Hard as Nails

by Dan Simmons

  Kennedy said nothing. He was obviously tired of the conversation.

  "You never worked for the CIA," said Kurtz. "But your old man did, didn't he? He was the third part of the triad back in Vietnam—with the Major and Trinh. They kept the drugs moving after the war ended."

  "Of course," said Kennedy. "Are you just now figuring these things out, Mr. Kurtz? I must say, you're a very poor detective. But you're wrong—I did work for the CIA. For just under a year. It was incredibly boring, so I took my inheritance and started the security agency. Much more interesting. And lucrative."

  "And you continued to shake down the Major and SEATCO after your old man died," said Kurtz. "Did they think you were still CIA? Still providing protection the way your daddy had in the seventies and eighties? And now you want it all? Is that it?"

  "I'm afraid you've committed the cardinal sin, Mr. Kurtz. You've bored me." Kennedy took three steps back to the edge of the circle of light. "Edward. Theodore."

  The two bodyguards made sure their field of fire was safe and raised their pistols, aiming at Kurtz's chest and head, bracing their weapons with born hands as if they could miss from eight feet away.

  "You look like James Bond," Kurtz said to Kennedy, feeling his heart pounding wildly. "But you're making Dr. No's mistake."

  Kennedy was no longer listening. "Time to feed the rats, old sport."

  The tunnel echoed to the blast of six loud shots.

  * * *

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  « ^ »

  Both flashlights dropped and rolled in the shallow water, both ended up with their beams shining opposite directions. The dank air smelled of cordite. Two of the bodies lay still, polished shoes pointing upward. The third body did not move but a strange, terrible whistling came from it.

  Kurtz did not move.

  The man came silently out of the darkness. He was a tall man, very thin, dressed in a wool suit and a tan raincoat that looked too short and slightly dated. He wore a small Bavarian-style hat with a small red feather in its band. The man had a narrow, strangely kind-looking face, framed by thick, black-rimmed glasses, and had a thin ginger mustache and a slightly prominent lower lip. His eyes looked sad but very alert. He was carrying an unsilenced Llama semiautomatic pistol.

  He walked to the first bodyguard, Theodore, stared down at him a few seconds, and then checked the second one, Edward. Both were dead. The man picked up one of the flashlights.

  "Three," Kurtz said shakily, mostly to see if he could still speak. "I'll be paying this off in installments for twenty years."

  "Not three," said the Dane, turning the flashlight and pistol in Kurtz's direction. "Four."

  Kurtz's head jerked up. He braced his feet. "All right," he said. "Four."

  The Dane shook his head. "Oh, no, my no. I don't mean you, Mr. Kurtz. I'm speaking of the man Kennedy left at the first door."

  Kurtz felt a sensation that would be hard to describe to someone who hadn't experienced it. Mostly it had to do with the bowels.

  The Dane knelt by the first bodyguard, retrieved a small key from the man's coat pocket, and unlocked Kurtz's handcuffs. Kurtz let them drop in the water.

  "I didn't hear anything behind us," said Kurtz, rubbing his wrists. "I was beginning to worry a little."

  "It is best not to be heard," the Dane said in his very slight Northern European accent. He took some keys from Brian Kennedy's trouser pocket. The fallen man stirred very slightly.

  Kurtz went to one knee next to Kennedy. The man's carefully blow-dried hair was tousled and soaked. His eyes were open and his mouth was moving. It was the two bullet wounds in his chest that were causing the whistling noise. The two bodyguards had been shot in the heart, but the Dane had placed one bullet in each of Kennedy's lungs.

  "That's called a sucking chest wound," Kurtz said softly. "Old sport."

  Kurtz pulled the glowing Palm device from Kennedy's pocket and held it up. "Do we need this to find our way back?" he asked the Dane.

  The man in the short raincoat shook his head.

  Kurtz set the PDA on Kennedy's bloody chest. No air seemed to be coming from the handsome man's straining mouth, just from the two ragged holes in his chest. "Here you go," said Kurtz. "In case you're considering crawling, use this as your guide on the way back. But try to crawl fast—rats, don't you know."

  Kurtz grabbed the second flashlight and he and the Dane began walking back through the catacombs.

  "I didn't know if you'd get my message," said Kurtz when they'd taken the first turn and left the bodies behind.

  The Dane made a motion with his shoulders. He'd tucked the pistol away under his raincoat. "My other work was done. I had the day off."

  "Will I hear about your… other work?"

  "Quite possibly," said the Dane. "At any rate, today's work will cost you and Countess Ferrara nothing. It is… what is the legal phrase… pro bono."

  "Countess Ferrara?" said Kurtz. They moved into the taller tunnel with the Dane a step ahead.

  "You didn't know that the lovely, former Angelina Farino is married to one of the most famous thieves in Europe and a member of royalty?" said the Dane. "I accepted her request in order to honor the Count. He is not a man one wishes to insult."

  "I thought the old Count was dead," said Kurtz.

  The Dane smiled his wry smile. "Many people have thought that over the decades. I always work on the premise that it is safer to assume otherwise."

  "So she's not a widow?" murmured Kurtz. "Well, dress me up and call me Sally."

  They arrived at the last junction and the Dane paused a minute to catch his breath. Kurtz guessed that the man was in his late fifties or early sixties. "You interest me, Mr. Kurtz."

  "Oh?"

  "This is twice our paths have crossed. That is an unusual circumstance for me."

  Kurtz had nothing to say to that.

  "Are you old enough to remember the old American television commercials for Timex watches, Mr. Kurtz? Done by the newscaster John Cameron Swayze, if I remember correctly."

  "No," said Kurtz.

  "Pity," said the Dane. "You remind me sometimes of the product Mr. Swayze was advertising—'Takes a licking but keeps on ticking.' Catchy phrase." He led the way up steps and down the left tunnel. In a few minutes they came out in the first basement area. The bodyguard who'd been left outside the door upstairs was sitting on the damp floor against the far wall, his legs extended and his stare riveted on the dark tunnel opening. There was a bullet hole in the center of his forehead.

  "I know now why you're called the Dane," said Kurtz.

  "Oh?" The thin man paused again. He looked vaguely amused.

  "I used to think it was because you were from Denmark, but I don't think that's right," said Kurtz. "Now I think it's because every time you're around, it looks like the last act of Hamlet."

  "Very droll," said the Dane. "Tell me, what is Dr. No's mistake? I saw the film many years ago, but I do not really recall it."

  "Dr. No's mistake?" said Kurtz. "In all the Bond films—in all those stupid movies—the bad guy gets Bond or whoever in his clutches and then just keeps talking at him. Yadda, yadda, yadda."

  "As opposed to…" said the Dane with his small smile.

  "As opposed to putting two in his head and getting it over with," said Kurtz. He led the way up the final stairs.

  The Dane used the keys to lock both padlocks. Up in the basilica proper, the Dane stopped to look at the central nave under the huge dome. Only a few old women were in the huge space, kneeling and praying, one lighting a votive candle to the right of the altar. Someone was still practicing the organ. The air smelled of incense.

  The Dane handed Kurtz Kennedy's keys, including the keys to the Laforza SUV. "Be careful of fingerprints… no, I do not have to tell you that."

  "Can I drop you somewhere?" said Kurtz.

  The Dane shook his head. He'd removed his natty hat and Kurtz noticed that his blond hair was very thin on top. "I believe I'll step in here and pray
for a minute or two."

  Kurtz nodded and watched him step away, but then called softly, "Wait, please."

  "Yes?"

  "Do you ever take assignments in the Mideast? Say, Iran?"

  The Dane smiled. "I've not been to Iran since the Shah's downfall. It would be interesting to see how it has changed. You can reach me through the Countess if you need to. Good luck, Mr. Kurtz."

  Kurtz waited until the Dane had found a pew, genuflected, and knelt to pray. Then Kurtz went outside into the surprisingly bright morning light.

  * * *

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  « ^

  Kurtz took the afternoon off. He cleaned up his apartment area as best he could, stopped by Gail's place later to tell Arlene that she could go home and take Aysha with her if she wanted. He picked up his Browning and cell phone while he was there. He stopped by Blues Franklin and returned the Ray Charles sunglasses to Daddy Bruce. He turned in early that night.

  The headache did not return. Kurtz wondered idly if he should have taken the taser off the bodyguard in the catacombs in case he needed more shock therapy to get rid of the headache if it ever did come back. Maybe he could write some sort of paper about it for the AMA Journal or something.

  The next morning, be was driving the repaired Pinto to the hospital when he saw that he was being tailed by a Lincoln Town Car. Kurtz pulled to the curb on north Main, reached under the seat to get the Browning, and racked the slide. It had taken him an hour to find the bug in the Pinto the previous evening, and he was tired of all this surveillance crap.

  Gonzaga's man, Bobby, got out of the Lincoln and walked up to the Pinto. Kurtz thought that the bodyguard didn't look his best in a dark suit—actually, he looked like a fireplug that had been poured into a suit. The black ninja outfit had been more becoming on him.

  Bobby handed Kurtz a sealed envelope, said, "From Mr. Gonzaga," and walked back to his Town Car and drove off.

  Kurtz waited until the black car was out of sight before tucking away the Browning and ripping open the envelope. Inside was a cashier's check for one hundred thousand dollars. Kurtz set the check and envelope under the seat next to the gun and drove the rest of the way to Erie County Medical Center.

  Rigby King was alone and conscious when Kurtz came in. They'd moved her overnight from the ICU to a private room. There was a uniformed officer on guard, but Kurtz had waited for him to step down the hall to the men's room.

  "Joe," said Rigby. There was an untouched breakfast on the swing tray near her. "Want some coffee? I don't want it."

  "Sure," said Kurtz. He took the cup off the tray and sipped. It was almost as bad as the stuff he made for himself.

  "I just got a call from Paul Kemper," said Rigby. "With some very surprising news that you might be interested in."

  Kurtz waited.

  "Someone wasted your mafia girlfriend's brother in a maximum security federal prison yesterday afternoon," said Rigby.

  "Little Skag." said Kurtz.

  Rigby raised an eyebrow. "How many mafia girlfriends with brothers in maximum security prisons do you have, Joe?"

  Kurtz let that go and tried the coffee again. It was as bad as the first sip, only colder. "Some sort of yard shank job?" he said, knowing it hadn't been.

  Rigby shook her head. "I told you—Little Skag's been kept on ice at a maximum security federal hidey-hole. Up in the Adirondacks. No general population. He didn't see anyone except the guards and feebies, and even they got searched. But someone managed to get in there and put a bullet between his beady little eyes. Incredible."

  "Wonders never cease," said Kurtz.

  "Why do I think you're not totally surprised?" She struggled for a minute with the gizmo on a cable that raised the angle of her bed. Kurtz watched her struggle. When she had it the way she wanted it, she looked exhausted to Kurtz.

  "Do I know who shot me yet, Joe?"

  "Yeah," said Kurtz. "It was Brian Kennedy and some of his guys."

  "Kennedy? The security snot? O'Toole's fiancé?"

  "Right. You got suspicious on Sunday—realizing that Kennedy's alibi didn't really hold up…"

  "It didn't?" said Rigby. Someone had brushed her short, dark hair and it looked nice against the pillow. "I thought Kennedy was on his private Lear when you and O'Toole were shot."

  "Gulfstream," said Kurtz. "He had two planes."

  "Ahh," said Rigby. And then, "Had?"

  "I think Kennedy took off after shooting you. He may be found. Maybe not."

  "Where did he shoot me?"

  "In the leg?" suggested Kurtz. The coffee was not only bad, it was now totally cold.

  "You know what the fuck I mean."

  "Oh. Your call. I think they're going to find his fancy SUV in Delaware Park."

  "Or what's left of it if he was stupid enough to leave it there," said Rigby.

  "Or what's left of it," agreed Kurtz. He set the coffee cup back on her tray. "I've got to go. Your guard cop is probably finished pissing by now."

  "Joe?" said Rigby.

  He turned back.

  "Why did I suspect Kennedy of shooting his own fiancée? And if he shot me in Delaware Park, how'd I get to the hospital in the middle of the night? Inquiring minds will want to know."

  "Jesus," said Kurtz. "Do I have to do all your thinking for you? Show some initiative. You're the goddamned detective here."

  "Joe?" she called again just as he was about to shut her door.

  He stuck his head back in.

  "Thank you," said Rigby.

  Kurtz went down the hall, around a corridor, and down another hall. No one was guarding Peg O'Toole's room and the nurse had just stepped out.

  Kurtz went in and pulled the only visitor's chair closer to her bed.

  Machines were keeping her alive. One breathed up and down for her. At least four visible tubes ran in and out of her body, which already looked pale and emaciated. The parole officer's auburn hair was stiff and pulled back off her face where it hadn't been shaved off near the bandage over her forehead and temples. She was unconscious, with a snorkel-like ventilator tube taped in her mouth. Her posture in coma, wrists cocked at a painful angle, knees drawn up, reminded Kurtz of a broken baby bird he'd found in his backyard one summer day when he was a kid.

  "Ah, goddamn it," breathed Kurtz.

  He walked over to the machines that were breathing for her and acting as her kidneys. There were various switches and dials and plugs and sensors. None of the readouts made any sense to him.

  Kurtz looked at his parole officer's unconscious face for a long moment and then laid his hand on the top of the nearest machine. It had been one week exactly since the two of them had been shot together in the parking garage.

  His cell phone vibrated in his sport coat pocket Kurtz answered in a whisper. "Yeah?"

  "Joe?" It was Arlene.

  "Yeah."

  "Joe, I didn't want to bother you, and I've hesitated to ask, but Gail needs to know about Friday…"

  "Friday," said Kurtz.

  "Yes… Friday evening," said Arlene. "It's…"

  "It's Rachel's birthday party," said Kurtz. "She'll be fifteen. Yeah, I'll be there. Tell Gail that I wouldn't miss it."

  He disconnected, not interested in hearing whatever Arlene was going to say next. Then he touched Peg O'Toole's shoulder under the thin hospital gown and went back to the uncomfortable chair, leaning forward so it didn't press against his bruised back.

  Sitting that way, leaning forward, hands loosely clasped, speaking softly only to the nurse when she came in from time to time to check on her patient, Kurtz waited there with O'Toole the rest of the day.

  * * *

  Since his first-published short story won the Rod Serling Memorial Award in the 1982 Twilight Zone magazine short fiction contest, DAN SIMMONS has won some of the top awards in the science fiction, horror, fantasy, and thriller genres, as well as honors for his mainstream fiction. His books include the Joe Kurtz novels Hardcase and Hard Freeze, as well as t
he science fiction epic Ilium. He lives along the Front Range of Colorado, where he is currently at work on a new Joe Kurtz novel.

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