Of Sisters & Brothers Pt. 01

I took a sip of my coffee and looked at Clay, "There's something screwy going on. Why does he need me to take the package to Maine? Why the fuck doesn't he send one of his apes? It doesn't make any sense."

We were sitting inside a coffee shop in the Village a few blocks west of 7th Avenue. It was a small, cozy place that always served fresh coffee and had the best damn scones this side of the Atlantic. Crumbly walnut scones with clotted cream and homemade strawberry jam ... Mmmm, almost as good as sex.

It was a slow afternoon and there were only two other customers there. One was a pretty young thing sitting in the corner reading her Nook and doing her best to ignore us. The other was a big dude stuffing his face with a cruller and yapping loudly on his cell phone. His grating laughter and loud banter drowned out the soft strains of the guitar playing in the background; a favorite of mine, Earl Klugh, from his 'Music for Lovers' CD. It was obvious that the lout was trying to impress the girl.

Clay looked over at the guy and I knew he was going to start something. He had an intense dislike for assholes, especially inconsiderate assholes - they topped his list. And, he was still a bit miffed that he didn't get a crack at Andrei. In a fight, my money was on Clay. Andrei didn't stand a chance despite the size advantage. Clay was about six-one and one ninety but he was a bullterrier, a real badass that could take you out in a heartbeat. The only guy who had ever given Clay any trouble was a professional mixed martial artist, a Brazilian tough-guy. And even he looked like he had been through a meat grinder when it was said and done.

The fat guy, who was being a nuisance, was a creampuff -- it would have been a no-contest; Pit Bull versus a Poodle.

"Forget him," I said, "what do you think? Is it strange or what?"

He focused his attention back on me.

"Maybe having an outsider handle it keeps the other guys guessing, you know, that Chechnyan guy, El-Shit or whatever."

"al-Shishani," I corrected, "Why? Obviously the package is valuable to Sam so why not use Andrei or Nikolai; someone he trusts?"

"Maybe he trusts you more than he does them, you know, something about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer! And then, there's the fact that you have an incentive to get this done; it squares up your debt."

"I doubt it ... I doubt he trusts me. It just doesn't make sense."

"It is what it is, Cal. Listen to Jerry - don't go looking too deeply for hidden agendas, man; accept things for what they are. Here's your chance to pay that little prick off so let's get on with it. If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck and quacks like a duck ..." he waited for effect then added, "It's a friggin' duck!"

Wow, really! He was full of wisdom today but I didn't get the relevance and Jerry said that? Clay, brother, you've got to stop with the weed.

I shook my head and muttered, "And that's why ducks get shot!"

He grinned, a wide toothy grin, and took a bite of his scone and offered in between chews, "Then call the little prick and ask him."

Sam wasn't taking my calls and that was the problem. We sat quietly for a while. I looked out the window, lost in thought, watching the people going by and playing out different scenarios in my head, scenarios where all kinds of shit could happen. It kept circling back to Sam and Andrei. I didn't like or trust Andrei. The big Russian was a lot smarter than he let on. The dumb, head-knocker act was a façade and I knew that. The fucker was dumb, yeah, like a fox, if you get my drift. And Sam, well he was more dangerous than a pit full of vipers!

But, I had an idea that could work. Using Clay's phone I called Sam not really expecting him to answer. It might have been curiosity about a number he didn't recognize or maybe just plain luck but he picked up on the first ring.

"Yes." I'd recognize that voice anywhere.

"Sam it's me, Cal," I said and before he could react, I laid it out straight, "I have a question -- why me? Why are you doing this? Why not use one of your Russian hard-hats?"

He let out a soft laugh before answering, "Curious Cal; always looking for answers ... you know what they say about curiosity, don't you, Cal? But fair enough, I'll tell you why. The Chechen hates Russians. His mother was a doped-out, teenage whore who was gang-raped by a bunch of soldiers during the occupation. And as a result of that vile and pernicious act she got pregnant. Here's where it gets strange -- you'd think a whore would have no compunctions about an abortion but she's Catholic and she's religious in that way. So she decides to have the baby and then gives him up for adoption. The child was adopted by an older Moslem couple who had lost their only son in the struggle against the Russians. He was brought up on steady diet of hate; the kind of passionate hatred that once inculcated is impossible to erase. And it was directed, not at the Jews or Christians, but at the Russians." He paused then continued, "It's too risky to send Andrei and I don't trust the others. It's that simple."

I was quiet, wondering about the veracity of the story when he cut in, "If you are having second thoughts, Cal, we can move the pawns back and we can call the deal off?"

If it was just Andrei, I could handle it but it would be Andrei and Nikolai and the Ukrainian with the tattoo and on and on and on until I ended up in a ditch with my head busted open. And, it was unfair to drag Clay into my shit. I need to square this up once and for all.

"No. You've answered my question. I'll do it -- not a problem."

"Good." And the line went dead.

That bit about the Chechen sounded like a plot out of a B-movie but it could have been true, there was no way for me to know. Like Jerry says - it is what it is and it was as good a reason as any. I must be losing it -- Clay, Jerry and I, we all think alike now!

Clay didn't really give a damn; he was back to staring at the annoying creampuff. It wasn't going to be long before all hell broke loose. I've known Clay since we were kids and could read the signs. It was all there.

"Are you in?" I asked him.

No response.

"Clay, are you in?" This time I raised my voice. I saw the cutie in the corner look over at us.

"What? Yeah, yeah, I'm in," he replied impatiently. He was obviously distracted.

"Okay. Let's go. I call you when Sam gives me the details. Okay?"

"Sure. Give me a minute, I need to take care of something," he said and began to get up.

"Oh no, you're not. Let's just go, okay? Leave the bum alone."

We left and I made sure I was in between Clay and the blabber. I don't think that dude had any clue of how close he had come to having the cell phone shoved up his ass.

The next morning I got a call from Sam with the details of the pick-up. I was to meet Hans-Peter Kriegl at the Hilton in Stamford just off of I-95. The easiest way was to hop the train. Take Metro North from Grand Central to Stamford and flag a cab to the hotel but I preferred to drive. Shit like this, you just never know and we may need to get the heck out of Dodge -- quick.

*****

The Wolf -- Hans-Peter Kriegl

The executive suites at the Hilton are a pretty nice; a well thought out combination of the old world charm of dark mahogany furniture mixed in with the ultra-modernistic styling of granite and glass. There was an expansive living room with a dining area dominated by a hand-engraved oak table. Behind the dining area, a narrow corridor led past a small kitchenette to the bedroom. From the partially open door, I could see a king sized bed with a multicolored quilt. The bright Indian rug, leather sofas and flat screen TV added to the décor and was done in good taste - I could get used to this real easy. It looked very comfortable and I'm sure, was very expensive. You had to swim in the deep end of the money pool to afford a suite like this.

Hans-Peter Kriegl was a short, heavyset German with piercing blue eyes behind Clark Kent glasses and blond hair cropped short in a crew cut. He had a thick, short neck and a barrel chest. His blond mustache ran down the sides of his mouth and he had a day's stubble on his chin. When he spoke he looked you straight in the eyes without blinking. He spoke with a heavy, guttural accent though his English was precise and clear.

"Excuse me for a minute, I have to make a call, ja," he said after the perfunctory handshake and introductions and waved towards the coffee table, adding, "Help yourselves. I took the liberty and ordered coffee."

He left for the bedroom and I could hear him speaking in muffled tones. A moment later he was back and handed me the phone.

"He wants to speak with you."

"This is Cal," I said, not knowing who I was talking to.

"Listen carefully, Cal," it was Sam, "take the attaché case from him, get the combination and then whack the motherfucker!"

I controlled my surprise strolling nonchalantly over to the far side window behind the dining table and away from the German and Clay, "What?"

"Waste the son-of-a-bitch!"

"No way, Sam! That wasn't part of the deal. I'm not wasting anybody!" I hissed.

"He's a stone-cold killer and you don't stand a chance. Listen to me, son, do him before he does you."

My voice dropped to a whisper but I needn't have been concerned. Clay and Kriegl had migrated to the kitchen and were engrossed in an animated conversation.

I looked down at the pretty cobblestone courtyard before asking, "Why? Why would he want to fuck us? I mean, why would he want to mess with you, Sam, and risk the whole deal? Am I missing something?"

"He's an independent, a freelancer. Once he hands you the attaché case his job is done. He knows what's in there and believe me, Bubba, it's a lot more than your lives are worth! This business is about money, Cal. When the fuck are you going to learn?"

I thought about it and didn't like it -- any of it. But I have a stubborn streak in me and whacking someone on a whim wasn't what I had agreed to do.

"Our deal is for me to take this package and hand it over to the Chechen in Houlton and I'll do that. You don't worry about it." I replied.

There was a pause before he answered.

"Suit yourself but remember what I told you." Sam said then added, "Call me when you are on the highway. Take 95 ... it'll take you all the way into Houlton."

"It's an eight hour drive. When do you want me to call you?"

He was quiet again and I was about to repeat the question when he said, "You're not going to call me because you're already dead; you just don't know it!"

And he hung up. That was reassuring.

I walked back to the living room and handed the German the phone. They were exchanging stories of guns and wars and all the other shit that they had been into. Nice. Exactly what I needed now -- Clay and a new buddy who just happened to be a killer.

"Hey, Hans was in the war too! He was in Afghanistan as part of the UN Peacekeeping Mission." Clay informed me enthusiastically.

"Ja, I was a medic, a kid you know, with all these grandiose notions of world peace, brotherhood and love," Kriegl offered and smiled, "It's part of the German psyche ... the guilt; part of who we are now."

"That's really touching and I'd love to stay and chat but it's an eight hour drive so we need to hit the road. You have something for me?"

"Ja, ja, but maybe you leave after lunch, yes? They have a great buffet here and you'll skip the traffic." Hans offered.

"Yeah, dude, I'm starving!" Clay concurred and then fished out a joint and asked the German, "Do you mind?"

"No, no, not at all, it doesn't bother me but this is a non-smoking room." He replied pointing to the smoke detector in the corner. "You Americans are fussy about smoking, ja, not like Europe. You can take it outside, in the courtyard. It should be okay there."

Clay thought about it and then decided against it. "Fuck it. Let's just have lunch."

So we took the elevator down to the lobby chatting like long lost friends about Afghanistan, Indonesia, Pakistan and all the other fucked-up places in the world. Except that there was a knot in my belly that was beginning to grow each time I looked at the German. He didn't seem that innocuous anymore -- there was an edge to him. He reminded me of a Malayan Mountain Pit Viper, short, squat and deadly. It wasn't a question anymore of 'if' but 'when' he'd strike.

After lunch it was all business. Kriegl disappeared into the bedroom and returned with an attaché case, a manila envelope and a digital camera. It was a Sony Alpha NEX-5N. The only reason I recognized it was because I had one and it struck me as strange, a German with a Japanese camera.

"Well, here it is," he said extending the attaché case out to me. "The instructions and details of the meeting place with the phone number are in the envelope."

I took the briefcase and envelope.

"Let me take a photograph, ja, so we have proof that you have taken possession."

"Sure," I replied, "just make sure you get my good side!"

Here it comes; the set-up and then the strike. But I was ready. If he made a suspicious move or even flinched the wrong way, I was going to cap his sorry ass.

He adjusted his position, crouching awkwardly and was about to take the picture when he turned to Clay, "You get in the picture too, Clay, come on."

I tensed, sure that he was about to try something, but I needn't have been concerned. He snapped off several shots in quick succession and smiled. He was obviously good with the camera and caught Clay and me with the attaché case smiling like drunken teens at a prom night party.

"Oh, there is one additional thing you need to know," he said while putting the camera away, "the lock on the briefcase has been wired. If anyone tries to open it without the combination, even one attempt, it goes ka-boom!" He gesticulated with his arms to emphasize the explosion.

"What do you mean? What if we get stopped?"

"I suggest you don't get stopped, ja, or run; run fast ... and far! There is enough "Plastique" to blow up a city block!"

I dropped the case gently on the sofa, "Hey, I'm not taking it without the combination."

"Suit yourself, Caleb, but I cannot help you. I cannot give you what I do not have."

This was the moment of truth. I stared at him trying to determine if he was lying or not. It was impossible to tell. His face was an inscrutable mask and the unblinking eyes, lifeless and cold. This was heading for a Mexican Standoff: Sam was up to something and now, this asshole throws me a curve. Fuck! Nothing was simple anymore. It crossed my mind to put the screws on, to see if I could get him to talk, but I decided against it. Working him over wasn't going to help -- not at this moment anyway and I doubt he would have talked.

"Okay, I'll deal with it. Let's hit the road," I said picking up the attaché case with exaggerated care.

We left without shaking hands and I noticed a smile on the German's face except that it was more of a sneer.

"Travel safe, ja, and don't let anyone take that from you!" he said just before closing the door.

There were others in the elevator so we remained quiet staring blanking at the door. The little girl standing by her mother had been studying Clay intently and when we got off, I could hear her.

"Ma, that man had one blue eye and ..."

"Ssshhhh. That happens sometimes and it's not polite to stare!" Her mother reprimanded.

As we walked towards the car, I couldn't help it.

"You have a way with women, you know that don't you?" I teased and chuckled.

"Yeah, right! Just what I need, a comedian!" was the terse reply.

"What do you think? I don't want to drive with fuckin' C-4 in the car! It's nasty stuff." I said when we reached my '69 Dodge Charger. It was a badass car, the ultimate symbol of American Muscle, a stubborn "up yours" in the face of a sea of souped-up Toyotas and Subaru STIs.

"Yeah, it's nasty but don't sweat it," Clay answered, "It won't go off unless we fuck around with the lock and set off the detonator." He paused before continuing, "In Indonesia, in the jungle, I used to start fires with it, I mean, to cook. C-4 by itself is pretty stable. You can throw it, shoot it, sit on it ... without a blasting cap, nothing happens."

Okay, so I learned something. And, not surprisingly, he seemed to know a lot more about it than I did. I was glad that one of us was cool about having a fuckin' bomb in the car.

*****

The Passage

Clay wanted to drive so after checking the address where we were supposed to meet al-Shishani and entering it into the Garmin I settled back and told him what Sam had said about Kriegl being a killer and our lives being in danger.

"Well, he didn't try to kills us and if he does, we'll bury the fucker somewhere in the wilderness outside Houlton. No one will ever find him!" He said, adding, "Don't worry, brother, the party won't start until we meet the Chechen. I have this feeling. You relax and catch some zees."

I settled back and closed my eyes. The last time Clay had a feeling, we fucked his sister. It was years ago - we were teens spending summer at his father's fishing cabin up in New Hampshire. His sister, Karen, was a cutie; a year younger than us but had matured dramatically over the previous year. I mean her body. She had developed curves and a pair of knockers that would blow your mind along with that mysterious, sensual look that some girls have -- she could have been a pinup for any teen rag!

One afternoon after goofing around in the pool we were cooling off under a tree when it happened. Our parents had gone into town and had taken my younger sister with them leaving the three of us alone. Jenny, my sister, was four years younger and was still a kid so we were glad that she wasn't around. She was at the age when she was curious about everything and could be a real pest. I remember that day like it had happened yesterday.

Karen was lying in the middle, in between us, knees raised, eyes closed, her long hair tossed about her head like a golden halo while she drew lazy patterns on her belly just above her bikini bottoms. She had long, slender fingers with nails that were painted a startling red. Her boobs were threatening to spill out of the skimpy bikini top and her legs, man, her legs just wouldn't quit. She would open her thighs a bit and then close them tightly, squeezing them together before repeating that maneuver over and over again, like she was playing an accordion with her knees. Her cheeks were flushed and her breathing was getting heavier but I was clueless, only aware of the overt sexual energy sparking between us; all of us. I was as excited as I had ever been. I kept peeking at her, hoping she wouldn't notice the prominent boner I had sprouted. I had to do something soon because it was getting to be painful.

I got up and turned quickly away with my back to them, "I have to pee. Do you want anything from the house?"

"Suntan lotion," Karen replied elbowing up and shaking her mane back.

"I'm going to grab something from the fridge," Clay said getting up. He was a lot less self-conscious about his hardon tenting out from his swimming shorts. I caught Karen staring at it through hooded eyes, her tongue wetting her lips. There was a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth and a look of satisfaction, like she had achieved what she had wanted.

She glanced up at me, smiled and then settled back, closing her eyes, "Don't be long."

As soon as we got to the cabin, Clay grabbed my arm and said, "I have this feeling, man, I think we can do it ... we can fuck her!"

"You have a feeling?" I was incredulous.

"Oh, come on! Don't act coy, Cal, I know you've been thinking about it! We can fuck her, man, I can feel it. She's in the mood."