The Honorable Traitors

by John Lutz

  The room was filled with dust. Ava was coughing, and her head still rang with the clamor of the jackhammer. But she had been using her time while the men hadn’t been paying any attention to her. Her ankles were tied together, but Mishima hadn’t bothered to tie them to the beam. She’d been wriggling her right foot in the surgical boot, making slow progress in freeing it.

  The hammering ceased. Ava held still. Mishima stepped through the hole in the wall. Styron, coughing and blinking, approached her. But it was only to pick up the halogen lamp on its stand. He stepped through the hole and set it down. Under the glaring light, he and Mishima were only shadowy forms in the swirling dust. Wood cracked and splintered. They were tearing open the crate in which the bomb had traveled so long ago.

  Gradually the dust settled, and Bobby Soxer came into view. About ten feet long and five feet wide, it was black and bulbous, with a squared-off tail assembly. Its metal skin gleamed under the bright light. Styron circled the bomb, muttering to himself as he examined it. Mishima stood back, chest heaving, wiping his brow with his sleeve.

  Ava resumed her efforts. At last her foot slid out of the boot. She looked at the chisel Styron had dropped on the floor when he was through with it. She hoped it was in reach.

  Another glance at Mishima and Styron. They were only interested in the bomb. She stretched out her right leg as far as it could go. Pointed her toes. The chisel was inches beyond them. She strained until her groin and ankle muscles ached, but her toes couldn’t touch the chisel.

  She withdrew her leg, tucked her foot halfway into the boot. She could only wait and hope for another opportunity.

  * * *

  The pilot cut the engine of the ferry and it glided between the wooden pilings of its slip. Ahead was the dock and the red-painted iron viewing tower with GOVERNORS ISLAND painted on it. Beyond, low brick buildings and a green hill topped by tall trees. Laker, standing at the barrier in the bow, could hear the wind blowing through their leaves.

  A happy crowd, eager to land, gathered around him, talking excitedly. A man and a boy with a baseball and gloves. A couple wheeling bicycles. A family of four laden with picnic basket, ice chests, blanket. A young woman pushed her baby carriage into the space next to Laker and smiled at him from under the floppy brim of her sun hat.

  He couldn’t smile back. Had to resist a crazy urge to tell her, to tell everyone, don’t get off this boat. Ride back to Manhattan and keep on going west, fast as you can. But it wouldn’t do any good. He clamped his lips shut and looked straight ahead.

  There was an unbearable moment when it seemed to him that the shore wasn’t getting any closer. That the ferry had stopped moving. The crewman trying to unlatch the bow gates with clumsy fingers wasn’t making any progress. The man walking down the pier to open its gate was moving his arms and legs but not getting any nearer to it.

  The spell was broken. The engines came to life, thrumming in reverse. The bow met the dock. The gates swung back. Laker was the first ashore. As he ran up the hill he heard laughter behind him. Somebody called out, “Hey, what’s the rush?”

  * * *

  Styron had pulled the halogen lamp closer and was hunching over the bomb. Its bulbous form now sprouted loops of heavy black cable.

  Mishima stood watching. He’d had nothing to do for the last few minutes but stand there, yet he couldn’t get his breath. His chest was still heaving, agitation growing with each passing moment. He said, “What the hell’s taking so long?”

  “Demolition has to be simultaneous in each of the thirty-two high-explosive columns,” Styron said without looking up from his work. “To compress the core uniformly. If it isn’t, the plutonium will just leak out. Like the jelly out of a donut when you bite into it. You want your big bang, pal, you’ll let me do this right.”

  “You can do it right faster.”

  Now Styron did look up. “What’s your hurry? There’s no rush till we set the timer.”

  Ava North said, “There’ll be no timer, Styron.”

  He straightened with a whiplash movement. “What?”

  “Shut up!” Mishima started toward her. It’d been a mistake to take off her gag. He was going to put it back.

  Styron caught his arm. “Go ahead, lady.”

  “You heard what he said last night. Five hours is too long. He’s decided not to leave the bomb at all. So you won’t, either.”

  Styron looked at Mishima, who snatched his arm free and backed away.

  “He’s obsessed with suicide,” Ava went on. “He had the dagger ready, nine years ago at Hiroshima. After he made his little speech he was going to slit his belly open, if the crowd and the cops hadn’t stopped him. You heard what he said to me last night. He promised me a fitting death. You think he’ll give himself anything less?”

  Styron was still looking at Mishima. “You lied to me.”

  Mishima hadn’t wanted it to go this way, but he was prepared. Reaching under his vest, he drew his Glock Nine.

  “I don’t owe the truth to a man like you,” he said. “A disgraced man. An enemy of your own country. What do you have to live for, all alone in the woods?”

  “I think there’s not much point in us talking,” Styron said. “Cause there’s this gulf between us. You’re crazy and I’m not. No way I’m gonna stand right next to the bomb and flick the switch. Not gonna happen, pal.”

  Mishima flicked off the safety and leveled the weapon at Styron. “Get back to work.”

  Styron turned and walked toward the stairs. He passed Ava without a glance.

  “Come back!” Mishima shouted. “One more step and I’ll shoot.”

  Styron paused at the foot of the steps. He said, “You haven’t left yourself much room for threats, Mishima. Maybe I prefer a bullet.”

  He turned and grasped the banister. Mishima fired.

  Styron screamed and collapsed. Blood spurted from his thigh.

  “No!” Mishima cried out. He ran to the fallen man, bent over him. He’d aimed at the back of Styron’s knee, meaning only to immobilize him. Then drag him back to complete the arming of the bomb. But he’d missed. The bullet had hit the femoral artery. Styron’s lifeblood was pouring away. Mishima lifted his head to look in his face. His eyes were open, but already he was losing consciousness.

  The door at the top of the steps swung open.

  Laker.

  Mishima backed away, raising the Glock. Laker froze at the top of the steps. His hands were empty. No gun. Mishima held his breath, lined up the sights on Laker’s heart. He wasn’t going to miss again.

  A sudden impact and the gun went spinning into the darkness. Astonished, Mishima looked at Ava North. Somehow she’d gotten her foot free. She’d kicked his hand.

  He turned back to Laker. The man was fast. Already he was down the stairs, only two paces away. Crouching, raising his hands, he closed in. “Nowhere to run this time, Mishima,” he said. “Let’s finish it.”

  Mishima had beaten him before. But now he looked in Laker’s eyes and saw that the man expected to win. Mishima backed away. His arms were tired from swinging the sledgehammer. No, he admitted to himself. It wasn’t just his arms that were tired. He’d been defeated. He wanted only to escape.

  One last chance.

  He feinted left, as if he was going to try to get around Laker to the steps. Laker shifted to block him. Mishima pivoted and ran the other way, toward the jackhammer hanging from the rope. He pulled it back, flicking the switch. The motor roared to pounding life and the beveled tip became a blur. He pointed it at Ava and let it go. Saw her eyes widen, her mouth open to scream as it swung toward her.

  Laker dove, arms straight out, open palms striking the side of the jackhammer. Still pounding, it swung away. Laker fell full-length on the floor. Mishima’s maneuver had worked. The way to the stairs was clear. He could escape. But Laker lay on the floor, helpless for the moment. Mishima had only to grasp the head of the enemy who’d defeated him and twist, breaking his neck. He couldn’t resist. He stepped to
ward Laker.

  A bolt of agony struck him in the spine. He’d forgotten the jackhammer. It’d swung back, and the sharp tip was pounding through his guts. He looked down to see blood spraying from his abdomen as the tip emerged. Mishima tried to stay alive and aware. The last duty of the samurai committing hara-kiri was to suffer and atone for his failure.

  It was no good. Blackness engulfed him.

  EPILOGUE

  “Laker? Your wood stripper doesn’t taste too bad today,” Ava said.

  She was standing at the old safe he used as a liquor cabinet, holding a glass filled with Speyside Cardhu.

  “I told you the taste would grow on you,” Laker said. He was at the long dining table he used as a workbench, the pieces of a carburetor for a 1964 Mustang spread before him.

  “It’s not that. It still burns all the way down. But on a chilly day, it burns good.”

  It was Labor Day, and ordinarily Washington would have been baking hot. But today skies were gray and a wind from the north was bringing autumn weather a bit early. The many windows of the loft were open, and the city below was almost eerily quiet. It seemed that Laker and Ava were the only Washingtonians spending the holiday at home.

  “So what are we going to do this afternoon?” she asked. “I don’t mind if you watch football.”

  He shook his head. “Never did take to the pro game.”

  She walked over to look at the carburetor. “Then can I meet the Mustang?”

  “It’s not fit to be seen yet. Too many holes in the bodywork.”

  “So what are we going to do?”

  “We could strike your tent.”

  She laughed and turned to looked across the room at the pup tent. She’d put it up the first time she came to stay with Laker. “Does this mean I’ve got a standing invitation to your teepee?”

  “Whenever you like.”

  She kissed him and sat at the table beside him, her hand on the nape of his neck. “Can I ask you something I’ve been wondering about?”

  He turned his good ear.

  “What happened to Bobby Soxer?” she said.

  “It no longer exists. It was disassembled in situ by an expert from the Nuclear Regulatory Commission. The bits and pieces were crated and taken away, the expert sworn to secrecy.”

  “So no one will ever know.”

  “If Sam Mason gets his way.”

  “The Third Commandment of Washington,” said Ava. “Let sleeping dogs lie.”

  “After ‘Don’t rock the boat’ and ‘Cover your ass.’”

  She continued to fondle his neck as she leaned close to him. “That standing invitation to the teepee. Can I take you up on that, like, now?”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A big thank-you to David Linzee and Marilyn Davis for their invaluable assistance. And as always, thanks to Dominick Abel and Michaela Hamilton.

  Don’t miss the next exciting thriller featuring Thomas Laker

  THE HAVANA GAME

  Coming soon from Pinnacle Books, an imprint of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  Turn the page to read an intriguing sample chapter . . .

  1

  Don’t look at anybody.

  His trainers had told him that. All of them. He’d been trained by both sides in this war, and considering they were enemies, it was funny how similar the training was. Especially the dictum When you’re operational, don’t look at anybody.

  The danger was that they would look back. Make eye contact with some stranger, and he might remember you. And when he was asked, be able to describe you.

  So he kept his eyes on the square of worn linoleum floor, smeared with slush and mud, between his boots. He’d memorized the route, counted the stops, and knew that there was one more stop before his. It wasn’t necessary for him to look up at signs.

  The tram was crowded. It was one of the narrow, old-fashioned cars they used in the city center to please the tourists. He was one of the standees, holding onto a loop of worn leather, allowing his body to sway as the tram turned left or right, slowed down or speeded up.

  He didn’t have to look at his fellow passengers to know they were all white. Which meant he was conspicuous. In a country of white people, he was olive-skinned and black-haired. Lucky for him the weather was so cold. He could keep his cap pulled down on his forehead, his scarf wrapped around his mouth and cheeks. His face was almost as well covered as that of a woman wearing a burqa. Only the eyes showed, and he was keeping them fixed on the floor.

  A small object wobbled and rolled into his field of view. Bumped into his left boot and lay there. Yellow ring and pink bulb: a baby’s pacifier. He suppressed the impulse to look up. No need to do anything about this. In a moment, an arm would appear, as the mother bent to retrieve the pacifier. He would not look at her.

  Seconds went by. The pacifier just lay there against his boot. Without raising his head, he peeked out from under his cap brim. Four paces to his left, a baby was sitting on a woman’s knee, a pretty woman with bright blue eyes and cheeks flushed from the warmth of the car. She was wearing a knit cap with a yellow ball on top. The baby was fretting, waving his fat little arms around, but the mother hadn’t noticed that he’d lost his pacifier. She was talking with the man beside her. Possibly the baby’s grandfather. He had a full white beard, round steel spectacles, and a jolly smile. He looked like Santa Claus. A lot of the old men in this country did.

  Someone was looking at him. He could feel the gaze, as palpable as an icy draft. Forgetting his training, he raised his head and looked.

  It was a middle-aged woman in a head scarf squinting at him, thin lips pursed in disapproval. She’d noticed the pacifier and was wondering why he didn’t return it. Maybe thinking he was going to pocket it. She was going to remember him. She’d be telling her friends, “There was one of those people in the tram, and you know, they’ll steal anything.”

  Maybe she was about to point him out to the other passengers. Or address him, loudly demanding that he return the pacifier. Then the whole car would notice him and remember.

  Letting go of the strap, he bent and picked up the warm, sticky pacifier. Holding it with the tips of his fingers to show he had no designs on it, he made his way up the crowded aisle. The child’s mother and Santa Claus were laughing and talking and did not notice him, even when he was standing over them. He extended his arm, offering the pacifier.

  The mother’s cheeks flushed even pinker and she covered her mouth in embarrassment. Santa Claus took the pacifier and made a show as if he was about to put the grimy bulb back in the baby’s mouth. The mother batted it away in mock horror. Both of them looked up at him, laughing, inviting him to share the joke.

  He nodded and turned away, moving carefully on the tilting floor. He felt sick to his stomach. That was another reason you tried not to look at anybody. One they didn’t dwell on in training. If you started seeing the targets as people, it was harder to carry out the operation.

  The tram shuddered to a stop. His stop. The doors folded open and he stepped out onto the platform, into the cold wind. This was the broad avenue that ringed the ancient center of the city. Spires and domes looked black against the dark-gray sky. It was almost nightfall.

  The platform was a bright and aromatic island. It was a large, busy one, because this was where the city and suburban lines crossed. It had a roof, with electric heaters hanging from the beams, their coils glowing orange. On long counters, merchants had laid out treats: roasted chestnuts, pastries filled with meat, sausages, smoked herring, fruit, and candy. Funny how the cold air made the smells especially delicious.

  On his earlier visit he’d noticed the anti-terrorism precautions. The trash receptacles were just steel rings from which clear plastic bags hung. He couldn’t read the notices, but knew they warned people to watch for abandoned parcels. CCTV cameras were perched under the eaves of the roof.

  Nothing to hamper him.

  He walked around the counter where two women were selling hot chocolate. They had
a line of customers and didn’t notice as he paused beside the stack of cardboard boxes containing marshmallows. Counting down to the sixth box, he slid it halfway out, inserted one finger in the cutout from the cardboard flap, and flicked a toggle switch. Then he slipped the box back in place and walked away. It had taken only a couple of seconds.

  Descending the steps to the snowy street, he took from his coat pocket a rectangular plastic object, which he held to his ear. Anyone giving him a second glance would assume it was a cell phone. It wasn’t.

  He wished that flicking that toggle switch had set a timer counting down. That would have meant it was all out of his control now. He might even be caught in the blast himself. He’d be thinking only about getting away from here quickly.

  But the switch had only armed the detonator. The cell phone was really the transmitter he would use to set off the bomb. The planners had told him it had to be done that way, for maximum effect.

  No need to look at his watch. He could hear the other tram approaching. The city had excellent public transportation; the trams always ran on time. He glanced over his shoulder. The suburban tram was pulling in. It was newer and sleeker than the one that ran around the city center. The city tram was still sitting on the opposite track, doors open. The controllers always held it so that passengers could switch lines.

  He was passing an old church. Ducking behind one of its pillars, he took the detonator away from his ear and rested his finger lightly on the button. On the platform, the doors of the suburban tram slid open. Passengers poured out. People were stepping out of the old tram, too. They’d been enjoying its warmth until the last moment before they had to change. The platform was thronged with people.