Knave's Gambit

by Deforest Day

  He continued his pugilistic adventures in less formal environs.

  Nick, eighteen and passing for twenty one, celebrated Saint Paddy with green beer in a favorite hangout of Marymount coeds. Trying to disprove Billy Joel’s thesis that Catholic girls start way too late, he got into an argument over Darwin's theory that Italians were descended from apes.

  Nick countered with the opinion the Irish were the apes, and then used his fistic skills to end the discussion. The Lads went to the ER for stitches, and Nick had his maiden voyage in a Virginia patrol car.

  The next morning he stood in front of kindly old Judge Enrico Franconi, who explained the two Micks were off-duty cops, and Nick had a choice to make. “You fought the law, son, and the law won. So, as the song says, you can work off some of your youthful exuberance by breaking rocks in the hot sun, or you can go help Uncle Sam, and learn a trade besides.”

  He did his Basic Training at Fort Knox, KY.

  Nick used this ride to go inside, practice the meditation technique his onetime shrink had extolled. She said you can use the power of the mind to rewire the brain’s network. Repair the damage from a TBI the VA said was his own damned fault. It had sounded weird at the time, but other patients at the clinic swore by it, so he gave it a try. Nick wasn’t sure if meditation or marijuana eased his aggression, but he seemed to be punching people less and less as the years passed. She had called it holistic anger management. He called it accepting the responsibility of single parenthood.

  He opened his eyes as the big sedan bounced down a ramp. In the dim light he saw the driver watching him in the mirror, a little smirk on his bloodless Gaelic lips. Another cipher in the Vast Government Bureaucracy. He had no use for any of them. Fuckin’ Bumbling Idiots.

  They ignored the bank of cage-like turnstiles and marched him to a steel door in the far wall. One put his palm on a reader, and the elevator door slid open. Nick felt the car rise. The other slid a card in a slot, and again the door opened.

  They shoved him in a room with no windows in the walls and no handle on the door. The furnishings were a white plastic table and four matching chairs. Patio furniture; too light to serve as weapons should the opportunity arise. Easy to wash, should the need arise. The air carried the sharp scent of Lysol. He dropped into one of the chairs, stuck his hands under the table, and ran his eyes around the room, across the ceiling. The blank, washable walls and floor were featureless. Cameras and microphones were now the size of shirt buttons, so he assumed he was on stage. But for what audience?

  Kat, along with Levon Longstreet, Major Machler, and an attorney from the Justice Department, watched Nick on the monitor, and listened to the Morans in person. “He wasn't at the tow truck place, but we tracked him down, hiding in an abandoned factory.”

  Silas Wei, Assistant United States Attorney for Counter Terrorism, asked, “Did he say anything when you picked him up?”

  Al recognized this slanty-eyed pissant; most likely an affirmative action hire. Always on their case about due process, and that shit. He said, “Just the usual personal insults. Nothing we can use.”

  “How did he get the cut on his face?”

  “He, ahh, resisted arrest.”

  “You arrested him?” Arrests meant records and rights, public defenders and habeas corpus. “Did you read him his rights?”

  “Not exactly arrested. More like took him into custody. And as for rights, fuckin’ terrorists don’t have no fuckin’ rights.”

  Wei froze the pair of FPS men with a look he’d acquired clerking for Justice Thomas. He softly said, “I sincerely hope, for the sake of your careers, there is neither a written nor a video record of this man’s apprehension.”

  “No sir.” He pointed to Levon. “Like the man said, we just picked him up, and brang him here. Post haste.”

  Wei waved a hand in dismissal. “Go. I’ll deal with you two later.”

  Nick turned as the door opened, and two men—a tall blond dude, and a short, well-dressed Asian—hurried inside. Right behind was a small, almond-eyed black woman, then a younger blonde girl filed into the cramped room.

  Suddenly aware he smelled of sweat, dope, and death, Nick hoped the ventilation system was in good working order. “Where are my pals from the Foul Ball Institute?”

  The Asian frowned. “Foul—did they tell you they were FBI?” He turned to the dude. “You need to reign in the Moran brothers.” He offered Nick his hand. “Silas Wei, U.S. Attorney, Mr. Paloma. I apologize for their behavior.” He turned to the girl. “Young lady, see if you can find a first aid kit.”

  Nick shook the small, soft hand. Nobody seemed to notice he was no longer cuffed. What the hell; we’re all just buddies here. Especially the lawyer. A federal suit who never got towed because he never drove. Probably didn’t open his own doors or beers, either. So why the hell make nice-nice to a hook jockey? “Don’t worry about it, I clot quick. And I'll deal with those two goons on my own time.”

  The thin white dude placed a laptop on the table. “We'll deal with the Morans. Let's focus your attention on this.”

  All five watched the brief drama. When it ended Nick said, “I probably had the best view of the accident. Is that why you dragged me here?”

  The dude said, “The video shows you pointing a rifle, shows you running down the stairwell.”

  “Yep. I'd just mounted a new scope, and took it up on the roof for a look at some long-range targets. When the truck crashed, I ran downstairs, an called 911.” He had a sudden sense of where this was headed. The questions about the rifle. An Oliver Stone moment; the Marine with a checkered past, working in a Texas schoolbook warehouse. All they need is a Single Bullet. He raised his voice and said, “My call will be on the Emergency Services tape.”

  The Asian pushed the laptop aside and gave the blond dude a dirty look. “Mr. Longstreet, for future reference, always get the suspect’s statement before you show him the evidence, not after.” He addressed Nick. “We’d like to see the gun. By the way, what caliber is it?”

  Yes. The Fall Guy scenario. For what, Nick had no idea. “It's a Browning seven millimeter, wearing a state of the art Schmidt & Bender scope. And right now the head of the DCMetro SWAT team is using it to hunt elk in Wyoming.”

  The attorney took a plastic bag stapled to a Chain of Evidence card from his pocket, placed it on the table. “And do you have an explanation for this? The FBI labs tell me it is a seven millimeter bullet. Please don’t touch it.”

  Nick leaned over the bag for a closer look. It didn't take a genius to realize someone had shot someone. “FMJ. Nothing to do with me. I was shooting Nosler’s. ”

  The Asian looked at the dude, who looked at the black woman, who said, “Full Metal Jacket. Military round. Nosler is a commercial manufacturer, makes hunting ammunition.”

  Maybe these people weren’t devious. Just stone cold stupid. “The rooftop is a lousy spot for shooting at gas trucks.” Maybe they weren't setting him up. Maybe it was just the usual government incompetence.

  The dude asked, “What do you mean? From the film it appears to a perfect location.”

  “You think? Police and traffic helicopters flying overhead? And thousands of cars a whole lot closer. Someone looks out their window, sees a guy on a roof with a gun, you don’t think one of them would grab their cell? Get real.”

  It was the black woman who said, “He makes sense. From a tactical point of view I wouldn’t put a lone shooter up there. But then, in the military we don’t put lone snipers anywhere. Always a two man team.”

  Nick came back with, “The shooter and his spotter.”

  She said, “Right; you’ve had some experience with sniper rifles. In Bosnia.”

  The Asian said, “You people are too technical for me. If you say this man didn't do it, then the FBI needs to look for alternative shooting locations. They’re good at this sort of thing.” He rapped once on the door, and an unseen hand opened it.

  After the lawyer left, Nick asked the black woman, “Ho
w do you know about Bosnia?”

  The dude answered for her. “It’s what we do here, Mr. Paloma. After Ms. Sinclair identified you on the video, your, ah, history, led me to order the Moran’s to pick you up. I add my apologies to Mr. Wei’s, for their behavior. It was supposed to be a invitation, not an order.”

  “Don’t sweat it. Who is Ms. Sinclair, and how did she identify me?”

  Levon pointed at Kat. “Ms. Sinclair is with the Department of Homeland Security. I had the impression you two knew each other. When we looked at the tape she called you the ‘Tattooed Prick’.”

  Nick thought about it for a moment. “No, just my arms.” He stared at Kat. “Am I supposed to know you?”

  “You towed my car at the University. We met again when I came to your junkyard to get it back.”

  The door banged open. A frantic man burst into the tiny room, waving his arms like a sailor sending a semaphore. The black woman jumped up.“She-it,” she said. “Another incident.”

  The man switched from arms to legs, and danced a tarantella. “No, no,” he said. “It’s three. Oh, God. Oh, God, it’s three!”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Situation Room was cool, shadowy, and subdued. The vice president, SAP Drubb, and AG Oxenhammer had loosened their ties and called a steward for a pot of coffee. Navy java, the best in the world, and the fuel of choice in the White House Mess.

  Mason Drubb—Special Assistant to the President—said, “Even with Bainbridge running point, I’m worried about the military. We need to have the generals with us, Mr. Vice President.”

  His concern drew a look of disgust from the vice president, one designed to remind a man without a portfolio he served at the pleasure of the President. Whomever it might be. “We already have the only generals who matter. Electric, Dynamics, and Motors.” The vice president stirred some goddamned sugar substitute and fucking non-dairy creamer into his coffee. “Not to mention Boeing, Raytheon, and Lockheed.”

  Drubb sighed. As usual, the vice president focused on the Big Picture, but at the expense of political reality. It was how swapping email addresses for T-shirts and autographed Yes, Sir, Mr. President! hats beat the bejesus out of DEERLAYER's PACs and bundlers. Voters don't want promises, they want Free Stuff.

  He decided a strategic retreat would be politic, and filled his White House mug as he crafted an appropriate reply. “You’re right, of course. But I’m concerned about a coordinated response. Led, say, by a cabal of patriotic colonels who believe their oath to uphold the Constitution trumps their career track.”

  The vice president studied the corpulent genius over the rim of his cup. The man played a critical role as presidential babysitter; perhaps a brief cosset was called for. “Mason, as always, your political instincts are astute. However, those colonels will be too busy dealing with our South American situation to concern themselves with domestic strife.

  “As for elections and public outcries, you forget how easily the populace are distracted. One need only look to the entertainment media for evidence. Reality shows, if you will, designed to take their minds off reality. The sheeple are easily confused. It doesn’t take much to stampede them off a cliff. Look what the Anthrax Scare, hard on the heels of 9/11, did.” He chuckled. “They burned unopened mail for weeks. Billions in Social Security checks went up in flames.”

  Gabe Oxenhammer jumped in. “I agree. We need something to terrify the population; ratchet up the fear index. Drive our loyalists to the polls, and keep the oppo trembling under their beds. School shootings don’t do it anymore. They have become too commonplace, and, with the aging baby boomers, affect too few people.” The attorney general made a note on his yellow pad. “We need a Reichstag fire.”

  DEERSLAYER turned his annoyance from Drubb to Gabe. “We already have one, and it's playing out on the nation's highways as we speak.”

  —o—

  Moments later Boston's Leonard B. Zakim Bridge became one of those fiery highways.

  When Larry Greencastle’s Shell tanker ruptured in the middle of the bridge at the peak of rush hour, it captured the world's attention.

  The tragedy would become a subject of much conjecture whether more people died in their automobiles, or perished in the rail cars of what came to be called the notorious Amtrak Death Train.

  Conjecture, because recovering the remains was made difficult when, at the height of the rescue attempt, the fire-ravaged concrete roadway collapsed.

  The local traffic helicopters captured extensive video, and the images consumed hours of air time on competing cable channels. Unfortunately much of the footage could not be shown, due to the overly enthusiastic use of the zoom lens and the doubler on the gyro stabilized camera mounts.

  The brain is cushioned by cerebrospinal fluid, which can boil, turn to steam, and cause the skull to explode. Those gruesome images did, of course, find their way to the Internet, briefly knocking porn out of the top spot.

  —o—

  Jackie John and Mary Beth were east of Houston, westbound on I-10, approaching 610. A tricky bit of highway; four separate limited access roadways crisscrossed each other like a plate of al dente vermicelli, and traffic was, as always, a bitch. Speaking of which. He said, “Hurry up babycakes, I got some clutch and brake work coming up.”

  They’d done it before, oral sex at sixty-five. It added a thrill to their Tuesdays, the one day of the week when he delivered gasoline to Rice University, and she had the day off from her physical therapy gig at the Astrodome.

  So when she felt the rest of him stiffen, she didn’t think nothin’ of it; his legs goin' rigid told her it was time to ‘gitty up go’. But suddenly Jackie John went limp, and just as Mary Beth raised her head above the dash to complain the world turned upside down.

  By ambulance Memorial Hospital is three minutes north. Spring Branch Medical Center, Twelve Oaks Hospital, and Bellaire Medical Center are all less than a minute away by medivac helicopter. Over the next twenty minutes all four facilities would activate their FEMA plans.

  —o—

  After a sleepless twenty-two hour flight from Jakarta to Los Angeles Hazyim and Fauzan were exhausted. So they found the key, opened the locker, rode the courtesy shuttle to the long term lot, paid the parking fee on the old pickup truck, and climbed over the tailgate. Hazyim tore the plastic cover off the mattress, Fauzan unfolded the blanket, and they slept for eleven hours.

  They were brothers in arms, if not in body or in spirit. Fauzan, a devout and dedicated Muslim, wanted to enter Paradise, but only after sending as many infidels as possible in the opposite direction.

  Hazyim had little interest in the afterlife, but kept it to himself. So he fired his AK-47 in the air with the others, and memorized the passages to please the mullahs. All he wanted was a chance to exchange the poverty and squalor of Tangerang for the land of the Great Satan, a chance to taste the forbidden fruit he had heard so much about. Sex and drugs and rock and roll.

  They awoke to a midday sun, but Fauzan decided to begin this new day in this new land with the Salatu-I-Fajr, the early morning prayer. Since he had no idea of how to find a mosque in the land of Sodom and Gomorra, he turned in the general direction of Mecca and unrolled his prayer mat on the blacktop beside their truck. “Allaaku Akbar,” he cried. Allah is Most Great.

  Hazyim, practicing his Conversational English, said, “Catch you later, dude,” and went off in search of food and a toilet.

  Five minutes south of LAX sprawls the el Segundo Chevron refinery. It is also where Interstate 405 meets Interstate 105 in one of California’s famous cloverleaf conglomerations of concrete.

  Over the coming days Hazyim and Fauzan continued north on the 405, selecting targets of opportunity. The City of Angels has many gas stations and many tanker trucks servicing them.

  —o—

  “I guess this means I’m no longer on your terror watch list.” Nick and Kat were alone in the interview room. The others had raced out, leaving her conflicted. She wanted to follow, be
part of the excitement, but her Yankee sense of responsibility said stay and apologize to this poor man.

  The situation had taken on a life of its own. When she saw the rooftop video Kat was positive the Tattooed Prick was the shooter. Now, after listening to his side of the story, after Levon’s assistant told them there were three more incidents, she was equally certain Mr. Paloma had nothing to do with them.

  And the Chinese lawyer. What was that all about? Two days on the job, and she felt like Alice, tumbling down the rabbit hole. She pulled out a plastic lawn chair and sat across from him. “Listen, Mr. Paloma, I'm sorry. This whole thing is totally my fault. Because I was pissed off about my car.”

  “Hey, you work for the federal government. Us DC natives expect it.”

  “Yeah. And I’m pretty good at it. Screwing up, I mean. For somebody who has only been a government employee for a couple of days.”

  “Cream rises.”

  “It’s just that when they identified the rooftop, from the trafficam footage, and then we saw a guy with a gun, I put two and two together. Guess I flunked math, huh?”

  To Nick it seemed she was trying too hard to distance herself from this bullshit. Apology wasn’t a word in the government’s vocabulary. Was this the old Good Cop-Bad Cop game? He’d give her some rope. “No harm, no foul. Besides, you people weren’t that far from the truth.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If the truck driver was shot, and in this land of double talk I don’t believe anything the government tells me, then the best place for making the shot was right on that roof.”

  “I take it this isn’t the confession of a man wracked with guilt.”

  “I have enough trouble dealing with the guilt for things I’ve done, thank you. No. Like I told the others, the rooftop is a lousy place for a sniper to set up. The trouble is, it’s also the only place.”