Reckoning

by James Byron Huggins

  The room seemed uncomfortable. Kertzman cleared his throat. "So, uh, Gage drew up the plans?"

  "He made it a team effort," Milburn said. "He ultimately approved or disapproved ideas, because he was the best at it. But everyone worked on the plan, came up with something everybody could live with. Team integrity, team responsibility. Everyone depending on everyone else in a plan that everybody designed. A lot of close guys. Trusting. It was the only way the unit would work. Like I said, the idea was brilliant. The execution was brilliant, carried out to perfection. No mistakes. And since there was little channel of clearance, there was little threat of leaks. Nobody could call and say, 'you'll be hit at so-and-so time,' because nobody knew. It was an almost perfect idea. Self-controlled and self-financed."

  "Self-financed?" Kertzman's implacable eyes opened slightly. "You mean like George Doole was self-financed with Pacific Corporation?"

  Milburn nodded slowly, lowered his eyes. The name required little reference: George Doole, Jr., longtime CIA clandestine agent who allegedly ran three air proprietaries in Indochina from the early sixties to 1974 and cleared a tax-free, unaudited, legal fortune in the process.

  The Central Intelligence Act of 1949 specifically stated that all profits accumulated by clandestine proprietaries could be utilized "without regard to the provisions of law and regulations relating to the expenditure for government funds."

  As a consequence, dozens of CIA personnel accumulated substantial financial profits through front companies designed to cloak clandestine services. The profits were exempted from government audit and largely ignored by the CIA because of fears that monitoring finances would compromise the secrecy of covert operations.

  And usually, when the CIA decided that a front company no longer merited continued operation, career intelligence personnel would often demand to purchase the company in bargain deals and take early retirement, preferring the huge financial gain that they were accumulating to paltry government service. Consequently fearing that some of the personnel would purposefully reveal the existence of the front company if their demands were unheeded, the CIA, as policy, would complacently agree to sell the company's assets.

  Kertzman knew it was the CIA's obsession for secrecy that allowed the financial indiscretions. And he had learned a long time ago that every man had a price.

  "Totally self-financed," Milburn continued. "Gage's unit, Black Light, owned a small international transport airline, several arms dealerships, auto dealerships in various countries, including the United States, the works."

  "Did the Intelligence Oversight Committee know about this?" Kertzman asked, sensing the size of it all.

  Milburn nodded. "They approved it."

  "You gotta be kidding me!"

  "Calm down, Kertzman," Radford broke in. He raised a hand defensively, and it looked like the NSA man might fall over backwards if Kertzman made a sudden move. "It was an approved black on black CIA operation," he added quickly.

  "It sounds like a CIA operation! This is just like Task Force 157!"

  "Kertzman, Kertzman," Radford said placidly, quickly recovering his ramrod comportment. "It was all legitimate. Approved. It's not a scandal."

  But Kertzman knew that it was probably cracked to the core with deceit and lies. Enough money could do that, could turn a good man into a greedy man, a soldier into a broken hero running on fear. The only reason the government didn't see more of it was because few people ever had the opportunity to walk away with enough to keep them hidden for the rest of their lives.

  Kertzman scowled moodily, stared between them. It was a moment before he recognized his own thoughts.

  Old, the faint voice told him; I'm getting too old for this.

  Retirement was beginning to look more and more tempting. Absently, Kertzman reached out and picked up the mug, deliberately took a large swallow of scalding hot coffee. Then he set the cup down, slowly, with a brutal calm. Looked flat dead at Milburn.

  "Go on," he said gloomily. "Tell me exactly what Black Light did."

  "Protected assets," continued Milburn calmly. "It sanctioned defectors that were too far gone to turn back around, neutralized terrorist threats, snatched people we needed to interrogate. Basically it executed any orders that Gage received from his supervisor. Gage was only a staff sergeant, but he was in charge. There were no civilian field personnel. In the beginning Black Light had twenty-one carefully handpicked men, and they rotated on missions to keep everybody fresh. No inefficiency in combat. They were artists. The real thing. Mechanics. And they did it all. Everywhere. They designed and completed snatches, thefts, sanctions, surveillance, whatever it took. Towards the end there were only eleven men remaining. Because of the high-risk missions, attrition was high. And because of security problems we had trouble with replacements. But those eleven were still working assignments, handling the front companies well enough."

  Kertzman waited a moment. When nothing else followed he said, "Gage must be pretty smart. Handling a half-dozen companies and a hit team, too."

  "Well, he had a lot of people who didn't know any better running the companies," said Milburn. "Few of the support people ever knew that the companies were CIA-owned. They might have suspected, but that could be handled. The most difficult aspect of the entire operation was orchestrating the integrations of civilian support services for Black Light without attracting attention from civilian employees. It was always complicated, but Gage managed it."

  Milburn looked away, slightly twisted his head. "It's strange. As smart as he was, Gage had one truly unbreakable rule: Keep it simple. I heard him say it a thousand times. He figured, the simpler it was, the less he'd have to worry about. Always keep it simple,' he'd say. 'Then there's not much that can go wrong.'"

  "But something did go wrong," Kertzman said gruffly.

  Milburn stared at him, face suddenly impassive. Kertzman waited a minute, got tired of it. "So what went wrong, Milburn?"

  "I don't know."

  "Sure you do."

  Milburn stretched his arms, sat back. "Something went wrong, Kertzman. That's all we know. We found out later that Gage was liquefying assets of corporations, stashing the money somewhere. We never tracked it down. We think he set himself up to slide out one day without a trace. Don't know why, exactly. He's probably got some safe houses, some farms somewhere. But they're impossible to find. You know how it's done. Always remove yourself three layers from the signature. Establish flags in the first two identities to alert you if someone's checking. We know he spread the money around on the team, told people to prepare for that great day because this gravy train wasn't going to run forever. He gave away a lot, but we know he kept enough for himself to live comfortably for the rest of his life. Then the entire unit was wiped out in Israel."

  "Israel?"

  Milburn nodded. "They were only there for surveillance. But they were wiped out in a firefight. No survivors, but Gage's body was never identified. It's possible that he was in a building when it went down and was simply burned up. Lost. But we suspect he's alive. We suspect he might have even set the entire ambush up to cover his tracks, to vanish with the money."

  Kertzman was silent, troubled by something he had heard, but he couldn't place it. Despite the fact that he didn't like Milburn or Radford, he had to admit that the idea was plausible. "How much money are we talking about? Millions?"

  "More."

  Kertzman's eyebrows raised. "Ten million?"

  Milburn appeared uncomfortable.

  "More?" asked Kertzman loudly.

  "Listen, Kertzman," he said, gesturing with empty hands. "There's no way to really tell. But it's a lot more than a million. Gage was given a hundred million to just start the thing and he was given insider trading information on top of that. By the time it was over Gage might have been in control of more than a billion."

  Kertzman leaned back, frowning. The uneasiness that he had already felt was suddenly and deeply under run by another, stronger current of doubt. This was deceptio
n beneath covert operations beneath mystery men on unknown and probably illegal missions with an untraceable fortune. He was surrounded with betrayals and secrets and no one he could trust to tell him the truth.

  Without thinking Kertzman reached into his left shirt pocket, absently searching for a cigarette, remembered he had quit.

  He shook his head.

  Might be time to start back.

  *

  SIXTEEN

  Sarah sat, arms around her knees, watching silently as Gage cleaned and oiled the semiautomatic pistol. Before him on the kitchen table lay equipment he would take to New York: a night-visor with two fully-charged battery packs, a Browning Hi-Power, four extra clips, a long thin wire, pocket-sized maglight, a tightly taped cellophane bag of assorted pills for pain, all of them high-impact barbiturates, and a small black daypack that contained three stun grenades, a fragmentation grenade, and an alarm by¬pass circuit device.

  Gage glanced at her, smiled, as he went through the routine of oiling the Hi-Power. She smiled back, but her eyes were separated from the effort.

  Barrel cleaned, Gage inserted it into the slide with the guiding rod and spring. Then the slide went into the receiver and the holding pin was inserted. Instantly, like a machine, Gage cracked the slide a half dozen times, checking the motion in a rhythmic series of clicks that repeated themselves again and again, human hands moving with reflexive familiarity over the weapon.

  "That's a ritual," Sarah said suddenly.

  Gage looked at her, laughed. "Yeah, it is."

  "So you're superstitious."

  Gage shook his head, appearing shocked. "No, not superstitious. Not really. I've done things differently in the past, broken from my routine. But then it would prey on my mind." He shrugged. "I can't explain it. I do the same thing every time out because ..."

  "Because you're superstitious."

  Gage laughed. "Yeah, OK. I'm—careful. This way I don't get worried about whether I forgot something. It gets me into a mindset."

  From a black bag beside the table, Gage lifted a matte black submachine gun, another MP5 – a replica of the one he had lost in the firefight on the campus. He had already cleaned and oiled the weapon and six extra clips. Methodically he began loading the clips with 30 rounds each.

  Sarah stared silently at the weapon.

  "Why do you carry so many bullets?" she asked.

  Gage calculated that it wasn't a voice of fear, or even of moral judgment. Simply a question.

  "I’ve been out of this a long time," he replied, frowning. "I don't know how I'm going to react. I used to be good at this, but it's been a long time."

  "Three years is too long?"

  He nodded wearily. "Yeah."

  She waited so long to speak that Gage began to worry.

  "I know you don't want to do this," she said quietly. "Are you going to be able to handle it?"

  Gage continued methodically loading clips for the MP5. He sniffed, frowning. Didn't reply.

  Sarah didn't repeat the question. But when Gage did finally look up he met her unblinking gaze, patiently centered, steady and intent, on his face. And Gage remembered that her concern was simple and genuine – a heartfelt announcement.

  Theirs was a strange relationship, nothing promised, nothing demanded. Yet they shared a silent affection, expected a supreme level of trust. Sometimes, when their eyes met, she would make an almost invisible gesture or nod, and he knew that it was his to understand. He often looked to her, waiting for such an expression, knowing that she would not hesitate if there was something she needed to say without words.

  He had come to regard the subtlety of her actions with deep respect, knowing that she was wiser than he was. But the relationship had changed him, even in the past days, because with every moment they spent together, he seemed to become more; using superior judgment, understanding more clearly and speaking more clearly what he felt in his heart, holding himself to a higher standard. He knew that she expected no less from him, demanded, in fact, but not from selfish self-interest. Instead, she expected so much from him precisely because she held him in such high regard.

  And he would not disappoint her.

  He took a deep breath, looked back down at the clip.

  "Yeah, I think I can handle it," he said. "I'm just tired of doing the things I used to do." He paused. "There's a certain kind of emotional baggage you pick up from this stuff. A fatigue, I guess. I didn't want to go back into it. Violence can take over your soul. I'd gotten out of it. There was a time when it didn't mean anything to me. I did it for my country. Now it's different. It's just … tiring."

  Sarah was silent as Gage continued to methodically click rounds into the second clip.

  "Can't we handle this another way?" she asked.

  He shook his head with a frown. "Not that I know of. We could notify the FBI but that would only open us up. We'd be targeted again. Then, even if we lived, we'd never find out who's really behind all this. I know how the system works. I have to get my hands on that letter, and then the manuscript. But I'm sure they'll be waiting for me at the church." He hesitated. "But then there's nothing I can do about it. I have to go in."

  "And if they trap you?"

  Gage stared at the clip, clicked in another round. "I'll deal with it."

  The silence was communal, and Gage knew the subject needed to change. It had become too much.

  She asked, "Did you ever talk to Simon about your old life?"

  "Yeah," Gage said, a sudden smile. "I couldn't see joining the Catholic Church, but he was my confessor." He waited on the sensation that floated across his mind. "He was a good man."

  "Yes, Simon was a very good man," she agreed. "He would sometimes talk about you – you know how he was – in a whisper. I think you made him very happy in the last few years. You gave him a lot of joy. His son."

  Gage laid the second clip aside, picked up a third. "I hope so."

  She leaned forward slightly. "Gage, can you tell me what you did when you were a soldier? I know you were in the Army. And I know that some people shot you up and left you for dead in the Negeb. Before Simon found you in the desert. But I don't know what you were doing there. I don't know what any American soldier would be doing in a desert of Israel in August of 1990. I've always respected you on it, even in the beginning. I've never asked. Just like I've never asked why you have to stay in hiding. Just like I never asked why you left us." She paused. "I thought that one day, when you were ready, you would tell me."

  Gage looked up as she crossed a line into his past that she had never crossed. And he realized that nothing can remain constant. They would have to move ahead, or go back. He began loading the third clip, slowly, talking with the mechanical movements.

  He said somberly, "I was part of a tactical preemptive team.”

  "Tactical?"

  "Covert Assault Team," he answered, no hesitation. "I left a special assault unit of the Army in July of '86 for the CIA. I thought it would be a higher service, do things so far out that they might actually make a difference." He shook his head. "But I was wrong - dead wrong. I mean, we did a few good things. But so much of it was just lies – lies on lies as far as the eye could see. It seemed like all the good got lost in the sauce. I should have stayed in the Army."

  Sarah watched him closely, no judgment readable in her gaze.

  "And what kinds of things did you do?"

  With a steady tension Gage looked into her eyes. "I did whatever it took."

  Waiting, he watched her face. Sarah's mouth tightened slightly in what was neither a frown nor a smile, but an almost hidden grimace of compassion.

  "I'm not making excuses for you, Gage," she said softly, calming. "But you were a soldier. Most people, especially people in the church who sometimes live in a fantasy-land, never realize how hard combat truly is. Or what kind of man you have to be to survive. I know you were hard because you had to be hard. But you were also a little lost in it, I think."

  He said nothing, frowne
d as he loaded rounds.

  "And what did you do?" she prodded. It needed to be in the open or it would be between them forever. "Exactly, I mean."

  Gage felt a slight astonishment that she could be so calm, searching him out, discovering him. It was because he did not want to lose her affection and respect that he had never told her before. But, somehow, he sensed that she had known all along, had guessed it long ago. After a slight pause he continued, looking at the clip.

  "I did whatever the CIA ordered me to do. Whatever it took. I was always in the air, at sea, whatever. Designing attacks, executing attacks. We hit terrorist cells, sanctioned defectors. That was good, I think. But then we did some things that were wrong, too. Real wrong. Had to be. But I was in it, then. Up to my neck. And I didn't have the guts to get out. It was all I knew, this world of lies and violence and deception." Hesitation, a grimace. "It was a hard life. I just found my way through it as best I could. That's just the way I was, then. Day after day. Mission after mission. Some of the assignments I could understand. They were good hits. But too many of them were just stupid. Incomprehensible. The targets weren't verifiable threats, or even intelligence operatives. It didn't make any sense but I... followed orders. Did whatever I was told.