Tanya said, “Never mind what I look like. Let’s get going, if you don’t mind. I don’t have much time.”
Zach said, “A pleasant good morning to you, as well. Come over here, there’s a picnic table we can use. But please, no naughty words. You’ll note there are innocents around.”
He turned and Tanya muttered something under her breath. About a half dozen strides past a cement sidewalk and a sign telling dog owners to clean up after their pets, there was a wide wooden picnic table. Zach sat down and Tanya gingerly sat across from him, like she was afraid the wood was made of balsa, and that she would crash to the ground.
Zach said, “The move is on for tonight. But I’m not going to tell you where and when unless you answer me something.”
“Which is what, pray tell?”
“What’s in the trailer?
She frowned as she crossed her legs. “Not your concern.”
“The hell it isn’t,” he said. “I’m your point man on this little black op, and I deserve to know more.”
“Nope.”
“All right, tell me this. The shipment’s coming to Duncan Crowley, who, among other things, runs the Washington County Motorcycle Club. Did you know that a motorcycle club from Quebec, the Iron Steeds, are after the same shipment? That they’ve threatened to kill Duncan and his family unless he gives up the shipping container?”
Tanya smiled. “Motorcycle gang from Quebec. What did they threaten to do? Beat them over the head with baguettes? Choke them with Camembert cheese?”
Zach’s hands felt cold as he matched the steady look of the woman across from him. “No, they’ve threatened him twice. The second time, they sent down two bikers armed with submachine guns. They took Duncan and his wife hostage. They were threatening to rape and kill his wife if Duncan didn’t roll over and give up information on the shipping container.”
“What happened, then?”
“I happened,” Zach said, hands feeling even colder. “I appeared on the scene, saw what was going on.”
“Did you call the cops?”
“Tanya, certain times and places up there, there are no cops. So I did what I had to do. I shot and wounded the first biker. Chased the second biker out of the house. He turned and tried to shoot me. Missed. I returned fire. Didn’t miss.”
Tanya stared at him, eyes wide, face more pale. “Did you kill him, then?”
“Please,” he said crossly. “I wasn’t trained to wound my opponents.”
“And the cops?”
“Don’t know a damn thing,” Zach said.
“What happened to the other guy, the biker you wounded?”
“I came back to the house, found he was dead.”
“Christ,” Tanya said. “Killed by Duncan?”
Zach shook his head. “Killed by Duncan’s wife. Seemed she didn’t take too kindly to be being assaulted, kidnapped, and threatened. So that’s where I’m at, Tanya. I need to know what’s in that goddamn trailer. I find out now from you, or I leave. You won’t find that trailer without me.”
Defiance in her voice, Tanya said, “Maybe we don’t need you anymore.”
Zach laughed. “Tanya, you ever been up in that part of the state? I know when you saw me in Purmort, you thought you were in the wilds of New Hampshire. You have no clue. Purmort, that’s a goddamn Times Square compared to what’s up in the northern woods. The roads peter out to dirt lanes, there’s no towns, just isolated homes here and there, and some hunting cabins. There are forests, lakes, streams, swamps and the occasional logging road, snowmobile route, utility rights-of-way, and smuggling paths that have been used for centuries. Tanya, you could have the entire fucking 10th Mountain Division up there looking for the trailer tonight, and there’s a damn good chance they won’t find it.”
Zach reached into his coat pocket, took out the cellphone and the tracking device that had been placed under his truck. “These both let you know where I am, in real time. So here’s your new real time adjustment. When I leave here, the only way you’ll know where I am and what’s going on will be through my good graces.”
He could tell she was struggling to keep it all under control. She said, “Please stop being obstinate, Zach. I need that information.”
“I’m sure you do,” Zach said. “But you don’t have much leverage. What, you’re going to threaten me with jail? Three hots and a cot? Sounds better than what I’ve got, and if you think I could become somebody’s bitch in prison, think again.”
Tanya took a breath, folded her hands across the picnic table. “I think I know what happened. You’ve gone back to your old town, met up with old friends and acquaintances. They’ve welcomed you back as the prodigal son or something. Maybe a couple of beers, couple of meals, couple of laughs. You’re looking at Duncan Crowley and his friends and his family, and you’re thinking, hey, these are good people. Why should I narc them out to the Federal government? What’s a little weed, a little booze, a couple of dead gangsters … Is that what you’re thinking, Zach? Hunh? Losing the taste of battle?”
“Don’t fret about what I’m tasting. So what’s in the container? Smallpox? Nerve gas? Something worse?”
“Even getting your pension and benefits back, that’s not enough now, is it,” Tanya said. “You’ve got to believe you’re doing right, even as you betray them. Tell you what, Zach. Admit that little point I just made, and I’ll tell you what’s in the shipping container.”
Zach didn’t like where this was going, but damn the woman, it was like she could read his freaking mind or something. But when push came to shove, damn it again, she was right. He had to know.
“All right,” Zach said. “I need to know what’s in that shipping container. Before I betray those folks up in Turner, I need to know why it’s so important.”
Tanya seemed to shrink some, like she was feeling the weight of the universe upon her. “According to the intelligence intercepts I saw, what’s in that half-sized shipping container with Mextel Lines painted on the side is a WME.”
He hated to admit it, but he was confused. “What the hell is a WME?”
“WME,” she explained. “Weapon of Mass Effect.”
“I thought they were called Weapons of Mass Destruction.”
She shook her head. “That was then, this is now. Current administration thought Weapons of Mass Destruction was too scary, too spooky. So they changed the name. They’re good at that, you know. Remember when we started bombing Libya? That wasn’t war. That was the kinetic application of military force. Like tax hikes are investment in children’s future, nonsense like that. But whatever you want to call it—dirty bomb, nuclear device, weapons-grade anthrax, or any other bio weapon—it’s in that shipping container and it’s coming into the United States tonight, through the good graces of Duncan Crowley.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Hah,” Tanya said. “Don’t care if you believe it, you asked what’s in the container. And I just told you: a WME being smuggled into the United States.”
Zach cleared his throat. “I don’t believe Duncan or anybody else associated with him would do such a damn thing.”
“For the right amount of money, anyone will do anything. Look, you’ve been up there for a couple of days. Has Duncan Crowley talked about his politics, his views on government? Somehow I don’t think he belongs to the American Socialist Party. Am I right?”
Zach said, “Most people up there have antigovernment views. How can you blame them? They’ve been lied to, dumped on, cheated on, by both political parties, by government leaders of all kinds. But Duncan Crowley is not the type to bring a weapon like that into the United States. I’m positive.”
“Certainly,” Tanya said. “People never thought Timothy McVeigh was the type either, right up to the time when he took down the Murrah Building in Oklahoma City.”
She checked her watch. “Is
there anything else, Zach? Truly? Look, against my own better judgment, I’ve told you what’s in that shipping container. It’s a weapon of some sort, designed to cause mass casualties against American civilians. Duncan Crowley is no doubt being paid a considerable amount of money to make sure it gets safely smuggled into the United States. I’m sure Duncan and his pals don’t have fond thoughts about big government and big-city types. So what’s it to them if several thousand government workers or urban residents get smoked in the next week or so?”
Zach couldn’t look at her anymore. He looked to a van parked nearby, where a young boy and girl played, laughing and having the time of their lives. He stayed still.
Tanya slowly got up, tightened the belt around her coat. “So now you know. I have to leave. And what about you?”
The boy was about nine, the girl maybe about eight. They were so full of life, so full of love. He tried to imagine them being someplace like Fenway Park in Boston, or Independence Hall in Philadelphia, holding each other’s hands, walking together, walking past a half trailer that had been parked, the trailer suddenly going up a split-second flare of light and heat matching the interior of the sun, turning them into carbon atoms. He also tried to think of Duncan Crowley helping bring that trailer across the northern border, through those very dark woods.
“Zach?”
“Tell me one more thing, and then you’ve got my agreement.”
“Fair enough.”
He recalled his last day at the bed and breakfast, using that nice woman’s computer. “I did some research on you. What I could, because you’ve successfully kept your name out of the press. But I found a lot about your uncle. The senator from Ohio. Warren Gibbs. Probable future presidential candidate. You told me that first day that you were off the reservation. Are you doing this on his behalf?”
“Not for a moment.”
“Really?”
She slowly sat back down. “I’m doing it on my friend Emily’s behalf. And for three thousand other dead people, and their friends and family. To make sure nothing like that ever happens again.”
The wind grew sharper. “Like that first day, I’ll ask you again. Why just you? What do you see that everybody else in your office doesn’t?”
Her face pale, her lips quivering, Tanya said, “What I see is a photo I saw a week or two after 9/11. Not many people know this, but there are plenty of videos and photos from that day that have never been made public. Too sensitive for the poor American people, I guess. But I saw one photo that’s always been in my mind. A bloody lump of clothes on Ranson Street, beyond the rubble pile. Bare feet is about the only thing you can identify. But I was able to identify something else. A pink and blue silk scarf around the bloody torso. A scarf I gave to Emily a month earlier for her birthday. So that’s what I see, Chief. That scarf … and thinking about how it fluttered in the air during those long, long seconds it took for her to fall to her death.”
Zach sat so very still, unwilling to do or say anything else at the moment. Tanya used her right hand to wipe at one eye, and then the other, and she cleared her throat. “So do I have your agreement?”
He reached over, picked up the cellphone she had given to him. “Yes,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Yes, you do.”
She got up and walked away from the picnic table. He watched that slight and pretty figure get back into her government car and then ride away. He took a deep breath, let the air out. Zach put the assigned cellphone back into his coat pocket, took out his latest disposable phone. Once again he dialed a number from memory, and once again, an older man answered.
“You know who this is,” Zach said, desperation in his voice. “You know I wasn’t treated fairly. For the last time, can’t you help me?”
“You know I can’t,” the older man said. “For Christ’s sake, stop calling me.”
“To hell with you, then,” Zach said.
Back in her Crown Vic, Tanya Gibbs sat back, and fastened her seatbelt as Henry Wolfe backed the government vehicle out into the lot. She turned and saw the solitary and yet powerful figure of her Coastie there, ready to do what was right. She kept on looking at him until the trees got in the way, when Henry started heading north up on Interstate 89, looking for a quick place to make a U-turn and head south.
“How did it go?” he asked.
“Went just fine,” she said.
“I take it defeat wasn’t an option?”
She settled back in her seat, so very tired. “Not for a moment.”
partial summary transcript
Daily Threat Assessment Task Force Teleconference Call
April 16th
Homeland Security representative: “Anything else, then?”
FBI representative: “Yeah. I know you don’t want to hear this—”
Homeland Security: “I’m thrilled the FBI is ahead of the curve.”
CIA representative: “A refreshing change.”
[[Laughter]]
FBI: “But concerning that missing trailer. The one from Mextel Lines. Latest word we received from the Canadians was that it might have been sighted in Quebec. Now our liaison officer in Quebec City reports that one of their provincial officers was gunned down yesterday following a traffic stop.”
State Department representative: “Go on.”
FBI: “Thing is, the officer reported to Dispatch that he was pulling over a tractor-trailer unit while he was on routine patrol.”
Homeland Security: “Did he indicate it belonged to Mextel Lines?”
FBI: “No.”
Homeland Security: “No follow-up messages?”
FBI: “No, it looks like the patrol unit’s radio failed.”
CIA: “Any witnesses to the shooting?”
FBI: “No, but look—”
Homeland Security: “I’m sorry, what do you have, really? An unfortunate shooting connected to a traffic stop. But no witnesses, no indication that the Mextel Lines unit was involved.”
FBI: [[[Obscenity deleted.]]]
Homeland Security: “A pleasant accusation coming from you, Tom, I’m certain. But if you’d like, I’ll show you my birth certificate to indicate otherwise.”
Unidentified: “Will it be the short-form or long-form certificate?”
[[[Laughter]]]
thirty-one
Dinner in the Crowley household that early evening was a splurge of lobsters from the nearest Hannaford supermarket—about an hour drive away—that Karen expertly boiled in large kettles. Amy and Lewis were not there, being safe and guarded at another friend’s home in Turner, so it was just Karen and the Crowley brothers, along with Zach. He kept quiet through most of the meal as they cracked open the shells, dug out the sweet lobster meat, and dipped it into melted butter. After dishes had been cleared away and everyone had slices of apple pie, the doorbell rang like it was timed. In came Nat Cooper, the farmer who had the prize-winning oxen, and a slim biker named Luke Munce with short blond hair. Luke’s face was puffy and Zach recognized him as one of the four pool players he had beaten the shit out of back at the Flight Deck Bar & Grill just two days before.
Zach wasn’t too sure how to approach him, and he decided a direct effort might work. He met up with Luke in the kitchen and held his hand out. “No hard feelings?”
Luke grinned, shook Zach’s hand. “The fuck there’s no hard feelings. Me and my buds, we were having a nice game of pool when you went all berserk on us. If it weren’t for Duncan, we would have nailed your ass later. But there’s a job to be done, and Duncan and Cameron vouch for you, so that’s how it’s gonna be. Tonight I’ll be at your side and if shit starts flying, I’ll have your back, but I won’t forget that night.”
Zach said, “I won’t forget either, and if the shit flies tonight, I’ll have your back as well.”
Luke nodded. “Guess that’s the best it’s gonna be.”
> Zach followed Duncan as they went downstairs to the basement. To the right was a play room with kid’s toys, SpongeBob Squarepants throw pillows, and a weight system. To the left was a door with a combination lock. Duncan undid the lock, opened the door, switched on the lights, and in they went.
The room was small, with no chairs. It was not a place for sitting or relaxing. On a long wooden table were a collection of weapons—semiautomatic pistols, H&K Model MP5 submachine guns, a .308 Remington rifle, and two Remington .12-gauge shotguns—Kevlar vests, Maglites, and other military gear. A large-scale topographical map was tacked up on the near wall, showing the far northern reaches of Washington County and the southernmost section of the province of Quebec.
Duncan said, “Cam, we all clear?”
“Room was swept this morning, bro. Nothing bad’s going on.”
“All right, this is what we’ve got,” he said as he went up to the topo map. “I’ve sent the necessary information via text to our driver up here in the wilds of southern Quebec. At ten p.m. tonight, we’ll be meeting him here”—he tapped his finger on the map—“about fifty yards over the border, at location Q. Location Q is the 112-mile marker for a Hydro-Quebec right-of-way that’s never been used. Then Nat will meet up with the driver and take over the driving responsibilities. We’ll be there to escort and make sure everything’s copacetic for the first twenty or so miles. The plan is, we get back to civilized roadways and get on Interstate 93 south. We break away so it doesn’t look like a goddamn convoy. Looks like the turnover spot will be the Manchester airport early the next morning. Drop the truck off at long-term parking, leave the keys on the front left tire. Nat, you can catch a Trailways bus back up north, and I’ll make sure the original driver has enough funds to take him wherever he wants. Nat, you up to that?”
“Whatever you need, Duncan,” he said.
Duncan lowered his hand. “There’s a hunting camp here, at the intersection of this logging road and a fire road. I’ll point it out as we pass it tonight. That will be our fallback and rendezvous point if things go to the shits, all right? Less than a half mile away from location Q. But I don’t expect anything to go wrong. We’ve done lots of product movement up there over the years across that section of border. Only thing we’ve run into are the occasional lost black bear or horny moose.”
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