The Honorable Traitors

by John Lutz

  “Shah?” Lester didn’t recognize the word. “You mean, sheikh?”

  “Whatever. You know, what the Arab terrorists call their leaders.”

  “He’s a Turk, not an Arab.”

  “Whatever. He looks like an Islamic extremist to me.”

  Lester squinted at the bartender, trying to figure out if he was serious. “I think he’s an Islamic moderate. He drinks. You must have noticed.”

  “I’ve noticed you’re on your fourth and he’s still on his first. Watch it.”

  Lester waved the guy away and started on the fourth drink. When Ferdi came back, he drained his glass and ordered another. Lester was reassured; the guy was okay. By the time Lester was on his fifth drink, he was ready to take up his favorite subject.

  “Ferdi, you ever heard of Brigadier General Bartholomew B. Lester?”

  “Someone in your family?” Ferdi asked in his strangely accented, rather whiny voice.

  “Just answer the question.”

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  Lester slapped the bar triumphantly. Harder than he’d intended to. His palm stung.

  “When I was growing up—and going bad, the way dad saw it—he used to tell me that the name of Bart Lester is known and respected everywhere. And I’ve spent my life proving him wrong. Seeking out places where nobody gives a rat’s ass about Bart Lester.”

  “Well done,” said Ferdi, lifting his glass.

  He put it down without drinking from it. Lester remembered what the bartender had said about Ferdi pacing himself. Then he forgot it.

  “What did General Bart do to become so eminent?” Ferdi asked.

  “Fought in Korea. He’d been in The Big One, too, but—”

  “The Big One?”

  “World War II. They kept him mostly stateside. He hated that. When another war came along he was delighted. He fought like hell in Korea. Won every medal there was. Served in Vietnam, too. He was a general by that time and could have avoided it, but Bart Lester always answered the call of duty. He was all army, all the time.”

  “I sense that you do not admire him.”

  “He was crap as a father. And husband. And the funny thing was, no sooner would he screw up one family than he’d start another. Went through four wives, each with a set of kids. And he liked to start fresh, you know? Act like the previous sets of kids didn’t even exist. And he always had an excuse for not calling you back or answering your email. The U.S. Army needed him.”

  Lester finished his drink. “You know that saying, patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel? Well, it was the first refuge of my father.”

  He looked at Ferdi. People generally laughed at this line, but the Turk didn’t. He looked kind of sad. After that, they didn’t talk much more. Went back to watching the ballgame. Lester ordered another drink. He was in the angry phase now. He wanted to drink his way past it, into the who-gives-a-shit phase. No use being angry at General Bart Lester, who’d been resting in Arlington for twenty-two years.

  So Dick Lester sipped, and gazed at the energetic figures on the big screen. Gently, slowly, like a fadeout in an old movie, darkness and unconsciousness closed in.

  * * *

  He awoke just as slowly and gently. He was conscious first of a gentle rocking. Then the smell of salt water, the feel of a breeze against his cheek. He opened his eyes on the blackness of sea and sky, divided by the lights of Sarasota on the horizon. Looking around, he found that he was sitting in the backward-facing chair at the stern of his own cabin cruiser. The fighting chair, as it was called by pseudo-Hemingway assholes who imagined engaging with sailfish. To Lester it was the drinking chair. He’d spent many happy afternoons here with a few buddies and coolers of beer.

  It was all very nice, until he started to wonder how he’d gotten here. That was when he became conscious of the pressure across his chest, looked down to see thick straps across his chest and waist. He could move only his limbs. He tried rocking the chair, but it was bolted to the deck.

  He flinched as a dark shape passed in front of him. It was Ferdi. He sat on the transom, facing Lester.

  “How did I get here?” Lester asked hoarsely. His throat was dry and his head felt awful, but he was used to that.

  “You gave me the keys to the marina gate and your boat, after I helped you out of the bar.”

  “What are we doing here?”

  “I don’t think your father was so bad,” Ferdi said, in his strangely accented voice, as if they were merely continuing their conversation from the bar. “He was a dutiful and respected soldier. His family was out of sight, out of mind. His fault was the typical American one. Taking it for granted you are right, turning your eyes away from the evil you do.”

  Ferdi leaned closer. “Consider the way your countrymen reacted in 1979, when we overthrew the Shah and took your diplomats hostage. How could we do such a vile deed, you protested. You conveniently forgot that you had deposed our ruler and put the Shah in his place, and supported him while he oppressed us so cruelly.”

  “The Shah,” said Lester. “You’re Iranian.”

  “Your self-righteous, cruel treatment of my country has continued,” Ferdi went on. “You made us suffer for years with your trade sanctions, finally forcing the weak factions in our government to sign a treaty blocking our nuclear program. There are other factions in our government that think you owe us a nuclear bomb.”

  He straightened up, gazed into Lester’s eyes. He said, “Bobby Soxer.”

  “Bobby who?”

  For a fleeting moment, Lester experienced an unusual emotion. He felt good about himself. Years ago he’d made up his mind that if anyone ever said those words to him, he would play dumb. It’d be his only chance. And he’d pulled it off. No hesitation, no betraying the surprise and fear he felt.

  Had it worked? He stared at the shadowy face of the Iranian against the bobbing horizon line of lights, looking for signs of confusion or doubt. He saw neither.

  “Captain Bart Lester, U. S. Army,” Ferdi said. “Captain Mel Orton, U.S. Navy. And Lieutenant Commander Morgan Walker, U.S. Navy. The men who pulled off the biggest theft in history. No one ever knew, until now.”

  “How—” Lester began, but could go no further. Fear closed up his throat.

  “How did I find out? A long story, and I don’t have time for it. I’m going to ask you some questions. I warn you, I know enough that I’ll be able to tell if you’re lying.”

  A plane passed over. Lester heard its engines, looked up at the tiny lights moving against the field of stars. Yearned to be on it. To be anywhere but here.

  “Lester, Orton, Walker,” the Iranian went on. “All for one, and one for all. After they made their brave decision to deny the bomb to their Soviet spymasters, what did they do then?”

  Lester swallowed. He said, “They put it on a cart, ran it down to the end of the pier, dumped it in the water.”

  The Iranian shook his head “I told you it was pointless to lie. They had no need to do anything so crude, so risky. They were logistics officers, with the vast transportation resources of the U.S. military at their command. For them, the simplest, safest way to steal the bomb was to ship it somewhere else. Change the labels on the crate, shift it to a new location in the warehouse, write up the orders to send it away.”

  The Iranian got up. Lester shrank in the chair as he approached, fearing a blow. But the Iranian bent over him and made a few quick movements, binding his left wrist tight to the arm of the chair with a bungee cord.

  “What—what are you gonna do to me?” Lester choked out.

  The Iranian returned to his seat on the transom. “Nothing. If you become more cooperative. Where did Bobby Soxer go?”

  “I don’t know. You gotta believe me. I have no idea.”

  “Good. The truth. Your father and his comrades were honorable men who had made a principled decision. They lavished on each other all the admiration they would never get from the world. All for one, and one for all. They hoped their sons
would be—how you say?—chips off the old block. Just in case they weren’t, and we know that you are not, they tried to make them that way.”

  “How do you know all this?” Lester asked. “Who told you? It had to be Orton or Walker.”

  “It was Orton. Mr. Walker and I have not yet had the pleasure. But Orton was not at his best by the time we got to this part. So you tell me. Describe the arrangement.”

  “There is a code to the bomb’s location. Each of us has one piece of it. That way, we would all have to agree. None of us could find the bomb on his own.”

  “And you could not agree?”

  “Hell, no! Orton wanted the bomb to stay hidden. To protect his father’s precious reputation. I wanted the opposite. Deliver the goddam thing to the New York Times, expose my asshole dad who spent his life posing as Mr. Spit-and-Polish. And Walker? He was only interested in money. He wanted to sell the bomb to the highest bidder.”

  “So Bobby Soxer remains in whatever hiding place your fathers contrived for it. Good. Now all I need is your piece of the code.”

  “Won’t do you any good. Orton didn’t give you his. I know that stiff-backed son of a bitch. He—”

  “You want to know how I persuaded him? A demonstration can be arranged.”

  The mild voice terrified Lester. He was close to blubbering. But he swallowed hard and tried to compose himself. He had one last chance to get out of this alive. “Look—I’ll give you my piece of the code. Just take me back to shore and I’ll tell you.”

  The Iranian got up. He disappeared from Lester’s view. Suddenly he reappeared on his left side. He had a pair of long-handled loppers for limbing trees. The short, sharp blades straddled Lester’s little finger.

  “No!” he cried out.

  “The code.”

  Lester gazed at his immobilized hand. The finger between the gleaming edges of the blades. He said, “J29”

  “That’s all?”

  “J29. That’s all. Really. Please.”

  The blades closed. The finger fell to the deck as blood spurted. Lester could not believe it until the pain hit. He screamed.

  “Tell me the code.”

  The blades were now straddling his ring finger. Lester cried out, “J29. That’s it. I swear I didn’t lie.”

  The clippers withdrew. “I thought you didn’t. But I had to make sure. Sorry.”

  Lester sat whimpering in his chair. Blood was pouring from the stump of his finger. He closed his eyes.

  “Here, this will help,” the Iranian said. He pressed something smooth and cylindrical into Lester’s free hand. A bottle. Lester brought it to his lips, felt the burn of the vodka going down his throat. The pain dimmed a little.

  When he opened his eyes, the Iranian was gone. He was belowdecks. Lester heard metallic bangs. He was hammering on something. In a moment he returned.

  “You opened the sea-cocks,” Lester said.

  “Yes. Based on the volume of water pouring in, I estimate the decks will be awash in half an hour.”

  “Untie me. Please!”

  The Iranian laughed, for the first time. A low, delighted chuckle. “You idiot. I didn’t tie you up. The chair has a harness, for when you’re fighting a big fish. I suppose you’ve never used it. All you have to do is unbuckle it.”

  Lester scrabbled at the straps until he found the buckle and released it. Now it was easy to unhook the bungee cord. His whole arm was throbbing with pain. He tried to stand, couldn’t keep his balance, sank into the chair.

  “That’s right, just stay there,” the Iranian said. “It would be a long swim back to shore. A mile, easily. And there’s a strong riptide you’d have to fight. Just stay there and finish the bottle. Drowning is an easy death if you don’t fight it. Just open your mouth and swallow. You’ve had plenty of practice at that.”

  The Iranian had been stripping as he spoke, down to his shorts. He had a lean, muscular body. When he was finished talking, he turned and dove over the side. Lester could just make him out in the moonlight, arms and feet lashing the water as he headed for shore.

  The boat was growing more stable as its hull filled with water. Lester looked at the distant band of lights. Too far off. Nothing there worth reaching. He took another drink.

  42

  “We’re too late, aren’t we?” Ava said.

  She was sitting beside Laker as he drove along the causeway from the airport. Seagulls cavorted overhead, and blue water on either side of the road sparkled in the morning sun. He’d put on a short-sleeved shirt for the trip to Sarasota, and the hairs of his forearms were bristling in the cold wind from the car’s air conditioner.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” he replied. “Lester’s body has not been found. In fact, the cops say they wouldn’t even have declared him a missing person yet, if it wasn’t for the fact that he was last seen drunk and in the company of a suspicious character—suspicious according to the bartender’s report. There may be nothing to this.”

  “Lester’s boat is missing from its dock at the marina, remember.”

  “Any minute he could return, with a sunburn and a hangover.”

  “No,” said Ava. “It’s too much of a coincidence. Bart Lester worked directly under Mel Orton at Hunter’s Point. Now his son disappears, just a couple of days after Theo Orton was murdered.”

  “The cops said it all depends on the bartender’s report. They said see what you make of him.”

  Ava slumped in her seat, refusing to be comforted. “I should have been quicker. I spotted General Lester as somebody we should check out right away. Then I got bogged down. He’s long dead, and he left twelve children by three marriages, and they were all hard to locate and contact. If Dick Lester’s been murdered, it’s my fault.”

  “If he’s been murdered, it’s the Shapeshifter’s fault, Ava.”

  The bar where the missing man had last been seen was on a quiet, palm tree-lined street a couple of blocks from the beach. Its large windows had heavy green drapes on thick brass rails. The inside was dim even in mid-morning. No patrons had arrived yet. A game show was playing on the big TV over the bar. The bartender was cutting lemons into wedges. He seemed to take the job very seriously. Or maybe it was his lined forehead and old-fashioned spectacles that gave him a somber air.

  “Mr. Grasso?” Laker said. “Detective Matuchin sent us over.”

  “Yes. He told me to expect you.” Grasso seemed pleased that they’d come. He reached over the highly polished bar to take Laker’s NSA identification. He studied it for a while before handing it back. “Agent Laker,” he said.

  “Mr. Laker will be fine.”

  “Can I see hers, too?”

  Ava stepped up to the bar. Clumped up, really, because she still had the surgical boot on her right foot, broken in the fall down the dumbwaiter shaft. She handed over her ID. Again, Grasso doted over it, like a boy with a vintage Stan Musial baseball card. The guy seemed to be quite a cop fan. Even a fed fan.

  “You kicked up quite a fuss, Mr. Grasso,” Laker said.

  Grasso beamed. “Just doing my duty as a citizen, Agent Laker. Like the posters say: When you see something, say something. And I didn’t wait till it was too late. I warned Dick Lester about that guy right away.”

  “Start from the beginning. Who came in first?”

  “The Turk. Or that’s what he told Dick he was. To me he looked like an Arab. He didn’t say much to me. Ordered a beer, asked if he could watch football. I said he’d have to wait for Labor Day. Guy didn’t get the joke, so I knew right then he hadn’t been in America long. I let him switch to a soccer game. After a while another camel jockey came in. They didn’t seem to know each other, but they got to babbling about the soccer game. I caught one word.”

  “What language were they speaking?” Ava asked.

  “Arabic for sure, Agent North.”

  “It couldn’t have been Farsi?”

  Grasso looked at her blankly

  Ava said, “There seems to be some confusion in your repo
rt about that one word you recognized.”

  “I thought he said ‘Shah,’ Agent North. But Dick said it must’ve been ‘Sheikh.’ That’s what the terrorists call their leaders, right?”

  “But Dick didn’t share your suspicions.”

  “Right, Agent Laker. Dick wasn’t picky about his drinking companions. He’s a very affable guy. From his second drink to his eighth, anyway. After that he gets ornery. Anyway, when he came in, the so-called Turk was alone. I thought right then, he’s been waiting for Dick. So I kept an eye on them.”

  “What did they talk about?” Laker asked.

  “Baseball, at first. Then Dick started running down his father, as usual. He thinks that instead of serving his country, his father should have been home, parenting him, as they say these days. Well, you don’t have to be Dr. Phil to see what the real problem was. Dick knew he didn’t amount to much in life, compared to General Bart Lester.”

  “When did you decide to call the police?”

  “The minute they left, Agent Laker. Dick was out on his feet. Barely able to put one foot in front of the other. He was leaning on the Arab as they went out the door. I thought, I don’t like the look of this. And picked up the phone. You think I was overreacting?”

  “No,” Laker said. “You did the right thing.”

  Grasso’s somber face became even more grave. “Then you think Dick’s in trouble, Agent Laker?”

  “Frankly, Mr. Grasso, I think all Dick’s troubles are over.”

  Back in the car, Ava was silent while Laker got the engine and air conditioner going and pulled out into the street. Then she said, “The Shah. Which indicates that the so-called Ferdi Serym was not a Turk. Not an Arab, either. He was an Iranian.”

  “That’s what it indicates, all right.”

  “Laker, suppose the Shapeshifter really is an Iranian agent?”

  “Mason is still checking out the possibility that he’s an ONI agent gone rogue.”

  “I never did buy that theory. But an Iranian makes sense. Nobody knows what’s really going on in Teheran. The moderates signed a treaty that slows their nuclear development program. But the hardliners would love to get hold of a bomb. And use it against Israel.”