*1*
Janesville, Wisconsin, February 14th
1999
Through
the cold of snow, lies blood, despair, and tears
.
The noon delight almost deprived from
its shiny aperture. Flakes of thin snow spun low to ground level, white, as innocent
as a newborn baby. Winter blew haunting winds of bitterness to people with deep
sorrow of loss, courtesy of the Central American sub-zero. Even the freshening forests
and gardens of Janesville turned to a slippery layer of ice, providing a free slipping
arena to anyone who had guts to do so. Trees became dead dowels, and city lights
stood as symbol of boldness to chilling oppression. People went in and out
between buildings, misty air coming out through their nose with weary eyes and
tight cheeks after a long-day struggle with their jobs.
A twelve-year old boy strolled along on
the silvery lines of Monterey Park. He sat on a wet pine bench under a spruce
tree, trying to observe his surroundings with his brown eyes. He tuned a pocket
radio tuner in his large left hand as he held a closed plastic teacup in his
right. The noise on the ear buds was fixed to a local Janesville AM station,
playing an Alison Krauss’ song. He seemed to be waiting for someone to pick up
to go home. His teeth rattled slightly as strong icy wind flew through his head,
his brownish light skin turned slightly pale to adjust with the temperature. He
put back the radio to his pocket, and started to drink the warm tea in the cup.
He set his sight on a particular Russian
group, who approached him in a coldly manner from their car across the park. After
three sips on his tea, he closed his cup and put it down to the bench and the
ear buds to his neck, sharpening his senses to any incoming signs of trouble.
“What
are you doing?” One of the men said in a light Russian accent, long vapor came
out from his nose as he approached the boy.
“Waiting for all of you,” the boy spoke,
his tone heavier than the typical 12-year-old. “We made a deal.”
“This ain’t boy scout thing, Nizar,
don’t look at us like you’re gonna go on a spree,” the second man said, his
eyes did not give attention to him, “but whatever. Let’s go.”
Nizar followed the four men to their
car. His sight showed his sour determination, as he was no stranger to them
because he had worked with them for three months as an errand boy. He sat on
the backseat of the Volkwagen Passat with the other two, the second Russian man
talking to him as the driver and the first, a tall, imposing man, as the
navigator. The engine roared in forte as the car passed through the blank,
black sheet music of a road of suburban Wisconsin.
“Kyril, have you called Alex?” the
driver opened conversation after a brief silence, “I need him to send me his
powder samples.”
The navigator responded in a monotone, “No
need, Emil. He’ll come to the place today,” he looked to the back seat, “Vasily,
Stefan, Viktor will need us to move the items to the rendezvous point.”
Vasily and Stefan nodded in agreement,
knowing what they should do next. Nizar observed them with cautious eyes before
asking, “I’ve been doing this shit with you in the last three months. Errand
boy, informant, almost all of the ground work. I have a question: how did you
gentlemen end up here in Janesville of all places?”
Emil said, “Viktor has set up temporary “agency”
here. To be frank, I have no idea why he chose Wisconsin instead of the greener
states like New York or Florida. We know it’s an intermediary, but it still
does not make any sense.”
Nizar became silent and went back to his
thoughts. The only thing he could think of for the moment was to find a way to
convince them to do something that he had been pleaded since the beginning. Kyril
and Emil had him swore in silence to not to report their activities. He needed a
plan, and he ran out of all of his already-prepared ones. He felt cold wind
sweeping from the small gap of the car window. Frontiersmen of the colonial era
like Daniel Boone tended to believe that cold winds are omen to bad news, and
seemed like Nizar knew that old myth.
*****
