Final Winter

Back to the floor and to her purse, from which she took out a thin leather wallet. She returned to her handcuffed man on the bed — noticing right away the stench now rising up from him, wondering how automatic that was, the body reacting to being put in unavoidable danger — and straddled him again. She was conscious that she was naked, save for the pink-thong panties, but she didn’t really care.

Adrianna held up the leather wallet, flipped it open. ‘See the photo? Not a bad likeness, is it?’

‘Noo…nooo, it’s not.’

‘See what it says?’

‘It says… Adrianna Scott — and, Jesus Christ, you’re a fucking CIA agent! What the hell is this?’

The knife point went back to his chin. He winced and she said coldly, ‘For someone who can walk and breathe at the same time you’re pretty stupid, Henry. We’re not CIA agents. We’re CIA officers. Got it?’

He moaned again. ‘Please… what the fuck do you want? Huh? What the fuck do you want?’

Adrianna leaned into him again. ‘I want you to tell me a story. A story about killing Iraqis. Tell me a story. That’s all. Is that so hard?’

Henry closed his eyes. Another bead of blood appeared in the bristles of his beard. His chest moved rapidly, up and down, underneath her splayed legs. He said, ‘A story… that’s all? A story?’

‘Sure,’ she said. ‘And to be fair, I’ll tell you a story in return, all right?’

Eyes clenched shut, Henry said, ‘Our tank was called Killer Kobra. Part of K Company. All tanks had names beginning with the letter of their company. We… we… set off at 0300 hours, H-Day, the day we made our swing out east, heading up into Iraq. The classic left-hand hook. It was flat, rocky land. Great terrain for tanks. Lots of room to maneuver… we’ll probably never have an advantage like that, ever again. We were about twenty klicks north of the border, when we had our first contact… three Soviet-era BMPs, personnel carriers—’

Another jab of the knife. ‘I know what BMPs are, you fool. Go on.’

‘Then…then we saw a T-72, coming up over a sand dune. The poor son of a bitch probably didn’t even know we were there… Bruce, our tank commander, called for a Sabot round… I pulled it up, chambered it… boom!… goddamn thing, we could see the turret spin up… those T-72s were goddamned deathtraps, they were… we motored up and a few minutes later, we slowed down as we went past it… no reason ‘cept none of us had ever seen anything like that, in a real war…’

Adrianna said, ‘What did it look like?’

Henry’s eyes flashed defiance. ‘What the hell do you think? The tank was still burning when we got there… and there were a couple of crispy critters, hanging over the side -didn’t even fucking look like humans… but you know what? They were the enemy — that’s what — we had to do what we had to do… so… anything else?’

She shook her head, feeling her breathing quicken. ‘No… no, I don’t think so, Henry. I think it’s my turn, I do…’

She shifted her weight, felt sweat trickle down her naked back. ‘Before I start, I need to ask you a question. Have you ever heard of Amiriyah?’

‘Amir what?’

‘Amiriyah. It was a bomb shelter for civilians, in a nice neighborhood in western Baghdad. You never heard of it?’

A shake of the head, a clatter of the handcuffs.

Adrianna took the knife, gently moved it across Henry’s right cheek. ‘I don’t doubt it. Why bother? It was just an unfortunate part of the first Gulf War. Everybody remembers Kuwait and the Highway of Death and Stormin’ Norman Schwarzkopf and the yellow ribbons and the victory parades after the war. Right? Pretty parades in pretty towns, flags and cheering. I bet you went to a parade like that, Henry, right? A nice parade, nothing like those poor Iraqi boys got when their war was over. Most of the Iraqis killed were just poor ignorant farm-boys, many with their first pairs of shoes, and they ended up burned or blown to pieces or turned into dust by you and your weapons.’

Her breathing was really quick now, and she went on, the words tumbling past each other.

‘But let’s get back to Amiriyah, shall we? It was a bomb shelter that was used by hundreds of civilians every night, when the air-raid sirens howled in the air. Ever hear an air-raid siren, Henry? It makes a wailing noise that cuts right through you, turns your guts into water, as you wait for the bombs or missiles to strike. But the civilians who got into Amiriyah, they thought they were safe. It was a bomb shelter. Everyone knew the Americans had smart weapons. Everyone knew they would be safe if they got inside Amiriyah.’