The Green And The Gray

by Timothy Zahn

  "Fierenzo," he said.

  "It's Jon, Tommy," Powell's voice came. "Smith's got the note."

  Fierenzo glanced across the room at the glowing numbers of the clock between the two beds—7:02

  A.M.—noting peripherally that Jonah had propped himself up on an elbow and was looking a bit blearily at him. "Good," he murmured to his partner, digging out his pad and pen. "He phoned it in, I hope."

  "He did indeed," Powell confirmed. "You ready?"

  Fierenzo flipped the notebook open to an empty page. "Shoot."

  "You were right about it being on the back of a gum wrapper," Powell said. "Smith said it's a little hard to read, but here's his best interpretation: 'Roger: Green Warriors moving NYC Tue night from N... sweep S w/Damian behind them... must intercept before buildings fall... I love you, C Any of this making sense to you?"

  "All of it, unfortunately," Fierenzo said, scribbling madly. "Okay, I got it."

  "Hang on, we're not done," Powell said. "There's also a P.S. It says—"

  "Wait a second," Fierenzo interrupted, frowning. There hadn't been any postscripts on Caroline's first note. "What kind of P.S.?"

  "Just a P.S.," Powell said, sounding puzzled. "Your basic everyday oops-I-forgot-something P.S. Is that a problem?"

  "Possibly," Fierenzo said, thinking hard. "Could Smith tell whether it was the same handwriting and pen?"

  "I don't know," Powell said, suddenly thoughtful himself. "It must have been at least close or I'm sure he would have said something."

  "Call him back and ask," Fierenzo said. "In the meantime, let's hear it."

  "Okay," Powell said. "It just says: 'P.S. Watch out for roaming Warriors like on Wed.' Then below that are a bunch of kisses."

  Fierenzo frowned. "Kisses?"

  "Yeah, you know—a row of X's at the bottom like high-school kids put on their notes. Two rows, in this case: five in the first, four in the second, with three periods after the fourth X in the bottom row."

  "Three periods?" Fierenzo echoed, thoroughly confused now.

  "Yeah," Powell said. "She must really miss him."

  "I guess," Fierenzo muttered, adding the three dots to his second row of X's. "That it?"

  "That's it," Powell confirmed. "You really know what all this means, huh?"

  "Up until the last part I did," Fierenzo admitted. "This 'roaming Warriors' part worries me. I wonder if it means we'll have to deal with a main battle group plus some independents making trouble elsewhere."

  "You mean like snipers or saboteurs?"

  "Something like that," Fierenzo said hesitantly. "I don't think their main target is the city itself, but we could be talking a huge amount of collateral damage."

  "Any idea how many fighters we're talking about?"

  "My source tells me the Greens can field up to sixty people," Fierenzo said. "Not too hard to control if they stay together. But if they drop even a few roamers, it's going to stretch our resources pretty damn thin."

  "Hell on wheels," Powell muttered.

  "Very possibly," Fierenzo agreed. "Look, we need to see the note itself. When you call Smith to check on the handwriting, tell him to hustle himself back down here."

  "I will," Powell said. "Do you think the Tuesday in the note is this Tuesday? As in, today?"

  Fierenzo grimaced. "That's my guess. Looks like someone's moved up Cyril's initial timetable by twenty-four hours. You said you're meeting with Messerling at nine?"

  "Yeah, and I'll make sure he knows the alert's been moved up," Powell promised. "What are your plans for the day?"

  "Nothing I can discuss on a cell phone," Fierenzo said. "Let me know when Smith thinks he can be back."

  "Right."

  There was a click, and Fierenzo punched off his phone. "Trouble?" Jonah asked quietly.

  "That was my partner," Fierenzo told him, levering himself stiffly out of the chair. "We've got another note from Caroline."

  "So I gathered," Jonah said. "That's not what I asked."

  Fierenzo shrugged as he headed toward the bathroom. "This particular note has a PS. that's either a secret message to Roger, a red herring Sylvia herself added on after Caroline hid it, or possibly an indication that Caroline's glue is starting to melt. We won't know until we can look at the original.

  Maybe not even then."

  He was at the sink, splashing cold water on his face, when Powell called back. "I just talked to Smith," he said, his voice tight. "He was sitting in the restaurant parking lot waiting for my call when he saw something interesting go by: five enclosed white Dodge cargo vans in convoy, all coming south on 42 and turning east on 28."

  Fierenzo felt a tingle on the back of his neck. The direction Sylvia and her people would come from if they were leaving their stronghold, and the direction they'd be going if they were headed for Manhattan. "Did he get anything on the drivers?"

  "Just that they were all young and dark-haired," Powell said. "He also got the tags; I've got DMV

  running them."

  "I don't suppose they were careless enough to put Caroline Whittier in plain sight in any of them, were they?"

  "If she was there, Smith didn't spot her," Powell said. "But he was thinking that instead of hightailing it back to the city, maybe he should hang around a bit and see if there's any more traffic. Maybe follow some of it and try to figure out where they're all going."

  Fierenzo rubbed the stubble on his cheek as he tried to kick-start his brain. Under normal circumstances, he would certainly want Smith to tail the convoy.

  But if he did, he and Powell might not get Caroline's note for several more hours. If the Greens were on the move, they might not have those hours to spare.

  "He also suggested faxing us a copy of the note," Powell said into his thoughts. "That won't tell us whether the pen is the same, but at least we could check the handwriting."

  "Sounds good," Fierenzo agreed, a little annoyed that he hadn't thought of that himself. "Tell him to see if he can find a place that faxes through a computer instead of just a standard machine. Maybe they can enhance the size or contrast a little."

  "He's already spotted a locksmith shop nearby that does shipping and faxes," Powell told him. "And he can even keep an eye on the traffic while he's in there."

  "Perfect," Fierenzo said. "What time does it open?"

  "Not until ten, but there's a number in the window to call for emergencies. I think this qualifies."

  "Definitely," Fierenzo agreed. "Have him fax it to you at the station house, then call me when you've got it. I'll tell you where to meet me."

  "Right. Talk to you later."

  Clicking off the phone and setting it aside, Fierenzo finished washing his face. "So what's the plan?" a voice asked as he reached for a towel.

  He looked over to find that Jonah had followed him to the bathroom doorway. "I'm heading back to the city," he said, rubbing the towel vigorously across his face. "We need to get this message figured out."

  "Seems pretty clear to me," Jonah said. "The Greens are coming onto Manhattan tonight from the north and will be pushing their way south, with Damian behind the line to bring down the buildings from under any Grays who are too high for the Shriek to affect."

  Fierenzo lowered the towel, looking at Jonah with raised eyebrows. "You left your notebook open," the other explained with a somewhat sheepish smile.

  He had, too, now that he thought about it. Sloppy. "I was just amazed you were able to read my handwriting, that's all," he said, hanging the towel back on its rack. "It's mostly that P.S. we're worried about."

  "You want me to get everyone up?"

  "No, you all might as well get a little more sleep," Fierenzo said. "I've got a friend coming by at one o'clock with a big police van—cop named Al Chenzi; call him Creepers. He'll take you into the city to a hotel across from Police Headquarters. I've already got a room reserved in your name."

  "Okay," Jonah said. "How are you getting in? Ferry?"

  "No, Creepers' wife lent me her car," Fierenzo
told him. "I'll be fine."

  "You want me to come along?"

  Fierenzo shook his head. "I'd rather all of you stay together and keep an eye on Melantha. Which reminds me."

  He reached up and unfastened the hammergun still snugged against his left forearm. "Give this back to Jordan with my thanks," he said, handing it over. "Immensely handy little gadget. I wish I had one on a permanent basis."

  "You're welcome," Jonah said. "Come talk to me when this is all over. Maybe we can work something out." His lip twitched. "Maybe even start a new Thor legend."

  "Let's just concentrate on getting through the drama we're in the middle of right now," Fierenzo told him grimly, pulling his shirt back on. "Have everybody ready to go by twelve-thirty—the Greens, too. And make sure it's really Chenzi: fifty-five, pure white hair, tiny little mustache you can barely see, blue eyes, missing the last segment of the little finger on his right hand."

  "Got it," Jonah said. "You be careful."

  "I will," Fierenzo promised. "See you all later."

  "Okay, it's sent," the locksmith said, handing Smith the gum wrapper and the receipt. "That'll be fiftyfour dollars."

  Smith lifted his eyebrows. "Fifty-four dollars?"

  "It was an off-hours emergency call," the locksmith reminded him. "That's fifty for the call, four for the fax."

  "Fine," Smith said, turning around to the shop's big plate glass window as he pulled out his wallet.

  The traffic was starting to pick up a little, he noted, and he hoped no more of the white vans had sneaked past while he wasn't looking. An old red Ford pickup trundled along behind a more modern Chevy, one of their engines sounding badly in need of a tune-up.

  Smith stiffened. The light out there wasn't particularly good, and he'd caught only a glimpse of the pickup's driver as it passed. But unless he was seriously mistaken—

  "Hello?" the locksmith prompted from behind him.

  Smith yanked out three twenties and slapped them on the counter. "Keep it," he said tersely.

  Scooping up the gum wrapper and receipt, he shoved open the door and sprinted for his car.

  Thirty seconds later, he was back on the highway, roaring off in hot pursuit of the truck. Grabbing his phone, he punched Powell's number. "This is Smith," he said when the detective answered. "I think I've found Mrs. Whittier."

  "Absolutely not," Fierenzo said emphatically, stomping hard on the brakes of his borrowed car as he nearly rear-ended a small delivery van. "He can follow the truck, but he's to stay well back. Under no circumstances is he to approach it."

  "But he says he can get her out," Powell argued. "There was only one other person in the truck, and he said she looked pretty old."

  Fierenzo gritted his teeth. "Remember that fancy sonic blast that knocked me on my can outside the park Saturday morning?" he asked. "Sylvia, the old woman, has got the same equipment. If she thinks Smith is crowding her, he could find himself shaking bumpers with a tree."

  Powell sighed audibly. "Fine. I'll warn him off, then head in and get the fax. I should be at the precinct in half an hour. How about you?"

  "I'm fighting rush-hour traffic," Fierenzo growled. "It could be another hour or more before I get there."

  "Do we have that much time to spare?"

  Fierenzo glared at the lines of cars and trucks and vans stretching to the horizon ahead of him. No, they damn well might not have that much time to spare, he realized. Caroline's note had seemed to indicate the Greens' action had been moved up twenty-four hours, from Wednesday night to Tuesday night.

  But the Greens were already on the move. With only a couple hours' drive between them and the city, and at least nine hours until Tuesday night really began, they were already on the move. Did that mean there were several hours' worth of preparations they needed to make once they reached Manhattan?

  Or did it mean the timetable had been moved up even further than Caroline had realized? Because if Nikolos had decided to turn Damian loose on Manhattan's skyscrapers in the middle of the workday... "You're right," he told Powell. "Okay. There's nothing I can do to get in any faster, but we don't have to wait until I'm there to get Whittier started on the note. Maybe he can decipher it while I'm still on the road."

  "You know where he is?"

  "Room 412 at the Riverview," Fierenzo said, mentally crossing his fingers that neither side had figured out how to tap into the city's cell system. "In fact, complete change of plans," he said suddenly. "When you get to the precinct, call Whittier and tell him to meet me at the Civic Center—I can get there faster than I can to the Two-Four. Then resend Smith's fax down there. Let's see... send it to Merri Lang in the Municipal Building. She owes me a favor, and I can trust her to keep her mouth shut."

  "Whittier and the fax to Lang; got it," Powell said. "Where do you want Whittier to meet you?

  You're still listed as missing, you know."

  "I hadn't forgotten," Fierenzo assured him. "Lang's floor should be safe enough—no one there reads police bulletins."

  "Got it," Powell said. "Anything else?"

  "Just trace those vans, and don't miss your appointment with Cerreta and Messerling," Fierenzo told him.

  "Right," Powell said. "I'll call if I hear anything."

  The phone went dead. Fierenzo tapped the "off" button and dropped the phone on the seat beside him. Glancing at his mirrors, he cut into the next lane and sped up. It was time to show these other yahoos just what thirty-five years of New York driving experience looked like.

  The fax was waiting in the machine when Powell arrived at the station house. "Perfect," he muttered to himself as he looked it over. The P.S., in particular, was exactly the way Smith had dictated it.

  Now all they had to do was figure out what it meant.

  "Powell?" someone called from across the squad room. "DMV's on line four."

  "Thanks," Powell called back. Hurrying to his desk, he scooped up the phone and punched the button. "Powell."

  "Adamson here, Detective," a woman's voice said in a heavy Brooklyn accent. "I've got those tags you sent us."

  "Great," Powell said, flipping his notebook to the right page. "Go."

  "All five vans are registered to an E. and O. Green Associates of Bushnellsville, New York,"

  Adamson reported. "They were purchased used two months ago."

  "Mm," Powell said. So Smith's instincts had been right: the Greens were indeed on the move.

  "Anything else?"

  "I can get you VINs and such if you really want them," Adamson offered. "I was also a little curious about that purchase date, so I took the liberty of backtracking the previous owners. You interested?"

  "Absolutely," Powell said, flipping to the next page.

  "Turns out all were owned by various restaurants in the city," she said. "What's really interesting is that all the restaurant owners are also named Green."

  Powell frowned. "Really?"

  "Really," she assured him. "Is this some sort of insurance scam or something?"

  Powell smiled tightly. If she only knew. "You know I can't discuss that with you," he said in his best official-neutral voice. "You have the restaurants' names and addresses?"

  He scribbled notes as she read them off. "Okay, great," he said when she had finished. "Thanks."

  "Any time, Detective."

  He dropped the phone back into its cradle, looking over his list with grim satisfaction. So now they had at least a few solid addresses connected with these elusive Greens. Might be worth taking a closer look at them at some point, maybe see if the businesses' finances and ownerships interlocked in any way. Might even be able to work this into a Federal RICO charge if they found they needed some extra leverage.

  But that was for later. Right now, there were more urgent matters to deal with, such as what exactly Sylvia was bringing to Manhattan that required five vans to carry. More gang fighters, perhaps? But the vans Smith had described weren't usually equipped as passenger vehicles. Besides, from what Fierenzo had said it didn't
sound like there were very many people up there. Weapons, then, maybe more of those sonic gadgets? Drugs?

  Explosives?

  Hauling out his phone directory, he turned to the listing for hotels. He would call Whittier, as Fierenzo had instructed. But after that, he would give the State Police a quick heads-up. If there was something nasty on the highways of New York this morning, they would definitely want to know about it.

  "Just a second," Roger said, wedging the phone between his ear and shoulder and digging a pen and a pad of note paper from the bedside table. "Okay; ready."

  "Right," Powell said. "Here goes. 'Roger: Green Warriors moving NYC Tue night...' "

  Roger wrote down the message as the other dictated, his heart pounding with new hope even as yawns of fatigue tugged at his jaws. Caroline was still alive, or at least she had been as of last night.

  And not only alive, but able to write a succinct yet completely understandable warning to them.

  Completely understandable, that is, until Powell got to the P.S.

  "Five X's, then four, then three dots?" he asked, frowning at the notepad. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "We were hoping you could tell us," Powell said. "Could it just be the usual shorthand for sending you kisses?"

  "Not a chance," Roger said firmly. "Caroline's never done that before, not in any note or letter she's ever written me."

  "Then it's definitely a clue," Powell concluded. "All we have to do is figure out what it means."

  Roger grimaced. Translation: now all he had to do was figure out what it meant. Caroline was his wife, after all. "Any chance of seeing the actual note?"

  "It won't be here for a few hours, but we have a very good fax of it," Powell told him. "I'm sending it to a forensic accountant named Merri Lang—she's in the Municipal Building on Centre Street across from City Hall. She'll be expecting you. Detective Fierenzo will meet you there as soon as he can."

  "Muni Building; got it," Roger repeated.

  "One other thing," Powell said, his voice suddenly a little hesitant. "Officer Smith is currently on the trail of a pickup truck we think came from the place you and Fierenzo visited. We think your wife may have been driving it."