Reckoning

by James Byron Huggins

  Acklin shifted a little, gazed up at Kertzman with a suddenly even, gentle eye.

  Kertzman returned the look, strangely disturbed. He sensed that something about the quiet little man should be feared and profoundly respected, though he couldn't place what it was.

  Acklin wasn't, by any means, an intimidating person. But something lent the FBI man an almost invisible air of profound authority. He felt that, beneath the surface, Acklin was a whole lot tougher than he seemed to be.

  Kertzman reached into his shirt pocket, removed a pack of Marlboros.

  "So tell me," he said, lighting one.

  Until last night Kertzman hadn't smoked in ten years. But with state, local, and federal law enforcement cars backed up to the cabin for three miles, with confused ambulance attendants and dead bodies and the collective crimes of a massive conspiracy coming down on his head, Kertzman decided to buy a pack off a young New York Trooper. He had smoked them through the hard ordeal of questions and more questions, through veiled accusations of incompetent procedural methods that went way beyond veiled and, even, legal, and finally through two extremely tense question-and-stare matches with a senior agent of the New York State FBI Office.

  Stubbornly, Kertzman had covered his own ground from first to last, going toe to toe in nerve-racking verbal battles with every heavyweight that came onto the scene, gruffly defending himself while simultaneously protecting everyone who was, at least, mostly innocent. But it was difficult, with endless interpretations of possible crimes and thoroughly comprehensive government policies crisscrossing before him, to lay a convoluted minefield; he negotiated with the most extreme care.

  He had almost escaped responsibility for causing the shootout. But in the bitter end, jurisdictional disputes, chaos, and the lack of someone to truly accuse caused the heat to come back to him by default. It helped to have the dead Nigerian to blame, but he wasn't enough. The State Department didn't want a foot soldier. They wanted a name that could take the fall for a conspiracy that had appallingly emerged into the daylight. And neither Milburn or Radford was significant enough. It had to be somebody bigger.

  Like Kertzman himself. But Kertzman wasn't about to let that fly. He stopped it point-blank, threatening anyone who threatened him until the insinuation was choked out by intimidation. Still, the government wanted to put a lid on this, and they wanted someone to sacrifice, someone they could slay as a blood-offering on the altar of public consumption.

  Carthwright was big enough, had the weight, but no one was willing to actually accuse him of anything. He was too big a name.

  It was inferred by a nebulous FBI official that, since Milburn and Radford were on loan from the NSA, under Carthwright's control, they could have been following orders from Carthwright to kill the hostages. But, in all fairness, Kertzman had no genuine proof that Carthwright was guilty of orchestrating the plot to have him killed at the cabin. It seemed likely, yes, but that could also be a red herring, as Stephenson would say. And testimony to back up the theory would be a problem, especially with Milburn dead and Radford missing. Kertzman realized that all he had were his instincts, a cold track. And it was hard concentrating on that aspect of the case amidst the heat descending on his head for the fiasco of the shootout itself.

  Criticisms were endless. He should have notified Special Response if he thought the situation might go tactical. He should have, at least, called for backup agents to monitor the situation. He should not have endangered the lives of Professor Halder and his daughter with reckless behavior. It went on and on.

  Kertzman refused to back up. He'd done what he'd done, stood behind it. It hadn't ended well, but that wasn't his fault, and it was over now, as far as he was concerned. The only remaining question was whether Carthwright would back him because the NSA supervisor was still in charge of the investigation. Deep inside, Kertzman had no idea whether he would or not. It was still too early to tell. In any case, it was a mess, and the Bureau didn't want any details of it leaking out, especially not names.

  Recalling the Bureau's takeover of the scene, Kertzman reluctantly gave credit where credit was due. Yeah, they had cut off all official lines on the situation. But, for the most part, it was a futile gesture. The locals already had part of it; they were the first on the scene, knew basically what had happened, who was involved, the rest. By noon of the next day, Friday, news broadcasts were uncovering some of the details, verified through reliable and "anonymous" law enforcement personnel. Special reports were shown in hourly intervals, adding a higher strain of tension to an already tense situation. With each announcement or investigatory report, more pressure came from the top to find someone to blame.

  Kertzman understood the process. It wouldn't end until guilt descended on an appropriate name. Then the papers would print, a quick conviction would punish the guilty, and those who had covered themselves well enough could resume their well-protected, golden careers.

  Everything that Kertzman had documented, every statement by Admiral Talbot, Carthwright, Radford, and Milburn were included in the official reports. And the statements did, indeed, make Carthwright look bad. In fact, it looked like the NSA man was covering for someone within the Agency, or covering himself. Still, though, no one had made a move against him. Not yet. And no one would make a move until they possessed ten times more evidence than they needed.

  Kertzman didn't regret filing any of the reports. So far, the. statements were all that protected him. If certain unknowns in the Bureau were allowed their free will, Kertzman would have already been charged for a mixture of profound policy violations and a combination of federal crimes from abuse of process to illegal search to felonious misuse of governmental authority. As it was, according to policy, he was supposed to be suspended from duty pending an investigation by the FBI's Shooting Review Board. But that, too, was delayed in light of the more complicated aspects of the situation that went beyond law enforcement and into national security.

  Kertzman had laughed at that; national security concerns could override anything.

  But Kertzman sensed that there was some kind of reluctance to drop a full measure of governmental wrath on his head. He sensed that a major player was covering him, defending him. Maybe it was Carthwright. Kertzman couldn't be sure. But he wanted to find out.

  One thing was certain; he needed to put this thing to bed as quickly as possible because he still had a flight to catch.

  Kertzman grunted, blew out a stream of smoke, focused on Acklin.

  "Go ahead, Acklin."

  The FBI man stepped forward, a submissive gesture. "Well, it seems, Mr. Kertzman, that you still have much to do."

  A pause.

  "What does that mean?" Kertzman grumbled. "Right now I've got FBI yahoos telling me I ought to be in jail for the way everything went down."

  Acklin nodded, polite. "Yes, yes, I see. But I wouldn't pay much attention to them, Mr. Kertzman. Mr. Carthwright is completely backing you up at Justice. He said you had his full authorization to do whatever you felt the situation required. He said that he believes all your accusations against Milburn and Radford are true. He says that he believes they did, indeed, commit the crimes. And he told Justice that if they wish to place the blame on someone, they can place it on him. No one is willing to do that."

  This was truly amazing. It took Kertzman a second to absorb it. Acklin stood in polite silence.

  So it had been Carthwright. Covered him solid.

  "When did Carthwright back me?" Kertzman asked after a moment.

  "Since it began, I believe," Acklin responded. "I suppose, too, that Justice was somewhat, uh, alarmed by what I told them."

  A moment of curious silence.

  Kertzman almost smiled. This was getting more interesting by the second. Things were shaking loose all over the place. Never any telling what a good hair-raising shootout can do for a government investigation.

  "And what did you tell them?" he asked.

  "Uh, well, I read the full reports when they we
re faxed in this morning."

  "Yeah, you told me that."

  "Yes, anyway, Mr. Kertzman, I began looking into the angle of someone profiteering from the actions of Black Light, as you alleged in your reports. And I discovered a few things. So this morning I called Justice and told them that I had incontrovertible evidence that an element inside the CIA was guilty of violating National Security Intelligence Directive Seven, concerning the Agency's right to conduct certain covert affairs on American soil. And these persons, these high-ranking persons, have, uh, also probably violated National Security Intelligence Directive Ten, which regulates the authority of the Agency to participate in money-making enterprises which cause a prejudiced financial profit for select civilians."

  Kertzman's cigarette hung forgotten in his hand. He stared at Acklin.

  "So, Mr. Kertzman, I also told them that senior officials were implicated in the ... uh, scandal, I called it. And I told them that you have evidence and knowledge of the situation which might prevent untoward embarrassment to the President of the United States and Congress ..."

  Acklin paused, as if considering. Kertzman tried to recover, tried to hide his amazement. He nodded.

  Finally, the FBI agent finished. "Oh, I told them that a, um, Bay of Pigs-type debacle, I called it, might be prevented by keeping you on the investigation for a few days."

  Kertzman waited a moment, then laughed out loud in a sudden, uncontrollable burst of humor. His prizefighter face split in a mean-looking smile.

  "Just who are you, Acklin?"

  "Oh, no one special, Mr. Kertzman," he continued humbly. "But for some reason the Washington office received full reports on last night's incident, addressed to my attention. I read your background reports and the incident cases from the shooting and took it upon myself to begin checking computers for information that might verify allegations that Black Light was used for profit-making.

  "I want you to know, Mr. Kertzman, that this wasn't originally my case. I'm not sure why I received copies of the report. But when I investigated your allegations earlier today and found some things in the computer to back it all up, I was allowed into the situation."

  "And who allowed you?" Kertzman asked, suddenly more serious.

  "Why, Mr. Carthwright allowed me," he said, pausing. "He was reluctant, I might add. He said to stay clear of pursuing the gold allegations. He still believes the case should focus on a rogue element of the government trying to control foreign policy through Black Light. He believes, I think, that the angle of profiteering is unsubstantiated. But he did, in any case, allow me into the operation to assist you. You need an assistant, anyway, Mr. Kertzman, now that Radford and Milburn are gone."

  Kertzman made a mental note to call Carthwright as soon as Acklin left. He squinted through a long, silent, studied drag on his cigarette. Then he released it in a meditative calm, patiently watching the FBI man.

  "I appreciate what you've done, son," he continued, purpose-fully and plainly respectful. "I've needed a little help. Tell me what you found on the angle of the gold."

  "Oh, I didn't really find solid evidence to link Black Light's official operations to the deaths," Acklin added, shuffling. "That's why Mr. Carthwright told me to ignore it. But there is considerable circumstantial evidence to support the gold theory. And if Gage is still alive, and willing to verify my theory with his testimony, we might be able to find the guilty party behind all of this, bring indictments. Immunity has been offered to Gage, if he will come in and testify."

  Smoke from the Marlboro hovered in the still air, half-masking Kertzman's narrowed gaze. "I'll bet that took some doin'," he mumbled.

  Acklin nodded. "Yes, sir, it did. Justice wasn't cooperative. But Mr. Carthwright was adamant about granting the immunity. He has some influence, you know. And he is eager to see the case brought to an end."

  Kertzman blinked, silent for a moment. He was trying to follow Acklin, but he was tired, not catching every detail. The sudden appearance of a front-line guy who was actually fighting for him had relieved some of the electric tension that had kept him wired and awake. Through eyes burning in fatigue, he focused again on Acklin.

  "Alright," he began, clearing his throat. "Tell me more about what you've got."

  Acklin produced a folded sheet of paper from his coat. "Yes, sir," Acklin said quickly, stepping forward, handing it humbly to Kertzman.

  Kertzman opened it, read a list of names. Some he recognized as major financial movers in America. A lot of the names were foreign. He didn't know them.

  "What's this?" he asked gruffly, exhaling a long stream of smoke from the Marlboro.

  "A list of dead men, sir," Acklin continued. "Those are persons who died at time periods and in certain cities where Black Light was assigned an operation."

  Something hit Kertzman on that. But because he was so exhausted he had to think about it for a moment. Finally it came to him.

  "And how were you able to pinpoint exactly where Black Light operated and when? If they doctored the records, the paperwork, how can you be sure of where they were?"

  Acklin seemed pleased with himself. "Well, actually, sir, a computer printout of military and civilian travel logs also arrived on my desk this morning, with a cover letter explaining which flights were used by Black Light, and the means of verifying. It appears that the printout is a legitimate travel record of the unit. I'm using it to draw the timetable, to link Black Light with probable covert operations. But we'll need Gage to confirm."

  Kertzman didn't like it. "And you don't know where this package came from?"

  "No, sir." Acklin shook his head. "The papers were sanitized, no headings."

  "How did you get incident reports of what happened at the cabin?"

  "They were faxed to me from the White House, sir."

  Not good, thought Kertzman. But he couldn't figure it. Who was Acklin that he would receive this package of reports? Who had sent it to him? It didn't make sense, but it appeared to be Kertzman's good fortune because Acklin may have actually run something to ground. Still, though, it bothered him. But after a moment he decided to leave it alone. Come back to it later.

  He studied the list.

  "Black Light was busy," he said dully.

  "Yes, sir," Acklin continued. "I'm beginning to build a scenario over the financial institutions that were affected by their activities."

  Kertzman nodded, still studying the list. "How are you linking the travel schedule to probable hits?"

  "By computer, sir," Acklin replied humbly. "I wrote a program to do the searching and compiling for me and then I released it into the system through the CIA Cray linkup. The Cray pretty much has access to everything: obituaries, newspaper articles, television broadcasts, financial reports, gold transfers, and takeovers. Mr. Carthwright gave me permission to use it. All I had to do was give it the commands." He nodded at the paper. "By tomorrow we should have a list of suspect organizations that profited directly from Black Light's probable sanctions."

  Kertzman nodded, stared at the list.

  Acklin continued eagerly. "You see, it appears that Black Light was a type of rogue military adventure against the American civilian sector, and the entire world, for that matter. This is a list of wealthy individuals whose empires were, upon their deaths, basically absorbed by an unidentifiable organization. I can't place, yet, who is behind the organization. But I will. For the time being let's just call it 'Company A.'"

  Kertzman nodded, sighing. His bandaged right forearm throbbed. The medication he'd taken earlier in the day was wearing off.

  Acklin, the computer wizard, didn't seem to notice his discomfort.

  "My theory is that 'Company A' was built from Black Light's activities by using assassination to disintegrate existing financial empires, and then using different agencies working for 'Company A' to control the pieces of the former organization."

  Gazing dully through a spiral of smoke, Kertzman mumbled, "And how did they do that? How do you control a company by kill
ing somebody?"

  "Well," Acklin answered quickly, eagerly, "'Company A' would buy heavily into a financial empire and when individuals, who happened to hold a majority interest were, uh, sanctioned, 'Company A' would automatically assume a controlling share. Naturally there would be a redistribution of the deceased's wealth among others. But it would be in smaller shares and therefore less influential. Also, we must remember that financial power, like anything else in life, Mr. Kertzman, is often an extension of personality. With a certain strong personality gone, it was much easier for 'Company A' to gain control over the respective company."

  A hesitant step, and Acklin stood closer. He held Kertzman with an honest gaze.

  "Death, Mr. Kertzman, is how this empire did business. Assassination, in a sense, was an essential element of the takeover. This empire could not have been created without it." He paused. "Gage has committed grave crimes, it's true. But he was also operating under the auspices of someone inside this government who passed the orders down to Black Light. He was an arm of our secret military, obeying orders as he was trained to obey orders. Until he refused, of course, as your report indicated. Then someone attempted to kill him and the other members of Black Light. And now it is clear that Gage has turned against his former supervisors. Which provides us the perfect opportunity to bring this situation into court and punish the guilty. But we must succeed in bringing Gage in for testimony."

  Kertzman sat back, face expressionless, eyes dead to the world. He rubbed his forearm on his thigh. The incision, closed with 35 sutures, was beginning to ache.

  Acklin continued, "This, at least, is what the circumstantial evidence suggests to me. I admit it is a complicated theory."

  Kertzman roused himself. "Who inside the government profited?"

  "I don't know, yet." Acklin stepped to one side. He was almost nervous, but not quite, and Kertzman began to perceive that the FBI agent's passive presence was the cloak for something more. "I am still tracing the gold trail back through holding companies, trust funds, corporations and such. Whoever did this is an expert at laundering and hiding money. Like I said, it may take another two or three days."