“‘Solitary,’” Stephanie interrupted, “‘poor, nasty, brutish, and short.’ Well, that’s one firm I’ll never join!” Stephanie’s cheeks flushed with anger. “You should be having this conversation with Michael Stone, not with me.”
“Oh? Now, that is a very interesting observation, Miss Hannigan. Very interesting indeed.”
Stephanie, a knot in her stomach, wished she hadn’t made it.
* * *
As Saul and Sara Rosen and Eddie Berg went off after dinner to celebrate the media coverage they monitored on the network evening news, Michael Stone went to the hospital to visit Aunt May. She was asleep when he arrived, and he chose not to wake her, sitting quietly instead at her bedside.
Aunt May looked small and vulnerable in her hospital bed, and, it seemed to Stone, she had aged years in the few hours since she had been struck by the bus. Presently, he slipped out of the room and made his way to the nurse’s station, seeking any new information available on his aunt’s condition. In the absence of the attending physician, all he could get were guarded generalities and euphemisms. In disgust, he went back and sat down next to his aunt. Her eyes opened and fixed on him.
“Did they catch him yet, Michael?”
“No, Mazie, not yet. You go back to sleep and get some rest. I’ll be right here.”
Aunt May’s eyelids drooped. Probably sedated, Stone thought.
“Since my Harry’s been gone,” Aunt May said, her breath thin, “you’re the man, Michael. And the man is supposed to take care of things when something happens. The man … is supposed … to … do something.”
Aunt May’s eyes closed completely. She was asleep, Stone knew. He’d seen enough death to know that, had she died, her eyes would have remained open. He rose, bent to kiss his aunt, and then, in spite of his promise to remain, left, her words preoccupying him as he drove home: “The man is supposed to take care of things when something happens. The man is supposed to do something.”
Stone entered the empty house and went straight upstairs to his room. He went down on one knee before his sea chest and worked the combination lock, then set it aside on the floor. He stared at the chest, Aunt May’s voice still reverberating through his mind: “The man is supposed to do something.” Slowly, Michael Stone the lawyer raised the top of the chest he had closed the last day of his naval service and looked again upon the instruments of sophisticated death.
“Fuck it,” he said aloud to himself as he reached into the chest. “I need the goddamn intel.” At that moment, the voice of Aunt May was stilled within his mind. Michael Stone, SEAL, had clicked on.
11
The little quartz alarm clock at Michael Stone’s bedside blipped electronically at 0100 hours, and he silenced it immediately. He had slept soundly for four hours in preparation for the night’s mission. Now he was fresh, alert, and utterly calm; cold and machinelike. He rose and moved over to the chair that held the clothing he had selected for the night’s work.
Over his underwear, Stone drew on a black-dyed sweatshirt, then a pair of straight-cut jeans so new, their original blue registered nearly black. They had been washed with a fabric softener for maximum flexibility and an absence of static electricity. The jeans had no rivets that could either reflect light or cause noise if scraped along a hard surface. Olive drab athletic socks covered his feet and were themselves covered by calf-covering black dress socks. The boots he selected were combat, well broken in by many miles of running. He bloused the jeans into the boots, then took a roll of black duct tape and made that juncture and the laces secure. While he had the tape in his hand, he put some over the metal tip end of a black-dyed web belt, then did the same with the slide buckle; only then did he don the belt.
Stone used a red-lensed mini-flashlight to preserve his night vision as he moved to his sea chest and pondered his choice of weapons. This was to be a recon op. All he needed was something to defend himself with if necessary; ideally noiseless so as not to attract further attention. He picked up a knife in a black plastic sheath that bore the legend “USN MARK 3 MOD 0,” grasped the black handle, and withdrew the blackened blade. The withdrawal caused a noise as the metal of the blade scraped along the plastic sheath. The weapon had a blade six inches long and one and a quarter inches wide, with a two-inch, false-edged, dropped Bowie-style point. Along the top of the blade was a two-and-a-half-inch saw edge capable of cutting through aircraft aluminum in an emergency. Stone was familiar with the navy-issue knife and respected its all-around utility; nevertheless, he rejected it in favor of another.
The knife Stone chose was a Gerber variant of the Fairbairn-Sykes pattern used by British commando forces in World War II. The all-black, rough-finish, aluminum formfitting handle had a skull-puncturing projection at the butt. A hole had been drilled through it for a lanyard if desired. The blade was essentially a stiletto: slender, double-edged, only fifteen-sixteenths of an inch wide and six and three-quarter inches long. Along both edges, starting one and a quarter inches from the hilt and extending forward two inches to end three and a half inches from the blade point, were fourteen scallop-cut, surgically sharp teeth. The blade had been covered entirely in black Teflon except for the hair-thin glisten of razor edges. Stone drew the blade from its black leather sheath quickly. It was whisper quiet. Satisfied, Stone slipped his belt through the sheath, then tied the thong hanging from the end of the sheath around his right thigh, securing it with more black duct tape. As he walked back and forth, there was no sound.
Once more, Michael Stone reached into his sea chest. He brought out a metal tube about as thick around as the opening in the top of a soft drink bottle. The tube itself was olive drab. Printed in black along the side were the words PAINT, FACE, CAMOUFLAGE. There was a military specification number, then LIGHT GREEN AND LOAM. Stone twisted off the two metal ends to see which was which, found the loam, and pushed on the opposite end to make the loam color project from the tube. He applied the substance to his face to break up its outline, concentrating on the prominent features—the nose, cheekbones, and chin. He wished he had black, but the loam was a very dark green and would do well enough. When he finished with his face, Stone spread the coloring on the backs of his hands. The camo paint was dull and nonreflective, and it would not run from sweat.
The last thing laid out on the chair was easy for Stone to find under the red light of his flash: a black bandanna. He rolled it flat, messed up his hair to break up his head outline, then tied the cloth band around his forehead. Then he put the flashlight back into his chest, locked it, and left.
The rain had subsided into heavy fog as Stone ran lightly down toward the river and the Riegar plant. He followed the path he had taken numbers of times before, so as to arrive well ahead of what he now knew from observation would be the usual time of arrival of the switch engine and tanker car at the plant. Had anyone else been abroad on the streets at that hour, Stone would have appeared as a ghost, looming out of the fog, vapor swirling in his wake. He arrived at the river before 0200 hours.
The Riegar plant rumbled and hissed into the fog-shrouded darkness, its sodium vapor lamps producing a hellish yellow glow. Stone moved carefully, staying in the darkness, examining the plant from all angles, probing for any weaknesses in security. He decided that the arriving train was his best opportunity and prepared for it by going over the river-side fence and down to the railroad tracks, taking up position by lying flat on the roof of a small maintenance shed from which he could see but not be seen.
Stone almost missed the telltale mutter of the diesel-switch engine in the rumbling from the plant, but soon the rhythmic murmur distinguished itself as it drew closer. Stone moved to the ground, sheltered in the lee of the shed, and waited. Shortly, the switcher’s diesel engine revved higher, and emerging from the fog came a large two-holer tank car. Behind it, pushing, was the small engine.
A brakeman had positioned himself on the leading end of the tanker, holding on to a railing and guiding the engineer by the slow waving o
f a lantern. A fireman, Stone could see, was watching ahead from the other side of the engine cab. Fog or no fog, if he tried to hitch a ride on the tanker, they might see him. The only blind spot was the rear of the engine. As the little train proceeded dead slowly through the fog, Stone detached himself from his hiding place, sprinted, then leapt onto the rear of the double-ended switcher. Ahead, even over the noise of the diesel engine, he could hear the whine of the motors as the plant doors opened; then the light flooding from within reminded him once again of the old SEAL saying: “Gettin’ in is easy. It’s gettin’ out that’s the trick.”
As the engine entered the cavernous, lighted interior of the railroad car—receiving building, Stone squinted his eyes to slits against the glare and peered forward around the engine housing. He needed a place to hide.
On both sides of the immense enclosure were loading docks. To the left, they served the plant itself for the loading and unloading of cargo. To the right, on the river side, they served the cranes that were used to load the oceangoing freighters for overseas transportation of pharmaceutical products. The docks were a good four feet high and their overhangs blocked the ceiling-mounted lights. As soon as the engine cleared the great entry doors, Stone sprang from the rear of it into the darkness underneath the river-side loading dock and lay completely still.
Stone could hear nothing over the din of the diesel and the motors driving the doors closed behind it. He couldn’t tell at all whether he had been seen. Were fifty men headed toward him in his hiding place, he couldn’t have heard them. He had relied on surprise, mere fleeting movement and subsequent stillness, blending into the blackness, for protection against discovery.
The diesel stopped, its engine idling, and Stone could see the men move to uncouple it. After some clanking, a snap and hiss of steam, the doors whined open again and the diesel moved out. The doors kept on going until they were fully open, then moved closed again. Stone concluded that they were on some kind of automatic mechanism that protected the gearing from being stripped by requiring the doors to open fully before they could be reversed and closed.
The moving out of the switch engine cleared Stone’s view of the interior. The tanker car was to his right. He saw legs approach it from the other side, then mount the car. Some men were speaking German. There was the sound of metal upon metal, but he couldn’t see the top of the car where it was coming from. To improve his field of view, Stone moved left and toward the tracks, taking care to remain in shadow and move slowly enough to avoid hitting anything that might make a sound and betray his presence. The place was remarkably clean, Stone thought, considering it was an industrial area. There was an occasional discarded spike between the cross-ties supporting the rails, some cigarette butts, an old railroad flare that must have fallen from an engine utility box, and a polystyrene wrapper for a piece of fast food; not bad, in view of the vastness of the place.
Two men were atop the tanker on the catwalk. One was a powerfully built, sandy-haired man in his early forties. The way he stood indicated dominance. The man with him, nearly equal in size but with a dark crew cut, was deferential as he pointed things out to the sandy-haired man. They spoke in German, and all Stone could learn was that the dominant man was named Metz. The man with the crew cut brought Metz to the far manway cover of the tanker and proceeded to loosen the dogs that held it in place, as if it were a large porthole on a ship. Then he leaned over and spoke down into the manway. To Stone’s surprise, instead of German or English, he spoke in Spanish—a language Stone understood from having attended the military’s language school at Monterey, California.
Slowly, six men, their legs unsteady from days of disuse, struggled up through the manway in response to the order in Spanish. They were joyful at the prospect of their release, as would be anyone who had spent much time inside a railroad tank car, Stone thought. All, that was, but one. He had changed his mind. He didn’t want to work so far away from home. He’d had no idea how far from Mexico they were going.
The man was told to wait, the patrón would come and talk to him about it. In the meanwhile, the others were to go inside. There was the sound of the opening of doors and footsteps on steel stairways, doors closing, and the dissenter was alone with the men who had released him from the tank car. He sat down on his haunches and, patiently, waited as he had been told. Stone could see him from under the tank car. The man was young, with a four- or five-day growth of beard. And he was dirty—as might have been expected from his recent confinement.
As the unhappy Mexican national waited, a large hose was fitted to the washout outlet beneath the tank, directly under the manway in the top. Other men appeared and manned a steam hose that was played inside the still-open manway. Stone guessed they were sterilizing the interior. All spoke German. The man named Metz did nothing to assist them, and only the man with the crew cut spoke to him, answering questions and, from time to time, apparently offering information.
Presently, there was the sound of a door opening and another German speaker arrived. There followed a consultation among them and, whatever the decision taken, it was clear to Stone that Metz had made the determination as to what to do. The young Mexican was told that he could, indeed, return home, upon his promise to say nothing of his trip. The young man promised on the soul of his dead mother to say nothing. He was grateful. How was this to be accomplished? Why, in the same way he had gotten here, of course. But, as the man could see, the part of the car that he had been using would have to be cleaned and made ready. In the meanwhile, he could wait in the other section of the car.
The grateful Mexican agreed. Together, he, Metz, and the Spanish-speaking German climbed the car and mounted the catwalk. They moved to the other manway, which was closer to Stone’s position. He watched as the Germans spun the toggle dogs, then lifted the cover back. The Mexican recoiled, saying something excitedly about a bad odor. Abruptly, the Germans seized him and dropped him through the hole. He hit with the dull sound of the ringing of a large cracked bell, then started to scream.
Metz laughed, and the crew cut signaled the others. A boom carrying a large-diameter hose lowered toward the manway hole. The crew cut donned heavy work gloves he pulled from his waist and guided the hose ending into the hole, then stepped back, motioning Metz back with him. The Mexican screamed some more. His cries made a hollow sound as they echoed through the manway hole after reverberating around the inside of the great metal tank. About all Stone could tell was that the man was in great pain. Every other word seemed to be favor!
The man with the crew cut who’d given the signal that brought the giant hose down gave another and a moment later there was the sound of a huge volume of liquid, boiling, bubbling, hissing, and fuming as it poured, roiling and splashing, into the tank.
The Mexican’s screams rolled into a single long and agonized wail, then died under the thundering influx of liquid. Fumes filled the air and Metz and his guide scrambled back away from the top of the tanker as fast as they could. The stench made its way quickly to Stone and scalded his lungs. It was as if all the battery acid in the world had been concentrated and brought to a boil. He fought to avoid coughing, then pulled the bandanna down from his forehead to cover his nose and mouth. As quickly as he could without giving himself away, Stone made his way forward, toward the hangar doors, scanning to find the controls that operated them. Almost to the doors, still under the dock, Stone spotted the control panel. It was all the way on the other side of the vast enclosure and the distance in between was lighted brightly. Even more difficult was the fact that the controls were manned by a heavyset, bull-necked man wearing a beer-ad T-shirt that revealed his powerful musculature. A pistol of some sort was enclosed in a covered holster at his waist.
The acid fumes were heavier than air. That meant that the men above him were relatively unbothered by them and, perhaps, protected to some degree by the forced ventilation system of the building. Unfortunately for Stone, that system did him little good. He knew he could suffer lung dama
ge if he didn’t get out of there soon. He needed a diversion.
Stone looked about him. There was an empty beer can, but with all the noise from the acid flow into the tank car, even if he was to throw it hard, no one was likely to hear it. Then he remembered the railroad flare. Stone worked his way back opposite it, then slowly reached out, exposing himself as little as he could, and caught the flare end between two fingers. He worked it over toward him slowly, then grasped it and brought it to him beneath the dock.
The flare was simple to operate—just scrape the striking end against something rough. The problem was its age and exposure to moisture. Stone used the underside of the dock to scrape it. Nothing. He tried again. Again nothing. The fumes were getting to him now. On Stone’s third attempt, the flare sputtered, then caught and ignited. He hurled it up, over the tanker and toward the opposite end of the building.
There were shouts as Stone sprinted across the open area toward the control panel. The controls operator had seen and followed the arc of the flare, then traced it back and spotted Stone’s black figure, almost upon him. Frantically, the man reached for his pistol. But before he could get it out of its covered holster, Stone’s left hand had grabbed him, pinching his nose and closing over his mouth. The attempted warning shout was stillborn. The black blade of the Gerber rose and fell with precision at the left side of the operator’s thick, sloping neck. Stone rocked the knife grip forward and backward swiftly, then slid the slender blade up and out. The heavy body collapsed and Stone supported it as he sheathed his knife and hit the control switch. The motor whined and the massive sheets of corrugated metal began to move. Stone dropped the carcass of the slain guard and, to shouts in German echoing behind him, darted through the opening doors to escape into the enveloping darkness.
The Monkey Handlers Page 20