Vengeance: Mystery Writers of America Presents

pledge that he will never be in your employ ever again, either directly or indirectly.”

The senator didn’t make a sound, but Beth heard a grunt from Henry, like he had just been punched in the gut. She went on. “That is it. Nonnegotiable.”

“Why?” the senator asked. “Why should I fire Henry?”

“To keep me from going to the newspapers,” she said. “And because he promised justice for my girl. And she still doesn’t have it.”

She could sense the tension in the air, something disturbing, as she noted both men looking at each other, inquiring, appraising, gauging what was going on. The senator checked his watch. “Well, our time is up, Mrs. Mooney, and —”

Henry spoke desperately. “Tom, please —”

“Henry,” the senator said calmly, touching his upper arm. “We have a lot of things to talk about, don’t we?”

Henry continued, “For God’s sake, Tom, the primary is in just a few days and —”

The two of them went through another door, and Beth was left alone. She looked around the huge, empty suite, went to a fruit basket, picked up two oranges, and left.

THE NIGHT of the New Hampshire primary, she rented a DVD — Calendar Girls — and watched the movie until she fell asleep on the couch. She had no idea who had won and didn’t rightly care.

TWO MONTHS LATER, Beth was in her hair salon checking the morning receipts when the door opened and Henry Wolfe walked in. He wasn’t dressed fancy, and his face was pale and had stubble on it. When she looked in his eyes, she was glad there was a counter between them.

“Looking for a trim?” she asked cheerfully.

“You … I …”

“Or a shave?” she added.

He stopped in front of her and she caught his scent. It was of unwashed clothes and stale smoke and despair. “You … do you know what you’ve done?”

“I don’t know,” she said, flipping the page on her appointment book. “But I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

“The senator … he barely won the New Hampshire primary. There was a shit storm of bad publicity when he announced my firing, talk of a campaign in crisis, a senator who couldn’t choose the right staff, of chaos in his inner circle. And then he lost the next primary, and since then, he’s been fighting for his political life. There’s even speculation about a brokered convention. What should have been a clear road to the White House has become a horror show. All thanks to you.”

“Gee,” she said. “I don’t think so.”

“But that’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” he demanded. “To get back at the senator. To hurt his chances of becoming president. All because his son didn’t get punished the way you wanted. You knew that firing me, his most trusted fixer and adviser, days before the New Hampshire primary would cripple him.”

The phone rang, but she ignored it. The door opened and her newest employee walked in, nodded to Beth, and then got a broom and started sweeping near one of the chairs.

Beth said, “You just don’t get it, do you?”

He gave a sharp laugh, and in a mocking tone, he said, “I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

She picked up a pen. “I didn’t know much about you when we first met. So after I saw the senator’s son up onstage in Iowa, and after you blew me off on the phone, I did some research. I goggled you.”

“You did what?”

“I goggled you.”

He shook his head. “Stupid woman, it’s Google. Not goggle.” Beth smiled. “Well, whatever the hell it is, I had a friend at the library do research for me. And I found out that you’ve tried four times to get a man elected president, and each time, you’ve lost. You have a reputation as a political loser. But this time, you were the closest you’ve ever been. Years and years of political failure, and you were now so very close to having your dream come true, to be chief of staff. The most powerful man in Washington, right after the president. Four, maybe eight years in the White House as chief of staff, and then millions of dollars doing consulting and lobbying work. It looked like your losing streak was finally about to break. And then the senator’s son started dating my daughter.”

She paused, looking at his drawn face. “I could give a shit about your senator. Or any other politician. But you promised me justice, and you didn’t deliver. So I gave you a taste of what it’s like to be betrayed after so many promises. And I was the one to cast the final goddamn ballot.”

Beth was surprised to see him wipe at his eyes. It looked like he was weeping.

“Was it worth it, then?” he asked, his voice just above a whisper. “To destroy me like this, to hurt the senator, maybe even prevent him from getting to the White House?”

She looked over at the corner of the store, where her daughter, Janice, was quietly and dutifully sweeping up the floor, her hands holding a broom, the same hands that still hadn’t gone back to her computer.

“Yes,” she said calmly. “It was worth it.”

AFRICA ALWAYS NEEDS GUNS

BY MICHAEL NIEMANN

Some days everything works out. Valentin Vermeulen hadn’t had one of those days in a while. He brushed a damp strand of blond hair from his broad forehead, a forehead inherited from generations of Flemish farmers. Like these ancestors, he waited for his luck to change.

There was a slim chance it might. If, that is, the Antonov An-8 cargo plane was sufficiently late.

He looked over the shoulders of the Bangladeshi air traffic controller. The radar scope’s scan beam raced in a circle, like the hands of a clock on fast-forward. No blips. The plane was about an hour and a half behind schedule.

The reality of his assignment stared back at him through the dirty windows of what passed for the control tower of the Bunia airport. The humid bush, a single asphalt runway, white UN helicopters parked on makeshift helipads, white armored personnel carriers at strategic positions, soldiers in blue helmets milling about, a peacekeeping operation at the edge of the world.

The usual Congolese hangers-on — were they Hema or Lendu? He never could tell the difference — sat in the shady spots, hoping for a small job, cash, or food. A quiet day in a very unquiet part of the world.

Vermeulen pulled a Gitane Papier Mais from its blue pack and lit it. He was used to air-conditioned offices in New York, to pulling together evidence from files and interview transcripts. Sure, there were trips to the field — Kosovo, Bosnia, even Cambodia once — but he always had his office in New York. Until he’d stepped on some important toes during the Iraq oil-for-food investigation. Next thing he knew, the UN Office of Internal Oversight Services sent him to the eastern Congo.

An ancient air conditioner rattled in its slot above the door, blowing humid air into the room. It wasn’t any cooler than the air outside. He wiped the perspiration from his forehead and took off his jacket. It had dark spots under the arms. The Bangladeshis didn’t seem to mind the climate. Their uniforms looked crisp.

“There is the Antonov now, sir,” the air traffic controller said with the lilt of South Asians. He pointed to a blip on the radar. The timing was just about right.

“How far is it?”

“About ten miles, sir.”

“How long until it lands?”

“Fifteen minutes, give or take. Maybe more. Depends on the approach Petrovic takes.”

“Is he usually late?”

“Sometimes Petrovic is on time, sometimes he isn’t. This is Africa.”