this office and plead a case that could end with all of them going to prison?
She went to her leather bag, took out a notepad, scribbled something and passed it over. Bocks glanced at the name and number, nodded. ‘I recognize the name. That’s a big point in your favor. We ran some items into Bagram couple of years back on his say-so. How’s his leg?’
‘He never talks about it.’
‘Figures.’
He put the slip of paper down, picked up the phone, dialed the number. It rang just once and a female voice answered the phone by repeating the last four digits of the number.
‘Four-one-twelve,’ she said.
‘This is General Alexander Bocks, of AirBox air freight,’ he said. ‘I need to speak to your Director. The Colonel.’
‘Hold on, sir,’ came the voice.
Dead silence.
Bocks looked over again at the trio sitting across from his desk. ‘I’m on hold,’ he said. ‘At least there’s no elevator music.’
No reply, nothing, just the somber looks on their faces. He had no envy for what they did and what they lived with, day after day. Running a multimillion dollar business was tough, but the spreadsheets he worked with didn’t have collateral damage of tens of thousands of civilians.
A click. ‘General Bocks?’ came a male voice.
‘That it is, colonel, that it is.’ He switched the receiver to his other hand. ‘I have before me three people who say they work for you. An Adrianna Scott. Doctor Victor Palmer. Detective Brian Doyle. True so far?’
‘You’ve got it.’
‘I’ve just been briefed by Adrianna Scott of an operation called Final Winter. You’re familiar with it?’
‘Yeah, quite familiar. And I’ll remind you, general, we’re not on a secure line.’
‘Understood. Question I have for you, has Final Winter been vetted?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re comfortable with what’s been presented, its outcomes and variables?’
A sigh. ‘Never comfortable with something like this, but as best as I can say, yeah, we’re comfortable.’
Bocks kept his eye on Adrianna. She looked like she had been carved out of marble. ‘I’m concerned about the liability on my part.’
‘There’s protocols that have been signed with you and your company and the Justice Department, am I correct?’
‘Yes, five or six years ago. When I first started…doing favors.’
The colonel laughed. ‘Now that’s a word. Favors. Yeah. General, the liability is covered. Don’t worry about it. The question I have is that Adrianna probably mentioned a tight deadline. Can you do it?’
Bocks took a breath, looked at the solemn faces of the people sitting across from him. ‘I don’t think I have a choice, now, do I.’
‘I don’t have to tell you the debt we’ll owe you if you’re able to provide this assistance, general.’
‘No, no, you don’t.’
Another pause. Bocks said, ‘All right, then, you’ve answered my questions. Thank you.’
‘No, sir, thank you…’
Bocks hung up the phone, looked at his visitors.
Adrianna had one thought, and one thought only:
Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up.
Somehow she knew the general would have to do something to verify what she was proposing, but she hadn’t thought that he might go right to the colonel heading the Tiger Teams. The briefing she had given the Director a few days ago had so far worked well; all that anyone knew in the Tiger Team oversight was that Final Winter was merely a harmless bacterial test to determine air patterns and detection methods over various American cities. My God, if Bocks had said one word about anthrax, one word about deaths being caused and lives being saved…
Could she have gotten out of the building in time?
Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up.
Bocks shook his head. ‘All right, I’ll take care of my machinists. In the meantime…Miss Scott, it looks like you’ve got me and my aircraft.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Adrianna said, disgusted at how weak her voice sounded, exhilarated at what she had just pulled off.
My word, wouldn’t papa have been proud.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Now there was a line of traffic forming up before them, as Vladimir Zhukov and Imad drove south to the American border. They had left the Port of Vancouver with their cargo, and while Imad wanted to chat about what mighty blows the two of them were preparing against the infidel oppressor -blah, blah, blah — Vladimir was more concerned about what was ahead of them. Back again on Canadian Route 99, Vladimir was under no illusions of what they were about to face, for the Americans were finally beginning to tighten up their long border with their dull Canadian neighbors, years after that glorious Tuesday morning in September.
At his side was the long leather wallet that held his identification, Imad’s identification, the papers from the Port of Vancouver, and the bills of lading for what they were supposedly carrying back there in the shipping container. According to all the paperwork — which had originated from Shanghai, China — there was nothing back in the trailer but a collection of children’s toys, from dolls to footballs. Which was true, for about the first six feet’s worth of packaging. Once you got past those brightly colored boxes, other items began to appear, specially constructed canisters of metal and plastic, packed in foam and securely fastened, for not one of the canisters could have been put in place with a risk of breakage or rupture, since an accident like that would have quickly killed everyone on the container ship, and the crew of any curious vessel coming by to see why things were amiss on a ship manned by corpses.
Vladimir folded his arms. So far it had gone well. From that shit-hole of a tribal state that dared to call itself a nation, to a number of other hotels and hostels and way stations on the route across Asia and Siberia, his hidden contact out there had pried, prompted, promised, and, of course, had paid him. He had no idea if his contact was a man, a woman, a committee, part of some group or some nation. All he knew was that the contact knew a lot about him, and knew just how to interest him enough to get him to do what he was doing.
It had worked out fine, so far, and Vladimir’s Cayman Islands account had grown fat indeed. But late at night, in the quiet stillness when he opened his eyes and stared out into the darkness, he liked to think that of course it was more than just the money, more than grabbing his chunk of the capitalist system that was strangling the globe. He saw it as a perfect revenge, a perfect dish served so very cold. A time that—
Imad said, ‘We’re getting close.’
‘I see,’ he said.
Up ahead there was an exit for COMMERCIAL TRAFFIC, which he and Imad and this truck certainly were.
Imad looked over at him, licked his lips. Vladimir smiled. ‘Nervous, boy?’
‘Don’t call me boy!’
‘Very well — nervous, child?’
Imad’s face was tense, his lips trembling, as he downshifted the big truck, easing into the Customs lane. Ahead were a number of other tractor-trailer and container trucks, pulling over for inspection, and Imad said, ‘Watch your fucking mouth, Russian. I don’t take that from anyone.’
Vladimir said, ‘Watch your own fucking mouth, Arab, because we want these Customs people to see two ordinary truckers, entering their ordinary country, not knowing that we’re going to slaughter millions of their
