Final Winter

Now there was a line of traffic forming up before them, as Vladimir Zhukov and Imad drove south to the American border. They had left the Port of Vancouver with their cargo, and while Imad wanted to chat about what mighty blows the two of them were preparing against the infidel oppressor -blah, blah, blah — Vladimir was more concerned about what was ahead of them. Back again on Canadian Route 99, Vladimir was under no illusions of what they were about to face, for the Americans were finally beginning to tighten up their long border with their dull Canadian neighbors, years after that glorious Tuesday morning in September.

At his side was the long leather wallet that held his identification, Imad’s identification, the papers from the Port of Vancouver, and the bills of lading for what they were supposedly carrying back there in the shipping container. According to all the paperwork — which had originated from Shanghai, China — there was nothing back in the trailer but a collection of children’s toys, from dolls to footballs. Which was true, for about the first six feet’s worth of packaging. Once you got past those brightly colored boxes, other items began to appear, specially constructed canisters of metal and plastic, packed in foam and securely fastened, for not one of the canisters could have been put in place with a risk of breakage or rupture, since an accident like that would have quickly killed everyone on the container ship, and the crew of any curious vessel coming by to see why things were amiss on a ship manned by corpses.

Vladimir folded his arms. So far it had gone well. From that shit-hole of a tribal state that dared to call itself a nation, to a number of other hotels and hostels and way stations on the route across Asia and Siberia, his hidden contact out there had pried, prompted, promised, and, of course, had paid him. He had no idea if his contact was a man, a woman, a committee, part of some group or some nation. All he knew was that the contact knew a lot about him, and knew just how to interest him enough to get him to do what he was doing.

It had worked out fine, so far, and Vladimir’s Cayman Islands account had grown fat indeed. But late at night, in the quiet stillness when he opened his eyes and stared out into the darkness, he liked to think that of course it was more than just the money, more than grabbing his chunk of the capitalist system that was strangling the globe. He saw it as a perfect revenge, a perfect dish served so very cold. A time that—

Imad said, ‘We’re getting close.’

‘I see,’ he said.

Up ahead there was an exit for COMMERCIAL TRAFFIC, which he and Imad and this truck certainly were.

Imad looked over at him, licked his lips. Vladimir smiled. ‘Nervous, boy?’

‘Don’t call me boy!’

‘Very well — nervous, child?’

Imad’s face was tense, his lips trembling, as he downshifted the big truck, easing into the Customs lane. Ahead were a number of other tractor-trailer and container trucks, pulling over for inspection, and Imad said, ‘Watch your fucking mouth, Russian. I don’t take that from anyone.’

Vladimir said, ‘Watch your own fucking mouth, Arab, because we want these Customs people to see two ordinary truckers, entering their ordinary country, not knowing that we’re going to slaughter millions of their ordinary people in just a few days. Understand, child?’

Imad said nothing, braking the truck, the air brakes sounding like the howls of some Siberian creature out there on the taiga. Vladimir smiled, couldn’t help himself. It was fun, needling the little shit. Needed to be put in his place. But he had to watch it, he knew: there were many more kilometers left ahead of them.

~ * ~

In Memphis, they were in Overton Park, about five miles away from her home, and Carrie Floyd watched as her daughter Susan flew a kite, her chubby legs pistoning back and forth as she giggled while the little piece of plastic fabric and string struggled to get up into the sky. Next to Carrie was a light blue blanket, the remains of a picnic lunch and one satiated and somewhat groggy Sean Callaghan, her co-pilot and companion. He was dozing, his head in her lap, and she almost had a fit of giggles at what to call him. She was really too old to be calling him a boyfriend, and ‘companion’ was a term that belonged to those members of the gay community — not that there was anything wrong with that, of course (which almost caused her to burst into laughter again), and ‘significant other’ seemed too cold and sterile. Sean was many things, but cold was not one of them, and she was sure — though she had no evidence — that sterility wasn’t an issue either.

This time, the giggles burst through, and Sean opened his eyes, smiled up at her. ‘Did I say something funny in my sleep?’

Carrie touched his forehead, smoothed aside some of his hair. ‘No, you didn’t.’

‘Didn’t burp or pass gas?’

‘Nope.’

The smile grew wider. ‘Then I must be as damn near perfect a man as you’ll ever see.’