by Behn, Noel;
“You’re losing me.”
“Robert Sturdevant, for all his skill, was uncontrollable. He had no morality, no emotions and no conscience. He would use anything or do anything to get his results. To me, he was a brutal, sadistic assassin. During World War II we fought fire with fire—or at least that is what we told ourselves, to justify Sturdevant’s activities. We needed him, and I thanked God he was fighting on our side, but at times I felt he would have been just as happy working for the Germans or Russians—at times I felt his only loyalty was to destruction. They used to say, ‘Point him in the direction of the enemy—then duck.’ What brought matters to a head was that he began forming his own group, his own cadre. His attitude was infectious; where at the beginning there was only one depraved agent, by the end of the war there were thirty—we called them the SS.
“It was during the cold war that things became intolerable. By now American intelligence had grown so important that it had diplomatic implications. And in turn it had to bend to State Department policy. Sturdevant would not, or could not, change his ways. He was still the unpredictable cobra. He would act on the spur of the moment, policy or no.
“By the mid-fifties even the conflicting intelligence powers had established certain ground rules. Captured agents were quietly exchanged, certain methods of interrogation were forbidden, and so on. Sturdevant would have none of this. It was at about this time that the agencies began putting pressure on him, and it was also at this time that the old-time agents began their last-ditch stand. Sturdevant became the logical leader for the malcontents, and the battle began. Understand, he wasn’t without strong support in Washington. A great many intelligence experts sided with him—and he came very close to winning. But he didn’t. Once he had lost, every major agency turned its back on him and his group.
“Some of his political friends arranged an independent operation for him in the Far East, which would have continued his income and provided a pension, but he turned it down. Instead he and a few of his men became mercenaries in the Middle East for a while, but apparently his spirit had finally been beaten down—he disbanded his men and dropped out of sight. Then in 1954, Sturdevant was reported dead in Istanbul.”
“How did he die?”
“He committed suicide.” Sweet Alice was staring out the window again.
“And the Highwayman was with him through all of this?”
“To the end. Supposedly he handed him the gun and watched him blow his brains out. You’ve picked yourself some nice playmates.”
The conductor stuck his head in the door and announced that the train would be stopping in five minutes as requested. Rone quickly put his things in the grip. Sweet Alice opened one of the black suitcases and put in the file Rone had read the night before. He closed it and moved both suitcases to the door.
“You’ll deliver these to the Highwayman,” he told him.
Rone and Sweet Alice went to the end of the car. The conductor opened the door and stood on the bottom step as the train began to lose speed.
As the train stopped, Rone jumped off. The conductor handed him down the two black suitcases and the grip and then whistled to the engineer. The train began to move.
Rone picked up the bags and turned toward the station. He had no idea what town or even state he was in.
4
The Highwayman
The sign hanging from the roof of the white wooden stationhouse read: Gethsemane, Ga., Pop. 487. He entered a spotlessly clean waiting room with a highly polished potbellied stove in the middle of the floor. The ticket window was shuttered, and a neatly printed cardboard sign announced: “Closed for funeral. Please buy tickets on train.” Rone crossed the room and stepped out onto a small porch.
At the far end of a large square with a bronze Civil War soldier in its center stood a small Greek Revival church. A small party of mourners stood in front of it. Rone watched as they turned to look at him. Then one of the women bent down and whispered something to a boy beside her. The child nodded obediently and ran into the church. A moment later he reappeared with an elderly man and pointed in Rone’s direction. The man squinted, nodded and pulled the boy back inside the church with him.
Several seconds later the two reappeared with a third man in a black gown. Once again the boy pointed toward Rone. The man in the gown began running down the steps. Organ music rose from within the church. When the man reached the statue he stopped and waved his arms. Rone pointed to himself. The figure impatiently beckoned him forward. Rone picked up the suitcases and crossed the square. By the time he had reached the statue, the man had gone back into the church. The organ music stopped. There was a sound of scraping feet and coughing.
Rone passed the parked hearse, and pushed through the heavy wooden doors. He stood, baggage in hand, at the head of a single aisle which led down through the pews to a flower-decked casket resting several feet in front of the altar. Every head in the tiny church turned quietly toward him and gave a sympathetic nod.
“Will the bereaved please come forward.”
To the left of the altar Rone saw the deacon, standing in an elevated pulpit.
“Dear Nephew Charlie,” he said, looking directly at Rone, “your seat is waiting down front.”
Rone was motionless. Someone quietly stepped up behind him and said, “Just go right down and take your seat, Nephew Charlie. And for God’s sake try to look sad.”
Rone still did not move.
“You can leave your luggage with Mr. Ward,” the deacon called out.
Rone hesitated. Reluctantly he handed the suitcases to the man behind him and started down through the gallery of upturned, saddened faces. He walked slowly to the coffin and cautiously peered in.
He had never seen the man lying peacefully inside. He stepped back to the first-row aisle, as the deacon had indicated, and uncomfortably took a seat. Throughout the service he kept looking at the face in the coffin. He listened attentively as the wispy silver-haired deacon spoke of “Uncle Raymond’s” unblemished soul and sinless ways.
After what seemed an eternity the sermon ended. Rone rose on cue and placed the flowers which were handed to him beside the coffin. He leaned over the body just far enough to convince the congregation he had kissed his “uncle.” Gently, he closed the coffin. The deacon wept.
Organ music began and the mourners sang the final hymn. After the benediction Rone took his place with the other pallbearers and began the long lift up the aisle. As they cautiously moved through the door Mr. Ward moved up beside him. “Attaboy, Nephew Charlie,” he whispered, “attaboy—if you don’t go to other people’s funerals, they’ll never come to yours.”
The casket was lifted onto the black-draped vehicle. It was unseasonably hot; they drove slowly under a scorching noon sun, and by the time they reached the open grave Rone and most of the mourners were covered with a mixture of dry, powdery clay and rising perspiration.
Rone stood opposite Mr. Ward as they began to lower Uncle Raymond into the earth. He estimated that Ward was between fifty and fifty-five. He had a broad face with a flat, rectangular forehead and a strong, square lantern jaw. His cheekbones were almost Indian, his thin firm lips betrayed a slight but perpetual grin. The nose was thick and flat; Rone guessed that it had been broken on more than one occasion. Bushy eyebrows pushed down on his gray deepset eyes.
After Uncle Raymond reached the bottom of his final resting place Ward stood upright. He was taller than Rone had first thought—although he walked with a slouch he was over six feet. He had a thick neck and his large, strong shoulders bulged under the dark clerical gown. Rone threw dust on the grave and turned to receive the condolences of the congregation.
“If they ask,” Ward whispered, “you can tell them you’re from anywhere at all except Philadelphia. Uncle Raymond hated Philadelphia. He did a little time there.”
Don’t think about anything, Rone had to remind himself as he inspected the two suitcases sitting beside his bed. He went down to the bathroom at the end
of the hall and ran water into the black fourlegged iron tub. There was something about Ward that troubled him. Something about his face—about his features. He bathed, changed into clean Daks and a fresh white shirt, and went downstairs to the kitchen. Ward was bent over the sink washing.
“Well, Nephew Charlie,” he said to Rone, cupping water in his hand and splashing it on the back of his neck, “you did right well in church today.”
“Thanks,” answered Rone.
Ward straightened up, reached for a towel and began patting his face dry. “I suppose you’re all hot and anxious to meet the Highwayman?”
“Whenever you say.”
“In a few minutes.” He turned toward Rone. His mouth flashed into a wide, toothy grin. “Bet for a minute you thought I was him. Well, I’m not.” Ward stretched into a faded denim shirt. “Now how about those questions? You look like a man steaming over with questions.”
“Who was Uncle Raymond?” It was the skin on Ward’s face that bothered Rone. He tried not to stare.
“Good old Uncle Raymond was your predecessor—the Scooter on the shopping list. Sweet Alice told you about the shopping list, didn’t he?”
“No.”
“Why that rascal.” Ward strained forward over the sink and peered into the mirror as he ran a coarse-toothed comb through his hair. “You’re Uncle Raymond’s back-up man, his replacement. Sort of like football. Each man on the first string has gotta have a substitute. He upped and died. So off the bench you come. Get the idea?”
“I think so,” answered Rone.
Ward turned from the sink. “Sorry we had to call you out so unexpected, but ole Uncle Raymond didn’t give us much notice.”
“And the simplest way to get me into town was for the funeral?”
“Trot right up to the head of the class.” Ward stopped abruptly and grinned at Rone. “Nephew Charlie, you wouldn’t take it unkindly if I sorta offered you little odds and ends of advice every now and again, would you?”
Rone hesitated. “No. Not at all.”
“Well, if you’re going to look me over, don’t be so damn obvious.”
“Look you over?” Rone was embarrassed. “What gives you that idea?”
“I’ve always gone in for the direct approach—so I’d say look me straight in the face and don’t shift your eyes around so much. Course, there’s always two schools of thought about things like this, but I’d say that when I’m sitting in a room with only one other fellow, and he’s less than two feet away from me, and we’re talking, and he ain’t looking at me—when all those things happen—I might start wondering if something ain’t wrong. There’s nothing less suspicious than being obvious.”
“Thanks.”
“No trouble at all,” Ward said. “You see, Nephew Charlie, we may be going up against some pretty fancy fellows. Boys that know all the tricks and then some. Not that you’re not as smart as they are, because you’re a pretty slick one yourself—at least that’s what your record shows.” Ward paused. “You’re one of them computer men, ain’t you?”
“I’ve done other things.”
“Nothing wrong with machines, I guess. A little cumbersome if you’re traveling light, though.” Ward and Rone stared at one another for an exaggerated moment. “Anyway, getting back to the point. It’s not a matter of you not being as smart as the opponents, ’cause you are, otherwise you wouldn’t be with us—it’s just that you might not be as fast.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” said Rone.
“Well, take my face, for instance. You figured out it’s been fixed over, grafted, but you figured it out here, in the kitchen, and just a few minutes ago. You should have known it back at the graveyard.”
“I couldn’t tell. You were covered with dust.”
“That should have made it easier, not harder. I was sweating right through the back of my shirt and that silly gown I was wearing, so there should have been sweat on my face too. Sweat collects in pores—like ink does on a fingerprint—so if you couldn’t spot any lines through the dust you had only two choices—either the skin was pulled too tight to show them up or my face just wasn’t perspiring. Any way you look at it something was wrong.”
“Thanks again,” Rone said halfheartedly. Nonetheless, he was impressed.
“My pleasure. Who knows, if my adding machine breaks down you may be able to give me some hints. Come on, it’s time to meet the man.”
Rone followed Ward through the back door and out along the path. They entered the church through the oak doors. Ward secured them from inside with a crossbar and led him down the aisle. The deacon emerged from a side entrance behind the pulpit. His dark trousers and collarless shirt hung limp in the close church humidity. He approached Rone cautiously and almost with disdain. Finally he extended his hand. “We had expected you earlier,” he said.
“It was out of his control,” Ward stated flatly.
“I see.” He stood back and studied Rone. “You are an expert on electrical machines, I’m told.”
“Computers,” Rone clarified.
“He does other things,” Ward interjected.
“You’re taller than I thought,” he said, more in confusion than displeasure.
“He’ll do,” Ward said firmly.
“I hope you’re right,” the Highwayman answered without dropping his gaze from Rone. “Size could be a factor here.”
“He’ll do just fine. The Puppet Maker will work it out.”
“I hope so.” He turned to Ward. “Was everything in the suitcases?”
“I’ll check them out after dinner. No need rushing.” Rone noticed a patient, almost gentle tone in his voice.
The Highwayman seemed perplexed. He nodded and turned back to Rone. “Ward is absolutely right. There is no need to rush. I seem to have developed the tendency to hurry in my twilight years—as if I want to get on with it. Ward knows better. You listen to him. Each of us can still learn a great amount from Ward. It’s been very heartening to see you. Yes, it has been very heartening.” The Highwayman turned and walked back through the door. Ward was already up the aisle and out of the church.
Rone caught up to him as they neared the mall.
“You left the church open,” he reminded him.
“No one will go very far with it.” Ward sat down on a cement bench facing the statue. He took an apple out of his back pocket and began paring it with a penknife. The sun had begun to set. A somewhat cooler, more arid breeze drifted across the grass.
“Well, what do you think of him?” asked Ward.
“I couldn’t tell. He didn’t say very much.”
“You’re disappointed, aren’t you? Disappointed and worried. Everything was all rah-rah until you met the hero of the game, eh?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“I don’t see you gushing with enthusiasm.”
“He wasn’t what I had expected.”
“I’ll tell you something, Nephew: Stop expecting. It’s better that way. It cuts down on the rate of disappointment.”
“You seem more worried about him than I do.”
“There’s a big blue ocean between worry and concern—I’m not worried. He’s getting old. That in itself doesn’t amount to a hill of beans—but he knows he’s getting old, that’s all that’s bugging him. He’s starting to think about time. He’ll get over it.”
“You don’t sound too sure.”
Ward looked up at him with a broad grin. “I’m sure, Nephew—I’m very sure. There’s not much difference between him and a boxer. Ever see them jokers just before the fight? They’re trembling like a leaf. Wait till the bell sounds.”
“Nothing seems wrong with you,” Rone said without wanting to.
“I fight a different kind of war. He knows what he’s doing. He’ll get us through okay.”
“You’ve been with him a long time, haven’t you?”
“Long enough.”
“Then you must have known Sturdevant.”
“I knew him.”
Ward was slicing the peeled apple into eighths.
“It sounds like you didn’t like him.”
“Look, if I give you all the answers at once—Can we call the quiz show off?”
“If that’s the way you want it.”
“Sturdevant was a fraud. He was none of the things people said about him. He wasn’t a cold-blooded, sadistic killer. He was two things—a great con man and an incurable degenerate. He had the knack of getting other people to do everything for him. He wasn’t a bad strategist, but a one-man crusade he wasn’t. He was also a coward. Yes sir, Nephew Charlie, a real coward. And he knew it. He stayed way behind the lines—if he was up front he’d’ve shattered like glass—so he kept out of action and built up his own legends. He peddled more bullshit in World War II than Goebbels. His boys were good—damn good—and he gets a given degree of credit for that. But for the rest, that man in there did most of the work—he was Sturdevant’s operations chief all the way through. He was the tactical brain. Sturdevant was nothing.”
“Then why all the reverence?”
“Because in war men need a cause—not a motto like ‘The War to End All Wars’ or ‘Vee for Victory’; that’s fine back home or in training camps, but when you’re on the line you need something more immediate than that—your own kind of personal hero or motto. At one time flags and standards used to be enough. Later bagpipers and buglers led the charge. Sometimes it’s a banner, sometimes it’s a shout. In this particular case what was needed was a man. The man was Sturdevant.”
“Do you believe he killed himself?”
“Are you asking if I believe he’s dead?”
“No. Do you think he committed suicide?”
“That’s what he’d like everyone to think. Only he didn’t even have backbone enough to do that by himself. He made the man you just met pull the trigger.”
“What about the other stories—about the brutality?”
“I told you he was a DG, a queer, everything else that went along with it. When he wasn’t plundering I suppose he was raping. He was more a dog with a hard-on than a man with a mission.”