Chameleon

by William Diehl

  "Show some guts, boy, I'll take th' fuckin' strap t' yuh."

  "Yes, Pap."

  "Git back on that goddamn rogue pony and straighten his ass out or I'll take an inch a hide off'n yer butt."

  "Yes, Pap."

  "Mount up, goddammit, don't be hangin' around that fuckin' water bucket."

  "Yes, Pap."

  "Dontcha call me Pap, goddammit, ya bust that fuckin' pony's balls, git him on his knees, then I'm your goddamn Pap. We ain't havin' no fuckin' fairies in this family."

  Tall, raw-boned, Texas kid, drawl-voiced and leather-handed, his old man's venal temper and a two-inch fuse, on the rodeo circuit while he was still in high school, and by the time he was twenty-one and old enough to order his own beer in the endless saloons from Wichita to Cheyenne to Phoenix to El Paso, he had big, swollen knuckles from dusting off all the smart-ass bastards that made fun of his name ("Hinkie Hinkle"), and he had the trophies and the belt buckles, and he had hunted with the best of them, brown bear and eight-point buck and jaguar, and he also had more than a dozen broken bones and the miseries and it hurt to get up in the morning and he was living on eggs and bacon and uppers and downers and painkillers and washing it all down with Coors beer.

  Twenty-two years old and peaking out.

  At the Armed Forces rodeo he got drunk and missed his ride and a honey-voiced lady sergeant from recruiting fucked his brains out all night and all morning and had him signed and on his way to boot camp before his hangover was gone.

  Nam,

  seven months later,

  human game,

  fuck breaking horses and shooting longhorn buck.

  In eight weeks in 1967 he kills twenty-seven Buddha-heads. Mot Sog, the Army's special assassination squad, for which all records will be destroyed after the war, taps him. One night near the DMZ, using an infrared scope mounted on a Mannlicher single-action CD 13, from more than a quarter mile away, he picks off a Cong agent, sneaking across the lines, so unbelievable a shot that a couple of guys from the Corps of Engineers measure the distance with a transit, just for the record. Nineteen hundred and twenty-seven feet, the longest kill shot in Army history.

  After that, it was a honky tonk shooting gallery, like knocking over ducks, bam, bam, bam.

  Back in Texas, he went up for hire. In Rhodesia, where he earned three hundred dollars a day plus per diem, he took a postgraduate course in interrogation, and became an expert in the deadly art of persuasion, hanging captured blacks out of a helicopter at five hundred feet by the ankles until they talked, and letting them go if they didn't. When he came home after two years, Pap never cussed at him again, even when he changed his name to Hinge. Pap was afraid to.

  He decided the belt buckle was too ostentatious. By now, Spettro probably knew everything there was to know about Ray Hinge. He put on a more conservative belt, checked himself out in the mirror, and walking as straight as a sergeant in the Queen's Guard, he opened his side of the door to the adjoining room and knocked. A moment later Falmouth opened the door from his side.

  Hinge was surprised at how tall Spettro was. He was almost dapper in appearance, deeply tanned, with snow-white hair at his temples, and dressed in a three-piece raw-silk navy-blue suit with a tie striped with wine and gray.

  Hinge was exactly as Falmouth had expected, raw-boned and hard-looking, with small, agate eyes and leathery hands, and course, dishwater-blond hair.

  You better be good, Tony thought. For this deal, I need the best there is.

  Hinge knew the scenario by heart and recited it with ease. A good actor, that was a help. "Excuse me," he said in a lazy Texas drawl, "I thought this was some kind of closet."

  "No problem."

  "Say, yuh wouldn't have a spare cigarette, would yuh? I just ran out."

  "Sure."

  Falmouth handed him the Camel and lit it. Hinge took a deep puff and as heat from the glowing tip was drawn up through the tobacco, the word "Spettro" appeared on the side of the cigarette. Hinge smiled and held out his hand.

  "Hinge," he said. "And it's a goddamn pleasure, man."

  "Thank you, Mr. Hinge. Call me Spettro."

  "Yes, suh."

  Falmouth held the door open and Hinge entered his room. There was a briefcase on the bed.

  "I just left the lads from the plant," Falmouth said. "We've got one big break. This Rafsaludi bunch has agreed to a meeting this afternoon to discuss payment of the ransom. They think a company man is coming in. There were four of them in the group that pinched Lavander, according to Gómez, the chauffeur who was driving Lavander when he was grabbed."

  "Th' Rafsaludi, they let this heah Gómez go, hunh?" Falmouth nodded.

  "Kinda dumb of them, wasn't it," Hinge said.

  "It's inconsistent with the rest of their behavior."

  "Yuh think he's one of 'em?"

  Not a bad start, Hinge. "Without going into a lot of detail, the whole snatch reeks of a setup," Falmouth agreed. "Yes, I think it was an inside job. The chauffeur and, my guess is, four others. I think he made a Freudian slip when he said there were four kidnappers, but you've got to remember, all this information is secondhand. I haven't seen Gómez and he has no idea I'm here."

  "What's with the chauffeur?" Hinge asked.

  "All he knows is that a company man is flying in from the States, supposedly to handle the transaction. The bloody son of a bitch has volunteered to drive him to the meeting this afternoon."

  "We gonna let 'im?"

  "Sure. If we say no, he may get curious. Best to keep him under hand; we may need him if this thing goes strange."

  He walked over to the bed and opened the briefcase. It was fitted with a tray that held a machine gun in a fixed position. The trigger was rigged to the handle. The gun was no more than eighteen inches long, with a metal-frame stock and a flash suppressor and silencer on the barrel. The gunsight was cone-shaped and almost as long as the barrel itself. There was a switch on the side. The clip was longer than the gun itself, but was curved back under the stock, obviously to keep the gun compact. There were two more clips in the tray as well as two pistols and a small metal box. Falmouth detached the trigger mechanism and took the tray out of the briefcase.

  "Have you used this weapon before?"

  "I never seen one quite like it."

  "It's an Ungine. Brand-new. Totally silenced and flash-suppressed. You can't hear it five feet away and you can't see it at night. Effectively, it fires a thousand rounds a minute. The clips hold a hundred rounds each, forty-five caliber. That's six seconds of continuous fire per clip. All you have to do is tap the trigger and you get an eight- to ten-round burst, or you can set it to fire single shot."

  Hinge whistled. His eyes were wide with anticipation as Falmouth handed him the machine gun. Hinge looked at it as a jeweler might look at a twenty-carat diamond, turning it over, hefting it to feel the weight.

  "Seven pounds," Falmouth said.

  "How about range?"

  "Four hundred meters."

  "Fantastic."

  "The laser scope is adjusted to fire the weapon automatically by temperature. It's set for ninety-eight-point-six. All you have to do is swing the weapon around. Whenever the beam hits a human being, pow. The trigger will override the laser, so it can be used either way. There are two switches in the handle of the briefcase. One turns the laser on, the other is the trigger."

  "Neat."

  Falmouth took out the small box and opened it. Inside were a dart gun that looked like a cigar, four darts, a small bottle of clear liquid, an electrical device about an inch long that looked like a tiny buss fuse, two buttons and two FM tuners, neither of which was any larger than a calling card.

  "Lookee here," Hinge said, taking out the cigar. "I usually make these myself. Never saw a store-bought one before."

  "This is probably more accurate than the homemade variety," Falmouth said. He took the cigar, fitted one of the darts into the end, and then turned toward the lamp on the far side of the room. He blew sharply
into the cigar-shaped gun, and the dart whistled across the room and imbedded itself in the lampshade.

  "It's very clean up to seven or eight feet," he said, and then added, "with a little practice."

  "What're we usin'?" Hinge asked, pointing to the bottle.

  "Sodium dinitrate."

  "Good stuff."

  "If you hit an artery or blood vessel, it will knock the subject out in about five seconds. Hit a nerve, and paralysis is almost immediate."

  "I go for the throat. Right here," Hinge said, tapping a spot near his Adam's apple. "Yuh got a good chance of catching this nerve here. Yuh miss, the jugular's right next to it. I like to go for the nerve. Five seconds can be a long fuckin' time if the subject's hip."

  "I agree."

  "So, how d'we play it?"

  "If my information is correct, you've been the inside man on two switch operations."

  "Yes, suh."

  "I figger you work the inside, I'll be the shadow."

  "Sounds like a winner," Hinge said. And then, smiling, he added, "I'm really lookin' forward to this, man. Workin' with you, I mean. Like teamin' up with Wyatt Earp, fer Chrissakes." And he laughed.

  "I'm quite flattered," Falmouth said. Hinge's attitude of hero-worship made him uneasy. It seemed unprofessional to Falmouth, although Hinge probably knew his business. Hell, Quill wouldn't have sent Hinge if he wasn't first-class. Relax, Falmouth.

  "A few more things," Falmouth went on. "Your car is a Buick wagon. It's bugged and equipped with a radio transmitter. We can read the signal up to a mile away. They're supposed to call at two and give us directions. You're to come alone in the company car, although they've agreed to let Gómez drive."

  "I'll just bet they did."

  "The Rafsaludi will meet you at their destination. My thinking is, they'll jump the car somewhere along the way and snatch you, the same way they grabbed Lavander. I'll be tracking you from another car with the best wheelman in South America."

  "How about me?"

  "We'll wire you, too. I've got an anal transmitter. It's a bit uncomfortable but very effective, and they won't find it with a pat-down. Thing is, old man, we'll do our best to avoid losing you."

  "How about a mike? I could maybe give yuh some verbal clues."

  "A bit too risky, really. We'll be able to monitor everything you say in the Buick. If they snatch you, we'll rely on the transmitters and visuals."

  "Fair enough. How about Gómez?"

  "Rafael Gomez. Native of Maracaibo. Quiet type. Thirty-one. A bachelor. Plays it with his hat in his hand around the big shots at the refinery, but apparently he's quite the hotshot with the ladies. He's no genius, quit high school after two years, and no physical threat, so I don't see him as one of the ring leaders. He's worked for Sunset Oil for two years. Speaks shaky English."

  "That's good enough."

  "Splendid. We've got two hours before we leave, old man. Let's run through the operation a time or two. Maybe we can prevent any surprises."

  "Yes, Quill here."

  "I thought I'd give you an update on Lavander."

  "What about Lavander."

  "We've got two of our best men on it. I'm sure they'll bring him in."

  "That's not what I mean. How much does he know?"

  "A lot."

  "Does he know about Midas?"

  "Yes. He analyzed the sample and studied the entire location."

  "Was that smart?"

  "Lavander is known to be very discreet. He's worked for just about every operation in the world, at one time or another."

  "Nevertheless, this kidnapping should serve as a warning. Right now it's very dangerous to have a man outside the organization knowing this much."

  "He's very valuable ..."

  "I see. Then I suggest we test him. See just how discreet he is. If he's reliable, we should try to enlist him. If he's not ..."

  "I understand."

  "Good. Keep me updated on this, please."

  "Of course, sir."

  The Algerian switch was an almost foolproof play. Almost, because one could never discount the human factor, and with it, the unexpected. The switch was designed as a logical exercise in fear and was extremely effective against nonpolitical terrorists—the greedy ones, willing to risk their necks for money, but not willing to die for it. They could be scared. Fanatics were different. Fanatics were dangerous and unpredictable. They could freak out without warning. To them, death was martyrdom, and martyrdom was part of the litany. In this case, Falmouth knew the terrorists were money-hungry, period. There was no political motivation behind the kidnapping of Lavander. These guys were not fiery-eyed disciples of anything. Anything, that is, but greed. Everything added up to it.

  The switch required professionals, and Falmouth had quickly recognized Hinge as an iceman, a totally amoral and compulsive perfectionist, ideal for the job. He did not like Hinge personally. They had nothing in common other than their profession. Hinge was a typical mercenary. Hinge lived for blood and money, and he had no taste, no class. He ate meat and potatoes with boring regularity, drank beer and sour-mash whiskey, and his reading was confined to Soldier of Fortune magazine, the Business Week of the mercs, and the occasional books on new weapons, or the current state of the killing art, published by Paladin Press, named after the legendary roving gunfighter and edited, naturally, in Phoenix, where the spirit of the Old West still prevailed. That was how Hinge saw himself, a roving gunslinger, always riding into the sunset looking for some new standard to carry, killing Commies and left-wingers and socialists and anyone else politically to the left of Attila the Hun, because somehow that made it acceptable. Like many of his brethren, he was coarse and unrefined, a killing machine who could not judge a good bottle of wine or a good cigar. In short, he was a boor and a bore. But he was good at his work and that's what they were there for.

  Falmouth's driver, a thin little man in his late forties named Angel, had driven a cab in Paris for three years, so he had little trouble negotiating the ass-tightening curves and threading through the traffic on the road from the plant down to Caracas. The receiver for the anal transmitter Hinge was wearing was beeping loud and clear.

  Hinge was clever. He kept up a running conversation with Gomez, all of which was picked up by the bug in the Buick and transmitted to the stereo in Falmouth's car, a silver-gray BMW.

  "Whaddya call that?" he heard Hinge ask.

  "Ees special nursery for strange plants," Gómez answered.

  "Strange plants?"

  "You know, senor, different..."

  "Rare plants?"

  "Si. Rare."

  A few moments later: "Who's that?"

  "Ees a statue of our savior, Simón Bolivar, the greatest hero in all of Venezuela."

  "Whatcha call this part of town? It's very pretty."

  "El Este. Very expense. Only rich people live here. We will turn down here and drive through part of it."

  Keep it up, Falmouth thought, you're doing great. The idea of working as a team was becoming more palatable to him. The fellow was good, no question about that. And Angel was a real pro behind the wheel. Falmouth did not want to get too close. Thus far, Gómez had not seen him and was totally unaware of his existence. It was important to keep it that way. So the BMW followed from a respectable distance as Angel turned into a residential neighborhood of homes that reminded Falmouth a little of Palm Beach and Coral Gables.

  Hinge kept talking, his tough Southwestern twang coming in loud and clear.

  "This heah's a terrible road," he said. "Why don't they pave it?"

  "Ees the shortest way to go. Ees only a mile, about, from here."

  "Good."

  Angel chuckled. "Bueno. I know where they are."

  "Good," Falmouth said. "The signal's fading. Wherever they are, the reception isn't worth a farthing."

  "Thees road they are on, eet follows around the mountain, like the snake. Very bad road."

  "You know it, then?"

  "But of course, seño
r. Ees the only dirt road around here."

  Angel circled up through the foothill subdivision and then turned down a paved street, which suddenly ended. He turned to Falmouth.

  "Thees ees the road, señor."

  "Let's move with caution. We don't want them to spot us."

  "Si, no problem."

  Falmouth was bouncing in the back seat of the car as Angel guided it around the potholes and washes in the miserable dirt trail on the edge of the mountain.

  Suddenly Gómez's voice came through the loudspeaker, much louder than before. "Por Dios!" he cried, trying to act surprised.

  "Well, goddamn!" Hinge answered, acting equally surprised. A moment later there was a burst of automatic gunfire from somewhere outside the car.

  Hinge said, "Okay, stop. They got an automatic weapon and they wanna make sure we know they got it."

  There was an edge to his voice, not of fear, but of anger. Jesus, Falmouth thought, don't lose it now.

  "Okay," Falmouth said to Angel, "Slow 'er down. Give the bastards a chance to do their mischief."

  "Sí."

  Two men with shotguns came toward the car. Gómez got out to meet them, his hands held high over his head. He was putting on a good act. Hinge grabbed the moment.

  "This's it, the joy ride's over. Car: dark-blue Pontiac Grand Prix. 1974. Very dirty. Lotsa dents. Two guys with shotguns coming toward us. Another in the bushes with an automatic weapon, one on the hill, spotting. Jesus, it's Jesse James time. These turkeys have bandannas pulled over their faces. Okay, here comes one. Bonas nokkers."

  The one who approached the car was short and squat, like a box, with long greasy black hair topped by a brown beret. The bandanna did not hide his beard or his funky left eye, a gray mass floating between narrow eyelids. He pulled the door open, holding the shotgun toward Hinge's chest with one hand. "Vamos," he ordered and motioned Hinge out of the car. "Pronto!"

  Hinge got out, holding the briefcase close to his chest. Gray-Eye looked at the case and then back at Hinge. "Habla Usted español?" he asked.

  Hinge shrugged.

  "You speak Spaneesh?" Gray-Eye snapped.

  "No," Hinge lied.