Chasm

by James Bruno

  “These boys are recent members. Just off the boat,” Spencer said.

  “From where?” Gallatin asked coolly, his eyes unwavering.

  “Escaping bad times over there in Europe somewheres. But these boys are our EOD experts. They know mines, munitions, detonators, you name it. They may be new here, but they’re more American than Dan Rather, Hillary, Ted Kennedy, the owner of the Jew York Times and ol’ Romeo-boy Merriman all put together,” Spencer declared.

  “Last name?” Gallatin asked, a bit too insistently.

  “Tito,” the tall one replied with a smirk.

  Spencer sensed the tension. “Let’s go see whatcha got,” he said, gesturing toward the exit.

  Spencer instructed Jeffrey to ride in Gallatin’s car as the latter followed Spencer’s pick-up. The rest followed behind Gallatin. They drove five miles off into the hills and stopped on a gravel road in the middle of farm fields barely illuminated by a clear half-moon in a pitch-black sky. They all got out of their vehicles and crowded around Gallatin’s car.

  Gallatin opened the trunk, reached in and pulled out a foot-long, steel mag light. He shined it on an assortment of weapons which he unwrapped from blankets. There was an AR-15 assault rifle, an Uzi machine pistol, a 9mm Tec-9 semiautomatic pistol and two silencer-mounted .22 rifles — all clandestinely borrowed from the Cleveland police department’s seized weapons cache, care of a very reluctant Ray D’Angelo.

  Milan Branko reached down and picked up the assault rifle, along with a loaded clip from a box. He expertly slammed the clip into the weapon, released the safety, then unhesitatingly pointed it at Gallatin’s face. The others took a step backwards.

  “Mee-lan, put the goddamn gun down!” Spencer commanded.

  He ignored Spencer, thrust the barrel an inch from Gallatin’s nose.

  “He lies. He is American government agent,” Milan said.

  “I told you to put the friggin’ gun—” Spencer began.

  “We kill him. Nobody will know. Bury body in field. Deep,” Milan said. Zlatko pulled his own nine-millimeter from inside his leather jacket.

  “They’re nuts. Make them heel,” Gallatin said.

  “Maybe Milan’s right,” the perennially angry Dave interjected. “This guy’s setting us up. Nobody checked him out. I say he’s a Fed.” Dave hawked and spat.

  “He’s got a point there, Jer’,” Al said. The others looked uncertain.

  Seeing his authority eroding, Spencer changed tack. “Okay mister. What is it? You a government agent, or what?”

  “Of course not!”

  “You seem to know these fellers,” he said nodding at the Brankos.

  “Never met them.”

  “You know something about them.”

  Gallatin clammed up.

  Spencer placed his hand on the barrel of the AR-15, forcing Milan to lower it groundward. He then pulled out his own gun from a vest holster, cocked it and pressed it against Gallatin’s temple.

  “What is it? Speak,” Spencer stated.

  Spencer’s unflinching coolness frightened Gallatin more than Milan’s hotheadedness. The object of his coming here, after all, was not to receive a bullet in the brain and be buried in an anonymous, unmarked grave in a cornfield by a bunch of paranoid hicks straight out of central casting for Deliverance.

  “I am not a government agent,” Gallatin repeated. Raging anger consumed him as he realized he was face-to-face with the men who had almost killed his daughter. In an upward martial arts chop, he knocked the gun out of Spencer’s hand, then lurched forward, ramming the end of the steel mag light into Milan’s crotch, then up in an arc, crashing it against Zlatko’s cheekbone.

  Milan fell to the earth cluthing his testicles in blinding pain. Zlatko plopped onto the hood of Spencer’s pickup, desperately trying with both hands to hold back the blood now smearing the vehicle.

  Jeffrey, Dave and Whore jumped Gallatin and wrestled him to the ground. Spencer snatched up his gun and thrust it flush between Gallatin’s eyes.

  “Man, you almost bought it. Who the fuck you think you’re dealin’ with?!” Spencer growled.

  A moment passed as Gallatin fought to regain his breath. “I’ve got no quarrel with you!”

  “Then what’s your game, fella? You are ATF, aren’t you? Or is it FBI? Or what? It’ll all end right here and now. And nobody’ll know.” His finger twitched nervously on the trigger.

  “Take out my wallet. I work for an insurance company. If you don’t believe me, call them. I have no quarrel with you. I don’t give a shit about your militia!”

  “You got thirty seconds, friend. What’s your game?” Spencer demanded.

  The cold steel of the gun barrel pressed hard against Gallatin’s forehead.

  “Those two,” Gallatin said, glowering at the suffering, barely conscious Brankos, now restrained by Hank and Al. “Those two may be responsible for murdering a married couple and seriously injuring two young girls, including my daughter.”

  Spencer’s men all looked at him, their faces revealing that this was a whole different can of worms.

  “If you’re going to check anybody out, check your own members for chrissakes. Last thing you need in your organization is wanted felons. The law will come down on you like a ton of bricks. Ask them. Ask them about the firebombing in Cleveland.” Gallatin jerked his head to nudge Spencer’s gun away.

  “That true?” Spencer asked.

  Milan fidgeted. “Hah! Bullsheet!”

  “Jer’, I say we end this. Go back home,” Jeffrey said. The others nodded in unison. “Don’t need to get involved. Some kinda personal quarrel, sounds like to me. Leave ‘em to each other.”

  “He’s right. This ain’t got nuthin’ to do with our mission. No sir!” Al added.

  Spencer retracted the gun from Gallatin’s head, then directed it point-blank at Milan.

  “Seize their weapons,” he ordered. Spencer’s men obliged. They then frisked the Brankos, finding another small pistol, three knives and brass knuckles.

  “I suggest you boys get outta town. Fast. This fella knows something about you. Something tells me, whoever’s lookin’ for you two will be snooping around these parts. We want no part of it.

  “And as for you, my friend, you seem like a good sort. Not a cop. But we got no bone to pick with you either.” Spencer toyed with a toothpick between his teeth. “And we’re not interested in no…illegal weapons. After all, we’re just a huntin’ club,” he said lamely.

  Spencer allowed Gallatin to pack up his arsenal, then held him behind for an hour to give the Brankos time to get away.

  As Gallatin closed the car door and started the engine, Spencer said, “If I’m wrong and you are a government agent, tell President Merriman to leave us alone. That’s all we ask.”

  Graham Merriman took a deep breath and relaxed in the jacuzzi. His cheeks were pink in a face Hollywood could have invented. He sipped a tall glass of V-8. He was renowned for his ability to devour gigabytes of information and then to use it skillfully and self-confidently in his speeches, press conferences and cabinet meetings. To gird himself for such high-pressured events, the President resorted to a good lay.

  The door opened. Into the rec facility in the White House’s basement walked Walter LaFontaine. The young aide, at Merriman’s side since the first primary, was a specialist in getting what the President needed, on the campaign trail or off.

  “Mr. President, all systems are go for the Cabinet meeting in ninety minutes time. I made sure that they were all briefed up on Bosnia. The press conference is also a go right after that. Here’s some last-minute input — intel reports, a note from Secretary McHenry, and, well, some other stuff you might want to glance at.” LaFontaine’s neat, perfect son-in-law good looks masked a wily political operative who had yet to abandon frat boy inclinations.

  “A double-header. I hate these back-to-back events.”

  “We had no choice, Mr. President—”

  “I know, I know. So, who is she
?”

  LaFontaine shifted his eyes and spoke sotto voce, the way he used to when he would recommend an easy lay to a college buddy.

  “She’s a fellow constituent, from Highland County.”

  Merriman scrunched his nose. “Highland County?! Doesn’t that place have the highest incest rate in Virginia? I recall the women out there looking like the product of interspecies breeding.”

  “This one’s different. She’s a malungeon.”

  “Ahh. That could be different,” Merriman said, relieved. Malungeons inhabited rural pockets of the Appalachians. They had the blood of Africa, native America and of Europe in their veins.

  LaFontaine looked at his watch. “I’ll get her.” He walked out.

  Two minutes later, a nervous young woman entered the rec room. She held her hands before her at navel-level, her wide, dark eyes cast shyly downward. She looked at her naked president, then down again.

  “You’re from Highland County?” Merriman asked.

  “Yessir,” she answered softly.

  “I just love the sweet air out there. Pine, oak, cedar, all mingling in those beautiful blue hills. So sweet. Come here, darling. Have you got a name?”

  “Marielle.” She approached, knelt down at the jacuzzi’s edge.

  Merriman put his hand behind her neck. He found the zipper and slowly pulled it down. The girl’s simple, flowered cotton frock dropped with the ease of Highland honey in the summertime. She undid her bra. Merriman took her in with his eyes. She was tall, slim, with long ebony curls that ran down her back and teasingly touched supple breasts of honey-hued skin. He pulled her into the jacuzzi.

  Marielle, all of 19, possessed skills in the art of lovemaking that most other women did not acquire in a lifetime — that included the First Lady whose idea of good sex was body slamming. Marielle’s full lips performed wonders in all the right places. Her silky brown skin against his pale torso added to Merriman’s excitement. He adored dark-skinned women. And, for him, Marielle was truly exotic.

  The splashing around in the basement jacuzzi that morning would have had the Secret Service barging in to check on the President’s well-being were it not for the fact that the Chief Executive’s protectors were accustomed to their boss’s trysts.

  President Merriman would feel like a new man in ninety minutes time. Ready to take on the world.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Lisa Valko didn’t like the way the Deputy National Security Adviser stared at her legs. A man comfortable with power, who had risen fast by having his way most of the time, John Tulliver simply looked at what pleased him and took what he wanted. And despite the changes in the rules of the game, sex was still easily gotten. The art of the lover was little different from the art of statecraft: charm, persistence and power opened the door to a female’s boudoir as easily as to a treaty signing room. With women, the new rules simply required more emphasis on the first two elements over the last. But power remained key. Without it, diplomacy was hollow, and a man could go a long time being celibate.

  She shifted uneasily in her chair against the wall just ten feet left-rear of the President, who was seated at the center of the long, mahogany conference table. She uncrossed her legs and tried to concentrate on notetaking, then self-consciously pulled her navy blue shift as far to the knees as it would go. She forced a cough, glancing up ever so fleetingly to catch his unflinching eyes now focused higher, on her breasts. The slightest hint of a grin creased his thin lips. A shiver ran through her, goosebumps broke through her skin. To be admired by an attractive man could be flattering. This man, however, committed rape with his piercing eyes.

  “This Administration will go down as the Peace Administration,” Merriman said. “Nixon and Reagan used to talk about ‘Peace through Strength.’ That was the Cold War. Now it’s strength through peace. “

  The President’s advisers nodded in unison, each writing it down in their notes. Walt LaFontaine sat directly behind the President with his arms crossed. He stifled a yawn.

  “Now, we cannot let the Dayton Accord fray any further,” Merriman stressed. He appeared to be in exceptionally good form. “Foreign Islamists are stirring up trouble there as well, provoking violence between Bosnian Muslims and the non-Muslim groups. I’m worried that with all this sniping going on over there, it’ll come apart again. Next thing you know, they’re at it again and Moscow and the Muslim world start getting antsy. It’s foreign interference that always lands Europe into a major war. And then we get sucked in. We’ve got too much going on in Iraq and Afghanistan, not to mention Iran and North Korea to risk facing yet another blow-up, this time in the Balkans.”

  “A few indigenous troublemakers are also adding fuel to the fire, Mr. President,” Tulliver intoned self-assuredly, not even feigning deference to his immediate boss, Merwyn Fennimore, the bookish National Security Adviser sitting on the President’s left. “They’re being removed from the scene. The three prime ministers assure us that they’re reining the bad apples in, even eliminating from positions of authority the worst offenders. With these provocateurs out of the way, all parties can then concentrate their efforts at going after the alien Islamists.”

  Lisa took it all down. She felt a bit more at ease with Tulliver’s attention diverted elsewhere. The Presidential Management Intern, in her third month at the National Security Council, felt like an awestruck little girl in these NSC meetings with the President. She did all she could to conceal it and to fit right in with the other aspiring young careerists who stood in the shadows of power, serving the power elite energetically if not selflessly.

  “In the ten years since it was signed, the Dayton Agreement has achieved its goals despite almost collapsing the first year. The Bosnians have their own republic. Reconstruction and coalition strengthening are proceeding apace. The Serbs are in check. Our European allies are footing most of the bill. We cannot allow a few frustrated fanatics to knock over the applecart,” Secretary of State Herbert McHenry stated in his flat Nebraska delivery.

  During pauses, Lisa looked around to take in the trappings of authority: the fine, blue carpeting, heavy walnut paneling, stuffed leather conference chairs as soft as a baby’s bottom, the elongated oak conference table, the gilt crest of the President of the United States mounted on the wall behind the Chief Executive himself. And the chief cabinet officers, whose faces one saw regularly in the papers, news programs and magazines, seated as a group in this august room. Sometimes, Lisa had to pinch herself. To go directly from grad school to the White House had been beyond her wildest imaginings as a poli-sci major at Cornell. And she was in her element. History in the making almost on a daily basis and she was there, Lisa Valko, daughter of a coal miner and factory worker, from Wheeling, West Virginia. She felt satisfied with herself. But those eyes, those small, steel-gray, smug eyes were on her again. As if an ice-chilled zephyr had coursed through the room, she instinctively wrapped her left arm across her bosom and resumed notetaking with the other. As she tilted her head downward toward her notepad, her auburn hair fell teasingly forward. Tulliver openly smiled. Oh, why couldn’t she have tied it back?

  Fennimore, a painfully shy, tweedy professor from the University of Chicago, began to squirm in his chair, an indication that he was mustering the courage to speak. The President focused on him.

  “Well, Merwyn. Any views? How are we going to make sure this thing sticks?” he asked in his patrician Tidewater lilt.

  Fennimore cleaned his dense, horn-rimmed glasses and, moving only his rabbit-like eyes upward, said in a voice akin to the sound of a wheezing carburetor, “It was individuals who started this war. Milosevic. Karadzic. Others. If the peace is destroyed, it will be by individuals.”

  “But all the leaders have been cooperating so far,” Vice President Jay Ransom interjected. “And we managed to evict the Iranians from the country.” Seated on the President’s right, the ex-football athlete with the baritone voice virtually hovered over Fennimore.

  “Yes. But it’s the men tw
o, three rungs down the ladder we have to worry about.” Fennimore blew his nose sloppily, emitting the sound of a baby trumpet. “Look at Balkan history.” With his hanky, Fennimore wiped wayward mucous from his left cheek, pointlessly stared at it for a moment, then shoved the mess into his pants pocket. “Gavrilo Princip. All it took was one deranged Serbian nationalist to touch off World War I. It underscores the fragility of state structures in the Balkans. All it takes is one man, a group of men, to set everything on its head.”

  Lisa greatly admired the nerdy, but brilliant National Security Adviser. A patient man, he typically let others say their piece before weighing in with an irrefutable summation of how things were and ought to be, drawing from a deep knowledge of history, political theory, even art and literature. She’d read all his works in college. He was a proponent of balance of power theory. Like Kissinger, he was keenly aware that a concert of the great powers was needed to keep the peace. Where he differed from Nixon’s foreign policy guru, however, was in the need for idealism. A distinctly American trait in foreign affairs, idealism was alien to the cynical practitioners of the European school of diplomacy, who relied on sheer power, sleuth and cleverness to achieve national goals. Where Kissinger’s idols were Metternich and Bismarck, Fennimore’s were Jefferson, Franklin and Paine.

  “Mr. President,” Secretary of Defense Lloyd Beringer spoke up. “We’re helping the Bosnians arm themselves and to receive training. Military Professional Resources, Inc. has done a marvelous job under U.S. government contract to beef up the Bosnian defense forces. And the covert programs are going smoothly. Turkey, Pakistan and Egypt have helped out enormously, as have the Saudis.”