by Robert Cook
“There is a guy at the Farm where you’re going for training who knows about pressure points, kill points, and other things that combine well with a hand-strength program. If you think you want to develop that skill, I’ll have him work with you a little. You’re one of those people who have muscle fibers that can do more work than most people’s can, so you could probably develop very, very strong hands. It’s nothing to be overly proud of—it’s just like being able to run fast. You’re born with it. Still, it can be useful, it can be developed. This guy I told you about, he mostly just squeezed things like rubber balls and springs. He had a valve spring from an old junker with a little steel plate welded on the top and bottom. He’d squeeze that thing a thousand times a day—carried it around in his pocket like a rabbit’s foot.”
Cuchulain was silent for a while. Then he said, “I’ll give it a try.”
Mac drove in silence for another fifteen minutes. “You know anything about women, Cuchulain?”
“I’ve never even been laid, Mr. MacMillan. Except for my mother and sister, I’ve never been around women much. I’m planning to learn, though, and soon.”
Mac smiled. “I know it’s hard for you to believe now, but the getting laid part will take care of itself. You’ll help yourself a lot if you always behave as a gentleman around women—hell, around men for that matter. There’s no downside, and after awhile it’s a habit. Don’t go talking about women you’ve slept with. Open doors for all women, especially the ones who aren’t beautiful, and always be polite; it’s amazing how many guys screw that up and screw themselves in the process. It’s not sissy bullshit; it’s basically respecting people whether they’re strong or whether they’re weak, until they give a reason to act differently. If you want it, I’ll send you a book—an etiquette book for men that pretty much covers what to do. There’s not much risk to it, since civilization has worked these rules out over the centuries and they are pretty well accepted.”
“I’d like that,” Alex said.
“Another thing worth thinking about is what you do with information about yourself,” Mac said. “For the most part, you shouldn’t let people know how you think, what you know, or what you have. Information is power. If you don’t pass any information out, some other guy will tell you his life story, just to fill up the silence. For example, you’re already pretty much of a badass. As big as you are, with what you learned from Magnusson and what the corps taught you, there aren’t a hell of a lot of guys who could handle you in a fight. Don’t flaunt it, and try not to let it get around too much.
“None of the badasses I’ve met was easy to get into a fight; you gotta learn to walk away when it’s not important, or you’ll be fighting every guy around who wants to make a reputation, and there’s a lot of those assholes out there. Sooner or later you’ll hurt the wrong person badly and land right back in jail. On the other hand, if you have to get in a fight, get it over with as quickly and mercilessly as you can; you never know when the other guy has a gun or has a chickenshit buddy with one.”
Mac looked over at Alex and grinned. “It’s bad karma to bring strong hands to a gunfight, Alex.”
Alex chucked and they were silent for a while. “You married, Mr. MacMillan?”
“No. And call me Mac.” After a few more moments, he said, “There was a woman in Hue, in Vietnam, a long time ago. She was French—a doctor. She worked in a hospital there, and wouldn’t leave when it got nasty; too many patients needed her.” He watched the traffic. “The Vietcong didn’t like the French much.”
Mac drove on, thinking, Jesus Christ, Mac. That’s more than you’ve talked to anyone about personal things for twenty years. Just shut up and let the kid enjoy the ride.
The Farm
Williamsburg, Virginia
ALEX stood in the shower and turned the dial on the water from warm to cold. The September heat in Williamsburg was oppressive, with the humidity nearly as high as the ninety-five-degree temperature, but the small room and bath he shared were more than tolerable. It had been another difficult, taxing day at the Central Intelligence Agency training facility on the large, wooded parcel known as the Farm. It had been three months of drills and lessons that he had never even dreamed existed. There was martial arts six days a week—for him, two-hour sessions. The first hour was traditional mat judo taught by a Korean master. It was a different form of wrestling than what he knew, and far more lethal.
The second hour was drill, featuring seventy-two different forms, or sets of motion, that someone somewhere had defined as the most effective responses to the most common physical attacks, including those with knives and clubs; Alex thought he might have done each of those forms a thousand times until he didn’t think about them anymore, but just reacted. The other five men and one woman in his training group took only the forms, and stayed only a few weeks. They were older, with other responsibilities, and their skills needed to be good, but not great. Alex had not revealed his age to them; he wasn’t asked to mingle socially. Alex became a loner.
There were classes on explosives, locksmithing, weapons, and tactics—all with drills. He worked with a strength coach two hours a day, and once a week, a sort of weird guy came in and worked on strengthening Alex’s hands, developing both strength and technique. His hands were thicker than before, and heavily calloused. He was now getting two weeks off. His body felt good, but his mind was ready for a break.
Audley
CUCHULAIN drove the small car he had borrowed from Mac down Route 20 into Audley. The town looked different somehow, and smaller. There was the Exxon station where he once thought he’d like to work. It operated as a kind of town center, busy with pickup trucks being filled and old men in worn baseball hats, gabbing and gossiping. Women sat and rocked on the porches of homes along the highway, watching for any little news and discussing, once again, everything old. It dawned on Alex that this was their life; they had little else to do. He was glad fate had taken this existence from him—and a bit sad too. This life of sheltered Americans, content enough if not exactly happy, was likely closed to him forever. He had seen that there was more, much more.
People walking on his street turned when he drove down, curious about the unfamiliar car. When he stopped in front of his parents’ house, he felt a curious hesitation when he started getting out of the car. He had been in trouble here, and his father had bailed him out. Their letters had been loving and encouraging, asking him to visit. He knew he couldn’t stay, even though he was not yet eighteen. He looked up at the house. His father was sitting quietly in his wheelchair on the porch, smiling and watching him, a worn blanket covering his shriveled legs. His mother stood behind, holding the arms of the chair. Alex grabbed his bag and went up the cracked, broken walk to them. He shook his father’s hand and squatted to hug him, then stood and lifted his mother into the air, kissing her on both cheeks.
“Oh, how wonderful you look, Alex, all tanned and grown,” said his mother, tears glistening in her eyes. “I wish you had worn your uniform so that I could walk down Main Street with you at noon.”
He carried his bag through the house. The sofa was worn and faded. The stairs still creaked the groaning gremlins impersonation that had scared him so much as a small child, in his bed. Alex grasped the doorknob to his room and lifted slightly, to pick the warped door off the floor, out of habit. His room was clean, but otherwise untouched. The faded posters on the wall, the now tarnished wresting trophy, and his collection of dated hot rod magazines all had awaited his return.
At a sound, he turned to the door. Elena stood quietly, and then ran to him to be picked up, whirled around, and kissed resoundingly on each cheek. She pushed back and said, “Look at you, you’ve grown a foot. I am soooo glad to see you, Alex! I am dying to talk to you, but get unpacked and freshen up. We didn’t know when you would arrive, so I have a friend from work coming over in a few minutes, but we can talk after that.”
He hung the few clothes he had brought in the closet. His marine dress unif
orm had been worn only once, at graduation when the pictures were taken. It hung in his locker at the Farm, still covered by the plastic from the cleaners. All he had was six sets of combat fatigues in various camouflage patterns and boots, hats and arctic gear, hanging neatly in a wall locker somewhere near Williamsburg. He wasn’t even sure he was still a marine, but suspected he was. In any case, he was drawing sergeant’s pay, which was not too bad for a kid who had turned seventeen not long ago.
He stripped off his travel clothes, wrapped a towel around his waist, and walked down the hall to shower. He pushed the slightly mildewed shower curtain back and turned on the hot water, knowing it would be at least forty-five seconds before the aging water heater in the basement could send warm water up the clanking pipes. He looked at himself in the mirror above the old porcelain sink. He hadn’t looked at himself in a mirror, other than to shave twice a day, in nearly a year. He knew he was about forty pounds heavier—202 or so, and an inch taller at six feet two, but seeing the veined, sinewy musculature in his arms and upper body and the ridges on his flat stomach startled him a little.
He smiled to himself and thought, I may not want to be known as a badass, but I sure do look like one. He flexed one bicep for the mirror and grinned at himself. In fact, Alex my man, I think you actually are a badass. He stepped gingerly into the steaming water and began to shower, humming “The Marines’ Hymn” and feeling pleased about life.
Alex pulled on a pair of gray cotton workout shorts and an old T-shirt, then dug in his bag for the two bottles of wine Mac had bought for him to bring; one was a rioja from Spain for his mom and the other a vintage port that Mac assured Alex his father would like. Alex padded barefoot down the stairs. He could hear his sister talking to someone on the porch swing as he walked past the partially open window into the kitchen. His father was reading the paper; he folded it and laid it down as he saw Alex. His mother was at the sink, peeling potatoes and humming one of her old Bedouin love songs; she smiled at him, and then winked.
Mick looked at Alex fondly and said, “You’ve put on some size, son. You look like you could play linebacker for the Falcons. The corps must agree with you. Are you happy with it so far?”
Alex thought about telling his father where he was working, then immediately decided against it. The people at the Farm were nuts about security, and Alex liked it there. If they wanted him to know, they’d tell him.
“I like it for now, Dad. It’s exciting. I like the money, and I’m learning a lot about life and people that I probably wouldn’t have learned here. Besides, I got my GED, so I am now officially a high school graduate.”
“Now how could that be, Alex?” his mother said from the sink. “You would just have finished your sophomore year here.”
“And you weren’t exactly on your way to being valedictorian,” Mick added with a chuckle. Maria shot Alex a quick wink to take the sting from the words.
“You just gotta have a little faith, Mom,” he grinned. “They give you a test. When I passed, they gave me a piece of paper that says the United States of America affirms and attests that Alejandro Mohammed Cuchulain has received the equivalent of a satisfactorily completed high school education. Heck, even most colleges accept it.”
Mick groaned a little in his chair and shifted. “He’s right, Maria. They even had that when I was in the corps.” He turned to Alex. “I fade a little at this time of day, so I’m going to take a nap before dinner. Let’s spend a little time after dinner, when I’m at my best.” He turned his chair with a little grimace and pushed it toward the bedroom.
“That’d be great, Dad.” Alex looked at his mother, and raised one eyebrow.
She watched Mick as he rolled into the bedroom and closed the door, then said softly, “He’s not doing too well, Alex. The doctor says that his lungs are beginning to fail and fill. He doesn’t think it will go very well.” Tears began to roll down her cheeks as she leaned into his arms. “Oh Alex, I have missed you so! I am so happy that you have come home to see us. Come sit with me for a few moments. Have you had a chance to keep up with your Spanish and Arabic while you were becoming a high school graduate?”
Alex had spent many of his summers visiting relatives in Spain and staying in North Africa with his mother’s father, who paid for the trips each year. Alex’s language skills in Arabic were a little better, or maybe just deeper, than his Spanish, because his grandfather liked to sit and talk, while his friends in Spain liked to fish, wrestle, and avoid contact with adults at all costs. Grandfather Kufdani had no sons, and just one grandson. Alex was called Mohammed, his middle name.
Abu Kufdani was apparently well off, because Alex was never without motivated tutors when an appropriate opportunity arose, whether math, Arabic language, or some form of violence prized by the Bedouin. Kufdani was a Bedouin elder who traded goods in North Africa, Europe, and around the whole area. He lived primarily in a big house on a hill in the Kasbah suburb of Tangier, Morocco, near the old citadel. When Alex visited, they would spend a week at this house, then four weeks at a traditional Bedouin tent camp in the south of Morocco, a desert.
The last week before he traveled to Spain to visit with his mother’s sisters and their girls, Alex would sit and talk with his grandfather each evening and learn from the various tutors during the day. He didn’t like the tutor part so much, but it was part of the agenda his grandfather defined, so it was okay. It was the time in the desert that Alex liked best. He had learned to shoot a rifle and ride camels; he had learned about the desert and how to live in it, and a friend, Achmed, had taught him to hide, even almost vanish in the desert. There was always someone near to teach him how to do things best.
His grandfather had bragged in the evenings around the fire about Mick Cuchulain, his father, and had said about Alex, “This is the son of a great American warrior, and my last living male issue. He will be a great Bedouin warrior.”
There was a dinner each night cooked on an open fire by the women. After dinner, the men gathered to talk and tell stories. Men arrived in trucks and cars, often with their families, with tales of trade and politics around North Africa and Arabia; the information network of commerce was played out around the fire. They left and others arrived, seemingly without end, and certainly without much notice, although they were seen long before arrival. Alex marveled at their different accents, yet he could understand them all. He played a game with his grandfather where he guessed the region of the accent; when he got it right, he got sweet dates and approving smiles. Alex had playmates everywhere and the games were different and fun.
Alex grinned at Maria and said in Spanish, “Mom, I take lessons three times a week, with native speakers.” And then he spoke in Arabic. “I listen to news tapes in both, daily. I don’t have a television. Is that enough?”
“I’m glad,” his mother replied in Arabic. “You don’t need a television. You need to remember who you are. Your accents are quite good, but I’m surprised you have the time for it.”
She leaned toward Alex and said softly, “As you learn more, you will find that Islam is a beautiful religion wrapped around a philosophy that can be quite unattractive when interpreted by some. That conflict is how my sisters and I came to live in Spain when our mother died; it was for freedom of thought and action as a woman. My father has sent you a present to help you understand the real Islam. It is on your nightstand; treasure it. There is also a smaller package. We will talk of this again as you mature.”
“Yeah, I know you and Islam, Mom,” Alex said. He then stood as Maria did. She turned to the refrigerator. Alex grinned to himself and thought, Mom never was one to use two words when one would do. He went up the stairs to his room and saw two formally wrapped packages on his nightstand; each was bound in white paper. Alex ripped the paper from the larger package and saw it was an old, leather-bound edition of the Quran, Islam’s holy book, the gold lettering on the spine and cover nearly worn away from use. The second gift was an old, yellowed, ivory cylinder, engraved with
images and Arabic lettering; with it was a note from his grandfather that said in Arabic, “For your friends when they are not.” He heard his mother walking down the hall outside his bedroom door.
“Mom,” he called. “Do you have a second?”
Maria walked into the room as he held the ivory cylinder up. “Any idea what this is?” he said.
Maria slowly nodded and smiled. “It is the identification device for a senior member of the Yahia tribe of Bedouin. Your grandfather honors you. Treasure this; it may be handy sometime, and it is a great honor to be so chosen by a Bedouin elder. It places you high up in the Bedouin hierarchy, and marks you as a thoughtful and honorable man. As you know, the tenets of the Bedouin life are honor, generosity, and hospitality. It’s something to live up to.”
“Huh,” Alex grunted and handed her the note. “I can translate the Arabic, but I don’t get it. What’s with the friends thing?”
Maria smiled slightly, a smile he hadn’t seen. She took the cylinder from Alex’s hand and made a motion on its base with her hand; a thin blade leapt from its top.
“Your grandfather has become a cynic in his old age,” she said. “Friends who betray a friend have no place in his life. It’s a Bedouin thing.”
Later he walked onto the porch, smelling the promise of fall mingling with the scent of his mother’s cooking. Songbirds quarreled as they fluttered in the gnarled, splayed, old magnolia in Widow Lee’s yard. He felt a rush of nostalgia, not so much wishing he was back to his old existence, as knowing that he could never return. He had changed; Audley hadn’t.
He turned to the swing as his sister spoke, introducing him to her friend Linda. At twenty-five, she was seven years older than Elena. Linda was a big woman—at least five foot nine with twenty-five or thirty extra pounds on a large frame. She had an even-featured, attractive face with large greenish eyes and straight white teeth between full, painted lips. Her looks were marred by heavy makeup, apparently hastily applied, and an ellipse of loose flesh that hung beneath her jawbone. She had enormous breasts that pushed out and up from a thin sundress; white bra straps were partially visible under the calico.