The Green And The Gray

by Timothy Zahn

"We might be able to get in under one of the Homeland Security Acts," Messerling said doubtfully.

  "But that would mean bringing in the Feds."

  "Detective Fierenzo was rather hoping we could avoid that," Powell said.

  "That was before he disappeared," Messerling pointed out darkly. "He might be feeling differently right now."

  "Assuming his disappearance and this gang war are related," Cerreta said. "Still nothing on his car?"

  "It hadn't been approached during the twenty-four hours before we gave up and had it towed in,"

  Powell said, an uncomfortable feeling churning in his gut. When Cerreta found out that Fierenzo was alive and well, there were going to be five circles of hell to pay. "So far, CSU hasn't found anything useful."

  Cerreta grunted. "I don't know," he said. "Play that tape again, will you?"

  Powell touched the button on his recorder, replaying the tape of Cyril's message they'd made from the Whittiers' answering machine. "A possible kidnapping, except that no one named Melantha has been reported missing," Cerreta mused. "Vague threats, but no indication of anything other than homegrown thugs. No foreign connections at all. I'm not sure we could get the Feds in on this even if we wanted them."

  "So we do it ourselves," Messerling said. "Fine. When do we need to be set up?"

  "That's part of the problem," Powell said. "The message indicates that the confrontation will take place tomorrow night. More recently we got information that it would be tonight instead. But those vans are already on the move, which means it could be as early as this afternoon."

  "Or they may have decided it would be safer to cross the bridge when there was more traffic,"

  Cerreta suggested. "Once they're in, it would be easy enough to go to ground and wait for nightfall."

  He gestured at Powell's notebook. "Possibly at one of those restaurants."

  From Powell's pocket came the faint ring of his cell phone. "Excuse me," he said, digging out the phone and punching in on. "Powell."

  "Jon, it's me," Fierenzo's voice came tautly. "We've got it."

  Roger was sitting in a small waiting area down the hallway from Merri Lang's office, staring at the fax she'd given him, when someone dropped into the chair beside him. He started; but it was just Fierenzo. "Lang told me where you went," the detective said, holding out his hand. "What do you think?"

  "It's like two different people wrote this," Roger said as he handed over the fax. "The first part is obviously shorthand, but the meaning is crystal-clear. The P.S., on the other hand, is almost wordy by comparison, and about as clear as a bureaucratic form."

  "But it is Caroline's writing on both of them?" Fierenzo asked, studying the paper.

  "It all looks like her printing, yes," Roger confirmed. "I just don't understand why she would suddenly change styles that way."

  "Let's assume Caroline has the first part ready to go when she suddenly learns something new,"

  Fierenzo said, handing back the fax and leaning back in his chair. Lacing his fingers together behind his head, he stared up at the ceiling. "She wants to add it to the note; but for some reason she also wants to make sure it won't be understood if the wrong people find it."

  "The wrong people being Sylvia?"

  "That's the most obvious wrong person," Fierenzo agreed. "So now she has to write this new information in a way that only the right person will understand, that right person being you or one of the Grays."

  Roger shook his head. "I've already run the multiple-X thing past Torvald. It didn't strike any particular chords."

  Fierenzo frowned. "You talked to Torvald?"

  "He met me on the way over here," Roger said. "We had an interesting conversation."

  "You didn't tell him about the message, did you?

  "I told him there was one, but that we still needed to figure it out," Roger said. "You have any thoughts?"

  "Only the broad scenario I just laid out," Fierenzo murmured. "But don't forget that she doesn't necessarily think the same way you do. You may be looking at this in a literal way, whereas she might mean something symbolic."

  Roger snorted. "Frankly, I was assuming the whole thing was symbolic."

  "Not necessarily," Fierenzo said. "There are parts that are almost certainly literal. This 'roaming Warriors on Wed' line, for instance. The Wednesday reference seems pretty concrete."

  "Well, we sure didn't see any Warriors last Wednesday," Roger told him. "At least, not that I know of. I sort of assumed the Wednesday reference meant tomorrow, not last week, and that she was trying to warn us that after whatever happens tonight there would still be Warriors around tomorrow."

  "Possibly," Fierenzo said. "But I'm not ready to give up on last Wednesday just yet. Tell me everything that happened that day."

  "We went to work," Roger said, frowning as he thought back. After everything that had happened in the past few days, last Wednesday seemed like an eternity ago. "We came home, ate dinner—"

  "What did you have?"

  "Fish," Roger said. "Then we got ready for the play, argued a little about whether to walk or take a cab and about not getting enough exercise. Then we went to the play. At the end she managed to lose a ring under the seat, so that when we left all the cabs were already gone. We started walking home, discussed the play a little..."

  He trailed off as the whisper of something caught at the edge of his mind. Watch out for roaming Warriors....

  "What is it?" Fierenzo asked quietly.

  "She liked the play a lot," Roger said slowly. "I mostly didn't. It was one of these deep, psychological things, with a typically ridiculous love triangle in the middle of it." He shook his head as it belatedly struck him. "Relational thinking," he said. "No wonder she likes things like that while I don't. I'm watching the plot contrivances; she's watching the character interactions."

  "What in particular did either of you say about it?" Fierenzo asked. "Anything about Romans?"

  "No," Roger said, staring at the tiny letters Caroline had printed. "No, wait a minute. I did make a comment about—" He looked sharply at Fierenzo. "About Latin lovers," he said. "Roman Warriors; Latin lovers."

  Fierenzo shook his head. "You've lost me."

  "I called the villain in the play a Latin lover," Roger said, stumbling over the words as his tongue tried to keep up with his brain. "Caroline pointed out he was French; I said he was a Latin lover in the generic sense; she asked if that was the same sense as the 'when in Rome' cliche. You see? Latin

  —Roman. Roman—roaming."

  Fierenzo still had a wary look on his face. "I hope there's more to this."

  "Plenty more," Roger said grimly. "Because right after I dropped that reference we argued a little about whether the main female character was a victim or not. I thought the woman was dragged unknowingly to her doom. She argued that the character knew what was going on the whole time."

  "Knew what was going on," Fierenzo murmured, half to himself. "Knew what was..." He broke off.

  "Sylvia knew she was leaving notes?"

  "That's what it sounds like to me," Roger agreed. "And that fits with Caroline suddenly having to put this into code. What I don't understand is if Sylvia found out about that first note, why didn't she just keep Caroline inside where she couldn't leave another one?"

  "Obviously, because she wanted Caroline to leave it," Fierenzo said grimly. "Sylvia's been feeding her disinformation and deliberately letting her pass in on to us." He looked at the fax. "Which means everything above the P.S. is garbage. The Greens aren't attacking from the north at all."

  "But if Caroline knew it was a lie, why send it at all?" Roger asked, frowning.

  "Because by then she knew her first note was disinformation, too," Fierenzo told him. "Problem was, there was nothing she could do to call it back. Since the Greens were vetting the notes, and since Sylvia obviously wouldn't let a straight warning get through, she had to say what Sylvia wanted and then piggyback this P.S. onto it and hope they couldn't figure it out."
/>   "And hope that we could," Roger said, thinking back to her first note and the supposed confirmation of Damian's existence. "Does this mean that there isn't any Damian?"

  "I'd say there's a real good chance of that," Fierenzo agreed. "Looks like Torvald and Ron were right

  —the whole thing was never anything but a scam. A little bait to lure the Grays into planning for the wrong war." He tapped the fax. "And maybe being caught on the wrong part of the island to boot."

  "Okay," Roger said slowly. "But if there's no Damian, then what's the trap?"

  "Oh, my God," Fierenzo murmured, his face suddenly turned to stone. "What am I using for brains?

  Your wife's a genius, Roger. All she has is a gum wrapper; so what does she do but make her words do double duty. One clue, two different meanings."

  He nodded at the fax." 'Roman Warriors' points to your Latin lover and Sylvia, all right. But it also clues us in to the X's at the bottom."

  Roger caught his breath. "Are you saying... Roman numerals?"

  "And at X equals ten, that's ninety Warriors," Fierenzo said. "Or more—those three dots probably mean the series continues."

  He looked at Roger, his face tight. "There's Nikolos's dirty little secret, Roger. No wonder he didn't care if Melantha died Wednesday in Riverside Park. He's got a private army of Warriors stashed away in the Catskills."

  "With the Grays only expecting the sixty they know about," Roger said, a shiver running up his back.

  "Nikolos is going to pull a Little Bighorn on them."

  "Not if I can help it," Fierenzo said, pulling out his cell and punching the buttons. "Maybe we can intercept those vans before—Jon, it's me. We've got it."

  "Okay, we're on it," Powell said, scribbling one last note. "Thanks."

  He punched off the cell. "That was my informant," he told Cerreta and Messerling. "New information: those vans may be carrying soldiers. Possibly over a hundred of them."

  "Soldiers?" Messerling said, frowning. "I thought we were talking about a gang war."

  "So this means we are talking terrorists?" Cerreta added.

  "No, it's still a gang war," Powell said hastily, trying to remember the precise words Fierenzo had told him to use. "But this group has been specially trained and equipped."

  "So bottom line is that we're now talking between a hundred fifty and two hundred fighters on the streets?" Messerling asked.

  "And that's just on one side," Powell said, nodding. "And it gets worse. There are indications the attack we've been expecting will be only a feint. That means the main thrust could come from any direction."

  "Unless we can nab them before they get to choose which bridge or tunnel they want," Cerreta said, picking up the phone and punching in a number.

  "State Police?" Messerling asked.

  Cerreta nodded. "That type of van normally isn't equipped for passengers," he said. "If they've got that many people crammed in there, we can get them on a traffic violation long enough to search for weapons. Yeah—this is Cerreta; NYPD. Get me Kowalsky in Operations."

  "Fine, but what's our reason for stopping them in the first place?" Messerling asked.

  "Smith was tracking some white vans," Cerreta said, holding his hand over the mouthpiece. "A white van deliberately forced him off the road. Since we don't know which one it was, we'll just have to stop all of them while we figure it out."

  "I'll buy that," Messerling agreed, nodding. "I just hope a judge will, too."

  "Let's worry about that after we get them off the road." Cerreta held up his hand. "Matt? It's Paul Cerreta. I've got a little problem for you...."

  43

  "There!" Officer Alfonse Keely said, pointing at the row of white vans speeding toward them down the Thruway. "Ross?"

  "That's them," his partner confirmed, half his face covered by the massive binoculars gripped in his hands. "Tags one... two... yeah, that's them." He lowered the binoculars, frowning. "I thought Dispatch said there were five of them."

  "Yeah, I count eight, too," Keely said grimly, picking up the mike. "Dispatch; Bravo-two-seven. Got a hit on eight, repeat eight, white Dodge vans: tags confirmed on five of them. Heading southbound, just passing Arden."

  "Dispatch, copy," a crisp female voice replied. "Pursue and observe only."

  "Roger that," Keely said, setting down the mike and starting the engine. Letting the vans pass, he pulled out onto the highway behind them.

  He still didn't know what exactly this alert was all about. Dispatch was being very hush-hush, and even the usual departmental grapevine hadn't been any help.

  But whatever this bug was that Manhattan had up its butt, it was apparently a big and hairy one.

  Before they'd gone two miles a half-dozen terse positioning orders came over the radio as an unknown number of cars were zeroed in on the convoy. Over the next ten miles, Keely noticed an ever-increasing number of squad cars drifting casually into view in front of or behind the vans. The orders tapered off, and for another couple of miles Keely wondered if maybe someone had decided to forget the whole thing—

  "Units four and six: close off," the radio crackled suddenly. "All units: move in to assist. Use extreme caution—driver and passengers armed and dangerous."

  And with that, red lights exploded into view all around them, not just from the marked cars but from a half-dozen unmarked ones as well. "Holy Mother," Ross muttered as he flipped on their own light bar. "What the hell is this?"

  "With this much firepower on tap?" Keely countered. "Ten to one it's terrorists."

  "Terrific," Ross grunted, popping their shotgun from its rack. Chambering a round, he held it ready between his knees.

  Two of the squad cars were directly in front of the vans now, with three more pacing them. The drivers took the hint, maneuvering carefully through the rest of the startled traffic flow to the righthand lane. For another minute they kept going, as if trying to decide just how serious the cops really were. Keely gripped the wheel hard, hoping they wouldn't be stupid enough to make a run for it.

  He'd seen the aftermath of a high-speed gun battle once, and it hadn't been pretty.

  The pacing patrol cars moved closer, solidly boxing them in. The vans held their speed another few seconds, then finally bowed to the inevitable and pulled off the road, rolling to a stop beside a cluster of tall maple trees. The cops pulled off with them, positioning themselves fore and aft to block off any chance of escape, with a couple more parking half on the road alongside them to make double sure. Keely found himself a slot five cars back, and a moment later he and Ross were hurrying forward toward the line of vans along with a dozen other cops. The ones who'd made it to the vans first were already shouting orders and pulling open doors, their weapons at the ready.

  And because Keely happened to be looking at the faces of the cops at the rear van, he caught the abrupt change in their expressions. "What've we got?" he called as he jogged up beside them.

  Silently, one of them gestured into the van with his shotgun. Frowning, Keely eased to the door and looked inside.

  The driver was sitting motionlessly, his hands in plain sight on the steering wheel, his face composed and unconcerned as he stared straight ahead through the windshield.

  The rest of the van was empty.

  "What do you mean, empty?" Powell demanded, staring at Messerling in disbelief. "They can't be empty."

  "Well, they are," the other insisted, pressing the phone a little harder to his ear. "Drivers only. No passengers, no weapons, no explosives, no contraband. Not even jumper cables. Nothing."

  "What about the drivers?" Cerreta asked. "How do they seem?"

  Messerling relayed the question. "Pretty damn calm," he reported. "No panic; apparently not even any surprise."

  "With how many cops on the scene?"

  "About thirty."

  Cerreta looked at Powell. "Your average Joe Citizen would be having a stroke about now," he said.

  "These guys were expecting this."

  "Only they were ex
pecting it far enough in advance to offload their people before we got there,"

  Powell agreed sourly.

  "Looks that way," Cerreta agreed.

  "Lieutenant, have those vehicles checked, top to bottom," Messerling ordered into the phone. "And bring in the drivers."

  He waited for an acknowledgment, then hung up. "They'll be here in an hour," he reported.

  "Good," Cerreta said. "Let's just hope we can get something out of them."

  "Don't worry," Messerling said tightly. "We will."

  They had the drivers lined up beside the vans and had frisked them for weapons; and the cops were just readying their handcuffs when all eight men suddenly bolted.

  It was, Keely would realize afterward, an exquisitely coordinated move. All he saw in the heat of the moment, though, was the sudden flurry of activity as each driver shrugged off the hands holding him, gut-punched anyone standing too close, and made a mad and clearly futile dash for the clump of trees beside the road.

  "Hold your fire!" the lieutenant in charge shouted from the far end of the line. "Grab them!"

  The cops were already on the move, surging after them like Coney Island breakers heading for the beach. Keely joined the rush, a small corner of his mind recognizing that the would-be escapees would be run to ground long before he could reach the party, but caught up nevertheless in the mass excitement.

  "Where the hell do they think they're going?" Ross huffed from beside him.

  "Who knows?" Keely said, wondering if the whole bunch had gone simultaneously insane. There couldn't be more than a couple dozen trees there—he could see straight through the clump to the snow fence and the rocky field behind it, for Pete's sake. Where did they think they were going to hide?

  The drivers reached the first line of trees maybe five paces ahead of their pursuers, ducking and veering around the thick trunks like tight ends punching through a swarm of defenders. One of them ducked down, scooped up an armful of dead leaves, and half-turned to hurl them into the air behind him.

  Reflexively, Keely winced back, his eyes flicking to the fluttering leaves just long enough to confirm there wasn't anything solid like a grenade or satchel charge flying through the air with them, then turned his attention back downward.