Chapter 21 of Princessa

The Right Stuff

Andy sits down in the chair across from Smet. “What’s the deal?” “I don’t know” says Smet “you tell me.” “Well” he says “everything’s okay, I guess, going okay, long as you’re… feeling alright; are you?” “I’m fine” says the old man “couple of days…be good as new.” 

“So… you heard anything” asks Andy. “Nah, I tried to check in with Efrin on the laptop, but… all he said was ‘we’re okay’ then he immediately shutdown. Which I guess means they wanna keep everything hushed, quiet, for now.” “Yeah” says Andy “jeez, these high-tech guys, motherfucker, like triangulating in on you, wherever you go. Take a shit in the toilet and they’re in there handing you the paper.”

It’s really starting to eat at him, frustrating beyond anything else. The idea that somebody watching Smet’s house could have, no doubt did, snap a photo of you through a telescopic lens; and now you’re made. They know you, know your face. And anytime you get on a subway in London or Moscow, or go through customs or just walk into a goddamn airline terminal; the whole motherfucking world of Interpol, CIA, KGB, goddamn everybody on the planet knows exactly who you are and where you’re going.

Motherfucker, and he’d only been in special ops for about a year, one goddamn year, and now it’s all over. Shot to hell, dead, worthless; the secret service agent that everybody knows. Like a goddamn magazine cover, and what can you do.“Yeah well” says Smet, not so impressed or intimidated by all the fancy satellites and listening devices and what not. “we low-teched ‘em pretty good up at that house, didn’t we.”

“We did alright” says Andy “we’re… holding our own, anyway.” “But that’s not good enough” says Smet, always the tactician “we gotta stay on the attack, be bold, aggressive… keep them, off-balance, reacting. When you’re fighting, a giant; you can’t just break even. That’s just like losing, in slow-motion.”

“Whatta you got in mind” asks Andy. “Well” says Smet “I been thinking… say, take a look at this wound, will yah. I’ll tell you, what I’ve… come up with, when the others get back.” “They’re gonna go do some stuff” says Andy “go to some museums, stuff like that.” “Huh?” “Well hey, look” says Andy “we’re all gonna be dead in the morning, right. Let ‘em have some fun, before that; okay.” “Yeah, sure” says the old man, trying to figure that ‘dead in the morning stuff’ “why not; plenty of time, for... heck that’s okay, sure.”

Andy checks the wound, sees that it’s healing nicely. The oozing has given way to a large dried-over scab. Just healing pain, is all, he thinks. He swabs the area with lidocaine and gives the old man a shot of novocaine just for good measure. And since he’s somewhere around eighty years old or so, figures he might as well throw in a small dose of morphine, just so Smet doesn’t have to waste time suffering. Hell, what’s the point if you don’t need to.

Jori and Maria come back from lunch, full of coney island hot dogs, fries, and the joy of being young and alive. “Wow” says Jori “you gotta see the view up there, Andy; man it’s better than our window. It’s like everywhere, all around, the whole room is just glass and it looks out over the whole town. Man, it’s so cool.” “It is” says Maria “just really neat, like being on top of the world… you ougtta see it.”

“Yeah” says Andy “I’ll check it out; for lunch maybe.” “You should” she tells him “oh, and try the coneydogs, there’s really good too.” But the two men just aren’t as bouncy or enthused as she and Jori are. And it’s kinda of awkward; like when you’re all feeling up, jumpy and happy, and then the person you’re talking to isn’t feeling the same way.

“So… what are you guys up to” she asks. “We’re okay” says Andy “shot Smet fulla drugs, so he oughta be quiet for awhile. You two go on, have some fun. Be back by suppertime, or whenever. Or call in every once in a while, let us know you’re okay.” “You’re sure you don’t mind” she asks. “No really, go have some fun, go on.” “So, what are you gonna do?” “Hang around here” says Andy “kick back for awhile, play cards with Okkie, or whatever. Get something to eat, you know.” “Okay then” says the girl. “Come on Jori, let’s go.” They go down to the street and take the subway up to the Metropolitan Museum.

The old man breathes easier, sits back in his chair to light up his pipe. “Feeling better?” asks Andy. “Oh yeah.” “Good, so let me ask you something” he says, knowing he’s got the old guy just where he wants him. “Why me? Why’d you pick me for this job?” The old man feels giddy light-headed, like recovering hospital patients getting that shot and being on the nod. He recognizes that and feels sort of trapped by being put in this situation, knowing there’s nothing he can do about it. But what the hell, maybe just roll with the punches, see where you land. “Why not you?” he asks, trying to stay focused, and not say something that’ll get him in hot water.

“Well, I was thinking” says Andy “you’re basically the number two man in the service, after Petros. But me, I mean why not Valtos… or one of his superman guys.” “Like who?” asks Smet. They both know the list, and Andy wonders why the old man wants to draw it out. But he goes along with him, like both of them can think out loud at the same time.

“Well, Zhrot Motil maybe… or Carlo Genava, or Colonel Valtos, himself, even. That’s a pretty deadly bunch.” “Yeah” says Smet “make you scared just to be in the same room with those guys.” “No shit.” “But…” says the old man “which one would you choose.” Andy knows the answer, but he wants to hear it from his boss, just the same. “I’m asking you; because I want to know.” The old man leans back in his chair and takes a drink of the weak coffee and again lights up his pipe.

“I like Carlo” he says “the boy intrigues me. But he’s… weird, you know. And of course, he’s not the marksman you are. Nobody is.” “Yeah, I shoot well. But that’s not… the whole thing, is it.”

“No, of course not” says Smet, figuring he’s strung him along long enough, might as well be straight with him. “Listen, those guys… all those guys, they have some qualities, some skills. Maybe they’re even the best at what they do, uniquely, and individually. But… well look, Zhrot… the young man is so charming, so pleasant, and all. But… scary, you know; like maybe he enjoys too much, killing people. And Carlo; my goodness, how could you ever know what’s going on inside his head. Does he even know, I wonder.”

The old man pauses, then continues “Colonel Valtos; he’s my number one man. You know that, but… you know, he follows orders, too much perhaps. I think… you could tell him to walk on water, and he would, or drown maybe. But he’d try it anyway. You… well maybe you’re younger than the others, quite a bit, I guess. But… your belief in your own skills and abilities, your level of confidence, is like… a teenager almost. You, seem to think you can do anything, and get away with it. And I think you’re right. I think so too, from what I’ve seen. And you were, a good soldier, I believe. Brave, loyal, but not stupid; not run headlong into the fire, and endanger the mission and everyone else… like that crazy fool Zhrot would do. And also, I suppose, you’re the best thief I’ve ever seen. Weren’t you, in jail, for awhile?”

“Yeah” says Andy, knowing that Smet has all this information. But maybe not the fine print or the actual reasons why. “When I was a kid; before I joined the army even. I spent thirty days… in the capitol jail. Jesus… well, actually I managed to slip out, you know, but… God, that was pathetic. You wouldn’t believe it. What it’s like to be in there, locked up, caged up like that; like an animal in the zoo. I couldn’t… do that. And, I… didn’t want to, ever face that again. That’s why, I turned myself in. And they let me, go into the army instead.”

“Yes” says the old man “I wanted you, to get some seasoning. Get a taste of the discipline and the fighting, of being in battle, with other men; on both sides of the fight.” “You?” asks Andy, not following what he means. “We’re a small country” says Smet “poor, maybe, at least in… material things. But we’ve a great resource, we…have people; strong, brave, hardy people. And… part of my job, is to find them, the right ones; and keep track of them. So of course, when you… came to university at, age sixteen, I believe, with such high scores. I took note of that. I mean… that’s my job, right.”

“I don’t know” says Andy, wondering about all this stuff he’s never heard of before “but… what if, I hadn’t been kicked out; then what.” “Who knows” says the old man “maybe you’d have become a scientist or a businessman or something. I don’t know. But turns out… you’re here, on this mission. And for this particular job… I wanted someone, well… lemme put it this way. Suppose an agent, one of our people is in London; and we gotta get ‘em to… New York or some place. You’d think, okay, find an inexpensive hotel. Wait around, jack up the night clerk and take some US passports and some money and be on your way to the airport. Maybe leave the clerk tied up so you’d have a decent lead time before anybody found out. But… what would you do, in that situation?”

“Go to Heathrow” says Andy, offhandedly “grab somebody’s passport, billfold; drop ‘em off at lost and found once you land in New York.” “You see” says Smet “that’s the difference… that’s what I need, on this job.” “Yeah” says Andy, thinking of a few other things “that’s pretty much how I see it too.” He walks over to the window and looks out at the bright sunshine, so warm looking from inside the nice hotel room. “Say, I’m gonna… go get a pack of smokes. You want anything.” “Yeah” says Smet “a cup of that starbucks coffee, if you don’t mind, a big cup… oh, and some scandanavik pipe tobacco, if you can find it.”

He goes out to get the stuff, and a short while later returns. The old man is half asleep in the warm glow of the sun, looking like somebody’s ancient grandpa, fading off in his chair. He sets the stuff down on a table and then packs up some things and gets ready to leave again. “Where you goin” asks Smet feelin like he really couldn’t care less, just everything so all over calm peaceful warm friendly happy feeling, like he’s floating in the warm island water of the Caribbean sun, and everyone else can just float along with him or go drown or who really cares what they do.

“I’m gonna go check your house” says Andy “see what’s there. If they… tracked our phone calls, maybe… likely, they made us there. I dunno, maybe somebody’s still hangin around, watching the place, see if we gonna come back, you know.” “Don’t do it boy” says Smet, feeling like he’s losing his grip and just barking at the moon “we got bigger fish to fry than that. Don’t compromise our mission with some stupid hero bullshit.” “Don’t worry about it. I’m not gonna do anything stupid, not in daylight anyway; just wanna see… is all. I’ll be back in a little bit, just rest for awhile, sit back, take it easy.” 

Chapter 20 of Princessa

Calm Before the Storm

Andy gets another coffee and goes back up to the room. Jori’s over at the window smoking a cigarette and looking out at the incredible morning view. “Here” says Andy “I brought you some coffee.” Maria comes out of the shower all bright and sunny, more so even than the brilliant stream of light pouring in through the windows. “Hey, what a morning, huh; I wanna go to the park… and the museums; okay?”

“Fine” says Andy “you two go get breakfast. I’ll get a shower and be ready in a little bit, alright.” The old man is still sleeping peacefully on the rollaway bed, muttering from time to time, blinking his eyes open and then drifting off again. Andy checks the bandage on his side and sees that one of the others, Jori probably, has already cleansed the wound and changed the dressing. It’s wet and oozing, but otherwise looks to be healing alright. He has another cigarette, then takes a nice hot shower.

Jori and Maria go up to the top floor dining room where breakfast is just getting started. The whole room is all glass windows looking out over the entire city, a fantastic sight. But the rising sun’s so blindingly bright you can barely look out. The cooks aren’t quite ready for serving, so the two kids decide to go down to the street and after a short walk in the brisk morning air, find a McDonald’s a short distance away.

Jori sits down to a wonderful omelet platter with sausage and hash browns, and a small carton of the watered-down milk. But Maria is uneasy, not ready to start eating breakfast yet. She picks up her tray and looks at the boy “you got a phone? A clean one, I mean.” “Yeah, sure” he says, reaching into the inside pocket of his coat “I got this one. Here, it hasn’t been used yet.”

She goes outside and sits at a table in the sun, then dials a number on the phone “hello... Lucia?” “Where are you, you little brat!” says the voice on the other end. Lucia isn’t much older than the princess, but she’s a big, heavy woman and that makes her seem older, more mature. A round fat cook in a big white apron is how she looks to most people. But she’s the girl’s best friend among the household staff, and the one she always calls when she needs to get in touch with someone, to see how things are going.

“Lucia, listen, I’m okay… but I need to talk to Grandpa.” That’s different, thinks the cook, usually the girl wanted to make sure the king was as far away as possible from their secret phone calls. But this isn’t a usual time, what with the terrorist assault and all. “Okay” says the cook “I understand.” “I can’t call him, on his phone” says the girl “they could be listening.”

“Alright” says Lucia “I’ll go find him and give him my phone… but wait, here…” “Hello, Maria?” says a frightened little far off voice. “Mom? Is that you.” “Oh my God” says the woman “I thought… they told me you were gone… away, but I thought sure… that they were just saying that. Oh thank God, oh Maria, thank God... you’re alright, my darling.”

“Mom, are you okay?” “Okay?” says the woman “oh, you know me, I haven’t slept…I’ve been so… out of my mind with worry. Just… one pill after another, and drinking cognac… oh, and it just tastes so awful after...” “Mom, I’m fine; just take care of your self, okay.” “Of course” says the woman “sure, oh… uh, here’s your father; bye sweetie… come home to us; I love you.” “I love you too, Mom.”

“Hello” says Khail Salin “Maria, how are you?” “Hi Dad, we think they’re listening in; so… I can’t talk long. But… I’m fine, everything’s okay.” “Listen” he tells her “uh, Booski… won’t let… uh, your grampa talk on the phone. They got some kinda counter-surveillance stuff they’re doing. So… everything’s under control here. And contact us through… Efrin, okay. And for god’s sakes, be safe; okay?” “Okay… I love you Daddy… bye” says the princess, with that far off, drifting away to nowhere type feeling.

She closes the phone and looks at the meaningless people on the meaningless street. Then goes back inside and sits down by her friend. “What’s up” asks the boy. “Oh, I just called home.” “And?” “Well, my mom’s a wreck, but everything else seems to be okay, I guess; or as well as you could expect.” “What’s wrong with your mom?” “Oh, uh… she’s the nervous type, you know. Doesn’t… do very well, in these kinds of things.” “It must be tough on her” says the boy.

“Yeah” says Maria, feeling the concern in his voice, and him maybe never even knowing his own mother, or anybody. She goes over and hugs him, kisses him on the cheek, with tears running down her face. “What is it?” he asks her. “You’re nice. You’re… a nice boy. It’s just… it’s tough for everybody, isn’t it?” “Yeah” he says “just think; the whole world’s falling apart… and I never had it so good.” The two kids laugh at that, and hug each other, feeling all the hurt and joy all jumbled up together inside of them.

They finish their breakfast and go back up to the room. Maria gives Andy a little white sack full of warm breakfast smells “I got you a McMoofin.” He opens it, hungrily bites into the hot egg and ham muffin, then the fried potato cake sprinkled with the little packet of salt, and the hot buttery biscuit with strawberry jam. “It’s delicious” he tells her “thanks, this is great.”

“So” she asks him when he’s done eating “can we go to the park now?” “We can go to the park now. But what about Smet.” The three of them look at the old man resting comfortably on his bed. No one says anything so finally Jori speaks up “I suppose I get to stay here with the old guy, huh.” “You’re sweet” says the princess and kisses him on the cheek. “Hey look” says Andy “we’ll go to the park, and then after that we’ll come back here, get lunch or whatever; then you and Jori can go to the museum, and I’ll stay here with Smet. So we’ll switch up, like that, take turns staying here with Smet, okay?” “Yeah, sure” says the boy, without much enthusiasm “have fun… and hurry back, okay.”

In the bright cold morning sun of his Washington bedroom, the veep can’t take it anymore. He’s getting the shakes and his chest is killing him. He takes a bunch of the usual meds and adds a couple of sleeping pills to the mix. Finally drops into bed, totally exhausted and with a pounding headache.

But he can’t shake the storm of thoughts from his mind. They’re so close… to wrapping things up, with the Arabs, with the Russians; just to get that deal pushed through; and with that little shithole place, Malvia. And then, a vacation; the Bahamas, maybe, just sleep, on the beach or by the pool for a week or two. Get some rest and recharge the batteries.

But… goddamnit, why was that little dirtbag country Malvia always coming up into the mix of things; to fuck up everything. Damnit, it just doesn’t add up. Then it hits him, all of a sudden. Yeah… that’s it, it must be. If it doesn’t add up, there has to be something there; just can’t put the pieces together yet, is all. He reaches for the bedside phone “Ronna, get Jack Croft on the phone.”

Andy and Maria go out into the chilly bright morning, wrapped up in winter jackets and scarves, and head out toward Central Park. There’s hardly any wind, but it starts to get cold. Andy puts his arm around the girl. They walk up Broadway and then cross over to Sixth Avenue and wind up in Rockefeller Center.

“Oh look Andy” says the girl pointing to the familiar landmarks “there’s the guy holding up the globe, like you see in the books; and the skating rink! Hey, let’s go skating; come on.” She rushes over to the skate rentals and picks out a tight-fitting pair of fancy skates. Andy follows her and gets a pair for himself, almost as happy as she is to go skating at this famous little rink in the middle of the big city. It’s a chance to relax and let go, to show off and just be himself.

Once he gets out on the ice, it’s like heaven, so peaceful, relaxing, like being home again with the sudden rush of feeling, tranquility, harmony, like this is the only place where he belongs, where he’s really comfortable and at home; with skates on gliding on the cold slick ice, freed from the bonds of gravity and everything else that’s slow and dull and common.

He skates with the girl around the outer perimeter, arm in arm. So familiar from the all the times back home of meeting the young girls at the local ice rinks or frozen over ponds, and sweeping them off their feet with his grace and skill and charm. The two of them pick up speed and he leads her away from the other skaters and toward the center of the rink, kicking a foot down onto the ice, then lifting it up, like a Russian dancer. Then he turns skating backward facing the girl, and smiles, bending his knee with the other leg stretched back and off the ice. He bows down and kisses her on the hand. Then spins around again, turns her back to face him, smiling and pushing her fast along the perimeter again.

The girl is impressed and looks up at his smiling face and laughs. He’s quite the skater boy, she thinks, musta melted a lot of hearts back there in the countryside. She skates with him for awhile, trying to keep up with his turns and dancing steps. But she isn’t much comfortable with pairs skating, and when they speed up really fast, passing all the others, she spins away and goes off to center ice to skate by herself.

It’s so sunny, bright and fun with all the people here in colorful jackets, caps and scarves. Some of the young girls are doing slow spins and jumps, like you’d do in warm-up or practice; and they’re pretty good at it too. Without even thinking, Maria watches them and starts to do the same, like she used to do as a kid. She puts her hands over her head in a oval and spins in a circle then comes out of that and skates quickly out to the edge of the ice. Andy reaches out his hand but she ducks under and turns backwards watching him smile at her as she leaves him in the distance.

She picks up more speed glancing around to see where the other skaters are, and dodging around them like a racer dangerously passing those who are just standing still. The young girls look at her with interest, waiting to see what she’s gonna do. Most of the other people are slowing down now and just watching Maria as she dances from skate to skate, making a quick stop and pivot to the left and skating backwards on one foot, bowing with her arms outspread like a ballerina swan sliding back to center rink.

Then skipping along on her toes, kicking up ice, and shadowing the movements with her hands and arms, smiling and laughing at the people, including Andy, who have now stopped to watch her. She races quickly to the empty perimeter, spins forward and touches her hand to the ice with one leg extended behind her and high up into the air. Then backward again skating really fast and heading to the center, kicking a foot down and jumping into a double spin, landing that and jumping again and then spinning in place with arms folded and then extended she comes to a sudden stop and looks around at all the people staring at her. They start to applaud with smiling happy faces and pleased at the impromptu show. Maria bows and quickly skates back over to Andy and lands in his arms, kissing him on the lips.

“Wow” he says “you’re really good. Amazing... really.”  “I almost fell” she says, smiling and laughing all out of breath. “You coulda been… in the olympics.”  “Oh no” she says “those girls… it’s really hard, you know; I could never…” And then looking at his smiling face, she adds “hey, you’re pretty good too, you know.” “Yeah, I was gonna show off for you… but damn, I’m not that good. Not like you.”

They go over and turn in their skates and start to walk up to the park. Maria looks back at the happy carefree skaters on the rink, some of the young girls are doing what she was doing, slower maybe, but so graceful and so serious about all of it. She looks down at the grounds and hugs against the young man beside her. “What is it?” he asks her. “This is… the last time, I’ll… we’ll, ever be able to do any of that kinda stuff.”

“What” he says “whadda you mean.” “The war…” she says sadly, far off, lost in the meaningless sunshine “we can’t win it. They’re… too big, too strong... too rich; for us. We can’t fight them… and we will anyway, you know. And, all we’ll be able to do, is what every little backward country does… just terrorist stuff, blowing up stuff, and…” she pauses and looks up at him and puts her arms around his waist. “We’ll all be like war criminals” she says, almost whispering “there’ll be… a price on our heads, or mine anyway; like Bin Laden, and like that deck of cards with Saddam and pictures of all his gang on them.”

Andy holds the girl tightly, thinking how small and soft she is, and so young. And all the things she’s saying, and all of that at once. He’d seen the playing cards in Iraq, even kept a deck as a souvenir; something funny to laugh at. It was stupid and boorish, demeaning, even the American soldiers thought so, for the most part. But it was also fairly effective, to a degree anyway (the cards were actually Culver Hayden’s idea).

And like everyone else there, Andy had hoped to collect that bounty on Hussein; or even Bin Laden, if that was possible. But that was always like being on the other side, being the good guys, more or less, with the terrorists or insurgents or genocide-killers or whoever, as the bad guys. Kinda weird to think of yourself as…one of them, all of a sudden.

He doesn’t say anyhing, feeling the young girl’s sadness; like life being over or changed or never gonna be the same anymore. And such a happy young kid with everything to look forward to, now all of that gone; like the boys coming home in the boxes; just all quiet nothing... death; over with. Maria stops to take a deep breath and look up at all the skyscrapers gleaming in the sunshine. “So” she asks him “did they send you here to die.”

Andy tries to think of something to say, following her gaze up to the tall magnificent buildings, then shakes his head “nah, I don’t think so. I mean… they sent Smet too, wouldn’t want to lose him, y’know.” “Smet’s old” says the girl “he wants to die in battle; go down fighting.” “Well, we all do” says Andy, and then trying to be more exact, he adds “or actually… we’d kinda like the other guys to do that.” They continue walking to the park, saying nothing, just looking around at the shiny snowy scenery.

It’s nicer in the park, like an escape, being in the wide open snowy grass fields and shady trees along the little drive-throughs and walking paths. They watch a horse-drawn carriage go by and decide to get in one and ride around, looking out at the park. It’s lovely romantic peaceful under the quilts with the horse clomping along on the cobblestone, like back home, the two of them think… home.

“How do you go on” asks Andy. “Huh?” says the girl, lost in her own thoughts. “How do you… be so happy and, carefree, and everything all the time… when all the time, you’re thinking about all these sad things.” “Oh God” she says “it’s like…everyday, every fucking day, every minute, is like your last. The last time you’re gonna do this; the last time you’re ever gonna be here, or see this, or do that; you know. It’s like you’re running full speed all the time, trying to… live your whole life in, just a few days or something, or weeks. And always running out of time, no matter… how hard you try to keep up with it.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean… like, when you’re in a battle zone, in the war. And most of the time it’s so all slow and dull and boring, tires you out just from doing nothing. All the… energy that’s pent up and nothing to do with it, to use it on. Then when it starts and there’s that tremendous intensity, of, overwhelming everything happening at once; bullets flying, rattling gunfire, mortars; maybe the Yanks dropping some crushing thundering bombs, or their deafening tank shells whooshing by and exploding, and all that. Then afterwards, later, at night, if it’s all over, and nothing going on, you think… the coffee’s good. And that guy over there, laughing at the card table, maybe somebody like that isn’t around tonight, was here yesterday, now missing, gone, you know. Or one of those guys here, isn’t gonna be here tomorrow; or if there’s even gonna be a tomorrow. And y’try t’find something, that’ll somehow… take your mind off alla that. And that’s as hard as anything, trying to find… something to make you quit thinking about it.”

The girl reaches her arms up around him and kisses him deeply, squeezing her little self against him, while he holds her, his arms almost doubled around her; then finally she let’s go. “Just don’t think about it” she says. “Pretend… that the moment is all that exists, all that matters. Don’t think about the rest of it.” He smiles at her “we better go back, see… how Jori and Smet are doing.” They catch a cab back to the hotel, then go back up to the room that seems almost like home now to them.

Jori looks up as they walk in “good God, took you long enough… what were you doing, having sex in the park, or what?” “In the park, on the grass” says the girl “in the elevator on the way up… and you?” “Playing chess with… Smet here.” The old man looks up from his chair. “Yeah, I’m alive. Don’t feel so hot though… with the little bastard cheating me all the time.” “How do you cheat at chess” asks Jori. Though it really wasn’t that hard, with the old man only half there, like his mind’s on something else most of the time anyway.

“Okay” says Andy smiling at him “so… why don’t you two (Maria and the boy) go and get lunch; I’ll stay here, talk with Oskar, for a bit.” “Good idea” says the boy, all eager to trade Smet for the company of the princess. The two of them go up to the big glass skyview dining room. 

Chapter 19 of Princessa

Shit Hits the Fan

Andy wakes up early feeling so refreshed and alive, like having slept the sleep of the just, like a trucker in a rest area finally settled in after sixteen hours non-stop and then to wake up to the cool dew dawn of a new day of hope and promise. He looks around at the others sleeping peacefully in the darkened room, so calm and tranquil like the air itself is made of negative ions of sleeping breath and dreams. You’re the only one awake and the whole world is asleep.

He’d only been up once in the middle of the night with the old man complaining of pain in his side. A shot of morphine took care of that, and then to check the IV’s, and back to sleep. Seems like moments ago, or a long time, whatever, doesn’t matter. Feeling this good, nothing matters much. Everyone all safe and warm; and spending the night sleeping next to a princess. Not bad. And such a pretty one at that; looking like a little sleeping angel; amazing; hard to believe.

He goes to the window, pulls open the drapes and it’s such a brilliant radiant morning it almost knocks you over. All of New York City right outside your window so clear and distinct, alive now and moving, like you can reach out and touch it; looking out at the tops of the buildings, or across to the ones that are as tall or taller; glistening in the sun and all of them so sharp and clear, just a perfect day for some hot coffee and a smoke.

He goes down to ground level and out onto the street; content and at peace with the world. Me, sleeping with the princess, he thinks, and fills his lungs with the fresh cool morning air. Well, coulda had sex, yeah… that woulda been... pretty cool. But just being next to the girl, her warm little breathing body, that’s, pretty okay too; for a humble soldier, anyway.

There’s a starbucks across the street. He gets a coffee and sits down at a table on the sidewalk, relaxing; a happy carefree tourist who’s got more going for him than just about anyone else in the whole world. Now with nothing to do but just sit back and watch and feel so free and above it all and everything. It’s wondrous in the city morning sun, sitting there watching the cabs and pedestrians scurrying around going to work, like they’re just stage actors, there for you to look at, like extras or a part of the scenery.

In Washington, things aren’t nearly as rosy. Vice President Myerinck is about to meet with the president. He’s been up all night, with aspirin and bourbon, lots of both, grinding his teeth on the flight back from Arabia. After he got the news, he had to cancel dinner with royal oil ministers and a meeting with the Russian president as well.

And it was just sickening, embarrassing, like pissing your pants on stage; and the feeling like you’re dropping large sacks of hundred dollar bills out the back of the plane all the way home. The veep was livid, mad as hell about the whole thing, cursing all the way back. No sleep, no food, just talking to morons on the secure phone, trying to get to the bottom of it. Hoping maybe the next call would lead somewhere, but no, and no again, and just getting nowhere, and goddamn, not even knowing what the fuck was going on.

That stupid shit Hayden hadn’t bothered to call in. Got his goddamned ass blown off, shot dead, and didn’t even bother to check in. Left him, the man who runs everything, out of the loop. Damn it all to hell, serves him right, the motherfucker, being dead is too good him, the son of a bitch. Woulda been a helluva lot worse if Myerinck had gotten to him first, and wrung the life outta his scrawny little neck.

Now he has to sit around and wait for Tomkin to get up out of bed. Good thing he’s an early riser. They meet in a soundproof room on a lower floor, over breakfast. Myerinck comes in along with Tony Moralez, secretary of state. Neither man speaks to the other. They don’t even look at one another, so as not to give any hint of facial expression that might reveal their mutual feelings.

“Pete, what’s going on?” asks Tomkin, sitting down to scrambled eggs and bacon, toast, blueberry jam, and coffee. He likes to start the day off right. “Come sit, join me.” A plate is set for each of them, and then the kitchen staff leave, and close the door.

“So what’s up” he asks again. “I don’t know” says the veep. “Tony?” asks Tomkin. “Culver Hayden, and six others… no eight, I guess, were killed last night, at a Westchester New York residence.” “We know that” says the veep, breaking in. “They were all shot… shot up pretty good; and the house was apparently broken into; and blown to shit… or at least some of it was anyway.”

“You been there?” asks the president. “Oh hell no, Ted” says the veep “I’m not goin anywhere near that place; and nobody else should either. We don’t want to get mixed up in this, you know. It’d look like a connection, like connecting it to us.” “To what?” asks Tomkin. “I don’t know” says Myerinck “really, I don’t. I don’t know… what Hayden, was working on.”

“Well he’s your man” says the secretary. “No” says the veep “actually, he’s your man.” “Yeah, right” says Moralez “but he’s your man in my department.” The two men glare at each other, as much enraged by continuing disputes as with this current crisis. “Well it doesn’t matter who’s man he was” says Tomkin “it’s what we’re gonna do now, that’s the issue. But Pete, speak freely… if you know what this guy… Culver…”

“Hayden” says the veep. “Yeah” says the president “what this guy Hayden Culver was up to, then… let’s hear it. Tony’s on board… right?” “Of course” says the secretary “whatever.” He gestures with his hands, like he’s open to suggestions, or just got no clue as to what the fuck’s going on. But like maybe Myerinck could be good enough to fill them in on what he’s been up to.

“I don’t know” the veep says sternly, getting pretty irritated about having to repeat himself over and over, like don’t people listen to you when you say something. Or have they got the gall, the arrogance, to question whether he’s telling the truth or not. Either way, it’s pretty goddamned irritating. “Hayden… didn’t, get the chance to brief me. I was, over there y’know.”

“Well” says the secretary, not wanting to miss the chance “anytime you want the state department to help out in foreign affairs… just let us know.” The vice president turns to him “don’t you… work for me?” he asks, sarcastically. “No” says Moralez, firmly “I work for the president. That’s what I hired on for, anyway.”

His name had been floated on the ticket very early on, during the election, to get the Latino vote, which was always a key factor in deciding the outcome. Now after a few years, the former Marine general had been fighting nothing but losing battles in trying to conduct foreign policy the way he understood it; which was a lot different from the way the oil men saw it.

“Yeah, you’re right” says Myerinck “because if you worked for me, I’d fire your ass, in a heartbeat.” “Bring it on, tough guy!” says Moralez, hands at his sides, fists clenched “anytime you’re ready…” “This isn’t the point” says Tomkin, used to these endless squabbles, but not comfortable with them just the same “what’s this Culver thing all about, and what’re we gonna do about it. The press is gonna want some answers… and we’ve got to get our stories straight; okay?”

The president grabs a piece of bacon and follows it up with a big mouthful of eggs. “Personally, I think it was Al Queida. We probably oughta round up a bunch of ‘em, from up there in New York, and get ’em to talk.” He takes a bite of the toast covered in blueberry jam. “And then we can get Congress to act on our supplemental budget, and quit messin around.”

“It seems to me” says the veep “that Mr. Hayden… may have been killed, in a furnace explosion, an accident, a tragic accident. Like one of our boys in the war, when some shit blows up that isn’t supposed to, or something goes terribly wrong. He’s still a hero, of course, still died for his country. Whether… doesn’t really matter how.”

Nobody objects to that, so he goes on, trying to state things in a few simple memorable phrases that people can use as the official line, if they can just remember them. “Culver Hayden was great American, who believed in freedom, and serving his country. And he will be sorely missed. But we’ll continue the fight, in his absence… for him, and for all of us.” He pauses to let that sink in.

“That’s good” says Tomkin “write that down, if you don’t mind.” “Yeah, I suppose that’ll work” says Moralez, without any better ideas “at least for now, anyway. But it would be kinda nice to hear the truth, for a change.” The veep ignores that. He’s used to ignoring criticism and changing the subject to suit his own ends.

“Well, we don’t want to start a panic” he says “especially not up in Westchester. That’s, our crowd, up there. Everybody… the press, they’ll all think its Al Queida anyway, or have their suspicions. It’ll be what everybody’s talking about, especially if we don’t say anything. And then, if that’s what it turns out to be, after… a certain length of time, they’ll think their suspicions… turned out to be right. And then everybody’ll be happy.”

“Well, sounds good to me” says Tomkin “Tony?” “Sure” says the secretary, and then adds “but will we ever know what really happened?” “What really happens” says the veep “is what we do. Every day; what ever happens on this globe, is what we make happen. And… I think we’re doing a pretty goddamn good job of it, don’t you?”

“Well” says the general “some people, some citizens, might want the facts, or at least a little more say so in running their own lives.” “Then let ‘em move to Canada” says Myerinck. The president smiles and drinks his coffee “so… is that it then?”

“What about Sims?” asks the secretary. “What about him” says the veep. “Well” says Moralez “he was at that hospital, where the explosion was. And then they got a missing patient; some old man…” “Does Sims have anything?” asks the veep.

Sims is CIA, but currently assigned to domestic counter terrorism. Myerinck had talked to him from the plane, but hadn’t gotten a damn thing outta him. “You should know” says the secretary. The veep considers this and finally sits down to breakfast, taking the hot cover off his plate. “It’s an unrelated issue… totally separate. Some teenagers… bust their grandpa out of a hospital. So what, crazy kids, probably shot the old man. Maybe trying to steal his money, don’t want him to rat ‘em out, I suppose; who the hell knows. And… so they blew up a police car. Doesn’t take a lot of brains to do that. Maybe put a rag in the gas tank, big deal; doesn’t mean anything. Got nothing whatsoever, to do… with the accident, up in Westchester.”

“Okay, that makes sense” says Tomkin, satisfied that they’ve covered all the bases “so that’s that.” The secretary turns to leave, knowing less now than he did when he came in, except for the usual want to vomit feeling of having to listen to Myerinck’s slick double talk. But he’s sick of it, sick and tired of all of it; and past the brink of being a good soldier now and just following orders.

He feels defeated, broken, like a worn out pack mule, and everything he’s ever done in his whole life amounts to nothing. All the years of service, sacrifice; and that of his men, means nothing; just wasted, all of it. Even advancing to this high office, where you have power, and can do something, something good. All means less than nothing. And this opportunity right here and now to catch the veep and expose him for what he is. And all the crooked deals and running roughshod over everything and everyone that’s good and decent. Gone by the wayside, lost, trickled away like being flushed down the toilet or washed down the gutter. It’s not right; it’s more than he can take, more than anyone should.

“At some point” he says “people are going to get fed up with all your lies; all your double-dealing; scamming and cheating... of the American people. Sending them off to die…” “We’re at war!” says Myerinck, hotly “or maybe you forgot that! You… and your UN buddies… sit back and laugh at us, don’t lift a finger to help out. We’re trying to save lives, to protect people, all over the world. And… maybe it’s not as easy as you might think. Not as black and white, or as simple as you want it to be, out in the open… and made public, for some popular referendum, for people who got no clue of the real issues at stake. That man over there” he says, pointing at the president “has put his life on the line for us, for our people, and our country. His whole political future is on the line here… and I think he’s done a pretty goddamn good job of it, so far. Don’t you?”

“I’ve been in war” says the secretary “you haven’t. You got no idea what it means, to fight for your country, to see men die, or blown to pieces. You let others do that for you… and then you take all the credit. Like everything else.” “Yeah, and you’ve played that hero card about as far as it’ll go” says the veep. “Just wish you’d fight for our side once in a while. We like to think we’re patriots too, y’know.” “Pete’s right” says the president “we gotta… be united on these things… stand together, as a team. It’s tough, when the horses aren’t all pulling in the same direction.”

So that’s it, thinks Moralez, he’s made up his mind. Just no way you can ever get the blind to see, or the stupid to understand. He walks away, then thinks of one last detail and turns to face the president who’s buttering his danish “it’s Culver Hayden… not Hayden Culver.” “Yeah, right” says Tomkin, glancing at the veep “make a note of that.”

The secretary walks out the door. Myerinck finishes his breakfast; then excuses himself, saying he’s tired, hasn’t had any sleep. It’s no problem, the president tells him, he can handle it from here. “But one thing” he says “don’t be so hard on Tony, okay. He’s a good man, he cares, and his heart’s in the right place.” “I know” says the veep “he’s… a real American. Just wish we could get him to understand, and be on our side… of this fight.”  

The veep leaves, immediately heads to a row of buildings across town, and enters through the restricted underground parking. Then up to the office of Jack Croft, deputy FBI director, Myerinck’s man in intel.

“Hey Pete” says the man, looking up from his desk. It’s not even 7 am, but Croft is neatly dressed in a fine tailored suit. He’s been sitting in his office in his soft leather chair for the past ten hours. Jacket hanging on the back of a chair and his tie loosened around his unbuttoned collar; but he still looks distinguished, dapper; like a CEO of an international bank might calmly appear after a maddening day of wildly fluctuating markets.

“What do we know” asks Myerinck. “Not a goddamned thing” says Croft, lifting up his glasses and rubbing his eyes. He’d put eye drops in at sunrise when he noticed they were bloodshot; but they still hurt, despite or maybe because of all the amphetamines and coffee.

“Somebody has to know something” says the veep. “I know everything” says Croft “except what the hell Culver was up to.” He lights up a cigarette and leans back in his chair. “He deep-sixed me… pulled half a dozen guys from, the interdiction force... rookies, kids; the tough-guy type, you know, young muscle men. Then goes and sets up shop up in Westchester… at the house there. Hell, I thought he was gonna debrief some Al Queida guys, or maybe some bigshot from…”

“Why the hell would Hayden do something like that?” asks Myerinck. Croft looks at the vice president, trying to get a read on whether he really doesn’t know, or is just bluffing him, trying to find out what others might know, versus what’s really going on. “Um… he said, you’d… moved him over to ops” says Croft, carefully “said… it was all cleared, from you.”

“Well, let’s get one thing straight right now” says the veep “I’ve, had some down time, with this heart thing. And I’ve tried, to pull Hayden in, to shoulder some of the load.” He briefly reflects on the impossible task of trying to run everything, and then having to deal with this damned nuisance of a heart condition that forced you to be flat on your back in the hospital from time to time. “He did some good work on, the Abu Ghraib thing; and also the, Cenco mess, a while back… and other things, too. But his… capacity, has always been, behind the scenes; behind a desk, planning, oversight; that sort of thing. Pushing the buttons, not… field work.”  “I don’t know” says Croft “he was climbing… the ladder, pretty quickly.”

Croft didn’t like Hayden, nobody did. He was demanding, loud, full of himself, and would quickly drop a top-level name as a back-up to his own authority whenever he felt like people weren’t falling in line fast enough to suit him. Like most of the people who got stepped on when they got in his way, Croft thought that he was a lot better suited for the tasks that were often handed out to the late Mr. Hayden.

“Maybe Culver… was onto something really big, and… decided, he had to move on it, right away.” “What’s that big?” asks Myerinck, thinking to himself, that I wouldn’t know about it. “Well” says Croft “the stuff we got going on right now… is pretty much, all the usual. They say Bin Laden might not be dead, after all. Got that new tape from the Mullah.”

The vice president isn’t impressed, tired of that whole subject. It’s all Tomkin ever talks about, like any traffic jam in the city is an Al Queida plot to slow up government secretaries from getting to work on time. “And” continues the deputy “the Israeli’s have just taken out the top Palestinian cleric.” “Hezbollah’s never done anything, here” says the veep. “No” says Croft “other than some small time black market stuff, cigarettes; and, money laundering. But… Hamas could be involved in that Hariri thing, in Beirut”

Former prime minister Rafik Hariri had been killed in a massive explosion and Syrian military agents and radical Palestinian groups were suspected of being behind it. “And you never know” says the deputy “there’s always… Chavez.” The anti-American Venezuelan leader. “Or, you got the Gitmo detainees going on trial now.” “Yeah” says Myerinck, impatiently “there’s a lot of shit going on in the world. Tell me something I don’t know.”

Croft goes over it one more time in his head, but just like most of the last ten hours, all he comes up with is a blank. “Well, Culver seemed… a bit curious about a, listening report we had… and some Malvian princess being spotted over in Jersey.” “Oh yeah” says Myerinck, disgustedly “she’s what fifteen, sixteen. I’m sure she blasted her way in an AK-47 and she and a couple of her boyfriends shot the shit out of a dozen of your toughest meanest men… in our own goddamned safehouse!”

“Well” says Croft “I’m just fishing here; like I said, I got nothing. But, apparently somebody, attacked their palace a couple of days ago... bombed the place or something.”

The veep says nothing, just stands there blank, like a stone wall; like you just said something you really shouldn’t have said, and now everybody’s quiet, dead silent. And you better get off that subject while the gettin’s good.

Pretending not to notice, Croft quickly adds “and… I guess some kids pulled some old geezer who’d been shot, out of a Bronx hospital.” “Yeah” says Myerinck “Sims was all over that one, wasn’t he?” “Yeah, I talked to Sims… he’s convinced the old guy is Russian mafia; and somehow has to be connected to this pipeline thing.”

Yeah right, thinks the veep, Sims is crazier than a loon. Gotta remember that name, get him reassigned to Somalia or someplace like that. And not just him, but the whole goddamnned bunch of ’em. Seems like everytime the shit hits the fan, nobody knows a goddamn thing.

At least Hayden had ideas. Pretty wacky ones sometimes, but even that was okay ’cause with a guy like him around, it often made the veep look like the moderate in the room, or the voice of reason, at least compared to Hayden. And now, who’s left, who’s he gonna get to fill those shoes.

Chapter 18 of Princessa

Above the Fray

The hospital’s a very large, very old building, in a dark run down neighborhood. It’s been slated for demolition for years now, but with local politicians and citizen’s groups always saving it at the last moment with promises of budget expenditures for renovation or repair that always get slashed to nothing before any real improvement ever happens.

They approach the small parking lot from the rear of the building, seeing cop cars out front, one with its lights on, checking all vehicles coming and going. All other exits are barricaded shut. Andy parks up the street a ways and the three of them get out and trot across the snowy streets and grass and over to the back of the building. Down a flight of dark cement steps there’s a set of double metal doors, the service and maintenance entrance. Inside it’s dark, dirty, large pipes everywhere; steam, water, gas, conduit, pneumatics, all that sort of stuff running in all directions like a jungle. Sometimes you have to duck under one just to pass by.

They keep to the south wall, which is like a perimeter walk-around, meant for checking and accessing pipes and electrical conduit. Nice old building, thinks Andy. None of this computer monitoring gear that all the new or ‘re-commissioned’ buildings have where if some water pipe is below temperature in a bathroom, there’s a guy in front of a computer screen watching a blinking alarm indicating that the pilot light’s out on one of the hot water heaters several floors away. That sorta shit’s kinda wicked. Not that you couldn’t deal with that stuff too, disable or override alarms and so forth, but it’s tougher, trickier to do, slows you down.

These older buildings are a lot less intense. Halfway through the basement there’s a service elevator, with dim lights around it for night time, nothing else on. Just to the east of there, is laundry. Andy takes the elevator up to recon. Jori goes back outside to the parking lot. The girl waits there nervously alone in the big dark empty basement with the dim lonely blinking blue lights.

On the first floor, across from the elevator is the cafeteria, and kitchen beyond that. Down the hall to the left, through the locked wooden double doors, is emergency. Andy sees two chairs in front of Smet’s room. There’s a young cop in one of the chairs sitting there with his arms folded, listening to the heated conversation around the corner. Okay, he thinks to himself, then goes back down to the basement.

But upstairs there’s a big uniformed cop in front of the desk where an older doctor is arguing with a fat man in a tan striped suit. “Listen pal” says the man hotly “I got authorization to take this guy, and that’s just what I’m going to do!” “It’s not a problem” says the doctor “but he’s Dr. Leksyan’s patient, and… I can’t release him without his say so; and he’s in surgery”

He really isn’t, but it’s a usable line, at least until you can come up with something better. “I mean, the man could die” continues the doctor “I’d lose my license. They’d sue me, I’d lose everything.” “Hey, I’ll assume responsibility for all of that” says the man “you’re off the hook, okay.” “No” says the doctor “by law, you can’t. If you could... fine. But the law says, it’s on me. Nobody else… can just come in and just say they assume responsibility when, you can’t. It’s very clear.”

“Look goddamnit” says the man “we got a national e… security situation here. I don’t give a shit about your policies or your goddamn license either. You release that man to me; right now, or I got the hospital administrator on the phone. Is that clear?” “Then you’ll just have to call him” says the doctor “that’s fine, that’s okay, it’s… something anyway.”

It’s not easy for the federal guy to just push his way through everything here. The big cop at the counter is an older heavy-set man, Sgt. Barnitti, and not so easy to bluff or back him down with official talk and a fancy gold badge. Barnitti’d come to the hospital after being on-scene at the house in Westchester. They sent him here when the feds demanded immediate information on everyone admitted to all the area hospitals this evening. He wasn’t up at that house for very long, just one of a whole gang of police, detectives, lab, everybody, a whole gaggle of uniforms, suits, white coats, everywhere. But from what he’d seen, the whole mess looked pretty goddamn fishy, to him anyway, and with untraceable federal fingerprints all over it.

The fed guy here in the suit has a couple of men with him. They’re outside small-talking with a couple of Barnitti’s men. “Get me the hospital administrator” he says to the black woman at the desk. She scans through the numbers on her desk blotter “you think an eighty-year old man is a threat to our national security?” she asks. “Look lady, that’s obstruction. I can cite you… both of you, for obstructing justice. Just for fucking around, okay; you got it.”

She gives him the number, and adds “we don’t swear in the hospital, young man.” “How do you intend to move him” asks the doctor “he needs time, to recover, or else…” “I got a medevac helicopter coming. Okay... a doctor, nurses, whatever. There’re here in five; alright.”

The policeman at the door of Smet’s room is anxious for them to decide, one way or another, makes no nevermind to him. Just tired of wasting time sitting around this goddamned hospital when real stuff’s happening out in the real world. Stuff he’s supposed to be preventing. And every minute here means another minute that his peers out on the street are just that much more ahead of him, in the know, chasing leads while he’s here falling behind and have to be caught up on everything.

It’s the feeling like coming to work late with your pants unzipped when everyone else is already out on the job and you’re never gonna be able to catch up. And tonight’s buzz is the big one, the kinda stuff you make points on. Stuff that gets your heart racing and makes your whole body feel like charging forward full speed ahead. Unless you’re stuck in the mud on some sorta waste of time detail like this one.

He glances to his left and sees a beautiful little blond angel coming toward him in a wheelchair; like a vision. The chair pushed by some guy in greens peering up from his surgical mask and hat. The girl has a large bandage covering half her face and head, but below that just has on a thin little hospital gown scrunched up almost to her waist.

The chair stops and the man in greens picks up a chart to check something. The injured girl tries to stand up, but stumbles and collapses in front of the young cop. He’s indecisive, caught off guard, not ready for any of this. Unsure of whether just to catch the poor kid, or where to put his hands, or maybe get a quick glimse down the inside of that skimpy gown.

Then he’s out, as the numbing smell of a wet cloth around his mouth and nose is the last thing he remembers. He sits back down in the chair, arms folded, head slumped forward. Andy and Maria go into the room with the seconds ticking away in their heads. The girl adjusts the plastic IV clamp on the old man’s hands and then unlocks the wheels under the bed, just as they’d rehearsed. “Now” says Andy into the headset mouthpiece of one of Smet’s little cell phones.

Jori pushes a button on his phone and a huge explosion rocks the parking lot. An empty cop car flips up end over end, upside down and bursts into flames, glaring red, yellow and blue fire spurting out against the black night sky. He runs back to the van and without lights, drives it up over the snowy curb and across the grass. Then backs it up to the service door of the kitchen.

Andy pulls all the monitor cables from the machines and sets them down on top the old man’s chest. Maria does the same with the IV bags and removes the oxygen tubes from the man’s nose. Then they wheel the bed out into the hallway. The hospital security guard runs from the break room without his coffee and danish he was gonna get for himself and the other cop, and sees the man in greens.

“Outside! Go!” Andy yells at him, motioning with his hand. The man runs down the hall, barely noticing the cop in the chair and the young girl in the hospital gown who is bent over talking to him.

When he’s gone, Maria runs ahead and holds the double doors open, then the doors to the cafeteria, kitchen, and finally meets Jori holding the outside door open. He and the girl get the front end of the heavy hospital bed as Andy lifts and holds it from the back. It’s so dark out here, even after racing through the dimly lit rooms, and so cold too, out in the wind. But they manage the bed down the short flight of steps. At ground level the three of them lift the mattress and the old man into the back of the mini-van.

Then they’re off, back across the grass, down the curb, and quietly up the little dark streets behind the big old building. It’s hot in the van with the heater running full blast; Maria’s in the back with Smet. He blinks open his eyes “I’m cold” he says. “Don’t worry” says Andy looking back over his shoulder “we’ll be home soon.”

He calmly drives back to Manhattan. Happy elated overjoyed and all at peace with everything. Wanting nothing more than to crack open the window and have a smoke, but even that doesn’t really matter. Maria’s holding the old man’s hand, checking his pulse, trying to counts his breaths, hoping she’s doing everything right. Jori’s watching the streets, keen to detect any enemy around or beside or behind them. But there’s nothing, just all smooth sailing.

Back at the hotel, Andy pulls up to the side door leading to the garage level. The three of them carefully place the old man into a wheelchair and carry it down the steps. Jori goes back to take care of the van and some other chores. Maria checks the elevator. Andy follows behind her pushing the sleeping old man in the chair. They get him to the room and onto the bed, hanging the IV’s from the lampshade.

“How you feeling” asks Andy. “Good” says Smet, groggy foggy-headed coming out of the anesthesia. “There’s little cupcake” he says, smiling fondly, lovingly. Looking at Maria like seeing her at the end of a long tunnel “isn’t she cute… in her little dress; like a little doll with such pretty white legs.”

Maria comes over to him and takes his hand. “Kiss me” he says “little cupcake” all smiley and happy. “I’m still man enough to handle… a little wench like you.” The girl laughs and looks over at Andy. He’s smiling too, listening to the old man rambling on. “It’s so good to be home, at last” he says. “I was in battle, you know, and they shot me... here; and it hurt, not so much really. Then… I don’t remember; but somehow, out of nowhere, this little angel came and picked me up and brought me here.”

The old man’s eyes move around the room. “But this isn’t my house. No, it’s… must be Roma, I think; the Vatican, yes, huh. And this must be the pope’s bedroom. Look how fancy it all is. But where’s he going to sleep?”

Andy finally gives in and lights up a cigarette. Maria’s holding Smet’s hand and shaking her head, trying not to laugh at him. “The pope’s saying a mass for you” says Andy “you’re a hero, you know.” “Ah, yes” says the old man. Then adds “funny isn’t it, that that’s all they give you; some priest saying prayers for you.”

He looks around trying to figure it all out, all the various random thoughts coming to him at once, like his mind’d been on hold, now all of it working at hyper-speed. “I met him once, you know. John, the... twenty-third I think; a nice old guy, small fat man. We talked and… he told me something… what was it? Something important, I think. Seems like a long time ago, for some reason; I dunno.”

He feels all lost for a moment, like can’t remember where he is, or anything; searching through cobwebs for memories or trying to get a hold something to hang on to, feel safe again. “Ah yes, here it is. He told me we have to forgive… and forget; forgive our enemies. And I thought about that for awhile. Thought maybe he’s got something there. But then I said to him… we have to kill them first. Plenty of time to forgive them, after that.” He looks up at Maria smiling and then over to Andy “but the young girls” he says “that’s what makes it all worthwhile, for us soldiers.”

Jori finally comes in, feeling on top of the world, like everything went off so smoothly, like silk, and without any hitches, just as they’d planned it; well, mostly anyway. “How’s he doing?”

The young girl turns her head with her hand over her mouth as Smet playfully squeezes her other hand. “It’s okay” says Smet “don’t be bashful. Come, lie down beside me.” Andy looks at the boy, smiling. “He’s resting in the pope’s bedroom. Got his hands on a sweet young princessa.” “Must be nice” says Jori, trying to follow what they’re talking about.

“You have to fight, first” Smet tells him motioning at the girl “both of you, back to the front. I’ll join you later; in the morning; go on now.” He smiles and closes his eyes and drifts back off to sleep into his drugged dream world which is a very pleasant place to be. The girl frees her hand and goes to get a cigarette. “He’s as goofy as you are” she says to Jori, thinking that it doesn’t seem to matter what age these guys are, young or old, just all of ‘em trying to hit on young girls whenever they get the chance.

Andy gets a rollaway and they transfer the old man onto it. He looks up at them and smiles and then drifts away again. Jori carries Smet’s big heavy duffel bag over to a corner, by the drape, and sets it down there so they can keep an eye on it. He’d brought it from the car, along with whatever else was important, registration and so forth, stuff from the glove compartment. Lugged all that stuff all the way up to the room.

“I parked the van back where it was. Oh, and I left the mattress and some other things out on a street corner a couple a blocks from here. And you wouldn’t believe it, man, there was just stacks and stacks of junk and black garbage bags, piled up everywhere. Like by this little all night deli on the corner; and even like brand new stuff, a bed frame and stuff like that. Man, the things people throw away in this town.”

“What about the car?” asks Andy. “Smet’s car” says the boy “I parked it a few blocks over, under a streetlamp, and I stripped it first of course, and left the keys in the ignition and the cell phones on the dash.” “Good” says Andy, and running things through his mind, trying to think of any other loose ends “is that it, then?”

“Well, let’s see” says the boy “we got the princessa,” looking over at the girl, who smiles. “And we got Smet… what about, Smet’s house?” “Yeah” says Andy “I’d like to check that out sometime too. See who’s maybe hangin around there or watchin the place. Do that tomorrow, I guess, right now… I’m just beat.”

He drops down onto the big soft bed and closes his eyes. Maria comes over and jumps on top of him, then Jori jumps in beside her. Well, this oughtta be fun, he thinks. But eventually they all get undressed and settle into the nice soft bed, with Maria in the middle and Andy on the side facing Smet, just to keep watch on him in case he might need something during the night.

The IV’s are running at a slow steady drip, extra’s they’d picked up at the hospital, just the big bag of saline and a couple of little bags of Keflex, a standard antibiotic for infection. Not a bad night’s work, thinks Andy, before drifting away, with Smet and two kids all safe and warm in this grand palace high above the big city.

Chapter 17 of Princessa

Aint It Grand

The magnificent hotel is grand and glorious, even more so when you’ve been on the run all day. Andy leaves the two kids outside, telling Jori to meet him him on the third floor observation area, motioning with his head where you can see up through the glass exterior of the lower floors. He goes in and gets a room on the upper floor. Later locates Jori and Maria. “Come on; we’re up on the top.”

Maria walks over to the large bed and falls onto it backward, her arms spread out. The others look around the marvelously furnished room. “Long day” says Andy lighting a cigarette, looking at the girl on the bed. “Yeah... and not over yet. We gotta go get Okkie… before… we can’t leave him, there.” She turns and looks at the curtained window. “And it’s all my fault… for being so careless.”

“Nah” says Andy, coming over to her “no, not at all. You… pushed them out into the open, is all. They’re there, all the time... the boogie man, bears in the forest, wolves at the door, whatever. Just… forced their hand, is all.” Then he adds “we’re gonna go get him, I promise.”

It’s weighing on him too, like a comrade falling in battle, and no way to get to him. He tries to squeeze out the minutes in his mind, like blood from a stone. The days that might be needed for an old man to heal up from minor surgery, versus the hours it might take for someone to come looking for them, checking all the hospitals for gunshot victims. “We’re just gonna, relax for a moment” he tells her “catch our breath for a bit, okay.”

The girl gets up and goes to take a shower. Andy turns to the boy who’s seated in the plush upholstered chair, looking out the window at the amazing lights of the city, like a million Christmas trees right outside your window. “You did good, Jori.” “Yeah” says the kid. “I didn’t know what to think... when you told me to go up and shoot that guy, damn...”

“I guess he didn’t either” says Andy “but... anyway it worked out okay.” And then like that’s over with and out of the way, he moves on to the present. “How’s your eye.” “It’s okay” says the boy “it… hurts like a motherfucker, actually.” “Alright” says Andy, in a tired voice “we’ll get some more lidocaine on it, in a little bit.”

Jori looks up at him “why… did you come after me; on the boat, I mean. Why didn’t you stay with Maria; you should’ve, you know… how come?” “What, and you’d be dead, out there in the water. And then I’d be dead… when the little princessa killed me for not going in after you. Then, she’d be a murderer; yeah, that’s a helluva thought.”

“Well… thanks” says the boy “I’m… kinda glad you did. But… it’s not the right…” “Look” says Andy “according to Maria Salin, we’re… none of us expendable. Not you, not her, not even me. So… get used to it” The kid doesn’t quite follow this, or can’t really agree with it anyway, so Andy continues “look… maybe it, makes our job a little tougher… but I just do what I’m told, okay.” “Yeah, well” says the boy “I’m not gonna let that girl outta my sight ever again. Not ever, long as I’m breathing, anyway.”

The young girl comes out of the shower all rosy and glowing, wrapped in a big towel. “Who wants to rub my back” she says. The two young men look at her, speechless. “Just kidding” she says “go take a bath, come to your senses.”

Andy looks at the boy who motions for him to go on ahead. Then sinking down into the hot soapy tub full of water, he feels like he could just close his eyes, and lie there, drifting off forever. In a bit there’s a knock on the door. “Andy, c’mon” says the boy “get outta there. The princessa’s gettin horny; and I wanna clean up first.” Reluctantly he leaves the steamy tub, wraps a towel around himself and comes into the room.

Maria’s lying there on the bed in a long white tee shirt. She smiles at him “he’s a funny boy. Gots some goofy ideas, though.” Andy puts on a tee shirt and a pair of boxers and drops down on the big soft bed beside the girl. He looks at her, all warm and soft; and smiles. “What are you thinking” she asks. “Oh…” he says, and pauses “what I… would do if you were a little peasant girl.” “Yeah? What do you do with little peasant girls?”

“Well” he says, thinking about it “kiss them, a bit, take them out to dinner, come home, kiss them some more, take their clothes off. That sorta thing.” She crawls on top of him and kisses him deeply, as he puts his hands around her warm soft hips. “Too bad I’m not a peasant girl” she says. “You’ll do” he says “Cut it out, you two” yells Jori from the tub. “We’re not doing anything” says the girl. There’s a pause, then the boy adds “why not?” “Waiting for you” she says. The boy pauses again, then adds “I don’t do threesomes. Andy go ‘way.”

Maria laughs and jumps up off the bed and switches on the tv, then comes back with the remote. Sits down at the head of the bed with a pillow behind her back and her sleek smooth legs stretched out in front of her. Finds a channel with the local news on, and a report about the incident at the house in Westchester.

Andy is jolted from his thoughts of the girl’s lovely legs and sits upright on the bed, telling her to turn up the sound. A picture of the little rodent-faced man covers the screen while an on-scene reporter talks over it. “And we repeat, T. Culver Hayden, deputy undersecretary of state, is reportedly dead. Details are sketchy at this point, and that’s basically all the information we’ve been able to gather. Again, Undersecretary Hayden, a top aide to the White House, on foreign affairs, is reported to be dead. The cause, unknown; the reasons, the details, as yet undisclosed. What we do know is this, Mr. Hayden was at best, a controversial figure. Perhaps more closely allied with his former boss, the vice president, than with those at State. Hayden was called by some, the chief architect of our nation’s foreign policy, particularly in the Gulf region. He had many detractors, now he has no one to answer to except his maker.”

“What do you think” asks the girl, shaken back to reality. Andy stands up and takes a deep breath “I like that gun” he says. Then adds, shrugging his shoulders “I guess we got our man. Anyway… lemme know if they say anything else. I’m gonna go get us something to eat.”

He looks at girl and smiles “what… you wanted he should blow up the palace, bomb the capitol?” “No, of course not… but, killing people, it’s… just hurts me, everywhere.” She thinks about the man, in the garage, his gun pressed against her head. “How did you know?” she asks. “What.” “That… he wouldn’t shoot me.”  “He’s a civilian” he says, simply, like that explains it “a civilian…”

Then he thinks about how to actually say it, so it makes sense to someone else. “Uh… military would’ve… stayed and fought, you know. Or, popped you on the head, dropped you down on the floor, unencumbered, so. And then ambushed whoever… comes up that tunnel, with a carbine, a weapon; not some little pocket pistol. Not hiding behind… a hostage. That’s civilian, that’s weak. And… you could see, by looking at him. He made the choice.”

“What was that” she asks. “Um… him or you” he runs it over in his mind, as he’d seen it, back there, just a short while ago. “He chose, himself.” “What do you mean” she asks, trying to follow his thinking. “The guy has no out” says Andy. “He knows that. Not goin anywhere; got no place to go. Not gonna shoot it out; that’s not gonna work. So he chooses. No point in killing you, just an innocent kid, pretty girl. So he does the next best thing.”

“He… lets you shoot him” she asks, not understanding at all. “It’s his only out. You can see that… if you were standing where I was.” “Wow” she says “that’s pretty weird.” She looks down at the carpet shaking her head “and you’re supposed to figure… all that out, in like three seconds.” “Nah, not like that. You can tell, by everything the person does. What he’s, most likely gonna do next. You just, gotta put all the pieces together, is all.”

Jori comes out of the shower wrapped in a white towel. His wet hair and wet dark skin glistening against the white cloth. “Good, you waited for me.” “Andy’s gonna go get food” says the girl. “I want pizza” says Jori, all enthused “with pepperoni.” “And green olives” says Maria. “Okay” says Andy, feeling like an errand boy, but not much caring, just anxious to get out and walk around and get some fresh air.

He takes the elevator down to the parking garage, basement level, all filled with shiny expensive cars. Thinking to himself, everyone in America must be so rich, just, so much money everywhere. Walks up a couple of flights of cement steps, then out a side door and onto 7th Ave.

It’s chilly and windy in the dark dead of night, but still people out milling around, the after-hours crowd who just can’t get the feeling of going home yet. He stops in a little store and the man at the counter store tells him there’s a good Italian place a couple of blocks over, but they’re probably closing about now. “Can you call them” asks Andy. The man looks at him kinda surprised by that “hey, there’s a phone outside. I got stuff to do.” “Please” he says “be nice... call ‘em for me.”

The man doesn’t really have much of anything to do at this hour, so he figures why not, might as well. He finds the number on the blotter pad by the register and dials the phone. “Hey Gigi, this is Tobias. Say listen, there’s a guy in here wants t’get a pizza, before you close up.” He listens for a moment then hands the phone to Andy. The pizza man tells him he’s gonna close, but has a large special left that someone didn’t pick up. He can have it if he gets there on time. “Five minutes” says the man “then I’m locking the doors.” Andy thanks him and goes out into the chilly night.

It’s only a couple of minutes to get there and the place looks and smells wonderfully of Italian food, with the old-fashioned decor, the red and white checked table cloths, the works. “You the man?” the guy asks. “Yeah.” “Well here you go, fresh from the oven.” “How ‘bout a cup of coffee” says Andy. “Nah, I gotta close up.” “I’ll lock up, for you” says Andy, quietly “just let me sit here a moment, and have a smoke; okay?”

The older man has had a long day and is pretty much all tired out. But he doesn’t much care, just wants to relax now himself. “Sure” he says, pouring some coffee “why not. It’s cold outside.”

Andy sits at a table near the counter while the man locks the door and pulls down the window shade over the ‘closed’ sign. Then starts to clean off table tops and chairs and set the chairs up on the tables. It’s the same routine every night, winding down time. Andy watches him, thinking about the girl back at the hotel and her passionate kisses and long skinny legs. And Smet, if he’s still alive or still in the room where they left him. And the dead men back at the mansion, apparently no one’s figured out a good story to cover that one yet. But mostly he thinks about the girl.

He finishes his coffee and leaves, thanking the man for his kindness. Back at the hotel he walks in the room, all dark now; just the light from the tv washing the room in a warm glow of colors. He sees the shape of the two kids in the middle of the bed, under the covers; walks over to set the pizza down on a table, only briefly glancing down at the floor to see if their clothes are there.

Maria throws off the covers and sits up smiling, still wearing her long tee shirt “surprise! We fooled you.” “Good” he says “I was hoping you’d behave ‘til I got back.” “Let’s eat” says Jori not nearly so enthused about the little joke as the girl is.

They dig into the hot pizza, pleasantly surprised by the wonderful taste and texture, spicy sausage and hot stringy cheese, warm crunchy crust with herbs baked into it; real Italian. Almost as good you’d find in the little villages in Italy, where they make their own sausages and their own sauce even, from tomatoes and herbs grown in the garden out back of the house.

Every bite is mouth-watering delicious and makes you want more. But not to hurry, just to chew and enjoy each bite and wash it down with cold coca-cola. “This is really good” says the girl “where’d you ever find it.” “Couple a blocks over” says Andy “nice little place, old-fashioned.”

But the girl can feel the distance and emptiness in his manner and voice. “What’re we gonna do now” she asks. Andy smiles at her, sort of like a blank reflexive movement “eat up… get back to the front.” Like chow time out in the battle zone, thinks the girl. Enjoy your brief little break, act all normal for a few minutes, always knowing you gotta get back to work when the meal’s done and the break’s over with.

They finish their food and cokes and start to get dressed to go. “Well, it sure was good, anyway” says Jori, anxious to get to the old man, like gonna show him what the real mission is, but still wishing the pleasant moments could just last a little bit longer maybe. Or maybe that that’s all there is, these good moments, so brief amidst all the rest of the things you have to do.

The three of them go down through the basement, as Andy had earlier, then across the broad cold streets and dark gusty winds and over to the car ramp. Andy briefs them on his plan, what he has in mind, generally. Then at the car, he tells them to wait so he can look around for a moment.

He walks around through all the fancy new cars, SUV’s, and amazingly huge monstrous shiny new pick-up trucks, like gilded elephants on wheels. It’s hard to imagine the difference from his own country, the tiny little utility vehicles commonly used there. Little bitty truck with just a cab barely big enough for two men to squeeze into, and short little wooden flatbed behind, maybe enough room to haul three or four barrels or a dozen burlap bags, or a few more work men, whatever. And that’s going in style back home. Those without, still use the old horse-drawn wagons to move their goods, slowly and surely getting from here to there, with the clacking hooves in an age old rhythm on the cobblestone streets.

Andy shakes his head, thinking about the unreality of it all, and trying to find the most suitable vehicle for the current job, the task at hand. His heart says the black Lincoln navigator, but his mind settles on a little white mini-van with the business logo and writing on the side. He gets the others, comes back and pops out one of the rear windows, ready to calmly go to work on disengaging the alarm. In a parking garage this size, sounding car alarms are routine, commonplace. The staff likely aren’t going to get all excited and run to check it out ‘til they’re good and ready, or tired of hearing it. But there’s no sound, no alarm on this little van. Nice, thinks Andy, gives yah more time to do other stuff, no hurries.

He opens up the doors and it’s fairly empty inside, just a few samples stacked against the back of the front seats. Some saleman’s vehicle, he thinks, come here for convention or a meeting or training or something. And no on-star on the dash. That’s nice too. Company gots enough decency not to check on their people’s every turn and step throughout the day; shows some respect for the working man, like trust him to do his job, without big brother watching all the time. Down on street level, Andy goes through the plan again, this time in more detail, knowing they always change anyway.