Kertzman gazed into the distant shadows of the cathedral, trying to put it all together. "So Torkarev was an assassin," he said, almost to himself.
"No," said Stephenson, lifting his chin slightly. "Not an assassin, Mr. Kertzman. Men who point guns and pull triggers are assassins. Men like Oswald are assassins. They are also fools." He paused. "You see, Mr. Kertzman, guns and rifles and bombs are the tools of idiots and incompetents. Torkarev was more than that. Much more. He was not an assassin. He was an artist – a magician. He was the man who came and went and someone died while he was here. But there was no unusual cause of death. There was no violence, no crime, no reason for international protests or retributions. Someone merely died. Strangely and sadly."
"Meaning what?" growled Kertzman.
"Meaning that Torkarev stood at the highest level of the food chain, Mr. Kertzman. A superior breed of soldier, and a genius at what he did. He was one of the best soldiers in the world. The rest were fools by comparison."
Kertzman stepped closer. "And Maitland?"
Stephenson removed a cigarette from a silver case. Slowly he lit it with a polished silver lighter. Then he exhaled a long steady stream of smoke.
Kertzman thought that he looked eerily composed.
"That is something else altogether," the Englishman answered quietly. "The information about Torkarev is available to you in your country's files if your government chooses to release them to you. So I have, in reality, told you nothing that you did not already know. But I am reluctant to tell you specifically about Maitland's activities for my government."
Kertzman said nothing. He didn't know what he'd do if Stephenson stopped talking.
"I can say, however, that any presumptions you might have would probably be correct," Stephenson continued carefully. "As I said, Sergeant Maitland was a legend in the Special Air Service. He was quite exceptional."
Kertzman focused. "So why did the SAS terminate employment of an elite assassin?"
Stephenson blew out a long stream of smoke. "I don't know."
"Sure you do."
Stephenson's short laugh echoed in the church. "No, Mr. Kertzman, I do not know."
Kertzman weighed what he had heard. "There's something you might want to consider, Stephenson. You said Torkarev was the best. Real quiet. And Maitland was the same."
"Yes."
"But they made a mess of this. Guns. Attention. A car crash on the interstate. They're supposed to be slick. Clever. Quiet. The kind of people who don't leave tracks."
Stephenson nodded. "That is their preferred method."
"Which means," Kertzman added, "that they must have wanted something from this church real bad. Something that just might have been behind that wall. Something important enough to even make a scene over, if they had to."
For a moment Stephenson said nothing, then a thought seemed to settle on him. "Yes," he added with a purposeful solemnity. "I have considered that. And these five men who died earlier, before Sergeant Maitland and Comrade Torkarev, were they also, as you say, elite assassins?"
"No," Kertzman responded. "Sims and Myrick were good. But they weren't in the same league as these guys."
"And they were the first to meet this man who apparently dispatched Sergeant Maitland?"
"Jonathan Gage."
"Yes, this Jonathan Gage. And he is yours? Is that not correct?"
"Yeah. Delta. Then CIA."
"He is quite capable."
"Looks like it."
Stephenson took a minute, staring into the shadows. Kertzman saw the hesitation, also saw that the Englishman was about to say something that might actually make a difference.
"There is no harm in a simple discussion," Stephenson began. "Especially between two dedicated and honest public servants." He exhaled a long thin ribbon of white smoke. "I would like to offer an hypothesis."
"Go ahead."
Stephenson moved his leg absently, shuffling a step, drew again on the cigarette. "These first five men who were finished by Gage. Obviously, they failed in their mission. Then Torkarev and Maitland arrived and they also failed. But as you said, they are men who operated in quite a different league."
Kertzman had already seen it.
"Yeah," he said slowly.
"So," Stephenson remarked, "I wonder, do you perceive that it might be considered an escalation of force?" He paused, smiling slightly but openly. "Mobilize the regular infantry. But if that is insufficient, then use specialized, very elite assassins to do what no one else can do?"
"Maybe," Kertzman said. "But why? What are they fighting over? Who are they working for?" A thought came to him. "Do you think this might have anything to do with American foreign policy? Maybe a renegade military unit out of the CIA? Something like that?"
Stephenson seemed to consider smiling again. He didn't.
"Oh, no, Mr. Kertzman," he said respectfully. "But I would anticipate that someone would suggest that to you. Yes, that is exactly what I would anticipate." He paused. "A red herring, so to speak."
"You seem to know an awful lot, Sir Henry," Kertzman growled. "Do you know who Maitland and Torkarev worked for?"
Stephenson shook his head. "No. I wish I could, but I cannot. Nor can I tell you what these men are fighting for. But for the purposes of discussion, let us ask this question: What do Sergeant Maitland and Torkarev have in common?"
"They were elite assassins – the best at what they did."
"Yes."
"And these other men, Sims and Myrick?"
"Were good. But regular troops."
"Yes, regular troops," said the Englishman, fixing a subtle but strange gaze upon Kertzman. "Not superior beings."
An odd phrase.
"No," Kertzman said slowly. "No ... not ‘superior beings.’"
"And, surely," Stephenson continued without hesitation, "if Sergeant Maitland and Torkarev were the vassals of someone who wanted to create a private army of these 'superior beings,' it would be suitable to conjecture that he had properly begun."
The cathedral was deathly silent.
After a moment Stephenson laughed lightly. "Strange that I should be reminded, Mr. Kertzman, but it occurs to me oddly that Hitler was obsessed with very elite squads of his own, so-called superior beings. In fact, the Third Reich was founded on the principle of a generation of supermen who could execute seemingly impossible missions. It was the heart of Hitler's concept of a ruling elite. The perfect soldier, born to rule and to decide the fate of all those less perfect than the blond, blue-eyed master race. And the truth was, with their fantastic dedication to duty and their absolute devotion to skills, Hitler's elite squads were, indeed, quite superior. And dangerous."
Kertzman listened steadily. He knew it wasn't a history lesson.
"In fact, Operation Iron Eagle, the secret SS plot to assassinate Churchill, would have succeeded brilliantly but for a single, seemingly innocuous radio transmission intercepted in Enigma coding and deciphered by Ultra. Even today it must be admitted that the plan was fiendishly well-designed; a small team of six elite SS men, all in British uniforms speaking perfect English who had already penetrated the security of Whitehall and Parliament before they were discovered. They had waited patiently for an opportunity to sanction the Prime Minister when we luckily closed the net on them. A devilish close thing, I tell you, and a cunning operation. Almost changed the course of the war."
Stephenson exuded the air of a man prone to rambling.
Kertzman waited for what was important.
"You have to admit, Mr. Kertzman, Hitler was a genius and quite committed to the superiority of a master race. Even if he was also quite mad. But that was a plague of the Third Reich – genius and madness. By genius they conquered all of Europe." He paused. "Except England, of course. And by madness, and the combined military might of the New and Old Worlds, they lost it. But that doesn't diminish their genius, their brilliant accomplishment at building the mightiest war machine that man had ever seen."
Steph
enson shoved a hand into the pocket of his tweed overcoat, bunching against the cold settling over the church. Kertzman felt strangely cold, too. But it wasn't the church. It was the eerie, purposeful direction of the Englishman's words. Stephenson was hesitating but seemed to be homing in on a certain and unalterable course. Kertzman was certain that Stephenson was confiding things he shouldn't. And he knew that he should feel a sense of gratitude towards Stephenson, but the tone of the Englishman's words had darkened his soul.
"How often these brilliant military monarchies are ruled by madness, Mr. Kertzman," Stephenson pondered quietly, gazing away. Then he turned suddenly, fixed Kertzman with an innocent stare. "Did you know that Hitler was zealously religious? It seems appropriate that we should mention it in a cathedral, doesn't it? But not religious in the sense of the Christian faith, or Judaism."
He released a faint sigh. "No, on the contrary, it was black magic that Hitler cherished so dearly. Astrology. Archeology. He believed that certain archeological treasures long lost to the world held secrets of power. He believed, in his dementia, that certain archeological treasures could reveal sources of ancient power. He believed that these sources of lost power might help to establish a new kingdom on earth, a kingdom ruled by his Aryan Supermen." He smiled. "Madness, wasn't it? All that devotion to black magic and Satanic rites with the dream of a ruling race of superior beings?"
Kertzman was suddenly aware of how dark and isolated it felt to be standing in the open cathedral.
"In fact," Stephenson continued casually, "before he was assassinated by Czech resistance fighters, Field March Reinhard Heydrich, the Butcher of Prague, was infamous for his obsession with occult rituals. He believed that the Third Reich was the incarnate kingdom of dark spiritual forces long banished from the Earth by the hated Christian God." Stephenson laughed. "Quite extraordinary. A type of madness rare in war, or even in the intelligence field. Although many of us in... public service... do have strong beliefs in God." He focused on Kertzman, smiling slightly. "Do you believe in God, Mr. Kertzman?"
Kertzman frowned. "I ain't never met a real man who didn't."
"Yes," Stephenson nodded. "Quite true. But few are so unbalanced as to believe in the nonsense of ancient powers, sorcery, that sort of thing. Don't you agree?"
Kertzman said nothing and the Englishman continued, "Yes, most people are far too well-balanced for such nonsense. But, as history demonstrates, it does happen. After the war it was discovered that Hitler must have launched a hundred of his elite teams on bizarre missions to discover lost artifacts or to assassinate his enemies. In retrospect, we can see that he was constantly obsessed with using small, elite squads of his master race. Strange, isn't it, how so many of history's madmen have fallen foolishly victim to this idea of small armies of supermen who will force reality from the fires of their nonsensical dreams. Mind you, these madmen do not value the pedestrian concept of a simple, highly skilled soldier. No, history demonstrates that they are more often obsessed with the concept of armies of superior beings – beings born to conquer, to rule, to decide fate for the rest of us."
Stephenson tossed his cigarette to the floor, ground it out. "In any case, Hitler failed in his dreams. But it was a fiendishly close thing, I believe. Yes, what with his fanatical squads on their bizarre missions. And they were feared because they were, in truth, so fanatical. Even the mere appearance of an SS company in World War II signified that our enemy had launched a severe escalation of force."
Stephenson sighed, moved to step away, and then hesitated, turning to look at Kertzman. "Of course, you realize, we are just discussing history. But sometimes, I do believe, there is a place for such talk, don't you agree?"
Kertzman said nothing.
Sir Stephenson smiled. "Yes, Mr. Kertzman, I do believe there is. By the way, have you ever read The Will to Power by Nietzsche?"
Kertzman managed to shake his head. "No."
"An interesting book," the Englishman said steadily. "In fact, a dangerous book for those who hold to the dream of a super race."
Then Stephenson fell into a pedantic recitation, as if quoting, "A dark and ruler race is building itself up. A race born to conquer, to destroy, to crush down the weak of the earth. The aim should be to prepare a transvaluation of values for a particularly strong kind of man, a being of superior strength and superior ability, a man most highly gifted in intellect and will. This man and the ruling elite with him will become Lords of the Earth—The Ultimate Beast of Prey."
*
An almost unheard sound, a faint computer beeping from the cabin's back room, caused Sarah to turn her head, and instantly she knew, somehow, that it was important. She stood, unmoving, in the kitchen, holding a cup of coffee that she had made to fight off sleep, but her mind was ignited by the sound, fast and calculating.
Beep, beep.
Instantly she moved. "Barto!" she yelled, not knowing why but sensing that she would have no time for a mistake if she was right.
She stopped in the open doorway of the cabin's third bedroom and saw that the computer, positioned carefully on a desk in the corner, had come alive.
The screen was lit with a message.
It beeped again.
She ran forward as Barto followed her into the room, alert, electric with energy. His wide eyes centered on the computer. Sarah sat down in the chair at the desk, stared at the screen to read the message:
SANDMAN/DRAGON ACK: COND
Breath quickening, understanding instantly that Jonathan Gage was not truly isolated in his life, Sarah typed a quick message into the computer.
GAGE IS INJURED
She began to hit Enter.
"No!" shouted Barto, grabbing her hand.
She turned towards him. "Why? This is what Gage was talking about! He needs whoever is at the end of this line!"
Barto's breath was quick, his words quicker. It was as if they both knew they had a narrow window of time to respond to the message.
"Move aside. They're going to want a code," he whispered, sliding into the seat. "They're as careful as Gage. If we type something that's wrong, they might think it's some kind of trap. They won't come."
The computer screen beeped three more times. The message disappeared for a second, with a skip of Sarah's heart, and then flashed back.
"It's a code," Barto whispered, staring at the screen, the key board. "Sandman is sending, so Gage must be Dragon." He waited, said slowly, "But what is ACK? It must mean... Acknowledge! It means to acknowledge something!"
"His condition!" Sarah yelled. "He wants to know Gage's condition! His status! He's trying to find out if Gage is alright! The answer is probably going to be a number or something he used in the Army!"
Barto was speaking fast. "But I don't know anything about the Army. What do we use? If we scare them off we won't hear from them again. We have to—"
Beep, beep, beep.
The message appeared once more.
Sarah closed her eyes, concentrating furiously, sensing that, if the sender waited any longer, the message would not come back again. Her mind was spinning. What was the international color for assistance? Orange. Unless... no, wait
"Type in yellow," she shouted.
"But—"
"Do it!"
Barto typed in "Yellow" and hit Enter.
The word Yellow was indexed below the initial message. A long pause. Then the computer screen beeped again.
J-O-QSL.
"Oh, no," whispered Barto. "What is that!"
"Here!" Sarah pushed her hands onto the keyboard.
"Wait a second, Sarah!”
"Be quiet!" She fired the words into Barto's face.
His hands jumped off the keyboard.
"We'll never figure these games out!"
Then, deciding to take a chance, she concentrated on the keyboard and began to type. Quickly she hit Enter and the message was sent, flashing across the screen:
GAGE IS WOUNDED. HE IS DYING. THIS IS SARAH. HE IS ASKING FOR SANDMAN.
COME QUICKLY.
For a second the message remained on the screen, then the communication was broken. No response. An automatic program evaluation, not a message sent from the other end of the line, was displayed:
END OF TRANSMISSION
Barto released a deep breath, placed hands over his face.
Sarah bowed her head.
"Jesus," she whispered.
*
The shadowed room was cheap.
It even felt cheap, with a cheap bed, a dusty, battered desk, an old television, and nothing else. Kertzman felt it was right for him. It was a coward's room. A room built for a coward.
He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the locked door, watching the night through the sheer, curtained window. It was a moonless dark – a deep, silent, expansive blackness that scorned streetlights and neon to smother everything in a thick cloud of night.
It was the kind of infinite, breathing night that he knew in '68 when he could feel the jungle, the surrounding darkness and knew something was out there moving towards him – somewhere close. He could almost see the shape, a man, part of the blackness itself, not a real thing, too silent to be real, coming closer, always at an angle through the forest.
Kertzman shook his head.
Yeah, you remember all too well don’t ya, old son?
He knew that he needed time to think, to figure this out, but he had been too tired for the haul back to Washington, and too disturbed to take a flight, anyway. So he had driven north on Palisades Parkway until he turned, without any real reason, on to Convent. In a moment he had passed the imposing Rockland Psychiatric Center on his left with its ten-foot high, fenced perimeter and guarded entrances. And a half-hour later he located this small hotel at the intersection of Gilbert and Middletown.
Taking his briefcase, he used an emergency backup identification and cash, checking into a corner room. Then he sat for an hour on the edge of the bed, staring at the locked door, absently clutching an old, World War II-era Colt 1911 in his sweaty right hand.
Reckoning Page 23