Reckoning

by James Byron Huggins

  "Do you think you'll have enough for a conviction?"

  Acklin shook his head solidly. "Not without Gage."

  "Why?"

  "Because we must first prove that Black Light did indeed commit these sanctions. That will require Gage's honest and complete testimony. Without that, we have nothing but conjecture."

  Kertzman flicked ashes from the Marlboro to the tile floor. "Are there any more surviving members of Black Light?"

  "No. Gage is the only survivor. Wilfred Chavez, the Hispanic-American who died at Gage's cabin, and Pearson Thomas, who you knew as Sandman, were the other survivors. Only Gage remains."

  Kertzman understood. "I like the idea. I think you've got something." He nodded. "You're on the team. I'll tell Carthwright to give you clearance." A pause. "What's the word on Radford?"

  "We haven't located him yet. The Soviets deny they have him which, of course, makes everyone believe that they do."

  Kertzman laughed brutally. "Alright," he added, "We'll find him sooner or later. So what's next? You seem to have given this a lot of thought."

  Acklin bowed slightly as he continued, held his hands clasped. "Well," he began, "Ms. Halder is obviously missing, and the Bureau is working the situation as a legitimate kidnapping—"

  "They should" Kertzman broke in, angry.

  "Yes, sir," Acklin continued, unperturbed, "I made that clear. Now, Mr. Carthwright has allowed me to work for you, and though he's told me to ignore the gold theory, I believe it should be pursued. So I suggest that I pursue the gold through the computers while you attempt to find both Ms. Halder and Gage."

  Grunting, Kertzman nodded.

  Acklin shuffled, spoke again. "In all candor, Mr. Kertzman, I do hope you can bring Gage in. If he doesn't testify, we'll never get convictions for whoever was responsible for Black Light."

  Kertzman drew a deep, long drag on the Marlboro, released it, searched Acklin's eyes. "I'm going to do what I can," he said. "But Ms. Halder is my top priority right now."

  Gravely serious and unblinking, Acklin continued. “Yes, sir, I understand. She is everyone's priority. But I believe that if you find Gage, you will find her. I understand, after talking with Professor Halder and Mr. O'Henry that she and Gage were rather close. So I'm certain he will go after her."

  Kertzman nodded, eyes dull with pain. "Yeah, that's a safe bet," he responded quietly. "If I find him, I'll probably find her."

  Acklin was silent, then, "I suppose that, when you decide to go after him, you would prefer to work alone."

  Calculating, Kertzman watched. Then he nodded curtly, but with a gentle respect.

  He liked Acklin, but he wouldn't take him along, not on this. Because this really wasn't about business, and it would probably end as badly as any situation could. Kertzman had no doubt that it was his last assignment. Nobody could work again after something like this. Acklin didn't need to be in any deeper than he was.

  Acklin followed Kertzman's nod, and his blue-gray eyes were suddenly keen. "Yes, sir, I understand. I think that it's good for you to work alone." He paused, searching for words. "Too many people can complicate things, Mr. Kertzman," he continued, after a moment. "Sometimes it can be hard to know who to trust. The secret behind these tactical operations is to always keep it simple."

  That phrase: Keep it simple.

  Kertzman's hunting eyes glinted, suddenly tense and still. He gazed down at the smaller man.

  "Yeah," he rumbled slowly. "I heard that phrase before. Keep it simple. Reminds me of somebody else I know."

  Acklin didn't move. A faint smile seemed to come to him slowly.

  "Yes, sir," he added politely, openly. "That's an old phrase that we used in the 10th Special Forces." He waited. "Keep it simple. Always keep it simple. Then there's not much that can go wrong."

  Kertzman nodded slowly, understanding now why Acklin was so willing to help Gage, knowing it in his gut, where it really mattered.

  "That's funny," he said dully. "Gage was in the 10th."

  "Yes sir. The 10th back in the 80s was a tight outfit. We had unit loyalty. I guess we still do."

  *

  FORTY-ONE

  Cold.

  Ice in freezing wind enveloped him, sheathing him in glistening clear rivulets that cracked and splintered with every movement.

  Wind gusted, howled.

  Gage shivered, tried to relax, resisting the impulse to fight the trembling. He knew that if he stiffened up he would use more energy, only get colder, so he breathed deeply, tried to control his physical reaction to his surroundings with his mind.

  Crouching on an icy boulder, hidden by the shadow of a deep overhang, he studied the path before him.

  Marked by a single, deeply carved obelisk that indicated a neglected graveyard, the path descended from the main road into a narrow cleft, a jagged crevice not more than 400 feet long and steep on both sides with freezing black cliffs.

  Gage had half-suspected that the initial trail over the mountains was one of the forgotten trade roads used in ancient times for hauling cargo to the Valley of Po, primarily used now for hiking. He was right. It was an easy climb to 5,000 feet, a wide and well-used walking trial. He had quickly located the thin path to the tomb; it angled right, a short descent that led to the ancient family crypt of Santacroce.

  Focusing, Gage switched on the night visor.

  In the generous illumination of amplified moonlight, he gazed down the trail and into the relative darkness. The overgrown path ended at a large tomb, a darkened door with a single narrow column on either side.

  He expelled a long breath through his black face mask. Then he turned his head, his mind calculating an approach to the tomb while his eyes searched the distant road behind him for the faintest betrayal of man-made light, or movement, in the distance.

  His senses reached out around him, feeling the night and cold, open to any shift of wind, any distant sound or the faintest noise. It was a trained effort to let his animal instincts loose, to allow the lower mind, the sharper mind, to guide and direct. This instinctive power was almost lost to civilized man, but during the years of brutal conditioning in jungles and mountains, Gage had learned to resurrect it or die.

  After being beaten by the Japanese in New York he had realized fear, simple and pure. And it had crippled him, in a sense. But from experience he knew that enough time in combat, with enough fear and enough pain, could cripple anyone. Only those who were never alone in the black cold night could say they were never afraid of the dark.

  But he had come through it. No, he was not the same as when he went into it, but he had endured the worst, waited until his mind had returned. Then when Sarah was taken, it moved him the final step, back to the fight.

  Nothing could explain it.

  It was simply a phenomenon of action, a phenomenon that he didn't understand himself, and he didn't try. He had come through it, and that was enough. To go back and look at it would only resurrect it. And for now, he had a job to do.

  Crouching, cold wind moving over him, Gage felt the night.

  Howling winter.

  Ice and snow and dark.

  Predators, hunting him in black winds, death.

  Home …

  Eyes glinting in the moonlight, he felt everything alive within him, flowing together. There was no wasted movement, no pause. In his mind and heart, thought and action were one; a pure and primal state of being.

  Face in shadow, Gage laughed.

  He was back.

  In darkness he poised on the rock, deathly silent and still, listening, watching, open to everything. But the night was quiet and close.

  Turning his head, he gazed carefully into the distance, down the road he had ascended. He knew that, soon, they would be coming, might be already on the road. Probably, it would be Sato and Carl. But it might be more.

  Or, then again, they might have already been here and gone, leaving behind a careful trap.

  Turning his head back to the path, Gage released one hand
from the suppressed MP5 slung across his chest, switched the night visor to thermal imaging.

  On the inside of the screen, the readout indicated a starlight luminosity of fifty-four percent. But the heat imaging index was flat and unresponsive, registering nothing, reading nothing but cold.

  The thermal imager could detect residual body heat down to one degree Fahrenheit. Under proper conditions it could even find the heated imprint of a human hand on a claymore or a granite wall. Sometimes, in the past, he had used residual heat to identify tripwires and bombs that couldn't be seen by simple luminosity.

  Residual imprints left behind in this weather wouldn't last long, not on cold steel nearly frozen by the icy wind and sleet. It was unreliable. He would have to use another tactic.

  Carefully, silently, Gage eased down from the rock, holding the weight of the MP5 primarily by the sling draped over his shoulder, pointing it with his left hand, descending to the trail. He moved slowly forward, eyes focused slightly in front of his feet. He kept far to the side of the path, his back to the wall with his right hand down at his side, palm facing back.

  In this manner he could slide forward, step by silent step, presenting only a side view of his body. And, without looking, he could stay close to the rock by the feel of his gloved palm touching the wall, positioning him automatically at the edge of the path. Meanwhile his eyes constantly searched the ground at his feet for where a tripwire might be tied off.

  Steadily, he moved forward.

  It was far easier to detect a tripwire where it was tied off than across the path itself. His eyes stayed locked on the trail at his feet, always searching. Occasionally, he glanced up, searching the walls for a sniper. It was unlikely that a sniper could lay in that cold for any length of time, waiting for a shot. In this weather it was a reluctant method for ambush. Still, by habit, he looked up anyway, covering everything, leaving nothing unexplored.

  He remembered the words of an old Sergeant ...

  "Soldiers never look up. They never look up and that's what gets them killed. In 'Nam they would hang the claymores in trees, wipe out an entire platoon. Always do what ain't natural, son. Always do what ain't natural."

  Gage continued forward. As he glanced up he saw that the walls were steeper, smoothed from long erosion by water, sheathed in ice. Impossible to climb.

  The narrow, treacherous path would probably be the only way into the crypt. And, by the looks of the steep and icy condition of the walls, the only way out.

  Beneath his black face mask, he frowned. Not good.

  He could be trapped in here too easily.

  Slowly, slowly he moved down the path, poised with the MP5, occasionally holding in place to look steadily ahead, or above, scanning the shadows with a combination of night vision and thermal imaging. But he saw nothing. Finally, after 100 careful steps, he stood before the tomb.

  Silently he crouched, holding a steady position ten feet from the entrance.

  Darkened, the doorway was open. Gage tried to penetrate the corporeal shadows with the visor, but even the luminosity imaging couldn't see where there was no light at all. He narrowed his eyes, peering, but nothing was visible. He slid silently forward, removing a maglight from a side pocket of the Lowe backpack. Then he took off the visor, turning on the flashlight.

  Immediately the steps of the crypt, slate gray in dusty granite, were visible before him, angling downward to dissolve in a smooth gray granite floor. But, while the interior of the chamber appeared smoothly chiseled, the tunnel walls leading down were jagged and uncut, pitted with dozens of impenetrable, deep shadows.

  Peering, Gage searched the dust on the steps, found no sign of tracks. There was some slight disturbance, perhaps three or four weeks old, but none since then.

  Movement!

  Gage whirled and lifted the MP5.

  A thin tangle of dry weeds blew across the path behind him, tumbling.

  A tense breath escaped.

  He had automatically thrown down the safety of the weapon, his finger tightening on the trigger. He scanned left and right, searching with the flashlight.

  Nothing.

  He felt the panicky urge to rush into the tomb, get the book, and be gone.

  He grimaced.

  Patience, boy!

  "Take it easy," Gage whispered to himself. "Don't get spooked ... Don't let 'em rush you ... Be cool ... Be cool ... Do it right."

  He turned back to the entrance, dropping the MP5 on the sling. Then he reached out and snatched up a single, long dry weed from beside the open portal. With a quick twist he broke it off near the ground, leaving a two-foot section in his hand.

  Carefully, he eased down the steps, gently and slowly sweeping the weed in front of him, downward, up, downward, watching to see if the thin reed hit the tripwire of a trap not visible to the light. He held the light in one hand, the weed in the other.

  It grew colder as he descended into the tomb. But it was a still, unnatural coldness, unlike the night cold of the air outside that moved and swept over him in dark gusting winds. No, the tomb held a coldness that hung, solid, in the air, deathlike and disturbing with an unearthly, somber sensation.

  He moved forward, step by step, crouching, sweeping gently with the weed while using the maglight to illuminate more and more of the tomb as he descended. In moments he was in the mausoleum, gazing at the carefully sealed graves.

  Staring about in the shadow and narrow light, he saw that the underground chamber was at least 100 feet long with the oldest, largest tomb centered at the opposite end, its marble slab slightly askew.

  Still searching the floor with the weed, he moved slowly forward until he stood before it. He reached out with a gloved hand, pulling the loosened marble slab aside. The icy stone moved slowly, creakily, grinding marble against the rough cut granite of the wall. As the grave opened itself to him he found, finally, the horror he had sought.

  Gage's face was solid in a frowning mask, and his cold eyes narrowed, menacing and measured, staring into the crypt.

  Darkness in skeletal bones, it was there; a thick and dusty dry manuscript hauntingly clutched in spidery white arms beneath a grinning skull dead to the Earth for 500 years.

  *

  "May I provide you with anything?"

  Sarah ignored the polite tone, continued to gaze remotely out the window of the mansion. The sun had descended quickly, too quickly, suggesting mountains. But she had no clear view from the window, couldn't be certain.

  Slowly, she took another sip of tea. She had made it herself in the kitchen, a kitchen conspicuously devoid of knives and cutting utensils.

  Gradually her thirst was satisfied, but as the dullness in her joints worked out she had become aware of a painful hunger. She tried to ignore the sensation, following some primitive instinct to remain independent.

  Stern attempted to be gracious. "Are you certain that I cannot bring you something? You must be famished."

  Sarah laughed in hostile amusement. "You sure are polite, Stern."

  "Oh, yes," he responded. "Certainly, there is no need to be uncivil. What must be done will be done. That is beyond us. But we should try and remain decently disposed until such a time, don't you agree?"

  Sarah took another sip of tea. "No. I don't agree."

  He received her comment with an interested, studious expression, sat down at the opposite end of the table, holding a cup of tea that he had made for himself.

  Sarah watched him stir the tea, moving the water gently with a silver spoon of obvious value. It was amazing, she thought, how much wealth was evident in the furnishings of this residence. But the house didn't appear to be anyone's home. It was simply a place for business. But without asking she knew the structure was inescapable. The windows and doors had complicated electronic devices that substituted for normal locks and the windows seemed thicker, like those on airplanes.

  Finally she spoke; "So did your people run Black Light, too?"

  He laughed. "Black Light? I don't understand
."

  Sarah smiled bitterly and closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the wooden chair. She shut her eyes tighter, concentrating. A strange expression rose in her face, released from somewhere deep inside, ascending, transforming her features gradually from pain to anger to a bitter and powerful resolution.

  She spoke quietly. "Tell me what you believe, Stern."

  He raised his gaze to her, released a tired sigh, questioning.

  "Go ahead," she continued, a faint bitter edge to her voice. "I want to know. I'm curious."

  Stern stirred his tea. He retained an amused and superior smile, condescending and indulgent.

  "What I believe is what I believe, Ms. Halder. I do not think that it would hold much interest for you."

  Sarah opened her eyes, focused on him completely. "Oh, I'd find it interesting. Believe me. Because I think you're a fool. And you're too old to be a fool. You should be a wise man, Stern. You should be a teacher. But you've wasted your life believing lies and ridiculous philosophy. Stupidity. And life is too short for that. Life is too short to know anything but the truth."

  He seemed amused by her taunt, still reluctant to talk but curious despite himself. "And you presume to know the truth, Ms. Halder?"

  Eyes steady, Sarah said. "Yes, I do."

  Stern nodded politely, looked at his tea. "Beliefs are not a subject for polite conversation, Ms. Halder. And I reluctantly perceive that you are already skeptical of my moral and judgmental qualities, so obviously you have quantified my beliefs as an aberration."

  "No," said Sarah, in a strange tone. "I'm willing to hear any argument."

  "But I will not argue with you, Ms. Halder. I will believe as I will believe. And, I might add, I am a soldier. So I will do as I must do. Life is not a simple journey of beliefs, Ms. Halder. It is a struggle for survival."

  She stared again out the window, holding a mocking smile.

  Stern laid one arm, relaxed, across the table, watching her. After a moment, however, he seemed annoyed by her presence.