by Tom Kratman
Kuralski motioned for Johnson to take a seat in the living room. Johnson placed a briefcase on the couch beside him and took out an envelope. He handed the envelope to Kuralski.
Kuralski opened the envelope, took out the letter inside, and began to read:
2/8/459
Dear Dan:
The bearer of this letter, Terrence Johnson, is representing me. He is well known to me, trustworthy and loyal. You may speak with him as if you were speaking to me.
I am writing to offer you a job, working for me, as a military planner and consultant. The job will be performed in another country. You do not need to know at this time which country. Suffice to say that it is a pleasant, hot and wet but otherwise comfortable place, with a large city and an active nightlife. Do not expect, if you accept this offer, to have overmuch time to enjoy the nightlife.
Your particular job will be as chief of a small staff I am assembling. You will be second in rank after myself. The pay is initially 4,800 FSD per month, plus room and board. All of that amount is tax free. Life and medical insurance will be provided. Terry will arrange transportation.
You may assume that nothing I will ask of you is illegal, likely to be of interest to the Federated States in the near term, or harmful to the Federated States in any way in any term.
If you decide to join up, let Terry know immediately. I would give you time to decide if I could. I can't. I must ask you not to repeat any of this. Terry will collect this letter, and your decision, now.
I hope you will join me. It's not like I couldn't find someone else to do the job, but I really want it to be you.
Sincerely,
Patrick Hennessey
Kuralski felt a small flush of warmth at that last sentence. He looked up from the letter, toward Johnson. "He doesn't allow much time to decide, does he?"
Johnson answered, "If you think about it, if someone needs a long time to decide something like this, then he probably doesn't need to go. Have you decided?"
Kuralski looked around at the interior of his house. Fading memories, painful ones as often as not. There was nothing there to hold him. "I'll go. Can I have a few days to get my house on the market?"
"You can take fourteen days from today. I'll send you tickets as soon as I finish making arrangements. You'll have to take care of your own passport, if you don't have one." Johnson offered his hand a second time. "For Pat, let me say 'Welcome Aboard'. Ah, what about your wife?" he asked, pointing at a picture.
"Dead. Cancer. It's why I'm not in the Army anymore. I had to take care of her and so I missed my chance to command a company. No command; no chance."
"Oh. Sorry. Pat didn't know."
"Thanks. No reason he or you should have. Anyway, it would be worth the trip just to see Linda."
"She's dead, too. Pat said it was on seven-one-one in the TNTO."
Kuralski bowed his head and began to fight back tears.
"You loved her too, didn't you?" Johnson asked.
Kuralski just nodded and said, "Yeah . . . yeah, I did. But, then, who didn't? What a woman."
Johnson smiled grimly. "I know. And pity the poor bastards who murdered the family of Pat Hennessey."
Interlude
31 December, 2049, Brussels, Belgium, European Union
Margot Tebaf's chauffeured limousine passed row upon row of empty, boarded-up shops and unmaintained apartment buildings. It seems like only yesterday, she thought, when those shops were open and vibrant, when there were flower boxes at the windows of the apartments, when the streets were clear. Has it been thirty years?
The driver cursed as one of the front tires slipped into a pothole. Nobody was maintaining the cobblestones anymore. He muttered something unintelligible but ugly sounding as he maneuvered around a pile of uncollected trash, then cut the wheel hard to avoid the charred and rusted ruins of a burned and ancient automobile, parked – if that was the word – so as to jut out into the street and make passage for those still able to afford private transportation more difficult.
Perhaps it was an ambush point; the city's crime rate was so high now that the police hardly bothered taking reports. Outside of the neighborhoods dominated by the European Union's bureaucracy, they didn't bother with enforcing the law even when it was violated before their eyes.
Margot's gaze avoided the street – too ugly – and looked instead at the little towers above, each ringed with green neon lights.
To a viewer of even twenty years before, the streets would have appeared remarkably clear of motor traffic. Instead young, unemployed men wandered aimlessly, followed often enough by black-clad women trailing masses of children. The men glared at the passing limo. Margot might have feared attack except that her auto was armored. It was also preceded and trailed by armed police escort vehicles.
The one way glass of the limousine's windows allowed Margot to see out without anyone seeing in. Thus, no one saw her shiver when she considered what things might be like if Europe were a democracy in anything but name and merest appearances.
Thank the god that doesn't exist that my ancestors were wise enough to destroy democracy before we had a barbarian majority in our midst, she thought.
That was only one of the many depressing thoughts impinging on Margot's consciousness. Looming even greater than the barbarization of Europe was the continuing, annoying, infuriating prosperity of the United States.
Americans; I hate those bastards. And there are nearly five hundred million of the swine now. While my poor Europe is dying out. And the reason there are so many of the damned Yankees? Not only do their women bear children, just like the Moslems, in unsustainable numbers, but most of the young Euro women willing to have kids went there . . . or to Ontario, or the Republic of Western Canada, or Australia. Others fled east to Poland and Russia.
All our most talented young people left for other climes, leaving what remained to pay for the pensions for the old, the welfare for the immigrants, or the absolutely necessary government that runs things and keeps the peace, that ensures the people are cared for, cradle to grave.
Except that we can't care for them anymore, even with over-ninety percent of conscripted youngsters devoted to social issues instead of the military. We have hardly anything to export now, except retired "workers" and Moslem children. And no one wants to buy, or even accept, those.
The limo turned to the right and began to slow. Ahead, the leading police escort pulled off to one side of a guarded steel gate. A guard emerged and questioned the driver of the police escort. Apparently satisfied, the guard turned and signaled to someone inside the small armored shack in front of the gate and to one side. Magically – Margot wondered how long it would be before such things were explained away as the work of magic or of the Jinn – the gate slid out of the way. She wondered, too, how long before the gate, all the security systems, all the technology of Europe broke down, never to be replaced.
She pushed such thoughts aside as the limousine began to move forward through the gate and toward the imposing glass and steel building surrounded by still meticulously maintained grounds that was the Headquarters for the European Union.
Chapter Seven
Give me a place to stand and I will move the Earth.
—Archimedes
I'll make my own goddamned lever.
—Patricio Carrera
Air Balboa Flight 717, 9/8/459 AC
Hennessey was a smoky wraith hidden in a wreath of smoke. He did not recognize anything around him. Somehow, though, it felt very high in the air. There was a floor beneath him above which he floated. Though floating, he felt the heat emanating from the floor.
He was drawn forward by laughter. The smoke parted as his shade moved on and through its swirling screen.
The laughter came from a swarthy man. "Infidels," cried the man, "see the judgment of Allah."
A voice he recognized shouted back, "Allah will send you to hell, you miserable wog bastard!"
He was drawn forward by the voice and away f
rom the hyena-like laughter. "Uncle Bob?" he asked. There was no answer. The shade could not see the wraith, though the wraith could see the shade as it shook its fist. "Uncle Bob?" the wraith repeated.
The shade turned and knelt by a small group. Hennessey recognized his wife, his children. Others were there too, none of whom he recognized.
"Daddy will make them pay, Mom, the men who did this!" Hennessey saw his son, Julio, looking at his mother with certainty in his eyes.
"He will, my son," Linda answered, "and terribly."
"Terribly," echoed Julio.
"I will. I swear it. I will!" whispered the unheard wraith. "Their great-great-great-grandchildren will have nightmares."
Linda looked at the rising flames behind her. "It is time to go, children. Pray now." Linda began to pray, the children joining. Even Hennessey's uncle joined in, as did many others.
The prayer over, Linda began to sing. Hennessey recognized the song, "Abide with me." Linda had always loved that one, the wraith remembered. He was not surprised that she had chosen it for the last canto. The singing grew in volume as more people crawled over and joined in.
The wraith saw Linda and Uncle Bob stand, along with the others. They held the children in their arms as they began to walk forward, still singing. Linda's hair billowed in the wind from the smashed out window.
"God, even now she is so beautiful," whispered her husband's shadow.
Then Linda squeezed her children tightly to her, waited to feel their answering hugs . . . and took a single step. As Linda, Bob and the children fell forward, others shuffling up to take their places, Hennessey heard, "Help of the helpless, O' Abide with me . . . ."
High above the ground, in a first class seat toward the front of the airplane, his Sergeant Major seated beside him, Patrick Hennessey awakened, pulled a medium weight blue blanket over his head, and – as silently as possible – wept.
Herrera Airport, Ciudad Balboa, 9/8/459 AC
"Ahhh. Smell t'e flowers! T'ere's no place like Balboa!"
Hennessey smiled indulgently at the tall, razor-thin, gray-haired black man walking at his left side. They moved quickly through Balboan immigration and into the baggage area. At the Aduana, or Customs, a senior customs agent recognized Hennessey from his previous trip and waved him, the other two whites, and the sole black man forward to the front of the line. With a conspiratorial smile, the Aduana agent fell over himself to make the group's transit through the terminal as trouble free as possible. Within mere minutes Hennessey and his companions, John McNamara, Command Sergeant Major (retired), Matthias Esterhazy, late of the Sachsen Reichswehr's Fallschirmstuermpioniere, or Airborne Assault Engineers, and Her Anglic Majesty's former Royal Sapper, Gary Clean, were standing at the counter to pick up their rental car.
"Where are we goin' first, sir?" asked McNamara in a melodious Maiden Islands accent. Esterhazy and Clean kept silent, looking around with curiosity.
Hennessey answered, loudly enough for all three of his companions to hear, "First, Sergeant Major, we're going to check in at the Julio Caesare. We've got reservations already. An acquaintance of mine – nice girl, 'Lourdes' – has reserved rooms for us. Then we'll need food, I think. This afternoon, after lunch, we'll go look at buying a headquarters. I want you there for that. It may take us a couple of days to find something appropriate."
The CSM nodded. "I've given t'e set up some t'ought. Once we find t'e right place, just leave it to me."
"As always, Sergeant Major."
As the rental car pulled up, Hennessey thought to ask: "You were never stationed on the Ciudad side, were you?"
"No, sir. I've been here, of course, but only to pass t'rough."
"Okay, I'd better drive. I know the way. I'm also more used to the . . . shall we say . . . élan with which they drive here."
The drive from the airport to the Julio Caesare was uneventful. Check-in, too, at the hotel went smoothly, as expected. The rooms proved more than adequate. As Hennessey was unpacking, the room telephone rang. "A young lady to see you, sir. "Lourdes," she says her name is."
"Yes, fine. Please have her escorted to my room."
* * *
"I am here to see one of your guests," Lourdes told the man at the registry counter. "Patrick Hennessey."
The man looked her over briefly and came to a rapid conclusion – Hooker. A high end model, I suspect.
Lourdes' already huge brown eyes widened further still. He can't really think . . . oh, no . . . I don't look . . . I don't dress . . . I hardly even wear any make up . . . he can't really. Dammit I'm a good girl!
She said nothing except to sigh as the man picked up the telephone and announced her, then signaled for a bellhop. The bellhop came up to stand beside her, a wide smirk on his face. He thinks so, too?
Lourdes followed the bellhop to the elevator, embarrassment – and not a little anger – growing inside her with each step. She stewed in simmering juices while waiting for the elevator doors to open. She thought, I should have just asked for the room number and told them I could find it myself. But then . . . no . . . if I knew my way around the hotel they would probably be certain instead of just guessing.
Lourdes and the bell hop rode up past several floors before the bell chimed, the elevator stopped and the doors opened. She let herself be led to Hennessey's room quietly, like a sheep to slaughter.
* * *
Hennessey opened his door, a few minutes later, in answer to the bellhop's knock. Tipping the man a tetradrachma and dismissing him, he gestured for Lourdes Nuñez-Cordoba to enter. She hesitated, automatically. Helping find a house for someone you barely knew was one thing; being alone in a hotel room with a near stranger was something a Balboan girl of good upbringing just didn't do. The thought of what the hotel staff had assumed about her made her skin crawl.
Overcoming her rearing, Lourdes walked in. "It's very nice to see you again, Patricio."
"And you, too. Have you been well?"
"I'm all right, but my work has closed because of the world's economy since the First Landing attacks. I know after all you've suffered that's small beans, but I'm out of a job. My family has been supporting me. With business so depressed, and so many people out of work, I doubt I will find another job soon."
"You already have one, working for me, if you want to and are willing to put up with some conditions."
Lourdes immediately raised a suspicious eyebrow. "What conditions?" she asked. I am a good girl dammit! You may be good looking, but you are not THAT good looking.
Understanding, in part at least, Hennessey chuckled slightly. "Probably not what you're thinking. Firstly, your job will be general clerical, with some supervisory responsibilities, work gangs and such, and some teaching. Second, the pay is twelve hundred per month plus room and board. You'll earn your pay, believe me. I am not easy to work for." Twelve hundred per month was good pay, very good, by the standards of the Republica de Balboa.
"I don't believe that."
"Believe it, Lourdes. I'm not a nice man."
"I don't believe that, either." The woman thought for a while. This is the best offer I've had lately. Reaching a decision, she answered, "I'll take it."
"Good. I'd hoped you would. You're on the payroll as of the beginning of the eighth month. I'll have your first monthly paycheck for you tomorrow. Oh, yes, there is one other thing before you commit yourself. I expect absolute loyalty, discretion, and obedience from those who work for me. You must also never tell anyone, not your boyfriend, your parents, or your priest – no one – what you do for me or what I do. Can you do that?"
"I don't have a boyfriend right now. I'm a Baptist, so I don't have a priest. I can keep quiet." She hesitated. "Are you planning something illegal? I don't want anything to do with drugs . . . or guns."
"No drugs. And we won't be running guns, if that's what you're worried about."
"All right then. What's my first job?"
"For now, you're going to lunch with myself and a few close friends
. Then we'll meet the real estate agent you found for me."
Chorrera Province, Republic of Balboa, 13/8/459 AC
"Señor, I am certain this will fit your needs," announced the fat, greasy-looking realtor. He may have been fat and greasy looking, but Lourdes had checked and he had an enviable reputation for fair dealing.
It had taken four days, and fourteen houses and ranches, before the realtor had finally brought them to something appropriate. Lourdes had not understood what was wrong with the others they had seen. Hennessey hadn't bothered to explain. The one in front of which Hennessey, McNamara, the realtor, the two engineers and Lourdes stood seemed close to fitting the bill. It was some eighteen or twenty miles east of Balboa City, on a promontory overlooking the ocean, a mansion of sorts, old and built of stone, with a high stone retaining wall fronting the highway to the south and east. It had the "haunted house" look that said it hadn't been occupied or properly cared for for some years.