The Autumn War

by Ani Fox

“Cops arresting my fish guy?” I smiled and let me cheekbones and aftershave do their work. A&D had assured me women would swoon if I did that.

  Juliet sat down across from me. She gave me a conspiratorial stare and leaned forward, revealing her well prepared cleavage. “No. Someone got murdered on the highway back in Albuquerque. They’re looking for the guys who did it.”

  I raised my eyebrows proper bro style and leaned forward a little myself. Juliet copied me, putting her goods on very clear display. “They think Jeff back there did it?”

  She shrugged. “He is a scary guy when he’s mad.” Then she pulled a move out of the Lysistrata handbook and hugged herself, shoving the girls up and out. To her credit, she did it smoothly and with a natural aplomb. “I feel…scared. I don’t even know if I’m going home tonight.” That was the straight line.

  I patted her hand, which was warm, and felt her pulse which was racing. Her pupils were dilated and she opened her mouth slightly, was breathing quickly. Right. I guess the aftershave deserved its reputation. “I’m on my way home tomorrow. It’s kind of a huge place, empty you know…” I didn’t explain why. “If you were up for the drive, you could always crash there for a night or two.” I frowned my best Big Bear frown, and then appeared to change my mind. “Never mind, that’s crazy. It’s like all the way in Flagstaff, you know. Um, way too far.”

  The wheels in Juliet’s head spun and she patted my hand. She rose and deftly brushed her chest against my arms as she did. The woman had an expertise with flirting that was clearly wasted in the wilds of Moriarty. “Hon, I live an hour away, on the Flagstaff side of New Mexico. It’d be like a grocery trip.” Then she smiled and it reminded me of someone.

  We exchanged emails and phone numbers. I told her my name was Declan and gave her my address, that she should feel free to arrive at any time. My housekeeper would let her in and she could borrow one of the extra bedrooms, if she was low on gas, take one of the extra cars. A positive gleam had entered her eyes. Juliet made sure I had no pets, wives, children, or retarded cousins on premises, though it was unclear if any or all of them would have deterred her. Declan had a brother, a lonely nerdy brother who was frankly too rich for his own good, but somehow not quite as rich as Declan. That got me a double sized slice of pie and a larger mug of coffee.

  By then, Cisco had entered the game. From an ISP in Boston. He wanted me alive and would pay $1B more than any other offer. My program could not identify the location with Boston. That meant serious encryption. Boston has a special role in The Web. Each generation picks its version of neutral territory, Casablanca if you will. Since the War of 1812, that city has been Boston. The Culper Ring survived beyond Washington’s original mandate to become the undisputed brokers of peace talks and neutral exchanges. Usually they managed prisoner swaps, returns of stolen goods or people, or the occasional duel. But they also repatriated art, authenticated documents and, when called upon, held Versailles level peace talks.

  Across all The Web, no one had proven more ruthless, tightly knit, or fanatically loyal to the purpose than the Culper Ring. Hans and Section 22 looked like dilettantes in comparison. The Culper Ring had never, in their entire history, failed. They took any betrayal, any disruption or double-cross as a personal attack on their integrity and hunted down the culprits. In 1904, the Culper Ring spent thirty-eight agents to bring Dominique the Mouse to final justice, removing the Mona Lisa from his possession, killing the members of the Bavarian Illuminati who had foolishly backed The Mouse, and then breaking the backs of both the French underground and the Bavarians. When World War I broke out, German victories owed much to the Culper Ring’s extirpation of half Europe’s spies.

  It didn’t have to be the Culper Ring but absolutely no one else operated within Boston without their open sanction. They were essentially The Syndicate for the region and San Valentin himself could not safely step foot into the metropolitan region without their explicit invitation. The Culper Ring thus had okayed my capture. To what end remained a mystery.

  Ahmed offered me ten heads, a nerve agent that could be linked to bird flu, and $2B. Julie asked for evidence of my location and capabilities before proceeding. Zeus had not yet weaponized his version of Hans’ nerve toxin. From the email, it might not yet be feasible and they were fishing for a group that could do so for them, with the intent to smash and grab the formula at a later date. I ate some pie and considered.

  Pete came back with a counter offer. He’d transfer $4B into a Cayman’s account after I sent photos of said target’s dead body. End negotiation. Hans thought he had my locale. Which he likely did. Without people on the ground in the vicinity and with flights down, it would take them a few hours to arrive. I’d be en route to Austin by then.

  Pets and music had the usual mishmash of trash and treasure. Some had offered up a stolen nuclear submarine with four missiles still intact. San Valentin would never let that stand normally, so it was clear that whomever had placed the ad felt the war was a unique opportunity to unload the albatross docked off some hidden island.

  The events section had several obituaries. The war had claimed Malikh El Sadr, the head of the Hashashin. His nephew replaced him and the wheel turned. Someone perverse had put in a snide ad about Cassandra and a few of the Section 22 hitters. The JDL had a radical wing who did such things occasionally. Nadya and George weren’t mentioned. Neither were Gay Eddie or anyone from the BBW.

  Then I saw it. Deceased—George Wickham. Messieurs Oslo and Darcy regret to inform, one George Wickham, lately dead from lead poisoning. Wickham left no family. Mourners may make donations to his favorite cause: The Boston Cat Rescue. The viewing will be this Thursday the 5th, Auckland, NZ. In deference to religious preference, no black coats, minimal jewelry.

  Pina had not only extracted my hacker, she had isolated and killed Wickham. In under ninety hours. More than that, she’d managed to find and dismantle his black ops team, confiscated liquid assets, co-opted or destroyed his network. Boston Cat Rescue was the Culper Ring. Which meant that, in three days, The Syndicate would be sitting down in Boston with their enemies to make peace. Pina thought the war was over. Hans likely did not. She had put the ad in specifically for me and me alone.

  The internet news promised me that airline traffic would be back to normal in forty-eight hours. Hans would launch his global attack hours prior to sitting down to make peace, knowing he’d killed everyone as he shook hands. It was time to move.

  I lifted a third phone and called Murray on his direct line. Darcy picked up, her voice rich and melodious. “Hello, Spetz.”

  “Hiya, Darcy. They treating you well?”

  She laughed and I felt my toes tingle. Clearly Pina had been giving lessons. “Sure. That was clever what you did.”

  I nodded absently, then saw my reflection, realized I was getting distracted and focused. “I’m sitting not too far from your old digs. But then, you knew that already.”

  Her voice lowered a shade and she seemed amused. “There are cameras everywhere. The signal towers did a great job helping me find you.”

  “And Jeeves. Nice system to have.”

  “Morris Moses now. He has changed, as have I.” It was a message. She wanted to banter but she also wanted my approval.

  “Several guests found your welcome wagon gift a little much. Apparently it only blew some of their socks off.”

  That brought a pause. I had been right. Darcy had been in Albuquerque and Pina had gotten her out hours prior to Hans finding her and gods knew what. Nothing decent. Torture and medical experimentation being the base minimum. “How many?” I had her attention.

  “You got six plus some walking wounded. I got fourteen and the local station agent.” There came the sound of tapping and some kind of beep. In the far background there was foghorn. She was on the BBW.

  “You sure made the news. Actually, Carlos the Croc made the news. They found his car at a rest stop in New Mexico, holding a local cook for questioning.” Darcy wanted me to send me a war
ning, to protect me still. She knew I was on premises. She had apparently not yet told Pina.

  “Yes, having some pie, reading the obituaries.” She paused a long time and I could hear her breathing. “I’ll be leaving very soon but my phones will stay behind. If you read the signals and triangulate, I’m sure you can identify the other mobiles, hack the emails. Instructive, really.”

  She typed some more and the phone sat silent. Someone sucked in a breath. She’d seen the correspondence. “This looks rather routine.” Of course it did. Hits were hits, even extravagantly expensive ones. I’d never seen any offer higher than $500M. A&D would pat me on the back. I’d just blown out the leaderboard. Epically.

  “Please tell Oslo that I have concerns. It’d be a shame if I missed my flight because the airlines weren’t ready on time. Because flying into Boston would be everyone’s preference.”

  “Everyone’s?”

  “Well not Bernard’s or Pina’s. The flight would cost them too much. But it would make my father’s life much easier. He’d be able to finish what he started with Roger.”

  She sat silently for a good twenty seconds. “Understood. Are you certain?”

  Was I certain Hans would kill the planet? Gods forfend and the universe forgive my own hubris, I was absolutely certain. There could be no other endgame for Hans. He’d been spending people like a drunken sailor at port and had lost Cassandra and Zeus. He had only the Dream. We were all forty-eight hours from melting into soup.

  “Totally certain.” Then I hung up. Juliet was nowhere to be seen. I asked the forty year-old crone at the register who informed me tartly that she’d left in a huff with her floozy friend Charlene and they’d taken off for some Arizona place. That made me smile. With a little prompting and receipt of Juliet’s tip, to be held for her, the ancient creature showed me a picture of said Charlene, apparently employee of the month. She was like a trailer trash Valkyrie in clothes that screamed under the pressure of her bosom and hips. I trusted Aidan and Declan would find a way to accommodate the strange women who showed up at their doorstep. If nothing else, they’d put in a panicked call to the mysterious M while the women caressed the sports cars.

  The parking lot held a wide array of tourist vehicles. I circled twice until I found the mechanic’s station and saw several cars locked inside. The lock gave way to a little finesse and the work orders on the various machines made clear that Tommy’s Camaro was ready to go, right after he paid his $743 transmission bill. I dumped my stuff in the dark green sports car, siphoned some gas from the other vehicles to get into the full range, ransacked the safe, and acquired $4300 in small bills, a lost wallet for someone named Donald Donnie with several credit cards (Donnie Donnie?) and some really disgusting photos of underage school girls. I took it all. Then rolled the car out of the bay, closed the door and drove it near the widening crime scene around the abandoned sedan. In a plastic bag, I dropped the mobile phones, the dirty pictures, some rags from the mechanic’s office, a couple of invoices from within the safe, and a half eaten sandwich swiped from the restaurant cashier.

  A cop swaggered over to my car and I rolled down my window. “You can’t be here buddy.”

  I gave him a big stupid grin. “Officer, I think I can be of help here.” I started to get out and he put a hand on my door.

  “Whoa there, bud. Stay in the car.”

  “Oh right. Um sorry. Look I’m like an amateur investigator. Always wanted to be something more. My mom keeps saying I’m special and you know, there’s the classes. At the local Jay. So I totally think…”

  He covered his face with hand—something A&D told me is The Facepalm. “You got a point?”

  “Uh, well, I mean yeah. I found this bag. But I like totally found it on my own. The other cop didn’t drop it.”

  He yanked the plastic bag out of my hand and looked inside. “What cop?” I cowered properly and pointed at a group of 15 milling men. He followed my finger and volunteered, “That guy in the suit?”

  “Um, maybe. He was like walking and I saw the bag. Well I saw it fall out of one of those yellow bags.”

  “An evidence bag. You picked up an evidence bag?”

  “Noooo. I found this bag on the other side of the lot. All by myself.”

  He looked at me, looked at the investigator in the suit, and then using a gloved hand rifled through the bag. When he saw the photos he stopped and got very still. “This was near the car?”

  I shrugged and tried not to drool too much. “Well, maybe. I just, you know, saw the guy drop it. I mean I found it. Well you know. My mommy says…”

  He pointed a finger at me fiercely. ‘You shut up. Go home and stay home. You show up here again, I arrest you. Capiche?”

  I nodded seven times very fast and then panickedly pulled the car into reverse, stalling it. He watched me punch the steering wheel and then get the car to drive, but in third gear. The cop shook his head, muttered something unkind, and went to log the evidence a second time. In four or five hours, Hans’s kill team would descend upon a state trooper’s barracks where they would store the evidence and Darcy had a ringside view. I doubted she would be forgiving. Orders would flow, the vehicles and men flagged. Carlos the Crocodile was about to become an international sensation as his accomplices were gunned down in open battle.

  The Camaro made good time and with all the police occupied in finding terrorists. No one bothered me when I sped towards Austin. I arrived with four hours to spare. Time enough to find the section chief and get some answers before having Anonymous feed me pictures of Hans. It didn’t much matter, I knew where he was going to be. Still, it paid to be thorough and, lately, I’d been surprised because I had not followed all my leads properly.

  There’s a Big Red bottling plant between two major highways in the north of the city. Austinites pass by it daily, watch huge trucks roll in and out, carrying sloshing drums of red liquid, and never give it a moment’s pause. Section 22 had been manufacturing chemical and biological weapons inside that soda syrup plant for three decades. There’s something to be said to deregulation and laissez faire, especially if you’re a homicidal terrorist or a freelance hunter of said terrorists

  I considered my options and figured I’d try something more subtle than full out ground assault. It was near dusk. The Camaro stuck out more with its New Mexico plates and sports car profile. To fit in Texas style, you needed a large truck covered in dust, mud, or stickers of the latest undiscovered band. Preferably all of the above. Even from the road, you could see the place had been devastated. I rolled up to the gates and saw they’d been ripped off their hinges, the tire damage systems circumvented when something huge smashed through the chain link fence next to the guard post.

  Parking the Camaro in the shade of some trees, I selected a HK compact assault weapon, something the SAS tends to use, pocketed four mags, and went in to the compound. Smoldering ruins met my gaze. Everything within sight had been scarred by flame and riddled with bullets. Hundreds of shell casings littered the ground; huge 50 caliber beasts used in vehicle mounted guns. Either a helicopter or the back of a truck or Hummer had been used to deliver intense fire to the storage and guard facilities. The outer buildings were filled with dark burnt forms, blast marks, and ghosts. Nothing living moved. There were no lights and nothing electronic worked. Not even blinking lights for fire alarms. The attack had pulverized the entire electrical system and ripped almost every scrap of furnishing and electronics from within the buildings. Small fiberglass chaff littered the floors. There are firecracker rounds, usually deployed via grenade launchers, which blast apart rooms and do an excellent job killing people. They had been followed with white phosphorus that had ignited whatever flammable materials within the room.

  I moved slowly and carefully through the feeder road. Nothing moved. Birds and insects had fled the scene so this had to be fairly recent. The stink of chemicals hung low in the air but there was no telltale smoke. Interior to the main buildings were the Soup Factory, where they made a
ll the evils of modern life. They’d dug out a four level sub-basement and used a ten man elevator to shuttle men and material from ground to laboratory and back. I found the whole elevator shaft collapsed. The floor in the building above the lab had buckled and sunk. A faint stink of sulphur emanated from the cracks. I got on the floor, ran my finger on the creases, smelled the oil, then risked a taste.

  The Ugandans used to buy an outdated chemical foam called X-96 from the Soviets, then the Russians, that would be dropped into chemical fires using a low strength bomb. They loved it because X-96 expanded almost a thousand fold, entombing chemicals and debris inside a radically thin honeycomb. Hans had sold it to the East Germans for some gunships and a few hundred breeding slaves held over from a Soviet prison camp. The Germans had then licensed it out to their good friends the Soviets and, like any good Russian project, they’d held some nice Ukrainians at gunpoint and demanded a combat worthy delivery system.

  The Spetsnaz used the foam during breaching actions. Called the loogy bomb, we’d toss in four or five of these oversized grenades and jam the door shut. The explosion would seal our victims in a cauldron of hot, suffocating foam that coated their skin, lungs, and eyes with a thin burning layer of moisture draining elastic. My old captain called it Napalm in Reverse.

  It had been outlawed by the Geneva Convention, then made illegal by The Syndicate because it’s carcinogenic, radioactive, contains toxic levels of strontium and thallium and, just to add insult to injury, cannot be cleaned up or removed. IT sticks in place and bonds at a molecular level with its surroundings. Which meant that Uganda was full of rotting husks of prior disasters, slowly decaying into even more toxic disasters. The half-life for X-96 had been projected to be 300 years, but it might also be 3800 years or 11,000 years. No one was quite sure since it adopted the chemical nature of what it touched.

  It turned out to be the ultimate Not My Problem solution to a crisis. Urban legend tells of a truckload of X-96 dumped into the Chernobyl reactor before they called for help. The first men on the scene, firefighters reported sticking to the floor as they walked and being haunted by an odd stink. No one knows what they actually encountered since they all died within seventy-two hours of arrival. Whomever had taken down the Section 22 death factory had just blown a four floor underground lab the size of nine football fields using X-96 bombs. In 300 years, Austin would start to have a very toxic ground water problem. I filed it under Not My Problem and moved on to other buildings. For some reason that eluded Hans and Cassandra, my cells simply did not interact with the chemical. It passed through my system as if it were a foreign body. If there was a tomorrow, I’d be peeing orange.