THE
DEATH
FREAK
* * *
Clifford Irving
and
Herbert Burkholz
SUMMIT BOOKS NEW YORK
AUTHOR'S NOTE
While this book is a work of fiction, an entertainment, the reader is warned not to attempt experimentation with any chemical formulae or construction of any physical devices described in this book. Many of the formulae and devices may inflict severe damage, possibly fatal, on the untrained experimenter.
All this new talk of brotherhood! Does no one remember Cain and Abel? There are good brothers and evil brothers. The man I call my brother is the one who guards my back.
—Jean le Malchanceux
(in the 12th century)
1
In the master bedroom of a half-timbered colonial home in Williamsburg, Virginia, the colonel and his lady glared at each other across the expanse of an oversized bed as white as an arctic icecap. The colonel's lady was young, lovely, and lithe. She was also sore as hell, and when she wasn't involved in glaring she was busily packing the powder-blue piece of luggage on the bed. The colonel himself stood tall and ramrod straight. He was no longer young; his trim military mustache was splashed with silver. He was as sore as his lady, but he worked at concealing it. Concealment was part of his trade.
"There's no need to snap at me," he said mildly. "I asked a simple question. Where are you going?"
"I thought we had an agreement." As she spoke, her strong hands—too strong, really, for such a sensuous body-continued to work in neat, precise motions stacking cottons, silks, and bikinis in her suitcase. "No questions, either way, remember?"
"Quite so." He nodded his agreement. "But that was three years ago. How many times since then have you simply taken off? Without a word? Oh, yes! 'See you soon.' " He mocked her. "That's just not good enough, Catherine."
"Are you going to bore me with statistics?" She slammed the suitcase shut, snapped the lock.
"I don't find them boring. Quite the contrary. Eighteen times in three years. Add up all the days and weeks. I've done it, my dear. It comes to almost six months that you've been away from home—if you still call it that. And I don't even know where you go. That's not quite the same as a long weekend in Barbados when the weather's rotten and you're feeling blue, is it?"
"No, it isn't." Defiantly, she was ready to admit it. "But that was the agreement, Freddy."
Still mild and cool, he said, "In that case, I think it's time to change the agreement. From now on I want to know where you go, and why."
"The where is unimportant."
"I want to know."
"Just like that?"
"Life isn't static, my dear."
"If you really wanted to know where I went," she said impatiently, "you could have found out long ago. You have the organization for it."
"I don't do things that way."
"The hell you don't. The only reason you haven't done it already is that you don't want the whole department in on your private life. As for why I go away . . . you should be able to figure that out for yourself."
He was silent for a long moment. She was right; he knew. He shook his head, a tired old bull puzzled by the progression of the years. An army brat! It had seemed such a wise, intelligent choice on his part, after his first wife had died. But her father had been a general, and she'd never learned to salute the lesser ranks. At last, he said, "It wasn't always that way, you know."
"Are you going to start that again?"
"You didn't know me then. Back in Burma, and Marseille . . ."
"Ah, the war! The best years of our lives! When men were men!" She knew how to plant the barbs.
But he seemed not to have heard her. His voice was lower now, almost indistinct. "It was different then. And I was different. There were so few of us in France, so many of them, and all we could do was--"
"Kill," she finished for him. Her violet eyes were wide and hard. She was breathing rapidly. "All right, go ahead. Will it make you feel better? Go ahead, then. Tell me about all the people you killed. Tell me about the ones you strangled, and the ones you stabbed, and the ones you shot. Tell me about the time you blew the head off the German major with his own Schmeis- ser. You like to tell that one, don't you? How the blood spurted out of his neck across the room and hit the wall. Go ahead, tell me. You always get a hard-on when you tell that one."
"You' re a fool, Catherine. It's not that way at all."
"Isn't it? Do you think I can't see?"
"It isn't that simple."
"It is, Freddy. For people like you, it is."
"You know very little," he said softly, "about people like me."
Her eyes flared, and her head shot up, shoulders squared. "People like you. If you can't kill, you can't fuck. It's as simple as that. And when was the last time you killed anything?"
He lunged at her across the bed, fell short, rolled over, and came up reaching. She didn't try to back away. He slapped her twice, then ripped at her clothing and fumbled with his own. He was strong, sinewy. She took the blows silently, bending subtly with them, and when he flung her onto the bed she lay there, waiting. He threw himself on top of her. His hands went around her neck, but she didn't struggle, showed no fear.
"Bloody bitch," he said, and tightened his grip. Her eyes were open; she stared at him calmly, curious.
"Bloody, bloody bitch!" And then he was inside her. He said the words over and over again as he moved in her, his hands still clasping her white neck.
"Killer," she said, almost tenderly. "My killer."
The words were a spur. He pumped at her furiously. She accepted all he gave her, but she made no movement. Even her arms stayed at her sides. Only when he climaxed did she arch her body, grunt, and come with him. Only then did his fingers uncurl from the flesh of her neck, leaving the red blotches that would eventually bruise to match her eyes.
He rolled off her, groaning. She rose smoothly from the bed, went to the closet and then to the bathroom. When she came out she was dressed in jeans and a pink cashmere sweater, and she had put her hair back in one thick dark-blond braid. The colonel hadn't moved. His eyes were closed.
"That wasn't bad, Freddy. In fact, it was pretty good."
He opened his eyes to stare at the white ceiling. "Damn your soul. Am I supposed to be flattered?"
"Be what you like, darling. Best of all, be yourself. It doesn't change anything. I'm still going. You understand that, don't you?"
He was silent, drained.
"Don't you want to say goodbye?"
"I thought I just did."
"In your fashion, Freddy. Want to know when I'll be back?"
"You'll be back," he said bitterly, still not looking at her. "That's what matters."
"So far." Then she laughed shortly. "Don't worry. This time too. I'll be back."
He closed his eyes again. He heard her take the suitcase and go lightly down the carpeted stairs to telephone for the taxi that would take her to Patrick Henry Airport. She was tough. He hated that, but he respected it. Lying there, he waited while she waited, waiting through the sound of the taxi's tires on the driveway gravel, the merry chime of the bell, the firm closing of the front door, the squeal of the departure. Birds chirped among the trees in the early-morning February sunshine. Once she was gone he lay there, still waiting although there was nothing left to wait for.
When the telephone rang he ignored it. That was a luxury.
But on the seventh ring the movement of light caught the corner of his eye, the regular pulsing of the red light in the base of the instrument. When he saw the light he rolled over at once and picked up the phone. He spoke briefly, then listened for a long time.
"No, Erikson, I don't want you to do that," he said finally. "That program is classified. For O Group only. No technicians. I'll run the printout myself. I just want the five of us there. Clear the printout room and call the others. O Group meeting at oh- nine-thirty. I'll be right over."
The colonel hung up the telephone and went quickly into the bathroom, staring at his face in the mirror.
“Killer,” he murmured to himself—far more pleased than shamed. Then he went about the business of returning to his trade.
2
Psychoprofile Series J
FOR EYES OF: Officer commanding Colonial Squad and Closed List O. 5/5
SUBJECT: Edward Mancuso GS11/58 Substantive
CLASSIFICATION: ARM-1 Weapons Manufacturer
ADDRESS: 410 East 82nd Street New York, N.Y.
AGE: 38
POB: New York, N.Y.
DATE OF PROJECTION: Immediate
PROJECTION VALID FOR: 90 days
Subject Edward Mancuso is a specialist in the manufacture of unusual killing devices (UKD's) and has been under continuous contract to the Agency for the past twenty years. He is today considered the leading expert in this field, his reputation being rivaled only by that of Soviet scientist Vasily Borgneff of the KGB. (Ref. #U/7924) During the period of his employment, subject Mancuso has supplied UKD's to the Agency in general, and more particularly to the Special Operations Section IV, Technical Services Division (TSD), now known infra-Agency as the Colonial Squad. His products are supplied to the Agency on an assignment basis only, although until approximately three years ago the subject has exhibited considerable personal initiative in the development of UKD's not specifically requested. As policy (Directive 59-A- 211), subject is never told the target for his assignment except in the most general terms, and then strictly on a need-to-know basis. Subject is rarely assigned more than three projects per year. He has never refused an assignment. His efficiency quotient, combining quality control and speed of delivery, is 9.6, the highest in TSD.
Although he is primarily noted for his development of the Mancuso Effect (quick-release neurotoxin heart-attack simulator) and the Mancuso Antidote (tablet size and compress inhaler both), he has also been responsible for the following UKD's. Principal but partial list follows:
Mancuso barium chromate and boron fuse.
"Little Devil" blowback silencer for Walther PP and PPK .22 (self- destruct model).
Model R-84 Anaphylactic-shock cartridge.
Mancuso felt-tip pen, Flair or Bic model (containing tiger-snake venom).
Participation in PROJECT GRAVEL MINE and subsequent refinement of PROJECT JELLY FOOT.
Model R-24 miniature detonators.
Mancuso Blow-off Wheel Remover (for all model U.S. cars manufactured after 1967).
Current participation in PROJECT FLASH GORDON.
Educational and cultural background:
Subject is the youngest of four children born to Angelo and Maria Mancuso, both of Genoa, Italy, both emigrated to the United States in 1929. Subject was born on the Lower East Side of Manhattan and was educated in New York City public schools and at Stuyvesant High School, a special-interests school for students of high I.Q. rating and unusual abilities. No formal education beyond high school level. At the age of eighteen he developed, through independent research, the "Little Devil" Blowback Silencer (see above) and offered it for sale to a proprietary corporation (AmerArmCo, Wilmington, Delaware) owned by this Agency, although at the time subject was unaware of this fact. He was eventually referred to Clandestine Services, Langley (ClanServ), which purchased the model and destroyed record of the patent already applied for at U.S. Patent Office by the subject. ClanServ referred the subject to TSD, then located in the Broyhill Building, Arlington, Virginia, and subject was placed under direct control of Agent Richard Wilenski, deceased (Ref. #T/476-d). Since then the subject has worked exclusively for TSD on a contract basis.
When questioned twenty years ago by Agent Wilenski at Camp Peary Training Center about his lack of desire for a higher education, despite his obvious abilities in chemistry and physics and the offer of a scholarship from the Agency, he was quoted as replying: "What could they teach me at Columbia? I already know enough to blow up half of Harlem."
Thus, intellectually, the subject may be described as being streetwise rather than well educated, with an intuitive ratherthan an empirical mind. Naturally brilliant in his own and closely related fields, he is indifferent to most others. His reading is confined to random periodicals and technical journals, detective novels, men's and sports magazines. Subscribes to Skin Diver, Sports Illustrated and Playboy. His taste in music runs from hard rock to light classical.
Outside interests include scuba diving (rating: Intermediate), tennis (rated: B player) and basketball. Plays chess and backgammon poorly.
Does not gamble other than minimally. Drinks moderately without specific preferences. Not known to use drugs, and in Camp Peary tests (Series D-2) reacted negatively to Agency-prescribed dosage of LSD (-3); DNT (-2); and cannabis (-.5).
Physical characteristics:
Height: 5'8". Weight: 145-150 lbs. Eyes: brown. Hair: black. Skin: olive. Distinguishing Marks: puckered scar right forearm (childhood accident); transverse furrow left thigh (scuba accident, St. Croix, 1971).
Sexuality: Heterosexual, apparently normal frequency. No marriages. No known repetitive sexual relationship at present.
Politics: No apparent political preferences. Has never registered or voted.
Highest security clearance granted. (See FBI file: 3/EJM/43219)
Social: Because of the nature of his work, the subject has long been considered totally amoral. Recently, however. . .
The two men walking down Duke of Gloucester Street were dressed in knee breeches and shirts with furbelowed sleeves. Their shoes bore silver buckles, and the white wigs they wore were neatly trimmed to short but effective queues. They might have been the young Burr and the young Hamilton, brooding over General Washington's incompetence, as they walked rapidly and silently, nodding only occasionally to a mobcapped woman in homespun or a portly gentleman in a suit of maroon broadcloth much too heavy for a temperate morning in Virginia.
Keeping up the rapid pace, they turned off Duke of Gloucester opposite the Governor's Palace and skirted the common green past the lowing oxen grazing there, past the smithy, with the clang of the blacksmith's anvil and roar of his forge. Across the green a company of The King's Own Foot, lobsterback uniforms blood-bright in the sun, marched and countermarched in drill. The two men ignored the sight, ignoring as well the band of colonial militia, cocked hats set at every-which angle, engaged in arms inspection, leathery palms smacking muskets sharply. They were readying themselves for the weekly Sunday-morning battle between the colonial militia and the army of King George. From behind them tolled the bells of The College of William and Mary.
Kelly, the younger and shorter of the two, looked at his wrist- watch without breaking stride. "We're late," he muttered. "I hate to be late."
"Can't be helped," Rakow said. "He can't call an O Group meeting Sunday morning on fifteen minutes' notice. I mean, he can do what he pleases, but he can't expect us to be on time. You know where I was?"
"I can guess."
"She didn't like it one bit," Rakow said. "And this time her kid saw me sneak out."
"Well, that was inevitable, wasn't it?"
"She didn't think so."
"A fucking flap to the tenth power." Kelly rarely used such language, but he truly hated to be late. It destroyed his image of his efficiency. "Always the same. Run in circles, scream and shout. Like the army."
"You got it exactly. That's why old Freddy does it. He loves it."
The usual mob of casually dressed tourists clutching candy bars and icy beer cans had gathered at the south end of the green to watch the mock battle between the British and colonial troops. Dozens of cameras clicked as buff-coated artillerymen touched linstock to powder hole and ten two-pound carronades roared raggedly at the sky, discharging only harmless air. Kelly and Rakow pushed their way through the crowd, each in his own way cursing the executive decision to relocate Special Operations IV (TSD) behind the seventeenth-century facade of Colonial Williamsburg. The Colonial Squad—that was what the others called them now, with their passion for cute and euphemistic names. At least it was better than the old days when they were known by the button-down crowd at Langley as The Animals. Those smooth, superior bastards, thought Rakow. If we didn't do the dirty work, some of them would be lucky to get jobs as clerks at IBM or the Rand Institute.
Once through the crowd, the two men dropped the pretense of controlled haste and jogged across the road to the street opposite the common green. They were both in fine condition; they barely puffed. Kelly did two miles every morning. Rakow had his barbells.
The row of houses on the other side was typical of the restored area of Williamsburg: frame-and-shingle dwellings neatly made, one with a ground-level shop selling leather goods, another housing a carpenter who advertised his specialty with an oxbow hanging over the door. Eight houses in all, joined together by an impressive facade that neatly masked the activities of the Colonial Squad.
They made for the first house on the right and pounded up the wooden steps to the porch. There was a knocker on the front door, but they didn't knock. They waited. In a moment the door swung open and a tall, broad black man in green-and-gold livery filled the doorframe. He looked like anything but a servant. He looked as if he sorely missed his green beret and his garrote noose. He smiled and greeted them softly.
THE DEATH FREAK -- An Eddie Mancuso Thriller (Eddie Mancuso And Vasily Borgneff Book 1) Page 1