by Rich Foster
Clemson thought about this. Obviously, Van de Meer considered him expendable; they knew it and so did he. Claus arranged the knife attack. Kurt was sure it was meant to be fatal, not part of an escape plan. A judge could have sprung him on National Security grounds if Van de Meer asked.
Fear was a strong impetus. It pushed him to placate Barton.
“Claus Van de Meer,” he spat out the words. “He works in a secret bunker attached to the CIA office block at Langley. His cover is a company called Deutschland Properties & Investment Opportunities. It’s in a building across the interstate from the CIA’s headquarters but the whole structure is a front. An underground corridor attaches it CIA headquarters. No one knows about the program.”
“Somebody does.”
“Van de Meer reports straight to the director. I’m not sure if even the President knows. I doubt it though. DPIO is not the sort of information most politicians would want to know.”
“What does DPIO stand for?”
“Department for Proactive Intelligence and Operations.”
Barton smiled and patted Clemson on the shoulder.
“See Willard, we are making beautiful progress. Your daughter may get to see twenty-one after all.”
His tone was patient and sympathetic.
“Now I know, “ Barton stressed the words, “you want to kill me more than ever, but I think you should keep thinking about Kim. Think of all the things a twisted fuck might do to her. I’m sure it will help you to stay focused on your answers.”
“Stay away from her!” Clemson snarled.
“Choice is yours Willard. Lie to me and I make a phone call to my friend who seemed to like your daughters panties.”
Clemson’s head sagged in despair.
“What is it that DPIO does?”
“”You already know. You talked to Chan.”
“Ah yes Zhou ZhenZhoung. I believe he was found floating in Lake Tahoe. Speer’s work again?”
Clemson shook his head no. “It was the same night we grabbed you.”
“Well that doesn’t matter I suppose. But what was Zhou’s purpose and why was a convicted spy kicked loose and living large?”
“Disinformation to the Chinese. Chan pretended there was a backdoor to Microsoft’s operating system, A lot of countries worry that one exists. It was all bull shit.
“Chan convinced the Chinks that each copy of software carried a unique code. For a sample he gave them access code for software running in a computer at Boeing Aircraft's research lab. They thought they were stealing nano technology when they accessed it, instead they got a Trojan that permitted us to access any computer tied into the system the Chinese were on. We figured they would tap it straight out of their intelligence center and they did.”
“So Chan takes a fall to make the Chinese believe its true and the arrest gets him off the hook for delivering more information?” Harry asked.
Clemson nodded. “They spent enormous energy looking for other backdoors. Their anxiety level was off the charts. Meanwhile the Agency garnered a mass of data that would have required millions of dollars and dozens of field agents.”
“And Edwin Alden Darwin?”
“Cold war spy for Russia. Darwin gave them data, even gave up a couple of our operatives to cement his cover. The propeller plans he gave them from our Los Angeles Class submarines were plants. The design generated a harmonic that was traceable by our fleet’s sonar. The commies used the engineering plans for years. The Ruskies thought they were making their subs run silent; instead it was like placing a Lo-jack device on them.”
Barton looked at Harry. “Is it possible the CIA was that good?”
Harry frowned. “Maybe? Even Inspector Clouseau solved a few crimes.”
“Sure, in the movies.” Barton looked back at Clemson, “So why kill for it?”
Clemson shrugged. “Orders.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“I don’t know. I joined just before Edwin Darwin was arrested and put on trial.”
“How many cases?”
Kurt shook his head and shrugged again.
Barton nodded toward the aft deck. Harry and he went out. The air was hot and humid but fresh compared to the chilled fetid air in the salon. The western sun hung close to the crest of the mountain ridge. Barton looked through the slider into the salon. Clemson was broken. He sat in the bilge, his head down on his chest.
“I don’t get it? Why not appeal to people’s patriotism. Why kill Ames or us for that matter? They knew our service records.” Barton rhetorically asked.
“There has to be something Willard is not telling us.” Harry added as an afterthought, “Or perhaps he doesn’t know.”
Barton spat over the stanchion rail. “Maybe it’s spook stuff. I think they come to a place where killing is the answer for everything.”
“Our answers lie at DPIO or in the head of Van de Meer.”
“Gotta be a way to crack one or the other.” Barton said grimly.
The sun dipped behind the hills. The ambient temperature dropped without the direct light. Overhead the cumulus clouds slowly took on golden highlights and pink edges. They were far enough from shore to be free of mosquitoes. If it weren’t for Clemson they could soon open the ports and hatches to the night.
It was a pleasant evening, one made for sitting on the fly bridge, where one could sip bourbon and watch the constellations wheel past. Not an evening for torture and torment, nor a night to be spent water boarding a man in a dank bilge until he was a broken.
Now, instead of hearing shrieks of pain they relaxed and listened to the cry of loons.
The water around the boat shimmered like quicksilver, but it was quickly loosing its luster and turning black.
“We need his password,” Harry said softly as if he might disturb the gathering night.
“It would be the keys to the kingdom.”
Barton crumpled the empty beer can with his hand and tossed it in the water.
“Hey don’t litter, I live here.”
“Shit Harry your belching diesel exhaust into the sky and bilge water into the lake, what do you care about a little old can for?”
“Be on the bottom for centuries to come. See them all the time diving.”
Barton looked at the water as if he just noticed it. How deep is the lake?”
“Seven hundred feet or so.”
“Where?”
“Over there,” Harry nodded across the lake, “where the mountains run down almost to the shore. The slope continues more or less at the same angle to the bottom.”
Barton glanced over his shoulder into the salon, but the cabin was in darkness. “You drop something in there, nobody’s going to find it.”
“What are you saying, Dirk?”
“What do you think?” Barton nodded toward the salon. “He tried to kill both of us. He blew up your house. He kidnapped your woman, arranged for Eddie Ames to die and evidently beat his own agent to death. Don’t you think that rates capital punishment?”
“My house is insured. I think Paula is gone. And Eddie Ames is never coming back. What’s the point?”
“Harry you sound like a damn liberal. Next thing I know you will be telling me poor Willard is just a confused victim of society. Where I grew up, if somebody cut you with a knife, then you came back with a machete and chopped him up in little pieces.”
“The man thinks we had his wife raped and murdered.”
“But she ain’t dead.”
“Neither are we Dirk.”
Barton let out a long hiss as if letting off steam. Harry continued. “If we eliminate him, who’s gonna come looking for us?”
“They aren’t stopping just because Willard here is missing and presumed sleeping with the fishes.”
“They’ll stop if they are exposed.”
Barton slowly shook his head. “You’re going soft Harry.”
“I’m just tired of killing. I thought I left it behind in Afghanistan.”
“I’ll give you that point.”
“Thirdly, if we let him go, his side will take care of it.”
At that Barton smiled.
Chapter 62
The Fat Man called in from Red Lake. He got the name during recruit training for the CIA. The FBI was picky about their agent’s physical shape but the Agency was laxer. Operatives needed to blend in. Spies ran the gamut of race, gender, and meso-types. One day, at the Farm, the instructor pointed and said, “The Fat Man is next.” The name stuck, even though his real name was Bernie. It followed him into the field.
“What happened to Clemson?” Van de Meer snapped.
“Martinez botched the hit. Kurt escaped from the hospital.”
“Like hell he did, you idiot! That son-of-a-bitch Dirk took him.”
“How do you know that, sir?”
“Because I’ve read Dirk’s file! He can sneak into your bed, shave your face with a bayonet in the dark and never wake you. Clemson couldn’t find his way out of a shit house lately.”
The Fat Man seldom talked to the boss. The intensity of the man’s fury made him cautious.
His reticence caused Claus to bark, “Where is Dirk and Grim?”
“I don’t know. No one seems to. Grim’s boat is in the marina. He’s not there, nor at his office. I’ve been waiting for Kurt to contact me.”
“Listen. Clemson probably won’t be back. If he does call you, find him and put a bullet in his head!”
“Are you serious, sir?”
“Damn right I am. If he’s loose, you can bet he was turned by Dirk and is now an enemy of the state. He’s been compromised.”
“Those are your orders, sir?” The Fat Man asked again, doubtfully.
“Yes. Kill Clemson then locate Barton Dirk and Harry Grim.”
“Should I kill them too, sir”?
A deep rolling laugh came over the phone. “That’s a good one!” Van de Meer snickered. The Fat Man heard Claus still laughing as he hung up.
Chapter 63
Barton walked into the salon. He turned on a small lamp. Clemson lay huddled in the bilge. He shivered violently in his wet gown as the cold AC blew across him.
“Willard. I see no reason why you can’t walk away from this.”
A spark of hope flared in Clemson’s eyes.
“I just need your password for your work computer.”
The spark faded.
“Are you ready to die for the cause Willard? Maybe the CIA will give you one of those stars carved in the marble memorial wall at Langley?”
“If I give it, you promise to let me go?”
“I promise you something worse than water boarding if you don’t.”
“Its. ABC97531zz”
Barton dialed Ziggy’s number, “Hey. We have a password. He repeated the numbers. Just a second though.”
Barton eyed Clemson. “Let me make this absolutely clear, Willard. This is your one and only chance. If access is denied I will carve you up myself one square centimeter at a time. If I don’t get pissed off and kill you I will leave you deaf, blind and tongue-less, sans arms, legs and nose. Then I will send my rather twisted acquaintance back east to visit your daughter. But it won’t be short and quick like your wife. Might have twenty or so of the brothers try her out in Harlem before her takes her somewhere private.”
Clemson hesitated, then he blurted out, Its ZA785634AZ”.
“If this sets off warning bells in the system, same thing goes Willard. If it works, you get to walk.”
Barton passed the number on to Ziegfeld. Less than a minute later Ziggy said, “We’re in”
“Download everything you can get.”
“No problem. I’ll also put a Trojan in so I can return if they shut down this portal. I’ll send you an encrypted package as soon as I have the data.”
Barton walked over to the fridge and opened a beer. He tossed one to Harry. “Start em up, let’s get going.”
“What about him?”
“We’ll drop him in the lake.”
Clemson began to squeal in fear. Barton rolled his eyes. “I meant near the shore Willard and in one piece. I gave you my word.”
They cruised down the eastern shore at twelve knots. Barton dragged Clemson up to the aft deck. He stood at rail shaking from cold and fear of what might be coming. Dirk nodded toward the shore. Harry swung the wheel over until the houseboat cruised close to a line of no wake buoys.
“One last question Willard. Why did you kill the broad?”
Clemson’s head hung down in defeat. He would answer any question.
“I was supposed to beat her. Make Grim look bad. But I hated the bitch. Once I started in on her I couldn’t stop myself.
Barton shook his head at Clemson’s lack of discipline. He pulled a knife and slit the ties holding Clemson’s feet, then freed the wrists. Without a pause he pushed Clemson over the stern rail. The man disappeared into the boat’s wake.
“Can he swim?” shouted Harry above the engine’s noise.
Barton shrugged. He picked up a float cushion and tossed it overboard. Clemson popped to the surface a hundred feet astern. Barton saw him take a few strokes toward the life preserver before he was lost in the darkness.
On the bridge Harry watched the shoreline for his friend's home marina. He throttled back and the engine noise dropped to a soft throaty rumble and from the port side came the gurgling of cooling water being discharged.
“What do you think will happen?”
“First thing Willard is going to make a collect call to his daughter and warn her that her life is in danger. It won’t be long after that, he’ll learn his wife’s not dead.”
“It’ll make him want to come after us.”
“No chance. We broke him. When it comes to us he’s a beaten dog, his instinct will be to cower.”
Harry nosed the houseboat alongside the end tie. Barton hopped down and made fast the mooring lines to the dock cleats. The engines died and the sounds of the night returned, the cry of a bird, the slap of the water against the hull, and far overhead the drone of a transcontinental jet.
“Think he’ll call in?” Harry asked as he plugged in the shore power cord.”
“I doubt it. If he does Ziggy’s going to get the door slammed shut but it will be too late. I do not think Willard will want to tell his boss he gave up the keys to the castle. If he is smart, he’s looking for a hole to hide in.”
Working together they opened up the boat. The night air was pleasant and the salon needed airing. Harry tossed bleach into the bilge and then ran the hose. The bilge pump kicked in. When it was drained he dropped the cabin sole back in place.
Barton turned on the television. The news aired at eleven. He opened a fresh beer and lay down on the settee.
The Channel Thirteen logo appeared, the news team sat at a curved counter in the background. The camera zoomed in on the anchor, Tanya Talbot.
“Our top story is a manhunt in the Red Lake area for a murderer.” Her eyes strained for the right amount of concern for the camera.
“Hey Harry, you gotta see this!” Barton called.
Harry came in from hosing down the aft deck. After a couple ads ran, a mug shot of Kurt Clemson flashed on the screen.
“This man, identified as Willard Stangl, is wanted for the murder of Samantha Quilling, a thirty year old secretary. Both are from the Washington DC area but it is unknown if they were traveling together. As yet a motive behind the killing is not clear but authorities ask the public if they see him to call. They are warned not to approach him. He is considered armed and extremely dangerous.”
The camera cut to a clean-cut lantern jawed man reporting outside St. Catherine’s Hospital.
“Stangl was apprehended by the Canaan County Sheriff�
�s Office two days ago. Unfortunately he was involved in more violence while in custody. The ensuing knife fight put him in this hospital. While there he effected his escape.”
He turned to a man who stood ramrod straight beside him.
“Special Agent Hoover, why is the FBI involved in the search for Willard Stangl?”
“There were indications that his crimes crossed interstate lines and involved kidnapping, that and the deplorable security by the Canaan County Sheriff’s Department. Sad to say, this escape was avoidable. I think the local authorities need all the help they can get.”
They returned to Tanya Talbot at the news desk. She went on to a story about a logging truck crash north Mason Forks. Barton muted the sound.
“That boy ain’t got a chance. They leaked his real name. It means his side has no more use for him.”
“At least not this side of the grave.”
“Not our problem.”
Harry yawned. “I’m going to shower and get some sleep. As soon as we hear from Ziggy we need to move. The heat is coming.”
Barton went on deck. He stripped down and dove into the lake. The water was cool. He swam away from the marina in long hard strokes. After five minutes he rolled on his back and languidly stroked, looking at the night sky. Ten minutes later he rolled over and swam back toward the marina. When he came back aboard, Harry’s cabin was dark.
Chapter 64
Overnight, wanted posters appeared around Red Lake. They covered telephone poles, trees, and light standards. The Sheriff found the posters annoying. It was his jurisdiction. He did not like interlopers. The hatchet job on his department by the FBI in the news was even more irritating.
“Tell our men to keep an eye out for Stangl. I have a feeling there are some itchy fingers out there.” Conners keyed the microphone and passed on the APB to the patrolling officers.
Gavin returned to the paperwork he failed to finish the day before. An hour later he sent the file to the County Auditor’s office. Over a cup of coffee, leaning back in his desk chair he then gave some time to musing about how they knew Stangl’s name. When he ran the prints in IAFIS they came back a blank.