by Tom Wallace
He eased down the hallway like a rat staying close to the wall, the decanter in his right hand. As he crept forward, he realized that at no time did he consider the intruder to be anything other than an opponent. The realization pleased him. The killer’s instincts, like the look, were alive and well.
What more did he need?
Nothing.
Once he reached the door to the living room, he rose to a kneeling position and peered into the darkness. He couldn’t see ten inches in front of him, yet he knew precisely where the intruder was—standing next to the oak bookcase in the right corner of the room.
But this was too easy, too much like a setup. A trap. Probably more than one person waited. That was fine with him. The more, the merrier. In the end, it wouldn’t matter.
The critical element was speed. The opponent by the bookcase had to be exterminated swiftly. That would be easily accomplished; sharpened crystal twisted against the jugular is messy but remarkably efficient. Then his attention could be shifted to any other foes who might come at him. For them, he would use his best weapon: his hands.
Under cover of perfect darkness, ready to move, Collins suddenly felt young again—quick, alert. Check it out now, Pete. No ivory towers, no desks. This is the real me, the man you’ve never known. Memories of countless similar situations flooded his brain. Memories connected to a dark and bloody past. Back to those times when he was poised on the edge of a kill. Or possible death.
It seemed like a lifetime ago.
Like yesterday.
The look; the cold, gray eyes—they were here, now. The past had become the present.
But this was blood time—he wouldn’t have expected anything less. Neither should the fool, or fools, waiting in the darkness. By his calculations it would be over for them in less than ten seconds, regardless of how many lay in wait. Numbers were irrelevant. There could be one or five—it didn’t matter. He had often taken care of that many at one time, and he could do it again. It was simply a matter of doing the things that needed to be done.
Now.
But only milliseconds before he moved, before the deadly dynamics were set in motion, the stillness was broken by an old and familiar voice.
“Hello, Cain.”
Collins turned on the light. “That’s not the smartest thing you’ve ever done, Lucas. Coming in here like that.”
Lucas White nodded but didn’t answer. He was in his late seventies, tall, slender, with closely cropped hair, a white mustache, slate blue eyes, and the bearing of a proper English gentleman. Indeed, most people meeting him for the first time mistakenly assumed he was English. And for good reason. Lucas had always looked more like a character in a Noel Coward play than a four-star general from Davenport, Iowa.
“Men have been killed for much less,” Collins said.
“No doubt.” Lucas took the decanter from Collins and inspected it closely. “But it had to be done. As a sort of test.” The tension in his face softened; his narrow lips relaxed into a smile. “I see you’ve not lost your touch.”
“A test? For what?”
“Are all of your decanters empty?” Lucas asked, handing the piece back to Collins. “I’m dry as the Sahara. Any Scotch on the premises?”
Collins motioned toward the liquor cabinet across from the bookcase. “You didn’t answer my question. A test for what?”
“Clearly, the years have not lessened your impatience. Any ice?”
“The kitchen.”
“What kind of a host fails to keep ice close to the booze?”
“A surprised host.”
“Jolly good answer, my boy. It’s a pleasure to see that you have retained your sardonic sense of humor. I always treasured that aspect of your personality.”
Lucas brushed past Collins and went into the kitchen. Collins could hear the sound of ice clinking against glass. Moments later, Lucas reentered the room, carrying a glass of Scotch and a bucket of ice. He sat on the sofa, took a drink, and smiled at Collins. “Why so tough on General Nichols?”
“Why send a second-rate amateur?”
“Nichols isn’t second rate. He’s a desk wizard, a paper pusher; that’s all. Even the mightiest military power on Earth requires office lackeys.”
“He’s a joke.”
“Now, now, my boy, be kind. He’s no joke. Furthermore, he worships the ground you walk on.”
“So I gathered.” Collins sat in the leather chair across from Lucas. “You should have come, Lucas. I’d like to think I still deserve the best.”
“I concur wholeheartedly, my boy. But urgent matters prevented it.” Lucas took a drink before continuing. “I’d apologize, but such a hollow act is beneath both of us.”
“Those ‘urgent matters’ have anything to do with Cardinal’s death?”
“And with his final words.” Lucas sipped. “What do you make of that?”
Collins shrugged.
Lucas swirled his glass. “Cardinal lived alone, seldom went out, entertained on few occasions. He was, it would seem, merely playing out the string. Then this …” He took another drink. “You knew Cardinal. Why would he say ‘fallen angels’ unless he was trying to tell us something?”
“Who knows what thoughts go through a dying man’s head?”
“That’s wonderfully philosophical, but not very helpful.”
“It’s the best I’ve got.”
“There’s another matter you need to be aware of,” Lucas said. “Last week an explosion in an Arlington restaurant killed twelve people, including—”
“I still read the papers, Lucas. I know about Arlington. How does what happened there connect with Cardinal’s death?”
Lucas lifted himself off the sofa and shuffled to the liquor cabinet. He refilled the glass with Chivas Regal.
“I’m not sure there is a connection,” he said.
“Then why are you here?”
“Oh, caution, I guess.”
“Come on, Lucas. You can do better than that.”
Lucas sipped at the Scotch before returning to the sofa. “There was a survivor in Arlington. The lady who owned the place had the good fortune to be in the freezer when the blast went off.”
“And?”
“She told the investigators a man claiming to work for the FBI had been there earlier that morning. He apparently stayed about an hour, then disappeared. She also said Froning and his people were awfully concerned when they heard about him.”
Lucas fell silent.
“What is it you’re not telling me, Lucas?”
“How she described the man.”
“Dammit, Lucas, cut the melodrama. What did she say about the man?”
“That he looked like a full-blooded Native American.”
“And he told her his name was George Armstrong, right?”
“Yes.”
“Seneca.”
Lucas nodded. “It’s comforting to know we continue to think alike.”
“Look, the lady’s probably right, but …”
“What’s troubling you, my boy?”
“The use of explosives—that’s just enough of a worm in the salad to cast a cloud of doubt. Seneca prefers more intimate methods of killing.”
“The use of a knife, if memory serves.”
“Arlington is a question mark, but one thing is for certain: Seneca didn’t waste Cardinal.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Careless work. Seneca never went one on one with a target and left him breathing. Never. No, Lucas, someone else took out Cardinal.”
“Maybe he’s slipping.”
Collins eyed Lucas hard and laughed.
“Do those marvelous instincts of yours detect a connection between Seneca, Cardinal, and the bombing in Arlington?” Lucas asked.
“You can wager those four stars and your pension on it,” Collins answered. “And since Seneca didn’t take out Cardinal, that means he’s not working solo.”
“My, my, what is one to make of such nasty busine
ss?”
“Fallen angels. Our mission into North Vietnam. Into Hanoi.”
“And a dying man’s last words.”
“Cardinal was obviously telling us someone has been targeted for a hit.”
“Yes,” Lucas said. “And if Seneca is involved, that someone must be big.”
Collins briefly stared at the decanter, then set it on the table. After several seconds of silence, he looked at Lucas.
“I tried to warn you people about Seneca, but you wouldn’t listen. Tried to tell you he was a time bomb waiting to go off. I begged you to let me cut him loose, but you said no. The only time in all those years that you bucked me, and now this.”
“Seneca had the tools, the skills. He was a useful, effective soldier. You know that.”
“He was a psycho.”
Lucas set his glass on the table and leaned forward. He smiled a weary smile. “Hell, man, you’re a psycho. You had to be a psycho to do the things you did. It was one of the job qualifications.”
Collins knew that what Lucas said was both right and wrong, but at the moment he was in no mood to debate the distinction. He suddenly felt overwhelmed by fatigue.
“Why have you come to me?” he asked, leaning back, waiting for an answer he already knew.
“Because it’s time for Cain to be born again.”
Lucas White picked up the leather briefcase, opened it, pulled out a swollen folder, and handed it to Collins. “This is only a refresher course,” he said. “There’s nothing in it you don’t already know.”
Collins placed the unopened folder on the table, walked to the liquor cabinet, took a piece of ice, and popped it into his mouth. “Your timing couldn’t have been worse,” he said. “I still have a week before the semester is over. I can’t just up and leave.”
“A week shouldn’t be a major problem,” Lucas said, “although time is of the essence. There’s no chance you can finish early?”
“No.”
Lucas took a drink. “Seneca will be a problem, won’t he?”
“Seneca will be a problem.”
Collins stood next to the window and looked outside. The night was darker now than it had been when he was racing toward his house, toward blood time. Darker than the first night he met Seneca. All those years ago.
All those deaths.
Collins felt a hand on his shoulder. “The killing never ends, does it, my boy?” Lucas’s voice was soft, sad. “It just goes on and on.”
“Tell me about Seneca. The last I heard, he was working for the Russians as an adviser in Afghanistan. But that was twenty, twenty-five years ago. What’s he been up to lately?”
“It’s all in the file. At least as much as we know, which isn’t considerable.”
“To hell with the file, Lucas. Tell me.”
“Fact is, no one knows for sure. Afghanistan, Libya—we’ve heard rumors, but nothing we could nail down. There had been previous intel connecting him to bin Laden, back when Osama was fighting the Russians. Back when he was on our side. The most persistent rumor had him married to a KGB agent and living in Moscow. Personally, I have my doubts about that one. It doesn’t fit with Seneca and, hell, if he was working against the Russians, like we suspect, he certainly wouldn’t have been in Moscow. He could be anywhere. We just don’t know. Hell, we don’t even know if he’s behind Taylor’s death or the bombing in Arlington.”
“He’s behind it.”
“Then the question begs, who’s he working for? And why?”
“Why is the easy one, Lucas. Because he lives for the kill. For a high body count. Seneca’s a predator. He’s not alive unless he’s cutting some poor slob’s heart out. As for who’s calling the shots, that’s your concern. It means nothing to me.”
“Naturally, we’ll give you all the support you need,” Lucas said. “That includes manpower. I’ll assign Nichols to you, along with a young captain I’m impressed with, a kid named Raymond Fuller. I believe you knew his father, Thomas Fuller. Anyway …”
Collins began to laugh.
“What’s so amusing, my boy?” Lucas asked.
“No excess baggage, Lucas. It would only slow me down. Keep your desk jockeys. I don’t need them.”
“Always the loner, right?”
“I travel best when I travel alone.”
“Have it your way. But the support will be available if you need it.”
“Same rules as before. I’ll work directly with you and no one else. All communications will be strictly between us.”
“My boy, these are different times we live in,” Lucas said. “A post—Twin Towers world. The CIA, Homeland Security, FBI … they’ll want their voices heard, and they will demand to be involved. I’ll do everything in my power to limit their involvement, but that won’t be easy to do. My challenge will be to keep them in the loop, but only on my terms. There’s a lot we don’t know, so the fewer people involved, the better. At least for now.”
Lucas lifted a card and a pen from the briefcase. He scribbled something on the card and handed it to Collins. “You can reach me at this number. Night or day. I’m on twenty-four-hour call. Just like the good old days.”
“I’ve got a bulletin for you, Lucas. The good old days weren’t all that good.”
“What’s this I’m hearing? A reluctant warrior?”
“I like the peace.”
“My boy, peace is the one enemy you can’t handle.”
“You’re wrong about that.”
Lucas closed the briefcase, looked at Collins, and smiled. “No, I’m not. You see, you’re overlooking one crucial factor, my boy. You’re the original predator. Just like your code name says. Cain. History’s first assassin. And you more than honored your predecessor’s legacy. No one lived for the kill more than you.”
Collins stood in the doorway and watched Lucas drive off into the night. A good man, Lucas White. Always had been, always would be. No field soldier could ask for a better man to have calling the shots during crisis time. And this was crisis time. A man like Lucas White didn’t come out of retirement unless something big was going down. Of course, he hadn’t laid all his cards on the table. He knew more than he was telling. But that’s the way it should be. Information, especially early on, shouldn’t be dispensed too soon. Too many chances that it might be inaccurate, too many opportunities for leaks. Occasional whispers are better than loud screams during the early stages of any mission. Lucas would fill in the blanks when the time was right.
Hell, man, you‘re a psycho.
Collins smiled.
The killing never ends, does it, my boy? It just goes on and on.
The smile widened.
You‘re the original predator.
Goddamn right.
The summer was going to be a scorcher. Only the second week in May and the temperatures had settled in at the mid-80s. Forecasters were already warning that a hot, dry, uncomfortable summer lay ahead. If this was any indication, it looked like they might be right on the money.
Collins loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. He’d just dispatched his grad assistant to the registrar’s office with the final grades. After she left, he opened a bottle of orange juice, picked up the phone, and dialed Lucas White’s number. Lucas answered on the first ring.
“All done with the dirty work,” Collins said.
“My boy, I’m afraid the dirty work is only beginning.”
Collins said nothing.
“Is it safe to assume you took time out from dispensing great works of literature to study the contents of the file I left with you?” Lucas asked.
“Haven’t opened it.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Lucas muttered.
“Because you know me.”
Such a response would have provoked an outburst from most military commanders. But Lucas White wasn’t like most commanders. He was unique, wise as an owl, pragmatic. He did what the situation demanded, always. His theory: whatever it takes is what you do. That pragmatis
m enabled him to understand and tolerate what others often referred to as “Cain’s fucking unorthodox ways.”
“Should you get a couple of free minutes, you might give it a quick glance,” Lucas said. “If for no other reason than to justify the expense and effort involved. And to please an old man. Will you do that for me?”
“I trained Seneca. There’s nothing about him I don’t already know.”
“I’m aware. But, please, humor me. Who knows? Even someone as omniscient as you might eventually stumble upon a hidden kernel of information. Stranger things have happened.”
“Enough, already, Lucas. I’ll look at the damn file.”
Such verbal sparring was old hat between the two men, and given their respective personalities, it was perhaps inevitable. It was their way of communicating, of bridging the wide gap separating them, of overcoming their many differences.
And there were many.
Lucas White was a by-the-book soldier, but one who could, when times dictated, bend enough to offer a certain amount of latitude. He could handle those soldiers who drove his fellow officers to early retirement, alcoholism, or both. Soldiers like Collins, who detested everything associated with by-the-book restrictions. The rebels, the hard cases.
There was another reason Lucas could be lenient toward this particular rebel: rebellion was typical for a career soldier’s children. Collins’s father, like Lucas, had been a thirty-five-year military man. Historically, military brats either followed closely in their father’s footsteps or rebelled completely. Seldom was there a middle ground when it came to children raised on military posts around the world. With them, it was either West Point or Haight Ashbury.
Collins rebelled. At least, initially. Later, drawn by some inexplicable pull—perhaps an ironic manifestation of his rebellious nature, Lucas concluded—he broke from his anti-war comrades and, at age seventeen, with his father’s blessing, signed up for a three-year hitch in the Army. The war in Vietnam was heating up, and within eight months after enlisting, Collins was sent into those jungles. It was there, during the final weeks of his first tour of duty in Nam, that his special “talent” became apparent.