by Jon Jackson
Was it anything? she wondered as she drove. She looked up the town on a map when she got home. It was way up north, probably a four-hour drive. Well; she thought, she didn’t have anything else. Maybe that was the connection. But to what? How could it involve Joe? Mulheisen, maybe . . . but it did seem to concern Colonel Tucker. By now, of course, she had half-convinced herself that Joe’s meeting with Tucker was just a cover for a renewal of his affair with Dinah Schwind. Oh, she was reaching for straws. She went to bed, exhausted.
14
Mutt and Joe
Mulheisen woke up. The rain had slowed a bit but it was still coming down steadily. It was almost midnight. The phone rang. Had it rung before? He wasn’t sure.
It was Jimmy Marshall, calling from home. “Your mother was fine,” he said, “sleeping peacefully. I didn’t disturb her. I talked to the nurse. She said no one had come by, although she’d had a call from some woman, looking for you. There was no message and she didn’t identify herself. Your mother had been out bird-watching in the afternoon, according to the day nurse. She’s fine, Mul. I looked around, didn’t see any sign of the Homeland people or anyone else.”
Mulheisen thanked him. “Did you leave a message, how to contact me?”
“Yeah,” Jimmy said. “I wasn’t quite sure what to do. What if the nurse gives it to this Tucker guy? I put it in a sealed envelope. Maybe that’ll keep her from opening it. In the message I said call the cabin in an emergency only.”
“Great, thanks, Jimmy,” Mulheisen said. “What about Constance Malachi?”
“She’s not buried in Indianapolis, looks like,” Jimmy said. “I don’t know what to tell you, man. I didn’t do too well for you. Sorry.”
Mulheisen assured him he’d done fine. The nurse, he explained, was hired by him. He was sure she’d simply pass the message to his mother.
“You all right, man?” Jimmy asked. “If you need anything, give me a call. There’s a lotta guys around here who’d help out, too, you know.”
Mulheisen thanked him. “What about Wunney? Do you know him? What’s his home number?”
It took Jimmy a little while to find it, but he delivered it without comment. Mulheisen pondered for a moment whether it was too late to call Wunney, but he quickly decided that it was not a time for social niceties, and it ought to be safe enough to call a man on the task force from this number.
Wunney answered on the first ring. It was that same old flat voice. “Yeah?”
“Sorry to call so late—” Mulheisen began, before Wunney cut him off.
“You’re in Queensleap.” It was spoken flatly, without any recrimination.
“You’ve got caller ID,” Mulheisen said.
“Doesn’t everybody? Charles McVey a friend of yours?”
“Something like that,” Mulheisen said.
“Some people want to talk to you,” Wunney said.
Mulheisen heard the sound of a match, an intake of breath.
“What’s your suggestion?” Mulheisen asked.
Wunney said, “Never hurts to talk.”
“That’s what you tell a suspect, or used to, before Miranda,” Mulheisen said. “Anymore, we tell ‘em to save it for the witness stand.”
He sat in the darkness, listening to the rain and Wunney’s periodic inhalation on a cigarette. He thought about lighting up a cigar himself, then decided against it. He still felt like a target in this windowed room.
“So don’t talk,” Wunney said. “Good night.”
But he didn’t hang up. Mulheisen explained briefly what had happened.
Wunney said, “I see what you mean about talking. It’s touchy. Still . . .”
After a bit, Mulheisen said, “Who’s Tucker’s boss?”
“You don’t want to talk to him,” Wunney said. “He’s some kind of idiot, a chair-warmer. Let me think . . .”
They sat in silence.
“Raining there?” Wunney said.
“Not quite Niagara. You can hear it?”
“Sounds nice,” Wunney said.
“A tin roof,” Mulheisen said. “You think it’s important to talk to Tucker?”
“Yeah. But I see your concern, you’d want a secure situation. I don’t know how these guys think, but there could be a good reason for him being at Luck’s. You can’t just sit there and hope that the whole thing goes away.”
“How do I get hold of him?”
“I’m thinking. Okay, how ‘bout if I come up there? He asked me to anyway. I said I would if he absolutely needed it, but I had stuff to do.”
“You think I need backup?” Mulheisen asked.
“We all need backup,” Wunney said, “but I was thinking more of an intermediary. I could get hold of him up there . . . kind of suss out the situation.”
“Have you talked to him? What does he think happened?”
“He didn’t lay it out, but my impression is that he thinks you’re a loose cannon. You’re in over your head in something you don’t know anything about. He wants you . . .”—Wunney hesitated—“to shut up. I think he’d be happy if you came into the circle.”
“Get with the program?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m not sure what his program is,” Mulheisen said. “I can’t very well join up until I do.”
“I didn’t think so. Should I come up? Or is there something you want me to do down here?”
“Can you come without telling him you’re coming?”
“Sure. We can always contact him from there—if you want to. How long will it take me?”
“Four hours.”
“I’ll be there. Any hurry?”
“No,” Mulheisen said. “Get here in the morning. Ten, all right? I’ll meet you in Cadillac. I’m within an hour of there. As I recall, there’s a little park by the lake, right in town.”
“See you,” Wunney said.
“Wait. What do you know about Constance Malachi?”
There was a long silence, then Wunney said, “Luck’s wife? She died a couple of years ago.”
“They’ve put her on some kind of security list,” Mulheisen said. “No outside inquiries. Why?”
“Where’d you hear that?” Wunney asked.
“Marshall told me. He was trying to look up some leads for me. Says it’s blocked. Homeland Security.”
Wunney digested that, then said, “I didn’t know that. Probably something to do with Luck. You know how these guys are—everything about a suspect is a matter of national security. Is it important? I could check it out.”
“That’d be useful maybe,” Mulheisen said. “Tell me: how did Luck become a suspect anyway?”
“I’m not sure,” Wunney said. “It was before I came on board. I just assumed it was a matter of ‘the usual suspects.’ He had a connection with patriot groups, questioned in the Oklahoma City bombing, that sort of thing. Kind of a shady history. He knew some of the principals.”
“And that was the connection to Luck?”
“It’s enough.”
“Okay.” Mulheisen sighed. “See you in Cadillac. Oh, one more thing. While you’re checking out Malachi, see what you can dig up on a character named al-Huq. He’s supposed to be al-Qaeda.”
“What’s this all about?” Wunney asked.
“There’s a foreigner here working for Luck, it seems. They call him ‘Hook.’ Probably no connection, but. . . . A description, maybe a picture, would be good. I think he’s supposed to be a Saudi.”
“I’ll check it out,” Wunney said.
Joe Service wasn’t listening to the rain. He’d checked into the fanciest hotel in Traverse City, the old Park Place, a huge, square edifice close to the main drag. He had taken one of the most, if not the most luxurious room. Very spacious. He’d spent some time in the spa, exercising, and then a swim, a sauna. Now he was cleaning guns and idly watching television. There was a knock at the door.
“Who is it?” Joe called. He’d gone to the door in a hotel dressing gown, embroidered with a crest on the terry-
cloth. He had a snub-nosed Smith and Wesson .38 in the large pocket.
“It’s me,” the Colonel said.
Joe peered through the peephole. He saw a somewhat forlorn-looking Tucker in a wet raincoat, slapping his khaki bucket hat against his leg.
“You alone?” Joe called.
“I’ve got some guys downstairs,” the Colonel said, looking at the peephole.
“Just a minute,” Joe said.
He went to the window and opened the drapes. The lights of the city below were obscured by the rain. Joe thought about the foolishness of taking a room on the sixth floor. He supposed he could get out, but he’d have to get dressed. He’d want to take his weapons, but he couldn’t climb down the face of a hotel with a bag of guns, even going down from his balcony to the one below, then the next one. It was stupid. He supposed it was the mistake of using the “Joe Humann” credit card. Lax. He was still in his stupid “straight life” mode. He sighed and went back to the door. The Colonel stood there, hat in hand.
“Back across the hall,” Joe said. “I’ll unlock the door.”
He unlatched the chain and went to stand next to the table, where an Uzi lay close to hand. He called, “Come in,” and the Colonel entered.
“Hello, Joe,” he said.
“It was the credit card,” Joe said.
“Yeah, I spotted it. Or, actually, Dinah did.”
“Is she with you?”
“Downstairs. Shall I ask her up?”
“No,” Joe said. “Well, what’s up?”
The Colonel looked around. “Mind if I sit?” He took a chair. “I missed you out in Dakota,” he said.
“I saw you,” Joe said.
“I figured you had. Ah, well. So, Joe, what’s the problem? Why so . . . so aloof?”
Joe shrugged. “What can I do for you?”
“Where’s Mulheisen?”
“How would I know?”
“C’mon, Joe. I had a look at that room. Mulheisen didn’t get out of there by himself. I thought of you immediately. Although I wouldn’t have thought you and Mulheisen were such good buddies.”
Joe shrugged. “He’s an old acquaintance. As for strange partners, what’s with you and Luck?”
The Colonel looked around again. “You haven’t offered me a drink. Got any scotch?”
There was a mini-bar. Joe nodded at it and said, “Help yourself.” He stood next to the table. He felt dumb in the dressing gown.
The Colonel went over and rummaged in the mini-bar. He found a couple of small bottles of Johnny Walker. He wrinkled his nose, but he located a glass and poured one of the bottles into it. “Join me?” he asked, half-turning.
“No, I don’t drink much,” Joe said. “Help yourself.”
The Colonel drank down the scotch, shuddered, then poured the other bottle into the glass. He brought it back to the easy chair and sat down, holding it.
“You aren’t really up to speed on the intelligence community, are you, Joe? It’s a strange world.”
“Tell me about it,” Joe said.
“People think—. There’s the FBI, the CIA. They’re official agencies, they have a director, a chain of command. They think that’s what the intelligence system is. But you used to work for the mob, Joe. The FBI used to occasionally put out little reports, maybe it’d be in a national magazine—J. Edgar Hoover, talking to some reporter. They had a chart of the ‘families,’ who was the capo di capo, who was an ‘enforcer,’ who ran this or that. It looked very organized, interlocking functions, just like a big business. But it wasn’t like that, was it?”
“You tell me,” Joe said.
“Well, you knew them. Didn’t you?”
“I knew a lot of them. I worked for quite a few, when they had a problem.” Joe was seemingly relaxed, but he was thinking about who was downstairs. He strolled over to the door, carrying the Uzi, and relatched it. He came back to the table. “What are you driving at?”
“The families were actually factions, working against one another. Cooperating when they had to, but mostly with their own agendas, their own goals,” the Colonel said. “Am I right?” He sipped at the whisky, made a face, but went on. “The world of intelligence is rather like that,” he said. “It looks like a well-ordered organization, but it’s riddled with factions. You know about the Lucani. Let me tell you,” he leaned forward, elbows on knees, both hands on the whisky glass, “there are dozens of groups like the Lucani, with different objectives, different loyalties. I’m into a lot of them. They aren’t recognized, mostly the organization doesn’t know about them, or tolerate them when they find out, if they become too . . . too ‘known.’ But that’s how intelligence is done. Small groups of people, working with and against one another. It’s like any other large organization. The mob knew this about themselves. It’s why they needed you, to be a kind of all-purpose in-house cop.”
“And Luck?”
“Luck is something of an ‘informer,’” the Colonel said. “He’s not an employee of any government agency, not technically. But he’s involved in some intelligence activities. He’s also on his own, has his own program. He’s sometimes employed, as a contractor. Sort of like you. I don’t think anyone in the community really approves of his other activities, but they’re tolerated, because he’s useful. He’s a conduit, a contact within. We have to work with guys like him. Otherwise, we’d never know anything about what’s going on. That’s all.”
He sat back.
Joe could see it. “So how do you know him?” he asked.
“I knew him in Vietnam,” the Colonel said. “He had a contract, flying helicopters for the CIA. They operated out of places like Burma, or other peripheral locations. He was a useful guy. He’s still useful. We keep an eye on him, and he’s our eyes and ears in the patriot movement.”
“All right, but who watches you?”
“Who watches the watchers?” The Colonel smiled. “We all watch each other. Sounds crazy, doesn’t it? You should see what it’s like in Russia, what it was like in the old Soviet Union. Talk about factions. Everybody had to belong to some group, had to have some allegiance to those who would protect them when they screwed up, who would further their career, or some project they might have, save them from a purge when a superior got canned. We’re not that bad. Most of our informal groups, the ones I know about, have relatively limited objectives. The Lucani are very secret, Joe. Not many know about them. You know our objective: we want to see justice done. We don’t want to see criminals being allowed to function even after they’ve been caught, because of corruption, or political maneuvering, or just plain bureaucratic fumbling. I have a hand in some other groups. I’m not disposed to say too much about them. But they have objectives too.”
“Like what?”
“Well, let me put it this way,” the Colonel said. “There is a political shift going on in the country. Not everybody is thrilled about it. Some people feel it’s a significant threat to what we have traditionally thought of as our American freedoms, our democracy. I’m being very simplistic, of course. It’s more complex than that. But it’s real. It’ll pass, I think. American political life is always in flux. One administration comes in, with its particular agenda, then it’s soon replaced by another with a different ‘vision.’ Mostly, though, they aren’t so different. They’re just variations on the basic, familiar American system or style. But some folks, lately, think that a real sea change has occurred. Some folks are very, very pissed off. They think this new mob needs to be . . . regulated, let’s say. Slowed down a bit, even diverted.”
He tossed off the remainder of his scotch and set the glass on the carpet next to the chair. “Well,” he said, more briskly, “sorry for the civics lesson. I’m sure I haven’t told you much that you weren’t at least a little aware of. Every government in history faces this same problem. They typically have a leader, a president, a national figure, a dictator maybe, who has a publicly avowed program. It’s sold to the public. But there’s always a secret agenda, a p
olitical philosophy that isn’t made public. The politicians don’t trust the public.
“Anyway, the regime intends to implement its program. But there are naturally opponents. That’s party politics, right? Nothing unusual, the public expects that. They even count on that to keep the regime ‘honest.’ What’s interesting is that some of those opponents are actually within that regime, often deep within it—there are contesting views. Depending on the strength of the leader, of the regime, these views don’t get much opportunity to be expressed, or they get too much. But they’re all working to thwart the ostensibly prevailing notion. Even in Hitler’s Germany, in the Nazi party, there were contesting factions. It’s natural.”
“Okay, so you’re working with a few different groups,” Joe said. “You’re telling me not to take your chumminess with Luck at face value. Okay, I won’t. So what happened to Echeverria?”
“Ah, so that’s it,” the Colonel said. “What have you learned?”
“You’re the one who needs to answer,” Joe said.
“I hate to tell you this, Joe, but Echeverria wasn’t in that ambulance you blew up. Sorry about that. You did good work, though.”
“Did you know he wasn’t in that ambulance? Was I being set up?”
“No, I didn’t know. But someone did. Someone knew that there might be an attempt on his life. He had left earlier, on another plane. I didn’t find out until, oh, maybe a month later. Someone thought that Echeverria, as bad a guy as he was, and is, was still useful to the U.S. in our war on drugs. They got to him, turned him. He agreed to cooperate, and they got him out. They should have let me in on it. It would have saved a lot of trouble. But they couldn’t risk it. Or maybe they even liked to create the impression that he was dead. Anyway, from your point of view, what difference does it make? You did your job, you got out of that jail rap.
“It turns out that Echeverria was worth the trouble. He’s been a help. We got some more lethal guys with his help. And, maybe, we’ll get more. But Echeverria, he went free. He’s still mad at you, though, Joe. You almost killed him, twice. You ruined his handsome face. He’s had a number of transplants, he has a lot of pain. I think he might be a drug addict himself by now. He doesn’t like you, Joe. That’s one of the things I wanted to warn you about, but you were too leery.”