The Honorable Traitors

by John Lutz

“Why? He’s been dead for twenty years.”

  Vincent didn’t answer. He got out of the car. So did Orton. The garage was dim, windowless, empty. No, not empty, he saw when Vincent flicked on the overhead fluorescents. In one corner stood a workbench, with vises of various sizes clamped to the edge, and neat rows of tools above it: saws, drills, screwdrivers, hammers. They were brand new and gleaming.

  “You buy these?” Orton asked mockingly. “Planning to fix up the place?”

  “No.” Vincent leaned against a fender, crossed his immaculately white-clad legs at the ankle. “How much did your father tell you about his wartime service?”

  “I don’t have to answer your questions, Lieutenant. You’re trying to intimidate me, and it’s not gonna work.”

  Vincent ignored this. “Hope I don’t shock you, Orton, but your estimate of your dad as a hero is maybe a little inflated. Just a little. He was really the worst traitor who ever wore uniform. Including Benedict Arnold.”

  The cold blue eyes studied Orton’s face. He was looking for a shocked reaction. Orton hoped he was disappointed. “Skip the theatrics. Just tell me what you know. Or think you know.”

  “At Pearl Harbor in 1940, your father was recruited as a double agent. For the rest of the war, he served the Soviet Union.”

  “He never served the Soviet Union.”

  “Interesting statement. Maybe you’d like to explain.”

  “You’re kinda slow, lieutenant. I’m not gonna cooperate with you. I mean—what is this shit? The war’s over, the Soviet Union’s gone, my father’s dead.”

  “True, we can’t give him what he deserved. Meaning court-martial and execution. But we can remove whatever’s left of him from Jefferson Barracks National Cemetery.”

  Orton swallowed hard. “No! You’re not gonna desecrate my father’s grave!”

  “You think a traitor deserves to rest beside men who served their country?”

  “He was not a traitor.”

  “You’re going to deny he was recruited into a spy ring run by a deep-cover Soviet agent named Hirochi Ryo?”

  Orton flinched at the name. So ONI did know. How the hell had they found out, after all this time? “He was recruited. But the ring was never activated. My father never did one fucking thing for Communist Russia.”

  Vincent uncrossed his ankles, put both hands on the fender and pushed himself to a standing position. He looked disappointed. “You’re really determined to waste my time with denials, evasions, indignation? Let’s skip all that.”

  The hooded blue eyes met Orton’s. Vincent said, “Bobby Soxer.”

  Orton had long ago made up his mind that if anyone ever said those two words to him, he would not react. His only chance would be to pretend he’d never heard them before. But now they hit like a blow. He cried out and fell back. Vincent watched him coldly. Orton ran at the door of the garage. Hammered it with his fists and shouted for help.

  Vincent let him go on until he had to stop and gasp for breath. Then he said, “Maybe you noticed, this isn’t a neighborly neighborhood. The houses on either side are empty. The people across the street are inside with the air-conditioning running. No one can hear you.”

  Orton swung round to face the slender white-clad figure. “You’re not an ONI agent. Or if you ever were, you’ve gone into business for yourself.”

  “The main point, as far as you’re concerned, is that I’m not bound by any legal constraints.”

  Orton ran at the man, arms out, reaching for his throat. Vincent ducked and punched. All the wind knocked out of him, Orton collapsed to the concrete floor, gasping. His eyes were closed, but he felt Vincent lifting him up. Easily. As if he weighed nothing. He opened his eyes, to see his forearm being put between the jaws of a vise. Before he could lift it out, Vincent’s fingers spun the handle. Blocks of steel trapped Orton’s wrist. He looked up at the wall, the gleaming pliers and drills and saws. He screamed and struggled.

  Vincent just watched him until the paroxysm of terror passed.

  Coughing, Orton said, “You’re going to kill me.”

  “Yes. But I can offer you a painless death. Well, almost painless. In return for the answer to one question. Where is the bomb?”

  “I don’t know. Russia somewhere. Probably doesn’t exist anymore. Please, let me go!”

  “No,” said Vincent calmly. “Too late for that lie. You already told me, your father never served Communist Russia. Captain Mel Orton and his fellow agents, Captain Bart Lester and Lieutenant Commander Morgan Walker, disobeyed their orders from the Kremlin.”

  “You know about Lester and Walker.”

  “Yes. I know enough to tell if you try to lie to me. So give me the truth. What happened at Hunter’s Point Naval Base in August 1945?”

  “My father was an idealist. So were the others. They were horrified by the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Tens of thousands of civilians incinerated, men, women, and children. And here was the third bomb, Bobby Soxer, that they were to send across the sea. The date was already chosen, the target already selected. They didn’t know Japan was going to surrender. They wanted to deny the bomb to the Americans—and the Russians.”

  “What did they do with the bomb?”

  Orton had been staring at his trapped hand, wriggling desperately, hopelessly. But talking about his father, telling somebody for the first time of Mel Orton’s courage and humanity, affected him strangely. He was not as frightened. He was even able to meet Vincent’s merciless eyes. “They dumped it. Bobby Soxer is now rusty junk at the bottom of San Francisco Bay.”

  “You’re lying.”

  Orton continued to hold his gaze. “What do you plan on doing with the bomb, asshole?”

  “Defiance is not going to get you anywhere. You’ve made the wrong choice. A painless death is far preferable to what’s going to happen to you now. Fortunately, I will give you plenty of time to change your mind.”

  He reached across the workbench. Deliberated a moment, and chose a pair of pliers.

  Orton closed his eyes again. Retreated deep into himself. His father had been brave enough to prevent Bobby Soxer from being used. Now it was his turn to do the same.

  40

  St. Louis County Police headquarters, a low, sprawling brick building, was baking in the midday heat. The only parking space Laker could find was at the edge of its vast lot, and he stopped halfway to the building to mop his brow and take off his suit jacket. As he reached the door, it opened. A burly African American man came out. He, too, had his suit jacket folded over his arm. There was a holstered pistol on his belt.

  Laker took a guess. “Detective Ackerman?”

  “Yeah, but I’m in a hurry. They can take care of you at the desk.”

  He tried to sidestep, but Laker got in front of him again. “Your errand have anything to do with the Orton homicide?”

  “What if it does?”

  “I’d like to ride along.”

  Ackerman had heavy eyelids, both upper and lower, that gave him the look of a lizard. Half-asleep until it struck. “The public information officer will help you. Now please get out of my way, sir.”

  “I’m not a reporter,” Laker said, and showed his creds.

  Ackerman forgot he was in a hurry. He took Laker’s NSA identification card in his hand and read it from top to bottom. Compared the photo to Laker. Handing it back, he said, “Don’t see something like this every day. Okay. Come on.”

  They walked across the hot asphalt to Ackerman’s unmarked car. The interior was stifling. Ackerman turned on the engine and got the air-conditioning going full blast.

  “Why is your agency interested in Orton?” he asked as they drove off the lot.

  Laker’d expected the question, but hadn’t made up his mind how to answer it. The truth was that Ava, working with a pile of moldering old files at the Pentagon, supplemented by an array of websites, had identified Capt. Melville Orton as operations manager at Hunter’s Point in August 1945. Earlier, he’d been stationed at Pe
arl Harbor during the time Hirochi Ryo was recruiting agents. That was enough to make him worth checking out. He was dead and so were his children, except for a son named Theodore, who lived in St. Louis. Arriving at Lambert–St. Louis Airport, Laker had picked up the Post-Dispatch. On the front page, he’d found a story about the grisly murder of Theo Orton, and known immediately that the Shapeshifter was still one step ahead of him.

  Ackerman was waiting. Laker said, “My boss will call your boss.”

  “I just love working with the feds,” muttered Ackerman, blinking his lizard eyes.

  “I don’t blame you for being pissed off. You had bad luck, catching this case. The media interest is pretty intense. I read the Post story.”

  “They didn’t get all the details of the victim’s injuries. But somebody is bound to leak crime scene photos. Then we’ll have a full-blown media frenzy. Psycho killer on the loose. Coming soon, discovery of another mutilated victim.”

  Laker nodded sympathetically. “And the politicians will be on your back, demanding results. Any leads so far?”

  Ackerman slowed and turned off the highway into a subdivision. The streets were in poor repair. The modest houses had seen better days. “Orton was a retired machinist. Lived a quiet life. Finances in order. No criminal record. No indications of drug use. He didn’t deserve to die like that. I don’t know who would. “

  “And the crime scene?”

  Ackerman made a left turn, stopped, and pointed out Laker’s window. “That’s it.”

  It was a ranch house, probably built in the ’50s, with peeling paint, a leaning mailbox, and a brown lawn. Yellow tape barred the garage door. Ackerman said, “The renter paid in cash. Added some extra so he wouldn’t have to show ID. Around here that would ordinarily mean he wanted to use the place as a meth lab. The landlord has allowed that sort of thing in the past. We leaned on him, and he gave us a full description of the renter. Caucasian, 35 to 40, long dirty-blond hair, five-nine, 220, tattoos on both forearms.”

  Ackerman took his foot off the brake pedal and the car eased forward. “We’re wondering if the renter and the killer are the same guy. Don’t suppose you could unofficially give me a hint? While we’re waiting for your boss to call my boss?”

  “Probably the same guy. He seems to work alone. But I wouldn’t set too much store by that description.”

  Ackerman gave him a sharp look. “You have a better one?”

  “No.”

  Through the heavy eyelids, Ackerman squinted at him. “You shittin’ me, Laker?”

  “I’m not withholding any information on your perp, Ackerman. We just don’t have any.”

  Ackerman sighed. “You want to hear about the vic’s injuries?”

  Laker didn’t. But he said, “Go ahead.”

  “Twelve teeth and all fingernails extracted. Six fingers cut off. Shoulders dislocated. Third-degree burns on face and genitals. All done pre-mortem.”

  “Jesus. When the media get hold of all that—”

  Ackerman nodded. “Psycho killer. The public will be plenty scared. Imagine doing all that to a fellow human being, for no reason.”

  The public would be even more scared if they knew there was a reason, Laker thought.

  They turned another corner. A patrol unit was parked next to a roll-out trash cart on the curb. The cop was sitting behind the wheel, engine on and air-conditioning running.

  He got out and put on his cap as Ackerman pulled up beside him. He was a young white man with an unlined brow and pockmarks of acne on his cheeks.

  “What’ve you got, Bledsoe?” Ackerman said, getting out of the car.

  “I got a major break in the case, sir.”

  “Don’t start writing your commendation yet. We’re two full blocks from the crime scene. Just give me the story.”

  Bledsoe pointed to the house across the street. “The guy who lives there flagged me down. Said his neighbor”—Bledsoe pointed at the house they were standing in front of—“is a lazy son of a bitch who forgets to roll his cart back after the garbage truck goes by. I said it was too soon to cite him, but the guy said that wasn’t why he flagged me down. He said his kid got curious and lifted the lid. And he’s been screaming ever since.”

  “Let’s have a look.” Ackerman had been pulling on latex gloves as he listened. He stepped up to the rollout cart. Flies were swarming around the lid. There was a smell that wasn’t just the usual sickly sweet smell of garbage rotting in the sun. It got powerful enough that Laker started breathing through his mouth when Ackerman lifted the lid. He reached in and pulled out a white garment, soaked with red stains. Blood.

  Laker moved closer. It was a short-sleeved shirt, with bars on the collar and ribbons and a badge above the left pocket. Ackerman said, “This is a navy uniform, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Laker said. “Tropical White Long, they call it. Collar bars of a lieutenant s.g. “

  Ackerman was examining the badge, of a globe with a sword through it. “What’s this thing?”

  “It’s the shield of the Office of Naval Intelligence.”

  Raising his heavy eyelids, Ackerman looked at Laker. “Well now,” he said. “I’m getting a glimmer of why you feds are interested in this case. We’re going to have to see if these bloodstains match the ones at the crime scene. My guess is they will, meaning the perp dumped his shirt here as he left the area. And when your boss calls my boss, we’re going to have a lot of questions for him.”

  * * *

  “The St. Louis cops are going to give you a hard time,” Laker said.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Mason replied. “I’ve had a lot of experience stonewalling local cops.”

  Laker was back at Lambert–St. Louis Airport, in a small windowless office in the international arrivals area. The TSA had agreed to let him use their secure line.

  “The call I’m really not looking forward to,” Mason went on, “is the one I’m going to have to make to Admiral Grantham at ONI. There was always the possibility the Shapeshifter was going to turn out to be a rogue agent from one of our brother spy shops. It was the possibility I liked the least.”

  “I have my doubts.”

  “You mean, if the Shapeshifter was ONI, he wouldn’t have been so careless with that shirt?”

  “So far he hasn’t been sloppy.”

  “I hope you’re right. But it has to be checked out. And Grantham will cooperate, once he’s through yelling at me.”

  “How’s Ava?”

  “She took Orton’s death hard. Said if only she’d worked faster, you would have gotten to him before the Shapeshifter. I told her, look on the bright side. His death confirms you had the right guy.”

  “Did that console her?”

  Mason grunted. “Kid’s going to have to grow a thicker skin, she wants to survive at the NSA. But she’s back at work on the organizational charts and duty rosters. Orton couldn’t have been working alone. She’s trying to figure out who else at Hunter’s Point was in Ryo’s network.”

  “So maybe this time I can get to him before the Shapeshifter? I don’t know. She may be wasting her time.”

  “Maybe Orton gave the Shapeshifter all the information he needed? That what you mean?”

  Laker hesitated. He thought about the bloodstained shirt, Ackerman’s description of what had been done to the corpse. “Orton resisted. For a long time. He must’ve been a helluva brave man. But we have to assume that everything he knew, the Shapeshifter got out of him.”

  “Let’s hope it wasn’t enough. Let’s hope he has to move on to the next name on Tillie’s list. Give us another shot at him.”

  “That would be good for us. Not so hot for the next guy on the list.”

  41

  The swarthy man was watching soccer from Germany on the big-screen TV over the bar, but he went along smilingly when Dick Lester said he wanted to switch to the Marlins game. So they got to talking, sitting side by side on their barstools. Lester liked to make friends with strangers in bars. It was bett
er than drinking alone, sure. But for practical reasons, too. At the end of the evening, he’d need somebody to drive him home. His license had been pulled after his third DUI arrest.

  For a soccer fan, this guy seemed all right. He said his name was Ferdi Serym and he was from Turkey. Lester had never met a Turk before, far as he knew. The guy’s black hair looked like he’d just come in from the rain, shiny and lank. He had dark brown eyes, and a long, swooping nose that made Lester think of the beak of a bird of prey. His skin was olive, with an uneven beard, heavy on the upper lip, thin and scraggly on the cheeks. He smiled a lot; his crooked teeth didn’t make him self-conscious. He was wearing a T-shirt, shorts, and sandals, which was what everybody except a few lawyers was wearing in Sarasota on an even-hotter-than-usual August day.

  It was nice and cool in the bar, one of Lester’s favorites. There was a big window looking out on rows of palm trees and parked cars, but he liked to go to the back, where it was dark. Best thing about the bar was that his wife Ashley didn’t know about it yet. When he was in a bar that was on Ashley’s list, he could never relax. She sometimes sent the chauffeur in the Mercedes to search the bars, find him, and bring him home. Occasionally he wished he’d married the kind of woman who could only call the bartender and plead. Of course, Ashley’s money did smooth his path through life. He had to admit that.

  Ferdi didn’t seem to know much about baseball, but he listened patiently to Lester. When it was his turn, he said he was at FSU studying engineering. Irrigation systems, to be exact. He wanted to help the farmers in eastern Turkey, where it was dry. Lester couldn’t follow that part very well. He was relieved when Ferdi got up to go to the john.

  Lester waved to the bartender and pointed to his empty glass. When the bartender came over with a refill, he looked like he had something to say. He had a high, rumpled brow and heavy, dark-framed glasses and looked like a high-school principal. Lester could never remember his name.

  “Mr. Lester, I think you ought to be careful with this guy.”

  “Who, Ferdi? He’s okay.”

  “Never seen him in here before. And he’s an Arab.” The bartender put an elbow on the bar and leaned closer. “Before you got here, he was watching the soccer game and got babbling to another rag-head. I understood one word—shah.”