Cooch

by Robert Cook

  “Wait! Wait!” Alberto said loudly, almost screaming. “What is it you want from me? I will tell you what you want. You cannot do this!”

  “Cut him! Cut him!” Alex croaked. “Make him a castrato and send him back to the barrio to be the local maricon!”

  “No! I will talk to you!” Alberto said, his face frozen with fear.

  “Ah, shit, Paco. The boss will go ape shit if we cut him up when he says he’ll talk. Let’s see what he has to say.”

  “No! I will do it, and slowly.” Alex struggled from his chair. “Give me the knife! He can talk to us later.”

  Elliot held the knife away from him. “You just sit down, Paco. If he doesn’t talk, you can have him for as long as you want him.”

  Alex slumped back into his chair, and was silent for a moment. Then he said, “You could let me blind him! It won’t hurt him so badly. It would make me feel better until I geld him later.”

  Alberto was trembling, looking from man to man during this dialog. Perspiration was pouring from him.

  Elliot looked disconsolate. “I’d like to, Paco, but I’m sorry. I promise you five minutes with him the first time he lies to us; just don’t kill him.”

  Alex snorted through the blood, spat on the floor, and said, “When you give him to me, he will die, but not for a week. Maybe two. He will have no eyes, then no genitals, then no ears, no fingers, no toes, ßbut he will not die. He will live in a world of endless pain.”

  Alberto’s bladder released. “What do you want? Ask me, and I will tell you!”

  Alex cried, “No! That is what his boss Francisco said this morning, and then he lied to us.”

  Elliot rolled his eyes and said, “Yeah, and then you killed him. Man, was the boss pissed at me over that! You gotta quit killing people before I tell you it’s okay.”

  Alex sulked in his chair. “I squeezed him harder than I thought; I didn’t mean to kill him just then. But I know this turd will lie to you, as he did to me. You must promise to give him to me for longer than five minutes if he lies to you. An hour, just one hour.”

  Elliot stood and walked to the table. He picked up the small torch and lit it, and then he nodded and extinguished it. “Okay, goddammit, Paco, but use the torch to cauterize so he doesn’t bleed to death. One hour, no more, and leave his eyes ‘til last! Agreed?”

  Alex sat for a moment, then shrugged painfully and nodded, slumping down into the chair. “Agreed. I want him to watch me.”

  All hope Alberto had of rescue had vanished when he heard that Francisco was dead. Worse, Francisco’s father might kill Alberto when he found out. He resolved to talk his way out of this by telling at least some of the truth. He was to be released if he cooperated. He could get his revenge later.

  Elliot picked up the notebook and turned on the recorder. “Okay, Alberto, let’s see if we can catch you in a lie. First, tell us the names of the DEA people who are working for you and how you pay them.”

  After an hour, Elliot loaded another syringe and injected it into Alberto’s thigh. He started again with the same set of questions, checking the answers as Alberto answered groggily, but readily. Cuchulain dozed, and once walked to the chamber pot. Elliot stood quickly and moved beside Cuchulain as he voided, watching the stream.

  An hour later Elliot turned the recorder off and stood. He walked to the table and picked up another syringe, then loaded it from a different vial. He walked to Alberto, and emptied it into his other thigh. After a second or two, he helped Alex up and supported him as they walked to the car.

  A few blocks down the road, Elliot pulled into a gas station with a pay phone and got out. He dialed.

  “Mac.”

  “Elliot. Everything they have is on the boat, on its way. Need some cleanup at the interview room; it wasn’t too messy, but his body probably shouldn’t be found with all that Mossad truth juice in it; that Israeli interrogation serum is fatal and shows up on an autopsy. We’ve identified some local turncoats, a big pile of product, cash routing and distribution, and the hierarchy and players at their end, including two bent congressmen. We have bank codes for maybe a million or two. Plus a little cash. Do you want to give it all to DEA here?

  Mac was silent for a second. “No. Give them local turncoats, product, and the bank codes. Put the cash in our bribe pot. I’ll smooth the waters here with the rest.”

  “They pounded Alex pretty good. No concussion, pulse is a little high, and he’s pissing a fair amount of blood. No old blood in his early vomit. Nose is smashed and maybe one cheekbone. Some broken ribs for sure. No sign of shock. He needs to go to a hospital. He’s walking, though.”

  He could hear Mac rustling papers, then, “Take him to Stanford. We have a guy there. There should be an alternate set of ID for both of you in your bag. Use those if anyone asks. We’ll handle the billing side and I’ll arrange security.”

  “Right. We’ll be there in less than thirty minutes. Set it up. I’ll send the interrogation file when I get to my PC.”

  He hung up and handed the phone to Alex, who dialed Izzy.

  Izzy answered.

  “Your number three guy there, Morris, is bent, and so are two of your field guys, Gordon Large and Phillip Fellini,” Alex said. “Large appears to be the leader. We have the bank routing for their payments. There are fifty pounds or so of product in a self-storage unit in San Jose, and there’s a million or two in the bank we can get you to. There’s some other information, national, going back to your big boss in DC. Give me a fax number, and I’ll get this stuff to you.”

  Izzy gave him the fax number and said, “What about Leon and Diaz? They are the ones we really want. If we don’t get them, they’ll be back in business in three days.”

  “Leon and Diaz aren’t going back into business. Watch for their replacements coming in from Colombia.”

  Izzy chuckled cynically. “So much for due process. They must have pissed someone off.”

  Alex hung up the phone and struggled back into the car.

  Elliot put the car into gear and drove north on El Camino Real. Looking at Alex, he said. “Here’s your big chance. You’ve been admitted to Stanford Medical School.”

  “Yeah, whoopee.” Alex groaned, as he shifted in the seat. “All thanks to their affirmative action program.” He reached into Elliot’s bag and took out a small bottle of nail polish remover and a rag. He wet the rag and rubbed Lola from his arm.

  As Brooks and Alex pulled into the emergency ward lot at Stanford University hospital, a Bertram 48 Sport Fisherman approached a magnificent white yacht flying the colors of Saudi Arabia and floating just beyond the twelve-mile limit. Crewmen in white coveralls waited, with lines in their hands. As the Bertram slowed, Francisco stood on the bow and raised both hands to the sky in victory, relishing the thought of telling his father and brother of his victory over the gringos. A small group of men standing on the stern of the yacht, several in traditional Arab headdress and the others, smaller, in Mao-style suits, raised their arms in response to Francisco’s jubilation. As the distance between the Bertram and the yacht closed, the small microprocessor within Cuchulain’s titanium device received a signal. The device had been accepting input from five tiny sonar-type pulsars that had automatically activated forty minutes after the Bertram left the pier. It sensed the proximity of a large metal mass and when the distance between the Bertram and the yacht closed to within five feet, and the point of the titanium “spear” was positioned to maximize penetration, it closed several circuits.

  A sheet of white flame leaped from the bow of the Bertram and blew a ten-foot hole in the side of the mega yacht; after a moment’s hesitation, water began to pour in. A second explosion vaporized the remainder of the Bertram and launched a wave of burning diesel fuel across the deck of the now-sinking yacht. In two minutes, an oil slick and flotsam were the only signs that two boats had floated there. At 7,843 meters away and closing at three knots, the attack submarine USS Razorfish was sixty feet beneath the surface of the calm Pacific,
its periscope just above the surface and focused on Snow White as it approached the large motor yacht. Razorfish had been following Snow White since she cleared the Golden Gate Bridge; the Saudi yacht couldn’t run fast enough to elude the Razorfish, if it came to that.

  Suddenly Commander Charles Lightfoot pulled his rugged face from the worn padding around the periscope’s eyepiece. The Razorfish’s captain reached for his handkerchief and wiped the sweat from the periscope, then from his face, mopping his brow.

  “Down scope. Close the outer doors. Secure the torpedoes. Battle stations stand down. Take her to three hundred and go to course three fifty. All ahead two-thirds.

  “I’m getting too old for this shit!” he said to his exec, Lieutenant Jered Washington. “You have the conn.” He walked to the video recorder and popped the disc from it.

  “Great White Father want heap clear evidence,” he said as he walked away, waving the disc in the air. “Cheap at the price as long as it wasn’t us that had to do it!”

  Six thousand miles away and six hours later, a flight of four F-117 Stealth bombers separated from refueling from a KC-135 tanker, 34,000 feet above the Caribbean Sea. Each engaged its mission computer and turned toward the South American mainland. Several hours later, fourteen of the largest cocaine warehouses in Colombia were smoking rubble, and the home of one Felipe Peron, the uncle, was destroyed. No one on the ground had seen or heard a thing until the explosions started. The F117s were again snuggled, one by one, drinking from the KC-135 before they turned to head back to Missouri.

  In Saudi Arabia two men were arrested and seven others killed resisting arrest. They were the second and third echelon of the terrorist financing arm that funded the operations of several Al-Qaeda groups. They had been unable to reach their leader when informers disclosed government plans to raid their offices.

  Stanford

  Medical Center

  BROOKS Elliot and Jerome Masterson sat beside a small table in the corner, idly playing backgammon, a large, green canvas bag gaping open at their feet.

  “Well, there goes another one,” Jerome said. “You suppose we’re making any difference or just shoveling shit against the tide?”

  “Well, except for the dopers, Cooch is taking most of the damage,” Brooks said. “I’m just as pretty as I always was.”

  A huge hand moved from beneath the bedsheet across the sterile room, and came upright. The middle finger extended slowly from it.

  “On the other hand, I think Mac will get the word around that there’s a big price for tugging on Superman’s cape,” Brooks said. “Maybe we’re helping the tide to go out, just a skosh.”

  Jerome sighed and nodded. “We’ve been doing this for a while. I bet I’ve killed a hundred folks or more.”

  “Bother you?” Brooks said.

  “Nah, I sort of like it.” Jerome said with a smile. “It keeps the blood flowing; it ain’t boring. And I dislike the folks we’re killing, and who they are. And I like it that we can tell Mac no.

  “Bother you much, Brooks?” Jerome asked. “You do it up close and personal; you can see their eyes. They’re just targets to me.”

  “I don’t get any joy from looking into their eyes while they die hating me, and I think it corrodes our souls when we do it this way, but I think we make a positive difference. I’ve always wanted to make a difference. I suppose it makes me feel special,” Brooks said quietly.

  “Hell, asshole, you were born rich. Gotta find some way to feel good about life, I guess,” Jerome said, with a snort. “Works for me, being what Cooch calls a patriotic assassin.”

  Brooks nodded, then came smoothly to his feet as a quiet knock sounded on the door. He moved to it as Jerome slid a short-barreled pump shotgun from the open bag, and went to one knee.

  “Yes?” Elliot said to the door as he stood to the side of it, back from Jerome’s line of fire. The barrel of a Kimber .45 caliber pistol came from beneath the bedsheet.

  “It’s Caitlin. Your gorilla minder out here said I’m on the visitor list.”

  Elliot flipped the lock and opened the door.

  “Careful, he’s sensitive,” Brooks said, nodding at the large young man grinning at them, “Try not to hurt his feelings.”

  Caitlin walked in just as Jerome was slipping the shotgun back into the bag. “Gee, you must be the Horse!” she said to him with one raised eyebrow and a half smile. “Did I miss the party?”

  “We’re just cautious. Someone has been picking on Alex here. I’m Jerome Masterson,” he said with a smile as he stood and put his hand out.

  “Alex says nice things about you, like you’ll kill anyone who is mean to him,” she said. “Nice friend to have.”

  “How about giving a girl a little privacy, boys?” she asked, turning to Alex as he sat propped up on the hospital bed. Brooks and Jerome moved to the hall outside the door.

  “Goodness, gracious, Alex. It appears you are not the baddest motherfucker in the whole world,” Caitlin said with a smile and a wink. “Those are spectacular colors on your face—a veritable rainbow. I can’t wait to see your nose when they unveil it from beneath that bandage pile.”

  Alex gave a little snort and a groan. “It hurts when I laugh; he got a couple of ribs too. He was bigger than me, and he didn’t fight fair, and Jerome didn’t even get around to hurting him. Anyway, how’s chances for a rain check on that date last night?”

  “I guess so, when you can move again, and that other stuff. At least you’re not boring!” she said. “Besides, you weren’t all that pretty to begin with.”

  Washington,

  DC

  IN the Old Executive Office Building, just to the north of the White House on Pennsylvania Avenue, Mac put his feet up on his desk and stared blankly out his window.

  All in all, a decent outcome, he mused. Watching the ripples from the Arabs, the Chinese, and of course, the Columbians will be fascinating. NSA should have the first of it before long. I wonder how many of China’s top scientists were on that yacht.

  The red phone on the corner of the government-issue desk rang, and he reached to pick it up. “MacMillan,” he barked.

  “The president has ten minutes and would like to see you in the Oval office,” said Neil Gomez, the head of the Secret Service detail on duty.

  “On my way,” Mac said, as he rose. “Two minutes.”

  The president looked up from his desk as Mac was ushered into the Oval Office, waved Mac to a chair, and asked the Secret Service agent standing to the left of the door to give them some privacy. The agent went to the door and left the room.

  “Well, that was fast, exciting, and, no, I don’t want to know the details,” the president said. “But it seemed to be effective, even if massively illegal—and it dealt with a particularly dangerous problem with a bit more creativity than I dared hope. You seem to be a tool I didn’t anticipate; I just hate that I seem to need you. When all of this blew up, I asked the national security advisor about you. He advised me of your idea for a somewhat more forceful message than I had considered. He’s a fan of yours, but of course also a former marine. He told me you have access to more ground-level intelligence than nearly any of us, that you have an unusual ability to synthesize disparate data, and that you are consequently extremely valuable to me, and us. Comment?”

  “That’s what I think I bring to your table, Mr. President,” Mac said. “Most of what I conclude does not involve anything illegal on its surface, even though sometimes immediate violent action seems the best solution to a given problem. I just try to chew on disparate facts that have not yet been scrubbed by the politicians, provided by contacts I have developed over the years and have always protected—and then I draw tentative conclusions from them and chew on that some more.

  “When I need to advise you on a relevant problem, I think I bring a more immediate and nuanced set of observations and conclusions to the table than may be appropriate for a policy discussion,” Mac continued. “That gives more perspective, perhaps, tha
n might otherwise be available.”

  “The real problem for me is how to keep you from going off half-cocked to solve some problem that the country does not have, to the public ruination of us all,” the president said. “You may be dangerous to the country. I understand you were offered the DDO position at the CIA several times, and turned it down, even after having acted in the job—effectively done the job, I’m told—while a successor was being considered. Compared to being DDO, you’re hiding in the bushes here with a much less visible job, and a lot less prestige. Why?”

  “I know from experience what sort of person does the DDO job best, and it’s an important job,” Mac said. “I’m not that person. I’m too blunt, I don’t have many bureaucratic skills, and I think I’m best used in a more informal role. I don’t much like lots of meetings and formal dinners, and I have little ambition beyond doing this job well and maybe someday teaching. But you are right about the danger I represent, Mr. President. I consider that in everything I do.”

  “And what do you conclude, once you synthesize those concerns?”

  Mac was silent for a moment and shifted in his chair as he framed his response. “You are the commander-in-chief. You command the military, and with it you command the national security apparatus; your command is absolute. That situation is fundamental to being an American, a bedrock of who we are. You’ll never have to worry about a military coup. I am a former marine, which means, above all, that you don’t have to worry about me going off half-cocked. I serve at your pleasure.”

  The president nodded. “I suppose that’s at least some sort of specific answer to my specific question. I’ll keep you around, at least for now, since you have been surprisingly useful recently. You are free to sit in on cabinet meetings and so on, if you choose, as an observer. I’ll let you know if I want you in a particular meeting, and perhaps why. If you have something to say, err on the side of letting me know privately if your conclusions are likely to involve these special skills you’ve just demonstrated. You are dismissed.”