Grayman Book One: Acts of War

by Michael Rizzo

2

  January 4th 2019.

  Thomas Richards:

  The local authorities decided on demolition.

  Even all those HAMAS vests going off shouldn’t have done enough structural damage to be worth condemning a three-story apartment building with a nice-but-now-gutted corner deli. But I suppose having a significant terror base in your town—no matter how bloodily it got cleaned out—makes for an embarrassing tourist attraction, if not a tourist repellant.

  They imploded the building weeks ago, and they’ve partially cleaned out the foundation down to what used to be the basement—where the worst of the blood and blast-damage was, not to mention the actual arsenal and safe-house—leaving only a fenced-off empty hole, a glaring wound in an otherwise peaceful neighborhood. And I don’t know if I’m more pissed off at the Wabs for moving in or Grayman—now “Captain Ram,” though I’m still not at all willing to accept that bullshit commission—for blasting them out.

  Nobody’s working on it today. Probably taking an extended break after the holidays. Something I’m supposed to be doing too, at least officially. Instead, I diverted my leisurely drive in the Union countryside down through Greece, and hope that if I’m being tracked, they’ll just think I’m being obsessive.

  I’m sitting in the same café where Burke and Grayman—Ram, the name is almost as ridiculous as his rank—spent a lunch hour some ten weeks ago mutually ignoring each other, immediately before Grayman—Ram, if I can ever say it without choking on it—instigated the demise of the now ex-building across the street. And much like they did then, I sit here now sucking Turkish coffee and trying to look like the cuisine is all I’m interested in. The biggest difference is that I’m not planning a massacre after dessert. And I’m not being watched, at least not by a sizeable CT unit.

  What I’m doing instead is waiting for an old friend.

  He shows up fashionably late, though I expect he’s been here for hours—just making sure we aren’t being watched by anyone, no matter whose side they’re on (which spared me the trouble of checking the neighborhood myself—he’s always been good that way). He looks like he’s lost weight, and his tan skin is darker and more leathery than the last time we shared air. And he’s a little grayer.

  He plays the part, waving and grinning like we are just a couple of old friends (though I’m sure the waiter is wondering if we’re a couple, the way he makes it a point to sit close next to me rather than across the table).

  “Thomas…”

  Apparently we’re going first-name. I’m almost surprised he doesn’t kiss me on the cheek.

  “Jacob…” I give him back with the same sugary sing-song he used. He’s got me matched in the Eurotrash fashion look: lambskin and silk. Real designer shades, not interface gear. No visible cells or netware. And no visible sidearm. Even his armor is well hidden under the cut of his shirt.

  He makes a vague and poor excuse for his tardiness, and orders a coffee and a menu. He knows better than to ask for Kosher. He settles in and looks idly across the street.

  “Big hole,” he says like he’s just doing small-talk, though he does honestly seem a little depressed by the building’s destruction. “Big mess. Pity. I wonder what they’ll put in its place?”

  I don’t answer him except with a little shrug. I wait for the waiter to bring him his coffee. He orders grilled lamb like he knows the place. I trust his taste enough to go for the same.

  “Why did you bring me here, General?” I ask straight out once the waiter is gone. “I mean, besides what happened here…”

  “No ranks, please, old friend,” Sharavi purrs caution.

  “Someone listening?” I prod.

  “Not mine,” he offers. “Nothing for them to see around here since the deli got closed down.”

  “Is that why we’re here?”

  He smiles. Teeth yellow from years of smoking and coffee. You’d think the director of Aman would have a decent dental plan.

  “And to get away from the office. I know you know how it is. I have some questions. I needed a place I felt better asking them in.”

  But he doesn’t get to the point. Feeling me out, maybe. I take the time to drain my coffee to the sludge.

  “So you had eyes here, when I was here last,” I idly accuse.

  “We both have a common interest in the deli-business, you know,” he offers. “We also always try to keep an eye on the competition. But that wasn’t what brought you out, was it?”

  Not sure what he’s playing, I bait him: “You tell me.”

  “It’s a little brisk today,” he says, adjusting his jacket. “Not trench coat weather, of course.”

  Ah. I see. “I didn’t know you had a thing for trench coats, Jacob.”

  “Not really my style,” he plays. “But I recently saw this sharp gray one that caught my eye.”

  I do the expected, play dumb: “On someone you know?”

  “No, Thomas,” he says flat-out. “Not one of mine. But you know that. As I said, it’s not the style. Not anymore.”

  “Was it ever?” I give him back. He only shrugs, chuckles.

  He drinks his coffee, signals the waiter for refills. Considers the hole.

  “Quite a lot of blasting, to take down such an old building. I don’t expect it left much recognizable. Did you lose anything in there?”

  I grin at him, covering my frustration. “Not that I’m aware of. You?”

  He shakes his head, still smiling.

  “It was on the web,” he gives me. “That’s where I saw that coat I liked. It came with a matching fedora, very sharp. From Italy. A little flashy and over-the-top, I suppose, but I found I just could not stop thinking about it later. I’m afraid it rather grew on me.”

  “Mmmm…” I try to figure his angle. “I was after something like that myself last Fall. Looked all over Europe, in fact. You heard, I’m sure.”

  “I did,” he admits, still pleasant. “Did you get your hands on it?”

  “Sorry. Didn’t manage.” Not totally a lie, but I’m not sure how I would explain this to him even if I thought I could. Though I get the impression he knows at least as much as I do on the subject.

  The food comes in time to take my mind away from it before I start feeling the burn in the pit of my stomach again. I thank Sharavi for his entrée recommendation—very tasty. Then, between bites:

  “You didn’t call me out here just to talk about coats, did you?”

  “No,” he admits idly, looking like he’s enjoying his meal. “Mythology, actually. Or fantasy. What do you know about mythical beasts?”

  “Probably about as much as you do,” I try to get my point across while matching his word-play. I at least have a feeling where he’s going now.

  “They asked you to transfer, though,” he drops it. “To offer your expertise, and your relationships, however battered.”

  “I haven’t said yes.”

  “Should you?”

  Ah. “Is that what you wanted to ask me?”

  “Among other things,” he admits. “I’ve been encouraged to invest as well. But I must admit I’m a bit wary of this new joint business venture. What do you think: Is this product worth investing in, Thomas?”

  “I really can’t say.”

  He laughs. “I expect that, in itself, is an answer. I would have thought you would be obligated to sell the product.”

  “As I said, I haven’t accepted any offers.”

  “You should.”

  I almost choke on my kebab.

  “Why?” I ask him, almost accusing.

  “Money,” he returns. “This new project is expensive. I expect budgets will shift, appropriations will dry up.” He looks around to see who’s in earshot, leans in closer. “You should have been a general by now, Thomas. At least a brigadier. But you are not even a full colonel. Why is that?”

  “You know me, Jacob,” I excuse. “Just not that kind of a player.”

  “I do know you, Thomas,” he says with some urgency. “You ju
st rubbed the wrong people.”

  “I haven’t backed down on that.”

  “And you shouldn’t,” he counsels. “You tried to tell them about the—what do you call them?—‘Wab’ dynamic in the beginning, argued against wasting time and blood in Iraq when we should have been playing the cults against each other.”

  “But instead we gave them the one thing that could make the Wabs, the Shia and the Sunnis stop their ancient blood-feuds and band together: a big, ugly, mythic enemy. It took them a long time to remember how much they hate each other.”

  “That’s the Thomas I know,” Sharavi quietly rejoices. “Now, you tell me: Are we headed down the same path again?”

  I don’t answer him right away. He seems to understand my silence. We sit together and finish eating. He gives the waiter cash for the tab.

  “You should take the job, Thomas,” he tells me as he gets up, in way of saying goodbye.

  “You’re still good at making no sense, Jacob,” I return, not sure what to make of him.

  “I make perfect sense, Thomas,” he insists. “You see, I am going to have to say yes to this offer myself—my government is positive enough at least to try, no matter my concerns. I would very much like to have someone I feel I can trust involved in this project, someone on the inside. I’m sure some of our mutual friends—faced with this same offer—would also feel the same. And you do have friends, Thomas. Remember that.”

  I manage to give him back a polite enough smile.

  “I appreciate that, Jacob. It’s just that I’m having a hard time with my trust issues lately.”

  “Good for you.”

  He tips his silly little cap and goes.