by P A Duncan
“You haven’t said much about the after-action report,” he said.
“Not much to say.”
“You gave the mercy plea a good try.”
She shrugged and ate some of her salmon. “I struck a side deal with Sheryl Vejar. A personal, private one.”
“For what?”
“Updates on Carroll’s incarceration.”
“You think after some time in jail, he might take you up on your original offer?”
She said nothing and continued to eat.
“Do I want to know what the deal was?” he asked.
“Probably not.”
“You’ve not seen him, have you?”
“Not yet.”
“Don’t. Ever.”
“Eventually. I hope you understand why I have to.”
“I don’t understand, but when you’re ready, let me know. I’ll go with you.”
The wine glass paused on the way to her mouth.
“I don’t care if I ever lay eyes on him again, but if you’re subjecting yourself to him, I’m here for you,” he said.
“That was…”
“Incredibly supportive?”
“Yes, but I sense a dig in there somewhere. We left something out of the after-action report.”
“I can’t imagine what.”
She turned toward him. “A couple of fifty caliber, military-issue, sniper rifle casings and Elijah’s real name.”
“Ah, I have plans for the shell casings.” Alexei leaned toward her, his lips at her ear. “In a few years, when the people who hid the truth think no one remembers or cares, I’ll see they come to light.”
“How?”
“A couple should have some secrets. Intensifies the sex.”
“As long as I know they won’t go to waste.”
“As for Elijah—”
“Taylor Cox.”
“We got nothing from interviewing his family. Grace is still searching the scant clues I gave her about the Patriot City trainees. Unfortunately, this will play out over time. We’ll have to exercise that quality you sometimes lack.”
“Patience.”
Alexei kissed her neck and felt her pulse race. He sat back in his chair and raised his wine glass to her. “To justice,” he said, and they touched glasses.
“To us,” she replied.
Such sentimentality touched him. Per Russian custom, they left the third toast unspoken.
“What did you meet with Nelson about this morning?” Mai asked.
“We’re both back on duty.”
“You’re far from ready for another mission.”
“True, which is why I’ll be office-bound. After dinner, we go home and pack for the Balkans.”
“From one scene of failure to another.”
“I’ve only said this about a hundred times. We didn’t fail. The government didn’t listen to us. This will be a quiet mission in a U.N. safe area. Srebrenica. Officially, you’ll observe while I serve as Nelson’s liaison in Zagreb until I’m ready for some field work. Unofficially, you’ll be gathering intel on Serbian troop movements.”
“And the purpose of all this observing and liaising?”
“If the upcoming peace talks go well, we’ll be laying the groundwork for sending in a U.S.-led peacekeeping force.”
“President Randolph sending troops to the former Yugoslavia the year before his reelection campaign? Hah!”
“How does an election-eve pull-out sound?”
“Cynical. Calculating. Manipulative…” Her voice trailed off, and she grew thoughtful. “That dissembling bastard.”
“What?”
Mai said, “They let this happen for political gain.”
“Mai, cynical Russian that I am, even I don’t believe the government allowed a federal building to be destroyed with such loss of life for transient political gain.”
“What makes this government any different?”
“Do you want another tutorial on checks and balances?”
“Not really.”
“The government wouldn’t do it, but others might.”
“Nelson’s mysterious cabal of powerful men?”
“He decided ‘mysterious cabal of powerful men’ was too long-winded. He now calls them Alt-Right, but that’s classified.”
She drank more wine. “You’re probably correct.”
“Probably?”
“I’m the cynic now. Remember?”
He finished the excellent steak, for which he’d used the excuse of needing red meat to fortify his blood. Mai had pretended to be disappointed he hadn’t ordered oysters.
“I’m glad this mission is done,” he said.
“I’m not crazy. You’re not dead. We’re about to go do what we do best. Make a difference.”
Alexei poured the last of the wine into their glasses and signaled the waiter for the check.
“One thing about Yugoslavia I don’t look forward to,” Mai said.
Alexei frowned; plenty of skeletons in that closet, mainly a baby who died before she could be born.
“What’s that?” he asked, fearing her answer.
“That damned Smurf-blue U.N. headgear gives me helmet hair.”
Alexei laughed with genuine joy. She no longer carried any of John Carroll’s darkness in her head. This afternoon, at least.
70
Alt-Right
Ruidosa Resort
Ruidosa, Texas
July 1995
Their afternoon of hunting complete, the men entered the dining room. At the bar, they chatted about who’d gotten trophies—heads to be mounted for offices and dens—and who hadn’t. The Chief Justice and one Associate Justice both got twelve-point bucks. The other Associate Justice had shot a few quail.
Fullerton Specialties’ CEO was the group’s unofficial chairman, and he’d scored an impressive number of birds. He’d posed with the mound of feathered corpses for a photo. His hunt had significantly decreased the flock. Ruidosa would have to work hard to get the quail population back to capacity before the next quarterly meeting.
Fullerton’s CEO brought his glass of Scotch to the head of the long table and sat, a signal to the others. He watched some of America’s most influential businessmen, politicians, and jurists take their seats. Men only. Even the servers were all male. The women came later; high-end escorts, free to any man for the weekend. Until it was time to satisfy carnal appetites, the women stayed out of sight. The CEO wished that were so in the everyday world. In the company of men, you didn’t have to worry about offending anyone and didn’t have to listen to perpetual whining for equal rights.
The Chief Justice sat at the CEO’s right, flanked by the two Associate Justices. One of them was the only black face in the room, a necessary evil. He was the only person of color within miles. All the Ruidosa staff were also white, as were most of the escorts, except for members who preferred dark women. The black Associate Justice always asked for a white woman. The CEO’s blood boiled at that, but what happened at Ruidosa stayed here. At least that filthy liaison would happen behind closed doors.
A waiter put the CEO’s dinner before him first and whipped away the cover with a flourish. A five-inch thick filet mignon, so rare it oozed blood. A one-pound lobster tail, melted butter for dipping. A baked potato the size of a man’s shoe, slit and stuffed with butter, sour cream, real bacon crumbles, and chives. Not a vegetable in sight. The CEO’s cardiologist would have a fucking fit if he saw the meal, but the CEO’s mouth had been watering for this for weeks.
The CEO nodded his approval of the dinner, and the remainder of the service staff placed the other plates. A bottle of red wine for each man, and later they could choose from five dessert offerings: triple chocolate cake, cheesecake, cannoli, Baked Alaska, or a sundae made with a large brownie, homemade ice cream, chocolate ganache, heavy whipped cream, and Maraschino cherries.
The CEO let them eat for a full five minutes and called the meeting to order.
“The first item of busi
ness,” he said. “John Thomas Carroll, the Kansas City, Missouri, bomber. The government is moving forward with a trial.”
“Trial?” said the popular televangelist from Virginia. “I thought he was going to be attacked by another inmate and killed.”
A former Attorney General spoke, “My contacts tell me he’s in virtual isolation at a military base, guarded by special forces.”
The CEO said, “One of them must be bribable.”
The ex-Attorney General replied, “The U.S. Marshals, the FBI, the Bureau of Prisons are overseeing it. It’s an impenetrable barrier.”
“We need to work on that,” the CEO said. “If he decides to talk, it’ll be a fucking disaster.”
“He was carefully vetted by our, uh, late German associate,” the ex-Attorney General said. “He won’t talk.”
“We can’t be sure,” the CEO said. “Keep looking into it. Maybe Security Solutions can find a way. Good work, though, on the Fitzgerald fellow.”
The ex-Attorney General laid his utensils down and took a long drink of wine before he responded. “That wasn’t us.”
The CEO said, “That was the scenario we discussed.”
“It appears he did it himself.”
“Who gives a fuck how it got done? It’s done.”
“Why did we get rid of him?” asked the black Associate Justice.
Everyone gave him a hard stare, and the CEO made a mental note to remind the Chief Justice the asshole wasn’t supposed to speak.
The ex-Attorney General explained, “He was a leak risk.”
“I thought we gave him a job at Security Solutions,” the Associate Justice said.
The CEO squinted at the black man. “We did; however, he thought he was due more. We couldn’t risk a case of sour grapes.”
The CEO gave the Chief Justice a pointed look. The Chief Justice whispered something in the Associate Justice’s ear, and he focused on his meal. In silence.
The CEO said, “What about Prophet? Who’s heard from him?”
“I haven’t, sir,” said the televangelist. “I’ve tried all the usual methods to contact him, but nothing.”
The ex-Attorney General said, “I have a substantiated report of a shot being fired before the bomb detonated. We know Prophet was in the truck.”
“The bomber shot him?” the CEO asked.
“No, an unsub,” said the ex-Attorney General.
“Could it have been the U.N. people Fitzgerald told us about?”
“From what I’ve been able to discover, the man was close enough to have been badly injured. The woman was several blocks away. It’s hard to say, but the man, at least, is a possibility. We have a leg in government custody that hasn’t been matched to a dead body or a survivor, a leg inside camouflage BDUs. It might be Prophet’s.”
“Confirm that,” the CEO said.
“How?” asked the televangelist.
“We know where he sent his women. DNA test one of his bastards and get it compared. Report at the next quarterly meeting,” the CEO said. “Next item on the agenda. Who will we run against Randolph next year? I’m open to suggestions.”
Members tossed out several names, and the group discussed the merits of each. None pleased the CEO; none were likely to beat Randolph. No matter. He had a contingency plan involving a woman, a young one. Randolph couldn’t keep his dick in his pants. A scandal, an impeachment perhaps, and the public would tire of Democrats in the White House.
Beyond that, the CEO had a long-term plan, one to get Gordon Arbust, Jr., the dimwit son of the last Republican president, elected in 2000. The CEO would make certain he’d be Arbust Jr.’s running mate. From the White House he could advance this group’s agenda. The CEO got hard thinking about it.
As a waiter lit his cigar—his cardiologist would have a heart attack if he knew—the CEO thought about how Fullerton Specialties would benefit from the government contracts he’d steer its way.
He waved off dessert. He was ready to fuck.
EPILOGUE
Invictus
June 11, 2001
Terre Haute, Indiana
Will I dream?”
“Where have I heard that before?” Mai Fisher asked.
“Come on,” John Carroll said. “You know that. It’s from a movie.”
“Oh, yes, I have time to go to so many of those.”
To have something other than the obvious to discuss, he’d tell her the upcoming movies on the few channels the prison allowed the inmates to view. He’d pick one and watch from his cell while she watched at home. At her next visit, they’d discuss it.
“We watched it in the past two months,” he said.
“I’m thinking.”
“Yeah, not a lot of time to spare. It was 2010.”
“Ah, yes, at the end, when Dr. Chandra convinces the HAL 9000 to perform the burn to send the spaceship back to earth.”
“Right. The others think HAL will repeat his mad computer thing. Chandra trusts him and tells him the truth. HAL accepts his fate and asks if he’ll dream. So, will I?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you find out?”
The fifteen cc of sodium tripentothal two percent solution delivered over ten seconds would render him unconscious almost immediately. In that chemically induced sleep, what dreams may come?
One minute after the sodium tripentothal, fifteen ccs of pancuronium bromide, also administered over ten seconds, would collapse his diaphragm and lungs. Fifteen ccs of potassium chloride would stop his heart. The last of his oxygenized blood wouldn’t reach his brain.
Two minutes after that, the procedure would be declared complete, but the brain might have enough oxygen to function for four to six more minutes. With no heart to keep beating, no lungs to inflate, it might be longer. He would be unconscious, though.
“I doubt anyone has researched that,” Mai said. “The pool of subjects is small.”
“I remember this from high school world history. During the French Revolution, when all the royals got guillotined, sometimes their mouths would move after the head came off.”
“That was more an autonomic reflex.”
“What happens if they put me to sleep and I start dreaming and it’s, you know, a sex dream?”
“The sedatives will relax all of you.”
His smile was affectionate. “Never could get a rise out of you,” he said. The smile faded, replaced by detachment. “How long before you go?”
“The clock’s over there,” Mai replied.
“I know. The clock tells a harsh truth, like, fifteen minutes, twenty minutes. You’ll say, a quarter hour. So, how long?”
Mai heard the soft ticks as the sweep hand touched on each second. How did it feel to know what remained of your life was a finite number of seconds? She wanted her death to be a swift surprise, no time to think, no time to prepare. She certainly didn’t want to sit in a windowless room and wait for it.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Seconds off a life. How many left? She looked at the clock and did the rough math. Fewer than eight thousand seconds.
A headache began at her temples, and she pressed the fingers of one hand there.
“You okay?” Carroll asked.
What a stupid, fucking question, she thought; I’m sitting across from a man who’ll walk into a room, lie down on a bed, and remain calm while someone pumps poison into his bloodstream.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“Death is always harder on those left behind.”
“Now, you think of that. Sometimes life is harder.”
“Yeah, but I’ll have it a lot easier soon.”
The quiet sounds, his unwavering acceptance unnerved her. The ticking clock. His calm breathing. Her rapid pulse. The sounds of death in waiting. Mai caught the guards looking into the room through the small observation window. Their faces were serene, their eyes alert. One raised an eyebrow, asking if anything was wrong. She shook her head.
They were the same guards who’d escort John Tho
mas Carroll to the execution suite.
Suite? That made it sound like accommodations at the Ritz. The politically incorrect term, death chamber, was more apt. No. The killing room. Yes, that’s what it was.
The guards should be glad they weren’t coming for her. She’d kick, scream, clench her muscles so they couldn’t get the needles in. They’d have to chain her down to kill her.
That was why they sedated people before killing them.
“Siobhan?” Carroll said, forceful.
She realized he’d called the name he knew her by several times.
“Don’t ask me again if I’m all right,” she said.
His eyes went steely. Good, she thought, get pissed, get raging mad. Don’t go quietly into death.
All the boyishness she’d known had left his face, removed by six years in prison. Before, he’d had the sheen of outdoors on his skin, a light tan, a smattering of freckles. The years spent indoors had left him gray and pasty, except for the brilliant blue of his eyes. He’d fasted off and on the past few weeks, and his cheek bones were chiseled. He hadn’t shaved for several days, and when he’d had his last haircut two weeks before, he’d had the prison barber shave his head. The stubble on his face blended with the stubble on his head, and the dark circles beneath his eyes—because he’d also forsworn sleep—made him look old and tired.
As a child, she’d seen pictures of liberated concentration camps. As an adult, she’d found Serb prison camps and seen the same hollow eyes, parchment-like skin, and dismal acceptance of one’s fate.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m concerned.”
“Don’t be. I’m fine.”
In his smile, she saw both the spark of the man he’d been and acceptance he was a walking corpse. If he accepted that, she should.
“So, back to the dreaming thing,” Carroll said. “When the pentathol hits, I’ll remember that night in the bar when we danced.”
Some religious fanatic once said dancing was sex standing up. An apt description of that night. She smiled back at him. “Then, pentathol or no, you’ll die with a hard-on.”