Teeth of the Tiger

CHAPTER 5 ALLIANCES

Mohammed took the first Avianca flight to Mexico City and there he waited for British Airways Flight 242 to London. He felt safe in airports, where everything was anonymous. He had to be careful of the food, since Mexico was a nation of unbelievers, but the first-class lounge protected him from their cultural barbarism, and the many armed police officers ensured that people rather like himself did not crash the party, such as it was. So, he picked a corner seat away from windows and read a book he'd picked up in one of the shops and managed not to be bored to death. He never read the Koran in such a place, of course, nor anything about the Middle East, lest someone ask him a question. No, he had to live his cover "legend" as well as any professional intelligence officer, so that he did not come to an end as abrupt as the Jew Greengold in Rome. Mohammed even used the bathroom facilities carefully, in case someone tried the same trick on him.

He didn't even make use of his laptop computer, though there was ample opportunity to do so. Better, he judged, to sit still like a lump. In twenty-four hours he'd be back on the European mainland. It hit him that he lived in the air more than anywhere else. He had no home, just a series of safe houses, which were places of dubious reliability. Saudi Arabia was closed to him, and had been for nearly five years. Afghanistan was similarly out-of-bounds. How strange that the only lands where he could feel something close to safe were the Christian countries of Europe, which Muslims had struggled and failed to conquer on more than one occasion. Those nations had a nearly suicidal openness to strangers, and one could disappear in their vastness with only modest skills — hardly any, in fact, if you had money. These people were so self-destructively open, so afraid to offend those who would just as soon see them and their children dead and their entire cultures destroyed. It was a pleasing vision, Mohammed thought, but he didn't live within dreams. Instead, he worked for them. This struggle would last longer than his lifetime. Sad, perhaps, but true. But it was better to serve a cause than one's own interests. There were enough of those in the world.

He wondered what his supposed allies from yesterday's meeting were saying and thinking. They were certainly not true allies. Oh, yes, they shared enemies, but that was not the summation of an alliance. They would — might — facilitate matters, but no more than that. Their men would not assist his men in any real endeavor. Throughout history, mercenaries had never been really effective soldiers. To fight effectively, you had to believe. Only a believer would risk his life, because only a believer had nothing to fear. Not with Allah Himself on his side. What was there to fear, then? Only one thing, he admitted to himself. Failure. Failure was not an option. The obstacles between him and success were things to be dealt with in any way that was convenient. Just things. Not people. Not souls. Mohammed fished a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it. In this sense, at least, Mexico was a civilized country, though he refused to speculate on what the Prophet would have said about tobacco.

"Easier in a car, isn't it, Enzo?" Brian teased his brother as they crossed the finish line. The three-mile run wasn't a big deal for the Marine, but for Dominic, who had just maxed out his PT test for the FBI, it had been a bit of a stretch.

"Look, turkey," Dominic gasped out, "I just have to run faster than my subjects."

"Afghanistan would've killed your ass." Brian was running backward now, the better to observe his struggling brother.

"Probably," Dominic admitted. "But Afghans don't rob banks in Alabama and New Jersey." Dominic had never in his life traded toughness to his brother, but clearly the Marines had made him maintain greater fitness than the FBI did. But how good was he with a pistol? At last it was over, and he walked back toward the plantation house.

"Do we pass?" Brian asked Alexander on the way in.

"Easy, both of you. This isn't Ranger School, guys. We don't expect you to try out for the Olympics team, but, out in the field, running away is a nice ability to have."

"At Quantico, Gunny Honey liked to say that," Brian agreed.

"Who?" Dominic asked.

"Nicholas Honey, Master Gunnery Sergeant, United States Marine Corps, and, yeah, he probably took a lot of razzing because of his name — but probably not from the same guy twice. He was one of the instructors at the Basic School. They also called him 'Nick the Prick,'" Brian said, grabbing a towel and tossing it to his brother. "He's one bad-ass Marine. But he said that running away is the one skill an infantryman needs."

"Did you?" Dominic asked.

"I've only seen combat once, and that was just for a couple of months. Mostly, we were looking down at mountain goats who had heart attacks from climbing those fucking hills."

"That bad, eh?"

"Worse." Alexander joined in. "But fighting wars is for kids, not sensible adults. You see, Agent Caruso, out in the weeds you also wear sixty-five pounds on your back."

"That must be fun," Dominic said to his brother, not without respect.

"Big time. Okay, Pete, what other pleasant things are on the plan of the day?"

"Get cleaned up first," Alexander advised. Now that he was certain that both were in reasonable physical shape — though he'd had little doubt of that, and it wasn't all that important anyway, despite what he'd said — they could look into the hard stuff. The important stuff.

"The buck is going to take a hit," Jack told his new boss.

"How bad?"

"Just a scratch. The Germans are going to short the dollar against the Euro, about five hundred million worth."

"Is that a big deal?" Sam Granger asked.

"You're asking me?" Jack responded.

"That's right. You have to have an opinion. It doesn't have to be correct, but it has to make some kind of sense."

Jack Ryan, Jr., handed over the intercepts. "This guy Dieter's talking with his French counterpart. He makes it sound like a routine transaction, but the translator says the tone of his voice has some nastiness to it. I speak a little German, but not well enough for that sort of nuance," the young Ryan told his boss. "I cannot say that I understand why the Germans and French would be in any sort of conspiracy against us."

"It suits current German interests to cozy up to the French. I do not see a long-term bilateral alliance of any sort, however. Fundamentally, the French are afraid of the Germans, and the Germans look down on the French. But the French have imperial ambitions — well, they always have. Look at their relations with America. Kind of like brother and sister, age twelve or so. They love each other, but they can't get along very well. Germany and France, that's similar but more complex. The French used to kick their ass, but then the Germans got organized and kicked the French ass. And both countries have long memories. That's the curse of Europe. There's a lot of contentious history over there, and they have trouble forgetting it."

"What does that have to do with this?" the young Ryan asked.

"Directly, nothing at all, but as background maybe the German banker wants to get close to this guy to make a future play. Maybe the Frenchman is letting him think he's getting close so that the French central bank can score points on Berlin. This is a funny game. You can't clobber your adversary too hard because then he won't play with you anymore, and, besides that, you don't go out of your way to make enemies. All in all, it's like a neighborhood poker game. If you do too well, then you make enemies, and it's a lot less fun to live there because nobody will come over to your house to play. If you're the dumbest at the table, the others will gang up on you in the nicest possible way and steal from you — not enough to hurt you but enough to tell themselves how smart they are. So what happens is that everyone plays a touch under his game, and it stays fairly friendly. Nobody over there is any farther than a general strike away from a major national liquidity crisis, and when that happens you need friends. I forgot to tell you, the central bankers regard everyone else on the continent as peasants. That can include the heads of the various governments."

"And us?"

"Americans? Oh, yeah. Meanly born, poorly educated — but exceedingly lucky — peasants."

"With big guns?" Little Jack asked.

"Yeah, peasants with guns always make the aristocracy nervous," Granger agreed, stifling a laugh. "They still have that class crap over there. They have trouble understanding how badly it holds them back in the marketplace, because the big shots rarely come up with a really new idea. But that's not our problem."

Oderint dum metuant, Jack thought. One of the few things he remembered from Latin. Supposedly the personal motto of the Emperor Gaius Caligula: Let them hate so long as they fear. Hadn't civilization advanced any further than that in the past two millennia?

"What is our problem?" he asked.

Granger shook his head. "I didn't mean it that way. They don't like us much — they never have liked us, really — but at the same time they can't live without us. Some of them are starting to think they can, after the death of the Soviet Union, but if they ever try reality will bite them on the ass hard enough to draw blood. Don't confuse the thoughts of the aristocracy with those of the people. That's the problem with them. They really do think that people follow their lead, but they don't. They follow their own wallets, and the average guy in the street will figure things out all by himself if he has enough time to think it through."

"So, The Campus just makes money off their fantasy world?"

"You got it. You know, I hate soap operas. Do you know why I hate them?" He got a blank look. "Jack, it's because they reflect reality so precisely. Real life, even at this level, is full of petty bullshit and egos. It isn't love that makes the world go 'round. It isn't even money. It's bullshit."

"Hey, I've heard cynicism in my time, but—"

"Granger cut him off with a raised hand. "Not cynicism. Human nature. The one thing that hasn't changed in ten thousand years of recorded history. I wonder if it ever will. Oh, sure, there's the good part of human nature, too: nobility, charity, self-sacrifice, even courage in some cases — and love. Love counts. It counts a lot. But along with it comes envy, covetousness, greed, all the seven deadly sins. Maybe Jesus knew what He was talking about, eh?"

"Is this philosophy or theology?" I thought this was supposed to be the intelligence business, the young Ryan thought.

"I turn fifty next week. Too soon old and too late smart. Some cowboy said that a hundred or so years ago." Granger smiled. "Problem is, you're too damned old when you realize it to be able to do anything about it."

"What would you do, start a new religion?"

Granger had himself a good laugh as he turned to refill his coffee cup from his personal Gevalia machine. "No, none of the bushes around my house burn. The trouble with thinking deep thoughts is that you still have to cut the grass, and put food on the table. And, in our case, protect our country."

"So, what do we do about this German thing?"

Granger gave the intercept another look and thought for a second. "Nothing, not right now, but we remember that Dieter has earned a point or two with Claude, which he may cash in on in six months or so. The Euro is still too new to see how it's going to play out. The French think that the financial leadership of Europe will slide to Paris. The Germans think it'll go to Berlin. In fact, it'll go to the country with the strongest economy, the most efficient workforce. That won't be France. They have pretty good engineers, but their population isn't as well organized as the Germans are. If I had to bet, I'd bet on Berlin."

"The French won't like that."

"That's a fact, Jack. That's a fact," Granger repeated. "What the hell. The French have nukes, and the Germans don't — for now, anyway."

"You serious?" the young Ryan demanded.

A smile. "No."

"They taught us some of that at Quantico," Dominic said. They were in a medium-sized shopping mall that catered to the college crowd due to the proximity of UVA.

"What did they say?" Brian asked.

"Don't stay in the same place relative to your subject. Try to alter your appearance — sunglasses, like that. Wigs if they're available. Reversible jackets. Don't stare at him, but don't turn away if he looks at you. It's a lot better if it's more than one agent on a target. One man can't track a trained adversary for very long without being made. A trained subject is hard to tail under the best of circumstances. That's why the big offices have the SSGs, Special Surveillance Groups. They're FBI employees, but they're not sworn, and they don't carry guns. Some guys call them the Baker Street Irregulars, as in Sherlock Holmes. They look like anything except a cop, street people — bums — workers in coveralls. They can be dirty. They can be pan-handlers. I met some at the New York Field Office once, they work OC and FCI — organized crime and foreign counterintelligence. They're pros, but they're the most unlikely-looking damn pros you ever want to meet."

"Hardworking people like that?" Brian asked his brother. "Surveillance, I mean."

"Never tried it myself, but from what I've heard, it takes a lot of manpower, like fifteen or twenty, to work one subject, plus cars, plus aircraft — and a really good bad guy can outfox us even then. The Russians especially. Those bastards are trained pretty well."

"So, what the hell are we supposed to do?" Captain Caruso asked.

"Just learn the basics," Alexander told them. "See the woman over there with the red sweater?"

"Long dark hair?" Brian asked.

"That's the one," Pete confirmed. "Determine what she buys, what sort of car she drives, and where she lives."

"Just the two of us?" Dominic demanded. "You're not asking much, are you?"

"Did I tell you this was easy work?" Alexander asked innocently. He handed over two radios. "The earpieces go in your ears, and the microphones clip to your collars. Range is about three kilometers. You both have your car keys." And with that he walked away, toward an Eddie Bauer store to buy himself a pair of shorts.

"Welcome to the shit, Enzo," Brian said.

"At least he gave us a mission brief."

"It was brief, all right."

Their subject had walked into an Ann Taylor store. They both headed down that way, each getting a large cup of coffee at the Starbucks as a jackleg disguise.

"Don't throw the cup away," Dominic told his brother.

"Why?" Brian asked.

"In case you gotta take a piss. The perversity of the world has a way of impinging on your carefully made plans in situations like this. That's a practical lesson from a class at the Academy."

Brian didn't comment, but it seemed sensible enough. One at a time they donned their radios and made sure they worked properly.

"Aldo to Enzo, over," Brian called on Channel 6.

"Enzo copies, bro. Let's switch off on visual surveillance, but we'll stay within sight of each other, okay?"

"Makes sense. Okay, I'll head toward the store."

"Ten-four. That's roger to you, bro." Dominic turned to see his brother draw off. Then he settled down to sipping his coffee and looking off the subject — never directly at her, but about 20 degrees to the side.

"What's she up to?" Aldo asked.

"Picking a blouse, looks like." The subject was thirty or so, with shoulder-length brown hair, fairly attractive, wearing a wedding band but no diamond, and a cheap gold-colored necklace probably purchased at Wal-Mart on the other side of the road. Peach-colored blouse/shirt. Pants rather than a skirt, black in color, black flat "sensible" shoes. Fairly large purse. Did not appear overly alert to her surroundings, which was good. She appeared to be alone. She finally settled on a blouse, white silk by the look of it, paid for it with a credit card, and walked out of Ann Taylor.

"Subject is moving, Aldo."

Seventy yards away, Brian's head perked up and turned directly toward his brother. "Talk to me, Enzo."

Dominic raised his coffee cup as though to take a drink. "Turning left, coming your way. You can take over in a minute or so."

"Ten-four, Enzo."

They'd parked their cars on opposite sides of the shopping mall. That turned out to be a good thing, as their subject turned right and headed for the door out to the parking lot.

"Aldo, get close enough to make her tag," Dominic ordered.

"What?"

"Read her tag number to me, and describe the car. I'm heading for my car."

"Okay, roger that, bro."

Dominic didn't run to his car, but he walked as fast as circumstances allowed. He got in, started the engine, and lowered all his windows.

"Enzo to Aldo, over."

"Okay, she's driving a dark green Volvo station wagon, Virginia tag Whiskey Kilo Romeo Six One Niner. Alone in the car, starting up, turning north. I'm on the way to my wheels."

"Roger that. Enzo is in pursuit." He got around the Sears department store that anchored the east end of the mall as quickly as traffic allowed, and reached in his coat pocket for his cell phone. And called information to get the number of the Charlottesville FBI office, which the phone company dialed for him for an additional charge of fifty cents. "Heads up, this is Special Agent Dominic Caruso. My creed-o number is one six five eight two one. I need a tag number run, right now, Whiskey Kilo Romeo Six One Niner."

Whoever was on the other end of the phone typed his credentials number into a computer and verified Dominic's identity.

"What are you doing this far from Birmingham, Mr. Caruso?"

"No time for that. Please run the tag."

"Roger, okay, it's a Volvo, green in color, a year old, registered to Edward and Michelle Peters, at Six Riding Hood Court, Charlottesville. That's just inside the city line on the west side of town. Anything else? Do you need backup?"

"Negative. Thank you, I can handle it from here. Caruso out." He killed his cell phone and relayed the address to his brother over the radio. Both then did the same thing, and entered the address into their navigation computers.

"This is cheating," Brian observed, smiling as he did so.

"Good guys don't cheat, Aldo. They just get the job done. Okay, I have eyeballs on the subject. She's heading west on Shady Branch Road. Where are you?"

"About five hundred yards back of you — shit! I have a red light."

"Okay, sit it out. Looks like she's heading home, and we know where that is." Dominic closed his target to within a hundred yards, keeping a pickup truck between himself and the subject car. He'd rarely done this sort of thing before, and he was surprised at how tense it was.

"PREPARE TO TURN RIGHT IN FIVE HUNDRED FEET," the computer told him.

"Thanks, honey," Dominic grumbled.

But then the Volvo turned at the corner suggested by the computer. So, it wasn't so bad after all, was it? Dominic took a breath and settled down some.

"Okay, Brian, looks like she's going right home. Just follow me in," he said over the radio.

"Roger, following you in. Any idea who this broad is?"

"Michelle Peters, so says the DMV." The Volvo turned left, then right, into a cul-de-sac, where it pulled into a driveway that ended at a two-car garage attached to a medium-sized house of two stories and white aluminum siding. He parked his car a hundred yards up the street and took a sip of his coffee. Brian showed up thirty seconds later, doing the same half a block up.

"See the car?" Dominic called.

"That's affirmative, Enzo." The Marine paused. "Now what do we do?"

"You come on down for a cup of my coffee," a female voice suggested. "I'm the broad in the Volvo," the voice clarified.

"Oh, shit," Dominic whispered away from the microphone. He got out of his Mercedes and waved to his brother to do the same.

Upon joining up, the Caruso brothers walked to 6 Riding Hood Court. The door opened as they came up the driveway.

"Set up all the way," Dominic said quietly. "Should have figured that one out from the beginning."

"Yep. Color us dumb," Brian thought.

"Not really," Mrs. Peters said from the door. "But getting my address from the DMV really was cheating, you know."

"Nobody told us anything about rules, ma'am," Dominic told her.

"There aren't any — not very often, anyway, not in this business."

"So, you listened in on the radio circuit the whole time?" Brian asked.

She nodded as she led them to the kitchen. "That's right. The radios are encrypted. Nobody else knew what you were talking about. How do you boys like your coffee?"

"So, you spotted us all the way?" This was Dominic.

"Actually, no. I didn't use the radios to cheat — well, not all that much." She had an engaging smile, which helped to soften the blows to her visitors' egos. "You're Enzo, right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"You were a little close, but only a really sharp-eyed target would have noticed, given the limited time frame. The make of the car helped. A lot of those little Benzes in this area. But the best choice of car would be a pickup — a dirty one. A lot of the yokels never wash them, and some of the academics at the school have adopted the same sort of behavior to fit in, like. Out on Interstate 64, well, you'd better have an aircraft, of course, and a Porta-Potti. Discreet surveillance can be the toughest job in the business. But now you boys know that."

Then the door opened and Pete Alexander came in. "How'd they do?" he asked Michelle.

"I'll give them a B."

And suddenly Dominic thought that was generous.

"And forget what I said before — calling the FBI to get a DMV on me was pretty smart."

"Not cheating?" Brian asked.

Alexander took that one. "The only rule is to accomplish the mission without being compromised. We don't tally up style points at The Campus."

"Just body count," Mrs. Peters confirmed, to Alexander's evident annoyance.

That was enough to make Brian's stomach contract a little. "Uh, guys, I know I've asked it before, but what exactly are we training for?" Dominic leaned in visibly as well.

"Patience, fellas," Pete cautioned.

"Okay." Dominic nodded submission. "I'll give you that this time." But not too much longer, he didn't have to add.

"So, you're not going to exploit this?" Jack asked at closing time.

"We could, but it's not really worth the time. We'd only turn a couple of hundred thousand at best, probably not that much. But you did okay spotting it," Granger allowed.

"How much message traffic like this comes through here on a weekly basis?"

"One or two, four in a really busy week."

"And how many plays do you make?" Junior asked.

"One in five. We do so carefully, but even so, we always run the risk of being noticed. If the Europeans saw that we were outguessing them too much, then they'd look into how we were doing it — they'd probably shake down their own people, looking for a human leaker. That's how they think over there. It's a big place for conspiracy theory, you see, because of the way they operate themselves. But the game they play regularly sort of militates against it."

"What else do you look into?"

"Starting next week, you'll have access to the secure accounts — people call them numbered accounts because they're supposedly identified by code numbers. Now it's mainly code words, because of computer technology. They probably picked that up from the intelligence community. They often hire spooks to look after their security — but not good ones. The good ones stay away from money-management businesses, mainly out of snobbery. It's not important enough for a senior spook," Granger explained.

"The 'secured' accounts, do they identify the owners?" Jack asked.

"Not always. Sometimes it's all done via code word, though sometimes the banks have internal memoranda that we can tap into. Not always, though, and the bankers never speculate internally about their clients — at least not in written form. I'm sure they chat back and forth over lunch, but you know, a lot of them, they really don't care very much about where the money comes from. Dead Jews in Auschwitz, some Mafia capo in Brooklyn — it's all money fresh off the presses."

"But if you turned this over to the FBI—"

"We can't, because it's illegal, and we don't, because then we'd lose a way to track the bastards and their money. On the legal side, there's more than one jurisdiction, and for some of the European countries — well, banking is a big moneymaker, and no government ever turns its back on tax revenue. The dog doesn't bite anybody in their backyard. What it does down the block, they don't care about."

"I wonder what Dad thinks of that?"

"Not much, I'll bet," Granger opined.

"Not hardly," Jack agreed. "So, you track the secured accounts to follow the bad guys and their money?"

"That's the idea. It's a lot harder than you might imagine, but when you score, you score big."

"So, I'm going to be a bird dog?"

"That's right. If you're good enough," Granger added.

Mohammed was almost directly overhead at that moment. The Great Circle Route from Mexico City to London passed close enough to Washington, D.C., for him to look down from thirty-seven thousand feet and see the American capital laid out like a paper map. Now, were he a member of the Department of Martyrdom, he might have climbed the spiral stairs to the upper level and used a gun to kill the flight crew and dive the aircraft… but that had been done before, and now the cockpit doors were protected, and there might well be an armed policeman up there in business class to spoil the show. Worse yet, an armed soldier in civilian clothes. Mohammed had little respect for police officers, but he'd learned the hard way not to disregard Western soldiers. However, he was not a member of the Department of Martyrdom, much as he admired those Holy Warriors. His ability to seek out information made him too valuable to be thrown away in such a noble gesture. That was good, and that was bad, but good or bad, it was a fact, and he lived in the world of facts. He would meet Allah and enter Paradise at the time written by God's Own Hand in God's Own Book. For the moment, he had another six and a half more hours of confinement in this seat.

"More wine, sir?" the pink-faced stewardess asked. What a prize she might be in Paradise…

"Ah, yes, thank you," he replied in his best Cambridge English. It was contrary to Islam, but not to drink would look suspicious, he thought again, and his mission was much too important to risk. Or, at least, so he often told himself, Mohammed admitted to himself, with a minor chink in his conscience. He soon tossed off the drink and then adjusted the seat controls. Wine might be contrary to the laws of Islam, but it did help one sleep.

"Michelle says the twins are competent for beginners," Rick Bell told his boss.

"The tracking exercise?" Hendley asked.

"Yeah." He didn't have to say that a proper training exercise would have entailed eight to ten cars, two aircraft, and a total of twenty agents, but The Campus didn't have anything approaching those assets. Instead, it had a wider latitude in dealing with its subjects, a fact which had advantages and disadvantages. "Alexander seems to like them. He says they're bright enough, and they have mental agility."

"Good to know. Anything else happening?"

"Rick Pasternak has something new, he says."

"What might that be?" Gerry asked.

"It's a variant on succinylcholine, a synthetic version of curare, shuts down the skeletal muscles almost immediately. You collapse and can't breathe. He says it would be a miserable death, like taking a bayonet through the chest."

"Traceable?" Hendley asked.

"That is the good news. Esterases in the body break the drug down rapidly into acetylcholine, so it is also likely to be undetectable, unless the target happens to croak right outside a primo medical center with a very sharp pathologist who is looking for something out of the ordinary. The Russians looked at it — would you believe it, back in the 1970s. They were thinking about battlefield applications, but it proved to be impractical. It's surprising KGB didn't make use of it. It'll look like a big-time myocardial infarction, even on a marble slab an hour later."

"How'd he get it?"

"A Russian colleague was visiting with him at Columbia. Turned out he was Jewish and Rick got him talking. He talked enough that Rick developed a delivery system right there in his lab. It's being perfected right now."

"You know, it's amazing that the Mafia never figured it out. If you want somebody killed, you hire a doc."

"Goes against the old school tie for most of them." But most of them didn't have a brother at Cantor Fitzgerald who'd ridden the ninety-seventh floor down to sea level one Tuesday morning.

"Is this variant better than what we have already?"

"Better than what anyone has, Gerry. He says it's almost a hundred percent reliable if used properly."

"Expensive?"

Bell shook his head. "Not hardly."

"It's tested, it really works?"

"Rick says it killed six dogs — all big ones — pretty as you please."

"Okay, approved."

"Roger that, boss. Ought to have them in two weeks."

"What's happening out there?"

"We don't know," Bell admitted with downcast eyes. "One of the guys at Langley is saying in his memos that maybe we hurt them badly enough to slow them down, if not shut them down, but I get nervous when I read stuff like that. Like the 'there's no top to this market' shit that you get before the bottom falls out. Hubris ante nemesis. Fort Meade can't track them on the 'Net, but maybe that means they're just getting a little smarter. There's a lot of good encryption programs out on the market, and two of them NSA hasn't cracked yet — at least, not reliably. They're working on that one a couple of hours every day with their big mainframes. As you always say, Gerry, the smartest programmers don't work for Uncle anymore—"

"— they develop video games." Hendley finished the sentence. The government had never paid people well enough to attract the best — and that would never be fixed. "So, just an itchy nose?"

Rick nodded. "Until they're dead, in the ground, with a wood stake through the heart, I'm going to worry about them."

"Kinda hard to get them all, Rick."

"Sure as hell." Even their personal Dr. Death at Columbia couldn't help with that.