Chapter 24 of Princessa

Plan of Attack

Maria and Jori come in the door, and Andy jumps a foot. “Jeez” she says “it’s just us.” “Yeah, okay” he says, laughing “sorry… I’m just jumpy.” “Here” she says, all smiley and happy, handing him a shopping bag full of stuff.  “We got you a bunch of souvenirs.”

He dumps the bag out on the bed and looks at all the stuff they bought. “There’s a little statue of the Empire Building” says Maria “and also the Statue of Liberty, like paper weights. And… there was a Vermeer exhibit, at the museum, so we got a couple of posters.” “We got tee shirts too” says Jori, going over to pick up the colorful shirts with ‘I Love NY’ and the city skyline and other New York scenes on them.

“Wow, very nice” says Andy. “So, you had a good time, huh.” “Oh yeah” says Maria “it was great. The museum is so nice, so much, bigger than ours. And so… all different kind of stuff there, all over, you can hardly get around to see everything.” “I didn’t like the Guggenheim” says Jori “it’s… weird.” “Yeah” says Maria “too modern, but the Metropolitan was great.”

Again, the two men seem like they want to be all interested and enthused but just can’t really do it. Maria doesn’t even bother to tell them all the other stuff they saw and did.  “So, what did you guys do, all day?” “I got some food” says Smet “that was good. And got caught up on what’s… the news and stuff.”

“I went over to Smet’s house” says Andy. “And?” asks the boy. “They’re watching it. Watching and waiting.” “What about it” asks Maria. “Well, I’m gonna go back there, say hello. When it’s gets darker out; see what they’re up to.” “I’m in” says Jori. “Me too” says the girl.

“Now hold on a minute” says Andy. “There’re some things I gotta do, okay. Need to do; and I want it, done right.” “What’s that supposed to mean” asks the girl. “This isn’t fun and games” he says. “What I’m gonna do; people are gonna die, okay. It’s dangerous, serious shit.” He unconsciously clenches his fists and looks at them with a hatred in his eyes that they haven’t seen before. “These people, with their cameras, and satellites, and monitors… have taken my identity, my… existence, you know. And stuck it into their, data banks… and, I’m gonna give ‘em some payback, okay, some retribution.”

“No shit” says Maria “you can’t even make a goddamned phone call, without these bastards listening in to what you’re saying. And then, the motherfuckers are using…whatever, to pinpoint exactly where you are. And… I mean, who the fuck are they, like they think they’re God, to decide everything, like that. It gives you the creeps. It’s just… scary, and so wrong, to do that. To… I mean, somebody oughtta get hurt, for doing stuff like that.”

“Right” says Andy “and that’s just what I’m gonna do.” But he can see now that it isn’t just him that has this ‘I been violated, and really bad’ feeling; and wanna go fuck somebody up for doing that. “But… this is a professional job” he says “it’s gotta be clean, neat, and… gonna be pretty goddamned fatal, too; alright. So, you…gonna have to just sit tight. Stay here, with Smet; and wait ‘til we get back.”

“They tried to kill Jori” says the girl “and they would’ve killed me too… at the drop of a hat; they would’ve. It’s what they were going to do, you know.” She’s serious, angry, and not about to be put off by some ‘this is too dangerous for a little girl’ bullshit. Her lower lip trembles as she speaks. “Those guys… back home, at the palace, Freddie, Tonio, Vil, Marten… and the others. They were my friends… and, they were there, for me; because of me… they died. Because it was their job, to protect… guard me.” She looks at Andy dead seriously, full of hurt and anger.

“That was… the terrorists, who did that” says Jori. “Yeah” says the girl “and why; why did they do that… huh. Who pushed them, into coming into our little country; and starting all this shit.” She looks back at Andy. “I told you, okay… what I would do, if… and I meant it.” She can see in his eyes that even if he does understand her, what she’s trying to say, it’s not gonna make any difference. “Look, I can order you… if I have to.” “Sure” he says, feeling the tension suddenly fading away “and I always follow orders. Unless I don’t want to.”

“Listen” says Smet, loudly “all of you. Just shut up and listen for a minute, okay.” The three of them look at the old man, each just bursting at the seams with their own burning points they want to make, need to make. But willing to let him have his say. Maybe give them a moment to gather their thoughts. “Come here” he says to them roughly “sit down, shut up and listen now.”

The three young people move over to the bed and sit, arms crossed, flushed defiant faces, looking at the old man leaning forward from his chair. “I’ve been thinking” he says “these past couple of days…” “You’ve been sleeping” says Jori “unconscious.” Maria laughs, but Smet looks at the two of them like ‘the head of secret service, former director of special operations, can get your attention with the back of my hand’ if need be.

“Yeah well, here’s what I been thinking. There’s been enough killing, okay. All the way around, on both sides. Those kids I shot, up there at the house, and I made sure they were dead, you know. What were they… some contract security guys, or just some young soldiers, doing their job… no idea, what’s really going on. And what’s that for, huh? Any of it.”

“They were in the wrong place, at the wrong time” says Andy. He’d seen a lot of people die like that ever since he was a kid, reading in the papers about Somalia, Kosovo. And then later as a soldier, in the various wars and peacekeeping missions; Afghanistan, Iraq; innocents, not knowing, just doing their job or hit by an errant bullet or a bomb or land mine that didn’t know they weren’t the intended target, or didn’t really care. “You put yourself in harm’s way, bad things happen sometimes.”

“Okay, they do” says Smet “and I’ve seen it happen” His voice is shrill, almost tearful “for six decades I’ve seen it happen… and when is it ever going to end. When, how… do we make it stop… all this killing.” No one speaks for a moment, then the girl looks at the old man, and says in a quiet voice “what about, the boys…back at the palace… what about them.”

“Yes” says Smet “I know, and I want revenge, too. I want blood for their blood. I wanna soak my hands in it, and pour it down my chest. But think about it. If we kill these men… or even if we kill their president; that’s just what they want; just what they want us to do. That’ll just… they’ll only double, or triple their defense budget. Make more weapons, more bombs, maybe tactical nukes even; and kick down more doors… attack anyone, everyone who gets in their way, with the perfect excuse… somebody’s out to get them. And they gotta get to them first. Don’t you see that; don’t you see?”

“What else can you do” says Andy “goddamn… they started this; we didn’t.” “Do you think they care about that” says Smet. “Do you think that matters… to anyone? They run the media. It’s like Soviet Russia, all over again. You know, I fought with the Russians, in Afghanistan, thirty goddamned years ago! My God, and it was justified, to the people, it was… somehow, in our own defense; until we started losing too many men. But that’s not the point. The thing is, we can’t beat them, with our… hands or our courage. You kids… you brave young children; you all wanna go and fight and die, like our great Prince Leomont… charging into the fire, with sword held high and waving, wild-eyed, fearless, afraid of nothing, no one.

“Well let me tell you something” he pauses for a moment and lights up a cigarette “I rode with that crazy young prince. Yeah, I did, many many years ago; maybe I was your age then” he says to Andy. “And… very very few of us crazy fools got outta there alive. And other than a few nice statues in the little towns, and the big square in the capitol; what did we get out of it, huh? Half our people dead, gone, vanished into thin air. Go to the cemeteries, sometime. Look at the markers… look at all the names, all the different first names, with same last name; entire families gone, wiped out, forever. Yeah, they were brave… I admire them, I was one of those gallant fools; but we can’t… do that, again; we can’t.”

“Then what are we going to do” says the girl. So frustrated, like she’s been searching for that answer for so long, it’s like a part of her skin, her whole being. “If only we had had some nukes; a bomb, like China or Pakistan; then they wouldn’t fuck with us, they’d leave us alone. That’s what we need.”  

Andy gets up and walks to the window, lighting a cigarette. Tired of the useless talk that doesn’t get you anywhere with ‘if this and that’ and beggars would ride if they just had white horses. “We have that” says Smet “or, the next best thing, anyway.”

They all look at him, surprised, stunned. “Well… in a manner of speaking, I mean. Obviously we don’t have the bomb, and… never will. But, we’ve got you, the three of you.” They look at him blankly, clueless as to what he’s saying. “You been doin too much morphine” says Jori.

“No, listen” says Smet. “You’re never going to beat the Americans with guns or bombs, even nukes. Because they’ll always have more; more money, more people, more everything. Not even with your guts and your determination; ‘cause they’ll have more of that too. No, I’ve figured this out… and the only way we can beat them, is with our heads.”

“And that means what” asks Andy, like hearing all this stuff isn’t really helping much. “Get jobs” says Smet. “What the fuck are you talking about” asks the girl. “Get jobs” he says “in the White House; the CIA, the Pentagon, wherever. Whatever place you can access the most information. Can… shape or influence, how policies are developed, what… direction they take. Or who gets listened to, and who doesn’t.”

No one says anything, still trying to make sense of the old man’s crazy talk. Jori goes over by Andy to get a smoke and leans against the curtain by the window. “Hell” says Smet “look at that guy Hayden. They say he shaped most of the Americans’ foreign policy in the last few years. The war and all that; just by his crack pot ideas and… finding someone willing to listen to him. Well, what if one of you had been there, putting a spin on things, or maybe leaking this or that, to the press or to the Chinese, or whoever. Or maybe changing a few key phrases in a draft policy proposal, so it means something more like what we’d want it too; all that sort of thing.”

“I dunno, Smet” says Jori “it all sounds pretty lame to me.” “Well just think for a moment” he says, looking at Andy now “you… got your photo, your face, all over Interpol. So, go in there and delete that, change it to, someone else. They got tapes of you (Maria) talking on the phone. Change the voice print, to match someone else, some kid in Taiwan. See what I mean, fuck them over, from the inside; unseen, unheard… and nobody knows the difference.”

“How?” says the girl, thinking maybe it all sounds kinda good, in theory, but how would you ever actually pull it off. “No wait” says Andy “he’s right.” “He is?” asks Jori. “Yeah” says Andy “all of it… it’s the only way, you know. The only way that’ll work, that makes any sense. And… it’s not, heroic or glamorous, or anything like that, not at all. But it makes sense. You’ve got some good ideas there, Oskar. Some good stuff.”

He remembers the guy in the freezing water, who risked his life to save him and the boy. People you’d never seen before in your life, never would again. But just to do that, just... these are good people, like anywhere else, like anyone else. Like that woman at the hospital... and the doctor. Not their fault that... they got the wrong guys runnin stuff. Hell, maybe they didn’t even vote for ‘em. Now they’re stuck, like everybody else, and powerless or afraid to do anything.

“How do you do that kinda stuff” asks Maria. “How do you even get in… to those places.” “That’s do-able” says Andy. “Well” says Smet, relieved that at least they’re listening, hearing him “you… get yourself an identity, a real one, from… somebody. And referrals… from, I don’t know, some senator or whoever, who wants his son back from whoever kidnapped him. Or who doesn’t want this or that to be exposed or put out in front of the public. You know, whatever it takes.”

“That’s boring” says Maria, not liking the idea much at all. “Yeah” says Andy “but it’s effective, and even more so than nukes… or whatever.” He’s letting the whole concept run through his mind, how to get in, what to do once you’re there, all the various details and possibilities. Then there’s a knock on the door.

Chapter 23 of Princessa

Herding Goats

Before dropping off into a much needed deep sound sleep, vice president Myerinck had one last phone conversation with Jack Croft; about that maddeningly  irritating little Malvian problem. “Jack” says the veep, and then pauses “just to, cover our… all the bases, I want you to give me everything you have, on Malvia… and so forth.” 

“Well” says Croft, wishing he could just be done with this, and get into a nice warm bed himself “apparently they’re onto… our eavesdropping op. Running some kind of low budget counter-measures of their own. Yeah, you won’t believe this shit, but, we had voice-one, that’s their king; talking with… Bin Laden in Karachi. And of course we know he’s not in Karachi. And then we had voice-one talking to Zwarhiri in Bagdad…”

“No kidding.” “Yeah” says Croft “and… well, anyway, turns out they’re just cheap poor-quality recordings. But you don’t know that ‘til you’ve taken all the time to translate it, which takes forever. But you can imagine what our guys must have thought when they first heard that stuff. Anyway, we got voice-one talking to voice-two, that’s one of their agents here, or we think it is anyway; that we tracked to up there in Jersey about a week or so ago. But we got one talking to two in…Toronto now. But again, low-quality recording bullshit.”

“So… just a bunch of crap” says the veep. “Well… not, all of it” says Croft “we had… voice-three, that’s their little princess, talking to voice-one in London or somewhere. And of course we know, or knew, she was in Jersey, because she was spotted there, at the house where their agent was. But then just a little while ago, we got voice-three, the girl, calling home… from a McDonald’s in New York.”

“No shit” says the veep. “Yeah” says Croft “so… for whatever it’s worth, that’s about it.” “Okay, thanks.” “Yeah” says Croft “sorry, there isn’t more.” “Alright” says the veep, then “hey… wait a minute Jack, you still there?” “Yeah, I’m here.” “Say… who was on that house, in Jersey?” “Um… gosh, I dunno. One of… Hayden’s guys, I guess.” “No” says Myerinck “it wasn’t Hayden’s op. Someone was on the house, watching… voice-two, or whoever, the agent; and they spotted the girl there… and then…”

“Yeah, you’re right” says Croft “after the phone intercept, we put… Whitson… Bill Whitson, was there, surveilling the place. I’m sorry, I can’t think…” “It’s okay” says Myerinck “is… he still there, Whitson?” “Uh… I really don’t know. I’d have to check.” “Well, find out for me” says the veep “and… anyway, whatever, get some people over there. Keep an eye on that place, you know, just to cover our asses on this thing.” “Sure” says Croft “I’ll take care of it.” “Oh and… call me, if you hear anything.”

“You got it” says Croft, his mind about to go totally blank, yet wondering why first Hayden, and now the vice president, got such a… strange interest in some young girl from the middle of nowhere. Was she… maybe connected to that Pakistani physicist, who was selling all those nuclear plans? Or was there… really a Bin Laden connection? Ah hell no, this is all just stupid, far-fetched bullshit. He calls the New York office to get some people to go over there to Jersey and straighten things out. Then grabs a blanket and pillow and stretches out on the big leather couch to forget about all of it for awhile.

Andy leaves the alley going back through the little parking area. Then walks a few blocks over, circles around a few more blocks to come up on the other side. On the east side now of Smet’s house, facing the rear entrance from half a block away. With the bright sun to his back he looks through the binoculars to the house across the street from Smet’s. One of the windows on the second floor has a couple of flower pots out on the ledge, and in between them is a little glint of light, like reflecting off a small camera lens, or something.

That’s a lot easier, thinks Andy, instead of just staring out the window all the time, like in physical surveillance; you just mount a few cameras here and there, and then somebody can monitor all of them, from his easy chair in front of a computer screen. A lot more comfortable way to do things. He walks over and looks up the alley behind Smet’s house. There’s a utility pole for telephone or electrical or whatever, and up there near the top, appears to be another little camera mounted, giving you a view of the back of the house at the same time. Very convenient, he thinks, just one guy from one spot can see everything all at once. Sit there, have a cup of coffee, eat pizza; even put it on recording for when you wanna go to the bathroom or something. Pretty easy stuff, maybe even make you lazy, who knows. He takes the long way around and then finally back to the car.

A few blocks away there’s a small shopping area, a mostly Arabic neighborhood from the lettering on the signs, but there’re also Hispanics and blacks going in and out of the little mom and pop grocery stores and newsstands, and so forth. Andy parks the car and goes into what looks to be the busiest of the little stores. “Are there any apartments for rent around here” he asks the man at the counter. The man looks at his face and clothes “no” he says “no places for rent here.”

“I’m from Bosnia” says Andy “and I need a place to stay.” “No places here” says the man again. “Well how about… someone I could call, get in touch with. Someone who might know of a place.” The man writes a number on a piece of paper and hands it to him. Andy goes back to the car and writes down the phone number of the store on the back of the paper the man had given him. Then drives back to the hotel. It’s a lot quicker than the subway trip was. He parks in the ramp on the other side of the wide streets.

Back in the room, Smet’s watching the news, reading the paper. Finishing a take out meal he’s gotten from the McDonald’s. “You doing okay” asks Andy. “Yeah, these chicken strips are really good, tasty, juicy. Got sweet and sour sauce, barbecue; some crispy fries and ketchup; even the coffee’s pretty good. Sure feels good to eat something again, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.” “So how’d it go?” asks Smet “I see you made it back alive anyway, so…” Andy sits down in a chair across from the old man, trying to figure a way to explain things to his boss. He’s waiting for an answer but Andy decides to get a coke from the fridge, then lights up a cigarette. “So?” asks the old man. “So… I gotta think about for awhile, okay. But, uh, what’s… all in the news, anyway.”

“Oh, you should see” says Smet “they got pictures of that guy, killed up in Westchester. Some sort of big shot in the government… died in a furnace explosion, they say. Can you imagine that? Oh and, they got us, in the paper too. Apparently some kids took… their grandfather… from his bed, right out of his hospital room. Here look.”

He shows Andy the story buried the back pages of the big thick newspaper. There’re even artist’s sketches of the old man and the three kids, with sweatshirt hoods over their heads and winter scarves around their faces. The sketch of the old man sort of resembles a cadaver on an examination table. “Jeez” says Andy “why even bother. These could be anybody, anyone on the planet.”

“Yeah I know” says Smet “but think about it; to Efrin and the folks back home, reading this on the internet, or whatever. They can put all that together, all the pieces. See what we been doing, without us even telling ‘em.” “Yeah, but if they could, so could anybody else.”

“Nah” says Smet “listen… if anybody else knew, actually knew, who was at the house, or at that hospital, they’d lock down the city. Cops checking every entrance and exit; airports, rail, everything, everywhere. They’re always very heavy-handed that way. Very… overkill, you know, swat teams kicking down doors, always. Never subtle or try to sneak up and catch you on the sly. They’d check every hotel room, every car, round up all the usual suspects, all that sort of thing.”

“Well they know Maria. That’s for sure. And look, if they got photos of every one of us, from your house, coming and going… then why not, slap those all over the news. I mean… bad as those sketches are, you could probably… superimpose our photos over them, and get a pretty good match.” “Maybe yes, maybe no” says Smet. “But... if the only people running that op, were the guys at the house; then…well, maybe there’s no one left to say anything.”

Andy thinks about it for a moment; but it doesn’t seem very clear. Why would… a top-ranking government official, undersecretary of something or other; be running some kind of wildcat operation, with nobody else in on it. It just doesn’t make any sense. “Listen” says Smet “the Americans got… a lot of shit on their plate. Not just us, little tiny Malvia, to worry about. We’re a big deal, to you and me. But to them, maybe we’re just back-burner stuff. And if the one hand has no idea what the other is doing, then maybe it gets lost in the shuffle, for awhile anyway. Sure, they’ll sort it out eventually. But by that time, we’ll be long gone.”

“I dunno” says Andy, trying to follow the old man’s reasoning, and seeing holes in it every step of the way. “They sure are keeping a low profile on it, anyway. “Well, I been watching the tv” says Smet. “Tomkin and everybody else are just repeating that same party line, like trained monkeys. All about that tragic furnace explosion. And at one point, they even mentioned the hospital. Said it had nothing to do with anything. Just some of the weird shit that happens in a big city from time to time.”

Andy runs it all through his head, and none of it adds up. Smet is ever the optimist, seeing only thing’s breaking their way all the time. But that’s… just too many coincidences, too much luck. And you can’t always get by with your eyes closed, just hoping for dumb luck all the time.

Bill Whitson’s thinking along those same lines. But with a lot bleaker view of things, back in his dark little room staring at his split-screen computer across the street from Smet’s house in Jersey. His burning ears about as red as his bloodshot eyes. He’s been on post for days now. All alone since that asshole Hayden showed up with a bunch of young tough guys, yelling instructions and giving orders that didn’t make any sense, to him anyway.

It was a simple op at first; simple and straightforward. Track this old guy, some slow-footed old dinosaur from some little nowhere country. But for some odd reason the old guy has phone contacts with the king of that little nowhere place. So… he tracks the calls, charts the voice, tracks the cell phone; finds a location to watch the guy. It’s all good work, hard work, but a good decent op. All properly filed, reported, up-channeled, like it’s supposed to be, no problem. The old guy turns out to be nobody, or with no identity match anyway. He’s traveled a lot, mostly eastern Europe; got a number of passports with different names, no doubt an agent of some sort; but nobody knows him or what he’s up to.

Then this little girl shows up with a couple of other kids. So what, take the photos, send the reports. Nothing on the others either; but the girl’s some kind of goddamned princess or something. Jesus, what the fuck’s she doing here. Next thing y’know y’got this fucking crazy man, Hayden, with his big loud mouth and fancy suit, yelling orders, changing the whole operation; like he’s bigger than all that. No more reports without his say so. Everything top secret now, hushed.

Then, that one thing that really makes Whitson wanna bend over and puke his guts out, sending up phony stuff. Saying ‘no change in status, nothing to report’ just routinely updating the ops center... with lies. That’s criminal stuff, go to jail for that. And it’s not fair… to order somebody to do that. But he went along with it anyway, goddamnit. Hayden had bullied him into it. Then… when they all went out on that snatch and grab op…

Well, that was kind of fun, like being in on the big play; like maybe it was gonna pay off, make a name for yourself, get a medal or something, who knows. But now what. That little motherfucker got himself killed, good for him; but now what; stop lying, keep lying, what. There’s no way out.

Whitson knows what’s going on. Maybe he’s the only one who does. He knows the players, or their faces anyway. Even matched them up to that hospital thing; saw that in the paper, where the cop car was blown up and all; but he hasn’t reported it. Every time he reaches for the phone, or even looks at the goddamn thing… he thinks of Hayden’s direct order - no upchanneling information “goddamnit don’t even think about it” without his approval.’

And all of what he has sent up, is bogus stuff, lies, to his superiors. So now what; who’s gonna make the car payment, the kids’ tuition, with him in jail. Well, shit; maybe it’ll all blow over somehow; if y’just wait it out. No that’s not gonna happen. His ass is fried, no matter how it sorts out. Hayden had ordered him to lie. Hayden is dead. So nobody knows about that order. Now he’s sitting on all the key pieces; just sitting on them, and his ass is fried; and what can you do.

Fucking little Malvian spies, what are they even doing here. Well they’d killed that son of a bitch Hayden, had t’give ‘em credit for that. Who’d’ve ever thought… well, maybe he can go there, take the wife and kids and move to Malvia, wherever the hell that is. Maybe they can use an unemployed surveillance man. Or hell, maybe he can get a milk cow, out in the countryside. Kids can herd goats, or whatever they do in that little country.

Chapter 22 of Princessa

Strange Goings On

He leaves the old man and goes out to the elevator in the hallway. But, pauses decides to go up to the dining room first, like… if you’re gonna be dead in the morning anyway, might as well live a little bit first. That’s odd, he thinks to himself, starting to think like Maria, like every moment feels like it could be your last. Is that bad, or good, or what. Hard to say, but it’s different, anyway. Like you’re watching yourself do things now, instead of just doing it.

The top floor dining room is really amazing, just like the kids said it was. The panoramic view of the whole city right there in front of you, all shining through the looking glass of the round wall of endless floor to ceiling windows. He likes it here, it is so nice, surreal almost, and he figures what the hell (jeez, starting to think like Ed now, the old guy who gave us the ride up from Jersey).

He orders a coneydog and fries and sits down to look at it all, so enchanting, like Disneyland, hardly a real world at all. Jori was right, this is really something quite magical to see up here, something you wouldn’t want to miss. The hotdog’s pretty tasty too, all covered in chili and onions and melted cheese. Or is it just like everything’s all of a sudden new and different or special somehow. Ah Jesus, best not to be thinking about all this stuff, just do your job; and not be… like reflecting on everything all the time.

He finishes his coke and goes down to the street, glad that he took the time to stop and see the view, anyway. The first thing is to take the subway over to the Jersey airport, pick up a car from the rental office. It takes a lot longer than he expects, but that’s all part of the stuff you have figure into the calculations.

And all that time he’s going over in his head what Smet had told him. It was the answer he’d expected, more or less, but with a lot of other stuff too. Like being recruited out of high school, and not even knowing it. Geez, these people are serious, or devious, or something anyway. Though not really stuff you wanna think about, like it’s almost fated, somehow.

He lets his mind wander to the other people they’d talked about, comparing them to himself, convinced he was right, but wanting to go over it anyway. Just something to do, to kill time. Zhrot was an obvious choice for this type of job. Such a mean tough son of a bitch; and yet so charming, sweet, nice, like a little boy, when he wanted to be. And Carlo, just the opposite. Maybe not as tall as the other guy, but he looked like he was, so thin and gaunt with his long shaggy hair hanging over his thin face. And the dark clothes he always wore, looking like some kind of rebellious art student at university or maybe a musician in a band. Not the crazy demolition expert that he really was.

Andy had met them at training, when they were instructors there. And had even served with them in combat. He remembered seeing that crazy Carlo blown off a jeep one time, right in front of him, by a roadside bomb. He watched the young man get up from the pavement, all tattered and bloodied, and calmly walk over to a small crowd of people a short ways away. He smiles at them, friendly, playfully hands his helmet to one of the kids to keep as a souvenir. And all the while, Carlo is sizing up the crowd, looking into each pair of eyes for any sign of fear or guilt, until finally one man pulls up an AK and lets go a burst into the crazy young soldier.

Carlo falls back and down, hit in the chest and stomach. The body armor stops most of it, but not all. The young man looks up from there, calmly from his back on the sidewalk, and carefully aims and shoots the other man, and not automatic either, just single fire. Just carefully puts two rounds into the man. Then staggers to a knee and again aims and hits another man running down the street and maybe a hundred meters away now. Plants the guy on his face in the middle of the street, with a couple of shots just below the neck.

Andy and the others are tending to the wounded in the burning jeep. But he watches the man, Carlo, do all that before collapsing from his wounds and then being aided by the medics. Not to save his life or anything like that, but just to ready him for the next assignment. Later he’d seen the man’s crazy partner, Zhrot, so proud of what his friend, his countryman, had done when someone told him about it. Not jealous or anything, not even with any idea of trying to outdo him. Just admiration for what anyone else would think is just plain insanity, senseless.

Zhrot wouldn’t have done it that way anyway, be more like him to shoot down the entire crowd with the gun on full auto. Just mow ‘em all down, slap another clip in, and assume that the relatives of the innocent victims would have a better life, now that the one or two militants in the crowd were removed from the picture. Zhrot was the self-defense instructor at the special forces school.

A nice enough fellow, but you got the sense that when he showed you how to render a man unconscious with a choke hold, or break a man’s ribs with an elbow thrust into the side; that these same moves could break a neck or a spine. And that that’s what the man showing you these things would use them for. Had to actually stop himself from doing that, even just in training.

And Carlo, with his long skinny fingers, like a guitar player’s hands, used those hands to make bombs with, out of anything, everything, simple chemicals, a radio, a cell phone. Worst of all, he seemed to have an even greater passion for defusing the bombs, for going in alone, into some dark hole in a building or a tunnel somewhere. Disabling some device that could blow up and kill hundreds or thousands of people. Like maybe this was the one thing and only thing he was actually afraid of, or terrified of. Not even death, just the ticking of a bomb. And every time he went in, and did that, it was like facing down his worst fears, his worst nightmares. And in doing that he could again return to being that sullen, aloof, rebellious art student with the dark looks and the dark clothes.

They were strange, those two. Different, and yet if you could imagine it, they were actually friends, though so opposite to one another in everything, looks, mannerism, behavior, everything. Andy’d even gone out with them for drinks one time. He watched them, the two men like competing against each other to see who could pick up the prettiest girl in the club. Zhrot with his straightforward ‘I’m the bull in your fantasies’ approach. Carlo, sitting back, alone at the bar, sullen, brooding, like ‘let them come and find me, if they want to.’ And they did, fascinated or strangely attracted to the thin dark mysterious young man.

It was a strange evening; unsettling, an uncomfortable tension all the time you were around those two. They’d even invited him back to their place, for whatever strange going’s-on there’d be with the pretty girls they’d found. But Andy politely adamantly refused, thinking they’d maybe slit your throat while you were sleeping. Make it look like somehow you’d cut yourself shaving, and all just to see if they could get away with it. That was just the way he saw two men, but you wouldn’t want to risk finding out.

Government agents, he thinks, super-spies, cold-hearted killers. Not like him, not like him at all. But it’d almost be interesting to get to know those people; and some of the others like them. Find out where they’re from, or what had made them become what they are. But who’d want to hang around with them long enough to find all that out.

And the girls there too, the same thing. Poella, the beautiful dark-skinned actress looking girl, who taught communications and computers, how to tap somebody’s phone or hack into a company’s mainframe. She could be so seductive and alluring; or dressed in a lab coat and with her hair up and black-rimmed glasses, look like somebody’s geeky assistant who never got out of the office. And the other one there, Luta, a sexy blonde goddess who was their foreign language teacher. Also expert in the art of burglary and bypassing alarm systems.

These people, thinks Andy, what are they really like, or is there any real self to them. So accustomed to assuming some other identity, playing a role or a character; do they even know what it means to be themselves, like at home, back home with their parents or brothers and sisters. It was an interesting place to train, you learn a lotta stuff there; but he was happy to leave it and not really want to ever see any of those people again, unless you needed someone to cover your back in a deadly fight. Be alright then, maybe.

He finally gets to the terminal, finds a car rental and hands the clerk one of Smet’s phony credit cards. Then drives off in a nondescript ‘looks like any other vehicle’ type car. He heads toward the house. It’s middle afternoon now and bright sunny out, but cold, a chill north wind picking up. But that’s okay too because it’s a good excuse to have the big fur-lined hood up on his coat, covering his head. So even if they made him at the house, they won’t be able to see his face, not this time anyway, motherfuckers. He parks the car a few blocks away and gets out to walk.

Smet’s house is in the middle of the block. It’s a poorly kept neighborhood, mostly run-down old houses that are rentals or have been made into apartments. Andy comes up from a couple of blocks to the west and spots the house from about a block away. He cuts across through a small parking area and looks down the alley. Most of the houses across the street from Smet’s have a number of junky old cars parked behind them. Some have flat tires, broken out or missing windows, faded paint and rusting out bodies.

Along with that, there’s the usual beat up old furniture lying next to garbage cans. Other assorted junk that landlords throw away when renters skip out on them, or left by the old tenants and the new tenants didn’t want it so they just threw it out into the backyard, hoping someday it’ll get hauled away. Some of the houses have a garage or a series of garages for the renters’ vehicles. But this one house has a couple of large new dark cars parked behind it. They look all out of place here. Makes you wonder about it.

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.