Granny Strikes Back

by Harper Lin

  “Feeling better?” I asked, concerned.

  Octavian treated me to a grin. “Splendid.”

  We continued up the river in silence for several minutes. The periscope showed the river ahead. I couldn’t get a very good view of the sky and didn’t see any sign of the helicopter. Once a barge approached and Pierre closed up the air pipe and dove for a few minutes until we were past it. The air turned foul almost instantly. Within a couple of minutes, we were all panting and sweating. Al got lots of nasty looks. As soon as we surfaced again, Octavian complained of faintness and put himself under the air pipe until he caught his breath. Pierre dove again when we came to a bridge, and once again Octavian had to catch his breath right below the pipe when we surfaced.

  After the bridge, we came to a long stretch of the river where there was no traffic except for a couple of distant speedboats. Then Pierre slowed and turned. I saw a small tributary ahead. He pulled into it and we continued for a couple of minutes before coming to a large mansion by the riverbank. A private marina stood in front of it with a speedboat and a yacht. As I expected, there was also a dock covered by a tarp that extended over the water. A low wall shielded it from view of the river. We could surface there without being seen.

  Pierre expertly steered the sub into the dock, surfaced, and switched off the engine. From the camera display of the periscope I saw a young man run into view, take a quick look around, and tie a mooring cable from the pier onto the prow of the sub. Pierre hadn’t radioed in, probably thinking it best to keep radio silence now that there was a manhunt on. This fellow had obviously been expecting them or at least had been assigned to keep watch.

  Pierre opened the hatch and one by one we all climbed out. I took a big breath of fresh air and looked around me. I stood on a dock in a small, private marina. On the hill nearby was a whitewashed mansion, so bright in the sun that it hurt my eyes after the half-light inside the submarine. There were several large picture windows on the ground floor but the glass was all tinted and I could see nothing inside. Nevertheless, I had no doubt that our arrival was being watched.

  My trained eye took a quick scan of the property. The hill was bare of everything but grass. A few stumps showed that until recently, some large oaks had stood there but had been cut down, obviously to afford a better view of all approaches to the house. The woods started a good fifty yards from the house, and were hemmed in by a chain link fence. Discreet cameras attached to the roof of the house covered every angle.

  “It looks like we’ve made it to the lion’s den,” Octavian said, standing beside me with his hands in his pockets. He looked remarkably unconcerned.

  “You don’t have to put on a brave face for me, I’m scared too,” I told him.

  “But you’re a secret agent.”

  “That doesn’t mean I don’t get scared when I’m on the job.”

  “You’ll have to tell me more about your work once we’re away from bad company.”

  I gave him a peck on the cheek. “You’re a dear.”

  “Yuck, old people kissing,” Al said.

  This time it was Pierre’s turn to smack him upside the head.

  “What was that for?” Al said, rubbing his head again.

  “For being rude to your elders,” Pierre said.

  Pierre wound up and slammed a punch full in Al’s face. The gangster flew backwards and landed on his back.

  “And that was forgetting to fill the damn air tanks!”

  “Enough,” the young dock attendant said. “The boss wants to see you all inside. You wouldn’t believe the manhunt they’re putting on for you. They’ve called in cops from half a dozen towns! Whoever these old codgers are, the cops sure care about them.”

  Grimal, care about me? More likely he saw his precious career about to go down in flames if anything happened to me on his watch. Still, it felt nice to be the center of attention.

  Before we left the cover of the awning, the dock attendant stepped onto the lawn and took a good look around. Signaling that the coast was clear, the rest of us followed. We were hustled along by our captors, who obviously didn’t want to be caught in the open.

  “You should give up, fellows,” Octavian said, sounding out of breath as we ascended the hill. “It will go easier on you.”

  “Shut up,” the Exterminator said. “You’re only alive because Barbara here cares about you.”

  “There are worse reasons to be alive than that,” Octavian panted.

  As we got to the colonnaded front porch, the door opened and yet another tough looking young man stood there. This was turning out to be a big operation.

  They led us through a marble front hall and past a sweeping grand staircase to a large living room.

  An elderly man in a silk dressing gown greeted us. Right away I could tell this was “the boss”. He was only a few years younger than Octavian and I, but he had a presence about him. He stood erect, a large brandy snifter in his hand, and his sizeable belly and receding hairline did nothing to take away from his aura of command.

  The thugs who had kidnapped us all changed their body language when they got in the presence of their master. Even the Exterminator looked a bit less cold and arrogant, although more out of respect than any sort of subservience.

  The boss twirled his brandy snifter and stuck his nose inside the glass. He seemed in no hurry to start the conversation. He took a deep breath of the brandy fumes and then a little sip. Despite his relaxed attire, on his wrist he wore a huge gold and diamond Rolex that probably cost more than most people’s annual salaries. The decor in the room was similarly flashy. Lots of mismatched antiques and garish Italian furniture. Nineteenth century paintings of fox hunts hung on the walls

  Cocking his head, the boss studied me for a moment and said, “So this is the great Barbara Gold. I’ve heard so much about you, and you have caused me no shortage of trouble.”

  It was that same suave voice I had heard over the cell phone scanner.

  “You’ll be in a lot more trouble if you don’t let us go right now,” Octavian said.

  The boss barely glanced at him. “Do keep quiet, Mr. Perry. You are only here on sufferance.”

  “And why am I here?” I asked.

  “Because you make an excellent bargaining chip, Mrs. Gold. My casino operations have been far too compromised to continue with that particular branch of my business, but I might be able to continue with other operations unmolested. I think we can come to an understanding.”

  “I don’t think so,” I replied.

  The boss motioned towards Octavian with his brandy snifter.

  “Take him away and put him somewhere secure. Mr. Black, you stay here with us. Your insights into CIA operations will be most helpful.”

  This last bit was addressed to the Exterminator. I had never heard him referred to by name before. No doubt “Mr. Black” was as fake a name as it sounded.

  The others led Octavian away. As he left the room he called back, “Don’t worry, Barbara, they’ll find us.”

  The boss smiled as the door closed. “A brave man you have there. Good for me he isn’t as resourceful as you dear departed husband James.”

  I glared at him. “Don’t mention his name again.”

  The boss merely shrugged and gestured to a pair of plush armchairs. I took one and the Exterminator took another. He still had my 9mm in his hand and still had it trained on me. I took this as a sign of respect. Not that I appreciated it. I would have preferred that he underestimated me like everyone else. The boss reclined on a leather backed sofa and took another sip of brandy.

  “That is a truly unattractive costume, although I must say most convincing.”

  “So I’ve been told. Can we get to the point, please?”

  The boss chuckled. “Certainly. Mr. Black here still has connections with members of the Central Intelligence Agency who are, shall we say, more flexible in their thinking than your typical member of government service.”

  “You mean corruptible.”


  “If you want to put it that way, yes. Now the CIA has a certain esprit de corps. They do not want to see one of their retired agents die a gruesome, horrible death, and they are willing to compromise on certain things. They’ve made bargains before, and for you I am sure they will make bargains again.”

  I leaned back in my chair and let out a long, slow breath. Being in the foreign branch all my career I was used to compromising with ideals for the sake of the greater good, but that had been in rough and tumble parts of the world where civilized rules didn’t apply. But here in America? I didn’t want to think we were compromising on such things here.

  Like everyone else I’d heard the rumors. Dirty tricks in elections. Drug running. Wrecking the image of public figures hostile to the Agency. Of course it would all be rationalized on the altar of “the greater good”, but that was a darn slippery slope when your goals were anything less than overthrowing a bloodthirsty dictatorship.

  “So what are you proposing?” I asked. No, I wasn’t interested in making a deal, not for my own life, not even for Octavian’s life, but I wanted to feel them out. If I got out of this, any information they let slip could be highly valuable.

  The boss took another sip of his brandy, kicked off his slippers, and reclined on the sofa.

  “In exchange for you and Mr. Perry being released unharmed, and an immediate and permanent cessation of all casino operations, your agency agrees to not investigate our other operations or share information about us with any other government agencies for five years.”

  “So you can keep running heroin up the river with your sub.”

  “We will not go into details, Mrs. Gold, but as you have no doubt figured out by now, we have a varied and wide ranging business. The casino network was only the newest branch, although I must say it was spreading quickly. We will shut all the casinos down, and there are quite a few. We will also give you the names and addresses of two spies within American industry who have been selling technical data to Russian companies. Mr. Black here can arrange it with his people inside the CIA, as long as he has your consent.”

  “What’s the other option?”

  “The other option is unprofitable for both of us. You’ve seen too much, so you and Mr. Perry will have to die. The CIA will discover this sooner rather than later, and come after us with a vengeance. We are a resourceful enough operation to survive, but will will take a severe financial loss and no doubt some of our lower-raked members will be killed or caught. I’d prefer to avoid that, as I am sure you would prefer to avoid spending all of eternity with Mr. Perry in an unmarked grave.”

  “You put forth a convincing case. How would this work?”

  The boss got a gleam in his eye. He thought he had me hooked. I pegged him for a greedy, cynical man who assumed everyone else was equally corruptible. The Exterminator showed no reaction at all. He would be harder to convince.

  But I didn’t really intend on convincing them. I was stalling for time, hoping they’d make a slip. I’d already scoped out the room and had noticed a lovely Chinese vase sitting on a side table within easy reach of me. It was one of the only tasteful objects in the room and would be handy to throw at someone’s head. That could prove useful. Plus, I wanted to hear more.

  So I let them lay out the plan. As a show of goodwill, and no doubt as a further temptation for me, they would let Octavian go immediately. He would serve as message bearer. Then a secure channel between me and the CIA would be opened, and the Exterminator would work his back channels. Once an initial agreement was set up, the gangsters would release the name of one of the industrial spies. Then, when the CIA’s side of the bargain had been completed to the gangsters’ satisfaction, they would release the second name as well as yours truly. As security, the Exterminator will have already disappeared to a place not even known by his boss. If the CIA broke their side of the bargain, the Exterminator would hunt me down, and kill Octavian in the bargain too.

  I made a good show of looking reluctant but tempted. That kept them going. When you don’t have many options, it’s always good to stall for time. It gives you a chance to gather more intelligence and perhaps a new option falls in your lap.

  After fifteen minutes of haggling over details, one did.

  “This is the police,” a megaphone blared outside. “We have you surrounded. Release the hostages and come out with your hands above your heads.”

  How did they get here?

  I didn’t have time to ponder that. It was my cue to throw the Chinese vase at the Exterminator’s head.

  Thirteen

  The vase landed on the side of the Exterminator’s head with a satisfying crash. He had instinctively looked towards the nearest window and thus didn’t see the vase coming.

  I was up on my feet in an instant, or what passed for an instant these days, and leapt across the room to where the Exterminator lay on the floor. Okay, I walked quickly, quickly enough to get to the gun before the boss could. That fellow was obviously the brains of the operation and not the muscle. All he had managed to do was throw his brandy snifter at me, miss, and get to his feet.

  I leveled my gun at him. It felt good to hold it in my hands again.

  “Stop right there. It’s over!” I shouted.

  A door opening behind me told me that my assessment of the situation had been overly optimistic.

  I spun around and pumped a bullet in the gut of the first thug who entered. It turned out to be the fellow named Al. That was fine. He had nearly made us suffocate in that submarine. No one would mourn his loss, least of all me.

  The man behind him ducked back out of sight so quickly I didn’t get to see who he was. I crouched behind the chair for cover and turned to the boss, only to find him disappearing through a side door. I fired a round after him to send him on his way.

  I didn’t get a chance to see if I hit him or not because the next moment a spray of bullets raked the room. It came from a submachine gun from the sound of it.

  Crawling behind the couch as bits of wood and shreds of fabric flew everywhere, I waited until I heard a click of an empty magazine, then popped up, ready to take the machine gunner out, but he’d already gotten back behind the doorway again.

  I had two or three seconds while he changed magazines. I leapt to my feet and sprinted for the door …

  … or at least I tried to. My knees, unaccustomed to crawling, screamed in protest and I felt a sharp twinge in my lower back, no doubt from that cramped ride in the submarine. I staggered a couple of steps, and only just managed to level my pistol in time for him to appear again.

  Thankfully my reflexes were better shape than my joints, and I put one through his forehead. His submachine gun clattered to the floor.

  I got against the wall so as to be out of sight of anyone else coming through that door and edged to the submachine gun where it lay just inside the room. It was an Agram 2000, a Croatian model that you don’t see much of outside of Eastern Europe. It has a 32 round clip that only an idiot could miss with (said idiot now lying dead on the floor) and a clever ergonomic design that included indentations for each finger on the main grip. In front of the magazine was a loop with a thumb-hole grip you could use to steady the gun with your other hand as you set off a long burst. The perfect compact submachine gun for the discerning lady of a certain age.

  I glanced around the doorway, leading with my pistol. No one else was in the front hall. Scattered gunfire throughout the house told me they were otherwise occupied. I discarded my pistol, not having anywhere to put it, and scooped up the Agram 2000.

  Now I was ready to hunt.

  My heart told me to look for Octavian, but my brains and instinct told me to go after the boss. I had no idea where they had taken Octavian, but if I could get the boss then I’d have a good bargaining chip. I closed the door through which the attackers had come and moved over to the side door. I listened, didn’t hear anything, and then flung the door open, immediately ducking back out of sight in case the boss was lurking o
n the other side waiting to shred me with a shotgun or something.

  That happened to a colleague of mine once in El Salvador, but that’s another story.

  A narrow hallway dead-ended after ten feet with a door to the front and another to the right. The one to the right almost certainly led back to the main entrance room, so I choice the door in front of me.

  I tried it and found it locked. A short burst from my Agram 2000 took care of that.

  My, what a kick in that little thing! I had forgotten just how much a submachine gun tries to buck and jump in your hand like an unbroken horse in those Westerns James always used to watch. Submachine guns are made for indoor and urban fighting and need to be compact, but making them compact sacrifices a lot of accuracy. Good thing I had that ergonomic grip or I might have shot up every part of the door except the lock.

  But seeing as I did have it, I was rewarded by the door springing open. The boss, still in his silk nightgown, was just descending down a hatch in the floor of a small library and study, a briefcase in one hand and a .45 revolver in the other. He took an unaimed shot at me that didn’t come close to hitting me but made me shrink back enough that I didn’t get a chance to return fire.

  Then he was gone. The hatch had carpeting on it and when shut would be invisible to the casual eye. A secret door down to … something.

  Submarines, hidden doors … what next, a death ray? This guy had obviously read too many spy novels.

  I edged up to the hatch, angled my gun over it, and without exposing any other part of my body, sent a burst down the hatch. I couldn’t hear anything above the belch of the gun. Back in the Seventies they used to call submachine guns “burp guns” because when you fired them they sounded like a 300 pound trucker getting rid of the gas from his latest six pack. Once I stopped firing I stood silently for half a minute and heard nothing. Either I had killed him or he was alive and well and waiting for me.

  Best to assume the second. Being a pessimist is a healthy worldview in my line of work.