by James Bruno
“Here are the key results of our investigation on Thompson which we want you to draw on in briefing the media and congressional contacts.”
Lisa glanced through the notes. The color drained from her face. “A homosexual spy ring? Centered at State?”
“Right. Thompson was in the middle of a growing circle of gay Foreign Service officers who had been recruited by Moscow to pass secrets to the KGB’s successor, the SVR. Our preliminary findings reveal that Ferret was Thompson’s lover, that he killed his family first because he felt trapped in a heterosexual existence. Then he returned to murder Thompson after Buckwheat refused to break up with his partner. Same m.o. Ferret used a three-pound hammer to bash in the heads of Thompson and his boyfriend, exactly the same job he did on his family. Not very scientific, but effective. We’ve got the photos, but I figure it’s best not to release them at this point. Not a pretty sight.”
Lisa strained to try to follow Haley’s tale of homosexual spy rings, lover’s jealousy and murders. “So, um, tell me this. What’s going on at State?”
“The FBI is rounding up a bunch of gay officers, including an Assistant Secretary of State and the deputy chief of Protocol. Based on our information. Oh, yeah. And McHenry’s resigning at noon today. The President is appointing John Tulliver as Secretary of State. You can run with that too. We’ve got a complete bio package on John we want to disseminate as widely as possible.” Haley formed a frame in the air with his fingers. “Contrast the drift over at State over the past two years with the positive results which John has achieved during that same period here at the NSC – on background, of course. ‘Tulliver is the man the President repeatedly has had to turn to in order to save the Administration from terminal embarrassment, or worse.’ There’s the spin.”
“Why me?”
“The press trust you.” Haley paused. “Besides, we’re all moving over to State. I’ll be number three — Undersecretary for Political Affairs. There could be something in the cards for you, Lisa. John Tulliver has his eye on you. Run with this one and, well, who knows?”
“These people at State who are being arrested. What evidence is there — other than they’re gay? I mean, courts need evidence, after all.” Lisa’s voice was strained. Her disbelief verged on sarcasm.
“Oh. They’ll be fired. No trials.” Haley looked at his watch. “Well, Lisa. I have a meeting in the Oval Office in exactly 25 minutes. You in?”
“Wait. No trials?”
“You’re right. Courts need evidence. We have it, but, unfortunately, we won’t be able to turn it over. It’s highly classified. We’ll invoke National Security. Remember Felix Bloch, the State guy caught spying for Russia in the late ‘80s? They fired his ass, denied him a pension. Wrecked that traitor’s life. But, no trial. So, there’s precedent. I’ll await your answer tomorrow, at 0900 sharp.” Haley closed the door gently behind him.
After he talked with Lisa, Gallatin sat alone in a booth with a cup of coffee. He tried desperately to piece together what was going on in Washington. In his mind, he painstakingly sorted through every piece of the puzzle, from the firebombing of the Suleijmanovics’ house, to the rampages and subsequent killings of the Brankos, to a policy to bring dangerous criminals into the country, to Ferret massacring his family, to Lisa’s unwitting role in a cleverly designed fabrication, to the booby-trapping of the car, now to the murders of Buckwheat Thompson and his lover. It seemed that the more pieces that entered into the equation, the less sense he could make of it. It was as if he were dealing, not with one picture, but several. At least the coffee kept his head clear. Jameson’s would have numbed it.
His concentration was broken by a stirring rendition of Wild Colonial Boy by the trio. The beer was flowing, the spirits of the crowd were loosened. Gallatin frequently sought solace in the anchor of his ethnicity, in the comfort of familiar rituals. Subconsciously, he was returning to the womb, the womb of Eire in America. But many Irish-Americans lived a fantasy when it came to the old country. The nostalgia rooted half in myth, the Truth as forced by the political types, the denial that the world was changing as a new millennium unfolded, left a wanting, intolerant feeling inside Gallatin, intolerance with his own.
They began to pass the hat “for the lads.” Half-drunk wage-workers tossed in amounts many could hardly spare. The hats filled. Noraid would be enriched still more by the New World to enable the Old World to fight its ancient battles. The money would buy weapons, ammunition, bombs. Should peace falter in Ulster, innocent civilians again would be blown to pieces, maimed for life, terrorized as they carried out their daily lives.
“Well, if it isn’t the Prince of Orange,” came a taunting voice as one of two circulating hats passed to Gallatin. “You can give, or you can get out,” the tough-looking little man said.
Gallatin tried to ignore him.
Another man appeared, this one large and stupid-looking.
“Well, what’ll it be then?” the small one said.
Gallatin had enough on his mind. His goal was to get on a plane to Washington in the morning. Local yokel Noraid shakedown artists were not on his agenda. Gallatin was more fed up than angry.
He got up and left.
Outside, the two men, plus a third, who appeared to be around 19 years old, blocked his way at the end of the block.
Gallatin stopped, looked at each defiantly and said, “I have no bone to pick with any of you. I’ll be on my way.”
“On your way down to the pavement,” the little tough said as he charged Gallatin like a reckless, young bull.
Gallatin slammed his fist into the small man’s neck. The man grabbed at his throat, at the same time gagging. Blood flowed from the sides of his mouth. He dropped to the pavement struggling to breathe.
Gallatin held the others at bay, swinging his fists expertly as he did in the boxing days of his youth. But his valiant defense came to an abrupt end as what felt like a grand piano came crashing down against the back of Gallatin’s neck, from a fourth man, late to the melee, bearing a two-by-four.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Tulliver rearranged the Egyptian urns on a ledge for the ninth time. “No, no. It just doesn’t work. You know what the trouble is?”
“What’s that, Mr. Secretary?” Haley replied.
“This Department has no class. I mean, look at this office. The Danish postmaster general has better digs. I have to welcome foreign ministers and heads of state in this…pen? And we call ourselves the greatest democracy in the world?”
“That’s the operative word.”
“Which?”
“Democracy. Americans like the freedom without the flourishes. That’s why we took such glee in throwing the Redcoats out. Remember when Nixon introduced liveried attendants and other royal trappings to the White House? That’s about the time when the people practically went after him like mobs with torches.”
“Funny. I seem to recall a little episode called Watergate,” Tulliver said pointedly.
“Right. Watergate.” Haley felt it was time to change the subject. “I’m afraid the press is devoting more attention to McHenry’s leaving than to your accession to the office.”
“Something is seriously the fuck wrong, Dan, when the media pay more attention to a loser on his way out rather than to a winner on his way up. Fix it!” Tulliver held his hand to his chin as he contemplated what precedence photos of him posing with a variety of kings, presidents and other potentates should take on his ego wall.
“Trouble is, there’s a certain poignancy about an old cowboy like McHenry announcing stoically to the world that he has only six months left to live. The public laps it up. It’s like movie of the week.”
“Why the hell didn’t we know he had liver cancer? We could’ve handled the PR differently. Hell, we could’ve gotten the son of a bitch dumped even sooner. As it is, if Merriman isn’t re-elected, I’ll have been Secretary of State for a mere eighteen months. Not enough time to make history.” Tulliver threw the photo of him and Mobutu S
ese Seko posing over the corpse of a freshly shot lion back into a box. “Wouldn’t be popular with the PC crowd,” he mumbled.
“He was just diagnosed. Even he didn’t know.” Haley looked at the ceiling impatiently.
“No excuse. We should’ve been getting hold of his medical records. Mark that for next time.” Tulliver smiled at a large color photo of him shaking the Pope’s hand. He put it in the middle of the wall. “We’ve got to do better with press relations.”
“I’m afraid we’ve lost Lisa Valko.”
Tulliver halted his interior decorating. “Lisa. Yes.” A small smile was quickly replaced by a frown. “So?”
“I held out the prospect of a senior job for her here at State. Gave her the line on the homo spy ring. Asked her to run with it.”
“And?” He placed an autographed photo from the President of Israel — “To John, My Partner in Peace” — to the immediate right of that of the Pope.
“She didn’t bite. She announced this morning that she was resigning.”
Tulliver’s jaw muscles tightened.
“There’s more. Security has her on tape and in photos with Thompson. Buckwheat clued Lisa in on everything. On CHASM. Cases. Individuals. Recalls. Now she’s teamed up with Gallatin against us.”
Tulliver strained to lift a huge, bejewelled scimitar from the Sultan of Brunei out of a crate. “Where is she now?”
Haley shrugged.
“Have her join the Recall Program then, and Mr. Gallatin too, while you’re at it,” Tulliver said matter-of-factly.
“We tried once — with Gallatin.”
“And?”
“And…it didn’t work. Timing was off. But it was ill-conceived. In any case, he’s a civilian. He can’t be recalled. We should leave him out of this. If we start going after non-government types, there’s no telling where it will lead,” Haley said.
“Then cancel the son of a bitch. Annul him. Revoke him. Use whatever euphemism you please! You get the point!” Tulliver glared at Haley.
Haley bowed his head and sighed. “Yes, I do,” he said quietly. “But how can we live with ourselves?”
“We have no choice,” Tulliver answered evenly. He couldn’t decide what he should do with the honorary degree from the University of Indiana.
Lisa rushed up to kiss Gallatin, but stopped dead in her tracks inches from his face.
“My God. What did you get into?” Tentatively, she touched his swollen left eye. His physical pain reflected itself emotionally in Lisa’s face.
“I had a rendez-vous with destiny,” he joked lamely. “This time destiny outnumbered me.” He lowered himself cautiously onto Lisa’s sofa. He looked around the neat, single-bedroom apartment. The fresh flowers, dust-free surfaces, tasteful knick-knacks and wall decorations telegraphed femininity; the presence of woman which had been so achingly missing from Gallatin’s life.
“Mike. Look at you. You look like you fell into a cement mixer. Maybe you should see a doctor.”
“No. I’ll be fine,” he said with a grunt. “Remind me to be born anything but Irish in my next life.”
Lisa shook her head, not comprehending.
“I made the mistake of saying, ‘I gave at the office,’ at a fundraiser for ‘The Lads.’” He pronounced the last words with angry contempt.
Lisa went to get a bottle of antiseptic and cotton swabs. She sat with her thigh against his. Gently, she removed the old bandage Gallatin had put on and applied the medicine to his brow.
“Ow!” Gallatin jerked his head back.
She kissed his forehead. “Poor thing. Now be still.”
He closed his eyes as she gingerly treated his wounds. At Lisa’s urging, Gallatin related his latest run-in with Noraid. He opened his eyes to see Lisa’s hands shaking.
“Lisa. What about Thompson?”
She told about the dual murders and the fantastical story being put out by the White House.
“I resigned yesterday.”
Gallatin looked at her gravely. “You quit your job?”
“They’ve got to be brought down, Mike. The whole rotten nest of them. Haley, Tulliver…” Goosebumps paraded across her skin. She hugged herself as if bracing against a cold breeze.
“What is it? There’s more.”
Lisa turned her face away. “Mike. You need to know. In London. Tulliver…he…”
Gallatin touched her cheek and softly pushed her untrimmed hair back behind her ears.
“Oh, nothing happened. But almost did.” She fought back tears. “I let my guard down. There. And in the job I had. I’ve been used. Like a—”
“Shh.” Gallatin kissed her lips.
They kissed tenderly. The tensions in each lifted like a fog in the morning sun. They lay back on the sofa, Gallatin held Lisa firmly in his arms. Lisa stared intently into the darkness.
“They murdered Thompson, Mike. And his lover.”
“But why?”
She shook her head. “It’s only the tip of the iceberg. It goes further. They bring in criminals. War criminals and others. Into the United States. Give them new lives, often new identities. Buckwheat told me all about it before he died. It’s called CHASM. And I’ve got it all on these little things.” Lisa leaned over and grabbed her purse from the floor. She pulled out a freezer bag containing computer disks. “Some of these people the government sneaks in get out of hand, criminal psychotics who murder. Haley sends assassins after them to wipe them out. This program is outside the law, not accountable to Congress. Nobody.”
“It fits in with what Ferret had told me.” Gallatin sat up and struck his left palm with his right fist. “The Brankos. That’s how they got into the country. They attacked the Suleijmanovic’s. But then they were tracked down and done in. Ferret. Ferret was a cog in the wheel. But then it all got to him.”
“Mike. They tried to get you. They wired your car. It shows they’ll stop at nothing.”
They searched each other’s eyes as they understood the gravity of their situation.
“We can bring them down, Mike. Together.” She drew closer. “For Lauren.”
“Yes. For Lauren.” Gallatin braced her head gently between his hands. Again they kissed, this time languorously, back onto the soft-cushioned sofa, their bodies together, creating one energy which, in turn, invigorated their lovemaking. The whole evening lay before them, just for themselves. In time, partly clothed, they led each other, hand-in-hand, to the bedroom.
The freezer bag with the disks lay on the living room coffee table.
He knew he shouldn’t smoke. Not while out on an operation. The stench of tobacco risked spooking a target. Fechtmann took a long last draw on his Marlboro, then crushed the butt out under a black boot. Back before the Wall came down, Marlboros were gold. Traded in barter deals where the worthless East German D-Mark had no role. Fechtmann had enticed more than a few female countrymen into his bed using such simple bait as American cigarettes, Belgian chocolates and such. That was when he was somebody, with perks, a stake in the established order. Now he just didn’t give a shit. Being just a tad sloppy would not land him in harm’s way when stalking amateurs. Besides, one or two more operations with big payoffs like this one would put him where he wanted to be. A fairly wealthy man with enough resources not only on which to live comfortably, but which he could use to invest in a legitimate business. Like a bar in the Keys. Another immigrant success story.
He didn’t like the area, a “transitional neighborhood” on Capitol Hill. Why did these yuppies insist on living in such places? He turned against a wall and deftly inspected his silent pistol. Six polished rounds lay snugly in the clip.
But he packed the silent pistol for self-protection this cold, late autumn evening. In a small tote bag slung over his shoulder, Fechtmann carried the actual tool of lethality for this operation: a three-pound minisledge which he picked up at Sears for $13.99.
The floodlit Capitol dome shone brilliantly several blocks away against a cloudless, star-filled sky. On the dome�
�s crown, Lady Liberty stood looking down, ever alert, on the nation’s capital.
Fechtmann took pride in being an assassin. As with any proud professional, he held himself to high standards. Ending human life was not pleasant. Therefore, clean and fast were his guidelines. He was morally opposed to making his targets suffer and he felt even the most loathsome deserved a modicum of dignity in death. It was with tremendous misgivings, therefore, that he took on this operation. Haley had provided him a complete file on Ferret’s massacre of his family, including the photos not only of the abattoir that Ferret’s house had become, but also of the autopsies on the two Ferret women and the three boys. His instructions were clear and simple: duplicate the murders against Buckwheat Thompson and his lover; and now against Lisa Valko and her lover. It was essential that Ferret’s m.o., such as it was, be replicated unto the finest detail.
The file contained small glasine envelopes. One contained strands of Ferret’s hair, obtained God knew how. The second held fibers from the same clothing Ferret had worn on his last day in the office, the day he murdered his family. Fechtmann surmised that CHASM personnel gleaned the fibers from Ferret’s work cubicle. Plant the hair and the fibers in Lisa Valko’s apartment after the deed was done were his instructions. The White House could then fortify its lie of Ferret the serial killer.
As he approached the iron-gated front of Lisa’s apartment complex, Fechtmann felt a sudden queasiness in his stomach. He thought of the bloody mess he would create and felt shame. For weeks he had been telling himself, $200,000 for the Thompson job plus another two-hundred grand for doing in Valko and Gallatin. On top of his earnings from previous operations, all carefully invested in growth mutual funds and Treasury notes, the money would give him the ticket to retirement. After this job, the only things he would kill would be flies at his Florida bar.