LACKING VIRTUES

by Thomas Kirkwood

  Claussen watched him, silently, sternly.

  Stein said, “Knock it off, Walter. I’m not an idiot. It was just a thought. A funny thought. Sort of like the one I had when I heard about your car wreck.”

  They were ten minutes from the facility. Stein was growing more nervous by the second. Claussen wanted to keep him talking until they arrived. “Well?”

  “Well, I thought of this man who loses control of his Mercedes on a stormy night and runs head-on into a concrete bridge abutment. His wife is killed. She’s the passenger, and she’s always refused to wear her seat belt.”

  Stein’s hoarse laughter vibrated over the noise of the road. He sounded half insane.

  Let him talk, thought Claussen, let him talk.

  “Anyway, Walter, I’m sure you want to know about the driver. He gets out and walks away, not even scratched. This is because his Mercedes has a driver’s side air bag. That’s the best one I’ve heard yet. A driver’s side air bag! You even fooled Volkov. He told me he was worried you might crack up after she died.”

  Stein chuckled to himself. “He thought you loved her, Walter. Did you ever tell him what really happened? Did you ever tell him you were just tidying up?”

  Claussen checked the side-view mirror and smiled thinly. He had guessed right: Stein suspected he might try to tidy up again.

  He said, “I don’t believe I would have risked it if I had been in a Chevy van. Please drive safely, Karl. We’re almost there.”

  ***

  At 2:08 a.m. they stopped at the checkpoint to Boeing’s huge commercial parts depot north of the Sea-Tac airport. A persistent drizzle misted their windshield and glistened on the barbed-wire fence. Wind rippled puddles in the deserted parking lot.

  Two guards were in the ultra-modern security hut, alert and robust young men. One of them stepped outside. Stein rolled down his window.

  “Thanks for coming,” the guard said. “The super thinks we’ve got a Freon leak. Sent the third shift boys packing almost before they clocked in.”

  “He probably did the right thing,” Claussen said. “We’ll have it fixed in a couple of hours.”

  “You’d better. The morning shift’s coming to work at eight, leak or no leak. Sign in while I have a look in back.” The guard passed his clipboard to Stein, and walked to the rear of the van.

  While Stein signed the name of one of the two Cole Dehumidification Systems employees they had researched, Claussen kept his eye on the guard in the booth. The man was watching them with more than casual interest.

  “Hey, nighthawks!” shouted the guard at the back of the van, “it’s locked.”

  “I’m coming,” Claussen said. “Just a minute.” He signed the clipboard, took the keys from the ignition and jumped down.

  The man in the guard booth stiffened when Claussen came toward him. Claussen held up the clipboard. “Want it?”

  The guard looked around suspiciously, then opened. Claussen handed him the clipboard and slipped the stiletto into his sternum in the same motion.

  The guard looked down, wide-eyed, then slumped silently to the floor.

  Stein climbed down from the other side of the van and patted his breast pockets. “Jesus Christ,” he grumbled loudly. “Did you bring the work order, Mack?”

  The other guard looked around from behind the van. “Hey, get your butt back here and open the door. It’s raining.”

  “Take it easy,” Claussen said, strolling up to him. “This isn’t New York.” He put his key in the lock and pulled the door open.

  The guard shined his flashlight into the luggage compartment, presenting his back while he stared, perplexed, at a small load of aircraft parts.

  Claussen struck quickly, burying the stiletto between his shoulder blades and giving it a precise upward twist to cut the aorta. When he shoved the guard inside, the man writhed forward on his stomach.

  Claussen closed the door and tossed the keys back to Stein. “Pull up to the white line and wait.”

  While the van idled at the entrance gate, Claussen ducked into the booth. He stepped over the swelling pool of blood, pulled the first guard inside, took a moment to get his bearings, then sat at the security control panel and typed the codes he had reviewed during the drive: dock alarms off, internal alarms off, bay doors unlocked.

  Minutes later they were inside the massive facility. It took them less than half an hour to exchange the bogus parts for their same-numbered twins. The rest of their allotted time, until 3:15 a.m., they spent loading 747 parts, the decoy, from the old Iraqi list.

  From the parts depot, they drove on dark, rain-slick secondary roads to the university district. When they arrived in front of Hassan Aziz’s apartment, Claussen moved his rental Buick and Stein parked the van in the space.

  Working in the blustery night like stevedores accustomed to each other’s rhythms, they loaded the Boeing parts that they had replaced with counterfeits into the trunk of the Buick. The much larger quantity of 747 parts – the diversion – they left in the van.

  At 4:22 a.m., eight minutes ahead of schedule, they drove into the loading bay of Stein’s Tool and Die and carried the untainted Boeing parts from the exchange, scheduled to disappear forever, to the second basement. When they had finished, Claussen opened the Buick door and started to get in.

  “Hey, just a minute,” Stein barked. “Just a minute. When are you coming back here with the rest of my money?”

  “I told you, Karl, I’ve got four people to pay off ahead of you. It won’t be later than seven thirty.”

  “Yeah, well don’t get tied up. The cement trucks’ll be here at eight, and the wops want payment in advance. Let’s be clear on one thing. You’re not going to pull Volkov’s trick on me. If you aren’t here, we don’t pour.”

  “I’ll be here.” Claussen got in the car and gently closed the door.

  Stein banged on the window. “Goddammit, Walter, give me back my garage door opener. You don’t need it anymore.”

  “On the contrary, Karl. If you fall asleep, I don’t intend to be stranded in the alley. I’ll see you shortly.”

  Claussen pressed the button on the opener while Stein glared at him. The gray metal door with the spray-painted windows clanked open, and he drove into the wet night.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Squinting over his sleeping wife, Wayne Jenkins tried to read the dial of their alarm clock. It was 4:53 a.m. and he hadn’t slept a wink all night. He felt miserable. His mind had trapped him in a maze of useless mental activity he could only escape by getting out of bed. Easier said than done. He was exhausted. He dreaded the thought of a day on the job with too little sleep.

  Maybe he should give up the fight and take a couple of Lori’s Halcion sleeping pills. He’d struggled for months to get off the stuff after Ingrid and Mr. Hecht had disappeared. His doctor told him that if he started again he would get hooked immediately, and the withdrawal would be even more painful the second time around. But what was he supposed to do?

  Decided, then. He would take two Halcions and leave Lori a note asking her to call his secretary at Boeing when she got up. If he went to work at eleven, rested, he would accomplish more than he would in his present state in a month.

  Lori was breathing deeply, evenly. He slipped quietly out of bed and walked to the bathroom, trying to convince himself he was being reasonable rather than weak. He knew where the pills were: he had scouted the medicine cabinet the night before. He took two, plus a sliver his wife had shaved off a third.

  When he turned on the light in the kitchen, there was a nearly simultaneous crash in the living room. It sounded as if someone had tripped over the coffee table. He froze. Was Sean up already? No, he wouldn’t be sitting out there in the dark.

  He heard the floor squeak.

  His heart started to beat more rapidly. How long till the Halcion worked? A half hour, an hour? He wished it would hurry. There were always harmless little noises at night. They sounded ominous, and you always felt a jolt of adrenalin
e when you heard them, but they were never anything to worry about.

  Yet there was always that nagging doubt until you knew for sure.

  He felt a chill go down his spine. He wanted to return to the bedroom, crawl under the covers and hide his head.

  The leather sofa emitted a tiny groan, a sound he knew well. Someone – or something – was in the living room. But who? What? The doors and windows were locked, he’d been careful to make sure of that ever since he had been summoned to the Hilton. The chances of a burglar were minimal. Maybe an animal had crawled down the chimney, or Sean was sleep-walking.

  Just find out what it is and you can go to bed.

  He started toward the hallway.

  He smelled tobacco. A rush of horror took his breath away. There was an intruder in his house. He wished he had a gun. He wanted to flee out the back door but how could he? His wife and son were asleep in the house.

  He grabbed the fire extinguisher they kept wedged in the space beside the fridge and tiptoed down the hallway to the living room. He flicked on the light switch and his blood froze. A stranger was sitting on the sofa, casually smoking a cigarette.

  He wasn’t armed, thank God for that. Wayne jerked the safety ring from the extinguisher. “What the hell are you doing in my house?”

  “Good morning, Wayne. Have a seat, please. I would like to do this quietly. No need disturbing the others.”

  Wayne put a hand on the book case to steady himself. It was the voice from his endless nightmare.

  “Mr. Hecht,” he stammered. “What are you doing here? Do you need more information?”

  The man smiled pleasantly. He had thin lips and hair combed straight back. He looked very cosmopolitan, very poised. “No, Wayne. You have met your last obligation.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “You must be quiet, Wayne, very quiet. If you make a sound, you will leave me no choice. Do the right thing. Put the extinguisher down. Save your wife and son.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? Tell me what you want. Just tell me. You know me. You know I’ll do it.”

  “I told you, Wayne. Put the extinguisher down.”

  “Listen, Mr. Hecht. Be reasonable. I gave you everything you wanted. I’ll never talk.”

  Hecht laughed softly. “Are you begging for your life, Wayne?”

  He was shaking violently now, he couldn’t hide it. If he was going to fight, he’d better do it before he passed out. He readied the extinguisher. “I’m begging you to get out of here.”

  “Shhh! The others.”

  Wayne gaped, paralyzed, as Hecht slid a long slender switch blade from his pocket. He snapped it open, then picked up a sofa cushion with his free hand.

  “Drop the extinguisher, Wayne,” he whispered.

  Wayne gritted his teeth and squeezed the trigger. A stream of foam shot out of the nozzle. Hecht backed up in slow motion, protecting his face with the cushion.

  The stream soon fizzled, and Hecht threw his shield into the heap of foam on the floor. He was angry, his face contorted with silent rage.

  “Wayne?” Lori called from the bedroom. “Wayne, are you all right?”

  “Get out of the house!” he shouted. “Run for help.”

  “Wayne! What’s wrong?”

  She was coming, he could hear her bare footsteps on the parquet floor. He could also see Hecht, a foam man with a clean face and a malevolent smile circling like a panther to the point where the hallway opened into the living room.

  “Lori, watch out! Stop!”

  “Wayne!” She ignored him, came toward him, sleepy-eyed and confused.

  Hecht pounced on her from behind. It all happened so quickly Wayne wasn’t sure he had hurt her. Then she fell and he saw the blood spurt from her back.

  Sean burst into the room, looked around and started screaming at the top of his lungs.

  Wayne no longer knew what he was doing. He hurled the heavy metal extinguisher at Hecht’s head. Hecht ducked out of the way. Wayne picked up an end table.

  “Run, Sean!” he cried. “Run!”

  Before the boy could flee, Hecht caught him by the hair, yanked his head back and slit his throat. Sean made a gurgling sound as Hecht shoved him away.

  “You’ve made a mess of it, Wayne. It was not very courageous of you. But you’re a nice fellow, even Ingrid thought so. I hope you’ll forgive me if I shower in your home and borrow some of your clothes. Now, take your shot. Let’s get it over with. I’m on a tight schedule.”

  Hecht was moving slowly, deliberately toward him, stiletto drawn.

  Wayne hurled the end table. Hecht stepped out of its path and kept on coming. Wayne bolted for the terrace door. He hadn’t gone two steps when he felt a slight thump between his shoulder blades. A burning sensation shot through his back and chest, not acute, not horribly painful. His vision blurred. He knew he was falling but it felt more like floating on air. When he hit the parquet floor he heard the crack of his head, a distant muffled sound. He could see his hands in front of him. They were clawing at the corner of an area rug, though he had not told them to claw. Then he watched them stop clawing, though he had not told them to stop, and darkness engulfed him.

  ***

  After Claussen had driven off with the garage door opener, Stein went to the kitchen and took his bottle of clear schnapps from the refrigerator. He placed it on the Formica table but did not open it. He would have a drink after he went over his pro-versus-con list one more time.

  His doubts about Claussen had started when the son of a bitch said he was working for himself. If that was true, thought Stein, pacing the length of the room, then why would Claussen bother to pay him another $300,000 for a job he had already done? Because they were both from the eastern part of Germany? Because they had served the same cause for 30 years?

  Give me a break.

  Claussen was going to come back to the shop, but it wouldn’t be to pay him. It would be to kill him. Stein wasn’t an idiot. He could see the handwriting on the wall.

  They were pouring the second basement full of concrete because Operation Litvyak was over. They wouldn’t be needing sabotaged aircraft parts any longer – which meant they wouldn’t be needing Stein. He would be a liability, a useless leftover who might rat if he got caught.

  Who could say, maybe he would. Old allegiances went to hell when everyone was out for himself. The idiots were the ones who kept on believing in loyalty. Loyalty to what?

  He had played dumb until now, but he had not been dumb. The proof of this was in the pudding. When Claussen pulled into the loading bay, Stein would greet the arrogant bastard with a stream of .38 bullets. The way he saw it, someone was going down to his concrete grave this morning. The only question was who, and Stein intended to make sure it wasn’t him.

  A lot of pros, but what were the cons to eliminating Claussen? The rental car? Not really. He’d drive it back where it came from during the after-hours drop.

  Claussen was traveling in the States with multiple identities, all of them bogus. He had shown Stein a few of his passports and matching driver’s licenses, and they were as good as in the old days. This meant Claussen still had access to the KGB or Stasi forging apparatus. The man who had flown to the United States on Lufthansa was not the man who had rented the Buick; and the man who had rented the Buick was not the man who had booked the hotel room wherever Claussen was staying. And none of the men were Claussen. If someone who did not exist disappeared, the authorities would not miss him – at least not the American authorities.

  Who would?

  Only those who knew Claussen was here.

  Stein stopped pacing, took a glass from the cupboard and tapped it on the table. This meant Volkov, which was a problem. He would send someone over, or come himself, to find out what had happened and whether he still had exposure. It would be a monumental pain in the ass. He didn’t relish the thought of lying to that prick.

  But how bad could it be? Most of the modified aircraft parts to which
they had just given serial numbers would soon be in circulation. Several huge air disasters in quick succession would create enough havoc in the U.S. to show that Operation Litvyak, if needed during the USSR era, would have been a success.

  Volkov was sick with pride. He’d be glad the planes came down as long he could be sure all remnants of his unholy creation had been destroyed. He didn’t give a damn about Claussen. As long as Stein could prove that Claussen was dead and that the parts warehouse was under 20 feet of concrete, he wouldn’t be in the crosshairs.