Blades of Winter (23 page)

WASHINGTON—White House Press Secretary George Christian reported yesterday that German Chancellor Adenauer has convinced the Red Army Faction to release the American hostages held in Berlin since April of 1966. Mr. Christian also revealed that the German Foreign Trade Ministry will lift their four-year embargo on petroleum shipments to the United States.

The embargo and hostage crisis strained Pan-Atlantic diplomatic relations to—and sometimes beyond—the breaking point. Although the situation seemed intractable, both governments repeatedly stated that they did not want war. The drain on resources and political capital was considerable, especially with the perception that Russia and China were waiting to claim whatever was left after the United States and Germany finished wearing each other down.

Mr. Christian spoke to this idea when he said, “The Germans have gotten as weary of all this as we have.” Since the embargo began four years ago, a brutal undercover war has raged between German and American intelligence agents. Bombings, kidnappings, and shootouts have shattered the peace of Berlin, Paris, London, New York, Washington, and many other German and American cities.

The hostage situation at the American embassy in Berlin led to one of the most high-profile moments of the Shadowstorm when eight U.S. commandos attempted to
rescue the hostages by force. Over seventy people lost their lives, including seven of the assailants. The eighth commando escaped and returned to the United States.

The timing of this announcement couldn’t be worse for the Democratic nominee, Lyndon Johnson. The election is only four days away, and the president’s approval ratings will certainly get a significant boost. With the repeal of the 22nd Amendment it would seem that nothing can keep President Nixon from a third term in the White House.

The rabble on Bleecker Street is the usual bubbling stew of hornswogglers and desperadoes, but today there’s an extra pinch of menace. After you’ve been in the field for a while, you can feel when you’re being followed. It’s sort of a tingling sensation I get. Patrick feels it, too. He comms with his Information Coordinator to confirm that whoever is shadowing us isn’t a friendly.

I try to look backward by examining the reflections in the store windows. I can’t see who’s following, but I do see the two of us. Trick is dressed in white Chuck Taylor sneakers, blue jeans, and a dark blue windbreaker. I’m wearing black Jack Purcell sneakers, black cargo pants, and my birthday present from Cleo: a baby-soft maroon leather jacket with black and white stripes down the sleeves. It’s the best present ever, and I’ve worn it every day since she gave it to me a month ago.

The Front Desk has sent us to Greenwich Village to assist Grey as he sneaks into a CIA office to swipe the name of their Middle East stringer. Trick and I got our final orders at 9 o’clock this morning in Cyrus’s office. We stood behind his guest chairs while he paced back and forth across the floor. He was very brusque and clear that he wanted there to be absolutely—

“No bullshit this time, Scarlet. The last time you were on a Job Number in New York, it was almost my head on a plate.”

“Sure, Cyrus,” I said.

“Don’t you ‘Sure, Cyrus’ me! You say, ‘Yes, sir!’ ”

I gave a little laugh, “You’re kidding, right?”

“No, I’m NOT kidding,” he boomed, “and neither is the Director! Look, Alix, I’ve always gone easy on you because of our history together. As a result, your mission discipline has suffered, which has nearly wrecked your last two Job Numbers.” Cyrus’s eyebrows bump together. “I’ve sweated through a very uncomfortable series of meetings about you, and now is when you learn that shit rolls downhill. You’re a Level 8 Interceptor now, and it’s my job to make sure you act like it!”

“Yes, sir!” I shouted as Trick and I snapped to attention. Technically, we’re supposed to be all spit and polish, but that hardly ever gets enforced because ExOps is such a small agency and we all work so closely together. He must have gotten a ton of flak from upstairs about my promotion.

Cyrus glowered at us for a minute, then finally said, “You’ll go to Manhattan. Grey will do the black bag work. You two will wait at the Hotel Luther next door. If something goes wrong and Grey needs help, you’ll provide security and Info.”

“Yes, sir!” Trick and I both yelled.

“He’s one of my best Infiltrators, so hopefully he won’t need your help at all.” Infiltrators are undercover agents who specialize in stealthiness and other sneaky, non-Alix things. Cyrus sat down, looked at me, and said, “Let’s see if you can do a quiet assignment.” Then he turned his attention to some paperwork on his desk.

I’d already started to leave when Trick commed, “Wait!”

“What?” I commed back.

“He’s testing us, dummy. We haven’t been dismissed. Stand still.” I stood still.

Cyrus looked up, pressed his eyebrows together, and bellowed, “Dismissed! Scram, before I put my foot in your asses!” Trick and I bolted out of Cyrus’s office, cabbed it to Washington National Airport, and hopped a shuttle flight to Idlewild Airport in New York.

Now we’re on Bleecker Street, walking east. Patrick
comms with his IC while I try to catch suspicious reflections in storefront windows. My enhanced hearing is turned up, but there’s so much ambient noise, it doesn’t really help. The evening rush hour is in full swing as all the suburban assholes run their daily race for the commuter train.

“Man, how do they stand it?” I ask Trick.

“Stand what?” he replies distractedly.

“Such predictability!”

Trick isn’t sure what I mean, so he has to look around. “Oh, they’d rather be safe than happy.”

I grunt, and we keep walking. I don’t know how safe these people are. The Russians and the Chinese constantly assault our way of life. They blackmail Washington policy makers, rig elections, create stock market panics, plant fake news stories about pandemics, and kill our covert agents. And this is just from our enemies.

Each pair of allies has some major sticking point they can’t agree on. For the Russians and the Chinese, it’s Mongolia. They’ve been arguing—and sometimes shooting—over it since the war. For the U.S. and the Germans, it’s Europe’s Jews. The talking heads on television insist that institutionalized slavery is un-American. When Cleo hears this, she grumbles at the TV, “Of course it is! But what’s really un-American is that if the German economy weren’t trouncing ours, you jackasses wouldn’t give a shit.” Then she storms out to the kitchen to cool off.

We’re almost to the Bowery. Trick is still looking over his shoulder. “Got her! That chick who just ducked down Mulberry Street.” I tune in as he comms to his IC. “Sir, I saw her. White female, late teens, five foot five, a hundred and ten pounds. She’s got dark hair, dark clothes and big dark sunglasses.”

Clothes can be changed, or simply removed, in only a few seconds. The sunglasses are peculiar. The sky today is blanketed by heavy cloud cover.

Patrick’s boss, Info Coordinator Harbaugh, comms back. “Solomon, be advised that we do not have any
friendlies in the area matching this description. Proceed as though hostile.”

Trick replies, “Yes, sir,” and comms off.

I ask him, “Sunglasses?”

“Yeah, that’s what they looked like.” He tilts his head and purses his lips for a moment the way he does when he’s thinking about something. Then he says, “You know, they might have been bug eyes.”

Bug eyes are really obvious lenses that Protectors use for their optical enhancements. They aren’t trying to fool anyone, so external lenses work fine for them. I pretend to bump into someone so I can glance back over my shoulder. She’s not there. I ask Trick, “Who the fuck tails someone using bug eyes?”

“Someone with really lousy tradecraft,” he says.

We arrive at the Hotel Luther on the Bowery. It’s over some shithole bar called CBGB that stinks like piss and beer from a block away. I’ve read that the neighborhood has tried to close it down, but nobody else would rent a space that’s soaked up almost ten years of puke, so the club keeps reopening in the same spot. We like this area because cops hardly ever patrol here, which allows us to operate pretty freely.

We check in as Mr. and Mrs. Chowder. Patrick is so stupid sometimes. He’s always got to use these asinine names instead of a simple name like Smith. We take the elevator up to the fifteenth floor and our room, number 1517.

We leave the lights out and the shades drawn while we set up our gear. Patrick snoops around and looks for hidden microphones. He’s got a small handheld gadget he points into the corners, at the lights, at the bed. It’s a long shot that the room would be bugged, but Trick is convinced the hotel’s people could be bribed to assign us a particular room. He finishes his sweep and gives me a thumbs-up: “All clear.”

“Any word from Grey?”

Trick shakes his head. “He’ll comm us when he’s finished.”

“Then we go back to D.C.?” I ask.

“Then we see if anything else comes our way.” Trick peeks around the window shade to look across the street.

“You mean Little Miss Bug Eyes out there?”

Trick nods.

After a few moments I ask, “See anyone?”

“Not yet.”

Levels and Info Operators are always the same rank. The IOs don’t have a rank of their own. They inherit the rank of their Level, so there is no real boss. Our decisions are made by consensus. In practice, the IO thinks while the Level acts or, in my case, acts out.

I toss myself on the bed and murmur to Trick, “I know what we can do while we wait.” I turn on a small light next to the bed.

Trick glances over at me. I’m fully clothed, but my pants are snug enough to give him a good view of my ass. He takes a long look and finally tells me, “C’mon, Scarlet, I’ve got to keep an eye out here.”

Hmph
. Using my ExOps handle is his way of saying we can’t fool around on the job.

“Okay, okay.” I turn the light back off. “Should I monitor the hallway?”

“Yeah. I’ll keep an eye out the window.” Patrick puts on his starlight goggles. His modified eyes can record video, like mine, but to see in the dark he needs external equipment. I lie on the bed with my eyes closed and my hearing turned up so I can pick out every sound on the entire hotel floor. I hear the floor above, too: people coughing, crapping, snoring. Very sexy, dynamic work. I zing myself a little Madrenaline to help me stay focused.

After a couple of hours I get up to use the bathroom. When I come out, I’m ready to start bitching about where the heck is Grey, but Trick has his hand in the air. Something’s cooking. I tiptoe over to him.

He leans back from the window and comms, “Grey is in the office.”

I peek around the window shade and turn on my night vision. Next to our hotel is a seven-story turn-of-the-century office building. There are lots of carved stone knobbies and blobbies all up and down the thing. A CIA team works out of there, including the case officer who runs the Middle Eastern stringer Chanez wants us to meet.

We watch to see if we can catch a glimpse of Grey. I’ve never met the sneaky bugger, but that’s not uncommon at ExOps. Infiltrator missions can take years, and even when they’re between assignments most Infiltrators prefer to stay away from the office. They like to maintain as much anonymity as possible. Sounds pretty lonely if you ask me.

We peer through the gloomy New York night. We can’t see Grey, but Patrick spots something else. “What’s that, on the roof across the alley?”

The ornately facaded roof is a half story lower than our room. I see a huddled shape over there. I switch to infrared. Bingo! It’s warm and person-sized.

I lean over to Trick. “Should I go nab ’em?”

Trick comms, “No, not until we get the all-clear from—”

Just then Grey comms in to both of us. “Grey to Scarlet and Solomon. I got it. Thanks. Out.”

Trick comms back to Grey, “Roger that. Out.” Then to me, “Well, that’s done. Let’s see who our secret admirer is over there.”