The Echelon Vendetta

by David Stone

  “Jack,” said Dalton, full of counterfeit cheer. “How the hell—”

  “Save that honey-tongued crap for the disciplinary hearing, you gangrenous pustule. Right now explain just exactly why you kicked the living lights out of two unsuspecting Croatians in the Palazzo Ducale. Wait. Let me think. Did I? Or did I not? Oh yes. By golly. Now I remember. I did order you to stay in your goddam room, didn’t I?”

  Dalton opened his mouth to say something soothing, but once Stallworth had lifted off there was nothing much to do but sit back and admire the contrail.

  “No, wait! Yes! It’s my fault, isn’t it? I guess I should have been more specific. I should have said ‘and oh yes by the way please do not kick the living guts out of any goddam innocent Croatians, if you don’t mind.’ Next time I’ll remember to mention that, not that there’ll actually be a next time, because by the middle of next week

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  you’ll be stuck in D Block at Leavenworth wearing high heels and... and a ...thong...”

  He was beginning to lose altitude, distracted by whatever the hell was in Dalton’s arms.

  “Okay, you got me. What’s in the fucking package?”

  Dalton lifted up the parcel, grinned at Stallworth.

  “A humble gift. For your collection.”

  Stallworth grunted, as if it was entirely usual for one of his agents to arrive at Langley HQ with an armload of potted present.

  Which it was.

  “Give it here.”

  Dalton handed the parcel to Stallworth, who swept aside a sheaf of papers on his desk and set it down carefully.

  “What is it?”

  “I think it’s a kind of flower. They said it was very rare.”

  Stallworth’s face altered from choleric rage to a pale avidity as he used an old Marine Ka-Bar sitting on his desk to slice the paper wrapping away, unveiling a towering moss-covered branch anchored in a large terra-cotta pot. The branch was studded with, in Dalton’s considered opinion, alarmingly insectile bulbous-nosed corpse-colored flowers with bulging red penis-pistils in the center and soaring tiger-striped ears above, each one trailing a pair of twisted tendrils in spotted purple. In the sunlight streaming in through the window, the orchids glowed with a vivid unnatural light, a nacreous otherworld luminosity not unlike Saint Elmo’s fire.

  Stallworth sat heavily down in his chair, limp, an expression of lust and creeping suspicion spreading across his bulldog face.

  “God. My God. Sanders’ Paphiopedilum. Is it actually...”

  “Is that what it is? I thought it was a gangrenous pustule.”

  “You have no ...I’ll tell you what it is.”

  His face went blank, his vision turned inward, and from his mouth in a kind of sacred drone there came a string of incantations:

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  “A medium-size hot to warm growing lithophytic species found on southeast-facing vertical limestone cliffs in Borneo at elevations of one hundred and fifty to six hundred meters that has four to five linear shiny green leaves and multiflowered blooms on a suberect terminal with purple two-inch-long pubescent inflorescence with elliptical-lanceolate leaves and red-brown floral bract carrying two to five simultaneously opening flowers. How did you time them to be open when they got here? How the hell did you do that?”

  “Skill. Timing. Professional dedica—”

  “Do you have any idea what this is? Never mind. This is simply the rarest and most expensive orchid in the world. You’re not even allowed to pick— Christ, how did you get it into the U.S.?”

  “I got this one in Florence, actually. The grower’s name was Bar-betta. He’s supposed to—”

  “Fiorello Barbetta? He never sells his Sanderiana. Never.”

  “These were a gift. He wanted you to try grafting one.”

  Stallworth’s face took on a glow of uncomplicated pleasure.

  “A grafting Sanderianum. From Barbetta himself ? Really?”

  “Really, Jack. Hope you like it.”

  Dalton smiled, enjoying Jack’s rapt expression. As a matter of pure undiluted truth, the orchids were actually contraband, obtained by Dalton at painful personal expense—three thousand euros cash on the barrel—and then only after the sustained intercession of Bran-cati’s wife, Luna, who happened to be a personal friend of Fiorello Barbetta’s.

  These flowers were from Barbetta’s personal collection of Paphiopedila in the Boboli Gardens greenhouse, and then flown, in the seat next to Dalton, by company jet directly from Florence to La Guardia, where he used his Agency ID to bypass a truculent customs agent totally incapable of horticultural leeway.

  And then personally conveyed directly to Langley in the back of Dalton’s rented Town Car, which required a stop every fifty miles to

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  spray the horrid little stinkweed with a misting bottle, not to mention maintaining the interior temperature of the Lincoln at a sweltering eighty degrees all the way down.

  The price of peace in our time, thought Dalton—and from the dazed look on Stallworth’s face, worth every penny of it.

  “So you approve? Jack? Jack?”

  Stallworth seemed not to hear. All of his attention was focused on the delicate tracery of green vine, the moss-covered branch, and the ghastly orchids on his desk, on fire in the slanting light. The look on his face was sacramental, an acolyte in the presence of the divine.

  “I don’t ...know what to say. I’ll write to him directly. Micah, I don’t know how to—”

  His expression abruptly altered, hardening.

  “Say. If you think that—”

  Dalton raised his hands, palms out, shoulders lifting.

  “Nothing to do with Venice, Jack. I know that.”

  But Stallworth was gone again, already on his feet, looking pale now, patting at the tendrils, his lips pursed, his eyes widening.

  “We’ve got to get these into the greenhouse. Here, you spray them,” he said, handing Dalton a bottle of water, “while I get the top off. There, on the pistils. Not too much. Okay. Now the petals.”

  A flurry of brisk activity followed, Stallworth clucking away like a hen on the nest, Dalton lowering the orchids into a hastily cleared section of Stallworth’s coffin-size terrarium; more misting, more fluffing of the tendrils, and finally the lid coming down—“easy, Micah, easy, you handless son of a bitch”—and then they both sat down in their respective chairs, breathing hard, Stallworth glancing hungrily from time to time at the new orchids in their dripping sarcophagus and Dalton sipping contentedly from a cup of hot coffee poured from Stallworth’s espresso machine on his rosewood credenza.

  Finally Stallworth tore his eyes away from Fiorello Barbetta’s ob-

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  scenely expensive orchids to stare thoughtfully at Dalton through the profusion of greenery on his desk (pots of dripping ferns, a spray of purple iris in a sterling silver bowl, pink tea roses in a flute).

  “That was decent of you, Micah. That’s a damn fine flower. And I thank you, I really do.” Dalton braced himself; sucking up in a manly way can only get you so far. “But Micah, this shit’s gotta stop, man. These guys in Venice.

  This Gospic mutt. You know he’s got his thumbs up a lotta assholes.” “Jeez, Jack. I don’t need that image.” “Well he does—and somma it’s in our playpen. You follow?” Dalton did not, but he was beginning to. “Christ! He’s not an asset?” “No. But he calms the troubled waters for people we work with.

  In the Balkans. Cather’s not happy Gospic is pissed at us.” “Gospic’s pissed at me, Jack. Not the Agency.” Stallworth dismissed that with a flick of the hand, fell into a

  thoughtful silence while he considered Dalton over his glasses. “This stuff with the dago. Cora Vasari. She’s okay, is she?” “She’s not a dago, Jack, and yes. She’s okay.” “Give it to me straight. You used your Consular jacket.” “Yes. I did.” “Why the hell did you need it?” “I was looking for a guy I liked in th
e Naumann thing. I couldn’t

  go around asking questions without some kind of legend. About Cora, Jack, you had to be there. She’s a knockout. I lost twenty IQ points just staring at her. So would you.”

  Stallworth waved that off as well.

  “These two Croats, the guys who showed up at her door later? This Radko mutt, NSA’s got a voiceprint off a cell phone, could be him talking to Gospic.”

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  “Why? How?”

  “Call came from Venice right after the Vasari woman got smacked around. A cell tower down in the Dorsoduro. Call went straight to Gospic, so it got tagged and logged into sigint.”

  “NSA’s tapping Branco Gospic?” Stallworth rolled his eyes, lifted his hands heavenward. “NSA’s got a button mike in Hillary’s dildo, Micah. There ain’t

  nobody NSA isn’t tapping. They got more taps out there than Restor

  ation Hardware.” “A mike in ...God, Jack, where does this stuff come from?” “Nothing wrong with colorful speech, Micah. As long as you’re

  precise. I’ll have Sally send you the intercept voiceprint and whatever matches we can isolate; maybe you can use it to get a line on this Radko. If I ever let you back out in the field.”

  “What does that mean?” “Micah. Think. We’re in Iraq and Afghanistan and we’re looking

  sideways at Iran. Now you got us at war with Croatia.” “I doubt Gospic’s gonna send a crew all the way to America.” “You do, do you? Sometimes I wonder how the hell you got into

  the Agency in the first place. We should have left you with the DIA— they’re all whack jobs in Army Intel. Gospic’s already got people here, in Detroit, San Bernardino, Trenton. Most of the ports.”

  “You’re not really thinking about taking me out of Operations?” Stallworth said nothing for a time. “Look. Right now, I need to know how operational you are.” “You mean with the drug exposure?” “Yeah. We got the tox report from Hazmat. That’s quite a cock

  tail you got in the snoot. Salvia, mostly, but also peyote, datura, and psilocybin derivatives. Easily vaporized. Very fine particulate mass, light as spores, totally sprayable. Dispersible as an airborne solvent if you work the matrix right. Outstanding tactical possibilities. One

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  dose in the face and—this is the salvia part—you get this complete psychotic break. Like LSD, only immediate. Instantaneous. It gets right down into the cortex, unlocks the id, Pandora’s box. Whatever you got in there, your personal demons—”

  “I know that. But have they got an antidote?” Stallworth studied Dalton’s face for a while. “Not yet. You still

  seeing Naumann’s ghost?” “Not recently,” Dalton said, lying like a Persian carpet. “But you have? Right? The whole thing? An apparatus?” “Apparition?” “Whatever.” “Yes. Days ago. Maybe.” “That the truth?” “May God strike me dead.” “Is he in here with us right now?” said Stallworth. “Nope. Nowhere around.” Stallworth was looking decidedly undecided. “I don’t know,

  Micah. You’re starting to look like a medical risk out there. There

  are insurance concerns. Liability.” “I’m not gonna sue the Agency, Stallworth.” “No? Others have.” He sat back, his expression neutral, looking

  at Dalton. “This salvia extract, Micah, the medics say it’s in your limbic system right now, and it could kick out at any time. You admit that you’ve had several hallucinations, the last one only a few days ago.”

  Dalton wasn’t going to give that puppy any air. “Stop right there, Jack. You took the SERE counterinterrogation course at Peary. The Biscuits dosed us up with LSD, other drugs, locked us up in cages for days, sleep deprivation. We all saw things. I got a dose and I had some visual things happen. They went away. I’m better. That’s the end of it.”

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  “We knew what to expect with acid. We don’t know the long-term effects of this drug.”

  “I’m as stone-cold clear as a man can get. I give you my word. If I really thought I wasn’t operational, I’d say so. You said it yourself. I’m a solid field guy. I get the job done. Yes, I had a bad time on this last detail. That’s over. Don’t take me out of the field. I mean it. I live there. Everything that makes my life is in this job.”

  Stallworth’s face reflected some mixed emotions. The reference to the Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape course at Peary— a nightmarish week filled with sleep deprivation, physical and emotional assaults, and disorienting nightmare mind games, often exacerbated by hallucinogenic drugs—left every course survivor profoundly shaken, almost broken. On the other hand, most of them went on to become superb field operators.

  “I get your point. I really do. But your mental—”

  “You Section Eight me, Stallworth, and I swear I’ll walk.”

  “Ha! As if ! You have no other life.”

  “That’s my point! Send me to Walter Reed and I’ll never get another field assignment. You know it. It happens all the time. You get looked at cross-eyed by your own guys. Nobody trusts you again. You can’t get selected, because the rest of the team won’t sign off on you, and even if they do they’re always watching you while you sleep. You’re operationally over. You end up down in Housekeeping with the rest of the walking dead, shuffling around in a worn-out bathrobe mumbling, looking under the bed for your pipe and slippers. I’m too young—”

  “You’re almost forty.”

  Dalton felt his anger rising, and under that his deep-seated fear of being left ashore, of being marooned on a clerical desert island, with nothing in his future but endless days of meaningless work, the loss of everything in his life that gave it its spark, its wild electric flow. “I

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  understand that you’re worried. I don’t blame you. Hell, I’m worried too. But instead of booting me off to Walter Reed so I can go quietly bats, how about you give me some easy time?”

  “What? Like a vacation? You just came back from a month off.” “No. Not a vacation. But something useful. How about it?” “I don’t know.” “Jack. Come on...” “What kind of job are you thinking about?” Dalton had his answer ready; he’d had it ready since he crossed

  the Chesapeake. “Let me do a workup on this Sweetwater guy.” Stallworth’s expression changed in some indefinable but de

  tectable way. He held Dalton’s gaze but in his eyes there was this...

  absence. An opaque quality. “Sweetwater? That’s the guy you like for Naumann?” “And his family. How about it?” “Why are you calling him Sweetwater?” “It was the name he used himself. In Venice.”

  “Sweetwater?”

  “Yeah.” Stallworth’s face clouded up. “Man, this stuff is wack.”

  Wack?

  “Micah. Micah, you coulda kept me better informed, you know.” “You told me: Nothing written. Person to person only.” “I did?” “Yeah. You said it was policy. Straight from the Vicar.” Stallworth pushed his chair back, set his feet on the desk, templed

  his fingertips, stared at Dalton over the top of his reading glasses. Dalton thought the look needed a pipe but he kept his mouth shut. After a long while, Stallworth nodded slowly.

  “Okay. I’ll give you that. You stay in-country, right? No fucking off in the middle of the night to go to Serbia and start a firefight?”

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  “Scout’s honor. Can I use the cubicle next to Sally?” “Yeah. Mickey’s in Gitmo. When do you want to do this?” “Right now.” “Forget it. You look like a bucket of bat boogers.” “Jack, for the love of God...” “Well, you do look like hell. You got a room?” “I’ve got a suite reserved at the Regis.” “Jeez. A suite! At the Saint Regis? We’re paying you too much.” “Nah. I put it on the Agency.” “When you wanna come in? Tomorrow?” “I’ll check in, get a shower, have dinner. How about later

  tonight?” “It’s Friday night, Micah.” “So go home to your greenhouse. I want to get this started.” “Okay. You
r life to piss away. You’ll have the entire section to

  yourself. What kind of access you think you’ll need?” “Need? I’ll need everything.” “You’re not cleared for everything.” “Okay. Give me everything except that.” “That? What that ?” “That being whatever part of everything I can’t have. Got it?” “I got it,” said Stallworth, looking over at his orchid. His eyes

  grew soft and his face changed. He seemed to drift. After a while, he looked back at Dalton. “You still here?”

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  friday, october 12 copper kings palliative care center butte, montana 8 p.m. local time

  rucio Churriga’s dying body was laid out in a hospital bed, the only occupied bed in an underused four-bed ward in the Bridger Wing of the Copper Kings center on Continental Drive on the eastern edge of Butte. Outside the window a blue shadow was crawling up the side of the Elk Park Pass, and the big white statue of Our Lady of the Rockies, her arms outspread as if she were about to take flight, was the only thing still illuminated by the setting sun.

  Beside the bed a steel rack full of machinery pumped and whirred. A black plastic remote control lay in Crucio Churriga’s upturned palm, his fingers lightly curled around it because, even in his deepest sleep, this remote was above all things precious and dear to him.

  The remote controlled the IV drip of morphine that he needed to keep his skull from cracking open from the pain of the cancer that was eating his face off inch by inch under the wad of bandages that covered most of the right side of his head.

  He had once been handsome, dark-skinned and sharp-featured with pale-brown eyes, rich black hair, and strong even teeth that made the ladies smile. But none of that had survived the thing that was eating him alive. His body was rack-thin, and under the pink sheet his ribs stuck out like a wrecked rowboat in a low tide. Crucio’s body was in Butte, but Crucio’s mind ...his mind was far, far away.

  In his dreaming mind he was standing on a white sand beach that curved around a mile-long bay and disappeared into a blue haze of low mountains on a distant curve of the ocean. Above him, rising up like the prow of a ship cutting into the shining blue haze of the Pacific, was Point Reyes Lighthouse, and down on the beach in front of him a young woman in a flower-print sundress was walking barefoot along the shoreline, the sun strong on her form, her full, ripe body visible as a shadow under the thin cotton of her dress. High above him gulls soared and dipped and the wind off the sea was clear, tangy, cooling his skin.