by Tom Clancy
“I can get a court order, you know.” That usually worked on people, few of whom enjoyed the attention of a note from somebody’s bench.
“Yes, you can. Is there any other way I can help you, sir?” She was also used to being blustered at. The call was from Baltimore, after all, and a letter from some judge eight hundred miles away seemed a distant and trivial thing. “Do you have our mailing address, sir?”
Actually, he couldn’t. He still didn’t quite have enough to take to a judge. Matters like this were handled more as a matter of courtesy than as actual orders.
“Thank you, I’ll get back.”
“Have a good day.” The well-wish was in fact the bland dismissal of one more forgettable irrelevance in the day of a file clerk.
Out of the country. Why? For whom? What the hell’s so different about this case? Ryan knew that it had many differences. He wondered if he’d ever have them all figured out.
“That’s what they did to her,” Kelly told them. It was the first time he’d actually said it all out loud, and in recounting the details of the pathology report it was as though he were listening to the voice of another person. “Because of her background the cops never really assigned much of a priority to the case. I got two more girls out. One they killed. The other one, well . . . He waved at the newspaper.
“Why did you just turn her loose?”
“Was I supposed to murder her, Mr. Ritter? That’s what they were planning to do,” Kelly said, still looking down. “She was more or less sober when I let her go. I didn’t have the time to do anything else. I miscalculated.”
“How many?”
“Twelve, sir,” he answered, knowing that Ritter wanted the total number of kills.
“Good Lord,” Ritter observed. He actually wanted to smile. There was talk, actually, of getting CIA involved in antidrug operations. He opposed that policy—it wasn’t important enough to divert the time of people who should be protecting their country against genuine national-security threats. But he couldn’t smile. This was far too serious for that. “The article says twenty kilograms of the stuff. Is that true?”
“Probably.” Kelly shrugged. “I didn’t weigh it. There’s one other thing. I think I know how the drugs come in. The bags smell like—embalming fluid. It’s Asian heroin.”
“Yes?” Ritter asked.
“Don’t you see? Asian stuff. Embalming fluid. Comes in somewhere on the East Coast. Isn’t it obvious? They’re using the bodies of our KIAs to bring the fucking stuff in.”
All this, and analytical ability too?
Ritter’s phone rang. It was the intercom line.
“I said no calls.” the field spook growled.
“It’s ‘Bill,’ sir. He says it’s important.”
The timing was just perfect, the Captain thought. The prisoners were brought out in the darkness. There was no electricity, again, and the only illumination came from battery-powered flashlights and a few torches that his senior sergeant had cobbled together. Every prisoner had his feet hobbled; in each case the hands and elbows were bound behind their backs. They all walked slightly bent forward. It wasn’t just to control them. Humiliation was important, too, and every man had in close attendance a conscript to chivvy him along, right to the center of the compound. His men were entitled to this, the Captain thought. They’d trained hard, were about to begin their long march south to complete the business of liberating and reuniting their country. The Americans were disoriented, clearly frightened at this break in their daily routine. Things had gone easy for them in the past week. Perhaps his earlier assembly of the group had been a mistake. It might have fostered some semblance of solidarity among them, but the object lesson to his troops was more than worth that. His men would soon be killing Americans in larger groups than this, the Captain was sure, but they had to start somewhere. He shouted a command.
As one man. the twenty selected soldiers took their rifles and butt-stroked their individual charges in the abdomen. One American managed to remain standing after the first blow. but not after the second.
Zacharias was surprised. It was the first direct attack on his person since Kolya had stopped that one, months before. The impact drove the air from him. His back already hurt from the lingering effect of his ejection and the deliberately awkward way they’d made him walk, and the impact of the steel buttplate of the AK-47 had taken control of his weakened and abused body away from him at once. He fell to his side. his body touching that of another prisoner, trying to draw his legs in and cover up. Then the kicks started. He couldn’t even protect his face with his arms bound painfully behind him. and his eyes saw the face of the enemy. Just a boy, maybe seventeen, almost girlish in appearance, and the look on his face was that of a doll, the same empty eyes, the same absence of expression. No fury, not even baring his teeth, just kicking him as a child might kick at a ball, because it was something to do. He couldn’t hate the boy, but he could despise him for his cruelty, and even after the first kick broke his nose he kept watching. Robin Zacharias had seen the depths of despair, had faced the fact that he’d broken on the inside and given up things that he knew. But he’d also had the time to understand it. He wasn’t a coward any more than he was a hero, Robin told himself through the pain, just a man. He’d bear the pain as the physical penalty for his earlier mistake, and he would continue to ask his God for strength. Colonel Zacharias kept his now-blackened eyes on the face of the child tormenting him. I will survive this. I’ve survived worse, and even if I die I’m still a better man than you will ever be, his face told the diminutive soldier. I’ve survived loneliness, and that’s worse than this, kid. He didn’t pray for deliverance now. It had come from within, after all, and if death came, then he could face it as he had faced his weakness and his failings.
Another shouted command from their officer and they backed off. In Robin’s case there was one last, final kick. He was bleeding, one eye almost shut, and his chest was racked with pain and coughs, but he was still alive, still an American, and he had survived one more trial. He looked over at the Captain commanding the detail. There was fury in his face, unlike that of the soldier who’d taken a few steps back. Robin wondered why.
“Stand them up!” the Captain screamed. Two of the Americans were unconscious, it turned out, and required two men each to lift them. It was the best he could do for his men. Better to kill them, but the order in his pocket prohibited that, and his army didn’t tolerate the violation of orders.
Robin was now looking in the eyes of the boy who’d attacked him. Close, not six inches away. There was no emotion there, but he kept staring, and there was no emotion in his own eyes either. It was a small and very private test of wills. Not a word was spoken, though both men were breathing irregularly, one from exertion, the other from pain.
Care to try it again someday? Man to man. Think you can hack that, sonny? Do you feel shame for what you did? Was it worth it? Are you more of a man now, kid? I don’t think so, and you might cover it up as best you can, but we both know who won this round, don’t we? The soldier stepped to Robin’s side, his eyes having revealed nothing, but the grip on the American’s arm was very tight, the better to keep him under control, and Robin took that as his victory. The kid was still afraid of him, despite everything. He was one of those who roamed the sky—hated, perhaps, but feared too. Abuse was the weapon of the coward, after all, and those who applied it knew the fact as well as those who had to accept it.
Zacharias almost stumbled. His posture made it hard to look up, and he didn’t see the truck until he was only a few feet away. It was a beat-up Russian vehicle, with fence wire over the top, both to prevent escape and to let people see the cargo. They were going somewhere. Robin had no real idea where he was and could hardly speculate on where he might go. Nothing could be worse than this place had been—and yet he’d survived it somehow, Robin told himself as the truck rumbled away. The camp faded into the darkness, and with it the worst trial of his life. The Colonel bowed his
head and whispered a prayer of thanksgiving, and then, for the first time in months, a prayer for deliverance, whatever form it might take.
“That was your doing, Mr. Clark,” Ritter said after a long, deliberate look at the phone he’d just replaced.
“I didn’t exactly plan it that way, sir.”
“No, you didn’t, but instead of killing that Russian officer you brought him back.” Ritter looked over at Admiral Greer. Kelly didn’t see the nod that announced the change in his life.
“I wish Cas could have known.”
“So what do they know?”
“They have Xantha, alive, in Somerset County jail. How much does she know?” Charon asked. Tony Piaggi was here, too. It was the first time the two had met. They were using the about-to-be-activated lab in east Baltimore. It would be safe for Charon to come here just one time, the narcotics officer thought.
“This is trouble,” Piaggi observed. It seemed facile to the others until he went on. “But we can handle it. First order of business, though, is to worry about making our delivery to my friends.”
“We’ve lost twenty kees, man,” Tucker pointed out bleakly. He knew fear now. It was clear that there was something out there worthy of his fear.
“You have more?”
“Yeah, I have ten at my place.”
“You keep it at home?” Piaggi asked. “Jesus, Henry!”
“The bitch doesn’t know where I live.”
“She knows your name, Henry. We can do a lot with just a name,” Charon told him. “Why the hell do you think I’ve kept my people away from your people?”
“We’ve got to rebuild the whole organization,” Piaggi said calmly. “We can do that, okay? We have to move, but moving’s easy. Henry, your stuff comes in somewhere else, right? You move it in to here, and we move it out of here. So moving your operation is not a big deal.”
“I lose my local—”
“Fuck local, Henry! I’m going to take over distribution for the whole East Coast. Will you think, for Christ’s sake? You lose maybe twenty-five percent of what you figured you were going to take in. We can make that up in two weeks. Stop thinking small-time.”
“Then it’s a matter of covering your tracks,” Charon went on, interested by Piaggi’s vision of the future. “Xantha is just one person, an addict. When they picked her up she was wasted on pills. Not much of a witness unless they have something else to use, and if you move to another area, you ought to be okay.”
“The other ones have to go. Fast,” Piaggi urged.
“With Burt gone, I’m out of muscle. I can get some people I know—”
“No way, Henry! You want to bring new people in now? Let me call Philly. We have two people on retainer, remember?” Piaggi got a nod, settling that issue. “Next, we have to keep my friends happy. We need twenty kees’ worth of stuff, processed and ready to go, and we need it right fast.”
“I only have ten,” Tucker noted.
“I know where there’s some more, and so do you. Isn’t that right. Lieutenant Charon?” That question shook the cop badly enough that he forgot to tell them something else that concerned him.
36
Dangerous Drugs
It was a time for introspection. He’d never done anything like this before at the behest of others, except for Vietnam, which was a different set of circumstances altogether. It had required a trip back to Baltimore, which was now as dangerous a thing as any he’d ever done. He had a new set of ID, but they were for a man known to be dead, if anyone took the time to check them out. He remembered almost fondly the time when the city had been divided into two zones—one relatively small and dangerous, and the other far larger and safe. That was changed. Now it was all dangerous. The police had his name. They might soon have his face, which would mean that every police car—there seemed an awful lot of them now—would have people in it who might spot him, just like that. Worse still, he couldn’t defend himself against them, he could not allow himself to kill a police officer.
And now this . . . Things had become very confused today. Not even twenty-four hours earlier he’d seen his ultimate target, but now he wondered if it would ever be finished.
Maybe it would have been better if he had never begun, just accepted Pam’s death and gone on, waiting patiently for the police to break the case. But no, they would never have broken it, would never have devoted the time and manpower to the death of a whore. Kelly’s hands squeezed the wheel. And her murder would never have been truly avenged.
Could I have lived the rest of my life with that?
He remembered high school English classes, as he drove south, now on the Baltimore-Washington Parkway. Aristotle’s rules of tragedy. The hero had to have a tragic flaw, had to drive himself to his fate. Kelly’s flaw . . . he loved too much, cared too much, invested too much in the things and the people who touched his life. He could not turn away. Though it might save his life, to turn away would inevitably poison it. And so he had to take his chances and see things through.
He hoped Ritter understood it, understood why he was doing what he had been asked to do. He simply could not turn away. Not from Pam. Not from the men of BOXWOOD GREEN. He shook his head. But he wished they’d asked someone else.
The parkway became a city street. New York Avenue. The sun was long since down. Fall was approaching, the change of seasons from the moist heat of mid-Atlantic summer. Football season would soon begin, and baseball end, and the turning of the years went on.
Peter was right, Hicks thought. He had to stay in. His father was taking his own step into the system, after a fashion, becoming the most important of political creatures, a fund-raiser and campaign coordinator. The President would be reelected and Hicks would accumulate his own power. Then he could really influence events. Blowing the whistle on that raid was the best thing he had ever done. Yeah, yeah, it was all coming together, he thought, lighting up his third joint of the night. He heard the phone ring.
“How’s it going?” It was Peter.
“Okay, man. How’s with you?”
“Got a few minutes? I want to go over something with you.” Henderson nearly swore to himself—he could tell Wally was stoned again.
“Half an hour?”
“See you then.”
Not a minute later, there was a knock on the door. Hicks stubbed out his smoke and went to answer it. Too soon for Peter. Could it be a cop? Fortunately, it wasn’t.
“You’re Walter Hicks?”
“Yeah, who are you?” The man was about his age, if somewhat less polished-looking.
“John Clark.” He looked nervously up and down the corridor. “I need to talk to you for a few minutes, if that’s okay.”
“What about?”
“BOXWOOD GREEN.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s some things you need to know.” Clark told him. He was working for the Agency now, so Clark was his name. It made it easier, somehow.
“Come on in. I only have a few minutes, though.”
“That’s all I need. I don’t want to stay too long.”
Clark accepted the waved invitation to enter and immediately smelled the acrid odor of burning rope. Hicks waved him to a chair opposite his.
“Can I get you anything?”
“No, thanks. I’m fine,” he answered, careful where he put his hands. “I was there.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was at SENDER GREEN, just last week.”
“You were on the team?” Hicks asked, intensely curious and not seeing the danger that had walked into his apartment.
“That’s right. I’m the guy who brought the Russian out,” his visitor said calmly.
“You kidnapped a Soviet citizen? Why the fuck did you do that?”
“Why I did it is not important now, Mr. Hicks. One of the documents I took off his body is. It was an order to make preparations to kill all of our POWs.”
“That’s too bad,” Hicks said with a perfunctory shake of the
head. Oh—your dog died? That’s too bad.
“Doesn’t that mean anything to you?” Clark asked.
“Yes, it does, but people take chances. Wait a minute.” Hicks’s eyes went blank for a moment, and Kelly could see that he was trying to identify something he’d missed. “I thought we had the camp commander, too, didn’t we?”
“No, I killed him myself. That bit of information was given to your boss so that we could identify the name of the guy who leaked the mission.” Clark leaned forward. “That was you, Mr. Hicks. I was there. We had it wired. Those prisoners ought to be with their families right now—all twenty of them.”
Hicks brushed it aside. “I didn’t want them to die. Look, like I said, people take chances. Don’t you understand, it just wasn’t worth it. So what are you going to do, arrest me? For what? You think I’m dumb? That was a black operation. You can’t reveal it or you run the risk of fucking up the talks, and the White House will never let you do that.”
“That’s correct. I’m here to kill you.”
“What?” Hicks almost laughed.
“You betrayed your country. You betrayed twenty men.”
“Look, that was a matter of conscience.”
“So’s this, Mr. Hicks.” Clark reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic bag. In it were drugs he’d taken off the body of his old friend Archie, and a spoon, and a glass hypodermic needle. He tossed the bag into his lap.
“I won’t do it.”
“Fair enough.” From behind his back came his Ka-Bar knife. “I’ve done people this way, too. There are twenty men over there who ought to be home. You’ve stolen their life from them. Your choice, Mr. Hicks.”
His face was very pale now, his eyes wide.
“Come on, you wouldn’t really—”