The Mysterious Mel Wilely
A few minutes before midnight, the circus began. It was pandemonium, the good kind that jump-starts a tale taller than life. The sky was perniciously purple that night over the emerald-colored city at twilight. The wind slowed to a rushing roar, tearing up his thoughts and reducing them to shredded pages on the floor. Ivy, thick and tangled, nearly obscured the view of a blood-red moon. Ray lit a fire in the folding light of the den. It was darker than he had anticipated. Where had the time gone? He looked at his watch, discovering it was the same time it had been an hour ago. He tapped the glass lenses and listened for ticking but heard nothing. His neurons fired rapidly, searching for the assimilation of winding up the time. Had he added time? He was certain of it. Fragments of a memory surfaced — or did they?
“I need a watchsmith,” he said aloud. He had only just wound it a moment before, or had he? It was the evening before. The windowpane reflected off the canvas of a violet sky, depicting him slumbering peacefully, a cantankerous cat curled about his stomach, purring loudly. His notes lay in a disheveled pile on the pine wood floor. His watch sat still on the table; its gears and levels had stopped slowly. The silence pressed on him, the sensation of a tropical air pressure system, expansive and unmarked. There was not a clock in the house. He existed in a timeless void, curling up in his invisibility, throwing off his tired costume, and resting face, the litigator’s perfectly poised mask. His courtroom performance was over; another serial killer behind bars, another monster off the street.
He opened a law book, rubbing his weary eyes, stroking his tired temples, and waited for the flames to catch. Sitting in a worn tan leather chair, he read halfheartedly. Then he began to sink further into the deep tides of dreams. He dreamed he ran on cobblestones, but it was hazy, the sidewalks overgrown, struggling to move through the haze. The faster he ran, the thicker the haze got, a chronophobia smog that left him gasping. A detached voice, not his own, spoke incoherently. Ray ran through the smoke, trying to get closer, and then he heard it whispering directly in his ear: “It’s only a matter of time.” The ground shook beneath his feet, military training kicking in. He withdrew his pistol, pushing through the smoke until he fell off a parquet into a bed of yellow roses. He was home, but the house was in ruins. A woman screamed.
“I can’t hear you.”
She kept screaming. “I can’t understand you,” he yelled.
“It’s only a matter of time before they see you,” she said firmly through the thick black smoke.
“Who? Who will see me?” Ray looked down at his hands but couldn’t see them. He was fading, suffocating, blinded by smoke. It was a nightmare.
He awoke with a start.
It was the fire alarm. Not a woman. The scorching blaze had been unable to escape through the sealed flue. He rushed to open it, throwing open all the windows and waving a jacket in front of the screeching smoke alarm. “I keep forgetting things,” he thought. “It’s my sleep. I’m just not sleeping. Or am I losing my mind?” He had forgotten numerous things in recent weeks — meetings, conversations, even misplacing insignificant things, keys, cash, his watch. Had he wound it or not? Maybe it had run out of time? Maybe he hadn’t wound his watch at all. He stood scratching his head and looking out at the moon.
Bang.
The sound was thunderously loud, unmistakably a gunshot. It had caught him by surprise. The remnants of the noise reverberated through his brain. Had he dreamed it? No, he was awake. The windows were open, and the smoke had cleared to a haze. He went to a mirror, but his face looked strangely distorted, a sneer when he smiled. “Dirty. Dirty old mirror,” he thought. Awake, a gun had gone off. He stood still, listening, looking out through the tangle of ivy. He waited.
A commotion followed a period of silence. There was a loud, clumsy thumping and a flurry of uncivilized swear words. Ray knew his neighbor in passing. Mel Willey, a secretive man who wore dark glasses and covered up his mail suspiciously, as if Ray might try to read it. Ray had invited him for a beer one evening, but Mel’s behavior had spooked him.
“What do you do?”
“I work in power plant sales for industrial complexes.”
“An engineer?”
“A laborer. I’m a technician. I install them.”
Ray had even heard Mel speaking loudly in Russian, something that made every American quite nervous during the cold war. Ray picked up his gun and put it in his belt, covering it with his T-shirt.
Ray went out on the balcony to listen. The city lights twinkled like electric little stars, and Cleveland sprawled out before him. A large lanky oak tree hung over him, casting a dark shadow. It creaked and groaned laboriously.
He didn’t phone 911. Ray considered it, but curiosity got the better of him. He crept noiselessly downstairs and stood at the door, listening. He heard conversation, but it sounded too casual for an act of violence. Ray felt a rush of relief. The cold steel of a Glock pressed against the small of his back, a loaded 9mm Glock, a gift from his father. Ray knocked lightly on the door. The gun must have gone off while some incompetent idiot was cleaning it, he reasoned.
Mel opened the door and didn’t seem to recognize him: “Are you mitigation?”
“What?” Ray asked. Mel was covered in blood. A man lay on the floor shot in the back.
“You’re the first one here,” said the man, opening the door and gesturing for Ray to come in.
“Did you shoot him in the back?”
“There’s no time to lose, I didn’t use a silencer. The others are coming.”
Ray looked with horror at the body on the floor. It looked like murder to him. “Had he broken in?” he asked.
Ray then first noticed the amassed arsenal of guns and knives spread out over every surface and every piece of furniture. Then he noticed the grotesque corpse on the floor, and stared in fascination. He took his pistol out of his belt and placed it on the counter. They would be men about this, Ray thought quickly.
“Agent Mel Wiley,” said the murderer. The shooter stood over the carcass, posing quite casually, introducing himself like a guest at a summer garden party.
“And you are?” he said after a minute. “I don’t think I’ve worked with you, but you look so goddamn familiar to me.”
“Ray. My name is Ray. Everyone says I look familiar; I just have one of those plain ordinary faces.”
Mel leaned closely, squinting through his thick eyeglass lenses. Ray could not make out the pupil from the iris from behind those thick glass walls. Ray did not like not being able to see people in the eye. He didn’t trust people he couldn’t look in the eye. More importantly, Ray thought, I can’t understand him without seeing his eyes. I can’t tell what he is thinking, or if he is going to kill me too. But Mel seemed unusually controlled, unemotional, as if he had just stomped on a roach. He was not fully satisfied Ray was one of them, but he was certain he had seen him before. There was no time to waste.
“You can go ahead and get started then.”
“You are in the combat response squad.”
“I have more military training than you do, certainly, sir.”
Wiley looked for a badge, but Ray was not wearing one. Ray just stood there, staring in confusion, looking back and forth between Wiley and the wildly gruesome murder victim clenching in the throes of death on the floor.
“I see,” said Wiley. “It’s Sergio Smolarcyck. Mass murderer and international arms dealer. The mother fucker had been hiding in the pantry. He almost got me. Damn it was a close call. I’ll have a full report for you by the end of the week.”
“He tried to kill you,” Ray asked, “because he is shot in the back.”
“A verified serial assassin, unfortunately I’m on the Russian kill list. What kind of questions are these?”
Ray felt a penetrating sense of dread. “He is who you say he is?”
“Roll him over and look yourself.”
“Pardon me?”
“Would you like me to roll him over for you, sir?” Mel said quickly. He had established now clearly Ray was of higher rank. His whole demeanor changed as soon as he had thought it.
Another knock came at the door. Mel quickly opened it. A crowd of shadowy men rushed in, storming around in black uniforms, with CIA badges conspicuously clipped to their belts. With apparent practiced and perfunctory efficiency, they quickly rolled the body up in the throw rug, carried it out, and threw it into an unlabeled black armored van. They saluted Mel Wiley and had taken off.
Mel was now staring darkly at Ray. “I need your badge,” he demanded.
Mel was not a man accustomed to being fooled. He was not a strapping athlete, but he was robust and strong. There was something analytical and penetrating about the way his mind worked. He was calculating, thought Ray. He is a strategic slow-moving thinker. Ray knew the type. He couldn’t see Mel’s eyes, but he knew a criminal when he saw one. Mel was a chess player. A sophisticated criminal who was likely nearly equal in size and intellect, but not quite. Ray was more cunning than the rest. He played three-dimensional chess. He would run circles around this clever little murderer, he thought with pleasure. He would overtake him, overpower him, both in acuity and in strength. Mel was no match for him, a crooked cop. A corrupt federal agent of sorts. Ray had heard about these types, there were internal investigation units. He knew someone at the Attorney General Office.
Mel pulled out his gun and cocked it loudly. Ray couldn’t see his eyes through his glasses. He could not see if this was a bluff. He could not perceive it. He looked back at the two cynical black circles staring straight at him. They did not waver. Ray was speechless, dumbfounded and reeling in shock. He could not find any words to say at all.
“I’m going to need your credentials immediately.”
“Wait, don’t shoot!”
“Your badge?”
“I live upstairs.”
“Fuck me!” Roared Mel, waving the gun about wildly. Ray was fascinated. This was the most enlivened he had ever seen his neighbor. It must be thrilling to kill someone. “Now I know who you are. You’re the goddamn idiot always stomping around and talking to yourself up there. I do not know how I could have mistaken you. We had a few the last time you saw me.”
Ray suddenly did remember, the reflection of the memory flashed across his face. They had spent an evening together.
“I’m going to take my gun and go.”
“Where? These. These are garden sheers, these?”
Ray was embarrassed. He needed sleep badly. Even the room appeared hazy. “It’s not like me to forget such a critical thing with all my military training.” Ray said puffing out his chest.
“Oh yes, you were a infantry man over seas.”
“I’ve seen a lot of combat.”
“Hah! Well you and I probably both know then how easy it is to kill people with scissors.” Mel Wilely laughed in a way that made Gricar recoil. He would file that report with the OAG.
“I’d like to see your badge,” said Ray with authority.
Wilely obliged. Ray held the heavy brass accoutrement in his hands, it shown like gold in the lamp light. It was polished to a degree that it was blindingly bright. He had never imagined that a badge would be so heavy. CIA Agent.
“Agent.”
“Yes.”
“I was an imperial spy on assignment prior to going to law school.”
“Overseas right, where did you say? Ukraine.”
“Slovenia.”
“A Slovenian spy. We are allies with your country.”
“I’m well aware.”
“Of course.”
“I couldn’t kill you if I wanted, you’re a civilian. I would much prefer not to deal with you. You’re an annoyance. You are just a hassle. I’d shoot you if I could. But unfortunately I cannot. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at 7:00 a.m.”
“To kill me?”
“You’ll be debriefed. I’ll take you into headquarters. Come on Ray, don’t play dumb, you know how this works. If you don’t have an American badge we de-brief you regardless of your allegiance or citizenship status. We know your foreign friend not foe, our agents will be gentle with you.”
“And if I should refuse?”
“Then they’ll come for you and hold you for weeks, sometimes month. You’ll sit in a holding cell till they break you. The embassy will purposely move slow. It’ll literally take months to get you out.”
“Someone of my rank would get out quite quickly.”
“Foreign dignitaries have said the same thing. The CIA doesn’t care.”
“I’ll see you at seven,” was all Ray said, and he left quickly, carrying his garden sheers. He went down the maze of corridors, up the curving stairs, where a haze of smoke still faintly floated at the ceiling. His apartment was freezing. Indeed, he thought, I will call the Slovenian American embassy after the appointment tomorrow. He felt outraged being treated like this.
The government building was more high tech than he could possibly imagine. It hummed with satellites, digital spy monitoring devices he presumed. He looked up at the bright blue sky, which he suddenly noticed seemed very bright, expansive, and unusually big. He felt for minute like the sky looked more gigantic than it ever have. The world looked bigger and wider. The possibilities were endless. His head was full of nonsensical childish dreams. He could not wait to disappear. He’d take aliases. He’d tell nobody. Maybe Roy. No he wouldn’t tell anyone, he’d just go.
Ray caught a glimpse of himself suddenly in the mirrored reflective panes of the towering building. He had to look twice. The first time he hardly recognized himself. The first time he had walked next to Mel he had been a bearded bum in ill-fitting jeans and a Carhart t-shirt. Next to him in the reflection wasn’t Ray. Or it wasn’t the Ray that Ray knew himself to be. It was a debonair stranger, polished, sophisticated, sleek, mysterious. Reserved. Ray wasn’t so secretive. He had the passion of a prosecutor. He had to do what he did. Ray straightened his shirt self-consciously. He should have worn a suit. The feeling had overwhelmed him quite suddenly as soon as he made eye contact with himself in the mirrored exterior glass of the building. This was his destiny. He felt it. Ray had a way of breaking down large social institutions and short cutting his way to power players.
He had waited nearly five hours for “debriefing” when at last a stranger had approached in a uniform:
“Who are you?”
Ray was quick on his feet, “I’m here for a job interview.”
The agent looked at his ripped faded blue jeans. “Are you a recruit?”
“Yes.”
A few minutes later the agent returned. “Sir we have no file on you.”
“Perhaps you’ve lost it. I’ll return tomorrow to reschedule?”
“That won’t -
“Fucking bum,” she said locking the smoked door behind Ray Gricar. “Goddamn grifters. Vagrants. Tramps. Drug addicts. The country was going to hell.”
Ray was in the lobby the following day.
He knew now what they wanted. This time in a suit. This time he looked like one of them. He even felt like one of them. This time he is shaven, prepared, serious and articulate. The clerk had not recognized him. He practiced the demeanor of Mel Wilely in the mirror. He had looked at himself and worked on the performance quite extensively. He would act like Mel. That was certainly what they wanted. They wanted a discreet super hero in a black suit with a serious unwavering studious expression. They wanted an emotionless killing machine. Someone willing to shoot a foreign terrorist in the back. I wonder what murder feels like, he thought. He couldn’t stop thinking of it. It had all seemed so casual. Mel Wilely was a powerful man. He was a man to fear. So am I, smiled Ray confidently.
“You.”
“Ray Gricar.”
“The suit caught me off guard.”
“I had been coming out of the field. Undercover.”
“Undercover doing what?”
“Chasing down homicidal fugitives. I a prosecutor. I prosecute murders.” Ray was enjoying himself. This is a performance, that’s all, he thought.
“Are you a federal prosecutor?” asked the clerk with growing interest.
“State prosecuted. But I’m working on getting appointed federally,” Ray said. Federal prosecutor would have impressed you more. “I prosecute homicides, violent gangs, drug cartels, the worst types.”
“Poltergeists?”
“I don’t do sex crimes. There’s never any evidence. It’s who said what and who the jury believes the most. And I for damn sure don’t believe in poltergeists. I don’t touch those cases. I go after the people that kill you.”
“Oh my, yes. Yes, you are what we need. Do you remember the name of your recruiter? It’s the most bizarre thing, we have never lost an applicant file before. My you’re so young. I didn’t realize you were undercover yesterday. And murder trials, at your age, you must be quite captivating.”
“I just speak the truth. Their acts seal their fate.”
“Death penalty trials?”
“Sometimes,” Ray said seriously without moving his gaze. He had noticed Mel did that too. He held his gaze for a second longer than socially normal. Ray was an excellent chess player too. “You don’t have any field training other than for the district attorney?”
“I was also a NATO spy. I injured my back jumping out of a helicopter, and it took me so long to recover, I just got a law degree.”
“My goodness,” she said. “Do you have a clean bill of health now?”
“Ma’am, I’ll turn back flips if you’d like.”
“No, no,” she laughed flirtatiously. “That won’t be necessary. Who was your recruiter? I’m going to patronize him for losing your file. How could we lose a file for someone like you, a prosecutor and combat seasoned international NATO spy. My lord. Do you speak Russian?”
“I do not.”
“That’s a shame, we need Russian speaking American patriots over there. I am just quite flustered. Please accept my apologies for keeping you waiting yesterday sir. Now who was that recruiter?”
“He was so secretive and quiet, I don’t remember.”
“We all are,” said the clerk with a wink. Ray’s heart filled with joy. For as long as he could remember all he did was dream about disappearing. He dreamed about blending into crowds. He dreamed about controlling all of it, all the while looking like a mere spectator of things. He remembered all the George Smiley spy mysteries he had ever read. The Americans would hide him. He could hide anywhere. He could be anything. He was a born chameleon, so very bored with life, because he intellectually outran everyone. I need danger to keep my heart pumping. I need to feel the closeness of death to forget about the pain of living. I need the edge. I need the outside, he had thought. I need a place where people don’t try and peer into your mind. The American CIA. His costume. His role was to be misunderstood. His job was to be an enigma. He liked that sort of thing. He liked watching the world go by from inside the walls. He liked watching people, he just didn’t like most people. Most all of them men, hating the idea that any man, idea or force could overpower him. I’m a plain looking man but with a beautifully complex mind, he had told himself. He was of another class, he had scarcely met his intellectual equal. This intellectual vanity was off putting, so he hid it. But people could feel it. When Ray’s eyes dart around the room he is taking split second images, a facial expression, a shoe, a fidgetting hand with a pencil in it. He can read a room. Most previously abused children can, they become biologically developed on “high alert” mode. Animalistic survival biological instincts. Chemicals. Hormones. They develop in that mode. They survive by sensing danger. They survive by reading the nuances of human moods. That’s how Ray survived. He got it so bad, he was goddamn telepathic. He never thought much of the abuse. Catholic families don’t like the unpleasantries of the past, the ugly things. He lived in a state of fight mode. High on the rush of bred and nurtured animalistic adrenaline. His pedigree was at its core that of a predator, he had in fact learned to be one as he learned how to escape one. He knew what powerless felt like. Or at one time he did. Ray wasn’t a touchy feely guy. Tempetuous, impulsive at times, but never about feelings. He was hardly aware anymore that he had them. He was so focused on his next kill.
“I cannot wait to serve the Americans in the field. This is the best country on earth. The freest. The richest. The strongest. I may be second generation, but I am a patriot.”
“Yes too much autocracy at NATO, you’ll be happier here. We have a few NATO agents. I’m certain you’ll know them. I know it’s a small and exceptionally elite division. I don’t know if protocol allows me to send you upstairs without a file, but I’m not letting an agent like you walk out the door.”
“Can I perhaps help you look, Miss?” She had to be sixty but Ray said Miss as flirtatiously as he could. It quite distracted her. Ray knew what he was doing. Ray read women better than anyone. He was the product of an extraordinarily strong one. He could read a woman’s mood in a glimpse. He could even usually tell when they were menstruating, something about them seemed like they were dying. He could tell this woman very much liked him, and he used his long dark eyelashes and handsome jaw to distract her. He needed to see the Americans to talk to them about the possible nefarious behavior of Mel Wilely.
“Normally I send you upstairs with your file for a polygraph, but I don’t know what to do without a file. We looked everywhere. It’s like you just appeared out of thin air.”
“A good quality for a spy, don’t you think?”
“I think it’s in headquarters. It’s probably with high brass. The executive level sector. Someone as impressive as you, you would certainly excite their curiosity. How many murder convictions do you have?”
“I don’t like to gloat,” said Ray Gricar. He had never tried a murder case in his life, not even as a second chair.
“Modest and impressive,” said the clerk. She took down her glasses and gave him a wink. “Go on upstairs and take your polygraph. And Ray?”
“The suit. Where did you have it made? You look like a whole new man!”
“A tailor on Southside. I’ll send you the name of it.”
“You look marvalous in it. You look…. Well, you look like one of us. I’d say it’s written in your fate. If I was a betting woman. They do not take too many, but I can tell when I see a good spy. They have this studious and steady and calm quality. They have the emotional poise of a prosecutor cross-examine a hostile Defendant. They have every quality you do. You are a remarkable candidate.”
As he gazed up at the brilliant blue sky, he suddenly noticed something peculiar. It seemed bigger, wider, and somehow more immense than ever before. Ray felt like he was standing in the presence of endless possibilities, his head filled with nonsensical and childlike dreams of disappearing into a world of aliases and secrecy. Lost in his daydream, Ray caught a glimpse of himself in the reflective windows of the towering building. And boy, did he have to do a double take. The first glance hardly recognized the man staring back at him. Gone was the bearded bum in shabby jeans and an ill-fitting t-shirt. In his place stood a debonair stranger, exuding sophistication and mystery.
I know the Americans will be no better than any foreign organization or union, thought Ray. There will be traitors, moles, backstabbers, counter spies. He knew the thorny territory, and he was ready for it. He sat in front of a polygraph machine with a camera pointed directly at him. He put his chin on his hands and looked pensive, cerebral and analytical. He knew he was being watched. He sat motionless. Perfectly controlled. At last the examiner came in.
“Working for NATO, you know how this goes,” said the Agent.
“And may I have your name sir,” Ray asked.
“You can call me Boulder. I’m a full time investigator. I was injured behind enemy lines and broke my back falling on a boulder. I was captured and spent 4 years in captivity in North Korea. The United States President negotiated my freedom at last. I can no longer work in the field. My job is to identify communists.”
“Honorable job indeed.”
“I’ve interviewed hundreds, I can always catch them. I’m probably the best polygrapher in the nation, if not the world. I’m real good.”
“Admirable indeed.”
“The point is, if you lie to me, I’m going to find out.”
“I should warn you I have a heart murmur.”
“funny,” said Boulder.
“Why’s that?”
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“We both know all liars say that right before an exam.”
The CKG began to beep rapidly. “Hold on their superman, I know your not a communist. Keep that heart steady. They’ll make us take it again till you pass.”
“Too much coffee.”
“You should know better than that too,” or didn’t NATO ever warn their agents.
Ray didn’t answer. He shut his eyes. He knew very well how to pass a polygraph. He was in possession of NATO secrets he could not disclose. The questions came at him calmly but rapidly in a Montone voice for four hours. He was quite dehydrated and cramping.
“Did I pass?”
“I’ll push it though. You drank coffee. I can tell your not a communist. You might as well be as red blooded and American as the next.”
“When do I find out?”
“Find out what?”
“If I have the position.”
“If NATO cleared you, and you’re a prosecutor, we’re going to take you. You’ll hear from us in a couple weeks with orders. I would have a bag packed and waiting. On your first American mission sometimes they come for you. You want to be ready.”
“Of course.”
“You don’t speak Russian do you?”
“Fluently.”
“Excellent. That’s what we need. That’s exactly what we need. I need 50 more like you. Fine specimen of a candidate. I don’t know why she told me you didn’t speak Russian.”
“I’ve read all the classics, they are taught in Slovenia public schools.”
“Russian communist imperialism.”
“Now English is the language of the free.”
“I quite agree. I’m going to recommend you overseas immediately. Particularly since you have Slovenia cartel ties possibly. You are going to be exceptionally useful to us. My superiors will not be more pleased. Welcome to the CIA Agent Gricar.”
Ray went to the bathroom and washed his face. He was sweating from the lie detector test. He’d hardly had to lie. He told them his affiliations. His assignments. He told them everything they needed to know.
“CIA,” Ray Gricar said flipping open his badge in the mirror.
A toilet flushed and Mel Willey emerged from the stall. He looked baffled.
“Mel.”
“I see you were debriefed?”
“I was hired.”
“What?”
“I’m a Russian infiltrator deploying likely next week.”
“Do you speak Russian?”
“Not a word.”
“Damn, the brass liked you. Probably because you’re a lawyer. Lawyers make good spies because their such damn good liars.” It was a joke but Mel wasn’t smiling. There was s sinister feel to the conversation. Ray just didn’t like him. He’s a communist on the inside. No man shoots another man in the back. Ray stared right back down directly into those thick lenses, those telescope lenses of glasses, peering as far through the glass tunnel as he could see.
“You know what lawyers are better at doing Agent Wilely?”
“What’s that?”
“Catching liars.”
“I bet you are, with an assignment like that off the bat, they saw something in you. Hell, you came in here to sign a confidentiality sworn statement and left an agent. I am impressed by you. Want to get a beer tonight?”
“No,” Gricar said. He left the bathroom. His brain was humming and itching and reverberating in his skull. Every time he sat under cameras for hours his mind became a warped labyrinth of strange noises and reflections. He did not like cameras. I can always feel them on me, I hate the way they burn your skin, and shoot radiation all the way through your bones. I hate cameras. He had washed the sweat off his face. The worst was over. Luckily for the Americans, he lived above their communist mole. Ray did not need to see his pupils; he had seen enough. He was skilled in spotting signs of deceit.
When he was safely inside his yellow spider sports car he let at a squeal of victory, pumping his arm. He could not show emotion like that in a bureau. He could when he was alone. He was a passionate man. That is why the juries found him convincing. He was compelling. His passion made him dangerously persuasive. He was in the dead zone now. He removed all expressions of emotion from his face. Calmly started his car and drove away.
Two days later there was a knock at his door.
“Mel.”
“Yep, it’s me. They assigned me. And I do not need to salute you because we’re equally ranked. If anything, I have more tenure. So, we’ll be done with that. We are partners now. There are no secrets between us. Our lives depend on it. And I plan to come home alive.”
“You’re my boss?”
“Technically, yes. But I think partner should suffice.”
“The absurdity of me reporting to you.”
“Look, we got to catch a plane, Ray. The assignment is to gather names of a cartel running between Turkey and Russia, a pipeline of guns. I will fill you in. Should be low pressure assignment. We’re just watching. I was told that if we see any action there better be good reason.”
“You won’t find me shooting anyone in the back.”
“I’m tired of your Julius Cesar references.” Mel through a black metal briefcase on the table. “Sign the form before you arm it. You check them out. They just started this policy. That way they know whose gun got fired.”
Ray signed his name in a straight line with a small curve. A flourish. Just a subtle one. But Ray thought it said sophistication. It looked like power.
“You fired all these before.”
“Let’s get going champ,” Ray said to Mel. He liked him close, so he could watch him.
They landed in bitter cold Ukraine on a foreign post. They stayed with friendly forces that evening, sleeping in bunks.
“The silence is worst than the noise of combat.”
“I know,” Mel agreed, “like your waiting and any minute it could be over.”
“That’s why I kill communists.”
“Just not in the back.”
“I’ve killed dozens of men, some with my own hands,” Ray said darkly.
They arrived promptly at 7:30 at the outpost. It was a safehouse for friendly forces, but in a war prone zone near the enemy line. Ray sat absently on a desk, dressed and armed, he looked like some type of superhero in the American uniform thought Ray. He picked up an hourglass off the desk, noting it was cracked and had ceased its flow.
They worked steadily and methodically. Ray barked orders whenever he knew what was going on, but for the most part he was learning how the Americans work. He would watch Mel, follow his lead and correct any mistakes.
“Jesus it’s terrible neither of us speak russian.”
It took them a half a day and the entire evening to wire the building. Mel entered as a TV cable repair man, and was welcomed easily by the communists. They did not mind Americans as long as they were not on Russian soil. Ray and Mel then spent a weak and a half listening to the tapes. They got transcripts a few days later from the American embassy of the translations, but by that time many things were too late to stop. Massive amounts of arms were being sold. American made. European made. Chinese made. Everyone was arming them, and the Russians are buying.
“My lord it’s hot,” said Mel fanning himself under the sill of a window.
Ray ignored him. He was listening intently. He had not slept. Mel’s incessant complaints about the heat had grown tiresome. “I’m listening.”
“Yep,” said Mel. “Me too. Still haven’t learned a word of it.”
“Shhhhhh -”
“What?”
“Wait.” Ray was listening closely. He put his finger to his lips. “Their bringing out the grand Kahuna.”
“We can’t shoot.”
“There’s an international bounty on him.”
“It doesn’t matter, we have orders not to reveal our presence.”
“I’m tired of sitting here. There are only 8 inside. Let’s kill all 8.”
“How do you know that?”
“I — — I — I speak Russian.”
“No you don’t.”
“They’ll be boarding the HUMV in ten minutes.”
“You speak Russian,” Mel said. “You do speak Russian.”
“Get your eyes off me.”
“I know your not a communist because your so angry all the time about them. I just don’t know why you speak russian.”
“I don’t speak it.”
“But you understand it, and lied and said you couldn’t understand a word?”
“I’ve never lied to the CIA. I’m afraid your mistaken.”
“I don’t think you’re a communist. I just can’t figure. Why would you lie about something so little.”
“I’m not competent in my russian. We need a translator. Let it go.”
Fox is out of the foxhole, thought Ray. He aimed carefully. “What are you doing?” said Mel very seriously. “You shoot and you’re going to get us killed.”
“Oh God I want to feel it.”
“Feel what?”
“I want to feel what it feels like to kill someone.”
“Ray I don’t think your getting enough sleep.”
“I’ll put a silencer on.”
“They’ll court marshall you if you shoot.”
“The bounty’s a half a million.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“The gun accidentally went off,” Ray hissed. He was so angry he had missed.
“Jesus, did you aim,” hissed Mel.
The small band of renegades was kneeling behind the HumV starting to return fire. “Who are you?” Mel asked. “You don’t seem like you’ve ever held a gun. You can’t even figure out how to take the safety off that.”
“I only used Brittish Guns.”
“That’s a brittish gun.”
Ray suddenly stood up through the window and fired. He missed again, but had been seen.
“Fuck you, look what you goddamn started.”
Mel stood up. In one shot he hit the bounty prisoner between the eyes. The six others dodged into the hum v leaving the communist bleeding and dying on the street.
“Where are they going?” Mel asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You speak Russian. What were they screaming?”
“They’re going for back up.”
“You speak Russian real well Ray.”
“I’m no fucking communist.”
“No I don’t think you are. I can’t figure out what the hell you are.”
“I’m an American Agent.”
“And it appears you are a liar.”
Rays temper snapped. He had been watching the communist die. He shot Mel in the ribs and immediately didn’t know why he’d done it.
“It was an accident.”
“The fuck it was. Get a Blackhawk. You hit me viscerally Ray. You fucking shot me Ray.”
“The hell I did. They did. The Russians,” and then Ray hit him in the head with the butt of his Rifle and called in American support. “We’re man down and going to need a rescue. Enemy opened fired.”
Ray put the radio down. Mel looked like he had stopped breathing. Ray crossed himself and said a hail Mary. He went to the window with the long lensed camera to photograph the dead man. He got some nice shots.
The army airbrigade arrived with a rescue team within the hour.
“They shot Mel. I returned fire. And I executed Mel’s killer.”
“Killer?”
“Agent, he’s alive.”
“That’s how it happened.”
“You don’t need to report to me.”
“I’m not reporting to you, private.”
“I’m a sergent major.”
“I out rank you.”
“I’m not sure you actually do.”
“Help the soldier.”
“Would have helped had you put a tournicate on him. He’s probably had several strokes having lost so much blood.”
“Didn’t they teach you that at nato? First Aid? Basic first aid.”
“No, we had workers for that.”
“Funny because I’m a former NATO agent and they certified us every year.”
Ray’s temper was beginning to seethe from his physical exterior. His ears grew red. “Do I make you angry when I ask you these questions?”
“I’m not a communist.”
“No, I don’t think you are. I just don’t know what you are.”
“I’m a patriot.”
They had stabilized Mel in the helicopter. Ray found himself in a helicopter with four high ranking officers staring at him. Something just had felt terribly odd about the whole thing. Ray slouched in his seat and looked down his nose at their stares. Who were they to question him?
“You might be a patriot, but I think you’re a con artist too.”
“I can’t here you” Ray yelled over the chopper blades.
He heard them perfectly clear, and he was sharpening his oyster knife.
