Final Winter

So the call was written up and placed on the manager’s desk.

More minutes slipped away.

~ * ~

Adrianna looked at herself in the bathroom mirror. Her stomach felt as if it was filled with liquid cement. Her legs were shaking. She checked her watch. Not much time, but Brian… he could not be allowed to ask her any more questions, could not be allowed to have any chance to make any phone calls or do anything.

She ran the faucet, splashed some cold water on her face, and then flushed the toilet.

Then she went to the door.

~ * ~

Carrie Floyd was now in the cockpit, doing a pre-flight check. So far, so good. Weather was wonderful, CAVU -ceiling and visibility unlimited — and she looked forward to a quick trip to Boston. Sean was at her side, saying, ‘We’re 107 today…AirBox 107. Got it?’

‘Gotten.’

A touch from his hand to hers. She didn’t look up. ‘Later, tiger. Later.’

‘Sure, chief, whatever you say.’

‘Good.’

~ * ~

Brian waited for Adrianna, stood up and looked around the room. Some of her favorite books seemed to be there. He tilted his head, checked out the titles. Art History of the Medieval World. Romanesque Architecture of the Twelfth Century. Gothic Cathedrals in Medieval France. So on and so forth. Her very first love. He ran his fingers across the spines of the books, remembered looking at them back at her condo. Yet… there seemed to be something off. Something was missing.

What was it?

He looked at the framed photo of Adrianna and her aunt. A cute photo, the two of them wearing matching outfits. He picked up the frame, looked closer at the photo. Nice. But the death of her aunt…

Something was pressing against his finger.

He tilted the photo, saw something poking out between the thick frame and the matte on the back. The edge of a piece of paper. He tugged at it with his fingernail, heard the bathroom door start to open.

~ * ~

Adrianna went through the open bathroom door, saw Brian looking at the photo frame. She strode to her overnight bag where it lay on the floor.

~ * ~

The piece of paper was photo paper. It slid out and now Brian held it in his hand. There was movement as Adrianna came out of the bathroom. He didn’t look at her. He looked at the photo. It showed a woman and a young girl, sitting in a formal pose on a couch, with a man behind them. The girl… a much younger Adrianna Scott. Standing behind the couch was a man, and the man was wearing a uniform, a uniform…

Brian recognized the uniform, recognized the flag patch on the shoulder.

Iraq.

The man was an Iraqi officer of some sort.

Adrianna was sitting in front of him.

Her father?

Supposedly dead in a car accident with her mother.

A young Adrianna, sitting with her Iraqi parents…

Her dead Iraqi parents.

And then it came to him.

The missing book.

The Army That Never Was.

About General George S. Patton and his hoax against the Germans.

A wartime hoax.

War.

Adrianna Scott, working for the CIA, head of Tiger Team Seven, head of the Final Winter project, was from Iraq.

Her dead parents.

Holy shit.

He looked back and Adrianna was standing near the bed, holding a pistol in a two-handed grip, looking right at him.

~ * ~

Adrianna said, ‘I’m sorry it came to this.’

Brian moved away from the table, was now by the open door leading outside to the balcony.

She moved forward. He backed away, letting the photo of her and her parents drop to the floor. He said, ‘Adrianna, look, this can be handled, I’m not sure what—’

Adrianna moved even closer. Brian was now on the balcony.

~ * ~

In all his years on the job, Brian had been in some tight places before. As a uniformed officer, he had been in a radio patrol car that had been broadsided by a drunk driver at two a.m. on East 87th Street. As an undercover narcotics officer, he had wrestled with a couple of drunk Columbia University students at a subway stop on 125th Street. And as a detective second class, he had fallen down a flight of stairs in a tenement building after a fight broke out over some guy who he and his partner were trying to serve a warrant on. Not to mention the little scuffle the other day in Cincinnati.

But he had never been in a position like this, the wet-pants option, facing down somebody holding a piece on him. Never.

He tried to catch his breath. ‘Adrianna…’

She took another step toward him. ‘You know those movies where the criminal spends fifteen minutes explaining to a cop why he or she is doing what they’re doing? This isn’t one of those movies. But I’ll tell you this: my name is Aliyah Fulenz, I am an Iraqi Christian woman, and in a few short hours I will destroy your nation.’

Brian had opened his mouth to say something when there were flashes of light, something struck his chest twice with the force of a telephone pole swinging at him, and there was darkness and then nothing.

~ * ~