by G T Almasi
Now that this mission is almost done, I just want to go home and see Cleo. I miss the way she smiles when she smooths my hair away from my face. I catch myself daydreaming about what I’ll look like when I’m her age. I wipe my face on my sleeve and shake my head to clear my mind. C’mon, Scarlet, focus!
I keep watch by a window with a good view of the road. Except for that strip of dust-covered concrete, all I see is the bright blue dome of the sky covering a whole lot of nothing. It’s like being in a giant sand-filled frying pan that stretches to forever in all directions. I haven’t seen any vehicles drive by, but I still have to be wary. Even though Winter ordered his people to back off, some of them might take it upon themselves to keep looking for their boss.
Winter’s heart attack was only his reaction to the excessive quantity of stimulation. Being kidnapped, beaten up, and then scared shitless by a big dose of Scarlet’s wild driving techniques was too much for him. His face is still pale, but he’s lost that crazed I’m-about-to-die look. I’ve got him tied to a bench. He’s stared at me since I put him there. His rumpled, no-longer-white shirt is dark with sweat stains. His hair, although still gelled in place, is salted with sand and flaked with bits of debris from all the shit I ran the dune buggy through.
He’s about to say something, but then he thinks better of it. His eyes reveal some bitterness, but it’s mixed with something else. He’s checking me out, but his gaze lacks the urgency of plain old horniness. It’s more like how my martial arts coach used to look at the really talented kids in his class.
Neither of us speaks for a few minutes while I keep an eye on the road. Finally I say over my shoulder, “Cat got your tongue, Imad?”
“I find myself wishing your abilities were not so misguided,” he says.
“I could say the same about you, bub.”
“My destiny is clear, little one.”
“Destiny, my ass.” I turn from the window and growl, “What is your ‘destiny,’ anyway?”
“To remove se oppressive foreign regimes sat have enslaved my people.”
“So you can replace them with your own oppressive regime?” Finally, something to do with all the history I choked down at school.
Winter studies me for a moment and asks, “What makes you so certain sat would happen?”
“Because your people have always been ruled by power-crazed nut jobs.”
He grins. “We have sat in common.”
“We’ve only got one thing in common, jackass.” I stride across the room. “How did you capture my father?”
“Go to se Devil,” he replies.
Big mistake.
My foot crashes into his groin like a wrecking ball. These German Youth boots are terrific for this. Winter cries out, tips over on the bench, and wheezes for breath. I pull out Li’l Bertha and press her barrel down on his right knee. “This crazy demon bitch asked you a question, motherfucker!”
He clenches his teeth while he sputters, “All right, all right. By Allah …”
I stand back. He stays on his side, groaning in pain. I nailed him good. Guys are total suckers for that move—one of the many reasons women make better spies.
Winter catches his breath. “As you and Extreme Operations have no doubt discovered, I needed technology from Carbon for my Darius Covenant.”
“Darwin,” I comm, “you can hear this, right?”
“Affirmative, Scarlet,” he comms.
I say to Winter, “Yeah, we figured that out. To generate your anaerobic bacteria faster.”
Winter raises one eyebrow. He didn’t know we’d uncovered that part. “Impressive,” he says quietly. He gingerly sits up straight. “My transactions with German intelligence brought me special privileges, but it was not enough to get me se clearance I needed. My contacts refused to even discuss Carbon with me. Then your father created se opportunity I had been looking for.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “How’d he do that?”
“His actions during se oil embargo, specifically in Berlin, enraged se Reich. Sey promised anything to se person who could deliver se Beast of Berlin alive.” Winter leans back against the wall. He winces as little cartoon stars and planets orbit his groin. “Price was no object. Se bounty was enormous, but it was not money I wanted. I brought a proposition to my contact in se Abwehr. It was accepted, and I began looking for a way to acquire ExOps’ star Level.
“Your father was an excellent field agent—intelligent, fast, and capable under pressure. I observed him for years, as did many other people. Philip Nico was se target of many abduction attempts. All of sem failed, with dramatically fatal results. Clearly, to pursue Big Bertha was to sign one’s own death warrant. I decided to turn se game around. I would make him come after me. I felt it would be unexpected, even for him, to be lured in sis way.”
Christ. I was eight years old at the end of the embargo. When my dad got captured, I was twelve. All those years, while Dad and I were going to Dairy Queen, this lunatic was planning the end of my father’s life.
Winter stares at my face. I’m sporting a ferocious scowl. I unfold my arms and plant my hands on my hips. The muscles in my throat are so tight that it makes my voice hoarse.
“Keep talking, bucko,” I grate. It’s difficult to listen to this story, but I know how it turns out.
Winter tries to wipe his face on his upper arm, but I’ve tied him too tightly. Sweat runs through his beard and down his neck. “Soon after I made sis decision, I was contacted by an American intelligence officer. He presented me with exactly se situation I had imagined. He sent Big Bertha after me and provided what I needed to capture him in perfect condition.”
My God, it was Fredericks’s idea.
I comm, “Cyrus, you there?”
“Yes,” Cyrus’s comm voice says. “I’m here.”
“Did you hear that?”
“I did. See if you can get him to name the American officer.”
“But we know it was—”
Cyrus interrupts me. “The Justice Department needs Winter to say it, Scarlet. Ask him who it was.”
I rest my hand on the hilt of my knife, making sure Winter can see it, and demand, “Who was the officer?”
Winter licks perspiration off his lip. “He worked through his agents. I never knew his name.”
Of course this son of a bitch isn’t gonna make it easy.
“Yes, you do, and you know what?” I snarl. “So do I.”
Winter narrows his eyes and sits very still.
“Lemme tell ya about that pal of yours, Winty. He’s so far up the food chain that he reports directly to the Executive Intelligence Chairman. When we found out about your goddamn petron bombs, the chairman turned to this man to plan our response.” I wave my hand over my head the way Jacques does when he tells a story. “You remember that giant-ass cruise missile? That was your pal’s idea! In fact, you were supposed to be under that sucker when it cratered your lab.” I lean in close and hiss, “That was his idea, too.”
Winter’s nostrils flare, and his eyebrows crawl toward his eyes like a pair of angry spiders.
I step back. “What was not his idea was pulling you out of there.” I poke my chest and shake my head. “He doesn’t know I’m here.”
Winter’s eyebrows press closer to his eyes. His grinding teeth radiate sharp screeching sounds.
“When was the last time you talked to him, Winter-green?”
Our ongoing surveillance of Fredericks’s comm calls tells us it was probably—
“Yesterday?” I yell. “No wonder he knew exactly when to bomb your mad scientist’s lair. Man, with friends like that, who needs—”
“All right!” Winter shouts. He’s really sweating hard now, and his face has turned pale again.
I comm, “Darwin, where’s that damn chopper? Winter looks like he’s having another coronary.”
“Lovebird’s on the way, Scarlet. ETA in three minutes. Keep going. You’re doing great.”
I tilt my head to one side
and hold Winter’s glare. “Well?” I say.
“I will tell your superiors.”
I slap his face. “He’s my father. You’ll tell me, shit-bird!”
Winter’s responds, “First I want immunity from se U.S. and Greater Germany.”
That’s it. “How about immunity from getting your fucking balls hacked off?” I unsheathe my fighting knife and step between his knees. I slash the front of his pants open and shove his yucky, uncircumcised penis out of the way. Then I press the edge of my knife against his hairy scrotum.
In the movies, the hero would give the villain one last chance before castrating him. Actually, in the movies the hero probably wouldn’t be castrating the villain at all, but either way, this is not the goddamn movies. I immediately begin sawing off Winter’s love spuds.
He screams, “Ahh! It was Fredericks! Stop! Oh, God! It was Jakob Fredericks!”
“Scarlet, stop!” It’s Darwin. “We got it!”
Cyrus comms, “Scarlet, if you terminate that asset, I’ll kick you straight into hell.”
I let go of Winter’s man jigglies. My hand is covered in blood. “Darwin,” I comm, “you’d better tell Lovebird to step on it.”
TO: Administration Supervisor Albright, Extreme
Operations Division
FROM: Office of the Front Desk, Extreme Operations
Division
SUBJECT: Paternity Leave for Special Agent Philip Nico
(L8)
Madeleine,
Please be advised that Agent Nico will start his three-week paternity leave effective today. Philip’s wife Cleo gave birth to their daughter, Alixandra Janina Nico, early this morning. The mother and baby are both doing well.
Between the two of us, I think this will be a good break for Philip. He’d never admit it, but his excellent work in Southeast Asia has taken a toll on him. I will assign Senior Analyst Fredericks to cover his Information meetings until Philip returns at the end of the month.
Sincerely,
William Colby
CHAPTER 40
NEXT DAY, MONDAY, OCTOBER 6, 2:30 P.M. EST AMERICAN AIRLINES FLIGHT 671 TO WASHINGTON D.C.
Air travel makes me drink too much. Maybe it’s the tedium of it. Jet-setting used to be fun, but now I do it so often that it’s a drag. I’m tempted to pass the time by wrestling with the waitresses. I’ll bet they’re a lot tougher than they look.
Winter sits next to me, by the window. He’s taking a chemically induced twelve-hour power nap. I wanted to stick him in pressurized cargo, but the Protectors talked me out of it. Cyrus sent a quartet of bodyguards to accompany me and my big fish back to the States. Two sit in front of me and Winter, and two sit behind.
My hand clings to a glass of schnapps and soda as I watch the clouds drift past the little windows. I’m technically still on duty, so drinking alcohol isn’t exactly kosher, but to hell with it. My mission is completed. I could chat up the Protectors, but they’re only Level 3s, and I don’t feel like regaling them with war stories. Besides, I’m enjoying the fact that I’m actually conscious for this return trip.
I’ll finally meet Patrick’s replacement when he picks me up at the airport. I’m glad Cyrus had him work from Washington. He did great, but this snatch job was so frantic that there was no way a partner could have kept up. Besides, I wasn’t ready to meet him yet.
I once asked my dad how he dealt with his friends getting killed. After a long pause he said, “I make more friends.” I can’t make another Trick, though. I loved him as much as I’ve loved anyone except maybe my father. Mom, too, especially lately. Now that she’s seen how good I am at my job, I think it’s easier for her to accept it. She’ll be waiting for me at the ExOps hotel. I’m hoping we can buy another house. We’re sort of falling over each other in our little apartment.
I flag down a waitress and ask her how long until we land. She curtly tells me, “About fifty minutes,” and then stalks away. What is it with stewardesses? I mean, I try to be friendly. When I told this woman to take all my empty soda cans away, I offered to show her my scars, but that made her even grouchier.
My relationship with this particular stewardess went down the tubes when she tried to confiscate my flasks of schnapps. Technically I am underage, I guess. But I figure this big-ass handgun strapped to me has got to be worth a few years. Plus, these gals work for American Airlines. They’re used to ferrying Levels around. Who are they to tell me I can’t have a little drink? Damn aero-fascists.
I swig some of my schnapps and review everything that went down yesterday. Lovebird finally got his chopper repaired and flew it to my abandoned bunker. When he got there, he gave me a hard time about my captive’s physical state. I laughed in his face and launched into a meticulously detailed description of the gruesome expirations of my previous captured assets. What happened to Winter was nothing. I didn’t even cut his hoo-hahs off. He’s breathing, and all his body parts are still connected.
Lovebird stopped lecturing me and patched up Winter’s paltry fourteen gashes and lacerations. Then we flew to a small airfield. Winter and I boarded a small plane with fake flight manifests and innocently reentered the grid at Riyadh’s big airport.
While I waited for the flight, I commed with Cyrus about all the crazy shit Winter told me and my trusty commphone. The stuff about Fredericks was incredible. He really can track a Level’s No-Jack module through his commphone. During the Blades job, that bastard forwarded my dad’s every move to Kazim Nazari.
Even so, Winter took his time luring my father. Fredericks was impatient, but Winter remained cautious. Winter knew so much about what my father was doing that he thought it might be a setup to snare him instead. He also knew Big Bertha would be suspicious if it was too easy to infiltrate the inner ranks of the Blades of Persia.
Winter was eventually convinced that this really was the opportunity Fredericks said it was. Kazim brought my father to Winter’s secret residence in Baghdad. There he incapacitated the mighty Level 20 Liberator with a refreshing cocktail of whiskey and neurotoxins. The powerful poison, formulated at White Stone Research Institute, was intended for horses. According to Winter, it barely worked. My father trashed an entire floor of the house before he went down. Then Kazim brought Dad to the Abwehr office in Baghdad.
I asked Cyrus what we were doing to find my father. He said that would be impossible right now since our relationship with Germany has fallen off a cliff. Apparently some crazy American covert agent trashed the Chemistry Institute at Zurich University, used the German Youth program as cover, and then carved a swath of destruction through Riyadh.
She’s also indirectly responsible for a dreadful amount of collateral damage. My German Youth group leader insisted on searching White Stone for me instead of stranding me as we expected. When the cruise missile hit, he and his fifty kids were instantly catapulted to the big jamboree in the sky.
The news of this event was uncontainable. The German public is mad as hell, and they’ve told the chancellor that they’re not going to take it anymore. All across Europe the normally factious Josef Sechs-Packs have fused into a unified, raging mob. The crap Dad pulled in ’68 landed him on the Reich’s ten most wanted list, and this is over fifty times worse.
Our diplomatic relationship with Greater Germany is chronically uneasy, even in the best of times. What we have most in common is that neither of us has anything in common with Russia or China. If the alliance between Germany and the United States were breached, both states would be vulnerable to an attack by the combination of the other two superpowers. The reverse is also true. If we could somehow isolate Russia from China, the Germans and us Americans could knock them off one at a time. Then we’d go after each other.
There’s plenty of conflict within these alliances, but it’s mostly a war of sneaky shits trying to outsmart other sneaky shits. Ironically, Extreme Operations frequently tries to outsmart the covert agencies of our ally, Greater Germany. When this gets too hot, like now, we have to back off for a wh
ile.
Cyrus tried to make me feel better and reminded me that we know Dad’s alive. The Info people are hatching a rescue plan with our intel from Zurich and the data doozies Winter has coughed up about Carbon.
We already knew about the initial generation of cloning research, or Gen-1. That resulted in the first human clone and knocked the scientific community on its collective ass. The next round, Gen-2, was the pursuit of rapid-growth techniques so a clone could grow to adulthood in a fraction of the time it normally takes. After nearly two decades, the Carbon scientists succeeded in compressing a clone’s first twenty years of physical development into only two years. The problem is, the Gen-2 clones have the emotional maturity of a two-year-old. It turns out the experiences that shape our characters still have to be lived through. There’s no shortcut. For now.
Earlier this year, Carbon launched Gen-3. They’re trying to map the consciousness of a living person into the minds of clones. It’s called psychogenesis, and it’s the craziest fucking idea since … well, since rapid-growth clones. This is why everyone in Washington has wigged out. Each generation of Carbon research results in a scientific advance so significant that it might as well be a miracle. If anybody can invent psychogenesis, it’s the lunatics at Carbon.
Gen-3 brings up really confusing questions about the future meanings of maturity, individuality, and mortality. When people get old or very sick, Gen-3 would let them transfer their accumulated abilities and experiences into a much younger clone of themselves. Fifty years later, they do it again, and again, and never die. Their worn-out old bodies will need to be disposed of, but I’m sure the Germans can solve an excess population problem.
Gen-3 also brought up all the nuttiness that’s happened to me in the last five months. One of the minds the researchers want to try duplicating is my father’s. What the heck, they probably thought, Big Bertha’s just rotting away in a Gestapo tomb, anyway. Let’s make more of him and see what happens.