by Vince Milam
Movement and clatter rose from below. He returned with a bottle of Virginian wine. A corkscrew tossed my way, he added, “Do the honors, s’il vous plaît.”
Cork removed, the bottle placed on the deck between us, conversation moved to more neutral ground.
“Catch?” Bo asked.
Juan Antonio Diego Hernandez. “Catch.” The fourth member of our Delta team. Fierce and sure with a cob-rough exterior.
“Still somewhere near Portland. Haven’t seen him since you and I last visited. Since we killed those Tajiks.”
“You’re getting tedious, son.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I know.” I sighed and went back to our old Delta friends. “Wouldn’t hurt you to contact Catch on occasion. Or Marcus.”
He didn’t reply and fished tin plates and forks from a large box container nearby. Away from the boat, deep in the swamp, shadows met water under the moonlight and extended across the still, reflective palette.
“Angel?” Bo asked, straightening up.
William Tecumseh Picket. Angel. The fifth and final of our retiree group. Battles, blood, and a bounty bound us together. Angel had said goodbye and disappeared several years ago. None of us knew his whereabouts.
“Nada. He’d mentioned Costa Rica, but who the hell knows?”
Bo took a deep hit on his pipe, spoke as he exhaled. “I miss him. And I don’t see enough of you. Or Marcus. Or Catch.”
“You’d have to leave this swamp to mingle with us.”
He shrugged. “Glad you’re here now.”
“Me too.”
“And I’ll admit to some consternation. Just to make you happy.”
“Over what?”
“Over involving you with those Tajiks. I know you want to walk away from all of it.”
“And more.”
“Can’t help your mental angst, old son. You’re flying solo on that one.”
“Thanks.”
His hand on my knee, firm, amplified his words. “I’d help if I could. You know that.”
I appreciated Bo’s comment and concern. “I want to put a full stop to all of this. Find a safe spot. Take care of Mom and CC, white picket fence—the whole bit.”
“And sell the Ace?”
“You speak blasphemy, my redhead friend.”
The aroma of grilled meat and marijuana filled our space. A large moth ruffled overhead and danced on the Christmas lights. We remained silent for several minutes, isolated, comfortable. Bo drew on his pipe.
“So where’s your place? In all this?” Bo waved a hand at the emergent stars spread across the night sky, patches visible through the cypress tree openings.
“The stoned hippie has gone existential.”
“I’ve found my place.”
True enough. True enough, and good for him. “And I’m happy for you.”
The steaks were done, and swamp noises became more active. A powerful swirl at the front of the boat indicated a gator. Several bats flicked and dodged at the edge of the Christmas lights, hunting airborne insects.
“A plan and a path. The universal force tempers the random nature of our space and time. Seek guidance,” Bo said. “And pass the salt.”
“I do seek. Nothing yet. Maybe I don’t listen well enough.”
“Don’t listen. Feel, old son. You have to feel.”
The venison was gamy, rare, and delicious. We’d each take a swig of wine, then return the bottle to the deck between us. No lights for miles, other than ours. The Great Dismal Swamp surrounded, blanketed. And this moment, an infinitesimal place in time, offered sanctuary. There was nothing I couldn’t say to Bo, and the assurance he wouldn’t pass judgment cast a calm over our tiny haven.
“I’d suggest you’re seeking affirmation of your desires,” Bo continued. “Stability. Family. The universe may have a different plan.”
“You mean God, hippie boy. How did your sorry ass get so New Age squatting in swampy squalor?”
Bo laughed, grabbed the wine. “Semantics aside, the point remains. You wish and ponder and desire, but what does it get you?” He didn’t wait for a response. “The whole situation is. Period. It is now, and here. Tomorrow dawns a new now and here. It unfolds. You’re a part of the unfolding.”
“Forget the Nature Channel. You’d best land a gig on spiritual TV.”
“I’d shine.”
“Sundays with Bo. Come have your butt enlightened.”
We both laughed. But he’d found solace in the Bo Dickerson universal philosophy, and I envied it. I looked ahead, and did dream, and did yearn—when I didn’t reminisce on the past. Bo truly let it unfold. Would he be in the Dismal Swamp next year? Five years? The rest of his life? I thought of such things. He didn’t. Let it unfold. A release mechanism I didn’t possess.
Perhaps poking at his philosophy or perhaps to seek help, I asked, “What about the killing? And I don’t mean causes or reasons. Distill it down to the taking of another’s life. You sanguine about that?”
“We’re animals. Look around.” He lifted his chin toward the dark swamp around us. “Violence and death. Every moment. The bat chomping an insect. The death throes of stars a billion miles away. It comes, and it goes. We’re not separated from it.”
“Yeah, we are, my friend. We have a conscience. We’re different. Separate.”
Bo placed his plate on the deck, settled back, belched, and tamped down remnants of his pot in the handmade pipe bowl. The lighter flared.
“A man should focus the mind on positive personal narratives,” Bo said. “Love for others. You. Marcus. Angel and Catch. Rae. Allow the consciousness to flow. Segregate the death. The killing. Grind it down so the little pangs of guilt and questioning don’t burr anymore.”
I finished off the wine and slid the bottleneck over a stub on one of the Weber’s cypress legs, then went and stood at the bow. A small bat whipped past my head, twisting, hunting.
“And she’s still around, Case. Your heart, your head.” He spoke of Rae. “Your consciousness. The essence. The love. Still there.”
A deep sigh, a shake of the head. I had nothing to add.
If you had satellite imaging eyesight, and floated far above the Earth, you could have looked down into the miles and miles of Dismal Swamp and focused on the lone illumination, multicolored, and seen two blood brothers in isolation. Together, and with a bond so tight that it, too, glowed.
Chapter 10
Bo’s old pickup started on the first try. The tires were bald, the gas gauge and passenger-side windshield wiper didn’t work, and it smelled of mold and marijuana. I’d make it to Norfolk’s airport with time to spare.
A drizzling, dank dawn had greeted us. Bo piloted the Ace while I’d packed and prepared. Casual attire—jeans and pressed shirts—would suffice for the lion’s share of my Suriname mission. I’d also tossed in jungle wear and military boots. Rain forest would be the order of the day if I ventured out of the capital, Paramaribo. Everything fit in my travel rucksack. I sojourn light.
“Every other day, Bo. Tomatoes need water.”
He guided the Ace toward the Dismal Canal. A short run down the canal, then a footpath on the east side that led to Highway 17 and Bo’s abandoned house, barn, and pickup.
“Roger that,” Bo replied as he focused on avoiding his swamp trip wires. He handled the Ace well as we zigzagged through cypress stumps and hummocks of land. “And I’ll toss in a side note.”
“Fine.”
“Regarding your little foray to another foreign shithole.”
“Yes?” Another admonition—locked, loaded, soon-to-be fired.
“There are other, less treacherous occupations. In case you didn’t know.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Ways that don’t include getting your ass shot at.”
I poured another cup of coffee and topped off his mug. Bo made a sharp left, and water cascaded off the foredeck tarp. We moved through a liquid environment—swamp, rain, dripping trees, water-slick decks on the Ace.
&n
bsp; “It’s good money.”
He grunted, having spoken his piece. There was no further discussion on that topic. We sipped coffee and emerged from the narrow swamp channels and into the Dismal Canal. No other boat traffic appeared.
“What did the Clubhouse have to say?” Bo asked. All US operators knew of the Clubhouse. He had concerns about my trip, and I appreciated it. But the die had been cast, and I was headed for South America. Twenty minutes to the drop-off point as the Ace rumbled its diesel growl.
“Something about the whole mess down there being bigger than economics. Cryptic, as usual.”
“You want company?”
“No, thanks. But I appreciate the offer.”
“You set on weaponry?”
“When I get there.”
“You’ll buy a pistol. Tuck it away. Mr. Incognito.”
“Yep.”
“Uncle Bo strongly recommends additional protection.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“Get a fully automatic weapon. Just in case.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Waves of lead, my brother. Waves of lead.”
“I’ll think about it.”
The Ace edged against the east bank of the canal, and a little-used path showed through the trees and brush. I scrambled off the bow and onto dry land. Bo tossed me the travel rucksack.
“Your truck have gas?” I asked.
“Maybe.”
“That’s heartening.”
The drizzle shifted into a steady light rain. A semi ground along Highway 17 several hundred yards away as I pulled the hood of my rain jacket over my head. Bo stood and stared, showed a wry smile and a touch of loneliness.
“Watch your ass. And other pertinent parts.”
“See you in a few days, Bo. Take care of the Ace.”
“Take care of Case Lee. Go with God.”
I halted my first step on the path, turned, cast a quizzical look toward my friend. Mister Universal Power hadn’t named a deity before in all the years I’d known him. He smiled, shrugged, and added, “Well, somebody had to say it.” Bo turned and entered the wheelhouse. I headed up the trail.
***
The last leg of the Paramaribo flight landed at midnight. Tropical heat hit hard and fetid when the airliner opened its doors on the tarmac of Suriname’s lone airport. Conditions didn’t improve in the open-air terminal. One tired and desultory customs agent stamped the handful of travelers’ passports. Mine read John Eliot Bolen.
“Reason for your visit?” the agent asked.
“Tourist.”
He lifted tired, watery eyes, and we shared stares of acknowledged bullshit. He popped the stamp in my passport and signaled the next traveler.
I woke the driver of the nearest taxi and checked into Paramaribo’s sole decent hotel after traveling quiet streets, lights few and far between. The hotel’s native wood interior, dark and polished, smelled of linseed oil. The bar—open and empty. The bartender listened through earbuds to iPod music.
It was too late to visit the underground arms dealer and acquire personal protection of the semiautomatic variety. And too early for sleep given the catnaps on the flights. The blues came easy in these situations. Alone, in a strange country, and the lone patron at the lone hotel bar. The ice cubes clinked when I downed the last of the vodka and nodded at the bartender for another.
Bo, nestled in the Dismal, wrapped with personal surety of his place in the world. Mom and CC asleep; Tinker Juarez at CC’s feet, protecting his pack. Marcus tucked away below the Absaroka and Beartooth mountain ranges in Nowhere, Montana, coyotes yipping. Catch and his girlfriend cozied on a couch, the Pacific Northwest rainy season underway. Angel somewhere down here in South America. Maybe. But likely to have found stability, happiness.
Then there was ol’ Case, plopped in an obscure bar wrapped in the smell of wood polish and revolution—errand boy for the gnomes of Zurich. I refused settlement of too much of the blues and twisted my head around the reality of here and now. A man can take a certain amount of succor knowing the immediate future played to his strengths. I was good at this stuff and took pleasure working the puzzle. Alone, insular—which ratcheted the alert factor up a notch or two, and helped nudge the blues offstage.
The click of high heels alerted me to her entrance. She’d made a solid attempt at “been awake the whole time,” but telltale puffiness under her eyes told of a hurried preparation after the hotel staff woke her during my check-in. I clocked in at work, game on.
Chapter 11
Heels, long slit skirt, with a taut leg exposed at each step. A silk blouse with two too many buttons undone. Tawny hair cascaded and framed a Slavic high-cheekbone face. A looker, big-time. But not a prostitute. The countenance, the well-practiced smile, the shaded eyes—all pointed to another type of pro.
A pleasant nod my way, and she eased onto a seat, left an empty barstool between us. “Hi,” she said. “I’m glad someone else is up late.”
Her voice held no accent, Indiana flat. Her movements and demeanor confirmed the professional status. A Russian. They trained their people to sound like a newscaster, with no inflections. I saluted with a raised glass, remained silent, and returned a tight-lipped smile. She addressed the bartender, ordered a Scotch and soda, and swiveled toward me with a smile that offered vast promise.
“You must have just arrived. Quite a pleasant surprise, I must say,” she said.
“How so?”
“You’re a cut above the usual mining engineer that visits Paramaribo.” Her eyes crinkled with good-natured humor and a light challenge.
I was to approach her, cross the empty barstool divide, show male intent and interest. Then reveal anything she wanted. At least, that was her plan. Classic tradecraft. And I damn near complied. Elegant and charming, well versed in male ego massage, her appeal grew by the second, but I remained planted. She’d have to come to me.
Delta had trained us well in the tradecraft of spies. Crank up the senses, spot nuance and subtlety—the mark of a pro. They’d also trained us not to screw around and play their game. Under the professional spy’s rules of engagement, they had the upper hand. Every time. We’d been trained to eliminate their advantage and recalibrate the relationship.
“Wouldn’t you prefer vodka?” I asked.
The hesitation in her movement as she lifted the Scotch and soda lasted milliseconds, long enough for confirmation. She knew it, too, and as her facade tumbled, she delivered a sardonic smile toward the polished bar top. With a slight shake of her head, still smiling, she returned the glass and pulled a cigarette from her purse. She waited, poised. I stayed still, and the bartender lit it for her.
“I’ll have what he’s having,” she told the bartender and pushed the Scotch away. Her liquid slide over to the empty stool between us allowed ample viewing pleasure.
“Sorry to get you up,” I said.
“Why, my gracious,” she said with an exaggerated syrupy Southern accent. She leaned over, exposed more décolletage. “Arising for a fine-looking gentleman such as yourself is hardly a burden.”
We both laughed, pro to pro. She straightened back up, took a sip of her just-arrived vodka, and said, “Nika.”
“John. John Bolen.”
We tapped glasses. A formal recognition and shot fired at the starting line for the ensuing conversation. After a tight sip, I placed my glass well beyond Nika’s reach. The bartender donned earbuds, hummed along with an unknown song.
She’d know of Hines, the Suriname CIA station chief, and would eliminate me as another spook, recently arrived. Had I been CIA, the embassy would house me, provide cover. It left several options for her consideration—arms dealer, corporate spy, hit man.
“You have a keen eye, John. Now allow me to suggest you’re not here on commercial or diplomatic business.”
The unspoken acknowledgement of her as Russian intelligence licensed her to dig around John Bolen. Tit for tat and fair enough. I’d present a half-trut
h picture, watch my p’s and q’s, and gather what I could. Focus on my mission. She’d misdirect, twist, and seek advantage. The clandestine game. And she would be dangerous. Jules’s warning at the Clubhouse flared.
I laid a truth card. “Checking things out. Simple gig. Independent contractor for an NGO.”
Global Resolutions was a nongovernmental organization. And I was an independent contractor.
“How about you?” I asked. “SVR? GRU?”
A stomp on my side of the teeter-totter. Keep things off-balance, in the operational realm. My turf.
Russia didn’t have a Suriname consulate, much less a full-fledged embassy. Her appearance here wasn’t happenstance. Either SVR—the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service—or GRU—the Foreign Military Intelligence branch of the Russian armed forces.
She ignored my question and took a sip of her drink. Long, polished fingernails tapped the side of the glass when she set it down.
“Independent contractor. I see. Somewhat vulturelike, isn’t it?” she asked.
“How’s that?”
“Lurking while this unfortunate place is in the throes of a civil war.”
“Civil war, coup of the month, or something else?”
“I wish I knew.”
She throttled up her tradecraft. A long-nailed hand scratched my upper-arm shirt material, catlike. The sound of nails on pressed cotton accompanied her visual assessment of me, feet to face. Her eyes crinkled again, nostrils flaring. Man, she was good. The allure and sensuality of Nika’s every move lapped at my personal barriers. The two of us, alone in a strange, small South American country, offered ample opportunity to toss aside purpose and indulge in brief, dangerous pleasure.
I took her hand off my arm, squeezed with appreciation, and placed it back on the bar top.
“My client wants information on the situation here. Any personal insights?”
Not my best moment, but at least our interaction returned to terra firma.