Turn Loose the Dragons

by George C. Chesbro

  Alexandra laughed in disbelief. “Another partner? For God’s sake, Rick, why do they want us for something as important as this to begin with? ‘Off the wall’ doesn’t describe it; it’s insane. We haven’t been in the field for fifteen years, and we were never regular CIA agents. I’m surprised anyone at Langley even remembers us, much less believes we’re the people to stop an attempted assassination. Why on earth would we even be considered for this assignment? They’ve been testing hallucinogens on themselves.”

  Peters didn’t smile. “They’re dead serious, Alexandra. They want us precisely because we were never regular CIA. First, they’ve got what’s left of the Hughes-Ryan Act to contend with. Things are finally going their way again, and they don’t want to get caught in a fuck-up; there’s just no time to touch base with the required Congressional committees.

  “Second, what you used to read in the newspapers about the CIA is apparently true. Watergate, bacteria testing in the New York subways, and all the other disclosures really wiped out the Company’s covert-actions capability. Things have been picking up in the past couple of years, but they still don’t have the kind of black capability they once had. The few good operatives they managed to hang onto would probably be spotted by DMI the minute they stepped off the airplane at Angeles Blanca, if they weren’t picked off earlier in the visa process. Just about everybody Langley has that’s any good is blown, and the rest are green. We’re different; the dragons were always kept on the fringe of the organization, and we were deep-insulated. Only a handful of people knew of the dragons’ existence. The Sierrans probably still think of you and me as culture heroes, red-eye radicals from the Sixties—that’s if they remember us at all. We’re trained for this kind of operation. School’s been out for a long time, to be sure, but you don’t forget the kinds of things we learned.”

  “To be sure,” Alexandra said distantly.

  “In a crunch, our track record and reputations in the revolutionary underground could bail us out.”

  Alexandra looked away from Peters’ steady gaze, again shifted in her seat and rested her burning forehead against the car’s icy window. “Are you married, Rick?”

  Peters stared at her for some time before finally answering. “No, I’m not married,” he said with a bittersweet wryness.

  “Well, you know I am. I have three children. The Company must know that. They could have gone after another team; you and I weren’t the only dragons.”

  “Right; but there’s no question about our being the best. They want and need the best for this job. We’re supposed to identify the assassin and any backup, try to determine what organization tasked him, then do whatever killing may be required before the boxing matches.”

  Alexandra shuddered and drew her coat more tightly around her. Rick Peters had never been one to hide behind euphemisms, she thought, and the word “killing” seemed to echo inside the car, floating in the thin air with an eerie, tangible life of its own. She had almost forgotten that she had killed, more than once. She wondered if she could ever kill again, even to save her own life. Different colors, a different key.

  But the same terrible excitement.

  “Why do they want to go to the trouble?” Alexandra asked, the dry, dull tone of her voice belying her churning emotions. “Why does the Company suddenly want to protect Salva after they’ve been trying to get him for more than twenty years? It seems to me they’d figure that somebody with ball bearings for brains was trying to do them a favor.”

  “Different set of circumstances. Believe it or not, it seems the foxy bastard is just about ready to kiss and make up with the United States. According to the C, Salva and the Secretary of State have been carrying on negotiations for almost four and a half months. Apparently, Salva’s ego isn’t being sufficiently stroked by the Russians or his unaligned nations anymore, and he thinks the Russians are getting to be a pain in the ass. He just doesn’t trust them any longer; in fact, he’s convinced they’re already training some stooge in Moscow to take over when he goes, which makes him a very nervous dictator. I think Afghanistan and Poland shook him up, and he’s looking to San Sierra’s future. Whatever else the bastard may be, I guess you have to grant that he’s a patriot. The C says that Salva’s now convinced that San Sierra’s best interests lie in a political realignment with the United States.” He paused and laughed loudly. “The irony of it is that the big Sierran exodus is what started the negotiations. Talk about a diplomatic coup! The Russians will go crazy!”

  Peters dragged deeply on his cigarette, then began to drum the fingers of his other hand on the steering wheel. “That’s as much as I’ve been told,” he continued. His voice became quieter, more reflective. “I think there’s more, but I don’t know what it is. The Company knows that a lot of shit is going to hit the international fan if Salva is assassinated; there’s just no way the United States would be able to convince the rest of the world that the CIA didn’t do it. Alpha Nine would like that, of course; they’ve never forgiven the Company for not backing them at Beach of Fire.

  “If the Russians are sufficiently pissed, they might use Salva’s assassination as an excuse to start throwing their weight around in Western Europe. With the atmosphere in this country being what it is, the White House might decide it can’t afford to take any more crap from anybody. I buy the reasons the C gave me for the government wanting to protect Salva, but I also think the Company is seriously concerned about the possibility of the assassination setting off a global war.”

  “I can see that,” Alexandra said thoughtfully. “Which brings us to the obvious question: why doesn’t some genius at the Company or State simply pick up a telephone and give Salva a ring? Warn him.”

  “Good question,” Peters said, returning Alexandra’s intense gaze. “As a mater of fact, that’s the first thing I asked the C. The answer is that State doesn’t know anything about this assassination plot. The official version from the C is that the CIA, as usual, doesn’t trust State not to botch it somehow. The Company doesn’t trust Salva any more than they think Salva trusts the United States, and they think State is being hopelessly naive. Their position is that Salva hasn’t asked us to dance yet, and they’ve put together a scenario where Salva nabs the assassin we hand him and puts him away for insurance; Salva can always have the guy worked on, then present him to the world as a CIA agent who was sent to kill him. I think it scans. A stunt like that isn’t beyond him, you know.”

  “You said it was the ‘official version.’ You don’t think that’s the whole story?”

  Peters laughed drily. “Nothing our friends try to lay on you is ever the whole story. You know that. I think the C told me the truth, as far as it goes. I think we’re also witnessing the old wheels-within-wheels syndrome. If the Company, by itself, can abort this assassination and break up the organization that paid for it, it puts more pressure on Salva to come over, and—the real point—it completely reverses the agency’s fortunes. No more shit from Congress. The good old CIA that we knew and loved is back in business, with two Company men in everybody’s attic.”

  “You’re saying that you think the Company is willing to risk a major confrontation between Russia and the United States just so they can score some bonus points with Congress?”

  “Are you kidding me? Of course they’re willing.” Peters grinned broadly. When Alexandra didn’t respond, he turned serious once again. “And who’s to say they’re not right? After all, if Congress hadn’t gutted them in the first place, we aging dragons wouldn’t be sitting out here in the snow, would we?”

  Alexandra absently ran her hand over the padded vinyl on the dashboard. “You’re definitely going?”

  “Yes, if they want me. Like I said, if you pass, they may cancel me out and look for another team of dragons who’ve worked together.”

  “Why do you want to do it, Rick?”

  Peters laughed self-consciously, then fell silent. Alexandra felt herself compelled to turn and gaze into the pale, intense eyes. />
  “Because I care,” Peters said quietly.

  “About what?”

  “This country.”

  “Bullshit,” Alexandra said harshly. “What you really cared about was the game, the same as me. We were players, Rick, and that was all that mattered.”

  “It amazes me that you can say that now,” Peters replied evenly. “It’s absolutely true, and I knew it all the time. You were the one who thought that the name of that game was patriotism. You’ve changed, Alexandra, and so have I. If the Company says it needs me in San Sierra, then I’m ready to go; but now it’s because I do care. I get all the excitement I need selling real estate. You do what you want. I’m to deliver a Company message, not to plead their case.”

  It was true that she had changed, Alexandra thought. Her love for, and life with, John had turned her inside out. She still felt the old excitement, but the difference was that John had taught her, too, to truly care.

  Alexandra studied Peters’ face. His mouth was set in a firm line, but his eyes, as always, revealed nothing. “The departure date is only two and a half weeks away. How can we get visas in time?”

  “The C said that’s been taken care of. Clever, thoughtful folk that they are, the Company applied for visas in our names before they bothered asking us how we felt about it. They probably ordered up a batch for a number of ex-dragons, and they’ll cancel out all but the two they use. In any case, they’ll be bona fide visas, nothing at all phony about them. Yours will also list your maiden name, Scott, just in case we have to cash in some Sierran I.O.U.s.”

  Peters smiled warmly as he reached across to the seat and rested his hand lightly on Alexandra’s shoulder. “What about it?” he continued quietly. “It’s freezing here, which makes it a good time of year to go to San Sierra. Shall the meanest set of dragons go to war again?”

  Alexandra slowly and deliberately reached up and removed Peters’ hand from her shoulder. “I’ll get back to you within forty-eight hours,” she said coldly, then stepped out of the car into the storm.

  John Finway

  Naked, John Finway studied his reflection in one of the full-length mirrors in the locker room of the New York Athletic Club. He started to turn away, but then felt compelled to look again. He took a step forward and peered closer, as if to see if he looked as much a stranger to himself as he felt.

  His body was in good shape, John thought. He played squash and swam a half mile three days a week, and jogged on weekends. The result was a flat stomach, good wind, and excellent muscle tone.

  His thick hair, like his eyes, was iron-gray except for an inch-wide band of silver running in a zigzag pattern from just above his left temple to the top of his skull—the curious legacy of a Chicago policeman’s club that had landed on his head at the Democratic convention of 1968.

  He had a rather distinctive face, John thought sardonically; not handsome, but probably interesting. It was a face that had accompanied the lead stories on hundreds of news telecasts during the 1960s, a face that was still recognized by millions of Americans who reacted with either hatred or respect depending upon the political combat zones through which they had marched during the decade in which the two great battlegrounds had been the rice paddies of Southeast Asia and America’s streets.

  His nose, mashed twenty years before by a construction worker’s fist, was bent slightly askew. He recalled that Alexandra had always claimed that the crooked nose lent him “character”; he wondered what she would think now.

  John knew that his face represented many things to different people, but he now feared that it had simply become the face of a fool. He thought of his hard body as a facade, an unreliable vessel of muscle sheets and bone struts barely containing a storm that had twisted his heart, corroded his will, and rendered his intellect useless. In the eye of that storm lived lies, he thought; the lies were voracious little beasts, piranhas of the soul requiring constant care and feeding and which, he’d learned, still turned and gnawed at their keeper the moment attention wandered.

  There was little he could do about the storm, John thought as he started to dress, but he knew that the lies had to be cast out, soon, before he was eaten away.

  Forewarned by the emergency weather reports, John and his law partners had closed their New York offices at the first sign of snow. As a result, despite his stop at the athletic club, he’d had a head start on the snow-snarled crush of traffic and had made reasonably good time on the Palisades Parkway. He arrived home at 6:15, reacting with surprise and some alarm when he saw that Alexandra’s car was not in the driveway. He managed to drive his own car into the garage, shut off the lights and engine, and walked into a house redolent with the aroma of linguini and clam sauce.

  “Hey, watch out!” John cried in mock alarm as his son ran into his arms to be lifted and swung around.

  His daughters, wearing matching flowered aprons, came out of the kitchen and hurried across the living room to kiss him.

  “Happiness is two beautiful, gifted daughters who cook like French chefs,” John continued, masking his concern with a barking laugh that was an odd, sonic mark of his personality heard only by his family and a few close friends. “Where’s your mother?”

  “We don’t know, Dad,” Kara Finway answered, worry evident in her tone. “She left the house about an hour and a half ago.”

  John heard the door open and close behind him. Michael pulled out of John’s arms and ran around him to Alexandra.

  “Hi, Mom,” Kristen said, obviously relieved to see her mother arrive home safely.

  John turned and was startled to see his wife wearing her mink coat over a running suit that was stained with dark blotches of dried sweat. He was even more disturbed by the expression on her face. Alexandra’s features were stiff and contorted, as if she were trapped somewhere between a scream and a sob. It was a tortured look John had often seen on Alexandra’s face, but that had been many years in the past, after he had first met her in the holding pen of a Washington jail.

  John was certain he knew the reason for the expression; he had hoped—eventually, somehow—to at least partially undo his past deceit, but now he was sure that it was too late. His stomach hurt.

  “We were worried, darling,” John said quietly. His smile felt unnatural and forced as he searched Alexandra’s face in vain for some indication of what she knew and what lay in wait for him that evening.

  “There was no need to be,” Alexandra replied evenly.

  “Where’d you go?” John had tried to make the question seem casual, but he knew that it sounded like the first exploratory probe in the interrogation of a reluctant witness.

  “It’s not important, John,” Alexandra replied abruptly. “We’ll talk about it later.”

  John felt uncomfortable and awkward as he stood to one side and watched his wife hug and kiss their son. Then she straightened up and kissed him with cold, dry lips that John was certain were sere from more than the wind and snow outside. Finally, Alexandra put her arms around her daughters’ waists and walked with them into the kitchen. John gripped Michael’s small, outstretched hand and followed, still sick with the certainty that he knew what had upset his wife.

  “Thanks for making dinner,” Alexandra continued, hugging Kara and Kristen. “It’s no secret that your father prefers your cooking to mine, but you were still doing my job. I’m sorry I abandoned you like that.”

  “Hey, Mom,” Kristen said brightly, “no problem. You know we like to cook and look after Michael.”

  “Would you like me to make you a drink?” John asked quietly as he helped Alexandra remove her coat. His neck and jaw muscles ached with tension.

  For a moment, Alexandra’s features seemed to soften. Her brown eyes gleamed with their usual vitality as she grinned and again kissed John. “God, yes! One double vodka martini, three olives, a couple of ice cubes, and easy on the vermouth.”

  “The usual order, times two. I think I can handle that.”

  “Girls, do I have time for
a quick shower?”

  “Go ahead,” Kristen answered. “We’ll keep everything hot.”

  “I don’t want you to wait,” Alexandra called over her shoulder as she hurried out of the kitchen. “You guys start. I’ll join you.”

  John slowly mixed Alexandra’s drink, then carried it to the steamy bathroom and left it on the shelf across the tile floor from the hissing shower. Then he went into the dining room to join his children for a dinner that was being expertly served by the girls, complete with candles and a decanter of John’s favorite white wine. The children were in a good mood, looking forward to a day off from the schools, which they were confident would be closed because of the storm.

  John made an effort to join in the talk and laughter, feigning a happiness and appetite he did not feel. He relaxed somewhat when Alexandra, dressed in a warm terry-cloth jumpsuit and with her hair wrapped in a bright red towel, joined them at the table. For a few minutes Alexandra appeared animated and cheerful, but John once again became anxious when he sensed her gradually drifting away from them, asking for simple questions to be repeated, growing increasingly distracted.

  It was too late, he thought. He had waited at least one day too many to share and attempt to explain his shame and agony. His lies had inflicted wounds from which neither he nor his wife would recover quickly, if ever.

  The girls wanted to clean up, but John and Alexandra insisted they go read or watch television. Kara volunteered to read a story to her brother and prepare him for bed. The children left the room, and John and Alexandra began clearing the table.

  “The girls are so mature that it’s easy to forget they’re only fourteen,” John said when he and Alexandra were alone in the kitchen. He knew he was simply trying to make conversation, hoping to postpone what he was certain must come, but he could not stand the pain of silence. “Do you think it’s possible we give them too much responsibility?”