by Bell, D. R.
“Maggie! Maggie!” David shook her up. “You were screaming. What happened?”
“Nothing. Just a bad dream.”
But she knew what happened. Today was two days since Alejandro said that David would have to leave. She watched Alejandro looking at David then, and cold fear gripped her insides.
David turned away and pretended to go back to sleep. She gazed into the milky semi-darkness flowing from the opaque window.
After they got up, David went downstairs and had Cumba make him a cup of coffee. He was sipping the hot liquid when Oleg came into the kitchen:
“Anything from Brobak?”
“No.”
Oleg started making breakfast, he didn’t trust the robot. David went back to the room. He found Maggie in front of the bathroom’s dresser, staring into the mirror, hands in her lap.
“Mag, do you want coffee? Breakfast?”
She shook her head, lips pursed together. He stood behind her, placed his hands on her shoulders:
“Should I ask Alejandro to take us for a drive? I am going stir crazy.”
Maggie didn’t answer, just kept staring in the mirror with narrowed, angry eyes. They stayed like this for a few minutes, then Maggie said:
“OK, I have to go now.”
David lifted his hands and took a step back. Maggie stood up. The mirror reflected a pretty woman in a green shirt with two top buttons opened and a short black skirt.
“Where …” started David and stopped.
Maggie walked out without looking back.
Maggie found Alejandro in the office, going over some numbers on the projection screen.
“Alejandro, I’ve been cooped up here long enough. I want to go for a drive.”
“Fine, get Oleg and David and I’ll call the driver,” without taking his eyes off the screen.
“No, just you and me.”
Alejandro stopped what he was doing, stared straight ahead for a minute, then looked at her appraisingly, from her serious face down to low-heeled shoes:
“OK. Please put on the wide-brimmed hat and the sunglasses you used on previous excursions.”
After she left, David remained in front of the dresser. Something was out of place, something that eyes observed but the brain didn’t process. Then in came to him. The promise ring. She wore it on the chain around her neck. Her blouse was open, the ring not there. David opened the right drawer, then the left one. He saw the chain first, delicate silver chain they bought in Bucerias. David lifted the chain, let the ring swing in front of him. An old song came to mind, about us making promises but keeping only the easiest.
David went back to the bedroom, got out his traveling suitcase and began to pack.
Alejandro took a regular, not self-driving car.
“Where do you want to go?” he asked while pulling out of the garage.
“Balboa Park.”
Alejandro did a double-take:
“That place? From the April of two years ago?”
“Yes, that place.”
They drove in silence, in awe of what took place that April day and in tension of what may happen today. Alejandro navigated the car west on Santa Monica Freeway, north on San Diego Freeway, west on Victory Blvd, finally pulling into a distant parking lot. A few cars were there already.
Still wordless, they walked to a large tree. The table and two benches there were occupied by a picnicking family that looked at them without interest.
“That’s where the kidnappers took me to meet David,” stated Maggie.
“Yes, that’s the spot,” confirmed Alejandro.
“They were going to kill us when David and I started walking away.” Alejandro remained silent so she continued: “And you and Oleg killed them.”
“We shot three of them, two others ran away,” corrected her Alejandro.
“Show me where you were hiding.”
Alejandro took her hand and led her up the wooded hill. They walked for about four hundred yards when Alejandro stopped, looked around, circled back about a hundred feet and crouched in a secluded spot.
“Yes, Oleg and I were here. Look, you can see the bench without obstructions.”
“Do I have to keep my hat on?”
“No, we are under tree cover.”
Maggie took off her hat, crouched next to him. Small figures of the picnicking family were in clear view. She heard Alejandro moving. His hands grabbed her waist, first cautiously, then demandingly moved up to her breasts. His whisper in her ear, his beard tickling her neck: “I wanted you when I first saw you two years ago through my rifle scope.”
“Is that why your family in Mexico was protecting us? Because you insisted?”
“Yes,” his chest heaving against her back, breaths ragged, hands opening her blouse, unlocking the clip of her bra, fondling her breasts. Then forcefully turning her, pushing her down on the ground. Hands now rushing to pull up the skirt, remove the panties. His face was red, lips engorged with blood.
Alejandro stopped and waited for Maggie but she remained motionless, arms at her sides. He unzipped himself and entered her, sun directly behind him, his silhouette etched against the blue of the shy, the green of the trees, the gold of the sun. Alejandro’s pace was first slow, then quickened. He grabbed her buttocks, raising her against his thrusts and she involuntarily responded, quick breaths, lips open, her hands gripping his back, pushing him in, deeper, deeper. Alejandro half-moaned, half-exhaled and she cried out as he came inside of her.
Alejandro collapsed on top of Maggie, breathing heavily. His weight felt good; he was still inside of her. As his breath returns to normal, he rolled on his back next to her. They both looked up at the sun, the sky, the trees.
“Leave him. He is weak, he can’t protect you. I will.”
Maggie raises herself on one elbow, turning to Alejandro:
“Alejandro, you can have me as long as we are in your house. But leave him alone. You can’t talk to him about this.”
He looks at her for a long while, then comprehension creeps in and anger distorts his handsome face. Alejandro sits up sharply, pushes her down, his hand on her breast, but now it’s there to keep Maggie on the ground.
“Is that why you did this? So I continue taking care of you? That’s all it is?”
Maggie puts her hand into his chest, her lower lip quivers:
“No, Alejandro, that’s not all. You are beautiful, I dreamt of you in my sleep. I wanted you. But I can never leave or hurt him.”
She could not say David’s name out loud.
Alejandro’s face softened, his fingers on her breast started a gentle caressing dance.
“But why?”
“Alejandro, do you know why I brought you here, to this spot?”
“Because I saved you here two years ago?”
“Yes, you did. And so did he.”
“But he couldn’t defend you! You both would have died here if not for Oleg and me! And if not here, Petr would have killed you if we didn’t get there in time.”
“It’s all true, Alejandro. You have saved my life many times,” Maggie pulled Alejandro’s head down and kissed him hard. “If not for him, I would have gone with you anywhere you ask.”
“But why, why?” Alejandro loomed over her, eyebrows raised in puzzlement.
“Alejandro, you were here with a rifle. He was down there, on the bench, empty-handed, facing people with guns.”
“So? I don’t understand!”
“My brave boy, you were ready to kill for me. You still are. He came ready to die for me. No, I can never leave him. If he goes, so will I.”
“Maggie, you need someone stronger than him.” Alejandro’s voice was softer now.
“That’s what I thought too,” smiled Maggie, “but Fate gave me him. You will have other women, Alejandro. He will only have me, I know that. Please, don’t be angry. Enjoy me.”
Alejandro sat next to her, arms folded across his chest, lips pressed together. She studied him out of the corner of her eye.
Alejandro did not seem angry. Perhaps he accepted the situation or perhaps he decided to bide his time. Either way, she and David were probably safe for now.
When they returned, Oleg and David were in the kitchen, drinking coffee and watching Cumba patter around.
Maggie went up into the bedroom without saying anything. She saw David’s suitcase in the corner, opened it.
When David came up, Maggie was sitting on the bed. She changed into a white T-shirt and jeans. The promise ring gently rested on her chest. David’s suitcase was on the bed, open and empty. David slowly kneeled in front of Maggie. She put her arms around his neck, closed her eyes and leaned her head against his.
Farmington, USA
Jim Brobak flipped an old-fashioned pencil between his middle and index fingers, back-and-forth, back-and-forth. It was the Friday after Independence Day. Most of the country had a day off, taking a break, firing up their barbeques. But the FBI resident agency had to be open. Jim did not really have anyone to go to anyway.
David Ferguson and Margarita Sappin were back in the country. The fugitives, even enemies of the state to some. He had to report this to his superiors. The surveillance apparatuses would be focused on finding them, they would not get away this time. He might get transferred back to Dallas, patch things up with Janet.
For five days he’d been agonizing over this. Many times he picked up secure phone to call his superior officer in Albuquerque, just as many times he put it back. The oath he took said to “defend the Constitution against all enemies, foreign and domestic.” Were Ferguson and Sappin enemies of the Constitution? Jim had a hard time drawing this conclusion. Twenty years ago in Iraq, it was easy to tell who the enemies were.
“Mr. Brobak? Mr. Brobak?” a voice brought him back. It was Antonio, one of the agents in the office.
“Yes, Antonio?”
“Mr. Brobak, we were wondering if you want to come to lunch with us.”
Jim’s first impulse was to decline, he usually ate his lunch alone. But in a sense, this was a small olive branch offering: Jim knew that Antonio expected to be promoted to be the resident agent-in-charge when the position opened. Instead, the management sent someone from Dallas, someone who did not want to be here. Most of the office was on Antonio’s side and Jim felt like an intruder. In fairness, he had not done much to make friends.
“Who’s going to stay in the office?”
“Daniel will stay back. Liam and Maria will come with us. We’ll be close, in a Mexican restaurant two blocks away.”
After they got seated, Liam, the youngest agent in the office, excitedly asked:
“Have you seen John Dimon’s speech? Was it awesome or what?”
“Right on!” Antonio pumped his hand. “It was short and strong. I watched it over and over. When he said ‘We will not tolerate more financial attacks! We will not let them steal American jobs!’ I had goosebumps running down my back.”
“And the setting at Gettysburg, with the monument and memorial stones in the background, it was amazing!” agreed Liam.
“Liam, sounds like you like John Dimon; do you?” asked Jim.
“Yes, Mr. Brobak,” nodded the young man. “Everybody in the agency loves him. We need a strong man like him, a patriot, someone who will defend our rights.”
“Someone who believes in America,” nodded Antonio. “Someone who points the finger at the real culprits abroad.”
A call came from Daniel, a request from the local police that stopped a car with suspicious materials.
“Darn, so much for the office lunch,” grumbled Antonio. “Liam and I will take ours to go.”
After the agents left, Brobak turned to Maria, a quiet office administrator in her late sixties.
“Maria, you didn’t say anything. What do you think of John Dimon?”
“Mr. Brobak, I don’t get involved in politics,” answered Maria carefully, her eyes down. Then added “Liam and Antonio, they remind me of my son, Carlos.”
“How’s that?”
“He was young, he wanted to defend freedom, defend his adopted country.”
“Was?” Jim felt unsettled by how Maria said it, all in the past tense.
“He was killed in Fallujah in Iraq, back in November of 2004.”
“I am so sorry,” exhaled Jim. “I was there. In Iraq, not in Fallujah.”
Maria looked at Brobak directly, her eyes full of pain of twenty years.
“Mr. Brobak, if you were there, tell me: what did my son die for? Iraq is now run by people that are worse than Saddam Hussein was. Why did we think that going to war half a world away was the best possible thing to do? Why was choosing war a sign of patriotism? Why did I lose my only child?”
“I am sorry, Maria. I wish I could tell you,” it was Jim’s turn to lower his eyes. “I followed my orders, defended my fellow soldiers, and did what I was supposed to do.”
“I understand. Carlos was telling me that he was defending his country, protecting his kids’ future. He had two little boys. But I look now and I see my grandsons working two jobs to live from paycheck to paycheck. They told us the sacrifice was justified. Not to me. I needed my son and they needed their father,” Maria began to cry quietly.
“I am so sorry, Maria,” Jim was close to tears himself. “I didn’t know.”
“But that’s how it is, Mr. Brobak,” Maria wiped her tears. “That’s how it’s always been. The old men use these big words to send the young men to die. And I watch this John Dimon and I see another man that wants to send others to die. I know enough history; I know about the battle of Gettysburg, I know the Lincoln’s speech. John Dimon, he has no right to use the blood of those that died there, to pretend that he is another Abraham Lincoln. But I am an old woman who’s seen it all. The young people, like Liam and Antonio, they listen, they believe.”
Jim sat quiet, his head bowed down.
“Please don’t tell anyone I said this, Mr. Brobak. I need this job so I can help my daughter-in-law and my grandsons. I know you are a good man; you’re trying to defend us. Most of the people in the government are good people and want to do what’s right. But the ones giving the orders, pulling the strings – I don’t trust them anymore. I think they care about their power, not about us little people. So, Mr. Brobak, no, I don’t like John Dimon.”
After they had returned to the office, Jim went back to flipping his pencil. Did Ferguson and Sappin try to sell the information? Not as far as he knew. Were those trading on inside information prior to the financial crisis protecting the Constitution? Did people deserve to know?
Richmond, Virginia, USA
“I like what you’ve done with your office!” exclaimed Bob Johnson, looking around a bright, sparsely furnished room. A glass wall allowed a panoramic view of the city. The space communicated business, simplicity, elegance: an uncluttered work desk, a side conference table with a speakerphone, a few chairs. Pictures on the wall added a touch of luxury, a seriousness of big money.
“Are these the originals?” Johnson studied a painting of a table with a pitcher and two bowls of fruits.
“Of course! This is Cezanne. On the other wall, Kandinsky,” replied Erik King. “Bob, it’s been a long time since our service in Iraq. This is business. It won’t do for the CEO of FreedomShield to display fakes.”
“Business must be good?”
“Bob, it’s very good! Demand for private security is exploding. All these people in big mansions, all the gated communities, they want real, heavily-armed protection from people that know how to use their guns. Government organizations also supplementing their resources with ours. All this money that we pay to politicians and lobbyists, they come back hundred-fold. You need trained force on demand? We are here and we’ve got it all.”
“I hear we’re expanding internationally?” asked Johnson.
“Carefully. We’re keeping to the Americas. Let other mercenaries dabble in Europe and the Middle East, too easy to lose people or get bad publicity. We’ve been focusing on protec
tion technologies. Do you see anything unusual about this glass?”
Johnson walked over to the full-wall glass, touched it, and looked closely.
“It looks different. Slightly opaque, shimmery...”
“It is different!” laughed King. “It is a special blend of reflective polycrystalline magnesium aluminum oxide with some other magic. I have learned the name because it makes closing sales easier. This glass will stop an air-to-surface missile while also preventing any kind of electronic or sound snooping from the outside. We charge a hell of a lot to install it as a part of a “FS Protection Plus” package and we have an eight months waiting list.”
Johnson leaned into the glass, knocked on it. The glass made a dull sound.
“Will stop a missile?” he asked incredulously.
“Depends on the size, of course. We have a training site fifteen miles out of town. For the customers willing to place a seven-figure order, we do a little demonstration of firing an actual missile at a glass just like this. They are offered to be in the room on the other side. For whatever reason, everybody refuses,” chuckled King.
Secretary’s melodic Southern drawl filled the room:
“Mr. King? Mr. Smith is on the phone.”
“Thank you, honey.” King turned to Johnson. “He could have been more creative with his pseudonym, but with the money he pays us he can call himself whatever he wants.”
He motioned Johnson to the round conference table, sat down and punched a button on the speakerphone.