"Um, Captain . . . uh, not too tied up, are you?"
"What's it Dyce? No, I'm not. I was just heading for Randall's across the Course, the new place they are opening. Care to join?"
"Oh, the new Italian place? Isn't it called Renaldi's?
"Nope. The name's Randall's and they like to call themselves a diner. Gonna get a good client base in golfers when it's season."
"A diner sir?"
"How long have you known me Dyce? "
"That would be eight years this August Captain."
"Then you should know by now that I'm always right. It's kinda habit."
"Ah, my mistake, Sir, guess you're always right. I could do with a bite too. And . . . umm . . . got this thing bugging me."
"And what would that be?"
"It's about Agent Vargas . . . and the way he ended up . . ."
"Hmm . . . sad thing it is, son . . . but the guy went down like a man, you know . . . they say his legs are burnt beyond recognition while the torso remains intact, . . . not a nice way to go. Still he didn't sing, and the strike team hit the g-spot all right."
"It's really terrible what the bastards did to him, sir, but . . . then again that's only him . . ."
"Eh?"
"I mean . . . that's only Agent Vargas we're thinking about . . . he has a son, sir. . . . about ten."
"What's your point here lieutenant?"
"My point, sir, is Agent Vargas is dead and gone and now it's his family that's left to suffer. Especially the son. And one had to get one's eyes all misted when poor Mrs. Vargas broke down."
"Thirty goddamned years in Sacramento PD this June, son. I've seen quite a good number of law enforcement widows break down in my day . . . and . . . somewhere along the line there's always the fear that mine will be next and guy in the casket covered with Old Glory will be me."
"A very real fear sir— But I guess a lot else is involved . . ."
"How do you mean?"
"Can't have escaped you, captain, there's a buzz among the feds as well as within the department . . ."
"That there's a leak somewhere that cost Vargas his life?"
"Exactly!"
"And you are quite enthusiastic about it?"
"You would agree that it's not very heartening, won't you captain? One of your own stabbing you from behind."
"You make it sound like . . . you know . . . he he . . ."
"Yeah, shoving it up the ass. It's not so much as the stabbing, as the behind bit. You wouldn't know who to trust from that point on . . ."
"Mm hm, would be kinda awakening. Since one shouldn't trust anyone to begin with. . . . besides, if there's a leak, it have to be the feds, not us."
"The feds are sifting through their household . . . I guess we need to do likewise."
"I'm sure the Internal Affairs would do the needful. My hunch is anybody this deep into this thing would manage to stay hidden, for if one of Blanco's men get caught, a prison term is not the worst he's looking at. You must remember that even though the FBI strike team and the Colombian Army did their things with Blanco's ranch and manucturing facilities, Blanco himself managed to disappear. So he would want his own man dead before he begins to talk."
"But how would Blanco get to someone here in the U.S.?"
"He has his ways. And when that happens, believe me, despite his smooth Aussie accent, Felipe Blanco is your common garden variety Latin bastard. Why, the fate of Vargas vouches for that."
"Well, Vargas was in Blanco's ranch on the outskirts of Bogotà . . ."
"That's not Bogotà, lieutenant. Blanco's ranch is located several miles outside Cali.
"Ah, Cali, indeed. Like you said captain, you're always right, kinda habit."
"Yeah . . . somehow in the middle of all this, it's difficult to get the picture of poor Vargas, with his same stupid green jacket, out of your head."
"The . . . same . . . stupid . . . green . . . jacket?"
"Yeah . . . the . . . same . . . uh . . . jacket . . . Uh, Dyce . . . I think I'd pause for a sec under that oak over there."
"Okay . . ."
"And now that we're here, why don't you walk several paces ahead . . . I mean get out of the shadow."
"No, I think I'd stay in the shadow this oak with you captain."
"Move ahead lieutenant, that's an order."
"Hey! That's my dad's gun, captain."
"Yeah, it stays in your drawer so, no one would connect it to you or me. Isn't it sweet?"
"Why, you don't have to point a gun at me to give me an order, captain!"
"How long have you known?"
"I . . . refused to believe it, even though it stared me in the eye. Marlow had been bugging me all this time . . . He overheard you talking on the phone to someone called Mr. White AND sometimes you said 'Sì, señor' and laughed. And then you went on a sick leave. Then this morning he went to the Commissioner . . ."
"The Commissioner?"
"Yes captain, but I . . . I didn't second Marlow . . . I wanted to find out for myself. And now this morning, you mentioned Blanco's Australian accent. None of us in Sacramento PD knew this detail before Special Agent Bigsley brought Blanco's file this morning. Then there's Vargas' green jacket. You said the 'same' green jacket. It indeed is. It's the one he took his picture in, that picture was in the initial case file meant for the Commissioner, and it was eyes-only. Commissioner showed us the picture only this morning. You weren't anywhere near then. Even then I refused to believe that you . . . of all people . . ."
". . . could be Blanco's mole in the department? That's a mighty compliment, son. I feel flattered. But I'm afraid . . ."
"Oh, sir! Captain Carmichael, sir, please don't shoot . . ."
"I'm sorry, son. Not that I don't have feellings for you. For all these years I have mentored you myself, that counts for something. . . . But you know what? I'm tired. I'm damned tired of it all . . . the same peanuts week after week, having to make do with less when other smug sons of bitches, who are by no mean any better than me, are having the time of their lives . . . the corporate types . . ."
"Listen Captain, nothing is lost. You can put the gun down. We can go to the commissioner and tell him that you're a double agent and that death of Vargas had been only a matter of bad timing . . . you . . . you can tell Commissioner Le Bon that you're ready feed Blanco with shit."
"Dyce, Dyce, Dyce. This thing might have worked on a rookie. But your forget I've been in this thing for thirty years and know a thing or two about bluffing . . ."
"Please Captain Carmichael, don't shoot, I've a girlfriend . . ."
"And I have a seaside villa in the Bahamas, Dyce. That's where I'd be heading. If I walk sideways towards that grove of poplars from this oak, no one from the building's gonna see me."
"Please don't pull that trigger, captain Carmichael, it is . . ."
* * * * *
The explosion was somewhat dull, but it managed drown the last sentence. Lieutenant Jason Dyce stared at Captain Andy Carmichael, or what was left of him. As such the body from the shoulder down was intact, except the right hand, which has disappeared completely upto the elbow The head is a mangled mess of flesh, blood and broken bones.
A single drop of tear slowly began its downward journey along Jason's rough cheek. His father's words were still ringing in his ears - "This secret might save your life one day . . ."
Today it certainly did. But somehow, a part of him ceased to live, the part that reached out to people, that took friendship for grated.
Dyce pressed his lips together. Carmichael was so ready to pull the trigger on him, so ready to kill him. All those days, all those exchanges, conversations, delving into each other's souls, those lively lunch hours at Mrs. Carmichael's table. All amounted to nothing, nothing!
If he didn't pull the trigger, if he just decided to make a dash for the grove, Carmichael would have survived. That is the irony of the contraption of these rigged pistols. You die only when you are ready to kill. It's a sort of instant justice, created by China's People's Liberation Army for the rebels of Xinjiang. In several crates along with mostly perfectly working weapons, there used to be about three or four, which would kill the user. The man who taught his father how to build these guns is now a businessman with a new identity in Chicago, that's where CIA has let him settle when it found the man has given them all he could. Adrian Wu still remembers how Agent Harry Dyce risked his own life to save his and make his defection to the U.S. a success. As for Harry Dyce, he is remembered by his collegues with a star in the Memorial Wall in the CIA building in Langley.
"But it was me, Captain! I can understand you being bitter and all . . . but you were ready to kill even me? Jesus Christ!"
"What's it Dyce? No, I'm not. I was just heading for Randall's across the Course, the new place they are opening. Care to join?"
"Oh, the new Italian place? Isn't it called Renaldi's?
"Nope. The name's Randall's and they like to call themselves a diner. Gonna get a good client base in golfers when it's season."
"A diner sir?"
"How long have you known me Dyce? "
"That would be eight years this August Captain."
"Then you should know by now that I'm always right. It's kinda habit."
"Ah, my mistake, Sir, guess you're always right. I could do with a bite too. And . . . umm . . . got this thing bugging me."
"And what would that be?"
"It's about Agent Vargas . . . and the way he ended up . . ."
"Hmm . . . sad thing it is, son . . . but the guy went down like a man, you know . . . they say his legs are burnt beyond recognition while the torso remains intact, . . . not a nice way to go. Still he didn't sing, and the strike team hit the g-spot all right."
"It's really terrible what the bastards did to him, sir, but . . . then again that's only him . . ."
"Eh?"
"I mean . . . that's only Agent Vargas we're thinking about . . . he has a son, sir. . . . about ten."
"What's your point here lieutenant?"
"My point, sir, is Agent Vargas is dead and gone and now it's his family that's left to suffer. Especially the son. And one had to get one's eyes all misted when poor Mrs. Vargas broke down."
"Thirty goddamned years in Sacramento PD this June, son. I've seen quite a good number of law enforcement widows break down in my day . . . and . . . somewhere along the line there's always the fear that mine will be next and guy in the casket covered with Old Glory will be me."
"A very real fear sir— But I guess a lot else is involved . . ."
"How do you mean?"
"Can't have escaped you, captain, there's a buzz among the feds as well as within the department . . ."
"That there's a leak somewhere that cost Vargas his life?"
"Exactly!"
"And you are quite enthusiastic about it?"
"You would agree that it's not very heartening, won't you captain? One of your own stabbing you from behind."
"You make it sound like . . . you know . . . he he . . ."
"Yeah, shoving it up the ass. It's not so much as the stabbing, as the behind bit. You wouldn't know who to trust from that point on . . ."
"Mm hm, would be kinda awakening. Since one shouldn't trust anyone to begin with. . . . besides, if there's a leak, it have to be the feds, not us."
"The feds are sifting through their household . . . I guess we need to do likewise."
"I'm sure the Internal Affairs would do the needful. My hunch is anybody this deep into this thing would manage to stay hidden, for if one of Blanco's men get caught, a prison term is not the worst he's looking at. You must remember that even though the FBI strike team and the Colombian Army did their things with Blanco's ranch and manucturing facilities, Blanco himself managed to disappear. So he would want his own man dead before he begins to talk."
"But how would Blanco get to someone here in the U.S.?"
"He has his ways. And when that happens, believe me, despite his smooth Aussie accent, Felipe Blanco is your common garden variety Latin bastard. Why, the fate of Vargas vouches for that."
"Well, Vargas was in Blanco's ranch on the outskirts of Bogotà . . ."
"That's not Bogotà, lieutenant. Blanco's ranch is located several miles outside Cali.
"Ah, Cali, indeed. Like you said captain, you're always right, kinda habit."
"Yeah . . . somehow in the middle of all this, it's difficult to get the picture of poor Vargas, with his same stupid green jacket, out of your head."
"The . . . same . . . stupid . . . green . . . jacket?"
"Yeah . . . the . . . same . . . uh . . . jacket . . . Uh, Dyce . . . I think I'd pause for a sec under that oak over there."
"Okay . . ."
"And now that we're here, why don't you walk several paces ahead . . . I mean get out of the shadow."
"No, I think I'd stay in the shadow this oak with you captain."
"Move ahead lieutenant, that's an order."
"Hey! That's my dad's gun, captain."
"Yeah, it stays in your drawer so, no one would connect it to you or me. Isn't it sweet?"
"Why, you don't have to point a gun at me to give me an order, captain!"
"How long have you known?"
"I . . . refused to believe it, even though it stared me in the eye. Marlow had been bugging me all this time . . . He overheard you talking on the phone to someone called Mr. White AND sometimes you said 'Sì, señor' and laughed. And then you went on a sick leave. Then this morning he went to the Commissioner . . ."
"The Commissioner?"
"Yes captain, but I . . . I didn't second Marlow . . . I wanted to find out for myself. And now this morning, you mentioned Blanco's Australian accent. None of us in Sacramento PD knew this detail before Special Agent Bigsley brought Blanco's file this morning. Then there's Vargas' green jacket. You said the 'same' green jacket. It indeed is. It's the one he took his picture in, that picture was in the initial case file meant for the Commissioner, and it was eyes-only. Commissioner showed us the picture only this morning. You weren't anywhere near then. Even then I refused to believe that you . . . of all people . . ."
". . . could be Blanco's mole in the department? That's a mighty compliment, son. I feel flattered. But I'm afraid . . ."
"Oh, sir! Captain Carmichael, sir, please don't shoot . . ."
"I'm sorry, son. Not that I don't have feellings for you. For all these years I have mentored you myself, that counts for something. . . . But you know what? I'm tired. I'm damned tired of it all . . . the same peanuts week after week, having to make do with less when other smug sons of bitches, who are by no mean any better than me, are having the time of their lives . . . the corporate types . . ."
"Listen Captain, nothing is lost. You can put the gun down. We can go to the commissioner and tell him that you're a double agent and that death of Vargas had been only a matter of bad timing . . . you . . . you can tell Commissioner Le Bon that you're ready feed Blanco with shit."
"Dyce, Dyce, Dyce. This thing might have worked on a rookie. But your forget I've been in this thing for thirty years and know a thing or two about bluffing . . ."
"Please Captain Carmichael, don't shoot, I've a girlfriend . . ."
"And I have a seaside villa in the Bahamas, Dyce. That's where I'd be heading. If I walk sideways towards that grove of poplars from this oak, no one from the building's gonna see me."
"Please don't pull that trigger, captain Carmichael, it is . . ."
* * * * *
The explosion was somewhat dull, but it managed drown the last sentence. Lieutenant Jason Dyce stared at Captain Andy Carmichael, or what was left of him. As such the body from the shoulder down was intact, except the right hand, which has disappeared completely upto the elbow The head is a mangled mess of flesh, blood and broken bones.
A single drop of tear slowly began its downward journey along Jason's rough cheek. His father's words were still ringing in his ears - "This secret might save your life one day . . ."
Today it certainly did. But somehow, a part of him ceased to live, the part that reached out to people, that took friendship for grated.
Dyce pressed his lips together. Carmichael was so ready to pull the trigger on him, so ready to kill him. All those days, all those exchanges, conversations, delving into each other's souls, those lively lunch hours at Mrs. Carmichael's table. All amounted to nothing, nothing!
If he didn't pull the trigger, if he just decided to make a dash for the grove, Carmichael would have survived. That is the irony of the contraption of these rigged pistols. You die only when you are ready to kill. It's a sort of instant justice, created by China's People's Liberation Army for the rebels of Xinjiang. In several crates along with mostly perfectly working weapons, there used to be about three or four, which would kill the user. The man who taught his father how to build these guns is now a businessman with a new identity in Chicago, that's where CIA has let him settle when it found the man has given them all he could. Adrian Wu still remembers how Agent Harry Dyce risked his own life to save his and make his defection to the U.S. a success. As for Harry Dyce, he is remembered by his collegues with a star in the Memorial Wall in the CIA building in Langley.
"But it was me, Captain! I can understand you being bitter and all . . . but you were ready to kill even me? Jesus Christ!"
