a situation where you will not only be recorded on security digitals and lose your surface status, but where we will be powerless to help you or get you out of there if things go bad. If you can’t get him to come with you to Paddy Grogan’s where there are no spy cameras, then break it off and we’ll figure out something else.”
“Sir, this may be very important,” Annette told him seriously. “I think I should go with the flow wherever it leads. We need to find out if Captain Hatfield and his battalion are facing an imminent attack. I can lose the gun.”
“No, you can’t,” spoke up Eric firmly. “Annette, this is about as close as a Volunteer gets to the enemy. You’ll be in danger, and you need something to fight with, at least hold them off long enough so we can get to you, if things go wrong.”
“Hang onto the gun for now,” said Jackson, quickly thinking it over. “But I’ll tell you what, take the holster off your ankle and stick it into your handbag. We’ll figure out some way for you to ditch it if you decide to go into the Benson. Let’s see how it plays out. We don’t even know for sure that Zucchino’s coming in on that bus. He may decide to give his Fattie chaperone the slip and go off barhopping or sleazing around on his own. I’ll make it your call, comrade, but do not try to go through the metal detector with that piece. I’m sorry, but this is one of those tactical situations where I can’t give you much in the way of specific orders or guidelines. Every one of these Lorelei tickles is different. I wish to hell we were able to plant a bug of some kind on you, like the police and FBI use, and sometimes we can, but this is short notice and I couldn’t round up the technical expertise and equipment we need, especially with our best tech guys down in Hollywood slaughtering movie stars.”
“You’re just jealous as hell because you didn’t get picked for Task Force Director’s Cut,” said Bresler with a smile.
“Damned straight I am!” admitted Jackson. “All right, Becky, play it by ear, whatever happens, but just remember General Order Number Eight. If that little ping of warning goes off in your mind, listen to it and break contact.”
Now in the fading light of the Northwest summer evening they saw the silver metallic armored tour bus lumbering up the street and pulling up at a far corner; the actual front entrance to the Benson Hotel was barricaded by sandbags and several short concrete berms to keep car bombs at a distance. Slowly but surely, the Americans were learning the lessons of Baghdad, Beirut, and Belfast. A uniformed FATPO officer with a clipboard in his hand climbed onto the bus. Jackson turned to her. “Hmm, looks like they’re doing a roll call to make sure all their embedded media assets made it back, which gives us some time. It would appear they keep their reptiles on a short leash. Okay, you’re up, Becky. You see where the van’s parked? Passenger window’s open, Tom and both Things are in the back, but the cab is empty, because cops and Fatties have finally figured out they need to watch for people sitting in parked vehicles. If you can get the target into Paddy Grogan’s, you keep the gun, and we’ll move the van around and park it across the street. If not, if he’ll only go for a drink with you in the Benson, see if you can toss the gun through the window without being seen as you walk by the van on the way inside. Fiddle around in your purse for a cigarette or something.”
“If I light one up he’ll probably be able to tell I don’t smoke,” said Annette.
“Yeah, but they’re handy for signaling, and when you need something tactile to fiddle with,” replied Jackson. “Not to mention as a weapon if things break bad suddenly. Try to light one if it looks like something’s brewing, especially if you have to ditch the gun. Nothing like a lit cigarette in the eyeball to slow down an attacker. If for any reason you can’t toss the gun through the window, or if he sees you with the piece and twigs to something going on, you’ll be near the van and you’ll have the guys right there.”
“So that’s when I call him a perv?” said Annette.
“Yeah, you yell ‘Get your hands off me you pervert,’ or something else containing the word pervert, loud enough for them to hear you inside the van. That’s the signal for an emergency quick snatch. Then the Things will jump out, grab him, and toss him in the back of the van. That will tip our hand and they’ll know he’s been snatched, which like I said before may kind of defeat the purpose. I’d rather do it later on and a bit further away, when the streets are more empty, not right in front of a crowded hotel full of his buddies, but it’s better than nothing. Once you get him in either bar setting, you need to take between one and two hours and pour as much booze as you can into him, while consuming as little as possible yourself. After two hours we send in Tom to look for you, but see if you can cut it shorter than that. I don’t want to hang around in this area any longer than necessary. It’s infested with all kinds of ZOG lowlife.”
“What if Zucchino’s busy, or else he doesn’t like brunettes, and he just blows me off when I try to hit on him?” asked Annette anxiously.
Jackson smiled, “Comrade, trust me, no sexually normal man is going to blow off a come-hither from you, and our information is that Zucchino is not gay. You got the signals for when you come outside with him?”
“Handbag on my right shoulder means everything looks and feels copacetic, and you guys can make your grab. Handbag on left shoulder means I don’t like the vibes and proceed with caution. Lighting a cigarette means there’s trouble and we all need to beat feet.”
“Keep your cell phone on vibrate,” said Jackson. “If you detect anything at all that looks wrong or dangerous, you call me and give me the signal, and if we see anything hinky out here we’ll vibe you and give you the beat feet. Okay, they’re de-busing and heading for the hotel now. In fact, I think that’s Zucchino there, in the raincoat. Remember to walk against the flow of foot traffic, not with it, so it’s easier to bump into the target. Off you go. We’ll be waiting. Good luck, comrade.” Annette opened the door of the truck and got out, slipped across the street, and in a moment she was in among the throng of people getting off the bus. Jackson moved over into the passenger seat of the Tundra and got out directly onto the sidewalk so he could get a better view, carefully shielding himself behind a flight of stone steps rising up to a chic women’s fashion boutique. As he had told Annette, it wasn’t a good idea to be seen sitting in a parked vehicle in the vicinity of a place like the Benson Hotel, full of potential NVA targets.
Annette saw the man she was after, wearing an open green raincoat, a yellow pastel shirt and loosened tie, and carrying a computer notebook on a strap over his shoulder. He seemed to be alone. As she passed him she sidled into him very lightly, making him step aside to avoid her on the fairly crowded sidewalk. “Excuse me,” she said, then suddenly she gushed, “Oh, my God! I know you! You’re Dawson Zucchino!”
“Yeah, that’s m
e,” said Zucchino, glancing over her quickly from top to bottom. Annette was used to men undressing her with their eyes, but Zucchino practically ripped her clothes off in shreds with his eyes in a single second, and she knew instantly that she could hook him and reel him in so long as she stayed focused and played him right. “How did you know me?” he asked. “That photo in my column is pretty old.”
“I’m a journalism major at PSU, and last week our professor did a whole hour class on your book Appointment in Gaza. With some slides and film clips he got off the internet, the ones showing you riding in on the tank and talking with that general what’s-his-name. Professor David Michaels, you know him? He says you’re the best and most fearless war correspondent ever to serve in the Middle East.” Annette was taking a chance here, since it was possible Zucchino did know Michaels, but he simply smiled, took a bow, and said,
“He’s right on the money, of course. No, I don’t know your professor, but I’m glad he’s giving my book a plug.”
“Well, of course, I knew who you are anyway, even before that class. The Oregonian syndicates your column. You said a few weeks ago you were coming up here to Portland to cover The Trouble, but I never thought I’d actually meet you! Gosh! I still can’t believe it!”
“Well, here I am in the flesh,” said Zucchino, spreading his arms.
“Gee, I wish we could get you to come and talk to our class,” said Annette eagerly. “Professor Michaels is good, and I don’t mean any disrespect, but he hasn’t actually worked on a paper in almost fifteen years, and the profession has changed so much in that time! There’s nothing like talking to someone who’s actually working in print media.”
“You mean you want to get into print?” asked Zucchino in feigned surprise. “With your looks I would have thought you’d want to get into television news and reporting. You’ve got anchorwoman written all over you.”
“Oh, wow, thanks,” giggled Annette, managing to blush. “But everybody wants to get into TV news. I want to be a good old-fashioned reporter. Lois Lane kind of thing, ya know?”
“I’ll have to come to work for your paper,” said Zucchino, frankly ogling her now. “I’ll use the name Clark Kent, of course.”
Annette giggled again, and stuck out her hand, shaking his. “Speaking of names, I’m Mary,” she said. “Mary Jones. Oh, gosh, I’m sure you have to be somewhere, but I really would like to sit down and talk to you sometime about, you know, the job, the life, and . . . stuff.”
A short Portland block away Jackson speed-dialed a number on his phone. It vibrated inside the darkened blue van. “Target engaged,” he said briefly.
“Well, Mary, no time like the present,” said Zucchino. “First word of advice: it’s not all glamor. A lot of the stuff you have to cover is about as exciting as watching paint dry, and you have to apply generous amounts of lipstick to a lot of pigs. Good example tonight: I’ve just come from an incredibly boring formal dinner replete with rubber chicken and cheap champagne, that I must now write up in 500 words that will grip and fascinate the 50 million or so people who read my column in syndication, and inspire them to continue the fight against racism and terrorism. I was about to fortify myself for the task of putting some lipstick on this pig with a drink or five. How about you come into the hotel with me, and we can find a table off in a corner and . . .”
“Bringing in a guest, Dawson?” Annette turned and saw a handsome and tough-looking young man with a buzz cut, wearing a blue blazer with an insignia she didn’t recognize, and a polo shirt underneath with a Christian Broadcasting Network logo on it. She also saw the butt of a Glock automatic in a shoulder holster beneath the open jacket.
“Hi, I’m Mary Jones,” she gushed. “Are you a reporter too?”
“No, Perry here is the voice of my conscience,” said Zucchino in a dry tone. “He’s my security buddy.”
“Is that like a security blanket?” asked Annette innocently.
“Very similar, yes,” said Zucchino. “He’s a private consultant, read hired gunman, from Blackwater Corporation. His job is to make sure I don’t get blown up or abducted by the NVA and tortured to make me reveal all my many military secrets.” Annette’s heart almost stopped, but before she could say anything, Perry spoke to her with a humorless grin stretching his lips,
“Actually, Dawson is being his usual dramatic self. His newspaper and the other employers of journalists and media people who are covering the white supremacist terror situation here in the Northwest have retained our company to make sure nothing happens to them, thus relieving the police and the FATPO to do their main job of eradicating these neo-Nazi vermin who have dared to raise their bloody hands against the Apple of God’s Eye. We use the term security buddy. Dawson and the others find us amusing, I’m sure, and sometimes a little annoying no doubt, but one of these days we may just end up taking a bullet for them, and perhaps then they’ll find us somewhat less of a subject for humor. Dawson, you need to come in off the street now. If you want to bring this, er, young lady in with you then you know she’ll have to go through the usual security checks.”
“Anything else you can think of to try and scare her off, Perry?” asked Zucchino in irritation. “Like maybe telling her I’ve got leprosy?”
Down the block Jackson spoke into his phone. “They’ve picked up a bogey. Get ready. She may yell pervert, and if she does, you’ll need to cack that gun thug in the blue jacket.”
“I see him,” came a voice in Jackson’s ear.
“You need to get in off the street, Dawson,” repeated Perry calmly. “You’re asking for a drive-by out here.”
“Okay, okay, I’m coming,” said Zucchino, waving the mercenary away.
“Don’t be too long,” said Perry. “If I have to come out here again, I’ll have to file an incident report. You have enough of those already on file.” He turned and walked toward the front entrance.
“Jesus, I hate being embedded!” Zucchino said with a curse. “It’s like being in some rich boarding school with hall monitors, everybody marching to and fro in single file, a curfew and a bed check, sometimes literally! Come on in and have a drink and meet some of the other correspondents, Mary. Never mind the security checks, it’s just routine. You go through a metal detector and you have to show ID and sign in, that’s all.”
“Uh, is that guy with the gun gonna be following me around and listening in to us the whole night?” asked Annette warily.
“Yeah, I hate to say it, but probably so,” sighed Zucchino. “Perry’s a jackass. A religious nut, one of those weirded-out 700 Club types who volunteered for repeated tours in Iraq and Gaza because he thinks Israel is the fulfillment of Biblical prophecy and we have to have a nuclear war over there so Jesus will come back, you get the idea. But the government insists we have him and his buddies all over us, and so do all our respective bosses. He’s a self-appointed guardian of our morals, which I suspect you’ve been around journalists enough even as a student to understand is a pretty tall order. That nutcase thinks it’s a sin for anyone to hold hands with a woman before they’re married, and even though he’s also against alcohol he hovers and looms over us in the bar with a ginger ale in his hand, like that little goody two-shoes kid we all remember from school who was always telling the teacher on other kids. He makes it damned hard to score.” Suddenly he realized what he’d said and he tried to recover. “I mean, look, don’t get me wrong, I really would like to introduce you to some real working journalists, I wasn’t implying that you . . .”
Annette laughed merrily. “That’s okay. I don’t mind older guys hitting on me. Boys my age are still pretty immature, still boys if you get my drift. But couldn’t we go somewhere else? I was actually on my way to Paddy Grogan’s Shamrock Pub down the street here. See, I just turned 21 and I haven’t been to many clubs or bars and such . . .” At that moment, providentially there came a wild burst of Irish uillean pipe and fiddle music from the distant glowing façade of Paddy Grogan’s. “See, that’s why I was going t
o Paddy’s. They’ve got Clan Malone live there tonight, and I love Irish trad music, always have ever since I heard Enya when I was ten. Would you really get in trouble with that character if we went there?”
“Fuck Perry,” said Zucchino succinctly. “You’ve loved Irish music since you were ten, and I’ve loved Guinness since I was ten, although to do the black stuff justice you really need to be supping it in some little dark pub in Dublin only a few streets away from St. James’ Gate. Doesn’t travel well. Paddy Grogan’s it is, and that moron can write me up all he wants.”
“We better go before he comes back out again,” whispered Annette conspiratorially, hooking her arm into his, and at the same time casually shifting her handbag from her right shoulder to her left.
“That’s the warning signal,” said Jackson into the phone. “She doesn’t like the vibes, probably that blue boy showing too much interest.”
“Want to risk calling her?” said the voice in his ear.
“My guess is that goon got suspicious, looked at her too close, but he went back inside . . . wait! They’re moving off down the street toward the Irish pub! Good girl, damned good girl! She’s cut him out from the herd.”
“So we re-position outside location two?” asked the voice.
Jackson looked up and down the street. Traffic was light; the evening rush hour was over, and the downtown clubbers and restaurant-goers hadn’t arrived on the scene yet. Jackson communed briefly with his gut and his antennae. “They took a roll call earlier on the bus, so they’re keeping closer tabs on these media jerks than we thought. They’re going to notice if he doesn’t return to the hotel. Fuck it. Let’s pick him up now, before they come looking for him. Move down and park in front of Paddy Grogan’s, but on the right hand side, not across the street. I’ll come in from behind. Becky’s a smart kid. She’ll pick up on what we’re doing.”
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