"No," the Englishman said somberly, exhaling. "No. Not a defection."
"Then what was it?" Kertzman rumbled, releasing a cloud of blue smoke.
Stephenson regarded him carefully. "What I'm about to tell you—"
"Yeah, I heard that part already," Kertzman growled, smoke drifting from his nostrils. He spat out a piece of tobacco. "Just tell me."
Stephenson's face revealed a pleasant amusement, but he continued in a serious tone. "For more than twenty years the man you know as Charles Stern was England's top counterintelligence operative for Western Europe and South Africa. During his tenure in MI6 he penetrated virtually every major intelligence network in his section of the globe. An astonishing feat, to say the least. And even more astonishing because he relied so heavily on live sources who could continuously process data for verification, a type of intelligence work, I might add, that is greatly superior to the simple data collection system used by your NSA satellites." He took an almost depressed draw on the cigarette. "All of Stern's work was consummate, and he had the highest clearance. At the time of his disappearance he had risen to the ninth most powerful position in Special Branch. Then he quite simply vanished. Disappeared without a trace while holding the keys to virtually all of our government’s most carefully guarded secrets. Not a scandal, mind you, but sufficient cause for a decided panic."
Kertzman listened patiently.
"Upon the alarming occasion of his disappearance," Stephenson continued, "I was assigned the morbid responsibility of locating him, dead or alive. But there were only denials from the Soviets and East Germans. And our informants argued that Stern had not defected. So I began to explore other avenues to explain his disappearance, such as kidnapping by a foreign power, or assassination. Yet nothing developed to substantiate those suppositions, either. Finally, I began to investigate the possibility of a sort of private defection, a self-imposed exile initiated because of some mysterious interworkings of his own mind."
Understanding, Kertzman nodded. Then he pulled again on the Marlboro and released it patiently, letting it drift with Stephenson’s words.
Stephenson thrust a hand into the pocket of his black overcoat. His left hand held the cigarette, which he gestured with, abstractly.
"For a time, I was unable to explain why he might commit such an act," the Englishman continued, exhaling. "Then I began a careful perusal of the books in Stern's private library. And I began to understand, or perceive, a distinct pattern of thought; a pattern of thought that led me to investigate the possibility that Stern might have shared certain philosophical ideals with a few of the world's more infamous megalomaniacs, ideals which would have made him... fundamentally unstable."
Cigarette forgotten in his hand, Kertzman held the Englishman’s gaze.
"You see," continued Sir Stephenson, "I discovered that the man you know as Charles Stern possessed an almost pathological obsession with, ah, how shall I describe it, the selection of species."
"Superior beings," interjected Kertzman, with a touch of scorn.
Stephenson smiled benignly. "Yes, Mr. Kertzman. You might say that."
"So all that stuff you told me in the church was true," Kertzman asked gruffly. "Stern and whoever he's working for consider themselves to be some kind of master race. Superior. 'Cept their buddies ain't chosen by the color of their skin or hair or their nationality. They're chosen by how good they are at killing."
"As far as Stern is concerned, yes," Stephenson offered, with a nod. "He works only with the purest predators. During past years I have confirmed that Stern heads a secretive private group known as The Sixth Order."
Beneath his anger, Kertzman was confused. "What does that mean?"
Stephenson gestured vaguely with his cigarette, gazed out over the city a moment. In contrast to Kertzman's implacable anger, the Englishman appeared faintly disturbed.
"It is a rather nebulous concept," Stephenson explained patiently. "But to put it into few words, it is a term taken from modern spiritism."
"Explain it to me," said Kertzman.
Stephenson nodded. "Yes, of course. It shall help you understand what you are facing. And then we will proceed with other matters."
Kertzman glanced at his watch. "I ain't got long, Stephenson."
Deliberate and calm, the Englishman continued, "Stern serves a man who considers himself to be some type of immortal being, a sort of modern Pharaoh who holds, within himself, the keys of eternal life."
Frowning, Kertzman took another drag, then released it with the stolid, ponderous, and thoroughly unfriendly gaze of a dinosaur. "What's this guy's name?" he asked.
"We do not know," Stephenson answered, shaking his head. "We only know that Stern does, indeed, serve this man." He continued, "This man, whoever he is, has established seven orders for mankind so that man may reach his own state of godhood, each stage being slightly more enlightened. The first stage, or the first order, is total ignorance. The second stage is the beginning of knowledge. The seventh order is when man can transcend, ah, flesh, and reign as a type of god." He paused. "Now, the sixth order, of which these men are known, is considered to be 'perfect man.' Perfect physically. Perfect mentally. Perfect psychically. Perfect spiritually."
Kertzman was unimpressed. His voice was brutally sarcastic. "So let me guess. These guys are supposed to be perfect."
Stephenson didn't laugh. "Oh, more than that, Mr. Kertzman," he replied with a steady and serious gaze. "They are part of a special group known as The Sixth Order. And the men in this group are considered perfect soldiers, perfect assassins."
"And this Sixth Order is this nut's enforcement arm, right?" growled Kertzman.
The Englishman nodded.
"And how many guys are in this little group?"
Stephenson shook his head. "Five, not including Stern. His inclusion brings it to six."
Kertzman moved ahead of it. "There ain't six no more, Stephenson. They've lost three, for sure. The Russian, the Nigerian, and Maitland."
"Yes," the Englishman agreed. "Only three remain. Stern, Carl Zossen, the German, and the Japanese known as Sato."
Struck by the name, Kertzman asked, "What's the story on the Japanese? Where does he come from?"
After a slow draw on the thin cigarette, Stephenson replied, "He was a counterterrorist for the Japanese Secret Police, working mostly against the Koreans or Chinese. But unlike most of his countrymen skilled in similar methods of warfare, Sato has always shunned working for Yakuza. He considers himself to be above an Oyabun. Until recently he has served only his country, so records of him are still highly classified and incomplete to our sources. But to be reasonably objective I must say that he was quite accomplished at virtually all forms of terrorism and counterterrorism. He was also highly paid by his very grateful country. Until he became involved in this particular form of spiritism, moving his talents beyond the arena of international industrial sanctions. His obsession with this, ah, enlightenment, is quite extreme." He paused. "As are his methods."
Stephenson's gaze strayed to Kertzman's bandaged arm.
Face impassive, Kertzman waited.
"So that you might estimate how formidable a foe he truly is," continued Stephenson calmly, "I can tell you, rather accurately that Sato has committed no less than one hundred fifty sanctions in his time. Now, mind you, not all of them were initial targets. But because he prefers to use, ah, how shall we say, rather primitive methods, he is usually forced to get within close physical proximity of his target. Which necessitates the removal of numerous security personnel, and so forth." He shook his head. "It becomes quite tedious to recount."
"Forget it," said Kertzman, indifferent. "Let me finish what you were going to say." He took a deep breath, stepped forward. "Some spiritual psychopath, identity still unknown, has this army of so-called supermen killing people all over the world because they want this manuscript. They believe that this thing reveals the name of the Antichrist." He paused, shook his head. "This guy is obsessed wit
h it. 'Bout like Hitler was obsessed with ancient artifacts that would give him some kind 'a power over the Allied forces. And Black Light was used by Stern and his boss to build their financial base, in case they could prepare the way for this... whatever it is. Just like Stern has probably used the military units of a dozen other countries for the same thing. He just paid whoever it took, got the orders cut to do the hit, and passed it to the military. It only worked 'cause soldiers don't ask no questions. They're trained to take orders, do their job. They didn't know that someone inside their own government had sold them out, was using them to build an empire for a psychopath."
"Yes," Stephenson agreed easily. "I believe that you have correctly summed up the situation."
Kertzman stepped forward, angry, growling. "Well, I hope you don't mind me saying it, Stephenson, but it sounds to me like Stern and whoever he's working for are crazy.”
Stephenson was undisturbed.
"Without question," he said. "However, that does not change the fact that Charles Stern is a great danger to the defense of the Realm. He must be apprehended. Because we suspect that if he is not soon stopped he will begin some type of systematic repression, inspired by this lunatic who is his employer, against the nation of Israel. Possibly, it could even lead to nuclear threats inspired by the orchestrated cooperation between Middle Eastern countries that would be forged from this ancient manuscript." He waited. "In this situation, Mr. Kertzman, time is most certainly not on our side."
Kertzman nodded. "Yeah," he said, "I know this part." He waited to decide what he wanted to ask. "And now you want me to help you bring Stern back in from the cold."
It was a statement.
Stephenson nodded, utterly dignified. "Yes. I ask you for this single favor. I have been honest with you, and I would like for you to return that courtesy."
"And how, exactly, do you want me to do that?"
Stephenson stepped forward, earnest. Kertzman didn't move.
"It is a simple request, really," Stephenson said. "I understand that the American, Jonathan Gage, is attempting to obtain the manuscript that Stern and his employer seek so badly. Also, I understand from my sources that you are planning an exchange, the manuscript for the woman. I merely ask that you telephone and advise me where you will be making the rendezvous so that I may attend. I will not interfere until after the exchange. I give you my word that I will not jeopardize your plans. Perhaps, I might even be of assistance in some small way."
Kertzman nodded, cold. "You must want Stern pretty badly."
"Yes," the Englishman replied. "We do. He must be taken for interrogation. For one thing, we must learn how many state secrets he has already compromised in his madness." He took another draw on the cigarette, released it steadily, unhurried.
"And if you can't take him alive," Kertzman said, "you're gonna kill him. In fact, you would probably prefer to kill him because if you take him alive you'll have to figure out what to do with him. It'd turn out to be a long-term problem. Too many questions. Too many people who can disagree with your methods." He paused, eyed Stephenson up close. "That's the real plan, ain't it Stephenson? You're gonna kill him."
Silence followed Kertzman's words. Stephenson waited, composed. "Yes," the Englishman said, finally. "That is the plan."
Kertzman took it in, saw how far things had gotten out of hand. Old comrades killing one another. No arrests, no apprehensions. No questions.
He shook his head, half-turned away. "Well, at least you didn't lie to me," he said, looking at the city again. "And that's good. 'Cause I knew the answer anyway."
"I know," said Stephenson.
Kertzman laughed without humor.
"Yeah," he continued, "I figure you do." Then he shook his head again. "But I think I'll pass, Sir Henry. I only drop a man in self-defense. And, then, only when I have to. I ain't no hitter. And I ain't gonna set nobody up to get hit."
He stared at Stephenson for a moment, as if he were searching for what he wanted to say.
"I'm grateful for what you've told me. I owe you for that. But I don't bend over backwards for nobody. Never have. Never will."
Suddenly, even as Kertzman uttered the words, Sir Henry Stephenson seemed struck by something else, an idea, or inspiration. He gazed at Kertzman for a long moment. Then he slowly nodded, murmuring.
"Yes, of course," he said, turning away from Kertzman. "That would be it ... I see ..."
"What do you see?" Kertzman asked, in no mood for games.
A pause, and Stephenson looked back at Kertzman with an abrupt and unusual compassion. "How is it, if I may ask, that you were chosen to hunt down Gage, Mr. Kertzman?"
"Bout the same as always," Kertzman said. "I got volunteered."
"Because of your integrity, I presume."
Kertzman's face revealed nothing. "That was the line they used."
"Yes." Stephenson's gaze grew distant. "Of course."
Kertzman took a step forward, eye to eye. "I'm runnin' out of patience, Stephenson."
The Englishman's fortitude was unmoved. He studied Kertzman with a mesmerizing steadiness. "I would like to ask you one more question," he ventured.
"Make it quick," said Kertzman.
"First, I must tell you that I know of Black Light. I know of Radford and Milburn and Carthwright and, even, Admiral Talbot."
"I figured," Kertzman said, without blinking.
Stephenson laughed. "Yes, I suppose that you would. In any case, when you agreed to take this assignment from Carthwright, when you agreed to discover who was running Black Light, you obviously told them that you would document everything. You warned them you would protect no one. Absolutely no one. Even if it led straight to their desk, so to speak."
It didn't sound like a question. Kertzman wasn't sure how to reply. "Yeah," he said finally. "I told them I'd document everything. I told them I'd nail whoever it led back to. Even them."
Stephenson nodded. "Of course you did. Because you are a man of genuine integrity. A man, even, of unyielding integrity."
A silent, focused stare from Kertzman. "What are you thinking, Stephenson?"
Bowing his head slightly, Stephenson looked at the ground for a moment. "You must allow me some credit, Mr. Kertzman," he began, looking up again. "I am, as an old OSS man would put it, 'a perfect spy.' It is both my craft and my love. You, however, are primarily a hunter. You are not attuned to the subtleties of this world, as I am. So you could not be expected to see it. Not in the beginning, at least."
Kertzman began to get a terrible feeling. A question came to him, but he couldn't ask it.
"Let me tell you how it happened," said Sir Stephenson, kindly. "I know, already, the basic scenario. The NSA needed a man who could hunt Gage. You, as a consummate hunter, were deemed a good selection for the job. But there are other men who are also good hunters, Mr. Kertzman. So why did the NSA select you for the job, and not one of them? That is the question you must first ask. And quite probably, you did. And you were simply told that you were the best available man."
Kertzman nodded slowly, "Go on."
Stephenson's gaze strayed toward the city lights, and back. He seemed to be recalling a vast panorama of experience and tradecraft, weaving it together in a mesmerizing dialogue.
"Your superior, Carthwright, told you that the situation was extremely grave. Further, he told you that someone occupying a significant post within your government was possibly the sinister force who misused Black Light for his own personal gain. So you began your investigation. Your primary objective was to locate Gage. Your secondary objective was to locate whomever had misused the unit. As it happened, you did eventually find Gage's safe house. At this point you also discovered that someone within your own division had betrayed you. However, against what fate might have decreed, Stern and his men, who were also hunting Gage, failed to kill all of you. So, whoever it was that was trying to contain the investigation and confine the blame to Gage alone failed. And you refocused your efforts to find out who had tru
ly misused Black Light."
Stephenson shuffled a step, studied Kertzman. "Let us begin with basics, Mr. Kertzman." He paused. "Who attempted to kill you at the cabin?"
"Stern," said Kertzman.
"Yes. So it has, of course, occurred to you that Black Light was run by Stern, and he was under orders from someone else to contain the situation with Gage?"
"Yeah, I've gone past that already," said Kertzman.
"Yes, of course you have," Stephenson replied. "So you've obviously surmised that Stern and his ... master ... were the force using someone within your government, and by extension using Black Light, to build their financial empire."
"Uh huh," Kertzman grunted. "I'm just trying to find out who it was." With the words, Kertzman began to arrive at a terrible conclusion, nothing he had ever anticipated.
"Now, at this point, after the situation at the cabin, the investigation began to take a new and unexpected turn," Stephenson said.
"More than likely, evidence was mysteriously uncovered that cast the light of guilt onto a new head ..."
Kertzman remembered Acklin's package.
"Yes," said the Englishman mildly, as if he were teaching a history class, "but it was not someone you did not already suspect. No, this guilt was thrown onto the head of someone that you did, indeed, suspect. It might even be someone who knew that you would do whatever you had to do to find the guilty party. Someone who knew, without question, that you would never allow any personal feelings of loyalty to interfere with your unyielding integrity. Ideally, it was someone who, on several occasions, warned you explicitly to stay away from a certain area of the investigation, an area where evidence would lead the investigation back to him." Stephenson nodded with his words, spoke more slowly. "Yes, someone who knew that you would document all of his hampering efforts to prevent the investigation from following a certain line of inquiry that would lead, without question, directly back to him. Making him appear even more guilty."
Reckoning Page 45