Blades of Winter

by G T Almasi

  “What made them so good?”

  “They were totally dedicated to the work, and they took the upgrades a lot further than the other Levels. They were all friends who had entered ExOps around the same time, but it got to be this real macho thing. Who was the toughest? Who could be the most shot up and still finish their missions? Who had modified or enhanced the biggest percentage of their body? They all tried to outdo each other to see who could be the first Level 21.”

  When I ask her why they did this, she replies, “I think you can answer that for yourself, Alixandra.”

  She stands up, leaves the room, and returns a moment later with a pack of cigarettes. I’ve never seen her smoke, so I can only stare as she fluidly pops a cigarette out of the pack and lights it. She inhales deeply and lets out a big cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. She looks fantastic with a cigarette in her hand, and I immediately resolve to take up smoking.

  “Alix, after what I saw you do on Friday, I decided to take a good long look at your medical records.” She pauses to take another drag on her cigarette. “I suspected that you’d hidden some things from me, but I had no idea you’d gotten so much work done.”

  “Well, I didn’t think you’d let me, so—”

  “You’re damn right, I wouldn’t have! For Christ’s sake, you’re still a teenager and you’ve had almost 25 percent of your body modified or enhanced!” She’s upset, but I can’t blame her. This is my big lie, and I’m totally snagged.

  “Cleo, I need them for work.”

  “Need! What need? Who says you need to be a Level 6 already? You’re already way ahead of your class, and most field agents don’t make Level 6 until they’ve been in the field for twice as long as you have!” My face must have shown surprise, because she continues, “Yes, I know about your promotion, too, and how Cyrus sold it to Director Chanez.” She carries her ashtray over to my bed and sits down next to me again. “Angel, I’ll never forget that you came for me, and I love you for it, but I’m also furious that you’re turning into your father.”

  “Mom, I’m only—”

  “I’m not angry at you, sweetie.” She takes my hands. “I’m mad at myself.”

  Oh, well, okay. As long as I’m off the hook. “How do you mean I’m turning into Daddy?”

  “Well, let’s go back to why you got all the Mods and Enhances.”

  “I told you, it’s for work. I need them to—”

  She gives me the hand. “There’s another reason, Alix. Think about how you feel before and after you have these upgrades done.”

  I think. “Well, before … I feel kind of normal, and then after, I feel, I don’t know …”

  “Super?”

  Damn, look at the big brain on Mom.

  “Well, yeah …” I think for a few seconds. “Because I can do things I couldn’t do before.”

  “And how long does that feeling last?”

  “It’s not like I forget I had them done.”

  “That’s what you think, not what you feel.” I’m dimly aware that my mom has a background in behavioral something or other. Here I’ve thought I’ve been so sly, hiding things from her. Clearly she’s seen a lot more than I thought.

  “Cleo, look, I don’t know. Like I say, I need them so I can do my work.”

  Silently, she grinds out her cigarette in the ashtray, then stands up and goes into the kitchen. I think she’ll come right back, but she stays in the other room. I switch to infrared and see her leaning against a counter with her arms wrapped around herself. It isn’t until she buries her face in her hands that I realize she’s crying. I switch off the infrared, suddenly feeling like a Peeping Tom.

  Patrick picks this fabulous moment to comm in. “Hey, Alix, got a minute?”

  “Uh, not really. I’m in the middle of some intense time with Mom.”

  “Oh, sorry. I’ll comm you later. This can wait.”

  “Real quick, what is it?”

  “We’ve got a Job Number.”

  I sit up straight, and my pulse shifts into overdrive. “Where? When?”

  “France. As soon as your hand is healed enough for you to travel. We’re going to retrace your father’s last mission and see what we can turn up while Info looks into Carbon. Chanez wants us to start by talking to our House in Paris.”

  “Why don’t we just call him?” I comm.

  “Because the Director wants to keep this job out of CORE. Long-distance comms go through the satellites and are automatically logged. Chanez doesn’t want to leave any kind of data trail to tip the other agencies that we’re going after Big Bertha.”

  “How would competitors’ agencies read our comm logs?”

  “No, our agencies,” Patrick comms. “He’s setting us up with a cover mission. Something we’ll have to physically go to Paris for.”

  What the hell is he talking about? I tilt my head to one side. “Huh?”

  “I’ll tell you later. You get back to your mom.”

  Whatever. “Okay. Later.”

  “Later, ma cherie. Hang in there.”

  TO: Front Desk, German Section, ExOps

  FROM: Office of the Director, ExOps

  DATE: May 5, 1980

  SUBJECT: Job Number 74-17667A

  Cyrus,

  You are requested and required to dispatch an Interceptor/IO team to Paris. Their mission is to destroy the operational capabilities of a cell of the Fuerza Libertad.

  The FL has become the largest faction of the revived Cuban Liberation Movement, and this group in Paris is channeling money to the Cuban terrorists. Make an example of them. We believe that this movement aims to violently derail next year’s twentieth anniversary celebration of Cuba’s statehood. They must not be allowed to gain momentum.

  Your team will rendezvous with our House in Paris, who will provide additional details.

  Good luck,

  Eduardo Chanez, Director

  Cyrus,

  Here’s the real one. Based on the signals intelligence from Hector’s meeting in Manhattan, we’re unofficially reopening the internal investigation into Big Bertha’s capture and alleged termination. I’ve taken to calling it BLOODHOUND.

  This is not going into CORE. I share your sense that one of our sister agencies has a mole. Also, we don’t need to remind our friends in Langley about one of ExOps’ biggest disasters, especially on a long shot like this.

  As we discussed, assign this to Scarlet and Solomon. Philip’s last mission was controlled from Paris, so have them begin their search there. Remember, if the trail is cold, you’re to bring Scarlet and Solomon directly home and we’ll see what Info can discover. Speaking of which, Harbaugh is privy to this mission and will provide remote—and very discreet—support.

  Good luck,

  E.C.

  CHAPTER 10

  FIVE DAYS LATER, SATURDAY, MAY 10, 4:05 P.M. EST LUFTHANSA FLIGHT 617 TO PARIS

  One advantage of being so short is that I’m perfectly comfortable in an economy airplane seat. Trick also fits well since he’s only a couple inches taller than I am. I feel bad for those huge guys who have to fold themselves into a pretzel whenever they fly coach.

  We drink cherry schnapps and play cribbage on the flight from Washington to Paris. The cribbage board sits on my partner’s tray table since he’s the one who deals the cards, keeps score, and pours the schnapps into the cans of Coke we got from the waitresses. I’m a terrible card player, but I make it clear that I won’t play if I lose. When Patrick points out that it’s always my idea to play cribbage, I up the ante and tell him I won’t sleep with him if I lose. This isn’t a very realistic threat. I love him, and he knows it. Fortunately, Trick doesn’t care about winning arguments or card games.

  It was a busy week for each of us. I spent most of my time with the Med-Techs, learning how to use my new hand. At first I kept overdoing everything. I’d move too fast and knock stuff over, or I’d grip something too hard and bust it. I must have broken an entire crate of wineglasses. I got better when I stopped
trying so hard and made myself relax. My synthetic sense of touch will take some getting used to. Everything feels like I’m wearing a thick glove. The Meddies say they can recalibrate my new hand’s sensitivity for me after it’s more firmly settled into my nervous system. They also grudgingly told me that yes, I’ll be able to punch things much harder than before.

  Meanwhile, Patrick stuffed his head with intel to prepare for our trip. He’s got twice the work he normally does, since we’re being sent on two missions at once. After we had our mission brief with Cyrus, I understood what Trick had been trying to tell me. The Fuerza Libertad brief was neatly typed and had been properly entered into CORE. The documents detailed the time frame and the mission goals and parameters and included pictures of our targets and news clippings about their victims. All very official.

  Our brief for the Big Bertha job was the exact opposite. It was entirely verbal: no paperwork, no Job Number, nothing. It was like we took extra-strength sneaky pills.

  My partner and I haven’t had any private time together since I pinched the Hector job. While we waited for our flight, Trick asked me how that evening with my mom went. I told him I had let Cleo cry for a few minutes, and by the time I’d worked up the nerve to go into the kitchen, she’d stopped. She said she was okay in this distant, detached way I hadn’t seen since … well, in a long time. I gave her a little hug and went back to bed. The next day my mother was already at work by the time I woke up, but she’d left me a note.

  Dearest Alixandra, I’m sorry if I seemed upset last night. I’m very proud of you and love you very much. —Mom

  For the rest of the week my schedule was totally different from hers. This prevented us from having time for any more serious talks, but that might have been for the best. We both felt bad about hurting the other’s feelings, and there wasn’t anything else to say, anyway. I kept her note and slipped it in with the rest of my stuff when I packed my bag this morning. I also packed two flasks of 100-proof cherry schnapps.

  Covert agents like us travel with an assortment of guns, ammo, knives, bombs, and other gear. This doesn’t cause a problem at domestic airports, where we flash our ExOps ID cards and blow past the security desk. From then on we use our traveling aliases, which are always civilian identities. If we posed as spies from a competitor’s agency, we’d be much too memorable. On our return flights we evade security with a variety of acrobatic dodges. My favorite is the ol’ ventilator shaft routine.

  Our disregard for airport security also enables us to carry on our own booze. I prefer things like flavored schnapps or brandy. I get Coca-Cola from the air waitresses to use as a mixer and let the good times roll.

  Sooner or later the Barbies figure out that I’ve been drinking in their airplane and get on my case. I’ve learned to break down these busybodies in five stages. Denial: “This girl can’t be drunk, she’s only had sodas.” Anger: “What did she just call me?” Bargaining: “Maybe I can distract her with food.” Depression: “I hate my job.” And, finally, acceptance: “Oh my God, this girl is a nightmare. Just let her do what she wants.”

  Trick moves my cribbage pegs for me since my left hand is holding my cards and my right hand is still kind of uncoordinated. It’s not my shooting hand, thank goodness, but the lack of fine motor control limits my conversational options. We use a lot of sign language on our missions, and except for simple phrases I need both hands. Patrick invented a system that combines American Sign Language with the tactical hand signals we use in the field. Over time we’ve embellished his system with so many shortcuts and in-jokes that it’s become its own dialect. We showed it to one of the language experts at headquarters, and she couldn’t tell what the hell we were signing to each other. We’ve been taught that it’s safe to have quiet conversations on airplanes since there’s so much ambient sound, but sometimes we switch to our Patrick Sign Language anyway, just in case.

  While Trick and I drink and play cards, we review what the Information Department has learned about the clowns who kidnapped my mom. Even though we didn’t harvest any live intel from our recovery mission in Quantico, Info has unearthed some clues by sifting through the bodies and rubble. It doesn’t seem to be any of the usual suspects, meaning the German, Chinese, and Russian covert agencies. Although Info accepts Cleo’s assessment that her abductors were Russkies, they don’t think the kidnappers were acting on behalf of Mother Russia.

  But Info is certain about one thing: I was the intended target. Although Cleo’s inside knowledge of ExOps would be of moderate value to the competition, it’s nothing compared with what they’d gain from snatching me. Also, people like Mom are considered civilians and they’re generally left alone, especially since the embargo. Our diplomats work hard enough to maintain the peace. They can’t have us running around putting the glom on our rivals’ unarmed employees. Besides, most of these regular staffers are affiliated with prominent businessmen and government officials who become mucho furioso when international incidents happen to their friends and relatives.

  While Trick shuffles the deck he whispers, “And if those kidnappers were our usual competitors, rescuing your mother wouldn’t have been so easy.”

  “Easy?” I blurt. Trick’s eyes look from side to side. I’m blurting too loudly. I switch to one-handed sign language and sign, “What do you mean easy? Five of our guys were wounded.”

  He mumbles, “That’s because you were going so fast—”

  I let out a low growl.

  Trick continues, “—but we didn’t pick up a single outside communication to the kidnappers at any point during that op. Which might’ve been because you were going so fast.” He winks at me as he deals the cards.

  I smile over my drink and ask, “So you think their handlers abandoned them?”

  “Definitely. That operation was a clusterfuck right from the start. I mean, you and your mother do look alike, but c’mon. You don’t snatch a Level without a major fight. Then to get cornered that way down in Quantico? Normally a snatch team gets their target out of the area as fast as possible.”

  I pick up my cards and begin to arrange them by suit. “How about the bomb?”

  Patrick shakes his head and comms from behind his cards. “I don’t know what to think about that. Your father’s reappearance makes so many things possible. My boss suspects that the kidnappers’ main objective was to acquire intel about your father, first by searching your house and then by abducting you. Maybe they thought your dad stashed something down in his shop, and if they couldn’t find it, they were told to destroy it.” He lays down a two. “Or maybe they thought he left information with you.”

  “That can’t be it. I don’t know squat.” I put a four on Trick’s two to make six.

  “They didn’t know that, Alix.” Patrick drops a nine and makes fifteen for two points. He moves his peg up two holes and comms, “Besides, you may have picked up more than you think. You’ve told me that you used to have long conversations with your father after he got home from his jobs.”

  “ ‘Conversations’ isn’t quite right. It was more like Dad flushed his stories onto the floor and I’d sit there and listen.” I lay down a ten for twenty-five.

  “Well, there you go.” Patrick discards a six to make thirty-one and moves his peg up another two holes.

  I grumble at him, but he doesn’t notice. I comm, “Yeah, but he never told me where, or who, or any of that stuff.”

  “He did tell you what, though, didn’t he?”

  “You mean like how many people he stuffed in a van before he drove it into a river? That could have happened anywhere!”

  “Alix, the fact is it happened somewhere. From what you just told me, I’d be able to find out exactly which operation that was.”

  Meanwhile, I’m not concentrating on our cribbage game and Patrick is clobbering me. He makes points off every card I put down, and then he cleans up with a run of three and two fifteens, all in the same suit. His peg races up the cribbage board and leaves mine in the dust. I grumb
le louder, but he still doesn’t notice. I better see some boneheaded moves from him right quick or he sleeps on the floor tonight.

  Maybe Dad did tell me more than he should have, but his adventures were so awesome that I never said no. Children, however, aren’t exactly great at informational security. I couldn’t resist bringing my father’s anecdotes to school. None of my classmates could match my stories.

  Their dad: “I went to the office today and leaned on the watercooler.”

  My dad: “I kicked a guy’s ass so hard that the next time he took a dump, it came out shaped like my shoe.” When my father told me that one, I laughed so much that I got hiccups. Dad held me upside down by my ankles and had me drink a big glass of water to make them go away.

  While I think about my father, Trick starts a new hand and lays down a completely exposed five. He makes this lousy play with no change of expression. I slap down a jack to make fifteen and earn two quick points for myself. He follows with a six—the worst possible card he could drop. I pounce with a king for thirty-one and two more points. He groans like he didn’t see it, how could he have been so stupid, and so on. God, I love this person. He’s wonderful.

  I ask, “Who’s our Greeter in Paris?”

  “The House himself, Jacques. He’ll pick us up at the airport.”

  “Does he know that the Fuerza Libertad mission is a cover job?”

  Trick sips his drink. “Not yet. We’ll tell him about our primary mission after we get to his safe house.” He puts his glass back on the tray. “I’ll be interested to see if Jacques’s memories of Big Bertha match what I’ve read in his dispatches.”