Authors: Michael Crow
“They were quite clever about it, actually. Amassed fortunes, the two of them, never once coming under suspicion. They grew so bold they decided they could do business on their own, eliminating the mafia middlemen. Naturally the ex-KGB laddies disapproved. Naturally they made some threatening gestures. But Bolgakov and Tchitcherine well and truly slipped the leash. They had Spetsnaz squads attached to their regiments for security. It cost them almost nothing to get some of these boyos
to eliminate most of the KGBers. They were then in position to present themselves directly to interested businessmen. So when our own Mister Kim happens along—”
“I think that should wrap it up, Nadya,” Westley interrupts. If he’s decided she was about to go too far, he keeps it well hidden. If she’s wondering why she’s been cut off, she doesn’t let it show. But I get this sudden sense that everyone at the briefing is focused on me, wondering if this contract wetboy has the brains to make certain connections he was never supposed to make. Concerning Kim, and what exactly he might be getting from the Russians and selling to the Pyongyang gang. I try to look as bored and stupid as possible.
Westley moves briskly on to the big picture.
“Possible threats this trip. Number one, the Russians. Bolgakov and Tchitcherine may double-cross Kim. Or other Russians—unknown at the moment, but we’re looking into it—may want to screw our generals, and Mister Kim may be caught in the cross fire,” he says.
“Number two, radical right-wing South Koreans who oppose any dealings with the North. Two separate groups of these, groups with the capabilities and motivation to strike at Mister Kim, have been ID’d and are under our scrutiny.
“There is the Chinese government. Very fluid situation with them. They’ve been alarmed that North Korea’s crashing economy could make the state dangerously unstable, which is why they’ve allowed Kim and others to deal through China. On the other hand, they fear a strong North. They want a dependent client state as their neighbor. So they’re watching every North-South connection very carefully. But only watching at this point.
“Finally, the Pyongyang Four. They may turn on Kim, though it would not be in their self-interest to do so.
“So my conclusion is this: A strike at Kim is possible in
Busan, by the right-wingers. But being Kim’s home turf, that’s also where security is easiest and best. In Pyongyang, worst case is they aren’t satisfied with Kim’s product and send him home. Vladivostok is the hot zone. If anything is going to happen, it will be in Vlad. Any of the threats could strike in Vlad. We must be most alert there.”
No shit, you empty suit.
“HEY! BIRDBONES, THERE! YOU THE INFAMOUS LUTHER
Ewing, or some goddamned impersonator?” comes booming across the Dupont Circle park, a boot-camp voice but unique as a fingerprint.
“Who the hell is that?” Allison mutters hurriedly as we stop our run and watch the massive, slope-shouldered figure of Rhino moving toward us in his distinctive rolling walk.
“Christ! My former Special Forces boss. Now with Defense Intelligence. How do we play it?”
“By ear, I guess, but straight as we can,” she says.
“It
is
the infamous Ewing, by God,” Rhino bellows from ten meters off and closing fast. “What the hell you doing here, off the reservation?”
“Uh, jogging, Rhino. What’s it look like?” I say. “What the hell are
you
doing here? In a suit? With a briefcase?”
“You damned well know. Going to my goddamn office. They make you put the uniform in mothballs after thirty years. And the DIA has a dress code.”
“Great to see you, Rhino. Been too many years. But
you haven’t changed at all. Well, maybe some gut expansion, but what the hell.”
“You’re the same, too, you skinny little low-life,” he says, nodding toward Allison. “You still have no clue about basic social graces.”
“Oh, right. Allison, this is Colonel Clarke. Colonel, this is my friend Allison.”
“Glad to meet you, Allison,” Rhino says, burying her hand in his for a moment. “I can see why Luther comes down here from Baltimore to visit you. But, if you’ll pardon my bluntness, why would a lovely young woman like yourself want him to?”
“Low blow!” I say. Allison laughs.
“So, I guess I don’t need to ask how you’re keeping, judging from your fine company here,” Rhino says. “You still playing cop or what?”
“Sure.”
“Too bad. A gross misuse of natural talents.”
“Speaking of gross misuse, you still playing spook?”
“Semi-spook. Mainly I’m a fat bureaucrat, deskbound, drinking bad coffee out of paper cups. I’m too old, too slow for the field. So they say.”
“Must be true, if ‘they’ say it.”
“True believers never need facts, Luther. They hate ’em. Facts are nasty, troublesome little bastards. You of all people know about that.”
“Guess I do, Rhino. Hey, hear much from any of the team?”
“People keep in touch. Some are still in, mainly doing their thing east of Suez,” he says, glancing at Allison. “Uh, how detailed can I get here, Luther?”
“Allison?”
“Whatever you’re comfortable with, Colonel,” she says. “I’m in your line of work. Different branch, but highest clearance.”
“Yeah, it’s true, Rhino. Gives her the perfect excuse to say, ‘That’s classified,’ when I ask ‘How was your day, honey?’ So what about Rat, Klein, Rudy, any of that bunch?”
“Rat and Rudy are in northern Iraq, Kurdling. Those two, they always loved going native. Klein, the scumbag, didn’t re-up when his last enlistment ran out. He went into private security, Blackwell’s or some outfit. I hear he’s in Iraq, too, baby-sitting Haliburton execs. Some useless shit like that.”
“Must be big bucks in useless, then.”
“Bigger than we’ll ever see, that’s certain.”
“Whatever happened to Gassel and Cardello? You got a line on them?”
“Gassel” is Westley and “Cardello” is Allison in the crude code I laid out in my letter to Rhino more than two weeks ago, the letter that begged for this meeting in this place—because it would appear so unexpected and open Allison wouldn’t clue to the fact that it was arranged.
“They’re still the odd couple, still perfecting the love-hate thing, still inseparable. But we don’t want to bore the lady, do we?”
“Go right ahead, Colonel,” Allison says. “I’ve developed a tolerance, hanging out with Luther.”
“Outstanding.” Rhino laughs. “Okay. It’s funny you should mention those two in particular, Luther, because one of my guys just came back from Colombia and damned if he didn’t run into them. They sent regards. Then just yesterday I heard from someone else that Gassel’s out on the hairy edge again. He’s actually made solid connections with a couple of FARC narco-revolutionary
jefes
.”
That’s the code for the Russian generals. “Neat coup,” I say. “Good for him.”
“Maybe not,” Rhino says, shaking his head. “This is hearsay. Pretty solid source, but still hearsay. On the surface, it’s a simple, sanctioned, mutually beneficial arrangement. But hiding behind that, Gassel’s stepping outside the usual chain of command. And Cardello doesn’t know it. Worse, it’s rumored he’s using Cardello as a cutout for an unsanctioned side agenda. Any goat-fuck develops, Cardello takes the heat. And some other players may fall hard.”
“Oh man, Gassel wouldn’t do that. Not to Cardello. He couldn’t. It’s too shitty even for him.”
“Deeply and truly shitty. That’s my thought, too. Gassel’s long service, lives and dies by the rule book. But my guy seemed pretty certain. And I gotta admit, Gassel’s take on the rules was always very, say, elastic?”
“Like big rubber bands. He’s lucky none ever snapped back, took out an eye or something. But he never put a buddy in jeopardy, and this sounds like a super-stretch. Hope this is a misread by your source.”
“Who knows? If I was certain, I’d have to rat Gassel out, old teammate or not. Guess we’ll have to wait and see,” Rhino says. Then he looks at his watch. “Shit, Luther, I got a clock to punch, can you believe that? But listen up. If you don’t call me next time you’re here and let me buy you the decent dinner you sure look like you could use, I’m gonna hunt you down and kill you.”
“Hoo-ah, Colonel Rhino, sir. Sergeant Ewing will phone the colonel as ordered,” I say, shaking hands.
“See that you do. Meantime, watch your step and make sure your back is covered.”
“Always do.”
“So long, then, Luther. Nice meeting you, Allison. Maybe you’ll join us for that dinner if Luther and I swear to God we won’t fall into miserable, maudlin reminisence?”
“Could be. Bye, Colonel,” she says. We watch Rhino roll off in his too-tight suit, looking nothing like the smartest, toughest special operator I ever encountered. Then I turn and resume running. Allison’s by my side in two strides. “So that was really your commander?” she asks.
“Yeah, and my mentor. He invested a lot in me. Kept saying I’d make major by thirty. Then Desert Storm breaks just before I’m due to ship out to OCS. My ticket gets punched for Kuwait instead. Hurt him a lot when I fucked up in Iraq and got discharged. Hurts me to remember that. So we stay in touch, but never mention it. But it’s been two, maybe three years since I’ve seen him in the flesh. Is Massachusetts Avenue near here?”
“Yeah, it runs right into the Circle. Why?”
“He lives on Massachusetts. Moved there when he left the army, joined the DIA. We send each other Christmas cards, phone every once in while. It felt kind of strange, bumping into him now. But since he lives nearby, hey. It happens.”
“It’s almost stranger it hasn’t happened before, Terry,” Allison says. “Considering we’ve been circling this park every morning for months.”
“That long? God, I’ve lost track.”
“That long.”
The address is for real, in case Allison decides to check it out. But I don’t think she will. And I doubt she’ll ever know Rhino’s tip, vague as it seemed, is something I can use to protect my ass. And maybe hers too. If I decide to.
Another week of discussions drags by, the only new thing being that Westley stops attending midway. There’s a lightening of the atmosphere in the spook house once he’s gone, as if someone opened all the windows. But I
still feel we’re overpreparing, dulling our edge instead of honing it. Everybody’s tensing, tempers are shortening.
Allison must feel something similar, because she starts thinking like a leader whose team is showing some stress fissures. She decides we need some R&R. All together, to get back together. She decides this shortly after Westley’s vanished.
“Dinner? Then some clubbing? I really feel like going dancing,” she says late one afternoon. Sounds like a suggestion, but I know it’s not the sort anyone can decline. “Let’s say we break now, leave at seven, okay?”
“Super,” Nadya says.
“One condition,” Rob says. I think he’s going to be a jerk about this, but he fools me.
“What’s that?” Allison says. Just a faint brittle note, as if the same thought flashed across her mind.
“We go in my car, not your Mini,” Rob says. “It hurts, squeezing into those child-size backseats, you know? No, you wouldn’t. You never have to.”
“Not sure I want to be seen in that machine of yours, actually,” Nadya says. “Notice I’m too polite to mention your driving technique.”
They laugh, the three of them.
“Right, right,” Allison says. “Your car, Rob. We’ll probably have to taxi it back, though. Unless you’re willing to be the designated driver and skip all the drinking?”
“Let’s see how it goes,” Rob says. “If I get polluted, Terry can always drive. He never has more than a beer.”
“I think we should try to get Terry really drunk.” Nadya smiles at me. “Make him babble all his secrets. He’s full of secrets, I
know
it.”
All I’m full of is some mild curiosity about what sorts of clubs these kids can possibly have in mind. Not the sort I’m used to, I’m thinking, as I go up to my room,
strip, shower. And then some consternation, when I look in the armoire. All the Ecko, Quicksilver, Billabong stuff I’m used to wearing is gone. I mean,
what
? I’m going for a night out in a junior executive suit? Or, worse, Ralph Lauren chinos? I do what I can: mess my hair up, wear a black T under the darkest gray suit, black suede loafers, put my earring back on.
I make a quick study in the mirror, see I look okay, and feel instantly like a fool. What does any of it matter? I’m going out with three spooks, in buttoned-up Washington, not to some ’hood hip-hop club with metal detectors at the entrance. I don’t have to be credible to anyone, and there isn’t anyone to look good for. I really ought to grow up.
That’s brought home when I hit the foyer at seven. Rob’s wearing baggy jeans with Hyde bowling shoes, a T over a long-sleeve waffle-weave. Allison’s wearing red suede flares and a top that leaves about an inch of her belly bare.
“Terry! Love the mob hit-man costume,” Nadya laughs. She’s looking great, super-short spandex dress that shimmers like mercury, a gold chain around her neck that loops just where her cleavage starts.
“People’ll think we’re rock stars or something, with our own security man,” Allison says.
“Ignore ’em, Terry,” Rob says. “They live to bust balls.”
They’re all in on this. They’ve decided I’m the disaffected one, the wayward one they’ve got to bring back on board. I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am a little, anyway. Rob did nice work, making it seem he was the one going off-team. God, I’m getting tired of this.
Rob’s ride is a deep blue Volvo S60. Common, anonymous in this town. Unless you check the low-profile performance tires. Unless you notice when he keys it, lets out the clutch and winds it up a bit in first gear that
some serious engine work’s been done. He’s smooth, using the car’s quickness subtly, darting through traffic without drawing attention to the maneuvers.
First stop is Miss Lucy’s, a joint on Capitol Hill that specializes in Deep South food: three kinds of barbecue, fried chicken with mashed potatoes and red-eye gravy, baby back ribs, greens, yams, corn bread. The crowd’s split about fifty-fifty, race-wise, but no split at all in economic status. The prices on the menu would keep me from being a regular on my cop’s salary. Off limits entirely on military pay. Little Nadya turns out to be the chow-hound, even lets out a burp when she’s swallowed the last forkful of pecan pie.
Then Rob hustles us across town to a place on the edge of commercial Georgetown called Matrix. Failed New York imitation: fake velvet ropes channeling a line of people who want in, a white guy with a long ponytail flanked by two big black dudes picking who gets that privilege. Nadya just leads us straight up to the door, does a little eye and smile thing with Ponytail, and we’re in.
It’s dead, despite the black kid DJ working turntables hard. We take a table up on a tier around the dance floor. Nadya orders a bottle of Stoly; it comes encased in a block of ice—an actual fucking block of ice. There are four shot glasses. I take mine, turn it upside down in front of me, ask the waitress for a Rolling Rock, check out the place. Don’t spot anybody I’d make for a player, not even a resident small-time coke merchant hawking a night’s high for fifty bucks. Don’t see a soul who isn’t post-college or grad school but under thirty. The bouncers are pure window-dressing; the kinds of people I’m seeing never get into it, mix it up, tussle. Too respectable, too career-centered to risk any static. Like yuppies, only they’re the generation after gen-X and I
don’t know if there’s a name for them yet. Maybe there won’t be.
X-squared. That’ll do.
They’re trying hard. They’re churning on the dance floor, doing their best to get loose, get revved. They aren’t making it, though. Too intense, approaching fun like they approach work. Nobody’s letting go, gliding.
Until Nadya, after three quick shots of Stoly, grabs Rob by the arm and leads him down into the crowd. She stands there a sec, cocks her head to catch the beat, then goes mobile, sleek as a seal. Rob’s playing catch-up, always a stuttering step or spin behind. I laugh.
“Russki slut,” Allison says. “You dance, Terry?”
“Usually just watch,” I say. “Usually on the job when I’m in clubs.”
“That’s past tense. You’re not on the job tonight.”
“But
you
are, aren’t you?”
“Partly,” she says. “But I could put it down, if you’d meet me halfway.”
“Yeah? Let’s just check that out.” I stand up, take her hand, lead her down to the floor. She’s the insecure kind, the type who reins herself in, tries to make up for it by flipping her hair and catching my eyes once in a while. My style’s minimalist. I know I look just as awkward, but in a few minutes I let go, allow the sound to take me where it wants to. I’m down with it, pretty much dancing by myself, Allison sort of recoiling when our bodies happen to brush. Next thing I know Nadya’s slipped in between us, her face close to mine, and Allison’s spinning with Rob. Nadya locks those arctic-blue eyes of hers on mine, we get into sync, she smiles and slides a palm across my cheek. For a while I’m tight with her, though we’re not touching. I’m feeling the connection, jamming on it. When the DJ cranks down, segues into a
slowly pounding rhthym, Nadya presses close so my hands find her hips and hers lock around the back of my neck. I don’t even care if this is part of the game. I’m just feeling the girl, liking her moves and her smile and her smell.