Whirlwind

by Joseph R. Garber

A blank look of hopelessness.

  He studied the menu disapprovingly. “The farther you get from the oceans, the worse the food is. Right now, we’re just about on the Continental Divide, so…Oh, excuse me, miss, could I have a BLT, coleslaw on the side. No, I don’t think I’ll try one of those salads, and a real Coke, you know, Classic Coke with sugar and caffeine and all that politically incorrect stuff. Bring the same for my friend, only put extra mayonnaise on her sandwich, and give her a chocolate milkshake instead of Coke. We’d like some corn bread and butter, if you have it. Yes, please take away her…uh…steak, I suppose. Thank you. Irina, you just look like hell.”

  After checking into the motel — garishly decorated with a potpourri of Navajo, Zuni, and Hopi motifs — Irina had caught an unwanted glimpse of herself in the bathroom mirror. Her eyes were bruised, her skin sallow, her lips raw and chapped. It pained her that Charlie was seeing her in this condition; it pained her more that she was embarrassed in front of an enemy.

  He spoke again, genuine concern in his voice, “I’d say you’ve had a rough day.” Pity kindled in his eyes. “Very damned rough.”

  “You could say that.” Less spoken than croaked.

  “Tell me.”

  “Then I would have to think about it.” She felt like crying. No, that is not possible. I will never cry again.

  Charlie nodded knowingly. “You’re all right now, aren’t you?”

  The truth was necessary because Charlie, inexplicably, had become a man to whom one could only tell the truth: “No, Charlie, I am not. I am not so sure I will ever be again.”

  “How many did you kill?”

  He understood. She should hate him for that. “Enough. Too many.”

  “Give me a number.”

  What right had he to ask that? “Seven, I suppose. It is a matter of how you look at it.”

  “It’s a matter of what your conscience tells you.” He gently took her hand. She didn’t pull away, although she could not say why. “Irina, thirty-some years ago, I had to deal with it for the first time. It sucked, but I got over it. So will you. Give it time, and you’ll get over it.”

  Bitter, she was so bitter. “Is that supposed to console me?”

  “Nope.”

  “Will I be a better person once the memory fades?”

  “Doubtful. But you won’t be a worse one either. We live our lives, and if we do our best, we’ve got nothing to feel guilty about.”

  “Seven people are dead. The guilt is mine.” I am questioning my suitability for this life — I, who never question myself.

  “My presumption is that if they weren’t dead, you would be. In my book that means the guilt is theirs.”

  “They were seven. I am one.”

  “Tell me true, Irina, were any of them in the right?”

  “No. Yes. One. A policeman.” His legs had drummed a tattoo on the asphalt. He was so young.

  Charlie’s eyes glinted diamond bright. “You killed a cop?”

  “No, they did, those men from the hotel. But they did it because of me. It is my fault.”

  He threw up his hands. The gesture was blatantly theatrical. He was such an actor. “Baloney! That’s like telling the money it’s responsible for the bank robbers!”

  He was right. The knowledge was no solace. Beyond any doubt her superiors would applaud victories she found more wounding than defeat. What should have left her triumphant, disgusted her. If…when…I return to Moscow, give me no medals, pay me no praise. And if you promote me, promote me to a desk job.

  “Tell me about it,” he murmured. “Everything. Minute by minute. Get it out of your system.”

  She answered, flatly recounting the terrors of her day. All the while, he stroked her hand, although only softly. Then, story told, she fell silent, studying him. Nothing could disguise the decency in his eyes. She opened her mouth, ready to say who knows what in response to the kindness of his touch. A plate clattered in front of her. She jumped.

  “Two BLTs, one slaw, one Coke, one shake, basket of corn bread.” The waitress truculently ticked each item off. “Anything else?”

  “Butter,” said Charlie.

  “In the bread basket.” Disdainful, she walked away, a woman who earned few tips, and was not disposed to make the effort necessary to do so.

  “Eat,” Charlie ordered.

  “I am not hungry.” A small anger pricked her. Who was he to tell her what to do?

  “Eat anyway.” He took two healthy bites from his own sandwich, washing them down with a swallow of Coke.

  She bridled at his command, thought to make a sharp retort, but could not find the spirit. Instead, she sampled her food. It was tasteless, difficult to swallow, and sat heavily on her stomach. “Charlie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me one thing.”

  “Whatever you want.”

  “How did you find me?” Curiosity is the only emotion I can feel. Will I ever feel another?

  The corner of his mouth drifted up — half a smile. “You won’t like the answer.”

  “All the more reason to hear it. Maybe I will learn how to escape you next time.”

  He laughed a deep, rolling belly laugh. She liked its sound but could not bring herself to smile in response.

  “Okay. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He took another sip of Coke. “It was a con job. A flimflam. A cheap trick, same as you played on me by switching disks —”

  “You noticed?” She was chagrined. That was wrong. She’d outmaneuvered her opponent. She had nothing to be ashamed of.

  “Not when you did it. I found out later. At considerable expense, I might add. Anyway, let me explain the scam I ran on you. Same as a card shark suckers his mark into drawing the card he wants, I suckered you into driving toward northern Arizona. Last night and this morning, I dropped all sorts of little hints that I expected you to take the southern route toward Tucson and Phoenix. Oh, I didn’t say anything overt; it was all subtle subliminal message stuff to plant an idea in your head. I wanted you thinking: wicked old Charlie is certain I’m going to go south, therefore I must go north. Which you did, just like I wanted. Another thing: I figured you’d stick to the back roads. There are only three you could have taken, and all of them are pretty slow. Nine or ten hours of driving time would wear you out. You’d only get so far. About this far.”

  He wasn’t telling her everything. It could not have been that easy. Her voice rose. “You are lying. You walk into my motel, into this restaurant at eight thirty and —”

  “Cool down. My son’s with the Indian Health Service. He’s stationed at the Three Turkeys clinic, about two hours from here. My wife and I used to visit him every summer. I’ve driven every mile of paved road and dirt track in northern Arizona. I know this part of the country like the back of my hand. Which means I know where the very few motels hereabouts are located. All I had to do was phone. ‘Has Ms. Caroline Sonderstrom checked in yet?’ — that being the name on the clean credit cards I gave you. I would have checked every damned fleapit between here and Las Vegas if I had to. However, because I am a good and God-fearing man beloved of the angels, I struck paydirt on the third call.” He pitched his voice higher, “ ‘Sorry, sir, there’s no answer from that room. Would you like me to take a message?’”

  Irina almost laughed. Charlie made it sound so simple that any fool could do it.

  However (of this she was certain) not every fool could. The shrewdness with which he’d nudged her north, his almost supernatural certainty that she’d stop when she did, his confidence that she’d use a credit card rather than cash — how had he known those things? She herself had not known until she’d made the decisions. She could have just as easily continued north, turned east or west, or…

  “Of course, finding you wasn’t the hard part.” Charlie beamed. “Swiping Whirlwind from that ridiculous new sports-ute parked outside your motel room wasn’t hard either. The tough part — the part I really was not looking forward to — was coming into this res
taurant, sitting down with someone I genuinely respect, and having to tell her that as of this moment, she’s busted. Irina Kolodenkova, I’m placing you under arrest. Stay put for a minute…now where did I put my Miranda card?…oh, here it is. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right —”

  She lashed out a slap. Charlie snapped a handcuff on her wrist.

  “Who are you to say you will save me!?!”

  Charlie had handcuffed her to a motel bedframe — something she’d angrily denounced as demeaning until he’d reminded her that cuffing him to a bathroom sink might, in theory that is, be considered even more mortifying.

  That shut her up. Although not for long. “I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself!” This in the tones that Charlie found reminiscent of a cat being shampooed. “I am trained and I am competent!”

  Yup, good analogy — she definitely was as mad as a wet cat. Prettier though. Pretty as a picture all flushed and furious. Of course he’d never tell her that. “Irina, you haven’t got a prayer of getting away from Schmidt and his goons on your own.”

  A fine feline hiss: “What gives you the right to force your unwanted help on me?”

  He didn’t even stop to think about his answer. “Like I said last night, maybe I’m your guardian angel sent down from on high.”

  “Pah!” she positively spat. “I do not believe in God.”

  It had been a long time since Charlie had a good ripsnorting argument with a woman. He’d forgotten how much fun it was. “If you did, maybe he would have assigned you a higher class guardian. Me, I’m just a beat-up, worn-out old avenging angel recycled and repurposed to custodial duties.”

  Damn, but she could arch her eyebrows. He’d never seen it done better. Always excepting Mary, that is. “Saint Charlie?” she sneered.

  “Yeah, sure.” He laughed, and the laughter felt fine, “They even named cities after me. Seven of ’em in the U. S. of A. Five ‘Saint Charles,’ and two ‘San Carlos.’”

  Tight-lipped, still frowning. “You told me that last night.”

  “Did I?” Hmm, he thought, so I did. Why the blazes did I do that?

  “You said you want to retire there.”

  “That’s the plan. Want to join me?” And, for that matter, why did I just say that?

  She glared at him. “I have been there. It is an ugly little freeway town.” Her eyes weren’t quite as bright as they had been. She brushed her un-shackled hand across drooping eyelids. Charlie figured sleep was settling. And about time too.

  “That’s the one in Silicon Valley. The other one, San Carlos do Cabo, is down the coast on a cape that juts way out into the ocean. Sometimes, mostly in the summer, it’s so foggy you can’t see your hand in front of your face. But when the sun comes out, it’s God’s glory returned to earth, all green, the prettiest green you’ve ever seen. Every house has gables and chimneys and big front porches, and the farms are so beautiful that you just want to walk through the fields until the world ends. Mary and I…I mean…I’ve fancied moving there for the longest time. Raise cats and cows, but mostly cats. Buy a nice Catalina sailboat, park it at the marina, and on quiet days I’ll go out and do some serious fishing — which basically means doing nothing at all. The rest of the time I’ll just lounge on the porch or lie in the hammock, drink lemonade, and read all the things I’ve meant to read twice but never quite got around to. And I’ll live the rest of my life out in peace. After all these years, I think I’m entitled to a little peace.”

  “Peace.” She was slipping away now, her lips barely moving.

  “That hammock is particularly on my mind. I mean to string it between two old walnut trees. I can see myself lying there in the afternoon shade with a couple of cats on my belly. I’ll be napping, of course, because there’s nothing more conducive to napping than having a dozy cat or two around. Cats have the skill of the thing and can teach you all you need to know about snoozing in a genuinely professional manner.”

  Barely perceptible, her lips moved again. Charlie thought she might be trying to say “cats,” and that would be the last word she would say until morning. He’d talked her to sleep, as intended — or rather talked her into yielding to the power of the two powerful soporifics he’d slipped into her milkshake about twenty minutes earlier.

  Good night, sleep tight, I really do care about you, you know.

  Yeah, well, that was an unfortunately honest self-confession. He genuinely and sincerely did feel something that a man of his years should not feel. What? He was unsure, a bit confused about his emotions, in fact, downright befuddled.

  Not that it was a problem. He could clear things up easily enough. Same as every other occasion when he wasn’t certain about his own sentiments, he’d talk it through with his wife.

  He’d made a promise to her, more than a promise, a sacred vow. He’d sworn on his honor and on his love that he would never, under any circumstances, involve their children in any of his messes.

  Today he’d broken that oath. Now, pecking on his computer’s keyboard, Charlie McKenzie confessed his sin. Mary was the one person to whom he never lied, not once in his entire life.

  The Mossad, he typed, had forwarded a covert message to Scott asking him to do three things: first, arrange for one of his Navajo friends to chauffeur Charlie from Gallup to the reservation where he suspected Irina would go to ground. Second, procure a few unregistered fire arms. Third, arrange for a mutual friend — another doctor who, like Scott, was a bush pilot — to meet Charlie next morning at the Indian Health Service’s airstrip near the village of Three Turkeys.

  It was innocent stuff, Charlie wrote, and nothing that could put Scott in danger. Nonetheless, he’d broken his word, and he begged Mary’s forgiveness for that.

  If he’d printed his apology out, it would have filled three single-spaced pages — and another page for a renewed oath that he would never again, under any circumstances, embroil either children or grandchildren in the deadly affairs that were the daily life of Charles McKenzie, assassin and spy.

  At last, having settled with his conscience, and being reasonably certain that his wife would forgive him just this one time, he went on to tell her everything that Irina had told him: the gunplay, the sickening carnage, the hijacking of a Winnebago that, later, she’d hidden behind an elementary school, and how she’d replaced it with an enormous, fire-engine-red Cadillac Escalade.

  He grinned as he wrote about that. Irina’s audacity reminded him of his own.

  Whirlwind? That was safe and sound, he wrote. After stealing it from Irina’s Escalade, he’d paid his Navajo driver to take it, hide it, and never say a word. If Charlie didn’t know where Whirlwind was hidden, then nobody could make him tell.

  He looked up from the computer screen, glancing at Irina. She was deep asleep, a Botticelli angel in repose. It was hard to take his eyes off her. After a while, he forced himself to return to his typing.

  Once Whirlwind was safe, I sashayed into the restaurant, and there she was. Cool as a cucumber, she didn’t even blink an eye. It was almost like she was expecting me.

  Whereupon I arrested her. Oh, but it was a joy to behold! You’ve never seen anyone so mad. Wildcats aren’t the half of it. Despite her eloquent criticisms of my character, morals, parentage and what not, I’m pretty sure she’ll play ball with me tomorrow when I try to get her out of the soup. But just to make certain, I handcuffed her to her bed. Now she’s out like a light (two Dalmane capsules administered in a sneaky fashion will have that effect), and after I finish typing this up, I’ll be sleeping right next to her, this being one of life’s little rewards for an old fossil in the sunset of his years, and don’t give me any lip, okay?

  But I have to admit, sweetheart, she’s giving me conniptions. Trouble is she reminds me a lot of you. Not on the outside, although she is a looker. But what I mean — what is getting to me — is what she’s like on the inside. It’s her heart and her brain that are the admirable things. She’s solid at the core, Mary, as solid as
you.

  So what is it with me and this girl, or young woman, or whatever I’m supposed to call her? You tell me. I’m buffaloed. Maybe it’s that the world has a shortage of genuinely good souls, and I’m not prepared to let anyone harm an endangered species. Maybe it’s that when I look at her, I see you. Maybe I’m just a damned old fool. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s something to do with the way I lost you, how there was nothing I could do, how I just had to stand there helpless as a child, and I will be thrice damned to hell if I’m going to stand by impotently again, not when I can do something about it.

  I don’t know.

  Nuts. I need a drink. Or a shrink. Or both.

  He settled for the drink, a short gin and tonic from the motel’s minibar. Then he typed the last few paragraphs of his daily letter to his wife: What was Sam up to? What role did Sangin Wing and his son play? What was the puzzle inside the puzzle, and the secret inside the secret? Pretty soon, he wrote, he’d know. The Mossad was turning on the vacuum cleaner; tomorrow they’d send him every speck of data they could find about the Wing family, and especially about what DefCon Enterprises’ chief scientist was up to February seventh through the ninth. Wing had been attending a scientific conference in Tokyo then, chairing a panel when his son was arrested. Charlie wanted a transcript of the panel discussion, bios of the other members, news reports from the scientific journals, photos, anything and everything. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, he typed, but by God he’d know it when he saw it.

  Leaning back, he rolled his shoulders, cracked his knuckles, then typed what he always typed at the end of his letters to Mary: love, loneliness, and regret.

  He read his letter two times over, changing a word or two, and smiling to himself. Then, as he did with every letter he wrote his wife, he deleted it.

  She’d get it anyway, of that he was certain, and the celestial e-mail system was one that not even the NSA could tap.

  He stood and stretched. His fingers brushed the speckled ceiling of Irina’s sad little motel room as he inventoried its squalor: a cheap writing desk; worn blue carpet; tacky Indian scenes on the wall; a thin mattress; yellowed sheets.