Brendan DuBois - Dead of Night

We made our way down the hill and were soon on the pavement of the parking lot. People started moving about, most of them in uniform, and none seemed to be in a mood to talk. Then, luck of luck, Miriam cried out, ‘Peter!’ and, sure enough, there he was. He looked at us both and then at me and said, ‘You know, Samuel, you are doing much better than I could ever have imagined.’

‘Well, I like to surprise people. What’s going on here?’

Peter looked around, his hands on his hips. ‘You mean all this moving around, all these soldiers marching to and fro?’

‘Yes,’ Miriam said. ‘What’s up?’

‘Very simple, really,’ Peter said. ‘You see, the militias are coming.’

I felt cold again and Miriam brought her hand up to her mouth. Peter laughed. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you. What I should have said is that representatives of the militias are heading over. You see, the negotiations are almost complete.’

‘The armistice,’ I said.

Peter nodded. ‘So true. The armistice is back on, so I’m told, but there’s going to be a very steep price.’

‘What’s that?’ Miriam asked.

Peter said, ‘The militia leaders, the ones being held at The Hague. They get sprung, a day ahead of schedule, before any last attempt to find Site A. And in exchange for freeing those bloody murderers the armistice is revived.’

‘That’s a hell of a price,’ I said.

Peter nodded again. ‘True, mate—and I’m sorry to say that it’s a price that’s going to be paid.’

The three of us went up by the guarded entrance to the parking lot where there were two columns of armed soldiers flanking both sides of the main gate, the lines stretching into the lot itself. They looked to be Polish troops and I said, ‘Please don’t tell me that’s what I think it is, Peter.’

‘It surely is,’ he said. ‘An honor guard, if you can believe it. A guard of honor for a group of men who don’t even know the meaning of the word. Not on your life.’

Miriam slipped an arm through mine. ‘I think I’m going to become ill, right here.’

Peter said, ‘Then I just might get sick right with you, dear.’

I squeezed her arm and she said, ‘Do you want to leave?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I have to see this. I really do. I can’t believe they’re treating them like this.’

‘Who can?’ Peter said.

So we waited some more while other people drifted over to where we stood by the main gate. Some ambulances were moved, to make room for the visitors, I suppose.

I turned to Peter. ‘Any news about Jean-Paul?’

‘What kind of news you looking for?’

‘Oh, an arrest, conviction, a public confession of his crimes. That’d be a start.’

Peter said, ‘He’s in France now, probably getting some tough questioning from some members of the French government.’

‘Over his betrayal?’ Miriam asked.

‘Oh, hell, no,’ Peter said. ‘They’re going after him because of his real crime, which was embarrassing the French. Everything else is secondary.’

‘Peter, you are such a cynic,’ Miriam said.

‘No, dear, I’m a realist.’

The gate was one of those with a sliding fence portion and now it started moving with a rattle of machinery. The Polish troops stood at attention, though I was pleased to see that, judging from the expressions on some of their faces, they would have preferred to point their rifles toward the gate rather than up in the air. Among us were other aid workers, some soldiers not on immediate duty and various nurses and doctors, some of them in their emergency-room garb. One doctor, smoking a cigarette, said to a nurse, ‘I swear, Gretchen, if those soldiers weren’t there I’d take a scalpel and slit the throat of the first one I see.’

If Gretchen said anything by way of a reply I didn’t hear it. What we all did hear was the sound of engines and some of us moved back, away from the gate. An APC came through the gate first, followed by another. Both were flying UN banners from their radio whip antennas. Then came a black SUV of some sort with a blue flag that looked like the flag of New York state flying from its radio antenna, and that was followed by a black Cadillac with tinted windows. Three more APCs brought up the rear of the little convoy, and then, overhead, four helicopters circled in a wide sweep. All had weapons of some sort, either protruding from the open doorways on the side or in pods slung underneath.

Peter leaned toward me and shouted over the engine noise. ‘Not a bad little display, eh?’

‘Trying to prove something?’ I shouted back.

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Wanting to let the militias know the firepower that’s out there, in case the armistice talks don’t finish up. But it’s all for show. All for show. By the end of the day, peace will be upon this land once again.’

The helicopters hovered for a while and then flew off, lowering the noise level considerably. Miriam’s arm was still linked through mine and I said, ‘What kind of peace? They’ll still be digging up bodies and bones for the next decade.’

‘Sure they will,’ Peter said. ‘But this expensive intervention by NATO forces will be over, the United States will be welcomed back into the ranks of civilized nations, and the true business of this planet — feeding the hunger of the transnational corporations, led by the biggest economic power in the world—will resume. That is, if they decide to reengage with the world.’

And then Peter looked at me, with a gaze that said much more would go on: that the true story of how this country had been crippled and who was behind it may still stay secret for a long time to come.

Miriam said, ‘If I stay with you any longer, Peter, I’m afraid I’ll become as cynical as you.’

Peter smirked, a look that once would have angered me but now just looked right. ‘Miriam, if you stay with me any longer, perhaps this boy won’t interest you any more.’

She laughed. ‘Oh, I doubt that.’

I loved what she had just said, and I also loved the look on Peter’s face, which was why I missed the first few seconds of the paramilitaries emerging from their two vehicles. The SUV had guards of a sort, but the word must have-come down from somewhere, because their guns were slung over their shoulders rather than held at the ready. All four doors to the Cadillac opened up, and as well as the driver four militia types got out, a woman and three men. They had no weapons, and their uniforms were clean and pressed. One of them came around to look at us, a guy in his late thirties with a closely trimmed beard. I looked at him and he looked at me, and I actually felt my knees sag as though the ligaments and muscles there had just turned into taffy.

He smiled and called out, ‘Hey, Samuel! Good to see you!’

Peter and Miriam looked at me, and Peter was the first to ask: ‘Samuel, do you know that man? Was he one of your captors?’

I kept on looking at that comfortable-looking and happy face. ‘No, worse than that,’ I said.

Miriam asked, ‘How could have it been worse?’

I shook my head. ‘He was a cellmate.’

And sure enough, walking over to greet me was Gary Nealon, supposed schoolteacher and fellow prisoner, now wearing the familiar militia uniform — with stars on his collars.

There was a tussle of sorts when some of the Polish soldiers got between us as I went over to see him. But then there was some talking back and forth and I made it to the Cadillac as Gary’s three companions talked to a couple of UN suits. Gary was smiling widely, looking me up and down.

‘Man, you look pretty good,’ he said. ‘How’s it going?’