Codes of Betrayal

by Uhnak, Dorothy

  Through the years Caruso had felt satisfaction in teaching, but he was always uneasy running agents. He felt a heavy responsibility for each individual he took under his care. Nick O’Hara was functioning as a triple agent. He had seen in Nick the building tension, the growing confusion, the constant worry. He could imagine Nick asking himself, late at night, Did I do the right thing? Did I give the right information to the wrong person? Am I blown? Am I about to sink?

  He shot a few baskets in the gym at John Jay. Nick had sounded quietly tense but insistent. He knew now that the murder of this guy, Salvy Grosso, and of his nephew, had shaken Nick. He had described the Polaroids vividly, repeating, “I should have known how scared he was, Tom. I should have known what it meant.”

  He hadn’t tried to tell Nick that the death of these two men wasn’t his fault. Nick would have to sort that out for himself. He hadn’t commented on the lack of value in those two lives. Tom had seen too much casual death and killing; he had no words to offer. Nick would have to live with whatever degree of responsibility he felt.

  He had known Nick was holding something back. He was glad it hadn’t taken him long to make this appointment. Nick was dressed in black sweats, too. They passed the ball back and forth, shot baskets, ran up and down the court. Finally, Nick wiped his face with his sleeve and signaled a time-out. As they sat on the bench on the isolated far side of the court, looking straight ahead, Nick said, “I have the informant at the DEA office. Felix Rodriguiz.”

  Tom Caruso didn’t react. He had known it could be anyone. The fact that it was Rodney Coleman’s number one didn’t surprise him or distress him. It made sense. He nodded and Nick turned to face him.

  “I gotta ask you this. Coleman—you trust him? Because he’s gonna be running me for the rest of this operation.”

  Caruso thought for a moment, then nodded. “I know Coleman is a pretty cold fish. We served together in ’Nam. He saved my life once. Literally. Then, again, I saved his life the next day. We were the sole survivors of a mission that went very wrong. Yes. I trust him. I don’t particularly like him, but I trust him.”

  “Get Rodriguiz out right away. I have a meeting with Coleman tomorrow afternoon. In some office in midtown. Some advertising agency. Rodriguiz should get picked up right away.”

  “As soon as you leave, I’ll pass the word. I assume you have some proof?”

  “You guys get the proof. Salvy Grosso, that dirtbag—all thanks to him for all the good it’ll do him now. He gave Rodriguiz up. I imagine the DEA can prove it out … but nail him right away!”

  “As soon as you leave, Nick. I swear. Do you know why Coleman wants to meet with you?”

  “It’s gonna happen. Very soon. In a matter of days. I don’t know where. No one does—except my grandfather and whoever else has a right to know. At the last minute, people will be directed by phone—public phones—to … somewhere.”

  “So no bugs can be in place.”

  Nick nodded.

  “So it’ll be up to you, more or less, You okay with that, Nick?”

  “I’m not okay with that. But I’m not okay with a lot of things.” He studied the bland expression on Caruso’s face. “But I’ll do what I gotta do. I’ll tell you this, Tom. I came close to bailing out. After Salvy and the kid. Jesus, I thought we were the good guys.”

  “We are. Relatively speaking.” He snapped his fingers, just remembering. “Here’s something that might cheer you up. You’re getting an A for the term.” He reached out and thumped Nick’s shoulder.

  “Oh, yeah. That cheers the living hell outta me, Teach.”

  He had dinner with his grandfather after a quick shower and change of clothes. It was a relaxing evening; the old man showed him some new plants and arrangements he was cultivating in his greenhouse, to be added to his medieval garden in the spring.

  It wasn’t until he was leaving that the old man embraced him, hard, and whispered in his ear. “Nicholas. Tomorrow night. You come here by six o’clock.” Then he pulled back, looked steadily at the blue eyes reflecting his own. “This shows my trust in you, grandson. You will be part of it.”

  CHAPTER 43

  DENNIS CHEN CARRIED HIS briefcase under his arm. The younger of his two assistants, Dong Zhue Wang, carrying a laptop computer, was noticeably excited. He had never been to New York; he had never before flown on the Concorde. Yang Bun Lau, in his forties, was a more experienced traveler. He carried the tickets and documents for all of them, had supervised the handling of the luggage; he would deal with all the necessary bothersome details that would get them from one place to another as simply as possible.

  Heathrow was well policed; luggage was carefully screened, passengers searched when it was appropriate. Signs prohibiting unattended luggage were familiar by now, impossible to overlook.

  Both men stayed close to Dennis Chen as he headed toward the Executive Lounge, where a quieter, more peaceful atmosphere prevailed. Then there was a sudden commotion: a woman’s voice calling loudly, shocking well-dressed travelers nearby. She was apparently screaming at her husband to hurry from the newsstand as their flight was now boarding—they’d miss the plane. The man, tucking magazines under his arm, candy in pockets, clutching tickets in his mouth, ran haphazardly through the crowd, leaving behind him a trail of angry people. He had knocked into a baby stroller and the young parents, furious but grateful their child hadn’t been harmed, waved fists after him.

  The faster he ran, the louder his wife’s high-strung voice. He turned to look behind him—could he actually have hurt anyone?—when he crashed into Dennis Chen, who had no chance to brace himself before the impact. The briefcase flew from under his arm; he twisted, and a pain shot through his right leg. He landed on his right shoulder, his right wrist crunching beneath him. His face slammed into the floor, blood clouding his vision.

  His companions stood immobilized for no more than a second. Their decision not to pursue the vulgar runner was predetermined: their responsibility was to Dennis Chen. Out of a crowd of concerned but helpful people, two more men came to his aid—his chauffeur, who always stayed at any airport until Mr. Chen’s scheduled plane departed, with the boss on board; and another aide, not scheduled for this particular trip, who carefully glanced around and retrieved Mr. Chen’s briefcase and handed it to Yang Bun Lau, senior to himself.

  Don Zhue Wang gestured the crowd back with great, calm authority. He caught the eye of a uniformed employee of some airline or other, ordered that the airport ambulance be summoned immediately.

  As he was carried off by stretcher to the ambulance, a tall, thin, middle-aged Englishman identified himself as a doctor and volunteered to escort Mr. Chen and his senior assistant to the hospital.

  Dennis Chen’s eyes gleamed with pain and he pulled his lips back tautly. He felt the doctor’s fingers lightly touching, exploring the femur. He glanced over his shoulder at Yang Bun Lau.

  Then he leaned close to Dennis Chen’s ear and told him, “Your leg isn’t broken, Mr. Chen.”

  Through clenched teeth, Chen answered, “Then do what you have to do.”

  The doctor slid his fingertips along the injured right wrist, which was indeed broken. The doctor adjusted his eyeglasses, which had a tendency to slip down his nose. He then reached into the standard black doctor’s bag available in every emergency ambulance and removed a pair of long, sharp, narrow-bladed scissors.

  He admired the fabric of Chen’s beautifully tailored suit, regretted having to destroy such fine work. He cut carefully, exposing the injured leg. He then slipped his hand into his trouser pocket and removed a surgical hammer, searched out the damaged but not broken bone that stretched from the knee to the ankle.

  “Take a very deep breath, Mr. Chen. This will hurt like blazes.”

  In the middle of the advisory, unexpectedly, which was exactly as he intended, the doctor brought the hammer down on the injured bone with tremendous force and strength. Yang Bun Lau turned his face away, unable to bear the terrible sight. The
clean but jagged white bone was visible through the tear in the skin for

  Just a moment, then was hidden by spurting, bright red blood.

  “Give him a shot of something. Please, Doctor.”

  The doctor shook his head as he wiped the surgical instrument clean and placed it back in his trouser pocket.

  “No need. He’s passed out. Just let me get some of this sterile gauze; must press it to the wound, stop the hemorrhaging. A clean compound fracture.”

  He had let some blood run onto Chen’s cut trouser leg. As he pressed against the wound, careful not to further displace the bone, he said, “His wrist is a simple break. His shoulder—I don’t know. May be dislocated. We’ll let the chaps at the hospital sort it out.”

  He cleaned Chen’s forehead, which was bloody but no longer bleeding. “Might have mild concussion. Likely, that.”

  Chen was semiconscious as he was loaded onto a gurney and wheeled, quickly, to an emergency room for evaluation. Yang Bun Lau pressed his hand and felt a slight pressure in return.

  He leaned down and spoke to Chen. “The leg, a compound fracture, requires surgery immediately. You will be fine. I will wait in your room. I will be with you all the time.”

  He was later established in a large airy room, in the private section of the hospital reserved for royals or foreign visitors of rank. He remembered nothing of his ambulance trip. He had a vague recollection of being introduced to an orthopedic surgeon, one of the world’s best. “Did up HRH’s leg when he injured it in a polo spill. Not to worry.”

  He raised his right hand to brush his forehead and felt a terrible ache from his shoulder back to the plaster-encased wrist.

  The nurse approached, needle filled with morphine, voice starched, clipped, used to being obeyed. “Now, now, don’t play with that hand. Lie there still; this will help you out a lot.”

  Chen shook his head: No. The nurse said, “C’mon, now, don’t try to be the hero. No point to it.”

  When she saw the determination glaring from his eyes, from his set lips, she told him, “All right, then. But when you want it, you just press this little button for me. I’ll leave it here by your left hand, all right? No heroes, right?”

  When he told her in a dry, parched voice that he wanted his associate to come to him, she started to protest; again, his expression allowed for nothing short of compliance.

  Yang Bun Lau assured him that everything was taken care of. A collection of all eyewitness reports, doctors’ reports, X-rays and charts had been compiled, taken to the concerned people, faxed around the world after further local evaluation. And wasn’t it fortunate, he told his employer, that Dr. Heddington, a heart specialist from London, had been at Heathrow awaiting his own flight. Not to worry; arrangements were made for the good doctor to take another flight, with a limo back to the airport.

  The police had questioned and released the very distraught passenger who had plunged into him. He seemed to be a straight-arrow clerk who had been about to embark on a two-week vacation in Spain and now would have to make other plans. Chen would press no complaint. Things happen. All the time. The policeman’s report had been added to all the other information.

  Finally, medicated, alone, drifting, Chen floated somewhere between ocean and sky; and in the dark, as it encompassed him, he heard Laura’s soft, concerned, warning voice.

  CHAPTER 44

  MADISON AVENUE WAS A deep canyon, held in place by tall, shining black structures with the ominous feeling of a space movie. Nick lit, smoked, and dinched a cigarette before entering the huge lobby of the building where he was to meet with Coleman.

  There was a collection of upscale storefronts all around one side of the lobby, with openings both on the street and inside. Music came from somewhere. There was a fountain with a marble figure of a child, pouring water into an oval green pool. He looked toward the ceiling, a good three stories high: long balconies extended from various restaurants at the second level. People seated at white-clothed tables ignored each other as they glanced around. Or ignored the atmosphere as they pressed on with their business meetings.

  Nick went to the main desk, situated in such a way that no one had access to any of the banks of elevators without passing through security. Four uniformed, smiling people—two men, two women—worked quickly and efficiently with both phones and computers. Yes, may I help you? You are here to see? Your name is? You are expected? Fine, go to the second elevator to your right. No? Fine, you may use the courtesy telephone at the end of the counter and you can clarify and they will get back to us.

  Nick was expected, cleared, and sent on his way to the elevator, which shot quickly to the twenty-sixth floor. The door slid open and he was faced with a large white marble table, behind which sat four women who might have been wearing uniforms. They were dressed in simple, expensive little black suits; one adorned with a simple gold pin; two with bright neck scarves; one with nothing ornamental. One was a redhead, one a blonde; one had shiny black hair; the fourth, a black woman, had a neat, attractive, scalp-clinging hairdo. She caught his eye and smiled an automatic greeting. She cocked her head, as though they were old friends.

  “Mr. O’Hara? Hi. I’m Dianne. Let me take you to Mr. Coleman’s office. If I gave you directions, you’d get lost. I’m not good at directions,” she added with a smile, and led the way.

  She was small, tidy, assured. As she reached an office crossroads she faced one way, then the other, before turning. She grinned at him. “See? I would have sent you out into space.”

  “Never to be seen again, right?”

  She studied him carefully, then said, “Oh, I’d have found you, Mr. O’Hara.”

  “I’d have depended on it, Dianne.”

  She stopped outside a small office, no more than a cubicle, with frosted glass on the window. She tapped twice, opened the door, and extended her hand. She winked good-bye and went back where she came from.

  Rodney Coleman was standing at the window, surveying the city that stretched to the south. He squinted and made out the outlines of the World Trade Center buildings.

  “Great view,” he said, then turned and looked directly at Nick, waved a hand. “Not a particularly great office. Sit down, Nick. Sit down.”

  The round beige eyes watched him with interest, as though Nick was someone from whom he expected unusual behavior. He accepted Nick’s silence.

  “I am sorry about what happened to Salvy Grosso. And his nephew. He wasn’t one of ours, by the way. Not that I’m blaming the P.D. Apparently, they had run him at one time. His name never turned up on any computer, or in any deep-pocket list.” He shrugged. So there you had it. Not our fault. He turned toward the window and tapped the tips of his fingers together and said, “We did have some … but not very much, suspicion about Rodriguiz. I take full responsibility for that.” He spun the chair around. “You won’t see him again, I assure you.”

  “Thanks to Salvy Grosso.”

  Coleman shrugged. “I understand you will be with your grandfather tomorrow night. It is too bad we couldn’t zero in on the location. We do have some bugs in place, by the way. Including in your grandfather’s house.” Nick’s eyes must have betrayed his reaction. “What? You seem surprised.”

  “Not very much surprises me anymore.”

  “But I see you doubt me.” He opened the deep side drawer of the inexpensive, modern white-topped desk and removed a tape recorder. “Want to hear some after-dinner conversation? Let’s see—I hear he’s got some new plants in his greenhouse.”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t believe you.”

  Coleman nodded. “That’s right, you didn’t. We have about twelve places wired. It’s hard to stake out twelve places for surveillance work. Your grandfather has always been very smooth and careful. So, that leaves it all up to you.”

  The bright light eyes widened, showing white on top and bottom. For the first time ever, Nick saw Coleman blink. His lids were delicate lavender-pink; his lashes the same color as his eyes and hair.r />
  “I know you’ve been having some misgivings, Nick. Well, in your position, I would too. This probably isn’t a good time to say this, but say it I must.” He leaned back in his chair, his voice pleasant, conversational. “We have the video showing clearly, and with sound effects, your robbery of the bar up in Washington Heights. It would be good for about ten years, Nick, but you’d never last a month inside, you do realize that, right?”

  “If I had decided to bail out, Coleman, it would have been long before now. And you wouldn’t have had a chance to act on your videotape.”

  A delicate shudder hunched Coleman’s shoulders. “Oh, is that a threat? No? Just a statement?”

  “Any way you wanna take it. Look, let’s get this over with, okay? What do you want?”

  “Well, first let me tell you this. We have evidence on incoming merchandise. Christ, these guys are clever. They’re shipping about one hundred fifty million dollars of China White within the next two days. But none of our action will occur until we have your evidence.” He reached into his pocket, dropped a small brown envelope on the desk, pushed it toward Nick. “I assume you’ve arranged a hand-off to your professor—oh, don’t look surprised. Tom and I go a long way back.”

  He stood up as Nick, without looking, put the envelope into his pocket. “Nick, I want to tell you. What you’ve done, are doing, are going to do, it’s remarkable. I do know there are some deep personal reasons involved—” As he was about to recite Nick’s history, something made him pause. He shrugged. “I will assume your motives are of the purest. Oh, and we are eternally grateful to you for helping us catch the rat in our midst.”

  Nick put his hand out, palm up. “The video?”

  “Surely you didn’t expect me to turn that over to you right now? At the proper time, Nick. Well, if you don’t care to shake my hand, go with my good wishes. God speed.”

  Softly, Nick said, “Fuck you, Coleman.”

  CHAPTER 45

  THE LOGISTICS OF THE meeting could not have been more efficient had they been arranged by agents of Israeli intelligence. Papa Ventura had final approval and had made some suggestions to Dennis Chen. No one else, at all, knew where or when the meeting would take place. The safe house was in fact a safe house.