Some Die Nameless

by Wallace Stroby

  “I hoped you might have some answers. Because right now, I don’t have a clue.”

  “That’s why you didn’t call first,” Roarke said. “You didn’t know where I stood, what might be waiting for you.”

  “I was being careful. I had reason to be.”

  Roarke picked up the passport again, fanned through the pages. “If it’s fake, it’s a good one. If it’s real, with a chip, it cost someone a lot of money.”

  “Either way, he was still in the game.”

  “Appears,” Roarke said. He looked at the picture a final time, then closed the cover, slid the passport back across the table.

  “He also had some business cards in that same name,” Devlin said. “From something called Core-Tech Security.”

  Roarke thought for a moment, shook his head. “Never heard of it.”

  “Neither have I. But if someone did send him, sooner or later, they’ll know it didn’t go as planned.”

  Roarke turned his mug slowly on the table. “And whoever sent him might send someone else.”

  “They might.”

  “Are you strapped?” Roarke said.

  “No.”

  “Trusting, aren’t you? Coming in here without?”

  “I didn’t think I’d need it. You?”

  “Something behind the bar, if the occasion arises. At home too. Bell say anything else?”

  “When I asked about Kemper—about Acheron—he said I wasn’t up on current events. Do you know what that meant?”

  “Acheron’s done, brother. Kemper branched out after that, merged with another company. It’s called Unix now. Lots of military contracts, vehicles, coms, everything. He’s still the CEO, but they’re international. Based near D.C., I think, but offices all over. Nowhere as big an operation as some of the other firms, but I have to think he’s doing all right.”

  “He still run mercs?”

  “Depends how you define it. And who says we were mercs? We worked for a company, not a government.”

  “That was the fine print, yeah. But we did the same amount of damage.”

  “It was different then. Now it’s an industry. Nine-eleven changed everything. You remember Hauser, guy we called Bullethead?”

  “I think so,” Devlin said.

  “Little guy? German? He left Acheron in 2002, went with one of the big firms starting up then. He looked me up a few years back, wanted me to come in with him as a firearms instructor. But I couldn’t leave this place. And I’d lost my taste for that work.”

  “What’d he offer?”

  “A hundred and fifty K a year to start, training Iraqi Special Forces. I turned him down. Said I was too old, too tired, both of which were true. Three months later, he and a carful of his people were ambushed outside Baghdad. The people in the street, insurgents, whoever, dragged their bodies through the city, then hung them from a bridge.”

  “I heard about that. I didn’t know it was him.”

  “All in the game, though, right? Isn’t that what we used to say?”

  “What game is that?”

  “‘Democracy for Profit.’ Coming to a country near you.”

  “I guess it was never a game to me.”

  Roarke drank coffee, said, “You know, I bought this place with the severance Kemper gave me. I imagine you got about the same. Probably more with disability and all that, after what happened to you.”

  “Probably.”

  “We all took his money.”

  “We earned every dollar.”

  “We did. Maybe you more than most of us. But there isn’t a morning I walk into this place that I don’t think about how it was paid for, and what I had to do to earn it.”

  Devlin said nothing.

  “What are you planning to do now?” Roarke said.

  “Head up to Connecticut. My son and ex-wife live there. I want to make sure they’re all right. I spoke to her on the phone, but I’d feel better seeing them in person.”

  Roarke stroked his beard. “You think there’s an ongoing situation here?”

  “I need to make sure there isn’t.”

  Chimes rang as the front door opened. Two men in tan work jackets over hoodies came in, sat at the bar.

  “I need to get out there,” Roarke said. “There’s a glass plant about a mile from here. Shift changes in a little while. It’ll get busy then. Wait here a minute.”

  He got up, went back behind the bar. He exchanged greetings with the two men, put beers in front of them, took money, and rang it up on the register.

  He came back to the booth with two keys on a Budweiser key chain, set them on the table.

  “These are extras. My place is just a few blocks from here. Bronze one’s for the street door, silver one works in both apartment locks. Go there, get some sleep. There’s a spare bedroom you can use. Food in the refrigerator if you’re hungry.”

  “That’s okay. I can get a motel room.”

  Roarke shook his head. “I’ll call one of my part-timers in later. When they get here, I’ll come by. We need to talk more about this.”

  “What’s the address?”

  “You already have it,” Roarke said. He tapped the notebook. “It’s in there.”

  Devlin picked up the keys.

  “Finish your coffee, then go catch some shut-eye,” Roarke said. “You look like hell.”

  “I feel it. Thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. It’s good to see you and all, but I’d be happier if you hadn’t shown up.” He hesitated a moment. “And I still don’t know how I feel about what happened to Bell.”

  “He called it.”

  “Maybe so, but with everything we went through over the years, he didn’t deserve to go like that.”

  “No,” Devlin said. “He didn’t.”

  Eleven

  The knock at the door woke him. He had an instant of panic, not knowing where he was. He pushed away the sheet that tangled his legs, sat on the edge of the bed, wiped wet palms on his thighs. He’d taken off his sneakers and socks, but slept in jeans and T-shirt. He’d been too tired to undress.

  The knock came again.

  “I’m awake,” Devlin said. He looked at his watch. It was four in the afternoon. He’d slept almost eight hours.

  From the other side of the door, Roarke said, “Something you need to see.”

  “Give me a minute.”

  The room was bare. The narrow bed, an empty dresser, nothing on the walls. The single window gave a view of gray sky, an iron bridge in the distance.

  Devlin went out into the hallway, the floor cold under his feet. His mouth was dry.

  “In here,” Roarke called from the living room.

  Devlin crossed the hall to the bathroom, took off his T-shirt, ran the faucet, and cupped cold water into his face. He dried off with a towel, looked at the mirror. His eye was yellowish but fading, the swelling gone. The bruises on his arms and sides were lighter too, but when he touched them, the pain was still there.

  He put the T-shirt back on, went down the hall.

  Roarke sat in a recliner in the living room, the TV tuned to a news channel, the sound low.

  He held up a newspaper folded into quarters. “Bottom of the page.”

  Devlin took it. A two-column headline read POLICE PROBE CITY DEATH. He scanned the first paragraph.

  Police are investigating the killing of a Philadelphia man found shot dead yesterday in a vacant Bainbridge Street rowhouse undergoing renovations.

  “I don’t get it,” he said.

  “Keep reading.”

  The dead man was identified through forensic evidence as Emilio Mata, a San Marcos national. However, sources close to the investigation said Mata was carrying a Pennsylvania driver’s license that identified him as Esteban Marota, a city resident with a Fairhill address.

  Roarke picked up the remote from an end table, muted the TV. “Remember him?”

  “No,” Devlin said. “Someone we knew in San Marcos?”

  “He was Herrera�
�s brother-in-law, and part of his cabinet. Minister of finance, I think. He switched sides when he saw the way the wind was blowing, sold out his compadres. Farrow put him on the Acheron payroll, with the promise to resettle him in the States afterward if he kept feeding them intel.”

  “Farrow. That’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. How do you know all this?”

  “I helped them.”

  Devlin sat on the couch. “Explain.”

  “It was right after we left San Marcos. You were still in the hospital. Farrow wanted to make good on his promise, asked if I could help Mata get sorted out over here. Acheron co-owned a shipping company that operated out of the Landing. They’d helped supply us on a couple missions, logistics and transport. Farrow got him a no-show job there, just to have something on paper. The suitcase of cash I delivered to them didn’t hurt either.”

  “And they gave him a new ID?”

  “We gave him a new ID. And yeah, Farrow handled that. A driver’s license under the new name, probably some other documents. I washed my hands of it soon as I could. The guy was scum, far as I was concerned. Couldn’t be trusted. I didn’t want anything more to do with him.”

  Devlin read the rest of the story. “It says he may have been dead a month or more before they found him.”

  “I have no doubt he was into something got him killed. He was one of those guys who’re always looking for the better deal. You turn your back on them at your peril. Last I saw of him was almost twenty years ago. Until I read that story, I didn’t know he was still alive, much less still in Philly.”

  “Maybe somebody from San Marcos caught up with him?”

  “If so, they took their time about it. More likely he fucked someone on a deal here, caught a bullet for his trouble.”

  “Story says it’s still under investigation.”

  “There’ll be more,” Roarke said. “I know the reporter. She’s pretty sharp.”

  Devlin looked at the byline: TRACY QUINN, DAILY OBSERVER STAFF.

  “Last year, some people were scamming vets around here,” Roarke said. “Getting them to sign over their government checks, in exchange for putting them up in Section Eight housing, an old transient hotel. Most of them were sick—one thing or another—or drinking so much they didn’t know any better. Some were drinking in my bar.”

  “You didn’t flag them?”

  “It’s a choice, isn’t it? Whether to drink or not? I choose not to, but that’s me. You see the guy in the booth today, all by himself, Phillies cap? His name’s Leland. Used to be an Air Force captain. Spent five years at the Hanoi Hilton, living on rice and bugs, being tortured every day. You going to tell him he can’t get drunk if he wants to?”

  “I see your point.”

  “If they weren’t drinking in my place, they’d be doing it somewhere else, running the risk of getting rolled—or worse. I look after them when I can. I didn’t know about the check thing, though. If I had, I would have done something.”

  “What’s that got to do with this reporter?”

  “Somehow she got tipped to it, came down to the bar, hung around, talked to some people. At the hotel too. Took her life in her hands there. Ended up writing a front-page story, and a bunch of follow-ups. Like I said, sharp. Persistent too. Turns out the daughter of one of the victims had gone to Philly PD with the story months before, but they’d ignored it. Quinn was the one put it all together. I have her business card around somewhere.”

  “You helped her?”

  “Yeah, introduced her to some people who might not have talked to her on their own. After the first story ran, the feds got interested. They ran a sting operation, had an undercover pose as a vet. Was a Russian guy and his wife doing it. Quinn followed the story all the way through. I think she won some award. She’ll be on this one hard too. She’s the type.”

  Devlin handed the paper back. “You think this has anything to do with Bell?”

  “If there’s a connection, I don’t see it.”

  “Coincidence?”

  Roarke shrugged, put the paper on the end table.

  Devlin rubbed his face. “How long have you been back?”

  “About an hour. I heard you in there. Still have that trouble?”

  “Sometimes. Was I talking?”

  “Nothing that made any sense.”

  “Good.”

  “I used to get nightmares too,” Roarke said. “Not so much anymore. I went to meetings for a while, for the drinking. That helped.”

  “And now you own a bar.”

  “Yeah, I own a bar, but I don’t drink. I don’t need to anymore. That wasn’t always the case.”

  “Your war stories must have made for some interesting meetings.”

  “Ever been to one?”

  “No.”

  “You should try it. After a while, it feels like you’ve set down a weight you’ve been carrying too long. One you never needed to pick up in the first place.”

  “I’ll give that some thought. Who’s watching the bar?”

  “Margaret, my night manager, came in early. She’s an old-timer, worked for Dugan. I’ve got another bartender comes on at five, kid named Ernesto, just graduated Temple. I always keep at least two people on at night. It’s safer.”

  “Sorry to mess up your schedule.”

  “I’ll go in later, help them close. You’re hungry too, I’d guess. There isn’t much here. Cold cuts in the refrigerator. Eggs if you’re feeling ambitious. We can do takeout later. Let me know what you’d prefer.”

  “Just something to drink right now. Water’s fine.”

  “In the refrigerator. Help yourself.”

  The kitchen was small but neat, the counters clear, the stovetop spotless. A window led onto a fire escape.

  There were photos on the refrigerator door. Roarke, clean-shaven in a tux, pre-scar, with Wanda on their wedding day. Another, not much later—Roarke in a guayabera shirt, Wanda in a floral-print summer dress, both of them holding tall blue drinks, flaming tiki torches in the background. Then, to the right of that, her memorial card. Killed in a car accident while he and Roarke were half a world away.

  There were six Bud Light bottles on the inside rack of the refrigerator. He thought about taking one, then got a plastic bottle of water instead. He cracked the cap, took a long pull, went back into the living room.

  “How is it you keep beer around?”

  “I have a lady friend comes by sometimes. I keep it for her. Doesn’t bother me. No appeal anymore.”

  On the TV was silent footage of people, dust-covered and bloody, on a wide city street, walking toward the camera with stunned faces. A plume of white smoke behind them, debris on the ground. In the distance, domes and minarets.

  “Where’s that?” Devlin said.

  “Pick a country.”

  Devlin sat back on the couch. A crawl at the bottom of the screen read ALEPPO SUICIDE BOMBER KILLS 16.

  “Nothing changes,” Roarke said. “Just the reasons, and sometimes not even those. Why humans are still around, I don’t know. That giant asteroid can’t get here soon enough.”

  Devlin drank water. “You keep anything around from the Acheron days?”

  “Like what?”

  “Mementos, souvenirs, photos. Reminders.”

  “You got the wrong guy.”

  “Bell wanted to talk old times.”

  “And look where it got him.”

  “You think he had people?” Devlin said. “Wife, kids?”

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “Easy enough to find them, I imagine.”

  “And what would you say to them if you did?”

  Devlin didn’t answer.

  “Leave it,” Roarke said. “Way you laid it out, it was his play. Doesn’t seem like there’s much you could have done different. It went the way it went.”

  “We were friends. All of us.”

  “We were grunts. In the same unit, with the same employer, that’s all. We did what we got paid to do. That wa
s a different time, and different people. Not us at all.”

  “Hard to forget, though.”

  “We did our jobs,” Roarke said. “Sometimes things happen you can’t shake, no matter how much booze or junk you put into your body. But you don’t have to live with them every day for the rest of your life either.”

  “I hope that’s true.”

  “We’re both pushing sixty,” Roarke said. “What do we have to look forward to? Our first heart attack? A PSA test says we’ve got prostate cancer? The roller coaster peaked, Ray. We’re on the downward side. Time is finite. And there’s nothing we can do about it.”

  “And that’s all there is to it?”

  “You find out different,” Roarke said, “let me know.”

  Twelve

  The dead bolt looked simple, but Tariq had been at it with the lock-pick tools for five minutes and still couldn’t get the tumblers to fall right.

  “Stand back,” Lukas said.

  “The noise.”

  “This place, no one will care.”

  Bell’s Silver Spring address was a basement apartment in a prewar building. The foyer was unlocked, and Lukas had rung the apartment buzzer, then knocked on the door. The hallway smelled of mildew and pot smoke.

  Tariq drew out the pick and tension wrench, stood. “Go ahead.”

  Lukas took the Ruger automatic from his coat pocket, screwed in the suppressor. He stepped back, drove his heel into the door frame just above the knob. The trim splintered and sheared, and the door flew open.

  He raised the Ruger one-handed, pointed it into darkness. No sound or movement inside.

  They went in, moving to opposite sides so they weren’t outlined in the doorway. Light wash from street lamps came through the windows high on one wall. They could see sidewalk outside, the tires of parked cars.

  Lukas turned on a penlight. “Shades.”

  Tariq worked the miniblinds, shut out the street lighting, then pushed the door back in place until it held. Lukas fanned the penlight beam along the wall, found a switch, flipped it. Track lights went on, showed a small living room and kitchenette. A hallway led to an open door.

  He held the penlight in a reverse grip, wrists crossed, the Ruger aimed straight ahead, heavy with the suppressor’s added weight. Tariq took his own gun from under his jacket, held it at his side.