"I've made sure the cops know about my major competitors."
Piaggi nodded. That was within normal business practice, but somewhat risky. He shrugged it off. Henry could be a real cowboy, a source of occasional worry to Tony and his colleagues. Henry was also very careful when he had to be, and the man seemed to understand how to mix the two traits.
"Somebody getting even?"
"None of them would walk away from that kind of cash."
"True," Piaggi conceded. "I got news for you, Henry. I don't leave that sort of bundle laying around."
Oh, really? Tucker wondered behind impassive eyes. "Tony, either the guy fucked up or he's trying to tell me something. He's killed like seven or eight people, real smart. He took Rick down with a knife. I don't think he fucked up, y'dig?" The odd thing was that both men thought that a knifing was something the other would do. Henry had the impression that knives were the weapon of Italians. Piaggi thought it the trademark of a black.
"What I hear, somebody is doing pushers with a pistol--a little one."
"One was a shotgun, right in the guts. The cops are rousting street bums, doing it real careful."
"I didn't hear that," Piaggi admitted. This man had some great sources, but then he lived closer to that part of town, and it was to be expected that his intelligence network would be speedier than Piaggi' s.
"It sounds like a pro doing this," Tucker concluded. "Somebody really good, y'know?"
Piaggi nodded understanding while his mind was in a quandary. The existence of highly skilled Mafia assassins was for the most part a fiction created by TV and movies. The average organized-crime murder was not a skilled act, but rather something carried out by a man who mainly did other, real, money-generating activities. There was no special class of killers who waited patiently for telephone calls, made hits, then returned to their posh homes to await the next call. There were made members who were unusually good or experienced at killing, but that wasn't the same thing. One simply got a reputation as a person whom killing didn't affect--and that meant that the elimination would be done with a minimum of fuss, not a maximum of artistry. True sociopaths were rare, even in the Mafia, and bungled killings were the rule rather than the exception. And so "professional" to Henry meant something that existed only as a fiction, the TV image of a Mafia button man. But how the hell did Tony explain that?
"It isn't one of mine, Henry," he said after a moment's contemplation. That he didn't have any was another issue entirely, Piaggi told himself, watching the effect of his words on his associate. Henry had always assumed that Piaggi knew a good deal about killing. Piaggi knew that Tucker had more experience with that end of business than he ever wished to have, but that was just one more thing he would have to explain, and this clearly was not the time. For now, he watched Tucker's face, trying to read his thoughts as he finished his glass of Chianti.
How do I know he's telling the truth? The thought didn't require any special perception to read.
"You need some help, Henry?" Piaggi said, to break a very awkward silence.
"I don't think you're doing it. I think you're too smart," Tucker said, finishing his own glass.
"Glad to hear that." Tony smiled and refilled both glasses.
"What about Eddie?"
"What do you mean?"
"Is he ever going to get 'made'?" Tucker looked down, swirling the wine around the glass. One thing about Tony, he always set the right kind of atmosphere for a business discussion. It was one of the reasons they'd been drawn together. Tony was quiet, thoughtful, always polite, even when you asked a sensitive question.
"That's kind of touchy, Henry, and I really shouldn't talk that over with you. You can never be 'made.' You know that."
"No equal-opportunity in the outfit, eh? Well, that's okay. I know I'd never fit in real good. Just so's we can do business, Anthony." Tucker took the occasion to grin, breaking the tension somewhat and, he hoped, making it easier for Tony to answer the question. He got his wish.
"No," Piaggi said after a moment's contemplation. "Nobody thinks Eddie's got what it takes."
"Maybe he's lookin' for a way to prove differ'nt."
Piaggi shook his head. "I don't think so. Eddie's going to make a good living off this. He knows that."
"Who, then?" Tucker asked. "Who else knows enough? Who else would do a bunch of killings to cover up a move like this? Who else would make it look like a pro job?"
Eddie's not smart enough. Piaggi knew that, or thought he did.
"Henry, taking Eddie out would cause major problems." He paused. "But I'll check around."
"Thank you," Tucker said. He stood and left Tony alone with his wine.
Piaggi stayed at his table. Why did things have to be so complicated? Was Henry being truthful? Probably, he thought. He was Henry's only connection to the outfit, and severing that tie would be very bad for everyone. Tucker could become highly important but would never be an insider. On the other hand he was smart and he delivered. The outfit had lots of such people, inside-outsiders, associate members, whatever you might call them, whose value and status were proportional to their utility. Many of them actually wielded more power than some "made" members, but there was always a difference. In a real dispute, being made counted for much--in most cases, counted for everything.
That could explain matters. Was Eddie jealous of Henry's status? Did he crave becoming a real member so much that he might be willing to forfeit the benefits of the current business arrangement? It didn't make sense, Piaggi told himself. But what did?
"Ahoy the Springer!" a voice called. The Marine corporal was surprised to see the cabin door open immediately. He'd expected having to jolt this... civilian... from his cushy bed. Instead he saw a man come out in jungle boots and bush fatigues. They weren't Marine "utilities," but close enough to show the man was serious. He could see where some badges had been removed, where a name and something else would have gone, and that somehow made Mr. Clark look more serious still.
"This way, sir." The corporal gestured. Kelly followed without a word.
Sir didn't mean anything, Kelly knew. When in doubt, a Marine would call a lightpole "Sir." He followed the youngster to a car and they drove off, crossing the railroad tracks and climbing uphill while he wished for another few hours of sleep.
"You the General's driver?"
"Yes, sir." And that was the extent of their conversation.
There were about twenty-five of them, standing in the morning mist, stretching and chatting among themselves as the squad NCOs walked up and down the line, looking for bleary eyes or slack expressions. Heads turned when the General's car stopped and a man got out. They saw he wore the wrong sort of fatigues and wondered who the hell he was, especially since he had no rank insignia at all. He walked right up to the senior NCO.
"You Gunny Irvin?" Kelly asked.
Master Gunnery Sergeant Paul Irvin nodded politely as he sized the visitor up. "Correct, sir. Are you Mr. Clark?"
Kelly nodded. "Well, I'm trying to be, this early."
Both men traded a look. Paul Irvin was dark and serious-looking. Not as overtly threatening as Kelly had expected, he had the eyes of a careful, thoughtful man, which was to be expected for someone of his age and experience.
"What kinda shape you in?" Irvin asked.
"Only one way to find that out," "Clark" answered.
Irvin smiled broadly. "Good. I'll let you lead the run, sir. Our captain's away somewhere jerking off."
Oh, shit!
"Now let's get loosened up." Irvin walked back to the formation, calling it to attention. Kelly took a place on the right side of the second rank.
"Good morning, Marines!"
"Recon!" they bellowed back.
The daily dozen wasn't exactly fun, but Kelly didn't have to show off. He did watch Irvin, who was becoming more serious by the minute, doing his exercises like some sort of robot. Half an hour later they were indeed all loosened up, and Irvin brought them back to attention in p
reparation for the run.
"Gentlemen, I want to introduce a new member of our team. This is Mr. Clark. He'll be leading the run with me."
Kelly took his place, whispering, "I don't know where the hell we're going."
Irvin smiled in a nasty way. "No problem, sir. You can follow us in after you fall out."
"Lead off, jarhead," Kelly replied, one pro to another.
Forty minutes later, Kelly was still in the lead. Being there allowed him to set the pace, and that was the only good news. Not staggering was his other main concern, and that was becoming difficult, since when the body tires the fine-tuning controls go first.
"Left," Irvin said, pointing. Kelly couldn't know that he'd needed ten seconds to assemble the surplus air to speak. He'd also had the burden of singing the cadence, however. The new path, just a dirt trail, took them into the piney woods.
Buildings, oh Jesus, I hope that's the stopping place. Even his thoughts were gasps now. The path wound around a little, but there were cars there, and that had to be--what? He almost stopped in surprise, and on his own called, "Quick-time, march!" to slow the formation down.
Mannequins?
"Detail," Irvin called out, "halt! Stand at ease," he added.
Kelly coughed a few times, bending down slightly, blessing his runs in the park and around his island for allowing him to survive this morning.
"Slow," was all Irvin had to say at the moment.
"Good morning, Mr. Clark." It turned out that one of the cars was real, Kelly saw. James Greer and Marty Young waved him over.
"Good morning. I hope y'all slept well," Kelly told them.
"You volunteered, John," Greer pointed out.
"They're four minutes slow this morning," Young observed. "Not bad for a spook, though."
Kelly turned away in semidisgust. It took a minute or so for him to realize what this place was.
"Damn!"
"There's your hill." Young pointed.
"Trees are taller here," Kelly said, evaluating the distance.
"So's the hill. It's a wash."
"Tonight?" Kelly asked. It wasn't hard to catch the meaning of the General's words.
"Think you're up to it?"
"I suppose we need to know that. When's the mission going to go?"
Greer took that one. "You don't need to know that yet."
"How much warning will I have?"
The CIA official weighed that one before answering. "Three days before we move out. We'll be going over mission parameters in a few hours. For now, watch how these men are setting up." Greer and Young headed off to their car.
"Aye aye," Kelly replied to their backs. The Marines had coffee going. He got a cup and started blending in with the assault team.
"Not bad," Irvin said.
"Thanks. I always figured it's one of the most important things you need to know in this business."
"What's that?" Irvin asked.
"How to run away as far and fast as you can."
Irvin laughed and then came the first work detail of the day, something that let the men cool down and have a laugh of their own. They started moving the mannequins around. It had become a ritual, which woman went with which kids. They'd discovered that the models could be posed, and the Marines made great fun of that. Two had brought new outfits, both rather skimpy bikinis, which they ostentatiously put on two lounging lady-figures. Kelly watched with incredulous amazement, then realized that the swimsuit models had had their bodies--painted, in the interests of realism. Jesus, he thought, and they say sailors are screwy!
USS Ogden was a new ship, or nearly so, having emerged from the New York Naval Shipyard's building ways in 1964. Rather a strange-looking ship, she was 570 feet long, and her forward half had a fairly normal superstructure and eight guns to annoy attacking aircraft. The odd part was the after half, which was flat on top and hollow underneath. The flat part was good for landing helicopters, and directly under that was a well deck designed to be filled with water from which landing craft could operate. She and her eleven sister ships had been designed to support landing operations, to put Marines on the beach for the amphibious-assault missions that The Corps had invented in the 1920s and perfected in the 1940s. But the Pacific Fleet amphibious ships were without a mission now--the Marines were on the beach, generally brought in by chartered jetliners to conventional airports--and so some of the 'phibs were being outfitted for other missions. As Ogden was.
Cranes were lifting a series of trailer vans onto the flight deck. When secured in place, deck parties erected various radio antennas. Other such objects were being bolted into place on the superstructure. The activity was being done in the open--there is no convenient way of hiding a 17,000-ton warship--and it was clear that Ogden, like two more sister ships, was transforming herself into a platform for the gathering of electronic intelligence-ELINT. She sailed out of the San Diego Naval Base just as the sun began to set, without an escort and without the Marine battalion she was built to carry. Her Navy crew of thirty officers and four hundred ninety enlisted men settled into their routine watch bill, conducting training exercises and generally doing what most had chosen to do by enlisting in the Navy instead of risking a slot in the draft. By sunset she was well under the horizon, and her new mission had been communicated to various interested parties, not all of whom were friendly to the flag which she flew. With all those trailers aboard and a score of antennas looking like a forest of burnt trees to clutter up her flight deck--and no Marines embarked--she wouldn't be doing anyone direct harm. That was obvious to all who had seen her.
Twelve hours later, and two hundred miles at sea, bosun's mates assembled parties from the deck division and told some rather confused young men to unbolt all but one of the trailers--which were empty--and to strike down all of the antennas on the flight deck. Those on the superstructure would remain in place. The antennas went below first, into the capacious equipment-storage spaces. The empty trailers were wheeled after them, clearing the flight deck entirely.
At Subic Bay Naval Base, the commanding officer of USS Newport News, along with his executive officer and gunnery officer, looked over their missions for the coming month. His command was one of the last true cruisers in the world, with eight-inch guns like few others. They were semiautomatic, and loaded their powder charges not in loose bags but in brass cartridge cases different only in scale from the kind any deer hunter might jack into his Winchester .30-30. Able to reach almost twenty miles, Newport News could deliver a stunning volume of fire, as an NVA battalion had learned only two weeks earlier, much to its misfortune. Fifty rounds per gun tube per minute. The center gun of the number-two turret was damaged, and so the cruiser could be counted on to put only four hundred rounds per minute on target, but that was the equivalent of one hundred thousand-pound bombs. The cruiser's task for the next deployment, the Captain learned, was to go after selected triple-A batteries on the Vietnamese coast. That was fine with him, though the mission he really lusted for was to enter Haiphong harbor one night.
"Your lad seems to know his business--till now, anyway," General Young observed about quarter of two.
"It's a lot to ask him to do something like this the first night, Marty," Dutch Maxwell countered.
"Well, hell, Dutch, if he wants to play with my Marines ..." That's how Young was. They were all "his" Marines. He'd flown with Foss off Guadalcanal, covered Chesty Puller's regiment in Korea, and was one of the men who'd perfected close-air support into the art form it now was.
They stood on the hilltop overlooking the site Young had recently erected. Fifteen of the Recon Marines were on the slopes, and their job was to detect and eliminate Clark as he climbed to his notional perch. Even General Young thought it an overly harsh test on Clark's first day with the team, but Jim Greer had made a very big deal of telling them how impressive the lad was, and spooks needed to be put in their place. Even Dutch Maxwell had agreed with that.
"What a crummy way to earn a living," said the admiral wi
th seventeen hundred carrier landings under his belt.
"Lions and tigers and bears." Young chuckled. "Oh, my! I don't really expect him to make it here the first time. We have some fine people in this team, don't we, Irvin?"
"Yes, sir," the master gunnery sergeant agreed at once.
"So what do you think of Clark?" Young asked next.
"Seems like he knows a thing or two," Irvin allowed. "Pretty decent shape for a civilian--and I like his eyes."
"Oh?"
"You notice, sir? He's got cold eyes. He's been around the block." They spoke in low murmurs. Kelly was supposed to get here, but they didn't want their voices to make it too easy for him, nor to add any extraneous noise that might mask the sounds of the woods. "But not tonight. I told the people what would happen if this guy gets through the line on his first try."
"Don't you Marines know how to play fair?" Maxwell objected with an unseen smile. Irvin handled the answer.
"Sir, 'fair' means all my Marines get back home alive. Fuck the others, beg your pardon, sir."
"Funny thing, Sergeant, that's always been my definition of 'fair,' too." This guy would have made one hell of a command master chief, Maxwell thought to himself.
"Been following baseball, Marty?" The men relaxed. No way Clark would make it.
"I think the Orioles look pretty tough."
"Gentlemen, we're losing our concentration, like," Irvin suggested diplomatically.
"Quite right. Please excuse us," General Young replied. The two flag officers settled back into stillness, watching the illuminated hands of their watches turn to three o'clock, the operation's agreed stop-time. They didn't hear Irvin speak, or even breathe, for all that time. That took an hour. It was a comfortable one for the Marine general, but the Admiral just didn't like being in the woods, with all the bloodsucking bugs, and probably snakes, and all manner of unpleasant things not ordinarily found in the cockpit of a fighter aircraft. They listened to the whispering breezes in the pines, heard the flapping of bats and owls and perhaps some other night fliers, and little else. Finally it was 02:55. Marty Young stood and stretched, fishing in his pocket for a cigarette.
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