One of the men, Owen, sensed that I wasn’t paying close attention and asked me, “What do you think, John? Why does this administration want to go to war with a country that hasn’t done us any harm?”
The question seemed slightly loaded, like the questions I ask of suspects, such as, “When did you stop beating your wife and start working for Al Qaeda?”
I replied to Owen, truthfully, “I think we can avoid a war by taking out Saddam and his psychopathic sons with a sniper team or a few cruise missiles.”
There was a momentary silence, then one of the men, Mark, said, “So… you’re not in favor of war… but you think we should kill Saddam Hussein?”
“That’s how I’d do it. We should save the wars for when we need them.”
One of the women, Mia, asked rhetorically, I think, “Do we ever need war?”
I asked her, “What would you have done after the World Trade Center and the Pentagon were attacked? Send the Dixie Chicks to Afghanistan on a peace tour?”
Kate said, “John likes to make provocative statements.”
I thought I’d shut down the conversation, which was fine with me, but Mark seemed interested in me. “What line of work are you in, John?”
I usually tell people I’m a termite inspector, but I decided to cut through the bullshit, and I replied, “I’m a Federal agent with the Anti-Terrorist Task Force.”
After a second of silence, Mark asked, “Really?”
“Really. And Kate is an FBI special agent.”
Kate said, “We work together.”
One of the ladies, Alison, remarked, “How interesting.”
The third guy, Jason, asked me, “Do you think the threat level-we’re up to Orange-is that real, or is it being manipulated for political reasons?”
“Gee, I don’t know, Jason. What does it say in the Times?”
He persisted, “How real is the threat today?”
Kate replied, “The threat of terrorism in America is very real. However, without giving away any classified information, I can say that we have no specific information about an imminent attack.”
“Then why,” asked Jason, “are we in condition Orange, which means high risk of terrorist attack?”
Kate answered, “This is just a precaution because of the one-year anniversary of 9/11.”
“That’s past,” said Mark. “I think this is just a way of keeping the country in a state of fear so the administration can push its domestic security agenda, which is really a crackdown on civil liberties.” He looked at me and asked, “Would you agree with that, John?”
“Absolutely. In fact, Mark, Special Agent Mayfield and I are out here to report on anti-government subversives, and I need to warn you that anything you say may be held against you in a military tribunal.”
Mark managed a weak smile.
Alison said to me, “I think you’re being provocative again.”
“It must be my aftershave lotion.”
Alison actually giggled. I think she liked me. Also, I strongly suspected she was the Friday-night screamer.
The third woman, Pam, asked both of us, “Have you ever arrested a terrorist?”
It seemed like a normal question, but by Pam’s tone of voice, and the general context, it could be taken in another way, which is how Kate took it.
Kate responded, “If you mean an Islamic terrorist, no, but-” She stood and hiked up her pullover, exposing a long, white scar that began under her left rib cage and continued down to the top of her butt. She said, “A Libyan gentleman named Asad Khalil got me with a sniper rifle. He got John, too.”
My scar was along my right hip, and short of dropping my shorts, I didn’t see how I was going to show this in mixed company.
Kate pulled down her sweater and said, “So, no, I never arrested a terrorist, but I was shot by one. And I was at the Twin Towers when they were hit.”
The room got a little quiet, and I thought maybe everyone was waiting to see my scar. I did have the three bullet holes from the Hispanic gentlemen that ended my NYPD career. Two holes were indecently located, but I had one in my chest that I could say was from the Libyan, because I really wanted to unbutton my shirt to show Alison my wound.
“John?”
“Huh?”
“I said, I’m ready to go.”
“I smell sausage cooking.”
“I want to get an early start.”
“Right.” I stood and said to everyone, “We’re off to Plum Island. You know, the biological warfare research lab. There’s, like, eight liters of anthrax missing, and we have to try to figure out where it went.” I added, “That could be nasty if a crop duster sprays it over the vineyards, or-” I coughed twice and said, “Excuse me. So, have a nice day.”
We left the quaint house and walked to my Jeep.
Kate said, “You’re not supposed to say things like that.”
“What?”
“You know what.” She laughed, which she wouldn’t have done before 9/11 or six months after. Now, as I said, she was a different woman, and she’d loosened up a lot and finally appreciated my rapier wit and sophisticated humor. She noted, “You are so fucking immature.”
That wasn’t exactly what I was thinking. We both got into the Jeep, and off we went.
She spoke in a deep bass voice, which I guess was an imitation of me. “There’s, like, eight liters of anthrax missing.”
“Do you have a cold?”
She continued, “That could be nasty if a crop duster sprays it over the vineyards.” She coughed twice. “Excuse me. I think I have anthrax.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Where do you get this stuff?”
“I don’t know. It just pops into my head.”
“Scary.”
“Anthrax is very scary.”
“I mean, your head.”
“Right. So, where to?” I asked.
“I know a great antique store in Southold.”
“Let’s go to church. It’s cheaper.”
“Southold. Make a left here.”
So, we spent Sunday morning antiquing. I’m not a huge fan of antiques, which I think are mostly verminous chunks of rotten wood and unsanitary scraps of germ-infested fabric. I’d take my chances with anthrax before antiques.
Needless to say, we didn’t buy anything. In fact, Kate commented, “Why do I need to buy an antique? I’m married to one.”
We had lunch in a diner where I finally got my bagel, plus the sausages and eggs I’d missed at breakfast.
After lunch, we hit a few more wineries, where we picked up a dozen bottles of wine that we could have bought in Manhattan for the same price, and then we stopped at a farm stand.
We rarely eat at home-she can’t cook and neither can I, and I don’t eat fruit or vegetables-but we bought a ton of this stuff with leaves and dirt on it, plus a fifty-pound bag of Long Island potatoes. I asked, “What are we going to do with all this crap?”
“You run over a deer, and I’ll make hunter’s stew.”
That was actually funny. Why didn’t I think of it?
We collected our belongings from the B amp;B, settled the bill, and started back to the city.
She asked me, “Did you have a good weekend?”
“I did. Except for breakfast.”
“You need to talk to people with opposing views.”
“I do. I’m married.”
“Very funny.” She asked, “Why don’t we go upstate next weekend?”
“Good idea.” Which reminded me to ask her, “What do you know about the Custer Hill Club? I didn’t buy your last response.”
She considered the question and the statement, then replied, “I know that you almost spent this weekend there.”
“Meaning what?”
“Well… Tom Walsh asked me if I’d have an objection to him sending you there on a surveillance.”
“Really? And you said?”
“I said, yes, I would object.” She asked me, “How did you know about the Custer Hill Club?”