Alamo Square

By Stan McCown

In Alamo Square, Mike Lansford and Jenny McGuire, who have been reunited after meeting each other and falling in love two years before, are again separated by a nightmarish war; in the aftermath, white separatists seize control of large sections of the country, with visions of a renewed Confederacy, holding not just African Americans, but every other minority as slaves.
Jenny, carrying Mike’s daughter, is caught and passed from one group to another; using her strength and intellect not only to survive, she is able to influence even the most virulent racists to improve conditions for all her fellow captives.
Mike, who as an internationally known journalist, has already brokered the end of one war, while mourning Jenny, unaware his daughter was even conceived, must now help rebuild the government, working with the help of Canadians and Europeans, by breaking the power of the separatists, without causing the unnecessary death and suffering of those they enslave.
Working toward the same grand purpose, with Jenny and their daughter on the inside and Mike on the outside, over the course of six years the two bring about a resolution which may heal the nation, yet lead to both their deaths, unaware they are only miles apart when the end approaches.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stan McCown
• Release date: Sep 18, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465969156

Stan McCown

Stan McCown was born in Texas but as a member of a military family, lived all over the country and North Africa, which brought him a comfort zone with new places. After serving in the Air Force, including a stint on a missile crew in Okinawa, he ended up in Seattle, but has traveled widely since. Stan has written two complete novels, but having heard tales of ancestors in the Civil War, and after taking up in intense interest in history, he has also written a non-fiction work called The Awful Arithmetic, which is presented in two volumes due to its size. One of the two novels, Allegheny Road, is set during the Civil War on the exact same land Stan’s ancestors occupied in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia from 1749 to 1782. Two more novels are soon to come, as well as a further non-fiction work on the “lost chances” of the Civil War.

Book preview

Chapter One

FIVE MONTHS BEFORE THE WAR

SAN FRANCISCO

She just appeared out of nowhere, at ten in the morning, tapping at the edge of his open office door, then stepping in. In the first seconds, Mike could only stare, unable to breathe, or so much as shake his head in disbelief, or keep his mouth from falling open.

Hi, it’s me.

Jenny. It was all he could say, but having gotten out the word, he was able to move, standing at first, then pretending to clear his eyes. That made her laugh, and with that, the spell was broken.

Well at least you remember me. That’s a good start. May I come in?

Oh my god, yes, please, I’m sorry, he told her. Come in, come in. Sit. I’ll get coffee, you drank coffee, I remember. Cream and fake sugar—

You remember that?

Jenny, I remember every little detail. He pulled the visitor’s chair around for her, fluttering his hands, wanting to offer her help into the seat, knowing she had no need of it.

I think you’re as nervous as I am, she said. That’s good. Why don’t you go bring the coffee, then sit, so we can catch up.

Yes, sure. He slipped out and down to the break room, pouring coffee for both of them, vaguely terrified she would be gone when he returned, or turn out to have only been his imagination. But no, she was still there, playing with her hands, as if they pained her.

You all right? he asked and she smiled that life-giving smile.

As I said, I’m nervous, too.

Why, what’s wrong?

She shook her head, a quick little motion, then shrugged. Nothing. Just...showing up like this, not sure if it’s a horrible mistake or not.

"How could it be a mistake? You could always come visit me any time,

anywhere—"

She held up her hands in a way that stopped him cold.

"Mike, there’s a lot more to it than that. Brace yourself: I’m here to stay. I have a job here, I mean right here, the Sentinel. In fact, they hired me to begin by filling in while you’re in San Alonzo."

Oh wow, you work here now? That’s fantastic. And you’ll stay when I come back?

Yep. Forever and ever, or as long as they like my work. Unless there’s a problem. Between you and me.

Problem? It’s a dream come true, why would it be a problem?

Jenny looked around, noting that his office had no door.

Can you get away a few minutes, somewhere outside, so we can talk?

Absolutely.

And have a bite?

All the better. Now?

We need to talk before I stay a minute longer. So yes, please, now.

Come on.

Mike edged back from behind the desk, wanting to offer his hand again, and wanting to watch the way she moved when she rose, but he could not bring himself to ogle her that way.

She wore blue jeans and a buttoned top, with a little scarf loosely tied around her neck, much the way she had dressed when he first met her. He had dreamed again and again of taking off the scarf and kissing her neck, and the feeling had returned. He wanted to touch her back or shoulder as they walked along but did not dare, though he had done so many times while they were in San Diego.

Once on the street, she thrilled him by slipping her arm through his, causing them to bump hips as they walked along.

Mike took them to a cozy little upscale café a couple of blocks down, on Market, and just like that, found himself seated across from the woman who had dominated his thoughts for nearly two years.

Waiting for a server, she smiled, still a nervous smile. I shouldn’t have just showed up, without letting you know. And I sort of guessed they might have told you, at least that someone was being brought in, to begin by filling in for you.

They did, but they wouldn’t have known to tell me who.

No, I guess not. So it should’ve been me. I should’ve told you.

Mike responded that it didn’t make any difference, as long as she was there now but she shook her head.

I should have found out about us, first. About whether...well, I see you don’t have a ring, but whether you’re with someone else. If you are, then, oh god—

You mean you’re here to—

Yes! I finally divorced the bastard. I’m free! But if you aren’t—

Jenny, my god, I am, I’m free. There’s been nobody— since I met you, I haven’t seen anyone, I’ve had no interest in anyone else. I didn’t know when I’d get over you, but...you’re here to...be with me?

If you’re still interested.

Interested? I’d marry you in an instant if—

I accept, she said and Mike thought his heart would seize up.

You do? I’m sorry, I’m sorry, if I’d known, I’d have found a better way, more romantic—but I fly out in three hours, and I should’ve waited—

No! If you hadn’t said it, I would’ve. I know you’re going into a dangerous situation, down there and I hoped it would work out that I could ask you to marry me, so you’d know you’d have me waiting, but fuck it, it works just as well like this. Don’t worry about how you asked, just go down there knowing when you come back, you have a woman waiting to marry you. That way, I hope, you’ll be more careful. For me, if not for you. Okay?

The server arrived and they struggled to turn their minds to ordering something. Then they were alone again.

"I’m sorry this worked out that we only have this little time before you go. It’s going to break my heart to see you leave, but let me take you to the airport when you’re ready, and say goodbye there. It’ll be much sweeter than the goodbye in San Diego, when we could never plan to see each other again. That nearly killed me.

Let’s gobble this down, then go away somewhere at least halfway private, for as long as you have before the flight.

Mike feared that if he did anything now, it would be to go back to the Sentinel foreswear his mission to San Alonzo and stay here with her. His only response then, was to nod agreement with her suggestions.

After lunch, she told him she was staying in a hotel out near the airport for now. "I’d love to take you there right now, but I don’t think we’d keep our hands off each other.

Do you know of a quieter place but too public to go too far? she said.

He led her down to a cab stand and twenty minutes later they alit at a park in Pacific Heights, called Alamo Square, a park famous for the colorfully painted Victorian houses that lined the streets, some of which had graced postcards and calendars for decades. Although there were tourists even now taking pictures, it was possible to walk up the back side of the park and enjoy some measure of privacy.

They strolled about until they found a place isolated enough for their needs. There, she came to him and for the first time ever, Mike held Jenny in his arms.

Can I kiss you? Or should we wait for that magic night when I’m back?

If you don’t kiss me now, I’ll cry. I promise you, a kiss will keep me warm until I have you home, she said.

Mike cupped her cheek then met her lips, and in that moment, his life passed into the new world in which Jenny was the dominant factor and always would be....

The rest of the day was a blur of happiness and looming sorrow. Eventually, they returned to his office, so he could retrieve his packed and ready bags, and then she drove him out to the airport. In a haze, he checked in for the flight, and much too soon, they stood before the security gate, clinging to each other, both sobbing quietly, trying not to make a scene.

Darling, be safe, be careful, and do good work. I’ll try to make you proud of me back here, she whispered. Now I’m going to walk away because I can’t stand to see you leave.

She let go and Mike made himself pass through the gate.

And so, they began their life together by parting.

Chapter Two

CARTAGENA, COLOMBIA

In terms of emotional distance, it was the longest trip of Mike’s life, from San Francisco, to Miami, and finally to Cartagena, Colombia. All that way, when he should be thinking about what to do when he hit the ground, he could only think of Jenny.

As far as the war itself, there was a great deal to think about. The rocket attacks on the three airliners flying over the United States, two years ago, and the long buildup to war with the country that harbored the new wave of terrorists, the oil-rich nation of San Alonzo, had transformed the United States almost as completely as the attacks on the two towers in New York City in 2001; a weak minded man named Harvey Kelcher, who had somehow ascended to the presidency, was suddenly a national hero, because he had proclaimed a hard line against a small country, a country whose government had not yet been proven complicit or even sympathetic to the attacks, but which had proven a roadblock to US designs on the world’s oil supply.

Mike wasn’t ready to buy it. He was not prepared to say the attacks were exactly fishy, but they were pretty perfect, as far as Kelcher’s aspirations were concerned. And that was only one step removed from fishy.

But what he hoped to learn, entering San Alonzo in the midst of war, he could not say. He just had this sense he had to be there, if for no other reason than to see how the US military conducted itself against a country that had not been proven guilty of...well anything.

Again, as had been the fashion since 2001, the military had embedded reporters, reporters who’s lives and survival depended upon the military they were supposedly objectively reporting on. No other American correspondents were welcome in the war, but Mike would be coming in under the radar, he hoped. He would not embed, he would be independent. And he wondered just how much he would be able to see. And worried over what would happen if he was caught by his own government....

All that should be on his mind, and in a way it was, but despite his promise to her, everything was dominated by Jenny. Even the idea of having her with him, not just as a lover but as a professional partner would not pass from his mind. She had demonstrated to him that one previous time they had ever seen each other, at the crash in San Diego, that she was the best field journalist he had ever known. She had made him better during those three days, and he had five years experience on her. Imagine what they could do here, together, on this story.

And imagine trying to report it, worrying over her every step of the way. Every time a bullet whined, he’d look over, terrified he’d find her torn and bleeding.

No, this was best, knowing she was home and safe. Home. And when he thought that, it would set off another hour of incredulous meanderings of thought. Jenny, home. Waiting for me.

The fog in his mind finally cleared on the ground in Cartegena, where he had to make rational decisions and go to work. At the airport, he met with his partner, a French correspondent who had been set up for him by friends in the international journalistic community.

René Arsembault was already togged out like a stereotypical field reporter, in a rumpled campaign hat and a photographer’s vest over a safari shirt. He seemed to recognize Mike and nodded a greeting.

"Mike Lansford, eh? So we finally meet. I’m René. Mon dieu, but you are a strapping man, aren’t you? I shall hide behind you if the bullets get too heavy," he said.

Then you’d better be a fast runner because I’m under official orders to turn tail if that happens.

They both laughed and Mike instantly suspected this would be a good partnership, even if the French man wasn’t Jenny.

Small, thin-shouldered, Arsembault finally thought to offer his hand for a quick shake then pulled it away as if afraid of being hurt by the bigger man.

Come, I have everything set up, a hotel, a vehicle, we can be on our way tomorrow.

So what’s the plan? How do we get into Libertad City?

The Colombians are sending a convoy of support vehicles, and we’re going to ride in one of their hummers. They’ll take us all the way in to the middle of the action, and we don’t even have to be embedded! Eh? Eh?

And just how the hell did you pull that off?

Try and imagine, Arsembault said, rubbing his thumb and two fingers together.

Aha. A little chicanery before we even start. Okay, fine, if that’s what works, as long as it gets us there. I just hope I don’t have to pony up.

‘Pony up’? What is that?

Mike had to chuckle.

It means I don’t want to contribute.

Oh, I see. Very well, we’ll talk about it later. But in that case, you will be buying me drinks and dinner, all the way then.

Um hm. I’ve got a company credit card. So when do we go?

We meet with them in the morning, and whenever they want to go, we go. For now, let us get you settled in.

Arsembault drove Mike through the narrow streets of the city, a port from which Caribbean pirates had operated centuries ago, and in a different way, still did. Under other circumstances, Mike would have been salivating at the prospects of exploring Cartagena, but it was out of the question now. If Jenny had not appeared, he might have given thought to tarrying after his mission for a vacation here.

But that led to thoughts of having Jenny along and he almost gasped at what wonderful possibilities that suggested. Stop that, you’ve got to keep her off your mind, until you’re done here.

The hotel that Arsembault had arranged for them was not what one would call five-star but it offered a view of the old walled city and had air conditioning. What more could he ask for? But thinking it, Mike blanched at the obvious answer to that question, and hastened out the door, to meet up with his far less lovely dinner companion.

But the meal, for which Mike did indeed pay, was excellent and the coffee better. And were it not for the not-small detail a certain tousled-haired woman he had left behind, he could have said he was ready to go to war in the morning with no reservations.

The Colombians making up the team Mike had joined were jovial. Going to war was nothing to them. Living in a country that had been caught up in internal and eternal strife for decades, the troops weren’t strangers to fighting and didn’t seem the least bit tense, to be rushing into a bigger war over in San Alonzo.

"We will kick their chingada asses good," the driver exulted, once he pulled into place within the convoy of armored vehicles and trucks.

Yeah, but why are you people—Colombians—getting involved in this war? Mike asked, telling himself this was it, his first official journalistic question of the whole mission.

Because you people helped us whip the goddamn guerrillas, the Colombian said. Turn about, what is the word?

Is fair play, Mike finished.

"Sì, it is that. Besides, like your friend here, your people pay us good."

Mike left the issue at that but filed it away to write and report when he could settle down for the night. Meantime, he concentrated on enjoying the ride across the northeastern tier of Colombia, into San Alonzo.

All in all, it was around three hundred miles from Cartagena, up north to Barranquilla then over eastward along the Caribbean. The latter part of the trip followed a seemingly gentle highway east of Santa Marta into the Guajira Desert. But gentle referred only to the terrain, and highway was no more than a hopeless aspiration for the rough, misbegotten road.

Subject to a nearly constant battle between smugglers, drug runners, the Guajira Indians who gave it the name, and any local authorities crazy enough to stand up to them all, the route was almost suicide for anybody but a military convoy such as this. People in unarmed, single car treks only made through by pure chance and good luck. Or driving at autobahn speeds.

The land itself over much of the route was beautiful, with salt-white beaches graced by flamingoes wading in by-waters along the way, but the Guajira people were fierce and not to be trifled with, so a tourists’ paradise this was not.

For a military expedition, however, the greatest enemy was heat. Inside the vehicles, even with windows popped open, Mike felt himself melting. And the odor of men locked

up, sweating, was almost lethal.

Nor did the heat seem to let up by so much as a degree after dark. Lying in his tent, soaked in his own sweat, Mike tried to will himself to sleep, but there was no such hope. So he was left to do the worst thing he could: think of Jenny. What was she doing tonight, where did she dine, was she meeting new friends at the paper and going out for some entertainment or was she at home thinking of him?

Although in that way lay madness, the little fantasy got him through the first night along the Caribbean, because he did forget the heat and even slept a little, enough that when someone kicked at the door-flap around dawn, he was groggy and unready to get started.

Arsembault was no better off. They bumped into each other and swore, trying to put their boots on, but then laughed over it later when they were outside lining up for coffee and breakfast. And when the sun rose, off in the direction of San Alonzo, lighting up the Caribbean in fiery diamonds, Mike grudgingly admitted that he was glad to be up.

Two hours after the kick that woke him, the outfit was all aboard and roaring forward down the highway.

The actual invasion of that part of San Alonzo by the United States had taken place days ago, from Lake Libertad; the fighting at Libertad City was still building to a crescendo and had not penetrated into the center of town. The Americans were most concerned with securing the airport, first, and Mike understood that was where the hot action was going on. And that was where the Colombians had been directed.

The San Alonzon military all in all had put up a much stiffer resistance than anybody could have imagined, making use of their familiarity with the heat and the layout of the land, as well as guerrilla tactics developed while fighting in the jungles to the south.

Mike found it hard to imagine the US army pummeling a beautiful and modern city like Libertad, and he dreaded seeing what had happened to downtown, but he knew the city had been softened up with hits from huge numbers of bomb and cruise missile attacks before the troops came in on the ground.

What caught him by surprise was the San Alonzon defense of the airport. So strong was it that the Colombians were unable to reach the objective. And suddenly, out of what had been an almost leisurely cruise across from Colombia, Mike and Arsembault found themselves in the maws of hell....

The ambush was quick, loud and bloody, and somewhere in the fog of war, Mike and his companions became prisoners.

Chapter Three

THE OUTSKIRTS OF LIBERTAD, SAN ALONZO

When the smoke and confusion cleared, Mike found himself seated on the ground, his hands tied behind him while San Alonzon irregulars marched back and forth, threatening to shoot the entire collection of invaders.

A man with a very ugly looking machine gun stopped before Mike and unleashed a rapid-fire diatribe in Spanish. He seemed to expect a reply but Mike shrugged.

"No comprendo. No habla Espaniol."

No? English?

"Sí."

"Americano?"

"Sí."

The commando charged his weapon and Mike was too shocked and surprised that he was about to die to even know fear.

What are you doing with fucking Colombians? the gunman said in English. He was a lean man, with almost a baby face, but with a baby face that had an edge, something in his eyes that spoke of having seen too much in life, and little of it good.

We’re reporters, Mike said. "We refused to be embedded with the US Army so we paid for a ride with the Colombians. We wanted to see the war from a different view.

We wanted to tell the truth, not what the American side wanted us to tell. Are you going to shoot us for that?"

Something in that amused the San Alonzon. He again paced back and forth, trying not to smile. Soon he came back and stood over Mike again.

You actually pay to go to a war? Are you crazy?

Probably, Mike replied and that seemed to please the other man.

Aha. Then you should come with me.

I have trouble getting to my feet like this.

The San Alonzon said something to one of his men, who helped Mike to stand. And him? Who is he?

He’s a French reporter.

Ah. With a go-ahead nod, the guerrilla leader had Arsembault lifted also. Leaving their hands still bound, the San Alonzons marched down the street to an alley, and on past a few rundown houses to an even more ramshackle building in the terminus of a cul-de-sac. The rich aroma of cooking that drifted into the alley reminded Mike how long he had been since breakfast and he wondered if he were ever going to have another.

Upstairs, he and Arsembault were delivered to what passed for a guerrilla-style command post.

"Sit. Behave yourselves and I take off the bindings.

Now tell me why you’re here.

Mike described his position as a reporter on the World Desk of the San Francisco Sentinel and mentioned his part ten years earlier in ending the short but devastating nuclear exchange in the Persian Gulf. Suddenly, a light went on for the San Alonzon and he nodded.

"Yes, yes, I remember it was a reporter who did that. So it was you? Madre de Dios, I am honored. Are you here to try and stop our war?"

Look, I’d give my right arm to stop it, if there were anything I could do. But given the government we have back home, Kelcher and his people, I have no clout at all. So I’m just here to do what I told you, try to tell the truth. I’m sorry.

No, no, do not be. It would be a miracle. But....

The smallish man spun around almost gracefully, as if he had been a dancer or still was, and flopped into a large chair.

Sit. I have to think, he said. No wait. He directed one of his men to undo the ties so Mike and Arsembault could take their seats comfortably.

Less like a warrior now, the man had the appearance and made the gestures of a philosopher, perhaps a painter, and Mike suspected war was not his vocation but was something he had fallen into. Like so many other San Alonzons in these times.

You want a story, do you?

Mike fought the impulse to tell him that all he wanted at the moment was to live another day so he could see Jenny again. Instead, he said yes, of course he wanted a story.

Then I have one for you. Upstairs, we have two CIA men. They are defectors. What do you think of that?

That would be worth something right there. Spooks hardly ever defect. That would be pretty rare. So what about this particular pair? What makes them a story?

Because they have something to say, something that we would like to see emerge. Do you want to talk to them?

Are you kidding? Hell yeah, I’d love to.

Good. But only you then. Not the French one. Come.

Just like that, the guerrilla led down a corridor to where a ladder protruded through a hole in the ceiling, bringing to mind the Indian houses in pueblos back in the American Southwest.

Climbing up into the next level, Mike followed his escort down a long hallway where paint had become a long lost dream, stopping before a closed door at the end.

Somewhere, a baby cried and a guitar strummed a melancholy tune, both sounding as close as if they were in the hallway with him. The haunting melody seemed at once both out of place and perfect for this strange location and time. Again, Mike was assailed by a waking dream of having Jenny beside him, sharing this experience, and he blinked, to rid himself of the vision before it distracted him.

Wait out here, the San Alonzon was saying. I ask them, see if they will talk to you.

He was gone inside the room at the end of the hall for about five minutes.

It is all right. They will at least meet you.

That’s a good start, I guess.

Inside, Mike found two men in blue jeans and olive drab T-shirts seated at a table, playing dominoes. They had the look of scholars gone to seed.

You have a name? the older of the two said before Mike had a chance to open his mouth.

Mike Lansford. But I won’t waste my time asking yours.

Lansford, huh? The younger one rubbed his chin, on which a fine stubble had grown. He mentioned the war, Kuwait. Lansford, was that the name? It could have been. Yeah, I think so, he added, to his partner.

Okay, it’s worth a shot. We’ll talk. Have a seat.

Good, so you’ll talk, but what are we talking about? He said you two were defectors. Aside from Agee, I couldn’t name one other CIA defector. What am I to make of this?

So what are you saying, you don’t want to talk to us? I thought a reporter’d drool over the prospects.

Mike told them that he was a little skeptical, adding that it was too easy, that they told the San Alonzons they were defectors and the guerrillas just accepted. I guess I’m going to play devil’s advocate and be a little harder to sell. Do you mind? Or should I play dumb and just take it all at face value?

Why don’t you hear what we’re selling, and then decide. Then you can do whatever the fuck you want with it, if they, he nodded at the closed door, but the meaning was clear, let you go.

Then give me a glimmer of the ground rules. He says you have something you’d like to see the light of day. Assuming that’s true, are you going to tell me or do I have to get lucky and guess the right questions to ask? I’m not psychologically prepared to play mind games with two professional spooks. So how does this go?

"A lot is going to depend on you. Like, what will you do with this? We aren’t prisoners here, we’re in a safe haven. We’re free to go any time we want, but our life expectancy, outside of here, would be about five minutes. Since we can’t show our faces, we want some kind of notion of what you’d do with this besides just writing a story.

But based on your past, what I remember, if you’re really that same guy, you have a reputation for trying to improve a situation you think needs it. Right? That’s the only reason we’d level with you. Do you have the guts to hear this and do something with it?

Mike pointed out the CIA man was essentially asking him to write a blank check. Then he told them that as far as his ability to use whatever they told him, because of the negotiations he had conducted to end the nuclear war in the Gulf, he had become personal friends with the president at the time, Lawrence Buckner. He’s still got a very big voice and I can put this in his hands, if it’s really worth his time. So do you want to give me a shot at that or not?

Some part of what he was saying seemed to reach the two CIA officers. Without conferring, they abandoned their game and pulled their chairs around to face him, nodding him to a seat on the low sofa behind him.

This whole war’s bogus, the older one said without further preamble.

Well that’s not an original idea, but I have to say you seem pretty definite about it.

Damn straight. The whole frigging thing was set up by the airliner shootings, and that’s what’s phony, Lansford.

Mike managed not to betray his excitement, but inside, he was doing flips, sensing he was on the verge of a major find here.

How’s that phony? They were shot down, I should know, I stepped over bodies half-buried in the ground in San Diego. I could smell the roasted flesh, I had the stink on me for days. I puked my guts out. It was real. What makes that a scoop?

Oh fuck yes, they were shot down all right. And true, they were even shot down by San Alonzons, but it was set up, by our side. How the hell do you think they got hold of ground-to-air missiles inside the US? the older man said.

"Listen to me, Lansford, we, him and me, were involved in placing the missiles in their hands. We were directed to see that they got them. We didn’t know what was coming, we thought it would be a scare, a near-miss, to stir up a fire-storm, but not to take them down.

But they knew. Somebody in the White House knew. They approved. That’s what gave them the excuse to invade, Lansford, but it’s for the oil, and another base on the edge of the Caribbean basin, not because of terrorism. It’s being used again, as just an excuse to carry out another agenda. And what that is, we can’t get a handle on.

The second man told Mike to look at everything that had happened since the airliner had been shot down. He pointed out all the goals the Kelcher administration had sought which they were able to achieve because of the renewed war on terrorism. "It was all done to facilitate it, by people in the administration. We even know the trail from us to a certain point high in the sky, someone inside the White House.

Do you have the cojones to keep listening?

Mike nodded. Go on.

Someone somewhere in the vicinity of the National Security Council ran the whole thing, the younger man said. "We haven’t been able to pinpoint who it was and we don’t have the proof you’d need to blow this open, but maybe you can find it, now that you know.

The last name of the man who ran it begins with K. That’s all we have. And there are several candidates, and no, it isn’t Kelcher. He no doubt was in on it, but we’re talking about the man who was the liaison between CIA and the White House.

K. All right, that’s a start.

You don’t seem surprised at what we’re telling you, the other one said.

Well what you wouldn’t know is that the internet groups have made this issue a cottage industry, dozens of people who insist Kelcher benefited way too much from the shoot-downs for it to have just happened right when he needed them. As you pointed out. So it’s not exactly a new idea. The only surprise is that I’m in the same room with people who know particulars. Okay?

Aha. Okay, that’s interesting.

The second man told Mike that he had one more hint, assuming he truly intended to follow up on what they were telling him. And mind you, we don’t for a moment believe you or anyone else will ever find the smoking gun. But there’s a woman in a safe house in Paris, with French intelligence, her name is Molly—she was one of us—who has defected, like we have, and that’s all we’ll say. And she has part of the key. She might be able to get you one piece closer.

Molly, Mike said. Okay. Anything else?

I can give you our boss’s name on the op. Campion. He’s a deputy division chief, operates out of Langley, so he doesn’t show his face much. Doesn’t have a cover organization, isn’t out of any overseas station, that you can track down, and isn’t directly inside the NSC. So you’re not much likely to find anything, but you might get lucky, who the hell knows?

The man shrugged, as if that was all he could say, but Mike wasn’t ready to stop there. He pumped them for anything else he could extract, which wasn’t much. They refused to even explain why they were in San Alonzo or from what station or base they had defected.

So you walked when you realized you’d helped shoot down the jets?

The older one sighed.

I wish I could say so, but no. We didn’t bail out until we caught on that we were the throw-away guys. Campion wanted the ones who knew too much to disappear, and we figured that out about a day ahead. I won’t even tell you the horror story of getting out of there in the dead of night. It’s been a picnic since then, compared. And don’t ask us what we’re going to do when our friends here can’t protect us. I’ll say that we’re looking real seriously at Brazil, but getting there isn’t going to be a lane strewn with rose petals.

Mike told them he wished he had some manner of help to offer but at the moment, he wasn’t even sure how he would get out of the country alive. Our ride seems to have gotten themselves bushwhacked, he added.

So I hear. So maybe you’ll be our guests for awhile.

It could be. Maybe it’s time for me to find out. Certain now there was no more to be learned here, he thanked the two men, shook hands, then knocked on the door.

The San Alonzon was waiting in the grimy hallway and greeted Mike now with a smirk.

Are you satisfied?

Yeah, I think I got something. So what now?

We will arrange to let one of the Colombian trucks escape, and make sure they have no direction out but back to where they came from. We’ll let you escape on the grounds that you’re neutral reporters. You and the French one can go.

Mike and Arsembault had to remain in