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The whole story 
UNDER SEIGE 9 â “ Last Train to Gaspé
The Unwilling
Montreal, Canada
A low-class dive on Rue St. Jean
Biff Zwieback, or Secret Agent Slim, as he was known in intelligence circles, lit a fresh Gauloise and studied the thin drift of customers in the Stinking Pig, better known as the Porc Puant to the local language police. Slim gagged and crushed out the vile cigarette. â Å“Jeez,â ? he wheezed to his sidekick, Rene Dorf, code name, Sidekick Che. â Å“When are we going to get in some decent Ami cigarettes?â ?
â Å“Tonight, boss.â ? Che held out a slim black cigar. â Å“Try one of these. They're Cuban. Rolled on the thighs of dusky maidens and soaked in rum to boot.â ?
Slim sniffed the cigar. He grimaced and handed it back. â Å“I'll wait for the Ami smokes. Your cigars smell like horse manure.â ?
Che frowned. â Å“That's funny.â ? He held up the package. A horse head graced the front. Large brown letters proclaimed the cigar name: Crottin Cheval. â Å“What does Cheval mean? And ain't crottin something close to manure?â ?
Slim turned away to hide a smile. â Å“Close. The dusky maidens must live in a paddock.â ?
â Å“A what?â ?
Before Slim could answer, his cellphone blatted. He grinned and tapped the bar in time with the ring tone â “ 'Row, row, row your boat'. Shaking his head with nostalgia, he answered the call. â Å“Stinking Pig, Biff speaking.â ?
â Å“The language police will nail your hide to the wall if you don't start answering in the proper manner, Slim.â ? The secret agent began to sweat. Colonel Infanteer never called just to discuss the latest hockey scores.
â Å“You there, Slim?â ?
â Å“H-here, sir. What can I do for you, sir?â ?
â Å“Stop shaking like a leaf and calling me 'sir', for starters. Look around, Slim. Act is if you're talking to some slob's wife. Put on that expression bartender's use when they ain't gonna see anyone resembling Joe or Aguilar or Felix or even your old pal Baker.â ?
â Å“Baker?â ? Slim chuckled and relaxed. â Å“I really don't see Baker, sir.â ?
â Å“You will. Consider this a friendly warning. The good major will be on his way shortly. The Ami have caught wind of a fantastic plot and, being short of real intelligence agents, they're going to send him. I suspect that means they don't take the threat very seriously.â ?
â Å“But I'm supposed to work with him? What does that say about me and Canadian intelligence?â ?
Colonel Infanteer laughed. â Å“Nothing good, Slim, nothing good. But at the moment, our other two agents are busy. You'll have to do.â ?
If I had a backbone, thought Slim, I'd quit right now. I wouldn't let him get away with insulting me ever again. Aloud, he said nothing beyond a murmured, â Å“Of course, sir.â ? Locked away in the Colonel's files were a set of photos featuring a much younger Biff Zwieback, a naked woman and a trained seal. The unclad lady was the youngest daughter of a local cigarette smuggler and staunch Quebec Liberation Front radical. By slipping a copy of the photo to the gentleman in question, the Colonel could assure Slim a grisly death.
â Å“Baker will brief you. I'll be in touch.â ? The line went dead.
Che was excited. â Å“We got a job, boss?â ?
â Å“Yeah. Your old pal Baker is involved.â ?
â Å“All right!â ? crowed Che. â Å“I like the major.â ?
â Å“Yeah, I know.â ? Slim lit a Cuban cigar. With any luck, it might be poison.
The Unready
Pentagon, Washington, DC
Sub-sub-basement X-ray
The General walked in while Baker was practicing his supply clerk juggle. He had a stapler and a coffee cup (empty) in the air and was still able to initial two forms on each pass. His desk calendar lay at hand. He was trying to work up the nerve to add it to the circuit when he caught sight of The General Himself. In a trice, the major was standing at attention. He had the juggled objects arranged on the right side of his desk, with the forms in two neat stacks (initialed and un-initialed) to his left.
â Å“Practicing for the Logistics Olympics, I see,â ? murmured The General. He sat down and motioned for Baker to do the same. â Å“You can forget winning any gold 'Rejected for Lack of Proper Authorization' stamps. We have an assignment for you.â ?
Baker's heart leaped in his chest. â Å“A mission, sir?â ? He hadn't expected anything like that â “ not this soon â “ not after what happened last time.
The General sighed. Baker had never heard anyone refer to the old man as anything but The General or Himself or both. Nor had he ever seen The General in uniform. He had, however, observed four-star generals and admirals leap to obey the ancient gentleman.
Baker folded his hands and tried to look attentive. That had always been one of his weak points. No matter how he tried â “ how he concentrated â “ he could sit still for only a few seconds before his body began the dreaded Fidget.
â Å“An assignment, Major. A simple one. Did you learn anything from that last fiasco?â ?
Sweat popped out on Baker's forehead. He tried to think. What had he learned from that last operation? Not to trust a woman just because she had an honest face and big boobs? Never let an unknown person hold down a strand of barb wire while he, Baker, stepped across? He was unlikely to forget those lessons. Weeks in the hospital, reconstructive surgery and all those gonorrhea treatments would see to that. â Å“Yes, sir,â ? he blurted. â Å“I'm a new man, sir.â ?
A ghost of a smile crossed The General's face. He slid a folder across the desk. â Å“Study that, then destroy it. Your travel documents are in there. Don't destroy those. Report when you've made contact with Secret Agent Slim.â ?
â Å“Slim?â ? Baker groaned inwardly. He detested the know-it-all Canadian. His sidekick was an okay guy, though. â Å“Yes, sir. I'll get right on it.â ? He snapped to attention as The General rose and walked out.
â Å“I need a drink,â ? murmured Baker, after flipping through the folder. â Å“In fact, I think several tall cold ones are in order.â ? Taking the Classified, Do Not Remove from the Premises on Pain of Ritual Disfigurement, files with him, he headed for a quiet bar on the outskirts of Washington.
Baker awoke spluttering. He screamed and struggled against the frigid water.
The cabby stopped pouring water and grinned down at the major. â Å“Just wanted to make sure you was awake.â ? He tossed a manila folder on Baker's chest. â Å“You better get some sleep, man. If this information is correct, you got your work cut out.â ?
Baker sat up. An invisible demon drove a spike into his forehead. He groaned and attempted to speak. â Å“You read the file?â ? His mouth didn't work right. What he actually said came out more like, â Å“Ureshdafil?â ?
â Å“Wake up, man! We shared a bottle of vodka and a twelve-pack while looking over the case file. Just like we always do.â ? The cabby shook his head and tossed Baker's wallet to the floor. â Å“I got out the $234 for my fare. And twenty bucks for a tip. See ya.â ? With that the man was gone.
The major mumbled something even he didn't understand. He rolled over and grabbed a table leg. If he held on tight, the room spun a little slower. His stomach didn't feel so good and more spikes pierced his skull. He gripped the leg with both hands. A miniature statue of Stonewall Jackson rocked to and fro on the table. Baker whimpered and closed his eyes. Big mistake.
Somewhat later he awoke again. The table lay on its side. Broken statuary littered the floor. Sunlight streamed through his apartment windows, searing his eyeballs. His face, wallet and Top Secret file lay in a partly congealed pool of vomit. It was all so familiar, so pleasant. Even the spears of light were comforting, in an agonized way. For a moment nostalgia threatened to overcome him, but he passed out instead.
Spy Central
322 Rue Morgue
Across from Secret Base & Big Jacque's Pizza
Spymaster Bobbit struggled to maintain an attentive look as Minister Null, Chief of Canadian Defense Forces (Naval), Lord of the Ocean Sea, read through the American report. Just when Bobbit felt he could remain awake no longer, the Sea Lord sighed and tossed the files aside. â Å“I can't believe the Americans bought into any of this!â ?
The Spymaster retrieved the files and put them back in order. â Å“They don't seem serious about it, Minister. The man they're sending to investigate has had severe quality control problems in the past. In fact, I'm surprised he's still alive.â ?
â Å“I won't worry about it, then, Spymaster. Send me a memo when the thing blows over.â ? With that, the Minister of Naval Affairs heaved himself erect and took his leave. Bobbit flipped a hidden switch under the edge of his desk.
A thin, gray man entered from the Comm room. â Å“The Sea Lord seemed unconcerned, sir.â ?
â Å“He's attempting to project an image of quiet self-confidence toward us underlings, Infanteer.â ?
â Å“Ah, yes. I believe all upper-middle and upper-senior staff are involved in that effort. There were a series of lectures on the subject last month.â ? Infanteer sat down across from Bobbit.
The Spymaster passed the file to his chief assistant. â Å“Have you read this?â ?
â Å“I have had the privilege, sir. There may be more to it than the Minister believed.â ? To all appearances, Colonel Infanteer was a dyspeptic drunk, a mere functionary awaiting retirement. Bobbit knew better. The dried up man seated across his desk had served in shadowy conflicts around the globe, often in strange uniforms or no uniform at all. His appraisal of the situation caused icicles to form along the Spymaster's spine.
â Å“How do you mean? The report reads like a description of a carnival sideshow.â ?
â Å“It may all be an innocent comedy of errors, but we must err on the side of caution.â ?
â Å“I agree.â ? Bobbit riffled through the file. â Å“Five tons of itching powder? In cases marked Instant Holy Water? What's dangerous about itching powder?â ?
Infanteer shrugged. â Å“Is it really itching powder? The markings have a certain élan about them, sir. Either they're some moronic joke or a masterstroke of misdirection.â ?
The Spymaster flipped to another page. â Å“Then there's this report of a fat man transporting a pipe organ made entirely out of RPG-7 firing tubes. It's just outré enough to be true. Or a maskirovka of the first water. Can we afford to waste time hunting a pipe organ?â ?
â Å“I'm afraid the Americans went astray there, sir. I believe the instrument in question is actually a calliope. A steam calliope. But, more to the point â “ if this calliope has an assembly of RPG-7 firing tubes â “ where are the rockets?â ?
â Å“Calliope. There's a word you don't often hear in the intelligence business.â ?
â Å“One of the benefits of a liberal arts education, sir. The calliope in question is apparently mounted on a truck â “ a gaily painted truck, by all accounts.â ?
Bobbit grew pale. â Å“Careful what you say! I think 'gaily' is one of the Prohibited Words.â ?
Infanteer opened his mouth to utter a vile attack on the Department of Prohibited Speech, but thought better of it. He was getting too old to deal with burly DPS agents and their cursed lists, not to mention their rubber hoses and truncheons.
Anxious to change the subject, Bobbit tapped the file. â Å“We'll call it a truck painted in bright colors.â ? His voice rang in the nooks and crannies of his office, where microphones were likely to be positioned. â Å“So we have a steam calliope, several tons of itching powder and an unknown number of bad sorts converging on Gaspé, according to the Ami. What interest could terrorists â “ ah, alleged terrorists â “ have in Gaspé?â ?
â Å“Not fishing The mosquitoes are fierce at this time of year.â ? Infanteer smiled. â Å“I suppose we can persuade them to tell us their plans â “ once we catch them. I've assigned that job to Slim.â ?
â Å“Is that wise? The Ami are sending Baker. I shudder to think of those two working together.â ?
â Å“I'll keep an eye on them, sir. Perhaps they'll stir things up â “ make the terrorists, if there are any, move too soon or do something else foolish.â ?
The Spymaster relaxed. Infanteer's methods were stark and brutish, but effective. Slim and Baker might accidentally manage to be effective stalking horses. And if they got knocked off or savaged in the process, well, omelets require breaking eggs. He'd heard that somewhere. â Å“Let me know if you want for anything. You have my direct number. Use it at need.â ?
Infanteer nodded. â Å“We may be looking at nothing but a series of coincidences, sir. An accidental congruence of events.â ? He laughed, but the mirth didn't reach his eyes.
Bobbit shuddered as the bent old man headed back to the Comm room. Infanteer gave him the willies. Even his good morning greetings sounded sinister.
Marching Orders
The Stinking Pig (Porc Puant)
In Slim's upstairs office
Che entered and stood to one side. â Å“The Major is here.â ?
Slim stood up and offered his hand. Baker responded in kind.
â Å“Isn't that nice,â ? said a voice dripping with sarcasm.
Baker whirled. â Å“Infanteer!â ? He sagged into a chair. â Å“I might have known you were behind this.â ?
â Å“Wrong, as usual, Baker.â ? The colonel stepped out of the corner and into the light. â Å“Your own intelligence agencies are responsible.â ? He extended a clawed hand toward Che. The sidekick fumbled for a moment then produced a thin, black cigar. Infanteer sniffed it and smiled. â Å“Cuban. Still made in the same glue factory.â ? He lit the foul thing and returned to his seat.
Slim forced a laugh and tried to relax. The old gent made him nervous. â Å“We â “ ah, we've been reading through this collection of fairy tales your CIA and NSA sent up, Baker. Itching powder?â ?
The American shrugged. â Å“Yeah. Itching powder in crates marked 'Instant Holy Water'. I can't fathom that one. What about the pipe organ on the truck and the movements of the suspects? Are those just a series of unrelated events?â ? His question was directed at Infanteer.
â Å“Maybe. Maybe not. The machine in question is a steam calliope, by the way.â ?
Slim and Baker exchanged glances. Che struggled with and failed to contain a thunderous fart.
â Å“Sorry,â ? he said. â Å“Beer and ka-bobs for dinner, eh?â ?
â Å“What do we do now?â ? asked Baker.
Slim frowned. â Å“Nothing. He's already eaten the ka-bobs.â ? Infanteer snickered. Even that sounded deadly.
Baker managed a nervous laugh. â Å“No â “ I mean what do we do about the reports?â ?
â Å“You take tomorrow's train to Gaspé,â ? snarled Infanteer. â Å“The crates are at the station, ready for loading. Your job, Major, will be to shadow those crates.â ?
â Å“I thought that was my job,â ? whined Slim. â Å“It's been ages since I went on a train ride.â ?
â Å“You and Che will be tracking down a fat man and a pipe organ.â ? Infanteer's tone brooked no argument. Even Che kept quiet â “ not that he had anything to say.
â Å“What about the missiles?â ? asked Baker. â Å“If the pipe organ is really made of RPG-7 tubes, there have to be projectiles somewhere.â ?
â Å“You amaze me, Major,â ? snarled Infanteer. â Å“Now carry the logic to the end.â ?
â Å“Well â “ uh, the end of what?â ?
Infanteer laughed. This time the sound was more hopeless than sinister. â Å“The fat man can run all over Canada with his steam calliope for all I care. Unless he meets with someone carting a load of missiles, the thing is harmless.â ?
Slim and Baker nodded as if the old man had stated something they knew all along.
â Å“Okay.â ? Baker stood up. â Å“Where's the train station?â ?
â Å“Downtown.â ? Slim nodded in the wrong direction. â Å“Any cabby will know where it is.â ?
â Å“Where downtown?â ? asked Baker. â Å“I didn't see any tracks.â ? He was suspicious of Slim's motives. Nothing would make the Canadian happier than to have his American counterpart miss the train.
â Å“The tracks are underground,â ? said Che. A huge grin split his narrow, predatory face. In his heart of hearts Che would rather be underground, drilling and blasting, instead of running around as Slim's sidekick. His job wasn't all that bad. It just didn't measure up to tunneling.
â Å“I â “ um, I don't like tunnels,â ? muttered Baker. â Å“They're so dark and damp and â “ underground.â ?
â Å“Yeah,â ? sighed Che. His voice was detached, dreamlike. â Å“Tunnels are cool and sometimes you can catch nice fat, juicy rats down . . .â ? He shook himself, as if waking up. â Å“I mean, ah, tunnels are cool and, uh, refreshing.â ?
Infanteer made a hopeless noise, not unlike the groaning of ****'s un-oiled gates. He stood up, ground out his cigar on Slim's new vinyl flooring and stalked out without uttering another word.
Baker glanced at Slim. â Å“The train really runs through a tunnel?â ?
â Å“It does. Don't worry. The tunnel is brightly lit and not too long.â ? Slim showed the American a cell phone. â Å“Coverage isn't great, but it's better than nothing.â ? He flipped it open. â Å“The mauve button activates a short-range radio transmitter/receiver. Could come in handy, eh?â ?
â Å“So that's mauve,â ? murmured Baker, taking the radio. â Å“What is this dark reddish button?â ?
â Å“That would be burgundy,â ? said Che.
â Å“Indeed,â ? agreed Slim. â Å“The burgundy button is for an emergency locator. We might be able to track it, provided we can convince the air force to lend us a suitably equipped plane.â ?
Che grinned at Baker. â Å“If you're about to get shot or run over or stabbed â “ and if you have time â “ turn on the locator. That way we can find your body.â ? He seemed excited at the thought.
â Å“Right.â ? The major felt a little out of sorts. He couldn't decide it was the prospect of riding a train through a tunnel or just the lingering effects of his hangover. â Å“I think I'll get some rest.â ? He nodded to the Canadians and started for the door.
â Å“Wait, Major.â ? Slim held up a hand. â Å“You'll need this as well.â ? He laid a chunky 9mm automatic pistol on his desk.
â Å“No thanks, Slim.â ? Baker opened his coat and displayed a heavy, long-barreled pistol.
â Å“I might have known an American would show up with armament suitable for sinking battleships,â ? said Slim. â Å“What in God's name is that thing?â ?
â Å“It's an experimental job. 12.7mm, caseless ammo.â ? He pulled the weapon and held it muzzle up. â Å“Silencer built in. The magazine holds eighteen rounds.â ?
Slim touched the pistol reverently. â Å“12.7mm? That's .50 caliber! We won't be shooting any elephants at Gaspé, Baker.â ?
The Major tucked the gun away. â Å“You never can tell. The magazine is loaded in series of three â “ wadcutter, armor-piercing and explosive.â ?
â Å“Sounds good,â ? said Slim. â Å“Does it have any drawbacks?â ?
â Å“The explosive round is a tad much if you want to question the target later.â ? Baker shrugged. â Å“And there's a lot of muzzle flash. That's being worked on.â ? He opened the door. â Å“I'll see you when I see you, I guess.â ?
Slim nodded. â Å“Take care, Major. Perhaps we'll all go home in a week or so with nothing to tell our grandchildren.â ?
Che laughed and lit another cigar. â Å“No problem. You can make up stuff, just like we do on our expense reports.â ?
Unexpected Company
Somewhere in Montreal
Cheap hotel
By the time Agent Baker made it to his hotel he was thoroughly disgusted. He tossed the cabby a hundred dollar bill. The fare was $99. â Å“Think you can find your way back? You seemed lost most of the time.â ?
The cab driver snarled a couple of short words and signaled to the Major with an upraised digit.
Baker watched the cab disappear into the night. He shook his head and started up the stairs at the hotel entrance. â Å“Why is everyone speaking French?â ?
Following a confusing session at the front desk a down-in-the-mouth bellboy led Baker to his room. He was beginning to wish he'd stayed at the Crown Royale or the Sheraton. Their prices were outrageous, even when converted into US currency. But, they also weren't a hundred dollar cab ride from the train station. The Major handed the bellboy an American fiver, which seemed to raise the fellow's spirits somewhat. He even smiled as he went out. â Å“Poor slob,â ? muttered Baker. â Å“Probably gave him enough to pay his mortgage.â ?
He rang up Room Service and managed to convey his desire for a bottle of Canadian whiskey, a king-size bag of cheese puffs and a package of fig newtons. The goods would be up toot sweet, whatever that meant. He hoped for nothing more than prompt delivery. His jacket went on the back of a wooden chair and his tie onto the floor. It seemed safe to store the big handgun in the top dresser drawer. The Major didn't plan on going out.
He was stretched on the bed when someone knocked on the door. Accompanied by bad tempered mumbling, he padded across the room and opened the door.
â Å“God!â ? he cried. â Å“You!â ?
The well-endowed brunette flung her arms around his neck. â Å“I knew it was you,â ? she purred. â Å“Who else would order whiskey and fig newtons? But when did you start eating cheese puffs?â ?
Behind her, the bellboy hustled in with the ordered items and placed them on a side table. Baker tossed the lad a twenty and shooed him out. â Å“Buy a new house or something.â ? He stepped back into a clinch with the brunette. â Å“Where were we?â ?
â Å“On a ship leaving Cuba, as I recall,â ? said the lady. â Å“You walked out in the middle of the night and vanished.â ? She turned away. The atmosphere chilled.
â Å“Ah â “ babe, I had to leave on a submarine,â ? lied Baker. â Å“It was all hush-hush and done without notice.â ? In truth, he remembered neither her, the ship, nor the night in question. He massaged his temples. Forgetting the dame and their activities was understandable â “ but why couldn't he remember the ship? He loved ships.
She wiggled over to the table and poured a drink. â Å“I forgive you. Don't I always?â ?
Alarm bells began a muted ringing in the depths of Baker's skull. He ignored them. She handed him a glass of whiskey. He tore his eyes from her cleavage and tossed off the booze. â Å“Come here . . .â ? Her name refused to pop out of memory. â Å“. . . my dear.â ? He snuggled close. â Å“Care for a fig Newton? I don't share those with just anyone.â ?
She twisted out of his embrace. â Å“I know. Want a refill on that?â ?
He frowned. Refill on what? His brain seemed to be made of concrete. The glass slipped from his fingers. Someone struck a gong. His vision began to fade. â Å“Aargh â “ mick â “ mick --.â ?
â Å“Mickey Finn,â ? said the lady. He thudded to the floor. â Å“Sleep tight.â ? She opened the door for the bellboy and cab driver. They lifted Baker and carried him out. The woman followed, carrying the massive pistol. His other belongings were left for the cleanup squad.
It only took Baker five minutes to deduce that he was on a train. It was hard to concentrate on Special Forces Silent Observation Techniques with all the swaying and clacking. He kept his eyes shut. With any luck he could surprise his abductors.
â Å“Come on, Major, get up. I ain't got all day.â ? It was the woman from the hotel room. He moved his legs and arms a trifle. â Å“You're not tied or cuffed. Get up!â ?
He blinked. Daylight flooded the room. No â “ it was a compartment. Keeping a wary eye on the woman, Baker crawled into a seat. A hard-faced man in a black beret sat next to her. The Ami agent decided to play it cool for the time being. These two probably had allies in the vicinity. He grinned at the woman. â Å“Where are we going, sweets?â ?
â Å“To Gaspé â “ eventually. And I'm not your sweetie.â ? He lips twitched into an impish smile. â Å“Call me Calliope.â ?
Baker began to think he was way, way behind reality. â Å“Calliope? But â “ how could . . .â ? He reined in his runaway mouth. â Å“I was headed for Gaspé anyway. Why the knockout drink?â ?
Black Beret reached into a leather case and drew out a sheaf of photographs. He handed one to Baker. In the middle of the picture was a park bench. On that bench sat two bearded men in cheap suits. Each man had a small hole in his forehead, just above the bridge of the nose.
â Å“Know either of them?â ? asked Calliope.
â Å“No. At least â “ no.â ? Baker wiped his suddenly moist hands on his trousers. â Å“Who are they?â ?
She shrugged. â Å“I don't know. Gunnar here shot them in the hall outside your room.â ? Gunnar flashed a gap-toothed grin. The Major shuddered. He couldn't understand why people ran around with teeth missing when there were so many good dentists in the world. It was one of his favorite annoyances â “ right up there with people who wore replicas of the American flag on their butts.
He dragged himself back to the here-and-now. â Å“Why did he shoot them?â ?
â Å“They were going to kill you, Major. Someone â “ some terrorist â “ doesn't want you in Gaspé.â ?
â Å“Me? But I'm just a logistics officer in the US Army. Why would an alleged terrorist want to harm me?â ?
â Å“Logistics officer?â ? Calliope and Gunnar brayed with laughter. The man recovered first. â Å“Major,â ? he said, â Å“we have people in many places. Your juggling has been observed. All I can say is, you need a better cover.â ?
â Å“I've only been practicing for a couple of years,â ? said Baker. His pride was taking a beating. He looked away. â Å“It's those **** coffee mugs that get me. Staplers, tape dispensers, cell phones, laptop computers, you name it and I can juggle it. But give me a full cup of coffee and my throwing technique goes to ****. I â “ I have no confidence in myself.â ? The admission surprised him. After all, these were total strangers.
Calliope dried her eyes with a tissue. â Å“Never mind that, Major. We killed those two and got you aboard the train safely. I drugged you to avoid endless wrangling over procedure. There wasn't time to explain every little thing.â ? She shrugged. â Å“You're here safely and some of our people have organized a demonstration that will hold up the train for nearly three hours at Saint-Hyacinthe. We thought it might be good to throw off the opposition's timetable.â ?
â Å“But â “ who are you people?â ?
She smiled. â Å“Some think we're part of the QLF. Others maintain that our group is the action wing of PETA. Once, I heard that US State Department Intelligence had us pegged as retro communists. But we are none of those â “ and all of them.â ?
â Å“I â “ I don't follow.â ?
â Å“I know.â ? She patted his cheek. â Å“Suffice it to say that we have several agendas, but this operation is not related to them. We do not want a sizeable portion of the Gaspé peninsula and points south to be turned into a radioactive desert.â ?
A cold lump grew in Baker's throat. He must have misunderstood. No one would be fool enough to â “ it couldn't be.
His thoughts must have been obvious. â Å“It can be, Major. It is. We don't know if the terrorists are planning to explode a device or use a conventional explosive to spread plutonium dust. We want to know and we want to stop it. You can help. If nothing else, the operation needs to be seen as a cooperative venture between Canada and the US.â ?
â Å“Me? But I'm just a lowly major. I need to report to Higher Authority. If someone's going to pop a nuke . . .â ?
â Å“You're out on the sharp end here, Baker. Are you a time-serving hack or an officer?â ?
â Å“Well . . .â ? He hesitated. The thought of tracking down God knows how many thugs armed with all sorts of lethal weapons â “ and maybe a NUKE â “ petrified him. And the time-serving hack bit had served him well for many years.
On the one hand, Calliope had nice knockers. On the other hand, Calliope had nice knockers. His glands and imagination voted for car chases, explosions, martinis (shaken, not stirred) and maybe, just maybe, a chance at those boobs.
The two tree hugging anarchists waited in silence. Finally, he stood up and came to attention â “ all five foot, three inches of him. â Å“I'll do my best.â ? He wanted to salute the flag, sing an anthem, maybe even indulge in a chocolate sundae with whipped cream and cherries. Here, at last, on a government subsidized train in Canada, heading toward a yucky death by atomic flame or radiation poisoning, he felt like a By God True American. He almost wet himself.
Gunnar tossed the Major a black beret. â Å“Wear it as sort of a badge, my friend. It will make it easier for our compatriots to aid you.â ?
Calliope kissed Baker lightly. â Å“I'll be around. Pretend you don't know me. Gunnar will get off at the next stop and coordinate with other groups.â ? She laughed. â Å“That hand cannon of yours is in the overhead compartment.â ? Then they were gone.
He sat down and stared out the window. Cold, slimy tentacles of fear crept back into his soul. Who did he think he was, rolling off into the morning light to save the world â “ or a small part of it â “ from annihilation? On impulse, he stood up and retrieved his pistol. It was the work of a moment to strap it on. Baker drew the heavy handgun and checked the action. Blue steel warmed to his touch, driving back the fear. He laughed and shook the weapon at imaginary foes. He was a heavily armed American with a picture of Mom in his wallet, right next to his library card. Respect for Old Glory was in his heart. Everything was perfect. If he died, well, so what. He'd go out in a blaze of glory. A blaze of nuc-u-ler, by God, glory.
He sat down, cradling the pistol. His arm ached from holding the big piece of iron aloft. Pain aside, he'd never felt happier. Only one thing was missing. His joy would be complete if he had a piece of apple pie. He tucked the pistol away. The dining car ought to be open. They'd have pie â “ apple pie. It would be un-North American not to have pie. Even these **** Canadians must know that.
It took all his new-found courage to step into the corridor. Which way to the dining car? Baker hesitated, then shrugged and started toward the front of the train. He needed to scout out the passengers anyway. And it would be a good idea to determine where the itching powder/Instant Holy Water might be. A sudden bolt of fear paralyzed him. â Å“Calliope! She doesn't know about the powder!â ? Shaking off a feeling of dread, he lurched forward again. What might those crates of itching powder/Instant Holy Water actually contain? Plutonium? RPG projectiles? Or were they a blind, designed to draw attention while the real attack went forward undetected?
As luck would have it, he found the dining car and the probable location of the mystery powder at almost the same time. It was full dark, but when the train rounded curves and if he leaned against the window next to his table, he could make out a single box car coupled between the dining car and the engine. It was time to find Calliope and tell her about the powder. But first Secret Agent Baker intended to finish his pie.
On the Road Again
Hwy 132, near Rimouski
Che was driving. Slim slumped in his seat, cellphone pressed against his ear. As they reached the outskirts of Rimouski, he tucked the phone away and stretched. â Å“The fat man is stopping at each little town and playing an impromptu concert for donations. He is reported to be at Amqui. We shouldn't have any trouble catching up this morning. And HQ had some other good news. The train to Gaspé was held up for nearly three hours by some sort of demonstration that blocked the tracks near Saint-Hyacinthe.â ?
â Å“The QLF again?â ?
Slim rubbed his red-rimmed eyes. â Å“No. An animal rights group, near as anyone can tell. Who cares! It means the train went through Rimouski only about ten minutes ago. HQ says it made a five minute stop there.â ? He leaned forward, eyeballing the road ahead. â Å“I'm hungry. It's coming up on six. Some place ought to be open.â ?
â Å“Look for a gas station,â ? said Che. â Å“We need to gas up. Maybe someone can direct us to a good café. I'm about to starve.â ?
â Å“You ate everything in the car that was vaguely organic last night. How can you be hungry?â ?
â Å“You're just upset because I didn't share those cookies I found under the back seat.â ?
â Å“Right. I'm angry that I didn't get a chance to share possible botulism with you. There's a gas station. You fill the car while I empty my bladder.â ?
Che stopped beside the pumps and shut the car off. He rubbed his stomach and frowned. â Å“Is bottlism fatal? I don't feel so good. Do I look like I've got it?â ?
â Å“Botulism.â ? Slim spelled it out. He peered at his companion. â Å“Well, your eyelids are droopy and your speech is slurred, but that's normal. Is your vision blurred?â ?
â Å“No.â ? Che blinked several times. â Å“I'm not sure. Maybe a little.â ?
Slim grinned. â Å“Either you have botulism or you just spent most of the night driving a 1965 Checker Marathon from Montreal to Rimouski.â ? He left Che puzzling over that one and headed for the men's room.
The sleepy station attendant directed them toward an eating place on the far side of town. Slim eyed the fellow with suspicion. â Å“Le Nez Croche? Sounds like a rough joint.â ?
â Å“Pah! You want a bad place, try Bar Salon Ti-Quebec! The separatists hang out there. Besides, Le Nez Croche is the only place for breakfast right now,â ? insisted the man. â Å“Maurice opens early so the cigarette smugglers can get a bite before going to bed.â ?
â Å“Smugglers?â ? Slim glanced at Che, who was inspecting the candies. â Å“Cigarette smugglers in this day and age! What do you make of that?â ?
Che's fond gaze rested on a nutty chocolate bar. He couldn't decide between that one and a block of dark chocolate. He spoke without taking his eyes off the candy. â Å“Last year, according to estimates by Canadian and American officials, about $500 million dollars in cigarettes were smuggled into Canada from Maine. The average smuggler netted about $200,000 Canadian for his efforts.â ?
The attendant smirked at Slim. Che brought a handful of candy bars to the counter, including the dark chocolate. He'd never been one to resist the siren song of chocolate.
Slim said nothing until he was behind the wheel of his beloved Checker. â Å“Did you make all that stuff up? Or is there really that much money in smuggling?â ?
â Å“I read it in the Official Digest of the Official Synopsis of Official Reports. It comes out once a month. Don't you read it?â ?
â Å“We're in the wrong business, boyo. Imagine -- $200 grand a year!â ?
â Å“Smugglers also get shot on occasion and often spend considerable time in jail.â ? Che stowed the dark chocolate in a jacket pocket. He'd have that one later. With coffee.
â Å“We have the same risks in our business,â ? said Slim.
â Å“Not unless someone figures out our expense account strategy.â ?
Slim herded the big Checker through town. â Å“I'm not cut out for smuggling, I guess. I'll stick with my bar. Although, I'll have to admit it isn't making the money I thought it would â “ even with the added prostitution and gambling.â ?
â Å“Nor will it ever,â ? said Che. â Å“It's like a rabbit running a carrot stand.â ?
Le Nez Croche lay well back from the road, on the crest of a bluff with the back of the building overlooking the St. Lawrence. Several late model four-wheel drive pickups and SUVs occupied the gravel parking area. Neon beer signs glittered in two windows facing the road. Slim parked the Checker off to one side.
â Å“Nice location,â ? said Che, as they walked toward the entrance.
â Å“Yeah.â ? Slim took in the shabby exterior and broken shingles. â Å“Needs a little repair work and a coat of paint, though.â ?
â Å“It's a fisherman and smuggler bar. What do they care about siding and shingles?â ?
Slim shrugged and pushed the door open. â Å“I just hope the food is good.â ?
They stepped into a dingy interior, lit mostly by light filtering through three large windows on the back wall. Years of grime crusted the panes, reducing sunlight and the view to drab monotones. â Å“I hope the food is safe to eat,â ? muttered Che.
To their right, five burly men occupied a table near one of the windows â “ and the back door. These worthies glanced at the two interlopers and went back to their rumbling conversations. At the other end of the room a bar lay athwart the room. Double half-doors at the near end led into what had to be the kitchen. Behind the bar, a man stood reading a newspaper. Steam drifted out of the kitchen along with the sound and scent of frying fish. Slim headed for a table near the far end of the bar.
The barkeep folded his newspaper and ambled over. When he spoke, it was in the thick patois of the region, laden with strange stops and half-familiar words. Seeing their confusion, he laughed and said something to the men at the far table. Slim glanced at his sidekick. â Å“You get any of that?â ?
â Å“Some. You don't want to know.â ?
Tossing a one-page, stained menu on the table, the man laughed. â Å“Never mind, friends. We like to have our fun with you city folk. I am Maurice. Welcome.â ? His words were still thick with oddities, but they were able to follow most of what he said.
â Å“Your bar was touted as a good spot for breakfast,â ? said Slim. Che peered at the grimy menu as if trying to decipher hieroglyphics.
â Å“The only place for breakfast, at this hour,â ? boomed the barkeep. â Å“We have coffee, fried fish, potatoes, and eggs. Those seeking dainty fare don't stop here.â ?
â Å“That will do fine,â ? said Slim. â Å“Never let it be said I turned my nose up at decent fish and eggs.â ?
â Å“I didn't say they were decent,â ? muttered Maurice. He brought two chipped mugs brimming with coffee, then vanished into the kitchen, shouting something about bobble-head dolls, if Slim's ears were to be believed.
The coffee could only be described as formidable. Platters of fried fish, fried potatoes, fried eggs and grilled bread followed, served up by a slight woman who laughed and babbled as she laid out the food. Neither man understood a word of her talk.
By upper-crust Montreal standards, it was an execrable meal, chock full of fried foods and laden with butter, grease and salt. However, once past a fashionable hesitation, it was delicious.
As he ate, Slim noted that he could understand more of the low gabble emanating from the other table. He couldn't decide if it was simply that his brain was scavenging among the vowels and syllables, fitting meaning with sounds, or if it was something in the food.
Content, drinking their third cups of coffee, the two agents lingered over the remains of the meal, soaking up the friendly, if soiled, ambiance of the place. Even the coarse discussions of the alleged smugglers seemed a fitting accompaniment to the morning.
Both men were lamentably relaxed when the four bearded gunmen burst through the entrance.
Amqui, QC
Looking for Calliope
Baker huddled in the dining car, sipping a beer. He had just finished a complete circuit of the train and seen nothing of Calliope. There were compartments in only one car. Breaking into each and every one to find her didn't seem like a good plan. She could easily have gotten off the train at Saint-Hyacinthe, when that bunch of eco-freaks blocked the train.
The Ami agent was staring out at the passing scenery as the train passed through a town. A sign flashed by: Amqui. Another place he'd never heard of. A group of people were gathered in a clearing not far from the tracks. Must be a sheep shearing contest, thought Baker, ever fair in his snap judgments of other peoples and cultures.
But, of course, it wasn't a sheep shearing contest. Such contests are held in September at the annual Amqui Oktoberfest, which has to be scheduled for September on account of all the rain and snow that falls in October. Anyway, the crowd Baker observed was not involved in shearing of any sort. The onlookers were listening to a thing only a few had ever heard of â “ and those uniformly considered it a baseless legend â “ until now. It was a calliope â “ a steam calliope. A buzz of conversation broke out in the car as passengers caught sight of the red and yellow rig.
â Å“It's the fat man!â ? exclaimed Baker. Other passengers turned, eyeing him curiously. A waiter sidled closer, clutching a goblet for use if the Ami agent became violent. Everyone in the car, save for the other Ami passengers, knew the heavily-armed man who had eaten an entire apple pie by himself, was an American agent. All the other American passengers had that vacant stare caused by being away from their television sets. This one had a wild, confused look about him â “ ergo, he was an agent.
Baker calmed down and pulled out his cellphone. Slim needed to know about the fat man! He flipped it open and stared at the instrument. Which button? Light purple or dark purple? Well, not really purple. He frowned, trying to remember the colors. A passing waiter leaned down and whispered, â Å“Mauve. Push the mauve button to telephone Canadian Intell. No, not the burgundy. Mauve.â ? Baker nodded his thanks and mashed the light purple button.
He huddled over the phone, wishing he'd gone back to the compartment before calling.
â Å“Central Message Center,â ? announced a computer voice. â Å“Listen to the menu carefully. If you screw up your phone will self-destruct.â ? After a brief pause, a different voice began reciting the menu options. â Å“Push one to report sighting a Conservative in Canada. Push two to report a violation of the Prohibited Words Act. Push three to contact Canadian Intelligence officer, even though we don't have any. Push four . . .â ? Baker pushed three.
A real person answered. â Å“Button three.â ?
â Å“Um â “ this is Baker. I must speak to Slim.â ?
â Å“Sure, Major. You and about forty creditors. He's off the line right now. I'll pass a message.â ?
â Å“The train just passed through mauve â “ ah, no. I mean the train just passed Amqui. Amqui. You got that? The fat man was there with the calliope.â ?
â Å“A calliope in Amqui? Hey, that rhymes. I'm a poet and don't know it.â ? The person snickered. â Å“We already knew about the fat man, Major. Thanks for the call.â ? The line went dead.
Baker closed the phone and put it away. He was sweating profusely. Phone conversations were always pure **** for him. As yet, his therapist had been unable to find the cause, though the Major's memory of an extended period of toilet training was the principal suspect. Drying his hands and mopping his face with a napkin, Baker headed for the front of the dining car. His hastily formulated plan involved opening the door, climbing onto the roof of the box car and then entering said box car via the oversized vent present in every spy movie he'd ever seen. He paused at the door. After a moment, he turned back and entered the restroom. Might be a good idea to tinkle first.
Soon he was in position in front of the stainless steel urinal, balancing as the train swayed along the tracks. Making water proved to be difficult, what with all the clackety-clack and movement. He closed his eyes and concentrated. It was easier than he expected, thanks to the gallon or so of coffee he'd finished along with the apple pie. â Å“Aaaaaah . . .â ?
â Å“It's about time you got here,â ? snarled someone behind him. It was Calliope.
He craned around, quite unable to stop the coffee-pressurized stream. She stepped from a cramped linen closet, smirking as he wet the wall and his trousers.
â Å“Hey! You can't â “ you can't be in here! This is the men's restroom.â ? He leaned against the wall, trying to shut out her laughter.
â Å“Sorry, Major. I thought you Ami super-spies were immune to the conventions of normal society. Shall I get back in the closet?â ?
â Å“Yes! No.â ? He sighed. â Å“Just turn around, please.â ? He managed a shrill laugh. â Å“You've confused us with the Brits. They have the imperturbable spies.â ? A few seconds more and he was finally drained. He regained a modicum of composure as he zipped his pants. â Å“Okay, don't tell me you've been in here all morning.â ?
â Å“But I have. I figured you'd be in here after the first couple cups of coffee.â ?
â Å“I have a strong bladder,â ? bragged Baker. â Å“Why were you here at all?â ?
â Å“There are at least three men keeping an eye on the powder crates. They wander through the train from time to time, especially after stops. One of them knows me from a â Å“Give Way to Your Inner Terroristâ ? conference I attended last year.
â Å“I heard about that one. Was it any good?â ?
â Å“It was fun. I got pictures of me with several of the biggies. A couple middle-grade types even autographed the photos.â ?
â Å“Good going! How did you get that close to so many?â ?
Calliope's face shaded to pink. â Å“It involved a scanty costume and lap dancing. It's not pertinent to our task here today.â ?
Baker had no trouble imagining the murderous gents slobbering over Calliope's attributes. With an effort, he pulled his brain out of the gutter. â Å“Have you scoped out the box car?â ?
â Å“No. I've been stuck in this closet all morning. Did you?â ?
â Å“Yes. Well, not exactly. I checked out the passages between the other cars. It must be like that except that a box car has no matching doorway. So we'll have to climb up on top.â ? He laid out his plan.
â Å“Sounds good,â ? agreed Calliope. â Å“I saw those same movies.â ? She drew a slim automatic from her shoulder holster and examined it. Satisfied, she holstered it again. â Å“You ready?â ?
Baker stared into space for a moment, then shook his head. â Å“I was trying to think of something memorable to say â “ but nothing comes to mind. I'm ready.â ?
The bathroom door popped open and a bulky man stepped in. He wore a really bad, off the shelf suit and had on a bushy fake beard. Baker started to push his way into the corridor just as the gentleman noticed Calliope. A foreign-sounding word burst from his beard. The woman's pistol plonk-plonked twice. With each plonk, a round hole appeared in the man's forehead. His eyes went wide, then fixed straight ahead.
â Å“Catch him,â ? said Calliope, in a matter-of-fact tone. â Å“Drag him into the stall and put him on the toilet. He'll be out of the way there.â ?
Since he couldn't stand there holding the large, deceased gentleman, Baker did as instructed. He tried to get a better look at the man's face by pulling the beard off. It wasn't fake. He came out dusting his hands. â Å“Who was that?â ?
â Å“One of the bad guys. That's one less to deal with. We better see about the others before they find this clown.â ?
â Å“See about? I was under the impression they'd be given the opportunity to surrender to proper authorities.â ?
â Å“They can.â ? Calliope laughed. It was the coldest, cruelest laugh Baker had ever heard. She nudged him with an elbow. â Å“I'm not a proper authority and neither are you. They can avoid us by surrendering to one of those proper types. As for us â “ we're just gonna shoot 'em.â ?
â Å“It's irregular,â ? said Baker. â Å“But I like it. Less paperwork.â ?
â Å“Paperwork?â ? sneered Calliope. â Å“The only paperwork I do is in the bathroom. That's what we hire interns for.â ?
â Å“Really?â ? Baker was stunned. â Å“What a novel idea.â ? He shook his head. â Å“I hope it doesn't catch on in the States.â ?
â Å“Come on,â ? muttered the woman. â Å“Let's assault us a box car.â ?
Things went swimmingly for about four steps. Baker stopped in the flexible corridor connecting the dining car to the next one in front. There was no blank box car wall. Nor was there a handy ladder leading up to the roof. Instead, the corridor led to another door.
â Å“That isn't a box car,â ? observed Calliope.
â Å“Well . . .â ? Baker could feel his face flushing. â Å“I â “ ah, I couldn't see any windows in it, from the dining car, so â “ ah, I figured it must be a box car.â ?
â Å“It's a car for general freight and baggage. Hadn't you ever seen one before?â ?
â Å“Sorry. I'm not an expert on railway cars.â ?
Calliope peered through the small window inset into the baggage car door. â Å“There's a short hallway then an open area. I can see boxes and baggage, but no people.â ?
â Å“There's bound to be one or two in there.â ? Baker started to draw his weapon, then did not. Once pistols were drawn, it would be difficult to back out.
Calliope drew her automatic. â Å“Let's go. At least we don't have to climb all over a greasy box car. I didn't say anything before, but this isn't the right outfit for that sort of thing.â ?
Baker smiled and ran an appreciative eye over her low-cut blouse, short skirt and matching jacket. â Å“A terrorist's dream. I suppose this one is suitable for frontal assaults?â ?
She gave him a suspicious look. â Å“I'm not sure what you mean, but it will do. It will do. Get out that cannon of yours. We'll go straight down the hall, then I'll go left and you go right. Shoot anyone who looks like our friend from the bathroom.â ?
â Å“Right.â ? Baker drew his pistol. â Å“Where do they get such bad suits?â ?
Calliope pulled the door open and slipped through, stalking forward in a crouch. She's giving the terrorists a nice look up her skirt, thought Baker. Shaking his head to clear the instant mental picture of him as a terrorist, ogling the sexy western woman, the Major rushed down the hall and dove to the right.
The darkened baggage car exploded with muzzle flashes and deafening explosions. Baker fired three times toward a shadowy figure at the far end of the car. Wad-cutter, armor piercing, high explosive, he thought. Though nearly blinded by the muzzle flash, he was able to see the shape jerk twice, then vanish in a bright explosion. He had a glimpse of body parts bouncing across the floor. Firing ceased.
â Å“Good going, Major,â ? called the woman. She was crouched behind a heavy crate on the other side of the car. Voices babbled downrange. Calliope fired toward the sound. Baker saw her pistol jerk and heard the now-familiar plonk-plonk. He triggered two rounds in the same general direction. The muzzle flash was awesome, but the only noise was a sodden squdge-squdge. Not very impressive. A rifle, probably the old reliable AK-47, answered back. Bullets ripped overhead. The sound seemed about to tear Baker's scalp off. Clearly, the bad guys had the edge in acoustics.
Calliope ejected a magazine and slammed in another. She screamed something Baker didn't understand, then stood up and plonked away. More to put an end to the horrid enemy gunfire than for any other reason, Baker raised up and fired until the pistol action locked open, smoking, magazine empty. They both knelt in position, waiting for return fire. None came. Sunlight streamed through several new, ragged holes at the front of the car.
When his flash-deadened vision returned, Baker slipped forward around a pile of crates in the middle of the compartment. The woman crept along, matching his move on the other side.
There was no reason for stealth. The bad guys were reduced to a loose collection of parts. Blood dripped off everything visible. Calliope kicked an anonymous piece aside. â Å“Looks like we got 'em.â ? She grinned at Baker. â Å“I want one of those cannons. Do you suppose they make it in a smaller caliber with a cut-down frame and barrel? Something suitable for a thigh holster or to carry in a bra?â ?
The American agent, low-life that he was, marveled at the instant image he had of Calliope tucking a powerful handgun into her bra. â Å“I'll see what I can do,â ? he promised smoothly, even though his influence on R&D was laughable. If he could get her the gun she wanted, she might let him help with the fitting. Hope springs eternal â “ especially vain hope.
(continued in next post)
UNDER SEIGE 9 â “ Last Train to Gaspé
The Unwilling
Montreal, Canada
A low-class dive on Rue St. Jean
Biff Zwieback, or Secret Agent Slim, as he was known in intelligence circles, lit a fresh Gauloise and studied the thin drift of customers in the Stinking Pig, better known as the Porc Puant to the local language police. Slim gagged and crushed out the vile cigarette. â Å“Jeez,â ? he wheezed to his sidekick, Rene Dorf, code name, Sidekick Che. â Å“When are we going to get in some decent Ami cigarettes?â ?
â Å“Tonight, boss.â ? Che held out a slim black cigar. â Å“Try one of these. They're Cuban. Rolled on the thighs of dusky maidens and soaked in rum to boot.â ?
Slim sniffed the cigar. He grimaced and handed it back. â Å“I'll wait for the Ami smokes. Your cigars smell like horse manure.â ?
Che frowned. â Å“That's funny.â ? He held up the package. A horse head graced the front. Large brown letters proclaimed the cigar name: Crottin Cheval. â Å“What does Cheval mean? And ain't crottin something close to manure?â ?
Slim turned away to hide a smile. â Å“Close. The dusky maidens must live in a paddock.â ?
â Å“A what?â ?
Before Slim could answer, his cellphone blatted. He grinned and tapped the bar in time with the ring tone â “ 'Row, row, row your boat'. Shaking his head with nostalgia, he answered the call. â Å“Stinking Pig, Biff speaking.â ?
â Å“The language police will nail your hide to the wall if you don't start answering in the proper manner, Slim.â ? The secret agent began to sweat. Colonel Infanteer never called just to discuss the latest hockey scores.
â Å“You there, Slim?â ?
â Å“H-here, sir. What can I do for you, sir?â ?
â Å“Stop shaking like a leaf and calling me 'sir', for starters. Look around, Slim. Act is if you're talking to some slob's wife. Put on that expression bartender's use when they ain't gonna see anyone resembling Joe or Aguilar or Felix or even your old pal Baker.â ?
â Å“Baker?â ? Slim chuckled and relaxed. â Å“I really don't see Baker, sir.â ?
â Å“You will. Consider this a friendly warning. The good major will be on his way shortly. The Ami have caught wind of a fantastic plot and, being short of real intelligence agents, they're going to send him. I suspect that means they don't take the threat very seriously.â ?
â Å“But I'm supposed to work with him? What does that say about me and Canadian intelligence?â ?
Colonel Infanteer laughed. â Å“Nothing good, Slim, nothing good. But at the moment, our other two agents are busy. You'll have to do.â ?
If I had a backbone, thought Slim, I'd quit right now. I wouldn't let him get away with insulting me ever again. Aloud, he said nothing beyond a murmured, â Å“Of course, sir.â ? Locked away in the Colonel's files were a set of photos featuring a much younger Biff Zwieback, a naked woman and a trained seal. The unclad lady was the youngest daughter of a local cigarette smuggler and staunch Quebec Liberation Front radical. By slipping a copy of the photo to the gentleman in question, the Colonel could assure Slim a grisly death.
â Å“Baker will brief you. I'll be in touch.â ? The line went dead.
Che was excited. â Å“We got a job, boss?â ?
â Å“Yeah. Your old pal Baker is involved.â ?
â Å“All right!â ? crowed Che. â Å“I like the major.â ?
â Å“Yeah, I know.â ? Slim lit a Cuban cigar. With any luck, it might be poison.
The Unready
Pentagon, Washington, DC
Sub-sub-basement X-ray
The General walked in while Baker was practicing his supply clerk juggle. He had a stapler and a coffee cup (empty) in the air and was still able to initial two forms on each pass. His desk calendar lay at hand. He was trying to work up the nerve to add it to the circuit when he caught sight of The General Himself. In a trice, the major was standing at attention. He had the juggled objects arranged on the right side of his desk, with the forms in two neat stacks (initialed and un-initialed) to his left.
â Å“Practicing for the Logistics Olympics, I see,â ? murmured The General. He sat down and motioned for Baker to do the same. â Å“You can forget winning any gold 'Rejected for Lack of Proper Authorization' stamps. We have an assignment for you.â ?
Baker's heart leaped in his chest. â Å“A mission, sir?â ? He hadn't expected anything like that â “ not this soon â “ not after what happened last time.
The General sighed. Baker had never heard anyone refer to the old man as anything but The General or Himself or both. Nor had he ever seen The General in uniform. He had, however, observed four-star generals and admirals leap to obey the ancient gentleman.
Baker folded his hands and tried to look attentive. That had always been one of his weak points. No matter how he tried â “ how he concentrated â “ he could sit still for only a few seconds before his body began the dreaded Fidget.
â Å“An assignment, Major. A simple one. Did you learn anything from that last fiasco?â ?
Sweat popped out on Baker's forehead. He tried to think. What had he learned from that last operation? Not to trust a woman just because she had an honest face and big boobs? Never let an unknown person hold down a strand of barb wire while he, Baker, stepped across? He was unlikely to forget those lessons. Weeks in the hospital, reconstructive surgery and all those gonorrhea treatments would see to that. â Å“Yes, sir,â ? he blurted. â Å“I'm a new man, sir.â ?
A ghost of a smile crossed The General's face. He slid a folder across the desk. â Å“Study that, then destroy it. Your travel documents are in there. Don't destroy those. Report when you've made contact with Secret Agent Slim.â ?
â Å“Slim?â ? Baker groaned inwardly. He detested the know-it-all Canadian. His sidekick was an okay guy, though. â Å“Yes, sir. I'll get right on it.â ? He snapped to attention as The General rose and walked out.
â Å“I need a drink,â ? murmured Baker, after flipping through the folder. â Å“In fact, I think several tall cold ones are in order.â ? Taking the Classified, Do Not Remove from the Premises on Pain of Ritual Disfigurement, files with him, he headed for a quiet bar on the outskirts of Washington.
Baker awoke spluttering. He screamed and struggled against the frigid water.
The cabby stopped pouring water and grinned down at the major. â Å“Just wanted to make sure you was awake.â ? He tossed a manila folder on Baker's chest. â Å“You better get some sleep, man. If this information is correct, you got your work cut out.â ?
Baker sat up. An invisible demon drove a spike into his forehead. He groaned and attempted to speak. â Å“You read the file?â ? His mouth didn't work right. What he actually said came out more like, â Å“Ureshdafil?â ?
â Å“Wake up, man! We shared a bottle of vodka and a twelve-pack while looking over the case file. Just like we always do.â ? The cabby shook his head and tossed Baker's wallet to the floor. â Å“I got out the $234 for my fare. And twenty bucks for a tip. See ya.â ? With that the man was gone.
The major mumbled something even he didn't understand. He rolled over and grabbed a table leg. If he held on tight, the room spun a little slower. His stomach didn't feel so good and more spikes pierced his skull. He gripped the leg with both hands. A miniature statue of Stonewall Jackson rocked to and fro on the table. Baker whimpered and closed his eyes. Big mistake.
Somewhat later he awoke again. The table lay on its side. Broken statuary littered the floor. Sunlight streamed through his apartment windows, searing his eyeballs. His face, wallet and Top Secret file lay in a partly congealed pool of vomit. It was all so familiar, so pleasant. Even the spears of light were comforting, in an agonized way. For a moment nostalgia threatened to overcome him, but he passed out instead.
Spy Central
322 Rue Morgue
Across from Secret Base & Big Jacque's Pizza
Spymaster Bobbit struggled to maintain an attentive look as Minister Null, Chief of Canadian Defense Forces (Naval), Lord of the Ocean Sea, read through the American report. Just when Bobbit felt he could remain awake no longer, the Sea Lord sighed and tossed the files aside. â Å“I can't believe the Americans bought into any of this!â ?
The Spymaster retrieved the files and put them back in order. â Å“They don't seem serious about it, Minister. The man they're sending to investigate has had severe quality control problems in the past. In fact, I'm surprised he's still alive.â ?
â Å“I won't worry about it, then, Spymaster. Send me a memo when the thing blows over.â ? With that, the Minister of Naval Affairs heaved himself erect and took his leave. Bobbit flipped a hidden switch under the edge of his desk.
A thin, gray man entered from the Comm room. â Å“The Sea Lord seemed unconcerned, sir.â ?
â Å“He's attempting to project an image of quiet self-confidence toward us underlings, Infanteer.â ?
â Å“Ah, yes. I believe all upper-middle and upper-senior staff are involved in that effort. There were a series of lectures on the subject last month.â ? Infanteer sat down across from Bobbit.
The Spymaster passed the file to his chief assistant. â Å“Have you read this?â ?
â Å“I have had the privilege, sir. There may be more to it than the Minister believed.â ? To all appearances, Colonel Infanteer was a dyspeptic drunk, a mere functionary awaiting retirement. Bobbit knew better. The dried up man seated across his desk had served in shadowy conflicts around the globe, often in strange uniforms or no uniform at all. His appraisal of the situation caused icicles to form along the Spymaster's spine.
â Å“How do you mean? The report reads like a description of a carnival sideshow.â ?
â Å“It may all be an innocent comedy of errors, but we must err on the side of caution.â ?
â Å“I agree.â ? Bobbit riffled through the file. â Å“Five tons of itching powder? In cases marked Instant Holy Water? What's dangerous about itching powder?â ?
Infanteer shrugged. â Å“Is it really itching powder? The markings have a certain élan about them, sir. Either they're some moronic joke or a masterstroke of misdirection.â ?
The Spymaster flipped to another page. â Å“Then there's this report of a fat man transporting a pipe organ made entirely out of RPG-7 firing tubes. It's just outré enough to be true. Or a maskirovka of the first water. Can we afford to waste time hunting a pipe organ?â ?
â Å“I'm afraid the Americans went astray there, sir. I believe the instrument in question is actually a calliope. A steam calliope. But, more to the point â “ if this calliope has an assembly of RPG-7 firing tubes â “ where are the rockets?â ?
â Å“Calliope. There's a word you don't often hear in the intelligence business.â ?
â Å“One of the benefits of a liberal arts education, sir. The calliope in question is apparently mounted on a truck â “ a gaily painted truck, by all accounts.â ?
Bobbit grew pale. â Å“Careful what you say! I think 'gaily' is one of the Prohibited Words.â ?
Infanteer opened his mouth to utter a vile attack on the Department of Prohibited Speech, but thought better of it. He was getting too old to deal with burly DPS agents and their cursed lists, not to mention their rubber hoses and truncheons.
Anxious to change the subject, Bobbit tapped the file. â Å“We'll call it a truck painted in bright colors.â ? His voice rang in the nooks and crannies of his office, where microphones were likely to be positioned. â Å“So we have a steam calliope, several tons of itching powder and an unknown number of bad sorts converging on Gaspé, according to the Ami. What interest could terrorists â “ ah, alleged terrorists â “ have in Gaspé?â ?
â Å“Not fishing The mosquitoes are fierce at this time of year.â ? Infanteer smiled. â Å“I suppose we can persuade them to tell us their plans â “ once we catch them. I've assigned that job to Slim.â ?
â Å“Is that wise? The Ami are sending Baker. I shudder to think of those two working together.â ?
â Å“I'll keep an eye on them, sir. Perhaps they'll stir things up â “ make the terrorists, if there are any, move too soon or do something else foolish.â ?
The Spymaster relaxed. Infanteer's methods were stark and brutish, but effective. Slim and Baker might accidentally manage to be effective stalking horses. And if they got knocked off or savaged in the process, well, omelets require breaking eggs. He'd heard that somewhere. â Å“Let me know if you want for anything. You have my direct number. Use it at need.â ?
Infanteer nodded. â Å“We may be looking at nothing but a series of coincidences, sir. An accidental congruence of events.â ? He laughed, but the mirth didn't reach his eyes.
Bobbit shuddered as the bent old man headed back to the Comm room. Infanteer gave him the willies. Even his good morning greetings sounded sinister.
Marching Orders
The Stinking Pig (Porc Puant)
In Slim's upstairs office
Che entered and stood to one side. â Å“The Major is here.â ?
Slim stood up and offered his hand. Baker responded in kind.
â Å“Isn't that nice,â ? said a voice dripping with sarcasm.
Baker whirled. â Å“Infanteer!â ? He sagged into a chair. â Å“I might have known you were behind this.â ?
â Å“Wrong, as usual, Baker.â ? The colonel stepped out of the corner and into the light. â Å“Your own intelligence agencies are responsible.â ? He extended a clawed hand toward Che. The sidekick fumbled for a moment then produced a thin, black cigar. Infanteer sniffed it and smiled. â Å“Cuban. Still made in the same glue factory.â ? He lit the foul thing and returned to his seat.
Slim forced a laugh and tried to relax. The old gent made him nervous. â Å“We â “ ah, we've been reading through this collection of fairy tales your CIA and NSA sent up, Baker. Itching powder?â ?
The American shrugged. â Å“Yeah. Itching powder in crates marked 'Instant Holy Water'. I can't fathom that one. What about the pipe organ on the truck and the movements of the suspects? Are those just a series of unrelated events?â ? His question was directed at Infanteer.
â Å“Maybe. Maybe not. The machine in question is a steam calliope, by the way.â ?
Slim and Baker exchanged glances. Che struggled with and failed to contain a thunderous fart.
â Å“Sorry,â ? he said. â Å“Beer and ka-bobs for dinner, eh?â ?
â Å“What do we do now?â ? asked Baker.
Slim frowned. â Å“Nothing. He's already eaten the ka-bobs.â ? Infanteer snickered. Even that sounded deadly.
Baker managed a nervous laugh. â Å“No â “ I mean what do we do about the reports?â ?
â Å“You take tomorrow's train to Gaspé,â ? snarled Infanteer. â Å“The crates are at the station, ready for loading. Your job, Major, will be to shadow those crates.â ?
â Å“I thought that was my job,â ? whined Slim. â Å“It's been ages since I went on a train ride.â ?
â Å“You and Che will be tracking down a fat man and a pipe organ.â ? Infanteer's tone brooked no argument. Even Che kept quiet â “ not that he had anything to say.
â Å“What about the missiles?â ? asked Baker. â Å“If the pipe organ is really made of RPG-7 tubes, there have to be projectiles somewhere.â ?
â Å“You amaze me, Major,â ? snarled Infanteer. â Å“Now carry the logic to the end.â ?
â Å“Well â “ uh, the end of what?â ?
Infanteer laughed. This time the sound was more hopeless than sinister. â Å“The fat man can run all over Canada with his steam calliope for all I care. Unless he meets with someone carting a load of missiles, the thing is harmless.â ?
Slim and Baker nodded as if the old man had stated something they knew all along.
â Å“Okay.â ? Baker stood up. â Å“Where's the train station?â ?
â Å“Downtown.â ? Slim nodded in the wrong direction. â Å“Any cabby will know where it is.â ?
â Å“Where downtown?â ? asked Baker. â Å“I didn't see any tracks.â ? He was suspicious of Slim's motives. Nothing would make the Canadian happier than to have his American counterpart miss the train.
â Å“The tracks are underground,â ? said Che. A huge grin split his narrow, predatory face. In his heart of hearts Che would rather be underground, drilling and blasting, instead of running around as Slim's sidekick. His job wasn't all that bad. It just didn't measure up to tunneling.
â Å“I â “ um, I don't like tunnels,â ? muttered Baker. â Å“They're so dark and damp and â “ underground.â ?
â Å“Yeah,â ? sighed Che. His voice was detached, dreamlike. â Å“Tunnels are cool and sometimes you can catch nice fat, juicy rats down . . .â ? He shook himself, as if waking up. â Å“I mean, ah, tunnels are cool and, uh, refreshing.â ?
Infanteer made a hopeless noise, not unlike the groaning of ****'s un-oiled gates. He stood up, ground out his cigar on Slim's new vinyl flooring and stalked out without uttering another word.
Baker glanced at Slim. â Å“The train really runs through a tunnel?â ?
â Å“It does. Don't worry. The tunnel is brightly lit and not too long.â ? Slim showed the American a cell phone. â Å“Coverage isn't great, but it's better than nothing.â ? He flipped it open. â Å“The mauve button activates a short-range radio transmitter/receiver. Could come in handy, eh?â ?
â Å“So that's mauve,â ? murmured Baker, taking the radio. â Å“What is this dark reddish button?â ?
â Å“That would be burgundy,â ? said Che.
â Å“Indeed,â ? agreed Slim. â Å“The burgundy button is for an emergency locator. We might be able to track it, provided we can convince the air force to lend us a suitably equipped plane.â ?
Che grinned at Baker. â Å“If you're about to get shot or run over or stabbed â “ and if you have time â “ turn on the locator. That way we can find your body.â ? He seemed excited at the thought.
â Å“Right.â ? The major felt a little out of sorts. He couldn't decide it was the prospect of riding a train through a tunnel or just the lingering effects of his hangover. â Å“I think I'll get some rest.â ? He nodded to the Canadians and started for the door.
â Å“Wait, Major.â ? Slim held up a hand. â Å“You'll need this as well.â ? He laid a chunky 9mm automatic pistol on his desk.
â Å“No thanks, Slim.â ? Baker opened his coat and displayed a heavy, long-barreled pistol.
â Å“I might have known an American would show up with armament suitable for sinking battleships,â ? said Slim. â Å“What in God's name is that thing?â ?
â Å“It's an experimental job. 12.7mm, caseless ammo.â ? He pulled the weapon and held it muzzle up. â Å“Silencer built in. The magazine holds eighteen rounds.â ?
Slim touched the pistol reverently. â Å“12.7mm? That's .50 caliber! We won't be shooting any elephants at Gaspé, Baker.â ?
The Major tucked the gun away. â Å“You never can tell. The magazine is loaded in series of three â “ wadcutter, armor-piercing and explosive.â ?
â Å“Sounds good,â ? said Slim. â Å“Does it have any drawbacks?â ?
â Å“The explosive round is a tad much if you want to question the target later.â ? Baker shrugged. â Å“And there's a lot of muzzle flash. That's being worked on.â ? He opened the door. â Å“I'll see you when I see you, I guess.â ?
Slim nodded. â Å“Take care, Major. Perhaps we'll all go home in a week or so with nothing to tell our grandchildren.â ?
Che laughed and lit another cigar. â Å“No problem. You can make up stuff, just like we do on our expense reports.â ?
Unexpected Company
Somewhere in Montreal
Cheap hotel
By the time Agent Baker made it to his hotel he was thoroughly disgusted. He tossed the cabby a hundred dollar bill. The fare was $99. â Å“Think you can find your way back? You seemed lost most of the time.â ?
The cab driver snarled a couple of short words and signaled to the Major with an upraised digit.
Baker watched the cab disappear into the night. He shook his head and started up the stairs at the hotel entrance. â Å“Why is everyone speaking French?â ?
Following a confusing session at the front desk a down-in-the-mouth bellboy led Baker to his room. He was beginning to wish he'd stayed at the Crown Royale or the Sheraton. Their prices were outrageous, even when converted into US currency. But, they also weren't a hundred dollar cab ride from the train station. The Major handed the bellboy an American fiver, which seemed to raise the fellow's spirits somewhat. He even smiled as he went out. â Å“Poor slob,â ? muttered Baker. â Å“Probably gave him enough to pay his mortgage.â ?
He rang up Room Service and managed to convey his desire for a bottle of Canadian whiskey, a king-size bag of cheese puffs and a package of fig newtons. The goods would be up toot sweet, whatever that meant. He hoped for nothing more than prompt delivery. His jacket went on the back of a wooden chair and his tie onto the floor. It seemed safe to store the big handgun in the top dresser drawer. The Major didn't plan on going out.
He was stretched on the bed when someone knocked on the door. Accompanied by bad tempered mumbling, he padded across the room and opened the door.
â Å“God!â ? he cried. â Å“You!â ?
The well-endowed brunette flung her arms around his neck. â Å“I knew it was you,â ? she purred. â Å“Who else would order whiskey and fig newtons? But when did you start eating cheese puffs?â ?
Behind her, the bellboy hustled in with the ordered items and placed them on a side table. Baker tossed the lad a twenty and shooed him out. â Å“Buy a new house or something.â ? He stepped back into a clinch with the brunette. â Å“Where were we?â ?
â Å“On a ship leaving Cuba, as I recall,â ? said the lady. â Å“You walked out in the middle of the night and vanished.â ? She turned away. The atmosphere chilled.
â Å“Ah â “ babe, I had to leave on a submarine,â ? lied Baker. â Å“It was all hush-hush and done without notice.â ? In truth, he remembered neither her, the ship, nor the night in question. He massaged his temples. Forgetting the dame and their activities was understandable â “ but why couldn't he remember the ship? He loved ships.
She wiggled over to the table and poured a drink. â Å“I forgive you. Don't I always?â ?
Alarm bells began a muted ringing in the depths of Baker's skull. He ignored them. She handed him a glass of whiskey. He tore his eyes from her cleavage and tossed off the booze. â Å“Come here . . .â ? Her name refused to pop out of memory. â Å“. . . my dear.â ? He snuggled close. â Å“Care for a fig Newton? I don't share those with just anyone.â ?
She twisted out of his embrace. â Å“I know. Want a refill on that?â ?
He frowned. Refill on what? His brain seemed to be made of concrete. The glass slipped from his fingers. Someone struck a gong. His vision began to fade. â Å“Aargh â “ mick â “ mick --.â ?
â Å“Mickey Finn,â ? said the lady. He thudded to the floor. â Å“Sleep tight.â ? She opened the door for the bellboy and cab driver. They lifted Baker and carried him out. The woman followed, carrying the massive pistol. His other belongings were left for the cleanup squad.
It only took Baker five minutes to deduce that he was on a train. It was hard to concentrate on Special Forces Silent Observation Techniques with all the swaying and clacking. He kept his eyes shut. With any luck he could surprise his abductors.
â Å“Come on, Major, get up. I ain't got all day.â ? It was the woman from the hotel room. He moved his legs and arms a trifle. â Å“You're not tied or cuffed. Get up!â ?
He blinked. Daylight flooded the room. No â “ it was a compartment. Keeping a wary eye on the woman, Baker crawled into a seat. A hard-faced man in a black beret sat next to her. The Ami agent decided to play it cool for the time being. These two probably had allies in the vicinity. He grinned at the woman. â Å“Where are we going, sweets?â ?
â Å“To Gaspé â “ eventually. And I'm not your sweetie.â ? He lips twitched into an impish smile. â Å“Call me Calliope.â ?
Baker began to think he was way, way behind reality. â Å“Calliope? But â “ how could . . .â ? He reined in his runaway mouth. â Å“I was headed for Gaspé anyway. Why the knockout drink?â ?
Black Beret reached into a leather case and drew out a sheaf of photographs. He handed one to Baker. In the middle of the picture was a park bench. On that bench sat two bearded men in cheap suits. Each man had a small hole in his forehead, just above the bridge of the nose.
â Å“Know either of them?â ? asked Calliope.
â Å“No. At least â “ no.â ? Baker wiped his suddenly moist hands on his trousers. â Å“Who are they?â ?
She shrugged. â Å“I don't know. Gunnar here shot them in the hall outside your room.â ? Gunnar flashed a gap-toothed grin. The Major shuddered. He couldn't understand why people ran around with teeth missing when there were so many good dentists in the world. It was one of his favorite annoyances â “ right up there with people who wore replicas of the American flag on their butts.
He dragged himself back to the here-and-now. â Å“Why did he shoot them?â ?
â Å“They were going to kill you, Major. Someone â “ some terrorist â “ doesn't want you in Gaspé.â ?
â Å“Me? But I'm just a logistics officer in the US Army. Why would an alleged terrorist want to harm me?â ?
â Å“Logistics officer?â ? Calliope and Gunnar brayed with laughter. The man recovered first. â Å“Major,â ? he said, â Å“we have people in many places. Your juggling has been observed. All I can say is, you need a better cover.â ?
â Å“I've only been practicing for a couple of years,â ? said Baker. His pride was taking a beating. He looked away. â Å“It's those **** coffee mugs that get me. Staplers, tape dispensers, cell phones, laptop computers, you name it and I can juggle it. But give me a full cup of coffee and my throwing technique goes to ****. I â “ I have no confidence in myself.â ? The admission surprised him. After all, these were total strangers.
Calliope dried her eyes with a tissue. â Å“Never mind that, Major. We killed those two and got you aboard the train safely. I drugged you to avoid endless wrangling over procedure. There wasn't time to explain every little thing.â ? She shrugged. â Å“You're here safely and some of our people have organized a demonstration that will hold up the train for nearly three hours at Saint-Hyacinthe. We thought it might be good to throw off the opposition's timetable.â ?
â Å“But â “ who are you people?â ?
She smiled. â Å“Some think we're part of the QLF. Others maintain that our group is the action wing of PETA. Once, I heard that US State Department Intelligence had us pegged as retro communists. But we are none of those â “ and all of them.â ?
â Å“I â “ I don't follow.â ?
â Å“I know.â ? She patted his cheek. â Å“Suffice it to say that we have several agendas, but this operation is not related to them. We do not want a sizeable portion of the Gaspé peninsula and points south to be turned into a radioactive desert.â ?
A cold lump grew in Baker's throat. He must have misunderstood. No one would be fool enough to â “ it couldn't be.
His thoughts must have been obvious. â Å“It can be, Major. It is. We don't know if the terrorists are planning to explode a device or use a conventional explosive to spread plutonium dust. We want to know and we want to stop it. You can help. If nothing else, the operation needs to be seen as a cooperative venture between Canada and the US.â ?
â Å“Me? But I'm just a lowly major. I need to report to Higher Authority. If someone's going to pop a nuke . . .â ?
â Å“You're out on the sharp end here, Baker. Are you a time-serving hack or an officer?â ?
â Å“Well . . .â ? He hesitated. The thought of tracking down God knows how many thugs armed with all sorts of lethal weapons â “ and maybe a NUKE â “ petrified him. And the time-serving hack bit had served him well for many years.
On the one hand, Calliope had nice knockers. On the other hand, Calliope had nice knockers. His glands and imagination voted for car chases, explosions, martinis (shaken, not stirred) and maybe, just maybe, a chance at those boobs.
The two tree hugging anarchists waited in silence. Finally, he stood up and came to attention â “ all five foot, three inches of him. â Å“I'll do my best.â ? He wanted to salute the flag, sing an anthem, maybe even indulge in a chocolate sundae with whipped cream and cherries. Here, at last, on a government subsidized train in Canada, heading toward a yucky death by atomic flame or radiation poisoning, he felt like a By God True American. He almost wet himself.
Gunnar tossed the Major a black beret. â Å“Wear it as sort of a badge, my friend. It will make it easier for our compatriots to aid you.â ?
Calliope kissed Baker lightly. â Å“I'll be around. Pretend you don't know me. Gunnar will get off at the next stop and coordinate with other groups.â ? She laughed. â Å“That hand cannon of yours is in the overhead compartment.â ? Then they were gone.
He sat down and stared out the window. Cold, slimy tentacles of fear crept back into his soul. Who did he think he was, rolling off into the morning light to save the world â “ or a small part of it â “ from annihilation? On impulse, he stood up and retrieved his pistol. It was the work of a moment to strap it on. Baker drew the heavy handgun and checked the action. Blue steel warmed to his touch, driving back the fear. He laughed and shook the weapon at imaginary foes. He was a heavily armed American with a picture of Mom in his wallet, right next to his library card. Respect for Old Glory was in his heart. Everything was perfect. If he died, well, so what. He'd go out in a blaze of glory. A blaze of nuc-u-ler, by God, glory.
He sat down, cradling the pistol. His arm ached from holding the big piece of iron aloft. Pain aside, he'd never felt happier. Only one thing was missing. His joy would be complete if he had a piece of apple pie. He tucked the pistol away. The dining car ought to be open. They'd have pie â “ apple pie. It would be un-North American not to have pie. Even these **** Canadians must know that.
It took all his new-found courage to step into the corridor. Which way to the dining car? Baker hesitated, then shrugged and started toward the front of the train. He needed to scout out the passengers anyway. And it would be a good idea to determine where the itching powder/Instant Holy Water might be. A sudden bolt of fear paralyzed him. â Å“Calliope! She doesn't know about the powder!â ? Shaking off a feeling of dread, he lurched forward again. What might those crates of itching powder/Instant Holy Water actually contain? Plutonium? RPG projectiles? Or were they a blind, designed to draw attention while the real attack went forward undetected?
As luck would have it, he found the dining car and the probable location of the mystery powder at almost the same time. It was full dark, but when the train rounded curves and if he leaned against the window next to his table, he could make out a single box car coupled between the dining car and the engine. It was time to find Calliope and tell her about the powder. But first Secret Agent Baker intended to finish his pie.
On the Road Again
Hwy 132, near Rimouski
Che was driving. Slim slumped in his seat, cellphone pressed against his ear. As they reached the outskirts of Rimouski, he tucked the phone away and stretched. â Å“The fat man is stopping at each little town and playing an impromptu concert for donations. He is reported to be at Amqui. We shouldn't have any trouble catching up this morning. And HQ had some other good news. The train to Gaspé was held up for nearly three hours by some sort of demonstration that blocked the tracks near Saint-Hyacinthe.â ?
â Å“The QLF again?â ?
Slim rubbed his red-rimmed eyes. â Å“No. An animal rights group, near as anyone can tell. Who cares! It means the train went through Rimouski only about ten minutes ago. HQ says it made a five minute stop there.â ? He leaned forward, eyeballing the road ahead. â Å“I'm hungry. It's coming up on six. Some place ought to be open.â ?
â Å“Look for a gas station,â ? said Che. â Å“We need to gas up. Maybe someone can direct us to a good café. I'm about to starve.â ?
â Å“You ate everything in the car that was vaguely organic last night. How can you be hungry?â ?
â Å“You're just upset because I didn't share those cookies I found under the back seat.â ?
â Å“Right. I'm angry that I didn't get a chance to share possible botulism with you. There's a gas station. You fill the car while I empty my bladder.â ?
Che stopped beside the pumps and shut the car off. He rubbed his stomach and frowned. â Å“Is bottlism fatal? I don't feel so good. Do I look like I've got it?â ?
â Å“Botulism.â ? Slim spelled it out. He peered at his companion. â Å“Well, your eyelids are droopy and your speech is slurred, but that's normal. Is your vision blurred?â ?
â Å“No.â ? Che blinked several times. â Å“I'm not sure. Maybe a little.â ?
Slim grinned. â Å“Either you have botulism or you just spent most of the night driving a 1965 Checker Marathon from Montreal to Rimouski.â ? He left Che puzzling over that one and headed for the men's room.
The sleepy station attendant directed them toward an eating place on the far side of town. Slim eyed the fellow with suspicion. â Å“Le Nez Croche? Sounds like a rough joint.â ?
â Å“Pah! You want a bad place, try Bar Salon Ti-Quebec! The separatists hang out there. Besides, Le Nez Croche is the only place for breakfast right now,â ? insisted the man. â Å“Maurice opens early so the cigarette smugglers can get a bite before going to bed.â ?
â Å“Smugglers?â ? Slim glanced at Che, who was inspecting the candies. â Å“Cigarette smugglers in this day and age! What do you make of that?â ?
Che's fond gaze rested on a nutty chocolate bar. He couldn't decide between that one and a block of dark chocolate. He spoke without taking his eyes off the candy. â Å“Last year, according to estimates by Canadian and American officials, about $500 million dollars in cigarettes were smuggled into Canada from Maine. The average smuggler netted about $200,000 Canadian for his efforts.â ?
The attendant smirked at Slim. Che brought a handful of candy bars to the counter, including the dark chocolate. He'd never been one to resist the siren song of chocolate.
Slim said nothing until he was behind the wheel of his beloved Checker. â Å“Did you make all that stuff up? Or is there really that much money in smuggling?â ?
â Å“I read it in the Official Digest of the Official Synopsis of Official Reports. It comes out once a month. Don't you read it?â ?
â Å“We're in the wrong business, boyo. Imagine -- $200 grand a year!â ?
â Å“Smugglers also get shot on occasion and often spend considerable time in jail.â ? Che stowed the dark chocolate in a jacket pocket. He'd have that one later. With coffee.
â Å“We have the same risks in our business,â ? said Slim.
â Å“Not unless someone figures out our expense account strategy.â ?
Slim herded the big Checker through town. â Å“I'm not cut out for smuggling, I guess. I'll stick with my bar. Although, I'll have to admit it isn't making the money I thought it would â “ even with the added prostitution and gambling.â ?
â Å“Nor will it ever,â ? said Che. â Å“It's like a rabbit running a carrot stand.â ?
Le Nez Croche lay well back from the road, on the crest of a bluff with the back of the building overlooking the St. Lawrence. Several late model four-wheel drive pickups and SUVs occupied the gravel parking area. Neon beer signs glittered in two windows facing the road. Slim parked the Checker off to one side.
â Å“Nice location,â ? said Che, as they walked toward the entrance.
â Å“Yeah.â ? Slim took in the shabby exterior and broken shingles. â Å“Needs a little repair work and a coat of paint, though.â ?
â Å“It's a fisherman and smuggler bar. What do they care about siding and shingles?â ?
Slim shrugged and pushed the door open. â Å“I just hope the food is good.â ?
They stepped into a dingy interior, lit mostly by light filtering through three large windows on the back wall. Years of grime crusted the panes, reducing sunlight and the view to drab monotones. â Å“I hope the food is safe to eat,â ? muttered Che.
To their right, five burly men occupied a table near one of the windows â “ and the back door. These worthies glanced at the two interlopers and went back to their rumbling conversations. At the other end of the room a bar lay athwart the room. Double half-doors at the near end led into what had to be the kitchen. Behind the bar, a man stood reading a newspaper. Steam drifted out of the kitchen along with the sound and scent of frying fish. Slim headed for a table near the far end of the bar.
The barkeep folded his newspaper and ambled over. When he spoke, it was in the thick patois of the region, laden with strange stops and half-familiar words. Seeing their confusion, he laughed and said something to the men at the far table. Slim glanced at his sidekick. â Å“You get any of that?â ?
â Å“Some. You don't want to know.â ?
Tossing a one-page, stained menu on the table, the man laughed. â Å“Never mind, friends. We like to have our fun with you city folk. I am Maurice. Welcome.â ? His words were still thick with oddities, but they were able to follow most of what he said.
â Å“Your bar was touted as a good spot for breakfast,â ? said Slim. Che peered at the grimy menu as if trying to decipher hieroglyphics.
â Å“The only place for breakfast, at this hour,â ? boomed the barkeep. â Å“We have coffee, fried fish, potatoes, and eggs. Those seeking dainty fare don't stop here.â ?
â Å“That will do fine,â ? said Slim. â Å“Never let it be said I turned my nose up at decent fish and eggs.â ?
â Å“I didn't say they were decent,â ? muttered Maurice. He brought two chipped mugs brimming with coffee, then vanished into the kitchen, shouting something about bobble-head dolls, if Slim's ears were to be believed.
The coffee could only be described as formidable. Platters of fried fish, fried potatoes, fried eggs and grilled bread followed, served up by a slight woman who laughed and babbled as she laid out the food. Neither man understood a word of her talk.
By upper-crust Montreal standards, it was an execrable meal, chock full of fried foods and laden with butter, grease and salt. However, once past a fashionable hesitation, it was delicious.
As he ate, Slim noted that he could understand more of the low gabble emanating from the other table. He couldn't decide if it was simply that his brain was scavenging among the vowels and syllables, fitting meaning with sounds, or if it was something in the food.
Content, drinking their third cups of coffee, the two agents lingered over the remains of the meal, soaking up the friendly, if soiled, ambiance of the place. Even the coarse discussions of the alleged smugglers seemed a fitting accompaniment to the morning.
Both men were lamentably relaxed when the four bearded gunmen burst through the entrance.
Amqui, QC
Looking for Calliope
Baker huddled in the dining car, sipping a beer. He had just finished a complete circuit of the train and seen nothing of Calliope. There were compartments in only one car. Breaking into each and every one to find her didn't seem like a good plan. She could easily have gotten off the train at Saint-Hyacinthe, when that bunch of eco-freaks blocked the train.
The Ami agent was staring out at the passing scenery as the train passed through a town. A sign flashed by: Amqui. Another place he'd never heard of. A group of people were gathered in a clearing not far from the tracks. Must be a sheep shearing contest, thought Baker, ever fair in his snap judgments of other peoples and cultures.
But, of course, it wasn't a sheep shearing contest. Such contests are held in September at the annual Amqui Oktoberfest, which has to be scheduled for September on account of all the rain and snow that falls in October. Anyway, the crowd Baker observed was not involved in shearing of any sort. The onlookers were listening to a thing only a few had ever heard of â “ and those uniformly considered it a baseless legend â “ until now. It was a calliope â “ a steam calliope. A buzz of conversation broke out in the car as passengers caught sight of the red and yellow rig.
â Å“It's the fat man!â ? exclaimed Baker. Other passengers turned, eyeing him curiously. A waiter sidled closer, clutching a goblet for use if the Ami agent became violent. Everyone in the car, save for the other Ami passengers, knew the heavily-armed man who had eaten an entire apple pie by himself, was an American agent. All the other American passengers had that vacant stare caused by being away from their television sets. This one had a wild, confused look about him â “ ergo, he was an agent.
Baker calmed down and pulled out his cellphone. Slim needed to know about the fat man! He flipped it open and stared at the instrument. Which button? Light purple or dark purple? Well, not really purple. He frowned, trying to remember the colors. A passing waiter leaned down and whispered, â Å“Mauve. Push the mauve button to telephone Canadian Intell. No, not the burgundy. Mauve.â ? Baker nodded his thanks and mashed the light purple button.
He huddled over the phone, wishing he'd gone back to the compartment before calling.
â Å“Central Message Center,â ? announced a computer voice. â Å“Listen to the menu carefully. If you screw up your phone will self-destruct.â ? After a brief pause, a different voice began reciting the menu options. â Å“Push one to report sighting a Conservative in Canada. Push two to report a violation of the Prohibited Words Act. Push three to contact Canadian Intelligence officer, even though we don't have any. Push four . . .â ? Baker pushed three.
A real person answered. â Å“Button three.â ?
â Å“Um â “ this is Baker. I must speak to Slim.â ?
â Å“Sure, Major. You and about forty creditors. He's off the line right now. I'll pass a message.â ?
â Å“The train just passed through mauve â “ ah, no. I mean the train just passed Amqui. Amqui. You got that? The fat man was there with the calliope.â ?
â Å“A calliope in Amqui? Hey, that rhymes. I'm a poet and don't know it.â ? The person snickered. â Å“We already knew about the fat man, Major. Thanks for the call.â ? The line went dead.
Baker closed the phone and put it away. He was sweating profusely. Phone conversations were always pure **** for him. As yet, his therapist had been unable to find the cause, though the Major's memory of an extended period of toilet training was the principal suspect. Drying his hands and mopping his face with a napkin, Baker headed for the front of the dining car. His hastily formulated plan involved opening the door, climbing onto the roof of the box car and then entering said box car via the oversized vent present in every spy movie he'd ever seen. He paused at the door. After a moment, he turned back and entered the restroom. Might be a good idea to tinkle first.
Soon he was in position in front of the stainless steel urinal, balancing as the train swayed along the tracks. Making water proved to be difficult, what with all the clackety-clack and movement. He closed his eyes and concentrated. It was easier than he expected, thanks to the gallon or so of coffee he'd finished along with the apple pie. â Å“Aaaaaah . . .â ?
â Å“It's about time you got here,â ? snarled someone behind him. It was Calliope.
He craned around, quite unable to stop the coffee-pressurized stream. She stepped from a cramped linen closet, smirking as he wet the wall and his trousers.
â Å“Hey! You can't â “ you can't be in here! This is the men's restroom.â ? He leaned against the wall, trying to shut out her laughter.
â Å“Sorry, Major. I thought you Ami super-spies were immune to the conventions of normal society. Shall I get back in the closet?â ?
â Å“Yes! No.â ? He sighed. â Å“Just turn around, please.â ? He managed a shrill laugh. â Å“You've confused us with the Brits. They have the imperturbable spies.â ? A few seconds more and he was finally drained. He regained a modicum of composure as he zipped his pants. â Å“Okay, don't tell me you've been in here all morning.â ?
â Å“But I have. I figured you'd be in here after the first couple cups of coffee.â ?
â Å“I have a strong bladder,â ? bragged Baker. â Å“Why were you here at all?â ?
â Å“There are at least three men keeping an eye on the powder crates. They wander through the train from time to time, especially after stops. One of them knows me from a â Å“Give Way to Your Inner Terroristâ ? conference I attended last year.
â Å“I heard about that one. Was it any good?â ?
â Å“It was fun. I got pictures of me with several of the biggies. A couple middle-grade types even autographed the photos.â ?
â Å“Good going! How did you get that close to so many?â ?
Calliope's face shaded to pink. â Å“It involved a scanty costume and lap dancing. It's not pertinent to our task here today.â ?
Baker had no trouble imagining the murderous gents slobbering over Calliope's attributes. With an effort, he pulled his brain out of the gutter. â Å“Have you scoped out the box car?â ?
â Å“No. I've been stuck in this closet all morning. Did you?â ?
â Å“Yes. Well, not exactly. I checked out the passages between the other cars. It must be like that except that a box car has no matching doorway. So we'll have to climb up on top.â ? He laid out his plan.
â Å“Sounds good,â ? agreed Calliope. â Å“I saw those same movies.â ? She drew a slim automatic from her shoulder holster and examined it. Satisfied, she holstered it again. â Å“You ready?â ?
Baker stared into space for a moment, then shook his head. â Å“I was trying to think of something memorable to say â “ but nothing comes to mind. I'm ready.â ?
The bathroom door popped open and a bulky man stepped in. He wore a really bad, off the shelf suit and had on a bushy fake beard. Baker started to push his way into the corridor just as the gentleman noticed Calliope. A foreign-sounding word burst from his beard. The woman's pistol plonk-plonked twice. With each plonk, a round hole appeared in the man's forehead. His eyes went wide, then fixed straight ahead.
â Å“Catch him,â ? said Calliope, in a matter-of-fact tone. â Å“Drag him into the stall and put him on the toilet. He'll be out of the way there.â ?
Since he couldn't stand there holding the large, deceased gentleman, Baker did as instructed. He tried to get a better look at the man's face by pulling the beard off. It wasn't fake. He came out dusting his hands. â Å“Who was that?â ?
â Å“One of the bad guys. That's one less to deal with. We better see about the others before they find this clown.â ?
â Å“See about? I was under the impression they'd be given the opportunity to surrender to proper authorities.â ?
â Å“They can.â ? Calliope laughed. It was the coldest, cruelest laugh Baker had ever heard. She nudged him with an elbow. â Å“I'm not a proper authority and neither are you. They can avoid us by surrendering to one of those proper types. As for us â “ we're just gonna shoot 'em.â ?
â Å“It's irregular,â ? said Baker. â Å“But I like it. Less paperwork.â ?
â Å“Paperwork?â ? sneered Calliope. â Å“The only paperwork I do is in the bathroom. That's what we hire interns for.â ?
â Å“Really?â ? Baker was stunned. â Å“What a novel idea.â ? He shook his head. â Å“I hope it doesn't catch on in the States.â ?
â Å“Come on,â ? muttered the woman. â Å“Let's assault us a box car.â ?
Things went swimmingly for about four steps. Baker stopped in the flexible corridor connecting the dining car to the next one in front. There was no blank box car wall. Nor was there a handy ladder leading up to the roof. Instead, the corridor led to another door.
â Å“That isn't a box car,â ? observed Calliope.
â Å“Well . . .â ? Baker could feel his face flushing. â Å“I â “ ah, I couldn't see any windows in it, from the dining car, so â “ ah, I figured it must be a box car.â ?
â Å“It's a car for general freight and baggage. Hadn't you ever seen one before?â ?
â Å“Sorry. I'm not an expert on railway cars.â ?
Calliope peered through the small window inset into the baggage car door. â Å“There's a short hallway then an open area. I can see boxes and baggage, but no people.â ?
â Å“There's bound to be one or two in there.â ? Baker started to draw his weapon, then did not. Once pistols were drawn, it would be difficult to back out.
Calliope drew her automatic. â Å“Let's go. At least we don't have to climb all over a greasy box car. I didn't say anything before, but this isn't the right outfit for that sort of thing.â ?
Baker smiled and ran an appreciative eye over her low-cut blouse, short skirt and matching jacket. â Å“A terrorist's dream. I suppose this one is suitable for frontal assaults?â ?
She gave him a suspicious look. â Å“I'm not sure what you mean, but it will do. It will do. Get out that cannon of yours. We'll go straight down the hall, then I'll go left and you go right. Shoot anyone who looks like our friend from the bathroom.â ?
â Å“Right.â ? Baker drew his pistol. â Å“Where do they get such bad suits?â ?
Calliope pulled the door open and slipped through, stalking forward in a crouch. She's giving the terrorists a nice look up her skirt, thought Baker. Shaking his head to clear the instant mental picture of him as a terrorist, ogling the sexy western woman, the Major rushed down the hall and dove to the right.
The darkened baggage car exploded with muzzle flashes and deafening explosions. Baker fired three times toward a shadowy figure at the far end of the car. Wad-cutter, armor piercing, high explosive, he thought. Though nearly blinded by the muzzle flash, he was able to see the shape jerk twice, then vanish in a bright explosion. He had a glimpse of body parts bouncing across the floor. Firing ceased.
â Å“Good going, Major,â ? called the woman. She was crouched behind a heavy crate on the other side of the car. Voices babbled downrange. Calliope fired toward the sound. Baker saw her pistol jerk and heard the now-familiar plonk-plonk. He triggered two rounds in the same general direction. The muzzle flash was awesome, but the only noise was a sodden squdge-squdge. Not very impressive. A rifle, probably the old reliable AK-47, answered back. Bullets ripped overhead. The sound seemed about to tear Baker's scalp off. Clearly, the bad guys had the edge in acoustics.
Calliope ejected a magazine and slammed in another. She screamed something Baker didn't understand, then stood up and plonked away. More to put an end to the horrid enemy gunfire than for any other reason, Baker raised up and fired until the pistol action locked open, smoking, magazine empty. They both knelt in position, waiting for return fire. None came. Sunlight streamed through several new, ragged holes at the front of the car.
When his flash-deadened vision returned, Baker slipped forward around a pile of crates in the middle of the compartment. The woman crept along, matching his move on the other side.
There was no reason for stealth. The bad guys were reduced to a loose collection of parts. Blood dripped off everything visible. Calliope kicked an anonymous piece aside. â Å“Looks like we got 'em.â ? She grinned at Baker. â Å“I want one of those cannons. Do you suppose they make it in a smaller caliber with a cut-down frame and barrel? Something suitable for a thigh holster or to carry in a bra?â ?
The American agent, low-life that he was, marveled at the instant image he had of Calliope tucking a powerful handgun into her bra. â Å“I'll see what I can do,â ? he promised smoothly, even though his influence on R&D was laughable. If he could get her the gun she wanted, she might let him help with the fitting. Hope springs eternal â “ especially vain hope.
(continued in next post)
