Barry Lando - Deep Strike

“Of course that was you,” said Steve, grinning.

“Absolutely. I was it,” said Charlie. “That’s why you wanted me too. Right, Steve? And I did a great job. But we’ve been royally fucked. Guess I made the wrong move.”

“I hope not,” said Steve.

They helped him clear the table and waited with anticipation as he portioned out a French apple pie he’d just baked, adding a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top of each piece.

“Steve, you are truly amazing,” said Sarah, lifting her glass of wine in appreciation. Charlie joined her.

“Thanks,” said Steve. “Living alone forces you to develop certain survival skills.” The pie was warm from the oven. Steve let them finish eating it before asking, “And what about you, Sarah? Any idea what you want to do?” They both shifted to look at her – looking at her was always a pleasure.

“Think you might go back to teaching at MIT?” asked Charlie, already reaching for another piece of pie.

“Possibly,” she said. “Or maybe NYU. There’s also an opening for first cello at the New York Philharmonic.”

“Hey,” said Charlie. “Don’t forget Victoria’s Secret.”

At twenty-one, to promote her career, she outraged classical music purists but delighted millions of fans by posing for a lingerie ad wearing only a black lace bra and a thong, her long legs wrapped around a cello. She used one of those pictures as a cover for her first album. Later, the number of heartbroken male staff at the agency was legion when Sarah announced she was gay and took as her partner a leading LGBT rights activist.

“It’s a nice, clear night,” said Steve after they’d finished washing up. “Why don’t we walk to Lincoln Park?”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Charlie looked at Steve inquisitively. Nighttime walks in the park this time of year were not a normal pastime.

“Let’s just do it,” said Steve, already heading towards the door. “I’ll bring along a few beers in my backpack.”

It was a crisp evening, the sky filled with stars, the smell of approaching spring in the air. But it was evident from the start that this was no ordinary stroll. “Take the batteries out of your phones,” ordered Steve as the group turned up Maitland Avenue toward the park.

Lincoln Park, Steve always thought, was right out of a Norman Rockwell painting – America as it would like to be. During the day, it was filled with mothers strolling past the daffodils or azaleas or roses with their toddlers or gossiping among themselves as the kids played in the sandboxes and on the slides. After school and on the weekends, came the older children, playing baseball or football or basketball, depending on the season. Retired people ambled by slowly, arm in arm or alone, or sat on benches in the sun, nodding over a book or just snoozing.

This particular evening, however, except for a twosome locked in an embrace on a wooden bench at the entrance and another two or three couples walking the paths, the park was empty. “Put your mobiles over there under that maple,” said Steve. After they reluctantly complied, he led them to a secluded picnic table with tree trunk stools, shielded from the public by a grove of birches. The two others sat down and Steve handed each one a bottle of beer.

“So, what’s up?” asked Charlie. “You’d think we were in Moscow or something.”

“It’s about Brian’s death,” said Steve.

“What about it?” asked Sarah.

“Brian didn’t have a biking accident,” said Steve quietly. “He was murdered.”

The two other officers glanced at each other. Was this another of Steve’s imagined conspiracies?

“He didn’t just skid over a cliff,” Steve continued. “He was first bashed on the head.” Pulling Brian’s crimson helmet from his backpack, he used a penlight to show the others. “He wasn’t wearing this when he went over the side. I found this in the grass beside the bike trail. Someone smashed him on the side of the head first. That’s his blood inside.”

“Sweet Jesus,” said Charlie.

“I figure he was probably taken somewhere else and tortured and most likely water boarded and killed.”

“How can you be so sure?” said Sarah.

Steve told them about the results of the new autopsy and the lab test. “Brian drowned in water that came from a drinking faucet, not the river.”

“Water boarded?” asked Charlie. “By who and what for?”

“To find out what he was doing,” said Steve. “To find out what we were doing.”

“Doing about what ?” said Charlie.

“About Stokes. About the Russian hacking.”

“But Brian wasn’t doing anything,” said Sarah taking a sip of her beer. “And we aren’t doing anything. He couldn’t get anyone to act.”

“You know that,” said Steve. “I know that. But the people around Stokes don’t know that. And the way Brian was mouthing off during his last few days, he was practically calling for a CIA insurrection.”

“So Stokes had him tortured and killed?” asked Sarah. “Pretty hard to believe.”

“Probably Stokes himself didn’t give the order, but someone close to him did,” said Steve. “They’d want deniability. Look, we know that Stokes’s paranoia has no limits. He sees enemies everywhere. He offered to pay the legal fees of anyone who beat up hecklers at his rallies. He even threatened to jail his opponent. Now he’s president, he’s boss of the largest army and intelligence organization the world has ever known. He’s surrounded by yes-men and women, people who encourage his darkest instincts. Compared to Stokes, Richard Nixon was a model of sanity.”

Sarah put her finger to her lips and gestured to the nearby path. The couple from the bench was approaching. The three looked silently at each other until the couple passed under a streetlight and left the park.

“You can be sure that Stokes has already got an enemies list a mile long,” Steve said. “I’ve also heard rumors he’s set up his own secret security operation – answerable only to him.”

“I’ve heard the same thing,” said Charlie. “Something like Nixon did, but much, much larger.”

“They’re probably the ones who offed Brian,” said Steve. “Stokes will use any means whatsoever to destroy his opponents. Water boarding’s just for starters. He’s always been a big fan of torture, of secret black sites. Who knows what other Guantanamos are being set up?”

“I still can’t believe it,” said Sarah.

“How else do you explain Brian’s death?” asked Steve.

No one replied.

Steve continued. “After I created a ruckus about a new autopsy, the same guys who were suspicious of Brian are likely now very interested in me. I’ve not been publicly screaming about the hacking investigation like Brian was, but to test my theory, I did a thorough sweep of my own apartment earlier today. Spent six hours on it; tore everything apart, looked under and behind everything I could get at. You know what I found? Listening devices in every room, including the bathrooms. All very professional, all government issue. I left everything in place.”

“They could be doing the same with us,” said Charlie, looking at the others. “I’ve got nothing to hide, but you guys…“

Steve ignored the joke. “They’ll keep tabs on everyone they suspect – everywhere and always. And it’s only going to get worse. You should do the same kind of check I did. If you need help, let me know. Meanwhile, don’t say anything to anyone about all this unless you’re goddamned sure there’s no way you can be overheard. Remember they can hijack your laptop, your mobile, even your Amazon Echo.”

“So what do you suggest we do?” asked Sarah. “Sneak around like this forever? Always looking over our shoulder? Accept Brian’s murder as an accident?”