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. 

Chapter 16 of Princessa

Bang, You're Dead

Outside in the cold snow Smet is making his way along the fence line, surveying the house as he moves slowly, cautiously through the dark snow. There’s an occasional little ground light along the wall, snowflakes falling on them in bundles but melting away in the warm glow. He has to detour around these, going wide into the grounds toward the house, into trees and shrubs, then back out to keep everything in view, in front of him.

It’s slow going with his heart pounding in his ears, wanting to be in there with them on the inside, so worried about everything that’s going on, and out here alone, hoping they’re in alright, undetected, wondering if they’ve found some way to get to the girl, if she’s okay or still alive even. A spotlight illuminates his shadow on the snow in front of him. “Don’t move! Don’t twitch. Hands up, over your head. Right now!” The man behind him speaks into the microphone on his headset “got one intruder, northeast sector…”

With his left hand, Smet grabs the glove and empty coat sleeve on his right arm and lifts it high over his head. Then quickly turns and fires a long burst at the source of the light with the Uzi from under his coat. He sees the light shatter and the man behind it fall to the ground. The muffled gunfire is a little loud, like popcorn popping, nothing to scare the neighbors. But whoever else is here on the grounds is gonna be here quick.

The old man scrambles over and down behind the dead man, and replaces the magazine in his gun. He takes the flashlight from his pocket, switches it on and throws it over aways off to the left. Immediately he sees other spotlights running toward him, trying to get a fix on what just happened. Two men approaching from different directions speak quickly into their headsets with their carbines at ready. Once in range, Smet gives each a short burst of the Uzi, then repeats that at ground level ‘til the lights are out and there’s no more sound.

The basement area of the house is soundproofed, but the man in the control center feels his guts jump into his throat, like alarms ringing in a diving submarine. He hits the split-screen button on his computer and sees nothing but snowflakes outside. ‘Oh Jesus,’ he says to himself ‘shoulda been watching… motherfucker, now what.’ He quickly dials the phone to the observation room. “Sir! intruder outside…gunshots, got… uh, two men responding. No answer from, the third man… yet.”

“Right… okay” says Hayden “I’ll be right there.” The undersecretary looks through the glass at the girl and then runs across the hall to the brightly-lit control room. Upstairs the men in the kitchen are on their feet moving toward the back door. The phone rings on the counter beside the kitchen table “We got an intruder!” the voice says, trying not to sound panicky. “No shit, Sherlock” says the big man “anything else… well!”

“Uh, the northeast wall” says the voice “one man down… I think.” They draw their weapons and turn to leave. Andy and Jori bolt in from the hallway door. The big man with the bruises sees them for a split second. A short burst from the Uzi catches him in the chest. Then another for the man beside him. Jori aims at the man in the glasses but Andy grabs his hand.  “Wait” he yells “I want him alive.” The startled man has his arms out to his side, pistol still in his hand. “Drop it” says Andy, sharply, moving quickly over beside him, putting several more shots into the two men on the floor.

On the other side of the room the elevator opens. Jori fires repeatedly into the man who falls forward, before he can even get off a shot. Andy grabs the man with the glasses and sticks the red hot barrel of the Uzi into his ear. “What’s downstairs” he demands. “Uh” says the man, like a quick battlefield report “hallway, control room… briefing rooms.” “How many men?” “Uh, just two… one in control; one in, beside the, interrogation room.” “Which room, where’s the girl.” “The… uh, first room” the man stammers, trying to follow what Andy’s saying with the gun barrel burning his ear.

“You first” Andy says, pushing the man toward the elevator. He sees Jori starting to drag the dead man out of the elevator doors. “Wait, hold on... leave him.” There’re no buttons inside the elevator, no way to open or close the doors or go up or down.

“How’s it work” he asks the man with the glasses. “From control” he says “everything… works from the control room.” “Where the stairs?” He knows there gotta be stairs, even high tech facilities gotta have low-tech back up; just in case. “That door, over there” says the man “in the corner.” Andy puts the gun barrel up to his face. Tthe man had failed to mention that the elevator doors gonna close on them, be stuck in there, if Jori’d pulled the dead guy outta the way. “What else…come on, talk.” “Uh… steel door, at the bottom. Gotta get, buzzed through, from control.” “Okay. Jori, watch him.”

He opens the door, shines his flashlight down to the bottom, thinking about that poor guy going up in the elevator; hearing the gunfire, doors gonna open up on him automatically, nothing he can do but just… get filled full of holes where the blood leaks out.

There’s nothing in the stairway, they don’t use it, never had to before. He runs down the steps holding the beam of the flashlight on the lens of the camera mounted up on the wall over the door. Slams it aside with the butt of his gun and grabs the little backpack from his back. Quickly carefully he places several bags of the white clay over the hinges and latch of the heavy door and sets the fuses. Then decides to double the number of bags, and runs back up the steps.

“Get down!” he yells as the massive explosion knocks them to the floor and shakes the entire building like being hit by a wrecking ball from all sides at once and the house rocking up off the foundation. The kitchen bears the brunt of it, flooring ripping up from the doorway on in, chunks of ceiling and walls breaking collapsing, flying toward the far wall, windows shattering, cabinets flung open, all contents rattling breaking falling to the floor. Andy and Jori are down under the table, the chairs thrown over, landing on top of them.

“You okay” he asks. The boy nods and begins to lift himself up from the rubble. “Come on” says Andy, grabbing the man with the glasses and pushing him ahead as they run down the splintered broken-up wooden steps. The big steel door is completely blown off its hinges; just the eerie dim light of emergency lights flickering on from out of the cloud of dust.

Andy pushes the man through the open doorway. Instantly he’s splattered with bullets crackling through the hallway. The control room man fires repeatedly at the shape appearing through the thick smoke. He’s kneeling halfway down the hall, M-16 in hand, heart pounding, feeling like the last one left, a sacrificial lamb left for slaughter.

Andy and Jori empty their guns at the kneeling figure. He falls sideways onto the dirty floor, motionless now in his own pooling blood with the carbine still clutched in his hands. Andy grabs his Ruger and quickly checks the hall. The glass control room to the right is smashed to pieces, the smoldering steel door lying at the base of the wall. Lights are flickering on in the hallway and in one of the rooms to the left. He motions to Jori to cover the hall and rushes into the room.

Nothing in the first one, just the big heavy table and heavy chairs, but oddly arranged, like there’d been some kind of trouble in here. Someone had tried to push the table up to block the door. His heart begins to pound in his ears. Nothing in the second room either, but you can see through the glass into the first room. They were here, he thinks, just seconds ago.

He quickly looks down the hallway, sees the smoke and dust flowing outward from an opening about halfway down. “Tunnel” he yells to the boy, racing down the hall and finding the opened steel door to his left. He grabs the side of the doorframe and spins around just in time to see two figures moving at the top of the upsloping tunnel. Then he runs headlong up the rampway, the boy right behind him.

The man with the nice suit is frantically trying for the car door. But spins around bracing his back against the car just as they enter. His small pistol is jammed up against the side of the girl’s head “I’ll kill her” he yells, staring wild-eyed at the two armed men.

“So?” asks Andy, out of breath and just letting everything go blank now, not to think, just react. “Then what?” he asks the man. “Drop your guns” orders the man harshly “or I’ll blow her brains out... y’hear me!”

“Jori” says Andy, speaking English to him and motioning toward the man “go over and shoot him in the head.” The rodent-faced man looks at the young boy moving toward him and starts backing down the length of the car, jamming the gun harder into the girl’s flesh. “Stop!” he cries “I’ll kill her... I will.” The boy continues toward him, slowly, mechanically like he doesn’t even hear him at all. He raises his gun and instinctively the man points his own gun toward him.

Andy fires a single shot into the man’s forehead. Maria pulls free and runs toward the boy, crying and hugging him as Andy walks forward and fires several more shots into the dead man’s body. “We gotta find Smet” he says as the girl hugs against him too.

On the far side of the garage, a door leads out to the cold night. The chill wind and snow blow in on them as he pushes it open. Police sirens approach from the distance. One minute, thinks Andy, a little less maybe. And too much to do yet - blow the house, eliminate evidence, get their computers or their weapons - and no time to do it and still get away.

“Smet!” he yells loudly out into the dark. “Over here” says a voice, a few feet away in the blowing snow. They run up to the old man. “You okay” asks Andy. “More or less” he says, weakly. “Okay then, gotta make for the back gate, I’ll get it open.”

He runs down the drive, puts a small amount of the white clay on the latch of the large iron grates. Sets the fuse and runs back to the others. It blows apart with relative calm, leaving the two sides of the huge gate slightly open in the middle and warbling with the vibration of the blast.

“Go get the car” he says to the boy “take Maria with you.” They squeeze through the opening in the gate and disappear in the darkness. Andy helps the old man down the driveway. “How bad is it” he asks. “Oh... not good” says Smet. “Lower… left side, here” he says pointing with his hand. Andy helps him through the gate and across the street and then sees Jori coming fast with the car.

They put the old man into the back. Andy jumps in behind the wheel, then races the car down the street to the corner, turns, down a block, turns again then two blocks and turns again. He knows where he’s going, just wants to make sure he gets there alone. Maria looks at the old man in the back seat. “What’s wrong! Okkie… what.” “Is… okay” he gasps, breathing harder now.

Andy speeds up fast as he can on the deserted streets, mindful of everything around; cops, other cars, somebody out for a stroll on a lovely snowy night, whatever. But it’s all empty, quiet, no one around; too cold maybe, or just a good night to stay indoors. Soon they’re back to the turn off to the freeway. Then pushing the car to full speed for a couple of more miles, a couple of minutes, back to the Bronx and to the exit by the blue sign; things you remember if you pay attention to foreign terrain.

He sees the lights off to his right and quickly races the car toward the entry way of the hospital; then slams down hard on the brakes coming to a jolting stop in front of the emergency entrance. “Put your hoods up, scarves on” he tells them “don’t want anybody to see you here, okay.”

The two young men hurriedly pull the old man from the back seat and carry him in. The girl runs ahead, gets a wheelchair from inside the sliding glass doors. They set the big man down and push him up to the desk. “Gunshot wound” he says to the big black woman at the desk “hurry!” “Room three” she says “there, right there” pointing to an unlit room. “Jayla!” she calls, and a nurse steps out from one of the other rooms. The black woman dials a number from the phone at her desk “Dr. Leks, we got a shooting victim in ER.” “On my way” he answers “get x-ray.”

Moments later the doctor runs into the room. The nurse has cut away the bloody clothing and has a clump of gauze pressed tightly over the wound. Two other nurses in greens are starting an IV and hooking up various monitors to the old man. “Lemme see” says the doctor pulling on a pair of plastic gloves. The nurse steps aside, removing the gause.

The young doctor sees a small neat hole that’s quickly overrun with dark blood. He examines it, puts on a fresh pat of gauze to cover it up. “Hold that” he says to her politely. “We need blood” he says louder to one of the nurses in green. “AB positive” says Andy as the nurse hurries out and across the hall. The doctor looks over at him “next of kin?” “Yeah.” “Well, what’ve we got?” “Small caliber” says Andy “nine millimeter, I think… one shot, didn’t go through.” “Okay” says the doctor as the other nurse returns and hangs a couple of pints of the dark plasma “let’s do this.”

The other nurse is finished with the monitoring equipment and the doctor bends down to look at numbers as the nurses pull on surgical gown and mask over him. “BP’s… fading.” Then louder, more urgently “start Demerol, 10 cc’s.” The x-ray tech sticks his head inside the door “Doc?” “Stand by” he says. One of the nurses quickly cleans around the wound with betadyne, slaps a large sterile bandage over it (surgical prep) and pulls the plastic off the top. The other nurse slides a tray of instruments up as the doctor bends over to get started. He looks up at Andy “Uh…wait, outside; please.”

Andy watches for a moment, doctor and old man hidden there under the maze of wires and tubes, then takes the others and goes out to the waiting area.

Dr. Leksyan is just back from the Gulf War, given up his comfortable practice with the nice old family doctor. Decided to go into surgery; now interning in this very old run down hospital in the American war zone. But he can’t shake that feeling of ‘gotta save one more.’ And they get a lot of that here. Doesn’t bother calling in the surgeon on-call. Waste of time, he thinks. Same with x-ray; got a pretty good idea of what has to be done, just to do it right away is the main thing. You learn that, when you’re over there.

“What do you think” asks Maria nervously biting at her lip. “Old man’s been through a lot, a lotta shit” says Andy. “No reason… he’s a tough old bear” he says, holding the girl in his arms as she starts crying against his chest. The black woman from the desk comes into the room with a clipboard and paper. “Ees he okay?” asks the girl. “Sure” says the woman “sure honey, gonna be fine. We… see a lot of these.”

She sees the girl’s torn clothing and Jori’s black and purple face, mostly covered by hat and scarf. “Uh… have you two been, in a fight?” “Oh… no” says Maria quietly, feeling her sweatshirt with her fingers “ees the style nowday. Jori, fell, on ice reenk, today.” “You push me” he says, looking at her. “Deedn’t not” says Maria.

“Well” says the woman “I have, some questions, we need to fill out.” Andy goes with her, back to the desk, glancing over at the door to Smet’s room which is now closed. He explains to the woman about the accident; the gun going off while the old man was showing it to them. Something he’d just recently purchased for his own safety and protection.

Then he does his best to answer all the medical questions and the rest of the patient history info. They’re from Montreal. Just flew in yesterday, don’t speak that much English. Gramps met them at the airport, drove them to his apartment. They don’t know his exact address in the Bronx; will call back later to fill in any gaps.

The woman doesn’t believe a word of it, but notes it all down anyway. She’s heard about every story imaginable from the next of kin of gunshot victims. This one’s about the same as the others. She can almost fill in the blanks herself. Cleaning the gun, didn’t know it was loaded; didn’t know that if you point it and shoot it at somebody, they’d end up here.

Oh well, happens every day; gunshot, stabbing, car wreck. You sit around bored, doing the routine, then they wheel ‘em in, and the adrenaline starts pumping like mad. Nurses got it down pat. Don’t even have to say anything. She finishes the form without much interest and has Andy sign at the bottom.

“Okay” she says to him “you can wait with the others. Get some coffee or cookies. But… I have to notify the police, okay? On… any shooting; it’s the law, can’t, do anything about that. Alright?” “That’s fine” says Andy, unconcerned “no problem, we’ll just wait, in the waiting room. You’ll tell us, when he’s okay?”  “Sure” says the woman “of course I will. Don’t worry. Doctor knows what he’s doing.”

Andy goes back to the waiting area and a short while later, the nurse Jayla walks in. “Your grandfather’s gonna be alright. Got the bullet out, just stitching him up. He’s stable… gonna be okay.” “Oh God” says the girl “oh thank God.” She runs over to her and grabs her, tears streaming down her face. “I wanna see him.”

“The doctor will be down, to talk to you” says Jayla “once he’s finished with everything.” She leaves and Andy turns to the two kids. “We gotta get going.” “But I wanna see him” says Maria “we can’t leave Okkie… we can’t.” “Gonna be cops here” says Andy “any minute now. They have to notify ‘em, about shootings. Don’t worry, we’ll come back, get him. Just… give him some time to rest, is all; don’t worry.”

They quietly sneak away and get in the car. Andy drives back to the city, the long way, easy and slow. Nobody says anything, each of them lost in their own thoughts, not knowing what to say. Finally the girl speaks “thank you, you two, for… coming to get me.” “What did they do, to you” asks Jori, his voice full of rage. “They… tore my shirt” she says. “Oh…” says the boy “well, that’s something.”

“I was so scared” she says “that they’d… killed you; and I’d never see you again.” She grabs the boy and hugs him tight against her, crying now, the pent up emotion just all spilling out. “Yeah” says Jori “imagine how we felt.” They fill her in about the swim in the cold water and getting to the house and finally locating her, as she tells them about the interrogation and the worries of being all alone in that room and lost without them.

Their moods range from anger fear laughing and almost crying, to be all of them back together again and with Smet safe and sound in the hospital and out of danger now. After a bit, there’s back at their parking ramp near the diner again. “Now what?” says Jori. “I think we’re gonna stay at the Marriot tonight” says Andy “chill out for awhile.”

Chapter 15 of Princessa

The Big House

Smet is getting out of his cab as Andy pulls the car onto the avenue. “Here” he says, rolling down the window “over here.” He reaches into the glove box and grabs a pack of cigarettes as the old man gets into the back seat, throwing in a large heavy duffel bag ahead of him. Andy lights a cigarette and hands one to the boy, trying to ready himself for Smet.

“Okay” says the old man quickly “I got a fix on Maria” then adds “GPS” as the young men turn to look at him. “Don’t ask. Even the king doesn’t know about it. She doesn’t either; by the way. Is… something I did on my own, thought it might come in handy some day.” “Where is she!” asks Zoltep, demanding to know. “Uh… Westchester” says the old man “up north of here, a little ways.” “Smet, you’re an angel” says the boy, grabbing the old man’s hand and kissing it “I love you, I love you.” “Okay... now, tell me what happened.”

Andy and Jori try to explain as best they can, somewhat lost for reasons; none of it making any sense. And too overcome with joy to really care about it anyway. Just talking, saying anything, letting the words spill out while all you’re really thinking is “yeah, the girl’s gonna be alright, we’re gonna find her, bring her back home safe and sound.”

“Who could do this?” asks Andy “how.” There’re too many blanks to fill in, too many gaps. All you can do is go over each one, try to get it sorted out; process of elimination if nothing else. “Do you think they made you, at the house?” he asks Smet. “Nah, not likely. I flew into Montreal, on a UK passport. Drove down from Detroit. I’m invisible. Besides, nobody knows me; not my face anyway. Hell, nobody knows any of us. Had to be the girl; just… target of opportunity, is all. Somebody got lucky, saw you three somewhere… figured they could take you; coming back, from the Statue. Dump you two guys in the river, go home and eat supper.”

“That’s a pretty neat op” says Andy, thinking about it. “That guy, I fought with, on the boat… strongest guy, I ever ran across; like a bear, his arms were.” And then putting that behind him asks “so now what?” “Now” says Smet “we’ve got them on the run. They’re out in the open now; showed their hand, played their cards. Now it’s our turn.”

They drive along in the snowy darkness, through the Bronx on the freeway. Suddenly Andy thinks of something they’d told him at special forces training. “Cell phones... you know, like that general, in Serbia, a few years back.” “Yeah” says Smet, recalling that “the Yanks sent a cruise missile right up his ass, right in his own office, when he’s talking on the phone. Got it zeroed in, from satellite or something.” “Yeah” says Andy “and we been calling all over fuck. Not even thinking about it; that they’d bother to, be tracking us.”

Finally he sees their exit and turns off into an amazingly ritzy upscale neighborhood. It’s unbelievable almost, like a fairyland kingdom or something. “Jaysuz Christ” says Jori “what kinda place is this… New York.” There’re mansions everywhere, one after another, each dwelling takes up a city block or so. Huge old houses, some all lit up to show off where flowery gardens would be in summertime, and statues, fountains; all looking like paradise for the very very rich.

“Why here?” asks Andy. “What is this place, anyway.” “My grandson’s nephew” says Smet “Efrin Calysse… he’s a student, at university; works for me sometimes; studies computer stuff. He located the girl. Says the house was once owned by some president or great millionaire or something, years and years ago. Built to withstand… like a fallout shelter or something. And then, a few years ago, was bought by, Syntron Corporation.”

“The oil-pipeline people” says Andy. “Yeah” says Smet “oil, logistics, construction; you name it. If it’s got a government contract, they do it.” “Doesn’t the American president own that company” asks Andy. “No” says Smet “but… he’s quite a stockholder I think; and a lot of former high-ranking officials have advisory positions. Their vice-president’s son is, I think, the head of that company.”

“So… who’s calling the shots then, anyway” asks Andy. “You never know with the Americans” says Smet. He pauses to think about it, and lights up a cigarette. “The Americans… are a good people… really. And great soldiers, great fighting men, as good as any. But sometimes, their political leaders… get hooked up with, businessmen; and they put greed ahead of need. I don’t know. But I suspect their vice president, is involved in a lot of this, on his own perhaps; running his own ops, with his own, agents. And… no one else really wants to know about it. Just so it turns out alright. That’s my guess, anyway.”

“They’ll contact the king” says Andy “and all hell’s gonna break loose, sure as shit. He won’t stand for this.” “No” says Smet “they’ll expect me to do that. Just sit back and… like nothing happened, like they’re as surprised as anyone. Wanna know what they can do to help. Wait for Vald to… come to them, with offers.”  

When they reach the coordinates of the house, it’s older looking, not as big as a lot of the others. But still very impressive, though all dark, surrounded by brick walls and black iron grating extending above the walls. “Looks like a fortress” says Andy. “No doubt it is” says Smet. “Gonna be a challenge.” They drive around the block surveying the big dark house, but it’s hard to get any read on it because of the high walls.

“We’ll have to recon” says Smet as they park the car on a dark street. “Can I trust you?” “What do you mean” asks Andy. “If I let you go” says Smet “to check things out… how do I know, you’ll come back here. Won’t try to pull a, do it all yourself hero stunt.” “Yeah” says Andy thinking the same thing. “It’s all my fault, all of it; I know that. But… I want to get it right, this time. Have to; not gonna jeopardize this mission, just to make up for it. I’m sorry.”

“Listen” says the old man “I told Petros you were my best agent; not because I wanted you killed, or because… you’re expendable, or anything. It’s because, it’s the truth, okay? You’re the best we got, the best I have. But… well the other guys, they’re pretty good too, y’know. So… don’t forget that.” “Yeah, I know. So, what are we looking for.”

“Well” says the old man “if this were my castle, right here in the middle of millionaire’s row, I’d do, my dirty work, in the basement. You know; keep the rest of the house, looking like a house. So nobody would know; like hiding in plain sight, y’see. And… be a lot of high-tech security, I suppose. But again, not so’s anyone would notice, not too much out of the ordinary. No dogs, for instance. Neighbors wouldn’t like that. Too much noise, if a rabbit ran through the yard, or something. Not… good manners, in a place like this.

“So then” the old man says, giving orders now “you take the back, that’s likely the key to the place. Jori, you check out the west side. I’ll have a look at the front of the place. We’ll meet back here… in five minutes. And no daredevil shit! okay, from either of you. This is a job… alright? I wanna get our princess back too.”

The three of them leave the car and move through the shadows. The rear of the building has tall iron gates blocking a short driveway that leads to a large garage-type building. It’s built to look as much as possible like the main house. But you can tell it’s a lot newer, recently added on. That’s where they come in, thinks Andy. Probably a tunnel to get to the basement, never even be seen above ground. Smart, very professional.

At the front of the house, Smet sees the same type of ornate iron gates, but snow-covered, unused. And a long driveway through the wide grassy lawns that makes a circle around a flowery fountain. No lights, no water flowing, all for show, he thinks to himself.

They meet back at the car. “Well” says the old man “not much in the front, pretty ordinary stuff.” “Not much on my side either” says Zoltep “is all dark, just a big old house. I didn’t see any dogs or guards.” “It’s the back way” says Andy “that’s where, it’s all set up. Big garage, like a solid brick fortress, no windows. Couple of doors, no door handles on the outside. Cameras way up on top the house, probably night-vision, give you a panoramic view of all sides. The first floor has bars on all the windows… and there’s a guard, at least one, inside the back gate. Must be cold, standing out there in the snow, all night.”

“Okay” says Smet “now assuming there’s a control center somewhere… I’d put it in the basement too. Out of sight. And when they come in through the back way, camera check point, steel doors, get buzzed in. So… how do we get in there.” “They probably have guys walking the grounds” says Andy “just to be on the safe side. Motion detectors, sound monitors…” “I wouldn’t” says Smet “we don’t know…who all comes here, to this place. And this isn’t Russia, you know. But I’m guessing that some of these guys aren’t gonna want people listening in to what they say, not even their own people. Learned their lesson from Nixon, you know.”

“Who?” asks Andy, thinking that’s maybe some whiz-kid electronics guy or something. “Never mind” says Smet. “Here’s the deal, we target the basement. It’s blocked off with steel doors, cameras, armed guards. No way in; or no easy way that is. Andy… you blast your way through the garage. Take out who’s ever there, blast through the doors to the basement. Jori, you blast through the back door of the house, probably steel door there also. I’ll go in the front way, create a diversion.”

“Okay” says Andy, running that through his head “but… what if Jori and I just go in through one of the upper windows. Make our way down into the house, look for… another way in.” “Yeah” says Smet, slowly “that could work too. But listen… I couldn’t get any floor plans from Efrin. They’ve all been eliminated or sealed away. So… if there’s another way in; then you’re gonna have to find it, and fast.” Then he adds “what do you want me to do.”

“Take the grounds” says Andy. “I don’t like guards snooping around behind my back.” “How’s your head, boy” the old man asks Jori. His right eye is shut and all black and purple from forehead to chin. “It’s... hurts” says the boy trying vainly to open it. “But I’m okay, I’ll be alright.” “Here” says Smet, reaching into his big duffel bag and getting his medical kit “put some lidocaine on it, won’t feel a thing.”

He applies the liquid with a long overstuffed cotton swab. The boy flinches and tries again to open his eye which still won’t open, but at least it doesn’t hurt anymore. “That’s good” he says “good stuff.” The old man again reaches into the duffel bag and begins sorting through his equipment.

“Here boy, take this… and these” he says, handing Jori a mini-Uzi with silencer and a couple of extra magazines. He gives Andy the same, plus a nice old Ruger Mark II pistol, with a fully silenced-barrel. “Jesus” says Andy, holding the finely-crafted gun in his hands “where’d you ever get this.” He’s impressed, remembering the guns used by American special forces in the war zones. But theirs were newer models, and a bit too pricey for his little country.

“Pretty nice, huh” says Smet. “Is amazing what you can find on the American internet, and bargains too.” The old man grabs a full-sized Uzi for himself, also silenced and with folding metal stock. It’s slightly longer than the other guns, but also has a greater range. The smaller guns are good for inside work, barely larger than a pistol, but still fully automatic, pretty well silenced, and 9mm. Not the best knock down capacity, but about the best you could expect out of a silenced weapon, an affordable one anyway.

“Now listen” he says “I’ve checked all this stuff out. Tested it, over in Jersey. That Ruger is dead silent, very nice. The shell makes more noise going in than it does coming out. But the Uzi’s gonna make a little pop like a cap gun maybe. Not enough to scare anyone, but they’ll hear it nonetheless. And these little cell phones” he continues, like teaching classes back at the training base “clip onto your belt. They’re all connected, like a three-way call. Got headsets that fit over your ear. Here boy ” he says to Jori “you talk through this piece here, just a whisper is enough. Oh… and don’t worry. These are new phones, picked ‘em up on the way over. They’re the disposable pay as you go kind… so nobody’s gonna have a fix on ‘em or anything.”

Andy is amazed as always at the low-tech equipment that his little country makes use of. Smet probably bought all this stuff with his own money from his own little salary, or life savings, not having any real budget to spend on defending their kingdom. But so what. They make do with what they have. More guts and determination and bravado than anything else.

Smet fills a couple of small backpacks with a bunch of plastic bags of white clay. “If you have to” he says “blow everything. And don’t spare the C4. Those doors’ll be set in concrete, thick, like try’n t’get through a castle wall.”  Then they’re all set and ready to go, but Andy turns to the old man. “One last thing. What… if we don’t make it.” He knows the odds, like as not make it back, and so what. But someone will still have to get the girl, that’s the only thing that really matters. “I told Efrin where we are” says Smet “what we’re up to. And if we fuck it up again, he’ll contact Petros, let him handle it. Hell, he’s a pretty good old general; good chess player anyway” he says, thinking of his old friend.

The uniformed man in the control center, across from the interrogation room, is totally beside himself. He’s been watching the girl on his monitor ever since they brought her in. And he can’t believe what he’s seeing. Even turned off all the split screen views of the various cameras and just filled up the whole screen with her image. Hell it’s snowing out and you can’t see much out there anyway. Besides, there’re armed guards on patrol, so what’s the difference.

And this girl, she’s so strikingly pretty, and different looking, little blonde sweetheart and such a pretty face and sweet young body, my God. When Patterson ripped her shirt in two, he jumped a foot, praying that he wasn’t gonna hurt that little angel or rough her up, like they did with some of the terrorist suspects that were brought in here from time to time.

If only… if only Mr. Myerinck hadn’t put the kaibosh on any and all photos or filming of prisoners and interrogations. Damn it… but he had. Had ordered, demanded, threatened everyone with prison or worse if anybody even thought about doing that again, ever. Damn Abu Ghraib, he thinks to himself, damn the luck. Maybe I could do it, just this once, this one time. But sure as hell, y’always get caught, and then they’d rip your dick off, even before they fired you and sent you to prison. Ah, well, don’t even bother with that. Just watch the girl, and hope nobody comes in here or wants anything for awhile.

The three men leave the car and go around to the west side. It’s dark and quiet, as Zoltep had said. He and Smet hoist Andy up to the brick wall where he can get a hand hold, throw a foot up and pull himself to the top. Then he lowers a leg down for Smet to grab onto, and drag his big fat body up to reach a hand with the boy straining and pushing on his feet from below. If only I could do this my way, thinks Andy. Do it alone and easy, relaxed. Without the kid and the old man to worry about. Just be me.

Once Smet gets his fat body up and lying sideways now on top the wall, huffing and puffing, it’s easy enough to get the boy up. Then they’re over the iron grating and dropping quietly down to the snowy grass; unseen, unheard in the dark. Andy is sure the grating is wired, why wouldn’t it be. And of course the old man couldn’t get over it without grabbing onto it and crawling over like a tired old dinosaur. But maybe, just maybe there’re too many birds landing on it or squirrels running around to trouble yourself with motion detectors. Maybe it’s turned off, or who knows, just hope for the best, is all. At least there’s no concertina wire. Couldn’t do that, not up here in the rich man’s land.

Andy and the boy trot over toward the house, bent low, guns drawn, keeping to the shadows, carefully ducking down behind bushes and trees to check their progress. It’s hard to see through the blowing snow, hitting your face and eyes. Even harder for the boy to keep breathing and heartbeat in check. Not feel the pulse in your ears blotting out thoughts and sounds.

Andy’s completely at home, calm relaxed and aware, perceiving it all at once; like a predator keenly detecting his kill with senses beyond sight and sound. If anything moves between him and the house, it dies in front of his gun; no sound, no trace, just gone. And then to move past that; but there isn’t anything here.

In the middle of the great house, there’s a side door entrance, maybe leading to the summer gardens. Just for family members to use, thinks Andy, whoever lived here in this old mansion, years ago. You can get up to the tiny roof over the doorway and then standing on the boy’s shoulders, up to window ledges above. That’s a weakness, he thinks, they know that if they assess their own security risks, surely they know that.

But so what. Why worry about it, if they don’t. Just relax, be blank, ready to react, just be… yourself. He looks in through the dark window, then opens the lock, not even bothering to slide in the magnetic tape and the tiny wire you use to keep the alarm circuit intact. It’s someone’s bedroom, staff or one of the agents. Clothes strewn around the room, open suitcases, empty beer cans on the floor. No need for an alarm on someone’s window who’s living here anyway. Too much hassle to turn it off and on when somebody wants to open the window, get some fresh air.

And maybe it’s all too low-tech for these guys, home security systems. Maybe that’s all rinky-dink stuff to them. The  guys here are ghost soldiers, guys you’d trust with your life. Anyone else is in cuffs, shackles, never get out of their little locked up cells.

He moves quietly across the cluttered floor, slowly opens the door. No light showing underneath it, and the hallway’s all black. No one’s been up here, thinks Andy. Just got the girl, came home, went right to work. Not expecting us to show up, or at least not this quickly anyway. Maybe they’re cooking now, eating supper, mulling it over. Fat and happy with their day’s work. He checks both sides of the hallway, then quickly moves to the stairway. A glow of light is coming from a room down below.

On the other side of the opaque glass, the two men are drinking their coffee, watching the girl. She’s tied the ripped ends of her sweatshirt back together and has tried to push the massive table up against the door. Then practiced lifting the heavy chair to swing at anyone who gets through. But tired with all that now, is just sitting in the chair against the far wall of the room, staring at the door. The solid metal chair is too heavy to manage well and it’s all to no use anyway, she thinks, they’re watching me. It’s just something to do to vent your anger, to keep busy.

“I think Patterson scared the shit outta her” says the undersecretary. “Yeah” says the other guy “but I liked it better before she tied up her shirt.” He smiles, thinking of her little fist striking him in the nose back when they were riding in the car. What a feisty little brat. Doesn’t know when she’s beat, he thinks. I like that; must be one helluva handful for the folks back home. Oh well, now she’s our problem, poor kid.

He looks at her through the glass. The girl is just lifeless, bored with sitting around in the tiny bright-lit room. Her heart racing and her mind blank, waiting for them to come back. “Get me some more coffee” the other man says “oh, and send Smith down here.” He’s getting tired of watching the pretty young girl. Don’t wanna get caught up in feeling sorry for the enemy, he thinks, gotta maintain your focus. Smith can watch her for awhile. I got things to do.

Upstairs in the kitchen, three men are sitting around the table drinking coffee, enjoying a smoke. “What’d she tell you, anyway” asks the big man with the bruises on his face. “Geo-political shit” says the man with the glasses “the usual; they always wanna… throw you off with their, politics, or religion crap. Get you involved in, their issues. Never wanna just cooperate, and answer the questions, like a good little prisoner.”

“You think… I did okay, down there?” “Oh sure” says the man reassuring him, and at the same time trying to explain some of the basics of how you go about interrogating these people. “Anything, that’ll throw ‘em off guard… get ‘em outta that pre-rehearsed litany shit. That’s fine, that’s good. You did okay. This is just the beginning, anyway.”

“I wish t’hell they’d speak English” says the man “sure would make it a lot easier.” “Ah, but then you wouldn’t need me. I’m just glad we could talk to her at all. Hell, you’d need a computer t’try and decipher whatever it is those people speak, back home. Some kind of Russian-Slav-Crimean dialect, got more vowels in it than we have consonants.” Fuck vowels and consonants, thinks the big man, and little shit head translators too, with their fagotty language skills. People talk when you make them talk; and that’s something he knows how to do.