“Negative. Robin’s on personal radio silence. We don’t speak to him until he speaks to us.”
“Aww, man. The cops are letting people back into the building. I don’t know what the hell we’re supposed to do, but I think we should get our hairy asses out of here.”
“Not without orders.”
“Screw the orders, man. And another thing, screw only Robin and Partridge knowing what this happy horseshit is about. I mean, man, so we’re supposed to ice this guy, right? No big deal, they say. Just an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay, right? Yeah, no big deal. Well, man, if it’s no big deal, then why the hell won’t they tell us what it’s all about? Christ, it ain’t like we don’t all have clearances or something. But, uh-uh, no questions, Robin says. No answers, Robin says. Well, bullshit is what I says. You know what I think? I think this guy, the subject, has got something on somebody. I mean he knows some bad shit about one of the big boys. And whoever that big boy is …”
“Belay that!” Dave knew the voice. It belonged to Partridge.
“No, man, listen …”
“At ease, Warbler. And don’t call me ‘man.’ ”
Hmm. Sounds like Partridge is as much of a hard case as Ransome.
Warbler’s voice dripped sarcasm. “Well, excuse me. Sir.”
“Warbler, if you’ve got a problem with the chain of command, I am the man to resolve it for you. And if any of you men have a problem with your duty, I’ll be pleased to discuss it with you one on one. Otherwise, you know what your job is, and that’s all you need to know. Am I understood, gentlemen?”
Second-in-command. Partridge is Ransome’s second-in-command.
Someone mumbled, “Yessir.”
“I didn’t quite hear that, soldier.”
“Sorry, sir. I said yes, sir.”
“Clear the channel.” It was Ransome’s voice, cool enough, but not quite as cool as it had been. “This is Robin. Our friend has got another radio.”
“Son of a …”
“I said clear the channel. In case you have forgotten, that translates as zip your lip.”
Sounds a mite touchy, doesn’t he.
“Point number one: Momentarily, I will be issuing a code change. On my mark we will go to Xylophone Delta Niner. Point number two: I want everyone back to their assigned stations immediately. Point number three: I require a medical kit for personal use. Point number four: We need a cleanup team on the second floor, in the restaurant. A body bag will be required.”
“You tagged him, Robin?”
“Negative. The bag is for Oriole.”
“Aww, man …”
“Zip it!” Dave heard a snap. Ransome inhaled deeply and blew out. He’d just lit a cigarette. Well, we all have our little weaknesses.
“Mr. Elliot, I trust you are listening to this. I am immediately declaring a unilateral cease-fire.”
To quote Mark Twain, I suspect our friend is somewhat economical with the truth.
“I repeat, it’s truce time, Mr. Elliot. We all will return to our posts and take a little breather. As I promised, I will communicate the current status to my superiors and urge them to authorize a negotiated settlement. In the interim, my people will stay on watch where they are. You, I presume, will do much the same. Given the coverage I have on the exits, that is your sole rational course of action.”
Ransome stopped, waiting for an answer. “A confirmation would be useful, Mr. Elliot.”
Dave pushed the send button on his radio and whispered, “I copy, Robin.”
“Thank you. I have one more thing for you. We will direct the management of this restaurant to take an inventory of their supplies. If some quantity of pepper is missing, I will revise my earlier orders accordingly.”
Three bags of pepper rested near Dave’s feet. He had always been skeptical when waiters politely asked, “Some fresh ground pepper, sir?” New York being the sort of place it is, he didn’t really believe that those oversized wooden pepper mills really had fresh peppercorns in them. They were, he conjectured, merely elaborate reservoirs designed to make the customers believe they were getting what they paid for. In the kitchen of the Prime Minister’s Club Dave had found a row of open quote pepper mills unquote, a funnel, and three bags of pre-ground pepper. Welcome to New York.
“Which means, Mr. Elliot, that you won’t have to waste your time spreading it around for the dogs.”
Too bad. If you use enough pepper, the dogs go berserk and turn on their masters.
“All right, men, reset to Xylophone Delta Niner. Do it now.”
Dave expected the radio to go silent as Ransome and his men activated a code change. But, after a moment, Ransome’s voice continued. “I have one other thing to say, Mr. Elliot. Now that the troops are off the air, I can say it in confidence. You’re a former officer. You know what a commander can and cannot say in front of his men.”
“I copy, Robin.”
Ransome inhaled, then exhaled a long slow hiss. Dave was willing to bet he’d taken an extra heavy drag off his cigarette. “Okay. Here goes. I lost it down here, Mr. Elliot, and therefore owe you an apology. I don’t lose my cool easily. But, when I saw the blood between my legs, I thought you’d gotten my equipment. That’s why I behaved as I did. Now let me confess that I’m sorry. I know I was out of line, and I know you did what was only right. You were one of Colonel Kreuter’s people. He taught you the rules, the same as he taught me. No one-man bands and no solo pilots. Even the Lone Ranger has got a faithful Indian companion. You knew that. You knew I’d have a backup man with me. And you handled it just the way you were supposed to. I respect that. I hope you’ll forgive my behavior and my remarks. I mean that sincerely. You have my word the episode won’t be repeated.”
Not bad. Right out of the psych-warfare books. Credible, sincere, level-headed — you know, for an absolute psycho, Ransome almost sounds like a nice guy.
“Mr. Elliot? Are you reading this, Mr. Elliot?”
“I copy, Robin.”
“Over and out.” The radio went dead. Ransome had changed codes.
Dave pushed his head back into the wire, making himself comfortable. He burped. The food he’d taken from the Prime Minister’s Club had tasted as good as any meal he’d ever eaten. But that was not surprising. After all, the first law of soldiery is: stolen food tastes best.
“Always take a chicken when you get a chance, because if you don’t want him yourself you can easy find someone that does, and a good deed ain’t ever forgot.” Huck Finn said that.
And the second law of soldiery is this: once the shooting has stopped it’s time to take a nap.
Shortly, David Elliot was asleep.
4
The instructor’s tweed jacket gives him an appropriately professorial appearance. He is of average stature, but seems taller. The way he holds his head, nose lifted slightly, adds to the illusion of height. His hair is a little on the long side, but well-trimmed and fashionable for the late sixties. Nonetheless, it seems slightly out of place in a room full of military-issue brushcuts.
He speaks with a pronounced New England accent — not the lace curtain Irish burr of the Kennedys, but something more aristocratic. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Lieutenant Elliot and his fellow students — there are only a dozen of them — have spent the morning touring the facilities. They are a big improvement over Fort Bragg. “My name is Robert. You can call me Rob if you so desire. I, like everyone whom you will meet here, prefer to be addressed by my first name. As for our family names, well, I fear we all have developed a slight amnesia.”
The class gives an appreciative titter.
“The training you will receive here at Camp P may come as a surprise to you. It is not this institution’s goal to further the lessons you have already learned. We assume that you have mastered the honorable arts of soldiery. You would not be here if you had not. Rather, our curriculum is devoted to a different craft. This craft has two dimensions. The dimension you doubtless yearn to hear of i
s our craft’s outer manifestation — uncommon arms, infernal devices, devilish pranks, and the other rather feral skills demanded of saboteurs, subversives, and assassins. Certainly we shall be teaching you those things. But not immediately. First, we shall focus on the second dimension of the craft, the psychological dimension, the inner dimension, the dimension of the mind. In the end, gentlemen, it is in the mind that the game is played, and it is in the mind that it is either lost or won. Do you take my meaning?”
A few people nod. A Marine officer behind Dave barks, “Yes, sir!”
“Do try to forget the word ‘sir.’ We are a college of equals here. Now, to begin, as good Americans, you gentlemen have grown up in a culture that holds team sports in high esteem. I am sure you all have gone to many games and spiritedly cheered your home team. Like as not, you yourselves have been on the fields, good team players each and every one of you. Perhaps you have even had a moment or two of sporting glory. If so, then you are justly entitled to take pride in it, for surely team sports are affairs of honor. But, alas, they are also matters of a certain primitive simplicity and structure. Consider: the field has but two goalposts. The teams have but two sides. The game is played out over a designated period of time, as governed by a single, simple rule book that is known and respected by referees and players alike. Some have said that sport is a metaphor for war, and war a metaphor for sport. This is not, I fear, the case, although it is a common American mistake to believe so. During the coming few weeks, I hope to disabuse you of this unfortunate error, because, you see, war, and most particularly the sort of warfare for which you gentlemen will be preparing yourselves, has rather more than two sides and rather more than two teams. Nor is there a single set of rules. The game you seek to learn is layered like an onion. Peel off a strip, and another awaits you. And another, and another. The man who seeks to find the secret heart of an onion, gentlemen, is a man who will be bitterly disappointed. For when he has peeled the onion to its heart, he will hold in his hands nothing. The psychology of that particular truth can be most unsettling. It is my mission to ready you for it. I hope to teach you how to look beneath the surface of things, how to perceive how many layers the onion has, and how to recognize that it is the layers that are the soul of the onion. This is a matter of some urgency, gentlemen, because once you are out of the classroom and into such fresh hells as we will dispatch you, you will swiftly discover that beneath the surface of the game, another game is being played, and beneath that game another still. And their rules, gentlemen, ahh, all their rules will be very, very different.”
* * *
Mamba Jack Kreuter is too smart to send a green lieutenant, three weeks in-country, as officer in charge of an assassination mission across the DMZ. Dave Elliot works this much out while he is still in the colonel’s hooch. The fact of the matter is that the good colonel regards Dave as little more than a sacrificial lamb.
Not that Jack isn’t fair about it. He’s given Dave enough — just enough — information to reason his way to the truth.
Kreuter let slip the fact that the Russian Dave is supposed to kill is a KGB major. Kreuter also made it clear that the issue with the major is not his provisioning the VC, but rather the advice he’s giving them.
Question: What sort of advice would a KGB major be giving the Vietcong?
Answer: Advice based on KGB intelligence, intelligence being the stock-in-trade of the good old Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti.
Question: Where does the KGB get its intelligence from?
Answer: From agents and informers.
Dave sits in his own hooch, drinking warm beer as he puzzles it through. The Russian major is being fed his material by an informer — maybe one of the Vietnamese officers attached to Kreuter’s command, or maybe somebody else. Whoever it is has to be highly positioned and delivering quality material. Neither Mamba Jack Kreuter nor any other commander would risk an incursion across the DMZ unless the intelligence loss was serious.
Question: How would you go about catching this particular traitor?
Answer: Set a trap to bag a senior Cong — or better yet, the Russian.
Question: What bait?
Answer: A team of expendable grunts led by an equally expendable lieutenant.
Dave is being sent north to lure the enemy out of his lair. Kreuter expects that he’ll blunder up through the boonies, get close enough to the Russian’s headquarters to attract some attention, and draw enough fire to cause some confusion. Meanwhile, a second American team — a larger one with more experienced leaders — will be flanking around the Russian’s base of operation. Once the shooting starts, they’ll move in and seize their prey. That is what the mission is all about. “Beneath the surface of the game, another game is being played.… ”
Question: What do they call the bait they stake for the tiger?
Answer: A Judas goat.
Question: How many Judas goats get to eat tiger cutlets?
Answer: There’s always a first time.
5
Although he did not dream of onions, David Elliot awoke thinking of them. Or rather one in particular. Its top layer, he said to himself, was named Bernie Levy.
Tell me more.
People like Ransome don’t send people like Bernie to do their dirty work for them. They do it themselves. That’s what they’re paid for. The only way that Ransome would have — could have — sent Bernie to kill me was if Bernie made a case, convinced him, argued him down. He and Ransome probably battled it out. Bernie Levy is a stubborn man. God knows he is a stubborn man. Once he decides that something is right, he sticks with the decision.
That’s only part of the answer.
The other part is what he said. “Bernie Levy blames himself, and God will not forgive.”
So?
Somehow Bernie thinks that he is responsible for Ransome wanting me dead. If he believes this nightmare is his fault, then he’d believe that killing me was his job. More than his job. His duty. Bernie’s an ex-Marine. Semper Fidelis. Duty has always been a big deal with him.
You think Bernie is behind this mess?
Maybe not. He might be just another victim, same as me. My guess is that he is. He had a choice between letting Ransome ice me or shooting me himself. When he came into my office, he was muttering and stammering about not having any alternative. That’s what he meant. He thought he owed it to me. I had to be killed because of a mistake he had made. He owed it to me to be the one who pulled the trigger. He owed it to me to not let a stranger do it.
Nice gesture.
Honorable, I’d say. Bernie was taking the sin on his own soul. It would have been a point of conscience with him.
Okay, so what kind of ungodly hell has Bernie gotten himself into and how are you involved?
I don’t know. I can’t even guess.
You sure you didn’t witness a mob hit or something while my back was turned?
What have I seen? What have I heard? What do I know?
6
Someone walked overhead, across the raised floor of the computer room. A voice, male, tenor and unaccented, called out: “It’s almost 3:30, people. El Supremo wants all of the ops staff in the conference room. He’s got a new decree that’s come down from on high.”
Someone sighed. “More salary cuts.”
“Yeah,” another person added. “To offset the growing burden of top management bonuses.”
“Look, people,” the tenor said, “I know it’s been rough around here, but at least we’ve still got our jobs.”
“At least until 3:30.”
The tenor ignored the wisecrack. “El Supremo says he needs an hour with you. Have we got anything major scheduled between then and now?”
A woman answered, “Nothing big, but there is an RJE run on the receivables that’s supposed to init at 4:00. It’s for Fort Fumble, our esteemed corporate headquarters.”
“Okay, Marge, you’re the one who runs that job anyway. You skip the meeting and handle it. I’ll
stick around in case you need some help. El Supremo and I ride home together on the train. He can fill me in then. Everyone else, head ’em up and move ’em out. You know how much the boss hates people to be late for his meetings.”
A chorus of three or four voices broke into the opening chorus of Showboat, “Niggers all work on de …”
“Cut that out!”
Heels and soles clicked across the flooring tiles. Dave heard a door open and slam shut. It was quiet for a moment. Then steps came his way. Light, tapping — a woman’s shoes, the woman named Marge. She stopped just above his head.
The tenor spoke. “Do you run it from that console?”
“Em, yes.”
The man’s heavier footsteps thumped over Dave’s head. “That’s a 3178, isn’t it?”
“Yup.”
“I didn’t even know they still made those. Not exactly the right terminal for the job, is it?”
“Make do or do without. That’s the American Interdyne way.”
“Well, how do you …”
“Look, Greg, I’ve been handling this run all by my little lonesome for seven months. You don’t need to hang around. Why don’t you trot off to that meeting? Make El Supremo happy.”
Dave heard Greg scuff his toe across the tiles. “Well … Marge, the thing is that I didn’t really stay here to help you with the job run.”
“Oh?” Dave thought that Marge’s tone of voice turned a little sharp.
“Uh, yeah. Well, the thing is, Marge, that I … Look, I’ve said this before. You’re a good-looking girl, and I don’t think I’m a bad-looking guy.”
“So are Ken and Barbie, but they don’t come in the same box.” Dave guessed that these were the words of a woman who had held this particular discussion before.
“Come on, Marge. I’m your sort of guy, and you know it.”
“My sort of guy doesn’t have a wife and a kid in Great Neck.”
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