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.