Andrew Kaplan - Scorpion Winter

“No, you wouldn’t,” Scorpion said, thinking, This is for McElroy. And Peterman. And Alyona. And me, drawing the curved edge of the blade across al-Zuhrahi’s throat.

Constanta

Romania

The two men approached from opposite directions on the promenade by the Casino, a massive art nouveau building on a promontory overlooking the Black Sea. The promenade was along the seafront with nothing else around, so it was easy to spot if there were any watchers or tails. The two men were alone as they walked toward each other. The wind blew off the choppy waves, sending a chill spray over the deserted seawall. Shaefer wore an overcoat and a black sheepskin hat, Scorpion a Burberry raincoat. For a moment they stood facing each other.

“Are we still friends?” Shaefer said.

“Let’s walk,” Scorpion said.

They walked side by side around the curve of the promontory, past hotels and palm trees swaying in the wind. It was cold and there were no sailboats out on the water, only the distant silhouette of a freighter on the horizon. In summer, Constanta was a crowded resort town, but in winter the city had the deserted feel of a carnival that had closed.

“They say this is where Jason brought the Golden Fleece,” Shaefer said, gesturing vaguely at the seacoast. Scorpion didn’t answer. For a time they just walked.

“You took care of al-Zuhrahi?” Shaefer said.

“He was working with al Qaeda. He was responsible for McElroy and Peterman,” Scorpion said, pulling his collar up against the chill. “What about this guy, Ramis?”

Shaefer grimaced. “Don’t ask. Fucking pickle factory,” using one of the insider slang names for the CIA.

Scorpion stopped walking, and Shaefer did too.

“Who’s protecting him? Not Harris?”

“Not Harris,” Shaefer agreed, and they started walking again. “You heard about Kulyakov?”

“I saw something about a mutilated body found in one of the old Stalin tunnels in the online Kyiv Post. ”

“Whoever it was took their time. They spent two days and nights cutting pieces from him before they burnt him alive. There’s a rumor it was a Syndikat hit. SBU was buzzing, then suddenly the case was closed,” Shaefer said, glancing sideways at Scorpion. “Must’ve cost someone a pretty penny.”

“Couldn’t have happened to anyone more deserving,” Scorpion said.

They walked on along the promenade. A young Gypsy woman was sitting on the pavement by the rail overlooking the sea. As they approached, she got up and came toward them.

“ Pleaka!” Shaefer snapped. Go away! For a moment she kept coming, then looked at his expression and how big he was and stopped. She watched them walk by, her dark hair blowing in the wind. “Gypsies, beggars, and thieves. That’s this whole country. You know the joke? You’re traveling on a train in Europe. How do you know when you’ve reached Romania?”

“How?” Scorpion said, a faint listening-to-a-joke-smile on his lips.

“Keep looking at your watch. When it isn’t there, you’re in Romania,” Shaefer said. “Look,” he pointed at a dilapidated blue building with a faded sign. “There’s a cafe. It’s crap, but we can get out of this wind.”

They went into the cafe and sat at a table by the window. At that hour there were only two other customers, an old couple who were sitting at a table reading newspapers and not talking to each other. Music came from a radio on the counter; a male singer was singing a bizarre combination of Romanian doina and Eurotrash rock. Scorpion looked out the window at the empty promenade and the choppy gray water against the gray sky and wondered if this winter would ever end. The waiter came over.

“You want some brandy?” Shaefer asked.

Scorpion indicated no. “Just a Turkish coffee.”

“Doua cafea Turceasca si cozonac,” Shaefer ordered. He turned back to Scorpion. “How are you doing?”

“I’m okay,” Scorpion said. “It took a while, but I’m all right.”

Shaefer leaned toward him. “It was the job. I had no choice. It was either lie to you or blow the mission. For the record, I hated it. Every minute.”

“I wasn’t too crazy about it myself,” Scorpion said.

“I’m sorry,” Shaefer said.

The waiter put down the coffee and two brioches on the table.

“How’s Iryna?” Scorpion said after the waiter left.

“She’s heading the opposition in the Verkhovna Rada. She’s making a name for herself. But things are deteriorating. You heard Kozhanovskiy’s in Lukyanivska Prison?”

“My old stomping grounds.”

“He’s been charged with taking bribes. A bit ironic considering he was probably the only politician in the country who wasn’t on the take, but there it is.”

“Gorobets is consolidating his power,” Scorpion said.

Shaefer nodded. “Russia’s happy. Washington’s happy. Brussels is happy. NATO didn’t fall apart, so everybody still has a job. Akhnetzov’s happy. Even you. You made money and found out you weren’t blown. Everybody wins,” he concluded, raising his coffee cup and taking a sip.

“Not everybody,” Scorpion said, thinking of Alyona and Ekaterina and Fedir and Dennis and the look on Iryna’s face when he boarded the flight to Frankfurt at Boryspil.

“No, not everybody,” Shaefer conceded. “What will you do now? Take some time off? Take out that boat you told me about? You deserve it.”

Scorpion looked out at the sea, a single ray of sunlight glittering on the water. The last time he’d thought of his ketch it was a fantasy of him with Iryna as he lay in his cell, waiting for a bullet in the head.

“I’d like that,” he said. “Why?”

Shaefer leaned close. “The Israelis are dying to talk to you. They said it was urgent.”

“What are you, my agent now? Why the hell is everybody coming to you?” Scorpion asked.

Shaefer shook his head. “Not everybody. Rabinowich. The Mossad must’ve figured he’d know how to reach you.” Of course, Scorpion thought, Rabinowich had liaised with the Mossad during the Palestinian operation.

“Do you know what it’s about?”

Shaefer shook his head. “Only that Rabinowich said they were desperate. Something big. ‘Special Access Flash Critical’ level for both the Israelis and the U.S. Not that you need the money.” He shrugged. “I heard that after this last one, you were pretty well fixed.”

Scorpion stared at his coffee. He put a sugar cube in and stirred, but didn’t drink. Special Access was the highest top secret classification, and Flash Critical meant an imminent emergency.

“You know what was the worst?” he said. “Not the torture. The worst was knowing that people I trusted sold me out.”

“I know,” Shaefer said. “I had to choose: my country or my friend. We were the last two.” Scorpion knew he was talking about Forward Operating Base Echo, those last thirty-odd hours when they were pinned down by nonstop Taliban gunfire, the only two left alive of their entire team.

“FOBE?” Scorpion said; a peace offering. It was the job, he thought, wondering if he would have done any differently if he had been in Shaefer’s shoes.

“FOBE,” Shaefer said and nodded, letting out a breath. He smiled for the first time.

“Ask them to call me a taxi. Okay?” Scorpion said, gesturing at the cafe owner in the corner.

“Sure,” Shaefer said.

He called out something in Romanian to the owner, who took out his cell phone and made a call. The man finished the call and said something to Shaefer.

“Be about ten minutes,” Shaefer said. “So about the Flash Critical? You gonna do it?”

“I’ll think about it. I barely survived this last one with a penis.”