Gun Metal Heart (38 page)

Mostly they occurred amid a smog of confusion. It was days, and sometimes weeks or months, before some of them became clear. Some never did.

*   *   *

At the Parliament building, terrorism was the first and most obvious theory regarding the explosion and fire in the foreign minister's office.

But building guards reported that Dragan Petrovic had arrived alone that night, although he'd been scheduled down the street at the American soiree. He had been obviously drunk. No other bodies were found in the burned-out office.

Investigators reluctantly began to believe that Petrovic himself had delivered a bomb, which went off prematurely. Further investigations turned up direct links between Petrovic and the dreaded
Skorpjo
gang.

*   *   *

Right-wing Web blogs and anti-immigration TV stations from Montenegro north to Estonia broadcast a live announcement from a member of the Illyrian Party of Bosnia-Herzegovina. Professor Zoran Antic claimed the attack on the Serbian Parliament was the work of American strikes similar to the illegal and internationally denounced ones in Pakistan, Sudan, and Libya.

The professor gave a rousing, barn-burning speech from the grounds of the U.S. ambassador's residence, urging anti-Western and pro-Slavic forces to rise to the defense of their Serbian brethren. The speech was all the more moving since Antic had been a foe of the Serbs during the civil war and had suffered under their four-year bombardment of Sarajevo.

But then, amazingly, the old man kept talking. Dozens of hidden supporters were posting the speech live on YouTube. They watched as Antic sat in a chair with the brown-haired man he'd just accused of being a CIA spy and laid out his true intentions, his Fascist roots, and his anti-Semitism in excruciating details. He then shook the man's hand, conspiratorially.

In country after country, groups calling themselves the Illyrian League popped up. Often within hours of Antic's live broadcast. Throughout the western and southern boundaries of the old Soviet Union a new coalition quickly formed in opposition to American aggression.

But as quickly as it rose, it also was hindered by the bizarre and inexplicable story of Zoran Antic, and by the lack of any drones being found in Belgrade. While the notion of an Illyrian League spread quickly, most of its leaders soon distanced themselves from the seventy-year-old Bosnian. Political scientists would spend the next year studying the seismic impact of the new movement. But the name Zoran Antic quickly faded into obscurity.

He died ten months later of heart failure.

Despite the rocky start, the political movement was huge, secretly well organized, and it caught Western observers unawares. It was being compared to the Arab Spring. It was, in the parlance of State, a Black Swan event.

*   *   *

The brown-haired man sitting with Zoran Antic on the live speech was identified as a John Broom, an adviser for the International Red Cross Subcommittee on Refugees. The Central Intelligence Agency took the unusual step of identifying John not as a CIA agent but as a lawyer and analyst who had worked for the agency but who had resigned the previous year.

Red Cross officials confirmed John's identity. His name appeared quite a bit in the first two days of the crisis, sporadically by the third day, and not at all by the fourth day.

He dropped out of the limelight.

At American Citadel LLC, teams from Homeland Security investigated the entire board of directors and a tier of top administrators. Charges likely were drawn up, but a shroud of national security secrecy fell over the entire incident. Rumors had it that members of the board, and one of the board's top salesmen, Todd Brevidge, were relocated to Guantánamo Bay, Cuba.

The R&D offsite facility in Sandpoint, Idaho, was closed down. Every stick of furniture was removed. The computers were degaussed, then recycled for spare parts.

A tech named Bryan Snow was interviewed. Then interviewed again. And again. It soon became clear he had been the brains behind the micro-drones.

He was not transferred to Guantánamo. He was offered a job.

By the fall, reports began to seep in from Pakistan's Hindu Kush region and western Waziristan regarding new, quiet micro-drones that had begun targeting Al Qaeda and Taliban forces.

The U.S. Department of Defense denied any knowledge of these new drones.

*   *   *

A court-martial tribunal was scheduled for General Howard Cathcart and Colonel Olivia Crace.

But both died in an auto accident in Washington, D.C., when the car they were riding in slid into Rock Creek Park and burst into flames.

No one on the Joint Chiefs of Staff was ever connected to the American Citadel incident.

 

Fifty-One

The day after the fight in the Chinese embassy, Daria Gibron woke up in a farmhouse.

She lay in a huge, downy bed, beneath a comforter. The walls were white, the molding a faint and pleasant mint, the bed enormous, the sheets cheap but clean and thoroughly starched.

She could hear farm implements in the fields. Someone was plowing. She could smell overturned earth. She'd read somewhere that farmers actually like the aroma of turned earth. To her, the smell meant foxholes or funerals.

She tried to rise and broken ribs disabused her of the notion. She felt her face with her fingertips. Bandages overlapped above, beside, and below her left eye, in a C-shape. They felt fresh and dry. Her right shoulder was bandaged and almost immobile.

She drifted back to sleep.

She had no nightmares about being a child buried in a crumbling building. She had just clawed herself out of yet another such building.

For now, at least, the nightmares were satisfied.

*   *   *

She awoke after the sun had set and come up again. She was beyond thirsty. John Broom sat in a chair. He was framed by the bedroom window, in a rocking chair, reading a document.

Daria licked cracked lips and dredged up some saliva. “Hallo, John.”

John got her water. He also made her swallow pain pills, although swallowing was torture. He didn't say much. Daria must have slept again, because the next thing she realized, John had produced a powder-blue electric kettle, a mug, and a little jar of bullion cubes and made her a steaming cup of beef broth.

He helped her sit up, and Daria took the mug of soup gratefully.

“What were you reading?”

John glanced at the rocking chair. “The owner's manual for a water heater. It's the only thing in English. I was bored.”

She sipped the warm broth.

“Our rescuers?”

“The American guy wants to talk to you. Can I ask him to come up?”

Daria didn't laugh, because that would have hurt like hell. She thought,
Lady Gibron will see you now.
“Please.”

John left, and Daria waited. The broth tasted heavenly. She scanned the room for makeshift weapons, but the clock radio and reading lamp had been moved away from the bed. She looked straight up. A framed print hung over her head. Jesus dangled on the cross, upside down from her perspective, palm and foot wounds bleeding upward. She reached up with her good arm and touched the image. She felt cheap canvas under her fingertips. No glass to turn into a makeshift blade. The Black Harts had a good eye for detail.

The smiling American entered with John. He'd changed into jeans and a navy sweater. He wore clothes exceptionally well and moved like a dancer. He didn't look anything like an Australian surfer dude, and he didn't look anything like a Slavic professional soldier, but he'd totally fooled Daria both times they'd met.

He wore his blond hair longish and swept back in the style of another era. He had wicked blue eyes and a mischievous grin. He looked like a boy getting away with something.

Daria said, “Mercer Gaudette.”

“Gracious,” he drawled. “Reputations, preceeding and otherwise. Miss Gibron? A pleasure.” He shook her hand.

John Broom said. “What am I missing? You said something about black hearts?”

“Hart.” Daria said. “Like the deer. There's a bar called the Black Hart. It's where you go if you want to hire—”

Mercer jumped in. “—a support group for people suffering from, ah, possessive-compulsive disorder.”

John laughed. “Thieves?”

Mercer sniffed. “Gauche.” He turned to Daria but nodded toward John. “May I…?”

Daria sipped her broth. “He's with me.”

John reacted to that but pretended not to.

“Lucky boy. The Viking hired us. Old Freddie felt sorta bad about getting both you and Viorica into Serbia. He hired us in to watch you gals. And to throw you a lifeline, if it came to that. But not to interfere.”

John said, “He sent thieves?”

Mercer winked at him. “He sent folks who specialize in the art of the egress, Mr. Broom.”

Daria mulled that over. “Fair enough. And Diego?”

“Bleeding internally. Sally—you remember Sally?” Daria nodded, thinking of the woman in the battle tank with the strawberry blond hair. “She's as close to a doc as we got, which ain't enough. She got your guy stabilized. Gian stole a plane and flew him to Stuttgart. Fredrik had transport awaitin' there.”

John said, “Gian being your other guy?”

Mercer said, “I can neither confirm nor deny…”

John moved toward the door. “Okay, okay. I'm getting coffee.” He turned to Daria. “Are you alright?”

Daria nodded. John stepped out.

Mercer Gaudette watched him leave, then sighed theatrically. “Any chance he's…?”

“Straight.”

Mercer made a show of snapping his fingers. “Shucks. Anyway, military's hunting you. Those
Skorpjo
gentlemen, too.”

Daria said, “What now?”

“Sally and I take a train south to Greece. You and the Dreamboat stay here another forty-eight hours for that concussion of yours. Got a nice stolen car out front, with passable fake papers. You two drive north, across the border into Hungary. There's a hospital in Prague with orders to take you in and to ask no questions. Fredrik's paying up front. He'll bill you later. It'll be ridiculously exorbitant.”

“Good to know. And my bill for your services? I like to put ‘paid' to my debts.”

Mercer laughed. “You'll owe us one, Miss Gibron. Got a feeling that could come in handy someday.”

He took her hand, kissed her knuckle.

John returned with a steaming mug of coffee. Mercer checked John's ass in passing,
tsked
in disappointment, and left.

John whistled. “Wowza.”

“Indeed.” Daria set down her soup. “He said there's a stolen car out front.”

“There's a Renault, yeah.”

“As soon as they leave, so do we.”

“You're concussed. We—”

“We'd best be gone, John.”

“Don't trust him?”

Daria winked at him. “Do you?”

 

Fifty-Two

The Hungarian countryside bustled with massive farm machinery in fields to the left and to the right of the M5 highway. Neither Daria nor John came from farming stock, and neither could identify the massive combines. Getting through the border had been harrowing, and the queue agonizingly long. But they did get through. John turned the Renault north toward Kecskemet and, beyond, Budapest.

It was a fine July day with few feathering clouds in the sky. Daria wore new cargo trousers and a light, horizontally striped sweater, and suede moccasins with no socks. The mysterious Sally had provided a first-aid kit for Daria and a generic carryall with a few changes of clothing for both of them.

Her only other possession—right then and right there—was a roll of stretchy black Lycra that John handed her when they climbed into the car. “You had this on you. When we found you in Belgrade.”

Daria held the roll a moment, then let it unfurl. A hammered steel tube fell into her other palm. Six inches long, it was oxblood red. A stud bulged near one end, but only slightly raised. If you weren't looking for it, you'd miss it.

John said, “Looks old.”

“I think it is.”

She depressed it with the pad of her thumb. A steel stiletto, six inches long, popped straight out of the handle. Tapered to a point, with two razor-sharp edges. She held it gingerly and flexed it. The metal held firm.

She touched the stud and the bayonet-style blade evaporated as if by a conjurer's decree.

John said, “Yikes.”

Daria said, “Indeed. Now, all I need are sunglasses.”

“What kind of sunglasses?”

She blinked at him a moment.

“Right. Expensive. Hold on.”

Twenty minutes into the drive, John stopped at a highway
benzinkut
, a combination gas station, market, coffee shop, and car wash. John returned with a bottled water for her, a lidded coffee for himself, and an oversized pair of shades that, truly, weren't that terrible given that they were in rural Hungary and not on the rue de Rivoli. She slid them on, lowered the sunshade, and checked the mirror. With her curtain of straight black hair, the facial bandages were nicely hidden.

“Not bad, Mr. Broom.”

“You're not the first girl I've shopped for.” He nestled his coffee in the cup holder, adjusted his safety belt, and pulled back into the highway.

“We left Belgrade too fast to pick up your bags,” he observed, blending into the traffic.

“I haven't any.” Daria tilted the seat back and rolled down her window, smiling as Hungary whipped by.

“Whatever happened to your condo in LA?”

She looked a bit startled. “You know, I never inquired.”

“What did you have with you in Italy?”

“A duffel bag, some clothes. Some credit and debit cards.”

“Where are they now?”

“A bordello.”

“Ask a stupid question…”

They veered northwest toward Ocsa and Dunaharaszti. Traffic picked up—more family cars, fewer cross-border freight haulers. Massive, asymmetrical hayricks stood like tribal huts in fields.