Robin Cook - Vector

“I mean I want you to put it in the goddamn refrigerator,” Connie said. “I’ll eat it after my pizza. I don’t want it to melt.”

“Fine,” Yuri said with some relief. He picked up the ice cream and the spoon and backed to the door. “Give a yell when you want it, okay?”

Connie’s head flopped to the side, and she regarded Yuri beneath knotted brows. “What’s wrong with you, boy? You’ve never been this nice.”

“I told you,” Yuri said. “I feel guilty.”

“I wish you’d feel guilty more often,” Connie said.

Yuri went back out to the kitchen. Mumbling a few choice epithets about Connie, he put the ice cream in the freezer. His pulse was hammering in his temples. He needed a vodka. As he’d suspected, it was going to be a long night.

“Okay, everybody shut the hell up!” Curt yelled out over the unruly group. He’d called a meeting of the People’s Aryan Army, and they’d gathered in the back pool room of the White Pride bar. The owner of the bar was Jeff Connolly, an old acquaintance of Curt’s. Jeff wasn’t an official member of the group, although he was entirely sympathetic to the PAA’s positions: namely anti-government, anti-black, anti-Semitic, anti-Hispanic, anti-immigration, anti-feminist, anti-NAFTA, anti-abortion, and anti-gay. He was more than happy to clear out the pool room whenever the PAA needed to assemble.

On Curt’s insistence the organization of his group was entirely clandestine. There were no membership cards or even membership memorabilia He urged people never to use the name, although he and Steve did when they communicated to other militias via the Internet. Otherwise, all communication was by word of mouth, person to person. To call the meeting that night, there’d been no phone calls and no written messages. People had to seek each other out. What made it easy was that most members came to the White Pride at some time during each and every night.

Curt had recruited eight skinheads using methods he’d learned from Tim Melcher. He’d isolate a teenager at one of the many local skinhead bars and strike up a conversation. The conversation was more like an interview. Whenever Curt thought the kid was fertile ground for his views, he then started in on ideology. It was easy, because the skinheads were eager for some organization and to have a focus for their violent dispositions. Besides, from personal experience Curt knew their struggles and resentments and could therefore fan their fledgling bigotries and hatreds.

But keeping such a group under a semblance of control was not easy. For one thing, many of those involved were stupid, like Yuri, and lacked a proper sense for security. Offering Brad Cassidy an opportunity to join the group when he’d approached a couple of the troops directly was a case in point. They’d bought his original story. But Curt hadn’t. First of all, Curt was suspicious of anyone who wasn’t from the immediate area. Second, no one was considered for membership without being interviewed by Curt first. When Curt got to talk with him, Brad contradicted himself several times. Then, with a little prodding with a knife and the judicious use of a length of piano wire, the true story came out. He was a government spy.

The other problem was the group’s appetite for violence, a trait Curt wanted to channel. At first he thought that in between legitimate missions just talk about violent acts would satisfy their urges. But it turned out that talking was not enough. Occasionally, Curt had to risk confrontation with the authorities, letting them cruise around to other parts of Brooklyn or even Manhattan to find someone to beat up.

The clothes and the tattoos bothered Curt, too. He tried to get them to tame their style of dress, arguing that they should let their actions speak for themselves. They could be more effective, he argued, if they could blend in. But it was like talking to a wall. There was something about their shaved heads, T-shirts, Nazi regalia, and black boots that appealed to them on a gut level. No amount of persuasion could alter their opinion.

“Come on, you guys,” Steve called out. “You heard Curt. Listen up!”

Kevin Smith and Luke Berm straightened up by the pool table. Thumping the heels of their pool cues on the floor they stood in a ragged form of attention. Stew Manson, who was having an argument with Clark Ebersol and Nat Jenkins, turned to Curt and swayed. He’d been drinking beer since eight and was feeling no pain. Mike Compisano, Matt Sylvester, and Carl Ryerson looked up from their rambunctious card game. Even among this crowd, Carl stood out, with a crudely drawn swastika tattooed in the middle of his forehead.

“We’ve got a mission tonight,” Curt said. “It’s going to require finesse, which I’m not sure any of you understand.”

A titter sounded from a few of the troops.

“We’ve got to go out on the Island,” Curt continued. “Out to the Hamptons, to be exact, and steal a truck.”

“No need to go way the hell out there for a truck,” Stew said. He slurred his words. “There’s plenty of trucks right here in Brooklyn.”

“We’re talking about a special type of truck,” Curt said. “Who’s good at getting into a vehicle quickly and hotwiring it?”

Most of the troops turned to Clark Ebersol. “I guess that’s me,” Clark said. He was a slight fellow with a bumpy scalp that made shaving it a chore. “I’ve been joyriding since I was twelve.” He now worked at a local garage.

“Compisano is good if there’s an electronic alarm,” Kevin said. Kevin was a redhead like Steve, but with his hair shaved it was hard to tell save for his freckled complexion. He was also the youngest of the group at sixteen although he was a big, husky kid. The others ranged up to twenty two. The oldest was Luke Berm.

“I’m mostly used to house alarms, not car alarms,” Mike Compisano said. In spite of his Italian name, Mike had been a towhead since birth. His blond eyebrows were almost transparent, giving him an expression of perpetual surprise.

“At least you know something about alarms,” Curt said. “That could come in handy. So you and Clark will ride with me and Steve. The rest of you go in Nat’s truck.” Of all the troops, Nat was the best off financially. His brother was in the garbage business. He had a king cab pickup like Curt’s with two rows of seats.

“Stew, you stay here,” Curt said.

“The hell I will,” Stew said. “I’m going with the action.”

“That’s an order!” Curt snapped. “You’re tanked. I can tell you’ve had about five beers more than anyone else. I don’t want this mission compromised.”

“Shit, man!” Stew complained.

“No argument!” Curt ordered. “Let’s move out.”

While Stew Manson sulked, the others eagerly hustled out of the pool room. At the bar most bought beers for the road. Outside they tumbled into the respective vehicles.

“Stay behind me at a reasonable distance,” Curt called to Nat before he started his truck. Nat gave him a thumbs-up sign. The next moment Nat’s truck erupted with the throbbing base of the group Brutal Attack. Nat had a special speaker system with a woofer capable of loosening his lug bolts.

They moved in a convoy of two vehicles. Nat followed orders and stayed comfortably behind Curt. Halfway out on Long Island they stopped at a service center so everyone could relieve themselves.

“We’re almost out of beer,” Nat said to Curt as he leaned into a urinal. “Can we make a detour at the next town to stock up?”

“No more beer until the mission is over,” Curt shot back.

The second part of the trip went considerably faster than the first as the traffic dropped off dramatically. The congestion of the city and the surrounding metropolitan area had been replaced by the tranquillity of small towns, farms, and palatial, seasonal estates.