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.

Chapter 21 of Princessa

The Right Stuff

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 20 of Princessa

Calm Before the Storm

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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