Where it led, at the outset, was him learning how to kill. His father never taught him. The Army did that. It might not have been what his father had intended, but it’s something that the Army does well. If Whistler had to do three years in the service, he decided that he ought to make the most of it. He spent his first year making up his college credits. He considered Officers’ Candidate School, but opted for another kind of education at the Ranger School at Fort Benning. He became an Airborne Ranger. He was in the Gulf War. His team spent three weeks behind Iraqi lines during the chaos of the allied air attacks. His team’s mission was recon until it was ordered to “disrupt the Iraqi chain of command.” In plain English, that meant killing generals.
His team used Iraqi weapons for the task. This was to make the ambush scene appear to be the work of mutinous troops, most of whom were there under duress. The Iraqis, in reprisal, executed whole units that had merely been in the vicinity. That in turn, however, led to hundreds of desertions. They probably saved more lives than they took. That, at least, was what their own general told them.
After that, the Army found other ways to make sure that his training was usefully employed. Several of these involved little foreign wars that the public never heard much about. Some were incursions to extract personnel, but most of them were punitive raids against foreign-based terrorist groups. After that, increasingly, they went after drug barons.
Every branch of the service and many federal agencies had a role in the policy of drug interdiction. Most of these were set up to try to stem the supply. A hopeless task. They made almost no difference. At best, they interdicted one shipment in twenty and many of those shipments were decoys.
The first punitive raids were authorized in response to the murder of government operatives in several of the trafficking countries. Well, not authorized, maybe. Such incursions were illegal. The teams that went in were made up of volunteers. They did what the law could not do. These raids were soon expanded to avenge other murders such as those of reporters and honest officials, and even, in one case, a Catholic Archbishop who’d become an annoyance to the traffickers. There were also raids that were made to appear the work of rival drug factions. The idea of those, as it was in Iraq, was to set them all killing each other.
That butchered family, those photos shown to Claudia, might possibly have been a retaliatory hit that grew out of one of his missions. Kate Geller had told him that the family looked Mexican and he’d certainly done work against the Mexican traffickers. The Mexicans had been known to wipe out whole families including grandparents and children. But that family, much more likely, had nothing to do with him. Such a slaughter was a punishment that was usually reserved for one of their own who’d informed or had gone over to a rival. The people who did it would take photos and distribute them. If the victim had informed, they would send a copy to whatever competitor had enticed the betrayal. Briggs and Lockwood must have merely taken one from their files. Anyone could dig up a murder scene photo and claim that so and so was responsible.
For a while, what he’d been doing had seemed right and just. His targets were all the most vicious of men and, in one case, a woman who was worse. He felt no ambivalence about it. The missions were exciting, a test of his skills, and the targets that he took out would claim no more victims. Again, as in Iraq, he told himself that he was saving lives in the long run. And by taking out targets who’d been killing too readily, he was sending a message to those who replaced them. In that sense, he served as a deterrent.
But as with interdiction, no lasting good came of it. Drug traffic, if anything, was increasing. The government was not about to admit that its policy of strict prohibition had failed. They looked for other weapons, other punitive measures. They took aim at the wealth of the traffickers. Laws were passed that permitted the wholesale seizure of property that was bought with drug money. Or alleged to have been bought. Or even rumored to have been bought. Although it took Whistler a while to see it, such distinctions were quickly ignored.
The seizure business had become a bonanza. At first it was only the DEA that had statutory forfeiture power. Well…that’s not counting the IRS and Customs. Those agencies had always had that power. But then came the FBI, the FDA, the SEC, the Postal Service, even the Fish and Wildlife Bureau. This was not to mention some 3,000 jurisdictions that set about looking for property to seize. Nor were drug-related gains a requirement. Almost any crime could result in a seizure. That included soliciting a hooker from your car. That’s how some jurisdictions were getting new vehicles. And it’s why so many more female cops were suddenly out working as decoys. This had nothing to do with surpressing vice. It had more to do with the value of your car. If you drove a Ford Pinto, you were safe.
As the seizure business became a major industry, a number of special units were formed. Stanton Poole’s unit, as Whistler understood it, was tasked
to go after “respectable” people who’d amassed their wealth not by trafficking, per se, but either by financing those who did or by helping to launder their profits. Stanton Poole had somehow heard about him and had put in a request for his services. Whistler suddenly found himself transferred.
His father didn’t like the idea from the start. He’d also been saying that enough was enough. His father wanted him to come back to Geneva, take his place in the family business.
“Now it’s a family business? Since when?”
“It will be if you join it. And it’s more than a business. It’s a way of life that answers to no one. I’d have thought that you’d miss it by now.”
Yes, he did. From time to time. Sometimes he did have to answer to people whom his father would have ignored. But in the service, his achievements were his own. He wasn’t just Harry Whistler’s son.
“Adam, what’s it called when your team goes in somewhere?”
“You know what it’s called. It’s called a punitive action.”
“And the British army calls it ‘remedial redress.’ What would it be called if civilians went in?”
“We’ve been through this. I am not an assassin.”
“If it quacks like a duck…never mind, I won’t say it. But Adam, don’t you see what a fine line you’re straddling?”
“An assassin doesn’t care who the target is. I reject far more than I accept.”
“You reject or accept based on what you’re told about them. Don’t assume that you’re always told the truth.”
“Now you’re saying I’ve been lied to. I don’t think so.”
“I’m saying it will happen sooner or later. Tell me about this new unit you’ve started with. You say it’s run by civilians?”
“They’re appointed by the National Security Council. I’m sure they’ve been thoroughly vetted…” He paused. “Unless you know something I don’t.”
“Not at the moment. I’ll look into it, though.”
“Yeah, you will, and then you’ll tell me they’re up to no good and that I’m just a pawn that they’ll use and discard.”
“They will have their own agenda. Can you doubt that?”
“I have mine.”
“If you’re…speaking of Alicia, you must let that go, Adam. I think she’s been sufficiently avenged.”
He was right, up to a point. He was almost always right. Alicia had always been in the back of his mind. One thing leading to another has to have a place to start. She was why he learned to do what he’d been doing.
Where it led, in the end, was to Claudia being shot. There was no direct connection. Just a chain of events. Except Claudia being shot was really more of a beginning. She’d been given back her life. And so had he.
But that day, in the hospital, he was still blind to it. He thought that what he’d had, what he’d almost had, was lost. He felt sure that if Claudia should come to her senses, she’d want nothing further to do with him. He knew that if she didn’t, there still was no way that he would take advantage of her sickness. He told himself that all he cared about now was to se
e that his promise to her mother would be kept. That Aubrey wouldn’t bother them, ever again.
He’d learned only one way to make sure of that.
NINE
He had no desire to confront Felix Aubrey. He had no wish to hear that toad of a man try to offer a deal or shift the blame. He would do this without any help from his father. He intended to simply put a hole in Aubrey’s head and then pay a call on Stanton Poole.
The more he thought about it, Poole had to have known what his deputy, Aubrey, was up to. At least in broad strokes. The punitive part. He had to have known because Aubrey would have told him in order to cover himself. And Poole had seen the ledger. He knew about the ledger. He knew at least enough that, during that one meeting, he’d told Aubrey to put it away.
Poole, however, could deny that he’d known and he’d almost be telling the truth. Poole never approved anything, not in so many words. His practice was to either turn his back, saying nothing, or to cite a selection from the Bible. He would not cite the text, just the chapter and verse. He might say, for example, “Matthew 5:29. You’d do well to reflect on it, gentlemen.”
Aubrey understood that the turning of his back meant, “Yes, but I know nothing about it.” The biblical reference meant much the same thing, but it included God’s approval as well. The operative text within 5:29 was the admonition, “if thy right eye offend thee’ pluck it out…” Felix Aubrey would then order that someone be plucked. Most times it meant property. Sometimes it meant a life.
Whistler had been involved in a number of these actions, but his role has been limited to reconnaissance and disabling security equipment. In the beginning they seemed clearly justified. The targets were all either criminal or corrupt and the evidence, though not actionable, was unquestioned. They were rich men who funded major drug operations but who kept a respectable front. But then he learned that some who’d been targeted by Aubrey seemed to have no history of involvement with drugs. All they had in common was that they were rich and, apparently, had made enemies in Washington. Some might have made their money by questionable means, but if so, that was none of Aubrey’s business. He was plucking them all the same.
Whistler intended to do his own plucking, but he couldn’t locate either Aubrey or Poole. Neither man had shown up at the Center’s office building even though that building was exceptionally secure. Their homes had been abandoned in obvious haste. Whistler knew that because he had been inside both of them.
It came as no great surprise that they would go to ground after learning of their losses thus far. They had to have assumed that he’d be coming for them. He’d expected them, however, to set out some bait and try to lure him into a trap. The least that he’d expected was to find well-armed men waiting for him in each of their homes. These men would have been told to try to take him alive so that Aubrey could trade him for that ledger. He doubted that they would have tried very hard. If Whistler, therefore, had found them waiting in ambush, he probably would have snapped one of their necks before departing as quietly as he’d come. He’d have left one there for the others to find. It might cause them to rethink their career choice.
But there wasn’t any ambush or bait. There was no attempt to take him at all. On the contrary, from what he could learn, Aubrey’s people had been given explicit instructions to take no action against him. Whistler didn’t understand it. He could only guess why. Perhaps Aubrey and Poole were having some trouble knowing who they could trust to defend them. And, for that matter, they couldn’t be sure of who, or how many, they were up against. Whistler couldn’t say he blamed them. He didn’t know either. He was going to keep looking all the same.
On the fourth or fifth night of his hunt for Felix Aubrey, he was watching
the home of an Aubrey family member who had profited from some of Aubrey’s seizures. The home, quite a large one, was surrounded by a wall and had every security device. Two large German Shepherds roamed the grounds. He had no reason to think that Aubrey would be there. Hiding out with a relative would not have been smart, even one that seemed so well protected. It was more that he’d run out of places to look.
He watched from his car until almost midnight. No one had emerged. The last lights had gone out. He decided not to bother going in for a look. He’d have to kill both those dogs to no purpose. In disgust, he reached to turn on his ignition, but froze when he sensed a movement to his rear. A shadow came forward. A hand tapped on his window.
A voice said, “Don’t get nervous. It’s me.”
Whistler showed both his hands and he turned his head slowly. Donald Beasley was standing, arms folded, by his door.
He said, “Talk to me. Roll down your window.”
Whistler let out a sigh and obeyed.
“This ain’t too smart, is it? You know better than this. Never do things like this by yourself.”
Whistler muttered a curse. “Where’d you come from?”
“Been around.”
“How did you find me?”
“Never lost you, Adam. We got friends who been watching. Nice job, by the way, cracking Poole and Aubrey’s houses, but didn’t it get lonely inside?”
Whistler drew a patient breath. “Do you know where they are?”
Donald rocked a hand. “They can keep for right now. You been back to your apartment in Virginia?”
“Of course not.” said Whistler. “That’s the last place I’d go.”
“That’s good because you would have been dog food by now. What’s the name of the guy we missed out in Denver? Not Briggs. The other one. The big one.”
“Lockwood?”
“Yeah, that guy. Loose cannon. He’s the only one after you. All the others crawled into a hole.”
“Well? What about him? Do you know where he is?”
“There’s him and another guy up on your roof. They been there since the day before yesterday.”
“Alive?”
“Hey, a guy wants to spend three days on a roof, the guy’s a fucking moron; you let him. Anyhow, Dennis is down there with some friends. They’d have popped him if you had turned up.”
“I keep hearing about friends. Who the hell are these friends?”
“Just friends,” said Donald. “Don’t worry about that. Anyhow, I got a message. Your father says sit. Don’t do nothin’ for a day, maybe two.”
“What for? What’s going on? Did he say?”
“He’s working on a deal. Might be we end this.”
“What kind of a deal. You mean one with Felix Aubrey?”
“Not him. It’s with the preacher guy, Poole.”
“I don’t want any deal. All I want is to find them.”
Donald Beasley spread his hands. “What, you’re doing so great? A couple of days, we try some diplomacy. That don’t work, then it’s war. We go killing.”
Two full days went by before his father finally called him. His father said
that Poole had asked for a truce so that an understanding could be reached. Poole acknowledged that his people had overreacted to what seemed the “betrayal of their mission by his son.” They had erred in deciding to punish “those two women” for refusing to be of assistance. He was mortified, he said, to learn that one had been shot. She’d been in his prayers ever since.
Poole offered guarantees, reparations, no reprisals, provided that he, Adam Whistler, would stand down. All criminal charges against Claudia and her mother had been dropped and would never be renewed. Whistler, in return, would leave the country for a year. Poole, during that time, would work to end certain practices that he’d “lately” come to realize were unjust. To that end, of course, he would need a certain ledger. That ledger was the only record, he said, of the errors that needed to be rectified.
“That’s a load of crap,” Whistler said to his father. “All he’ll do bury it deeper.”
“He would if he got it. He won’t. He’ll get a copy.”
“Then what’s the point? Why would he make this deal?”
“To cu
t his losses. He’s running scared, Adam. He’ll sweeten it further, believe me. I’m asking you to accept it because I want you alive. And I want you to go back for that girl.”
“I can’t do that.”
“From what her mother says, you weren’t given a choice. Where you go, the girl goes, apparently.”
“Do you know that she thinks she’s my guardian angel?”
“Of course. Her mother told me. Gave me hell, by the way. Kate says that you told her they’d be safe now. That right?”
“I…said that I don’t think they’ll bother her again.”
“Wishful thinking, Adam. They’re a long way from safe. If we let this thing escalate any further, either Kate or her daughter are going to be snatched. You thought what, that they’d only try for you?”
Whistler grunted.
“This way you get Claudia out of their reach and I’ll see that her mother is protected. And a year, just you and Claudia, doesn’t sound like bad duty. I’d go for it, Adam. I’d give it a shot.”
“Wait a minute. This year thing. Whose idea was that?”
“I told you. It was part of Poole’s offer.”
“So, it’s nothing like the time you got that prosecutor to tell me I either go to jail or join the army?”
The line went silent. Whistler said to his father, “I guess that answers my question.”
When his father spoke again, his voice had an edge. “Then you needed the army. Now you need this. I’m not trying to run your life for you, Adam. What you’re getting is some time to sit back and examine it.”
“I’m not trying to run your life for you, Adam.” No, of course not. What would make him think that?
“Look, Dad…”
“Do it, Adam. You’re not thinking straight. And you’re too damned ready to kill.”
Whistler couldn’t disagree. At least not in this case.
“Say you’re right. But with Claudia? I am not going to do that. You’ve got to know that can’t work.”
“What I know is that she might be good for you, Adam. I’m asking you to give it a chance.”
Whistler's Angel (The Bannerman Series) Page 7