Ded Reckoning

by William F Lee

  When Agent Ryder finishes he gets up, shakes Hunter's hand, turns and strides through the house and out the front door. Outside he finds the groups have increased in size with the arrival of several more of his own agents. After Ryder has left, Agent Oboe gets in Hunter's face. He grows more "Langley-like," and says, "I've been told to remind you that this is not your business and not involved with your project."

  "Joe said that?"

  "Yeah." He pauses, staring at Hunter. Nearly a challenge. Then adds, "And, you're not to talk to any officials. To no one. And you are to be on your way by Wednesday, Thursday the latest. Keep in touch with your handler, and visit with him before you depart country." He starts to leave, stops and says, "Oh, by the way. There is no Agent John Oboe. And I wasn't here. Bye, Jarhead."

  "Why do you need to talk to Mrs. Columbo? She's just the Property Manager and not part of any of this. Why make it look like she's involved?"

  "Because I've been ordered to do it." He does his pause and stare routine again. "You get your job done. I'll do mine. And if I were you, I'd have a plan. Then I would have a backup plan because the first one won't work. Ever hear that, Leatherhead?"

  "Yeah, I've heard that. How come we're in the same business, and I've just met you and already hate your bony ass? Ever hear that?"

  "Yeah, and it scares me to death. Makes me shake like a cat shi ..."

  Hunter's jack-hammer blow with the heel of his hand crashes against Oboe's forehead before he can finish. Oboe is on his back, dazed but not unconscious, next to the pool. His watch hand dangles in the water. Hunter leans over and finishes Oboe's remark, "peach pits on a marble floor. And if we meet again I'm going to kick your ass before we start talkin'." He reaches down and rolls Oboe into the pool and growls, "It's Leatherneck, shit head."

  Oboe flops, sputters and splashes in the water like wet long johns on a clothesline on a windy day. He pulls himself out of the pool. No longer looks like the sleek leopard he projected throughout the day. Pushes himself to a squatting position before standing. Once on his feet he shakes his head, clearing the webs. Stares at his clothes, trying to decide how to get dry. He squirms out of his suit coat and slowly wrings it out, pen and sunglasses clattering to the concrete. He can't, or doesn't want to completely recover his composure. He manages a less threatening glare and mutters, "Maybe so. If you see me comin'." He staggers slightly, then turns and leaves calling for Dee as he enters the house from the patio dripping water through the living room. Dee comes to him with a beach towel in hand and leads him from Hunter's house, arm around Oboe's shoulder, soothing him while giving Hunter a scornful look. Magpie sits in the yard, watching. Hunter saunters to the front door and watches as they cross the yard. As they do, Oboe looks back, smiles and winks at Hunter.

  Hunter mutters, "Should slit his throat now and get it over with." Pauses, hears Dee call out for Magpie to "come". He sees Magpie gazing at him with what looks like a smile on her face. Hunter shakes his head. "Well, the dog likes me."

  Then he turns to locate Moe and Curly, the two handymen, and determine how far along they are. He finds them and sees the two clowns are good at what they do. The plastic sheets cover the windows. Glass shards gone. Holes plugged in the walls. They tell him that they'll be back early Monday morning to put on the cover-up paint and replace the windows. They also report they've cleared off the roof and inspected it. No damage.

  Now that he has time, Hunter ambles back into his bedroom to sort out his gear, papers, and clothes. He never unpacked his suitcase nor arranged all the "vitals" Sam had put in place for his mission. The different passports. Information on bank accounts, here and in Geneva. Also a wad of cash in a 8x10 plain brown envelope, clipped closed and scotch taped. Names to use, credit cards. Samantha had already been sent photos in his different disguises, matching the names. Sam had everything ready but she wasn't ready for Shanahan, and evidently had no clue she was being stalked. Hunter pauses, staring at the envelope, mind drifting. The agency should have known, watched her or at least warned her. Or I should have.

  He murmurs, "Well, shit." Looks across the bed at his image in the full-length closet mirror where not that many hours ago, a completely nude, voluptuous Samantha was teasingly doing the same in front of him. Again, in a murmur, "If I do run into any of those bastards, I'll make it messy, Sam."

  Finishing putting everything away, he returns to the front of the house and opens the door. Sees that the mess out front has been cleaned up as good as possible. The asphalt is charred. The section of split rail fencing is not yet replaced and the grass plot between the sidewalk and curbing is scorched. A tow truck is hauling away the remains of Samantha's Pontiac. It follows the ME's wagon. And Sam. And the Irishman. Hunter extends his arm and leans against the doorframe, running his other hand through his cropped hair. Sam, I'm sorry. Damn sorry. I’ll make it up somehow.

  He pushes off the doorframe. Gazes about. The crowd has dispersed, including the press which is strange. He sees a patrolman posted at the end of the cul-de-sac. Good ol' Bradovich. One vehicle does remain, parked along the curb outside of Dee's house. The Bony-ass' sedan.

  In the kitchen, Hunter glances at his watch then pours himself an apricot brandy. A stout one. Says out loud to no one, "It's evening somewhere. Washington. For sure in Ireland. Italy." He ambles out to his patio to sit. Alone. With his thoughts.

  Pisces stands and watches as Anna gets out of the spotless and shiny family sedan. A black four-door 1970 Mercedes-Benz 600. The driveway and garage are on the down-slope side of the villa. Bruno is at first holding the car door open, the front door. He offers the lady his hand. She takes it and slinks out of the seat like a cheetah. Their hands touching for a second too long. Bruno then turns to get packages and Anna's bright, multicolored beach bag from the rear seat. He is Pisces' long time driver and bodyguard. The cheetah, Anna, Pisces' wife. Signora Anna Puglisi Catalano. Pisces squints. What the hell is she doing riding in front? Bruno knows better. Too close. Too friendly. Much too friendly.

  Pisces returns to his spot on the lounge chair, pours another glass of Chianti, and waits for Anna to come out and welcome him home. In a few more minutes than necessary she does, with Bruno trailing behind. Bruno speaks first, "Hello, Bossa. Welcome backa. All wenta well, yes?"

  Before Pisces can respond, Anna says in English, "Welcome home, Roberto." Then in Italian which she uses nearly all the time in and around the house with Pisces, and every moment in town, "I have missed you terribly, Roberto. This trip was much too long and you did not call. Look, I have been to the beach." She takes off her sheer screamingly bright red outer beach garment, and spins around displaying her tanned body that's barely tucked in to her scant white bikini. She says, "See, my tan makes me look more Italian than Sicilian. And it is all for you, my love."

  Anna is Sicilian. Puglisi an old established name. She is younger by ten years than Roberto Catalano, who is forty-three, and she is holding her figure, tone and complexion as good as any twenty-year old. Dark brown hair and eyes, shapely petite body and however diminutive, generous in portions. And her summer-cloud white teeth are still more so within her bright maraschino red lips. She neither wears nor needs much make-up other than the lipstick and matching polish. She sits down next to Pisces on the lounge chair, leans over, and smothers him with a kiss, leaning into him hence he receives the full pressure of her giving breasts. When she releases him, she says, "Oh, Roberto, I love you so. I do. And I have missed you. Like a canvas misses the brushes of the painter. The strokes. The artistry." She smiles, grazes her index finger across his lips and says, "I will have Gina serve us supper here on the veranda," engagingly smiles again, "And then we will make love. Here or where we choose."

  She turns abruptly, says, "Bruno, put those packages in my room. You are done for the day."

  Pisces says, in English, "Bruno, do as the Signora says, but then come to my study. I have something I want to discuss with you."

  "Yessa, sir." Bruno leaves. Anna departs as we
ll, strutting several paces behind Bruno as if a dog at his heel, into the living room that adjoins the veranda. Gina, eavesdropping from the kitchen doorway, smiles.

  Pisces takes a slow sip of his wine and watches the two go. Stares after them for several moments. Glances at Gina just as she ducks from view. He returns his glass to the side table, stands for a moment, then strolls toward his office, hands in pockets. Looks off to the far end to the veranda gate that leads to the garage below. Sees Rocco, his other bodyguard and confidant. Pisces motions him to come.

  "It's all under control. We've got it covered. Be on track by Thursday, the latest. And he'll be in here to get an update briefing, the latest intel." Joe Zachary listens for a few more moments to John MacBeer, his boss. Hunter's boss. And the Deputy Director of Operations. MacBeer also served with Hunter's father, Patrick "Corker" Kerrigan, in London. Herman Mueller, Aries by code, also worked for MacBeer. And interestingly enough, so did Robert "Bobby" Camack at one time before Corker uncovered Camack, now Pisces, as a double agent.

  Finally, Joe Zachary says, "Yes, sir." And hangs up the phone in his office. It's been a long day. One of many. It's the nature of the business, or the game, depending on one's perspective. And John MacBeer demands that no one leave the office, or the board game, before he does. Joe sighs. He knows the nature of the business, the game, all too well. Plus he knows the nature of the board master, MacBeer.

  Joe's mind wanders. He knows Hunter from the Corps. Hell, early on Hunter reported to him. Now again. They're both still Marines. There are no ex-Marines. No matter the era, on duty or not; in uniform or not; once a Marine...always a... He mutters, "Everyone knows that." His thoughts and muttering reminds him of what an Army General once said: "There are only two kinds of people who understand Marines: Marines and the enemy. Everyone else has a second-hand opinion."

  Joe locks up his desk, slings his suit coat over his shoulder, and heads out his office door mumbling, "Oh man, this is goin' to get ugly."

  In Derry, the Shanahan brothers return home from their task. This one a deadly one. A loyalist, causing problems for the Army, the PIRA, hence the cause, was the target. A warning had been given and not heeded. Two in fact. There was no third, just an ending. It's a much shorter game than American baseball. The man was shot in the back of his head while making love to a buxom lass. Unfortunately, she too became a victim. Danny Shanahan was the shooter; the younger brother, Sean, the "eyes" in front of the quaint inn on the edge of town.

  Their worried mother welcomes them home and hugs them as they enter through the back of the cottage and into the kitchen. She scurries, red faced, to pour them some tea. Sean asks, "Any word from Paddy, or from someone who knows?"

  "Not a word." She feigns a smile. "Not to worry. Go get cleaned up and be quick about it. I have brewed some tea for me boys. And me grandmother's fine, fine minced-meat tarts for you to munch on with your tea. Hurry now." The two young men leave the kitchen. Their mother shudders, shakes her head, and continues with her chore. One she's done many times before as a young lass for her father, and later for her husband, on many additional dark, worrisome nights for others in her brood.

  The woman, older looking than her years, prays in Gaelic or as some say, in the Irish, "Lord, thank ye for bringing me boys home safe. Now bring me Paddy back." Then makes the sign of the cross.

  "Safely, Lord. Safely." Blesses herself again.

  CHAPTER 4

  "The 50-50-90 rule: Anytime you have a 50-50

  chance of getting something right, there's

  a 90% probability you'll get it wrong"

  Anon. Murphy's Other 15 Laws

  Hunter ambles inside from his patio and reheats this morning's now cold tar-thick coffee. He putters around, washes his brandy snifter and slides it on a handy first shelf of the liquor cabinet. The wall phone's shrill ring and its rattling in the cradle startle Hunter. He snatches the receiver, answers with a simple but bad-mannered, "Yes. Speak."

  "Hunter? It's Brad. Gene Bradovich. I'm calling from home."

  "Yeah, Brad. Didn't I just see you, Marine? Hanging around the ammo dump." Joking, wanting to BS with his Corps buddy, but shouldn't. "Hey, ol' buddy, I'm not supposed to be talking with you unless we're grousing about the Padres or Chargers. And not likely then."

  "Yeah, I know the rules. The game." He pauses. "Hawk. I don't know what you're into and shouldn't care except ... I do, and I love you, man. I've been around. The cops here. CID in the Corps. Nam with you. Listen, I can smell paddy shit. Ambush. Here, Nam, anywhere. Something ain't right, buddy. Got that ol' lovin' feelin'."

  "Listen, Brad, I'm not supposed to ..."

  "No, you listen, friend. I'm here. If you need help, call me, man. I can take the point, or I can take the drag, but I'll cover your six no matter what. Something's not right here, man."

  "Brad, I'm fine. Everything is okay."

  "Major, I can smell paddy shit a long way off. When the hairs on my arms and neck bristle, something' ain't right." Bradovich exhales a long audible breath, "I owe you, Hawk. Big time. Call. You copy?"

  "Roger, I copy. I do." Hunter pauses, turns and props his butt against the counter's edge. "But no sweat. The crap today doesn't involve you or the city. Won't happen again, at least not here. I'm okay. In a way I'm doin' the same old things. Body count and MedEvacs so I'm in my element. Right? "

  "Yeah, right. I said my piece. But ya know that booby traps and hand-to-hand ain't the San Diego element. Remember, you call me anytime. I can still hack it. Semper Fi." Then a click. Seconds later a dial tone.

  Wish I could, Marine. Can't. Not now. God willing, wind and weather permitting, later.

  Hunter hangs up, pauses a moment, moves the few steps back along the kitchen counter and grabs his mug. He stares at the lines of lettering on each side of the mug. On one, "Still a Marine." On the other, "Not as lean but still as mean." Taps the mug twice on the counter top. I hope.

  He pours himself a cup of the now simmering coffee. The steam twirls upward carrying a strong aroma of coffee beans from someone's mountain, however it looks like sludge. Hunter stares at it and remembers "Black Death", the instant coffee in C-Rations. His mind drifts back. The nights, wet, lonely, with the sounds of the darkness. The static, the rushing sounds, and the wanted and not wanted nothing of the radio's company "tactical net". Then a click, a chest pounding heart beat, the hour-long single second of silence, then the welcome whisper, "Lima Three Alpha in place. Out." Then the wait would begin again and the coffee, the bite of "Black Death", is a bunker's or a fighting hole's teddy bear. It's wonderful. Hunter stares at the mug.

  He takes a sip. Follows with, "Ahhh, it hasn't lost its punch." He grimaces, teeth clinched, head shaking. "Whew!" Perhaps the environment makes the coffee.

  The phone in his office rings. He mutters, "Damn," takes another slug of slow death, sets the mug down on the countertop and hustles to his office. Unlocks the closet, flips down the seat and writing board, closes the closet door and snatches the phone from its holder on the fourth ring. Says, "Yes."

  "You're supposed to say the password."

  "I forgot it. Actually I don't give a hoot right now."

  "Well, dammit, Hunter, it's supposed to be used. It's..."

  "Make it Capricorn. I can't remember that other one. This is my birth month, so if I screw up again you can just hum Happy Birthday and I'll catch on."

  "Capricorn, huh? That's more than four letters and doesn't start with an "f". Might be difficult for you to..."

  "Joe."

  "Okay." Zachary sighs. "Capricorn it is. Anyway, just a quick call. Everything's covered. We'll take care of Samantha, her business, and whatever. The locals are covered too. So, take a few days. Work out a plan. Stop here and we'll talk. Finish and cover details, and off you go. This has to be done in a matter of weeks. We'll lose Pisces if we don't. This bastard is slippery, and I sense he's getting ready to disappear forever. MacBeer wants him done. Terminated. Then you and I will take care of the other
matter. Got it?"

  "Yeah, got it. It's all ded reckoning, Joe. Only one fix and it's old. The remainder are just ports in a storm. But, I'll get it done. See ya Thursday morning. You be ready with the latest Intel. Oh, and Joe, make sure it's better than that F-1 crap you used to feed me in Nam."

  "Okay, I will. Geez, you never forget." He laughs. Then, "Now, Hunter, listen. Please don't interrupt for a few minutes. Pay attention and I'll ..."

  "This sounds like the beginning of the fan and shit fable."

  "Just shut up and listen."

  "Wait a sec, let me put on my helmet and flak jacket."

  "Dammit, Hunter. Okay. Okay. Now then, you have a new teammate. Ms. Columbo. Well, actually, not in fact new. I probably should have ..."

  "What the hell are you saying, Joe? Are you saying that Teresa Columbo is going to be in on this? Are you, nuts?"

  "Hunter, I said to shut-up and listen. Now pay attention, dammit. It's a long story. She worked here before she met her husband and came back a short time after he went missing. Actually, been on the job for two years now. She knows more about you than you might think. And, this is important, we need to keep her in the loop." He pauses to allow Hunter to react. To blurt out a profanity. Anything. Joe gets no response, accordingly he continues, "She will be working with you. Will pass herself off as not only your landlady but as your typist and editor. Well, pass herself off is not descriptive. She is a great steno, and writes well." Another pause. More silence. Joe continues, "An author needs help. And she's good at this, and other things."