= Mission: Safe House
  by Art Montague

Arizona teems with gated retirement communities. To a casual passerby nothing special distinguishes one from another. On the outside they look the same: manned gatehouse, high hedges sometimes camouflaging a chain link perimeter fence, a sign proclaiming the tasteful Elysian name of the development. On the inside they look the same: blocks of neat bungalows, small yards and patios, strip mall, community center, country club, medical center.

About fifteen miles outside of Phoenix, off I-17, there's one that's a little different. The security at the gatehouse includes automatic weapons. Around the perimeter are two chain link fences about eight feet apart. Security guards patrol between the fences during daylight and after dark attack Dobermans roam. There are no search lights, but night vision surveillance cameras feed a manned monitoring station inside the community. Other security features abound, but these are unobtrusive.

This is not a prison. The additional security was a big plus when the developers were selling and leasing the houses. Governments all over the world bought into the ideal retirement community for aged mid-level spies and defectors, the ones who needed their pensions to get along. Here secrets held in long memories could be protected, skeletons could be closeted and collected in one cost efficient location rather than scattered to the far corners.

Surprisingly, the former career enemies got along well with each other. Even those who had been involved in wet work fit in, forgiven, for indeed, they had only been satisfying the demands of their masters and, in the bargain, trying to stay alive themselves. The latter especially applied to some of the old KGB hands for whom purges had been part of the daily round.

This is not to say all habits and loyalties were abandoned. A few of the Brits still wore bowlers and carried furled umbrellas. They still sipped gin and held high tea in the afternoon, drove Austins and minis, and dreamed of Empire. The Mossad people were as pushy as ever. Trabants were parked in the carports of some of the East Germans and, as would be expected, they were outnumbered by Russian Ladas. Of course, Chevies ruled the roads. After all, an enterprising retired CIA cipher specialist had conceived the development.

But now into this idyllic, elitist setting came a threat. Washington bean counters decided to cut costs of the federal Witness Protection Program. Applying the same budget and security efficiencies that had worked so well for the spies, the feds began placing their Witnesses in the spies' community.

The spies were less than welcoming. In their view, to be a career spy is one thing; to be a career lowlife gangster was quite another. To the spies the distinction was between careers dedicated to God and country and those dedicated solely to greed.

Being former career bureaucrats, however, the spies knew better than to complain to the development's management.

"That gets us nothing," said Reg Dafoe over his gin and tonic one afternoon, "except a flag in one's file to the effect one is a complainer."

Dafoe, a former Brit disinformation officer who'd worked the Chinese desk for nearly twenty years, was already flagged as a chronic complainer and (as one might expect) an inveterate rumor-monger. Nor had retirement dulled his imagination. He'd been discussing the issue of the newcomers with Peter Croft, a Brit field operative who'd directed watcher teams in Northern Ireland.

"Some of these people actually have school age children," Peter offered, "and we know from experience the children can be as ruthlessly vicious as their parents. We learned that in Belfast."

"And in the Gaza," said solemn Ephraim Asper.

"Quite so," Dafoe agreed. "Did you hear that that newcomer Luigi Luchese has proposed converting the shuffleboard area to a bocce court?"

"The cricket pitch has already been turned into a baseball field for little leaguers, and I hear the lawn bowling and croquet areas are to be converted to putting greens and miniature golf," said Peter. "Personally, I can tolerate that because I rather like miniature golf but I'd find having to queue behind rowdy children off-putting, to say the least."

"Shame! You don't say!" chimed Brit Sarah Smithers. She was just coming up for air from her fourth gin, catching a bit of the conversation but mostly looking about for her fifth. Her trivial excess was permissible now, for she was no longer the personal secretary to a GRU counterintelligence general in Petersburg. She could shed some of her career primness and sense of propriety, let her hair down a little, so to speak, but her language still seemed to be anchored in her past work. Everyone knew six gins would be her limit, but by then it would be tea time.

Peter Croft asked, "What do our cousins think of this development?"

Dafoe answered, "Cameron Kennedy sees it as our obligation to go along with the program. He says to do otherwise would be inhumane and un-American."

"Liberal snot!" said Sarah. "Takes gangsterism for granted."

"Now, now, Sarah. That's a generality," chided Dafoe. "Cam's view is quite isolated. Most of the cousins are genuinely indignant."

Sarah wouldn't shut up. "I think the cousins were forewarned. That's why most of them moved out to the periphery. Left us ghettoized in the core with these criminals. There's talk of a day care centre on my block. Soon there'll be baseballs coming through my picture window and crack vials all over my front lawn."

"Certainly the situation bears watching," suggested Peter.

The Stasi retirees were not so content to simply watch or idly discuss their community's problem. They took the view that talking things to death was neither as quick nor as final as the direct alternative. They were as much for a purge as Yevgeny Godspokin and Sergei Dipkovich, both former KGB operatives with long experience in the cellars at Lubyanka.

It was Bella Rostov's unfortunate experience in the drug store that convinced the retirees something had to be done. Bella was much cherished and respected by her fellows. For many years she had serviced dead drops around the world for the Mossad -- London, Washington, Bierut, Bagdad, Cairo, Berlin; name a city and Bella had memories. Her war stories during coffee klatches or bridge games included some almost legendary escapes. The Czech, Boris Ploesak, who'd needed a pin in his hip after trying to capture her in '74, esteemed her most highly when he told his war stories.

Fallen arches had eventually forced her retirement -- she could no longer run, if need be, and even walking was excruciatingly painful, as she was quick to tell anyone who showed remotest interest. Passersby learned to say only "hello" or "good day," never, "how are you today?"

Apart from her arches Bella was fit, not just for eighty-one, but even for a thirty-five year old. She still worked out at the community fitness centre, had seventeen-inch biceps, and bench-pressed 225 pounds. Decades of martial arts training had also provided her remarkably fast, remarkably deadly conditioned reflexes. Despite her innocuous old house dress and shabby cloth coat, she was not to be trifled with.

On that day, however, she was. Bella was in the drug store to pick up some Tylenol. Her arches were paining her horrendously and Tylenol, she'd found, took the edge off. The line at the cash register was longer than usual. Only one register was open -- another cost cutting measure. An oaf of middle years, a former mob muscle from Newark, jumped the line in front of Bella.

To her credit, she did point this out to him and ask that he go to the end of the line. Not only did he refuse, he suggested she do a specific rudeness to herself. Rather than even attempt it, Bella laid a karate chop across the back of his thick neck. He was dead before he hit the floor.

Two retired Egyptian intelligence agents, who knew Bella well, hustled her out the back door to safety. The other retirees in the line nonchalantly paid for their purchases and exited. Later at the club Bella's scornful parting comment was shared by everyone.

"In a civil society," she'd said, "people should be treated with civility."

Overall, reaction in the community was mixed, depending somewhat on professional backgrounds. The Brits were approving. The Mossad people were pleased that one of theirs had kept up her training. The eastern bloc retirees recognized the action as the only one possible given the circumstances, but they said that about most circumstances.

The reaction of the Witnesses was fear. They knew only that one of their own had been whacked in broad daylight. Paranoia reigned, and for a time they "went to the mattresses," venturing out only in convoys to shop for groceries and complain to the management about lack of protection. One convoy travelled to Phoenix and purchased guns.

Bella's act had signalled the end of patience. Everyone had been patient while the Witnesses took over the small businesses in the strip mall. They had been patient when they took over the garbage collection contract and, later, the common areas landscaping contract. Just to ensure everyone appreciated the gravity of the situation, the disinformation specialist Reg Dafoe started the rumor that the Meals On Wheels and home care services were going to be privatized, with the bidding system already rigged to let the contracts to the Witnesses for higher fees and poorer services. It'd already happened with the garbage and grass cutting. Disposable portions of fixed incomes were being sucked away. A case in point: Sarah Smithers was now having trouble covering her monthly bill from the liquor store.

Every faction of the retirement community had a plan, most of them culminating in violence.

"So what if the murder rate skyrockets for a year?" asked an ex-CIA man so old he'd gotten his career start in the OSS. "When it drops to zero next year, the stats people will call it an aberration, just a bump on the graph, then it'll be forgotten."

Another suggested they start a Welcome Wagon service that plastered the newcomers' faces in the community weekly newsletter and on their community cable channel. The publicity would blow their cover.

"They've all had plastic surgery. No one would recognize them." That comment -- from a KGB defector knowledgeable about such things -- scotched the idea.

In a concerted move, every Witness residence was bugged, as were their hangouts like the pizzeria, video rental store and, of course, the topless bar, a new addition to make the Witnesses feel at home. Parabolic microphones were installed around and about the community, disguised as TV satellite dishes. Whether scheming in smoky back rooms, parking lots or playing fields, the Witnesses were covered.

"What do we do with the information?" asked the retired CIA electronics whiz who'd set up the systems.

"This is need to know. Just gather the information and others will analyze and decide," said a GRU retiree who had spent a career maintaining his own deniability.

Still, there were those who took matters into their own hands -- Lucas Mellon, for example. When Lucas set out for some trout fishing in the mountains, he had two Witnesses trussed up and drugged insensible in the back of his RV. Lucas had been a CIA interrogation specialist Grade II. He knew drugs. When he came back he had some trout fillets for his neighbors but his companions ne'er were seen. Rumor had it they went off an escarp in the mountains.

The CIA people had come through magnificently once they'd conceded the threat to the overall community. The Brits and Mossad people pitched in, using their watcher skills to gather fingerprints of every Witness. The CIA people cashed some favors and got them identified. It remained then for a Cuban defector to call one Lippo Giorgio, a past helpmate to the Cuban and made man with the Chicago mob, and pass along the names and addresses.

It was winter when Lippo came to visit his Cuban friend. Indeed, who would not like to visit warm Arizona when the Arctic gales from the frozen reaches of Canada are blowing in off Lake Michigan? Though a houseguest of the Cuban, Lippo was brought in "over the Wall", so to speak That action was as nothing to the resident veterans of the real Wall. Some of them had been involved in the design of the real Wall.

Lippo had a long list but only managed five before he was inadvertently blown by an old associate from Chicago who walked up to him at the fitness club with the big glad hand and the greeting, "Lippo, long time. I never figured you for a rat!" Lippo shot him dead on the spot.

Big time panic was now the order of the day. Ironically, the Witnesses discounted the retirees as they cast about for villains. "The geezers? Forget it!" Doubtless, this discounting was due to the failure of the Witness Protection Program's managers to describe to the Witnesses the composition of the community into which they had been moved. Given the attitudes of the younger set, the information wouldn't have cut any ice anyway.

Some Witnesses suggested there might be a rat in their group. That was met with stout denials all round, but the possibility now niggled in the back of everyone's minds. The Witnesses decided to refuse to continue providing incriminating evidence.

"We are vulnerable," they said. "You've set us up," they said.

The feds responded with, "No testimony, no protection -- even as porous as it was." Stalemate.

The feds were not stupid. They had no illusions about the source of the problem. Quietly, younger men and women in suits visited each and every retiree, usually before noon when Witnesses sleep.

Retirees were told flatly, "No more nonsense!" Obeisance to the command was expected, for that is the nature of loyalty to God and country. This time the old folks weren't buying. As far as they were concerned, they had already done their service and discharged their loyalties.

Even Cam Kennedy, Mister Peaceful Co-existence when the Witness invasion started, had changed his tune. "Let's get the bastards out of here, one way or the other," was his new litany.

No question, some of the retirees welcomed the activity, but others were nervous about the command from on high. Reg Dafoe was among the welcomers, partly because he had made some extra income playing poker in an after-hours Phoenix cardroom. He put forward a proposal during an afternoon bridge game on Sarah's backyard patio. The racket from children romping unsupervised in the next door yard helped along his power to persuade.

"If we appear to be causing difficulty, our pension checks will be mysteriously delayed, doctors assigned to tend us will suddenly be over-booked into the next decade, our Meals on Wheels will arrive cold or be laced with tranquilizers. Oh, they'll be subtle, but they'll make their point and wear us down. We know better than anyone how it's done.

"We need to inspire these people to leave on their own and, that being unlikely, we must help them to inspire each other."

Reg's bridge partner, east to his west, Hans Guenther Fraubel, also a disinformation specialist, replied, "An evangelist could not inspire them to leave. They're too frightened."

"Nor could we initiate an action because we are now being watched," added Sarah.

"They are uncivil and they are rats," spat Bella Rostov. Usually she was Hans Guenther's bridge partner. They were also partners in other ways. Hans Guenther was a certified reflexologist and massaged Bella's feet every night. Sometimes in the morning too.

"Point taken," said Reg. "And what do rats do when they are penned and panicky?" He didn't wait for a reply before answering his own question. "They attack each other."

The bridge game continued for another hour and a half -- a cover, in case watchers were about. Significantly, no one kept score, and so rapt were the players that Sarah had a seventh gin without showing ill effects.

None of the events that followed over the next three months could be said to have anything to do with the retirees.

First, Maria Musante and her two children fled the community after her husband found photos of her en flagrante with her lover, a former Las Vegas casino accountant. The husband had to be satisfied with shooting the lover, whose pals promptly retaliated by shooting the husband and a couple of his cronies. No one thought to ask the source of the photos.

Other wives and lovers, husbands and lovers also found themselves with difficulties. The resolution of infidelities with weapons of domestic destruction became commonplace. The feds swept in, confiscated the weapons, and admonished surviving Witnesses to desist lecherous pursuits.

Then the holder of the lucrative garbage collection contract was advised that another topless club would be a welcome community addition. On the eve of the new club's opening, the original club was torched and it was revealed that Fred McNally, a known associate of the garbage magnate, was actually Flaming Frankie Feducci, an arson-for-hire specialist from the old LA mob. The information came to the first club owner in the form of a tape in which Flaming Frankie admitted his former profession and ties.

Internecine violence gripped the Witness section of the community. Rats ratted. When they had no facts they made them up. Fewer folks under sixty were seen on the streets. The number of slowly cruising black sedans with tinted windows increased, but when a Claymore blew up in the back seat of one of them, they disappeared. The feds did not look outside their population of Witnesses to find the probable perpetrator because four of the Witnesses had demonstrated prior expertise. Moreover, they were supremely confident they had already cowed the oldsters into non-action.

Because everyone had agreed to let things take their natural course, Sergei Dipkovich was chastised for his direct action.

"You're not in Afghanistan now, Sergei. You want we should put you on a plane to Kabul?" Bella had a temper.

"I wanted to move things along a little quicker," replied Sergei, defensively. "We all knew we might be at risk if these fools started carrying out drive-by shootings. They have no skill with weapons." The pros conceded his points, and went back to retouching photos and doctoring tapes.

Came the day when Bobby Lee Gordon, twenty-eight year veteran of a CIA military strength assessment group, circulated information that only nine Witnesses remained in their community. Significantly, the nine were well into their golden years. They kept to themselves, having nothing but age in common with their fellow citizens. They tended their gardens, sunned on their patios, and played their televisions and stereos at low volume. They did not talk to each other, regarding everyone else as a potential rat. They were left in peace.

The newest topless bar had filed under Chapter Eleven and was as good as gone. The garbage and landscaping fees had been reduced to their former level, and no one had mentioned bocce for nearly a month.

Calling on influences from the agencies which provided their pensions, residents persuaded the feds to change their Witness placement policy and once more scatter their rats to the far corners, none of those corners to be inside their perimeter fences. The feds were given to understand, fully and finally, that the community's residents were always to have the power to evict undesirables. This was, after all, a civil society, and a democracy to boot.

A writer in his twenties for trade journals and newspapers, Canadian ART MONTAGUE (www.artmontague.com) detoured in his thirties and spent more than twenty years working in community development and social services. At the start of the Millennium, he resumed a full-time writing career. Besides technical writing and light essays, Montague writes crime and mystery fiction which is sometimes dark, sometimes funny. He wrote "Suburban Renewal" for our fifth issue, "The Living Will of Rupert Ames" for our eighteenth issue, and "Rendezvous in Swift Rapids" for our twenty-fourth issue.

Copyright (c) 2002 Art Montague