Chapter 27 of Princessa

Runnin' Down the Road

Moments later, they’re gone, calmly putting distance behind them and the burning remnants of Smet’s house. Andy smiles broadly, driving the car, like the cat who’s got the canary. Maria is beside him in the front seat, lighting up a smoke. Fraley in back with the boy jamming an Uzi into his ribs. He doesn’t say anything, wondering what the fuck the world is coming to. All he can think of is a funny mispronounced line from the manager of a losing baseball team way back in the past “we shoulda stood in bed.”

It’s the only thing that comes to mind, after all that time with no sleep and trying so hard to fix up this mess he’d stumbled into. The people holding him look so anything but fearsome, deadly or dangerous. The young girl is so pretty and small, and the boy with the gun, so young, just a kid. It’s not even real to him, like being kidnapped by elves in a movie.

He looks up at the driver who seems to be the only one here who’s in charge of anything. “Whatta you got in mind?” Andy can only shake his head with the big smile covering his face “you and me pal, we gonna… make some changes.”

Colonel Valtos is driving Whitson’s car, heading south on the freeway now, toward Washington. The veep is sitting naked on the front seat beside him, still unconscious. Smet’s in the back, smoking a cigarette; running everything through his mind. If they missed anything, what to do next, what kind of response to expect and get ready for.

Finally Myerinck comes to. He looks over at the man driving and shivers in the cold, wrapping his arms around himself. Valtos sees him and switches on the air conditioner. “Where’re my clothes. It’s cold. I’m freezing. I’m… not well, you know.” “Ah heck, Pete” says Valtos “this is just a way to… humiliate and control the enemy. You know, break down their… resistance. So all you can think about is the cold, and… the embarrassment. And not, you know, think of trying to escape or anything like that.”

Myerinck reaches for the controls on the dash. The colonel hits him hard in the face with the back of his hand, not even taking his eyes off the road. The veep is stunned momentarily, nose bleeding, lip split and the taste of blood in his mouth. He wipes his face feeling sharp pain and starts to worry about the intentions of the man beside him.

“Who are you?” “Call me Nefi. I’m, in charge of killing you… and your family.” “What” says the veep, feeling the aching pain in his head again, even more than the cold now or the fresh wounds on his face.  “Leave them out of it” he orders.

Valtos smiles “oh, come on now, Pete. You’ve killed enough families, over the years, haven’t you? In your wars, with your bombs; your… regime changes, and so forth. Shouldn’t bother you all that much that, one of them is your own.” Myerinck looks at him, trying to think of something to say, stall for time if nothing else. “You’re bluffing.”

“Yeah, maybe” says the colonel “but I figure… your son’ll probably hang himself; daughter’ll maybe overdose on drugs, or medication, whatever. Wife’ll die in car wreck… you got grandchildren?” Myerinck says nothing, trying to get a grip on the situation, figure out what to do. “Anyway” continues the colonel “it’ll all seem…natural enough. All of them, so distraught over your death, or hell… just an accident-prone buncha people, who knows. And… you know what? No one’ll even care.”

“Why” asks the veep “what did we ever do to you.” “Well, Pete I know… you’re a big shot, a big important man and all. You, and your… business partners. You guys run half the world, in one way or another. But to me, you’re just a dirty rotten lying thieving murdering little crook.”

The veep doesn’t answer him, and Valtos goes on “how much money did your company make… I mean your son’s company, off the war, the oil deals, the phony defense build up. Billions? Or more?  And what were you gonna do with all that…stolen money, huh? Buy more control, insure that you and yours will always be in... the White House, forever. I mean, Pete, did you ever stop to think, that poor people, or common ordinary decent people, don’t want to be… cheated and swindled by the likes of you. That they maybe… want good things in life, like you got. And don’t really wanna die in your foreign wars. Think about it, now that you got the chance.”

“What I did” says Myerinck “what I’ve always done… is for the good of my country; and for the good of the world.” “Yeah” says the colonel “me too.” The veep starts to shake all over, can’t help it, can’t stop. And wondering now if it’s just so goddamned cold, or maybe it’s like they really are going to kill him, not even bother with ransom or demands or anything that kidnappers would usually want, especially with such a highly-valued prize.

“I need… medicine” he says, through chattering teeth “my medicine.” “I’m going to give you a lethal overdose of insulin. It’ll look like a heart attack. Be kinda dumb… t’give you any of your other medications, or whatever; doncha think?” “I could be…very valuable to you” says the veep, fighting just to stay focused now, to try and stop his heart from pounding so, and his head from splitting with the pressure.

“Everyone is valuable, Pete. Did you know that? Every child, old person… soldier…no one, more so than any other. Not even you.” “I could give you… whatever you want” he says, his authoritative voice shaking, rattling with his labored breath in the freezing cold air.

“No” says the colonel “I’ve… lost too many people, in too many wars. You can’t bring them back to me, alive and young and whole again.” “You want money” asks the veep, hardly able to think now, hardly able to follow what the other man is saying. “Everyone wants money” says Valtos “but… not if it’s stolen, from the poor, you know.”

“I have” says Myerinck “millions… millions of dollars.” Valtos looks at him “you’re starting to fade, Pete. Hang in there, don’t want you to die before… I get a chance to kill you.” The veep tries to focus, tries to think of what else to say or do, but it’s so cold, he just can’t take any more of it. He grabs for the door handle and yanks it open. Valtos swerves the car, and the man falls out onto the hard cold cement of the black freeway.

The colonel slows down, turns off the air and puts the heater on now. Then brings the car to a stop. “Thank God” says Smet “it’s freezing in here.” He gets out and gets into the front seat, rubs his hands in front of the warm air of the vent. Valtos lights up a cigarette and drives away.

Some time later, the secretary of state, Tony Moralez heads into the big office for a meeting with the president. “Tony” the president says “come on in. Terrible thing, about Pete, wasn’t it.” “Tragic.” “Yeah” says Tomkin, “goddamned Al Queida... right here in own back yard.” He shakes his head, then adds “hey, I know you two were never close… but, that’s all in the past now, right.”

“I may not have agreed with everything” says Moralez “but Pete… was a great American. He died… fighting for our values, and our way of life.” Tomkin thinks about that for a moment “that’s good… I like that. Say, you know, I got this speech I gotta do, for the funeral and all… maybe you could jot down a few things, some good stuff like that.”

“Of course” says Moralez “we’re all deeply affected… touched, by this tremendous loss.” “Right. Oh, and check with his wife…” “Ann?” says the secretary. “Yeah, Ann. Get some… personal stuff to throw in, make it… homey, you know. But run it by Fowler (the attorney general) okay, make sure it all checks out, first. I don’t wanna look like an idiot up there on the podium, you know.” “Sure thing” says Moralez.

Tomkin is sure there’s something else, something he’s left out. Then it comes to him. “Oh, by the way… you know, I’m gonna name you as the new vice president.” “It’s a great honor” Moralez says “thank you sir.” “Oh sure. But I was thinking… when all this funeral and memorial business is over, maybe we could get together, head down to Padre Island, and do some fishing.” “I’d like that.” “Yeah” says Tomkin “get outta this darn cold weather for awhile, do us both good.” “Sounds… wonderful” the new vice president tells him.

He leaves the office and walks down the long silent dignified hallways, finally to a side door leading to the outside. A solid young man in brilliant military uniform snaps to attention, opens the door as the former marine general walks through. “Lookin good, soldier” says the veep “keep it up."

Moralez raises his eyes and looks up at the cold sunshine through the clouds and the tranquil blue sky. If that dupe could only win the next election, he thinks… Then figures, hell, they’ll probably rig it anyway. So… after that, Mr. Tomkin probably gonna have a little accident. Fall off his fishing boat or something. Then we can get this country back on track again.

Chapter 26 of Princessa

K-Boom!

“So what’s the plan” says Colonel Valtos. “Where’s your team” asks Andy. “Close by” he says. “Got a vehicle.” “We do.” “What about weapons.” Valtos pauses for a moment, trying not to smile, that’s not part of how he wants to be seen by others. “I had… Zhrot and Luta, stop at a gun show, in Ohio, on their way here. We got weapons… but, I don’t know how much cash I have left.” “Good” says Andy.

Smet interrupts them with some ideas of his own. “You could get into the house through the outside cellar door. It’s one of those heavy wooden doors, flat to the ground, with a stairway beneath it. But it faces the yard to the south of the house. It’ll be hard not to be spotted there. But anyway, once you’ve gotten in and done with everything, I think you could get out through one of the windows in the living room upstairs in my apartment.

“The house next door facing that side, the north side, is very close. Not much distance between the two houses at all, just a few feet. And it’s dark, very dark on that side. Maybe you could get up to the roof. Run and jump across, to the roof of the other house. I think you could make that, easy enough. But if not, someone could throw you a rope from there, and then you could crawl across. Nobody’d see you, I don’t think.”

“Or we could… walk in the front door” says Andy “do our work, and leave through the side window, of the downstairs apartment.” “Yeah” says Smet, thinking it over “that’d work. But what if they’re inside, waiting for you. What then?” “If they’re in there waiting” says Valtos calmly “they won’t like what they find.”

He leaves to assemble his people while the others dress and ready themselves for the mission. “Smet, you gonna be okay” asks Andy. “I can drive the car” he says “if nothing else. I’m alright… gimme some novocaine, I’ll be fine.”

Once they’re ready, they pack everything up and leave the nice comfortable hotel room, with the feeling like it’s been home to them, and never gonna come back here again. “Wait a minute” says Andy “you guys go on ahead, I gotta do something.” “Shoulda thought of that sooner” says Maria. “No” says Andy, smiling at her “something else. I’ll meet you at the car.”

He goes back to the room, takes a piece of paper from his pocket and dials the phone number to the little grocery store close to Smet’s neighborhood in Jersey. “Hello” says the voice on the line. “The FBI is going to raid the house at 3817 Allen Street tonight” says Andy. “What?… who is this” asks the man. “A friend, 3817 Allen Street, tonight.” He hangs up the phone and leaves to join the others.

They’re using Smet’s ‘open cell phone’ means of communicating, but also have a couple of dime store walkie talkies to keep in contact with Valtos. It’s not long ‘til they’re in Jersey and in place for the op. Pitch black out now, so dark you can hardly see a thing under the starless cloudy night sky; and so very freezingly cold with the wind whipping up and blowing the snow around in sharp whiffs of air.

All up and down the block on all sides of Smet’s house, people are turning out their house lights, quickly getting all the kids and pets and old people into their cars and driving away. “What the hell’s goin on” asks a man in the house across from Smet’s. Fraley walks over and looks through the side of the shade, out the window. “They’ve been tipped off” he says curtly “in a close little community like this, word must spread pretty fast, I suppose.”

But even he is pretty surprised to see all the people leaving like that, all at once, like heading out for Noah’s ark or something. Even people in their own building are slamming doors, backing cars out, and hurrying away. One of the big secret service men comes over from the doorway where he’s been watching, peering out into the hallway and down the steps. “They’re all leaving” he says. Not a good sign, Fraley thinks to himself, then tells him “don’t worry about it. Maybe we can use it to our advantage, you know. The fewer people, the less to… get in the way.”

In the middle of the exodus they see a huddled figure appear out of the shadows, turn up the walkway to Smet’s house, then hurriedly go in through the front door. “That’s it” one of the men yells “that’s our mark.” “Wait” says Fraley, sternly authoritatively “just relax, be patient. See who else shows up; okay. We got plenty of time, just be cool. Get everybody ready, to move in… on my signal.”

The man at the computer is a big tough guy, dressed in black, like a ninja warrior, right down to the war paint on his face. He’s had all his men in place for hours now, poised, ready to strike. And tired of waiting around, like spoiling for a fight that’s been put on hold for some reason. And getting pretty sick of the guy in the fancy suit giving the orders.

Inside the house Colonel Valtos finds it very cold, very quiet. You can hear the wind howling from the outside, rattling the glass of old loose windows in wooden frames. It’s spooky, like walking into a haunted house, no lights anywhere, just ghosts and shadows. His kind of place.

He rushes down to the basement. Drops the heavy overcoat, borrowed from Smet, at the bottom of the steps. Counting the seconds in his head, switches on a small flashlight. Locates the gas main and shuts off the valve. Grabs the two pipe wrenches from his belt. Quickly unscrews the pipe at the next joint down, leaving it loose, hanging down, dangling. Locates the water heater and shuts off the gas feed, making sure there’s no pilot light left burning. Then he takes a deep deep breath... holds it in. Turns the main back on and runs for the stairway.

A ratty old car pulls into the driveway in front of the house. Just been stolen from a few blocks down the street, and has a small explosive charge on top the gas cap. Andy and Maria get out and hurry inside the house. She’s wearing white jeans and pink sweatshirt. Once inside she quickly pulls them off, leaving just a skin-tight pair of black warm-ups and clingy black sweater. She grabs a dark stocking cap and pulls it over her head.

Andy throws off his overcoat, runs over to the vacant apartment and kicks the door open. Maria and Valtos are right behind him. He opens the side window, then they’re out, closing it behind them. Scurrying over the bare hedges, into the backyard of the house next door.

Jori’s in the shadows, keeping lookout, watching, waiting. He sees them, and motions for them to follow him. One of Valtos’ people whispers “all clear” into his earpiece. Quickly they cross the yard from shadow to tree, over another leafless snowy hedge and fence, into the next yard. Still no one around to stop them. And hurrying now like moving shadows to the street. A car with no lights on pulls up at the curb to meet them.

Across the other street, in the opposite direction, Fraley speaks loudly, excitedly into his hand-held radio. “Everybody move in, now! Go. Everybody, this is it. Target is in place. I repeat target is in place! Everyone move in now. And remember, take the girl alive… if possible.”

From all sides swarms of black-clothed men move in at a fast jog. Crouched over, only feet and legs moving, carbines in hand, held at the ready. Eyes focused on the objective. Orderly, fast, soundless; within seconds they’re all in position covering every exit. They’re almost invisible, in-place, motionless, ready.

One of them signals for two of the men to break down the front door. Then quickly gives them another signal to halt, fall back. Then a choking sign - hands around his throat - chemical hazard. Too much gas smell around the house, even in the cold wind. He motions for everyone to fall back, pass the word with hand signals, no radios; no electrical spark.

Before they can retreat, a number is dialed on a cell phone. The old car in the driveway blows apart with a roaring boom! Shattering the dark and the silence. Flipping up on its front end, balancing for an instant, and streaming rockets of red yellow flames from the back and underneath. Catches the men off guard for a split second, knocking them backwards into the snow, down onto their backs. All familiar to them, from the war, Iraq. Their only thoughts - what’s gonna be next.

Another call trips the bundles of C-4 in the overcoat in the basement. The massive explosion blows the front door out, apart, and the entire front side of the house comes flying at them in splinters, hurling the men off their feet and backward with the powerful force of the concussive blast.

The deafening boom knocks everyone down. Stunned, shaken; even hardened veterans fearing this is it for them. The whole house blowing up in a thundering quake that shakes the air and ground like a hurricane. The entire building disintegrating into a fireball; glowing burning bits of wood roofing brick and dust blasting straight up in all directions. Windows crack and shatter in neighboring houses and blow out into the darkness.

“What the hell!” yells Fraley, throwing his forearm up over his face “goddamn!” He lowers his arm and sees nothing out there now. Just a ball of flame beneath the cloud of smoke and dust, burning his vision in the black night.

Andy and Valtos kick open the door to the room, pick their out targets, and quickly dispatch them. The armed guards in the room immediately drew their pistols after the massive explosion. But the one by the window, and the big man looking up from the computer, are both shot dead before they can fire.

Another guard is hurrying a short heavy-set older man toward the bathroom. He turns to fire but is hit repeatedly before he can get a shot off. Fraley and Whitson are leftovers. Andy covers them with his gun. Valtos goes after the little fat man.

Whitson vainly grabs for his pistol in the back of his belt but is killed with one shot, followed by two more just to make sure. Fraley weakly extends his hands to his sides. Then raises them with no expression on his face, just blank quiet numbness.

Valtos finds the older man trying to crawl out a small bathroom window. He grabs the man’s shoulder, spins him around, but is shocked when he sees the man’s face. “Well... what have we here.” Pete Myerinck looks up at him with an angry defiant glare. “You’ll never get away with this” he says, sneering at the man.

Valtos is carrying a silenced Uzi that hangs from a strap on his shoulder. In one quick move he lifts the gun over his head and thrusts it downward, butt first, striking the top of the older man’s head. Then turns to Andy and sees him frisking the distinguished looking man who is kneeling on the floor with his back to them.

The four members of Valtos’ team are calmly targeting the men around the demolished burning house. The black-clothed men on the ground are staggering and trying to get to their feet, eyes and ears burned, concussed, ringing in a dazed dizzy effort to follow through on their mission.

They’re highly-skilled professionals, fully capable of reacting to surprise attacks. Even so, it’s all useless. They’re fitted with body armor, bullet proof vests, but unseen soundless shots strike them low and knock them back to the ground. They try to account for how many of their numbers are still with them, where the shots are coming from, and how this all could’ve happened so suddenly in the middle of a city on a black winter night.

Colonel Valtos goes over to Whitson’s body, pushes him onto his stomach with his boot, then goes through his pockets trying to find car keys. He’s the least threatening looking of the bunch. Least likely to have a satellite monitor in his vehicle, or some other high-tech irritant. “What are you gonna do with him” he asks Andy, motioning toward the nicely-dressed man. “I think I’ll keep him” he says “see what he knows.” “Yeah” says the colonel, thinking the same thing. The distinguished looking man could be quite interesting to talk to. “Go ahead then. I’ll be right behind you.”

Andy grabs the laptop,  pushes the man up to walk in front of him. He goes compliantly with fingers intertwined behind his head. The Colonel scoops up his prize and carries the older man over his shoulder and down the steps of the apartment building. He’s fat, heavy, hard to manage down the narrow stairway.

But it’s a short distance and with enough adrenaline pumping you can do anything; barely even notice it; just on the lookout for other guards or civilians or not to stumble and fall. Trying not to hurry as fast as you’d like to, following the other men and carrying the fat man down the steps, to the least threatening looking car.

Chapter 25 of Princessa

The Unravelling

They all jump this time, and the room is deadly still. Andy motions the others toward Smet’s duffel bag, and grabs the Ruger from his belt. He moves over to the door with gun in his hand and takes a deep breath. “Yeah?” “It’s me, Valtos” says a familiar voice. “And?” “Oh” says the man “uh... the cat’s in the cream again.” Certain phrases they’d used as challenge-response in special ops training, years ago. This particular one Andy’d heard from the colonel himself one time.

He cracks the door open with his foot planted firmly against it, gun pointed at head level, and looks out. “Colonel?” Then seeing no one else in the hallway “come in.” Lieutenant Colonel Nefen Valtos is a plump balding man, not very tall, poorly dressed. His sad drooping eyes make him look like a common laborer or an aging migrant worker who’s never managed to save anything he’s ever made. It’s a look he’s carefully cultivated over the years, and it’d gotten him into as many places as all his keen skills, cunning and years of training had, all put together.

“Korzene” he says, and then seeing the others “hello Oskar… Princessa” with a slight bow, and “Zoltep? you’re alive… good.” “I know you” says the girl, trying to think of where she’s seen this nondescript little working man before. “You… were the gardener, when I was a kid, at the palace.”

“What an amazing girl, to remember… back that many years. That’s a long time ago. But… no, I was there. But, I’m no gardener, I’m afraid.” “Nefi was… assigned to watch you” says Smet. “To… develop a pattern, of your behavior. So others, would know what to look for, to be aware of.”

“Special forces” he says to the girl. “Lt. Col.Valtos, Princessa.” He takes her hand and bends down as if to kiss it. “You’re Colonel Valtos? Gosh, I expected… I’ve heard… your name mentioned, quite a bit; but…” “We like, to be unseen” says the man. “And, most people, would expect… something more impressive, I suppose.”

Before the girl can respond (she’s still trying to figure out how her gardener got to be head of special forces) Smet interrupts her “what are you doing here, Nefi.” “Our king” says the man “has moved into the mountain… location.”

“Oh no” says Jori. “What?” asks the girl. “Um” says Valtos, in his flat deliberate voice “I’ve been sent here… with some of my people; to wreak havoc.” “What does that mean” she asks. The quiet little colonel looks at her with a bland expression “oh… assassinations, kidnappings, blow up things. Cause, a bit of mayhem, for the folks.”

“Who’d you bring” asks Andy. “My instructors” says the colonel “Luta, Poella, Carlo, Zhrot. That’s it.” “Good God” says Jori. He’d been trained by most of those people, even lived with some of them. But aside from learning some things about weapons and explosives, his impression was that this is a very dangerous deadly group of specialists, cold professional killers.

“That’s a helluva hit squad” says Andy “anybody left… back home.” “The general has things under control” says Valtos, and then looking at the girl. “Mr. Salin, is running things, in the city.” “Is Dad… my father, alright?” “Your father is… well, there’s a lot more to him, than people might realize. And your mother, and all the others, they’re with the king; and General Petros, in the hills.”

“Does this mean we’re at war.” The colonel considers her question, how to best respond. “Uh… they captured our princess” he says looking at her beautiful young face, so sad and worried now “perhaps… interrogated her. There’s only so much your grandfather can take, can put up, you know.” “But I’m okay” she says, urgently “tell ‘em I’m okay, that’s there’s nothing to worry about; no need to…”

The colonel interrupts her “kidnapping you, Princessa, is an act of war in itself. But no… nothing’s been declared, or stated officially. We simply, want to be in position to respond in kind, if need be.”

He looks at the four of them and around the plush expensive hotel room “so, how are you all doing?” “We’re fine” says Smet “everything’s okay.” “Well then, what’s…the status?” “I dunno” says Andy “uh… who’s calling the shots here anyway.”

It’s all confusing to him. What was supposed to be his mission, his op, is being changed all of a sudden. First by Smet, who after all, is his boss; even though the mission had come from the king, or at least the defense minister. And now, they’ve sent the head of special forces here, apparently with a new operation; and way more far-reaching and devastating even than his mission had been. “Well” says Vatos “I suppose that depends on… what you have in mind.”

Andy takes a deep breath, unsure of how to put things, not even sure of where he stands now. But gotta make his case, anyway.  “Look, Smet’s put together a pretty good game plan. It’s not exactly, what we left home with, but… it’s workable, it’s okay. I’m okay with it. And… I think it’ll work.” He pauses for a moment, and then adds “but first, I want to do this one other thing. Clear up, some loose ends.”

“What” asks Smet. “I wanna go to that house” says Andy “and wreak some havoc of my own okay; just do that first.” The old man looks at his face, knowing full well that the young man is on board with him, but has just got to do this other thing, and get that out of the way, regardless of the risk. “I don’t know… about that” says Smet “I’m… reluctant, to do anything, just to satisfy blood; that might jeopardize everything else.”

Andy looks at the two men, both of them way way above him in rank, position, experience, everything. “Hold on a minute” says Maria standing up and facing the others “maybe you guys don’t… know this, but, I’m the one who’s in charge here, okay.” No one answers her, amazed to hear the young girl speak so boldly to these older combat savvy veterans. Finally Jori breaks the silence “I’m with her.”

“Jori” says the colonel “I thought… you were in Pakistan.” “I was, but now I’m here, okay, with the princessa.” Smet leans back in his chair somewhat amused by this awkwardness of trying to figure out which of them has the most authority. Valtos looks around at the others who are all silent. Finally he says “what are your orders, Princessa.” She sits back down, leans back against the headboard of the big bed and draws her knees up tight. Then lights up a cigarette “we’ll do, what Andy says.”

Earlier that day, in the bright cold winter morning, there’d also been a knock on the door at the house across from Smet’s. Whitson jumps a foot and knocks over his cold cup of coffee, falling over backwards, chair and all, reaching for his pistol. His hands are shaking so badly he can barely click off the safety as he moves over to the door “wha… who’s there” he stammers, shocked by the sound of his own voice, breaking the long lonely silence. “It’s me” says a calm voice “open up.”

Whitson opens the door on Art Fraley, chief of the ops center he reports to. “Mr. F” he says, quickly looking down the hall “are you alone.” “Yeah” says Fraley, walking into the cluttered little room, all dark except for the glowing blue screen of the laptop. The shades are pulled down over the windows, curtains closed, no lights on in the room. You wouldn’t even know it was such a bright sunny day outside, on the other side of those windows.

He carefully avoids the empty styrofoam cups with the dried coffee stains, and little fast foods sacks all crumpled up and strewn around the floor. “What’s up?” “Oh…nothing” says Whitson, completely lost for any possible way of explaining all of it to the chief. “Well… get yourself cleaned up. You look like hell.”

Fraley too had been up all night, ever since that late-breaking news story, trying to get information from everyone, for everyone. And slamming his head into the usual bureaucratic roadblocks at every turn of that hopeless task. But even so, he still looks fresh and calm in his expensive suit and neatly trimmed hair.

Whitson goes to the bathroom, feeling reprieved, a chance to get away from the boss for a moment, to gather his thoughts and try to get things straight in his head. Figure out something to say. He runs hot water over a towel and buries his face in it. It should be refreshing, cleansing, but all he can think about is the man in the next room and what’s he’s up to.

He quickly goes back, towel in hand, sees Fraley clicking from screen to screen on the laptop; and he can feel all of it coming to an end, career, home, family, all of it. Nothing but bleak barren misery staring him in the face. The other man looks over his shoulder at Whitson. “What’s been going on” he asks, calmly. “I was just doing my job” says Whitson “that’s all. You know, watching the house… like I was ‘sposed to. And then… that girl showed up.” “What girl.” “The little princess girl. You know, the one everybody’s looking for.” “The little Malvian princess” says Fraley, recalling the reports he’d seen earlier, the day before.

“Yeah. No big deal, right. But then later on… uh, Culver Hayden comes in… here, right here in this room.” “Really” says the man, trying not to sound shocked, feeling his career being flushed away down a filthy toilet hole. “Yeah” says Whitson “he took over… everything. Yelling orders; like… you know; I couldn’t even file a report, without his permission.”

“Okay” says the man “calm down, tell me what happened.” “Well, they all left, went out… to, uh, get the girl. Took Smith, with ‘em.” “Smith?” asks the chief. “Yeah, my language guy… the translator, Jim Smith. And I couldn’t, report that; or anything. You know, Hayden, ordered me, gave me a direct order, to keep everything… under wraps.”

Fraley doesn’t say anything, fighting back the urge to scream at; maybe do away with, these subordinates who manage to keep the most sensitive essential explosive information all to themselves. Not upchannel it; which is all their little job entails, the only thing they’re here for. But not even bother to report it to the head of the national information processing bureau. How can this happen; and why does it happen all the time. Whitson rambles on in a shakey voice “then later I see on the news… Mr. Hayden, is dead. And what am I gonna do… huh?”

Fraley takes a deep breath, changes course in his head, trying now to figure out how to spin this to save his own ass. “You followed orders.” “Yeah” says Whitson “but I shoulda called it in. That’s my job, that’s what I’m supposed to do. I shoulda done something.” “Don’t worry about it, Bill. Who else knows about this.” “Nobody” says Whitson, feeling a sudden chill “just me… I’m the only one. But that’s not all, Mr. F… that hospital thing… with the old man, and the cop car, blowing up. That was them, too, that was the same people. Look, I matched the photos. Here” he says, moving toward his computer screen.

“It’s… not a problem” says Fraley, raising his hand to signal the man not to bother with it. At the same time thinking to himself ‘I could maybe get a crowbar, Bill. Hit you upside the head; hard, and blame that on the terrorists too. Then be done with this whole fucking mess.’

“Listen. Sit down, Bill, hear me out. You like your job… and you’re a good man, okay. Hayden came in here, took over the op, and went after that girl. And that’s it; all of it; end of story. That’s all you know, alright.” “But I shoulda called it in” says Whitson “I’m… required to do that. And, I been filing reports… that don’t say anything, just ‘status quo.’ It’s, not right.” “No, it isn’t” says Fraley “and we’re not gonna bite the bullet on this one either; are we? That was Hayden’s call. His doing, and it ends with him, okay. Are you okay with that?” “Yeah, sure” says Whitson, feeling like he’s just been hung out to dry with ‘scapegoat’ carved into his forehead.

“Okay then… here take some of these” says Fraley, opening a little pill bottle and handing some to the man. “No” says Whitson “no more amphetamines. I can’t take any more… I’ll go crazy.”

“Okay” says the chief, wishing they were cyanide “here, here’s some codeine. It’ll calm you down, alright. Get you… back on your game. We gotta get things straight, Bill, and quickly. Get this place cleaned up. Gonna be some big brass here, you know. Once they tie everything in… to that Hayden thing. And not just me. You know, I got a call earlier today, from Jack Croft. Yeah, the Jack Croft. And, looks like, this is their only lead, or live one anyway. So… we’re a hot topic; an item of interest. We gotta get things straightened up. Look professional, like we know what we’re doing here; and that includes you.”

“Sure, Mr. F” says the man, feeling all lifeless inside now, like the last bit of blood has just been drained away and there’s nothing left at all. He goes back to the bathroom to shower; maybe try to wash the last couple of days out of his mind; like his whole future’s just been washed away and down the drain. Fraley goes back to the laptop, trying to see what he can delete, edit, change; fix up somehow.

Whitson starts to relax a little now, under the hot water of the shower. It’s better, not being all alone in the crumby filthy little room with the walls and ceiling all closing in on you. And to get all that out, off your chest, to… just blurt it all out.

Like confessing your sins and being forgiven, or puking up poison from your insides. That feels better too for some reason, to share that. Well, not with Mr. F of course, that’s the last person he wants to see. But, what the hell, he’s the only one here, so, that’s that. It’s his baby now; let him handle it.

But goddamn, Fraley has that way... about him. Tell ya what a good job you’re doing, and like he’s on your side and all, and… just there to help. Geez, almost make you believe that shit; after all, he’s the boss, right. But all the time just stabbing you in the back, and setting you up to take the fall. And then what. What’s next; testifying before Congress; after endless questioning, interrogation by your own superiors, and then their superiors; and FBI, or who the fuck ever else; like you’re a goddamn criminal. Ah well… he’s better off than that smart-ass Smith, anyway. Translate this Jim, he thinks to himself, they killed your ass.

He thinks of the big arrogant language guy, listening in on his headphones and working his computer to decipher that incomprehensible Malvian speak. Doing it word for word and out loud for the others to hear, like: we’re… gonna… kill… your…ass. And it almost makes him laugh, there in the shower, to think of it like that.

But then, feeling like he’s gonna be next, it really doesn’t help much. He towels off and comes back to the room, looking better; feeling like nothing really matters much anymore. He starts to straighten up things up, picking up all the junk, cleaning up the spills and dried ketchup packets and what not. Not even paying much attention to what Fraley might be doing now. Writing his death sentence, no doubt; but what can you do.

The man at the laptop is feeling better too. He’s a genius, at least he thinks so; a smart tough mean quick-thinking son of a bitch. Give him a computer and an uplink, and he can do almost anything. Got the access codes and passwords; can get into any computer, file, memory; anywhere that’s connected to him or his operations.

Change whatever he wants to; make it look right, or hopelessly lost for whatever snoop wants to investigate the matter. Leave them a cold dead trail, encrypted, deleted… hell, it never even happened. He pauses to survey his work, and looks over at the other man. “Hey Bill… how you doing.” “Better. I’m okay now, I think.” “Good” says the chief “so… why’n’t you go out and… get us some breakfast or something; get some fresh air. Hey, and don’t worry about it, okay. You’re gonna be alright on this thing. We both are.”

Whitson gets his coat, leaves the dim little room and goes out and down the dirty steps, smelling that ‘poor people live here’ smell that he’d noticed when they first got this place. The crumby little apartment so ratty the previous tenants hadn’t even disposed of their garbage and crappy junk furniture before they ran out. Owing rent and all sorta other bills no doubt; maybe hauled away by the cops for… whatever kinda trouble it is that poor people always get into. Like him. Like he’s one of them now, wretched and sickening as that sounds.

When he opens the door to the outside, its so blindlingly brilliant, just unreal, like walking out of a dark black cave after being holed up in there for forever. Has to put his hand over his eyes to shield them from the sun, then closing them tightly, and leaning against the doorframe, seeing nothing but the burning flash of light in his head. It’s so cold out too now; the ground all covered in snow. So different than a couple of days ago.

Whitson’s almost amazed that the little globe is still spinning around, what with all he’s been through. Like the world just goes on and doesn’t even take any notice. But it’s all changed, all new and white covering all the scars and rubbish and junk; all clean now and shining, sparkling in the sun. And all of it meaning nothing to him. All flat dull and empty inside, just some pretty snow scene for others to enjoy. People who aren’t walking the plank, on their way to the gallows, like he is.

He gets some take-out breakfast, almost oblivious to doing that. His mind far away from the routine, the ordinary. Then comes back to the dingy little room and shares the meal with his boss, or executioner, whatever. “So, feeling better now” asks Fraley, fairly chipper and upbeat. “I don’t feel anything” says the man, in all honesty. “Well good” says the chief “that’s something anyway.”

They finish the food, which is just marvelous to Fraley since he doesn’t allow himself to indulge in great tasting fried fatty food very often. But Whitson can’t taste a thing, all just like sawdust and waste of time to him. The meal and the codeine and the spent energy of the past few days seem to all hit him at once, to where he’s so spent and tired he can barely keep his eyes open. “I’m beat. I gotta… lie down, for awhile. If that’s okay.” “Sure, go ahead” says Fraley “no problem.”

He wants the man fresh and sharp for whatever’s gonna come. He’s likely to crack soon enough, but at least it won’t be immediately. Give him some time to put distance between himself and the poor guy. Fraley wouldn’t mind stretching out himself, at home, in a nice soft bed. But there’s too much to do, too many loose ends to tie up now, to worry about being comfortable.

Besides, who knows how long, or how many hours or days, poor Whitson’s been up, staring at that damned computer with no sleep and no idea of what to do about this whole mess. Ah well, he thinks, thank God there’s somebody to take the fall for it. Too bad maybe, but that’s just the way it goes.

Some time later he starts to get bored with the sitting around in the dingy room, wondering how the guys who have to do this, can put up with all the waste of time and life, just waiting and waiting while nothing’s happening. The tacky ratty little places they have to locate in, depending on who they’re surveilling. After a while he thinks, they don’t even bother with the trash or the filth, or trying to fix the place up a little; just gonna be there long enough for the job, than move on to someplace else.

The cameras pick up a figure moving around outside. Fraley almost jumps out of his chair. Goddamn! he says to himself, then yells “hey Bill, hey… get in here.” Whitson jumps up from a light sleep and immediately comes into the room. “What is it?” The other man plays back the recording on the laptop “look at this. Here’s this guy, in the alley I think, behind our house, here. And now look, here he is, in the alley… over across the street, behind that other house. Whatcha think?”

“That’s one of ‘em” says Whitson, peering into the screen at the man in the parka with the hood up, all but covering his face. “You can tell by his size and body shape… and the way he moves. We got him pegged as one of the girl’s bodyguards.” “So… what’s he doing here now?”

“I dunno” says Whitson, not really caring much, one way or the other, but doing his job now, anyway. “Maybe there’s something in the house… something they want, or need. But they’re leery, about goin in there. Knowing that somebody’s made them…here, or somewhere, anyway.” “You think… he knows we’re up here?” “Doesn’t matter” says the man “if he’s… gotta get in there, for whatever reason; must be important. But if he’s willing to come back here and… I mean, he’s here, isn’t he. So it doesn’t really matter, does it.”

Fraley doesn’t answer, so excited about finally seeing something, finally something happening, and maybe this whole damn thing’s gonna have some benefit to it after all. “You want me to take him?” asks Whitson. Fraley, hesitates, thinks about it for a moment. “No, let’s wait… set things up… see if there’re some bigger fish to catch.”

The thought of him and Whitson taking down one of these bodyguard guys isn’t all that appealing, especially after what happened to Hayden. Be better to let the pro’s handle this. Just stay outta the way, let them do it. He reaches for the phone and dials a number, like showing the other man how you do things, when you follow procedure. “Yeah, get me… Jack Croft” he says, in an almost casual, off-hand manner.

Chapter 24 of Princessa

Plan of Attack

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 23 of Princessa

Herding Goats

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 22 of Princessa

Strange Goings On

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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