The Echelon Vendetta

by David Stone

  “Yes. For a while.”

  “You know what to do, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re sure?”

  “Yes. I’m sure.”

  She laid a hand on his shoulder, and then left the room, closing the door softly behind her. Dalton touched Laura’s cheek and then sat down on the bedside chair, drawing in close. He leaned into her, near enough to breathe her in, folded his hands together between his knees, and began to speak to her, a low baritone whisper, like a father reading a bedtime story to a child on the edge of sleep. He spoke to her for a long, long time while the light slowly changed in the room, while a broad rectangle of sun slowly crawled across the wooden floor until it reached the wall, where it began to climb, changing as it did so from yellow to gold to purple.

  There was a brief flaring of orange light as the sun went down, and then it was evening, and during all this time he talked to her, talked and talked to her, pouring his heart into her delicate pearl-colored ear, his breath on her cheek. He talked their whole life through, from Boston to Cortona to Quincy, remembered it all for both of them, remembered every single moment of it.

  And through it all she lay there on her side with her small twiglike hands curled under her and her pale withered limbs contorted as if in pain. Feeling nothing. Dreaming nothing. Being nothing.

  Finally, after a timeless interval during which he had no more words to speak and he was feeling far more than he could bear, he kissed her lightly on the cheek, stroked her cold damp forehead,

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  reached over to the machine, and flicked it off. The silence that came into the room then was shattering in its intensity and he began to cry.

  At some later point during the night—he had no sense of time— he felt a subtle and powerful change in her, a deeper stillness come over her, and he knew that if this was truly where his loving wife had been all these long years, abandoned and unforgiven in this sterile room, she was no longer present, she had gone away from him, and he was now completely alone in the living world.

  IN THE MORNING, as he was leaving, after Dr. Cassel had promised to make the necessary arrangements for Laura—she was to be buried where their baby had been laid down years ago, in Laura’s family crypt in Boston—he walked down the stairs toward a cool fresh morning, feeling as if he were made of lead and his blood was quicksilver. In a shadowed portico by the open door he saw the figure of a tall man sitting in a wicker peacock chair, legs crossed, hands folded in his lap. It was Porter Naumann.

  “Micah,” said Porter, “that was well done.”

  Dalton came into the little portico and looked down at Naumann. He looked very good, for a dead man; he had changed his clothes. Now he was wearing a well-cut dark blue pinstripe suit, gleaming black wingtips, pale pink socks, and a matching pink shirt, open at the neck.

  Dalton saw that Naumann had his Chopard back on his wrist.

  “You got your watch?”

  Naumann looked down at it, smiled up at Dalton. “No. Bought a new one.”

  “Dante’s? Third circle?”

  Naumann’s smile faded; his expression turned solemn.

  “You have company, Micah. Out in the yard.”

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  “I do?”

  “Yes. Be careful. See you soon.”

  Naumann’s image wavered, faded. There was nothing in the peacock chair but a faint trace of navy blue mist. A wind blew in from the open window, smelling of oranges, and swept it away. Dalton stepped out into the hard sunlight and saw Jack Stallworth leaning on the hood of a long black limousine.

  The engine was idling, rocking the big car gently on its springs. The windows were tinted black and two Agency bulls were standing on either side of the stairs as he came down onto the stones of the courtyard, one blond and one black, both with their suit jackets open, both staring fixedly at him. Jack came forward with his hand out.

  “Micah. I’m glad we caught you.”

  “Where the hell have you been, Jack? You’ve been out of touch since October fourteen. Today’s the twenty-third.”

  Jack’s face hardened up. “Company business, Micah. I don’t report to you.”

  “I was running an investigation. You left Sally flat-footed.”

  “I hear she did just fine.”

  “Look. We’ll do this later. Have a nice day.”

  “Micah, don’t walk away from this.”

  “My wife died last night. This is not the time.”

  “I know. I know. I’m sorry, Micah. I really am. But this can’t wait. We need to talk.”

  “Who’s in the hearse?”

  “The Vicar.”

  “I’m not getting in that limo, Jack.”

  “I wish you would, Micah. It’s important.”

  “Not to me.”

  “Micah, he’s not just going to let you walk. See him now or see him later. You know how it is.”

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  Dalton looked past Stallworth’s shoulder at the long black machine, idling gently, sunlight dappling the gleaming body. “I need to know a couple of things.”

  “Sure. Ask away.” “Was Bob Cole running Fremont’s unit.” “Yes.” “Our Bob Cole? The guy who burned himself in Spokane?” “Yeah.” “He ran Fremont?” “And two other units. He cocoordinated ops for the entire

  Mountain Zone.” “You never told me that.” “You’re a cleaner, Micah. You didn’t need to know.” “You told me Bob was strictly desk. Not a field man.” “And that’s the truth. After the Trinidad thing he was never the

  same. No good in the field.” “He really did committ suicide? Nobody helped him?” “Not that I’m aware.” Dalton looked at him. Stallworth held the look. “Who was Cicero?” asked Dalton, watching Stallworth’s neck. “Naumann was Cicero.” Stallworth’s throat worked a little. “Did Bob Cole know who Cicero was?” “Sure. Bob would have cocoordinated the whole thing.” “Is it possible that Bob leaked Porter’s real name?” Stallworth shrugged. “Not like him. He was a pro. But things go

  wrong.” “If not Bob, then who? Did you know about Porter?” “I was responsible for the Echelon end of it in those days, not the

  field units.” “That’s not an answer.” “Fuck you, Micah. I didn’t give anybody Porter’s name.”

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  “Somebody did.” “It must have been Bob Cole, then.” “Can’t ask him, can we? Everybody’s dead but you and me.” “Why the fuck would I give out Porter’s name?” “I don’t know.” “You really think I did? Even accidentally?” A silence, eyes locked, and a stillness between them. “No,” said Dalton, finally. “No I don’t. I just can’t figure it out.” “Real life’s messy. Real life is one damn thing after another.” “Yeah. And Consuelo Goliad was one of them?” “That’s what the Vicar wants to talk to you about.” “In a minute. I’m right, though. Porter killed her, didn’t he?” “Yes. He was brought in for that. To make sure.” “Who was in on the job?” “Fremont drove a Freightways trailer. Milo Tillman and Pete Kear

  ney were in an ambulance. Moot Gibson and Crucio Churriga in

  blocking cars. And Al Runciman was in a Colorado state police car.” “A lot of innocent people got killed that day, Jack.” “Yes. Too many. It was badly designed. Bob Cole took it hard.” “Why didn’t you tell me all this?” “The Vicar wouldn’t let me. He said to turn you loose on it and

  see what happened. If you needed to know, then we’d tell you.” “Did you know who was killing the guys in Fremont’s unit?” “No. That’s the truth. But now we do. Thanks to you.” Dalton stared at Stallworth, the sea wind stirring his hair, his face

  hard and distant. In his chest there was a heaviness, a numbness, and he figured it was just this numbness that Stallworth had been counting on.

  “Why is he here?” Stallworth turned around and looked at the limo. “He thinks we owe it to you.” “Owe it to me?”

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  “Yes. Will you talk to him?” “Do I have a choice?” “Not really.” “All right. Let’s go talk to the man.” Stallworth’s face relaxed. He smiled briefly, said “Thanks,” and

  walked over to the rear door. Someone inside pressed the locking key and the door slid open. Cool air poured out, along with the scent of new leather. The interior was done in black, with subtle highlights of brass and rosewood.

  A frail old man, long and lean, with a cadaverous face and large bony hands, leaned out from the dark interior, showing his teeth, large and yellow, his face wreathed and veined, his watery blue eyes clear and full of intelligence.

  He put out a liver-spotted hand, pale as a cod. “Micah, it’s a pleasure.” Dalton took the man’s hand, a firm steely grip, released it. “Mine too, sir.” “Join me for a moment, will you?” Cather slid over and Dalton got into the car. Stallworth stayed

  outside, walking away to share a cigarette with Cather’s guards. Cather pulled away into the far corner of the limousine, his back up against the other door, his long legs crossed at the knee.

  He was wearing a dark blue pinstripe suit, a pale blue shirt, a tie with pale blue stars on a field of deep, rich gold silk. He folded his long hands over his crossed knee and regarded Dalton through heavy-lidded unblinking eyes, radiating immense calm and a complete lack of human feeling of any recognizable kind.

  Dalton believed it was quite possible that he would never get out of this car alive, a feeling that Cather was well aware of, and one he liked to encourage.

  “You’ve been very effective, Micah,” he said, in his dry croak. “Thank you, sir.”

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  “I knew Porter well. I regret his loss extremely.” “So do I.” “I read your report. A marvel of concision. If I infer correctly, it

  appears that someone in our firm was indiscreet concerning Porter’s

  identity. You name no one. Do you have a particular view?” “Yes.” “Will you share it?” “Jack thinks it might have been Bob Cole.” “I recall him. A troubled man. Do you find this plausible?” “I find it convenient.” The lines of Cather’s face deepened and his lips grew thinner. “Are you proposing that one of our people was simply indiscreet,

  or that one of our people was an accessory to Porter’s murder?” “I don’t know. No. Of course not.” “You yourself conducted the postmortem investigation. Did you

  uncover anything—anything at all—that would lead you believe that someone in the firm had a motive, however tenuous, for exposing Porter Naumann to this murderous Pinto person?”

  “No. There was nothing. The only link was through the Goliad

  operation that afternoon in ninety-seven.” “Nothing else presents itself to your agile, searching mind?” “No.” “So your sole discomfort here arises from this missing element?” “Yes.” “Has it been your experience that one’s affairs are always in order

  and that all of life’s conundrums will eventually be made clear?” Dalton smiled, shook his head. Cather bowed, offered a wintry

  smile in return, and then spoke in a changed tone. “I understand your wife has just passed away.” “Yes.” “You have my deepest sympathy. My wife died many years ago.

  Not a day goes by that I do not wish for one more afternoon with

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  her. I would like to make a few broad statements concerning intelligence in general that you may find illuminating, Micah. May I go on?”

  “Please.”

  “Thank you. Firstly, you are aware of the problem of China. The problem of North Korea. The ongoing problems of Iran and Iraq. The general strategic concerns that China—and in a lesser way North Korea and Iran—present. The government of North Korea is very intelligent but effectively insane. To an extent, this is an affectation, a bargaining device, but like all affectations, if allowed to become unnaturally prolonged, as it has, the appearance becomes—may even drive—reality. As for China, her interests will be in direct and possibly violent competition with ours within ten years. Even now she seeks—and has partially acquired—significant strategic nuclear missile capability. North Korea has several sites that would allow her to launch nuclear strikes against many points in the Southeast Asian and Japanese archipelagos. Including Guam, which you may have heard the president refer to recently as ‘the next Pearl Harbor.’ North Korea and Iran have also demonstrated a willingness—one might say a vulgar willingness—to sell tactical nuclear capability to any and all comers, provided they have ready cash and undertake not to use them against the seller. This is the toxic climate of the new millennium. The new Cold War, we might say. And in this dangerous new world we must use whatever tools we have at hand. You understand that in these matters I offer only a general view, a view that does not necessarily reflect the strategic or even the tactical thinking of the current administration?”

  Dalton inclined his head, said nothing.

  “Fine. Taking all of this into account, we have learned to greatly value those . . . assets . . . that we have managed to maintain in diverse parts of the world. One of those assets—and in this matter I speak with the utmost faith in your patriotism and your discretion,

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  Micah, the utmost faith—one of those assets has been for many years and remains to this day a highly placed figure in a company known as FrancoVentus Mondiale. You are familiar with this firm?”

  “I have heard of it.”

  “Yes. You have. Unfortunately, due to a regrettable laxity on the part of some people in a company known as Red Shift Laser Acoustics in Simi Valley, trusted ex-Agency people who had provided an encrypted server that was acting as a blind relay for sensitive communications from this asset in Paris, an employee of Red Shift became convinced that some irregularities had occurred. In a misguided access of patriotic fervor, she attempted to draw some official attention to this matter. An attempt was made to discourage her—in some ways a heavy-handed attempt. I name no names. She made the decision to contact more inappropriate agencies. Steps were taken to minimize this developing problem, but in one of those odd and untimely coincidences in which covert history is rich, her husband was killed in a genuinely accidental—I stress the truth of this—accidental crash of a light plane. This event triggered an extremely paranoid reaction and persuaded the individual to illegally acquire evidentiary material with the clearly stated intention of sharing it with a local investigative reporter. This rash decision would have, if exposed in a national forum, led to the slight but real possibility that our asset in Paris might have come under some vague suspicion. Since this asset was in a position to share with us critical information regarding the development of North Korean and Chinese missile-propulsion systems— FrancoVentus has long been illegally sharing this sort of technology with our competition around the world, overtures had already been made to Hussein’s regime in Iraq at the time—well, it seemed advisable, although deeply regrettable, that steps be taken to prevent this person from following through on her attempts to destabilize a very important element in our general struggle against the forces of totalitarian extremism around the globe.”

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  Here he reached a natural pause during which he looked at Dalton as if to judge whether his points had been well taken.

  “So I lay this before you, out of a sense of grateful obligation for your recent exertions on behalf of your country, and with the greatest regard for your loyalty and your love of freedom. I find it strangely lyrical that such far-reaching and supranational matters should in some way be played out in a field of sweetgrass in southeastern Colorado or in a rather garish double-wide trailer in the suburbs of Simi Valley. Or even here, in this paradisiacal enclave on the shores of the blue Pacific. I’ll say good bye to you now, Mr. Dalton, and once again allow me to express our deepest sympathy for the loss of your lovely wife.”

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  thursday, october 25 17 wilton row, belgravia london, england

/>   10 p.m. local time

  alton was lying on his black leather couch in the living room of his stark, inhumanly stark, upstairs flat in Wilton Row, the room lit only by burning candles. Dalton, shirtless, wearing a pair of faded jeans and one white sock, was listening to the torrential rain drumming against his windows and rattling the roof tiles while diligently working his way through a third bottle of Bollinger.

  The doorbell chimed in the hall.

  He got up, steadied himself with a hand on the back of the couch, and negotiated the long hallway with care—the walls had a tendency to blur and waver and the floor was for some reason not quite level. He keyed the intercom button and said something that he hoped was intelligible into the mike. A disembodied female replied.

  “Micah, it’s Mandy. I know it’s late—”

  “Not at all, my dove. I was just—”

  “May I come up?”

  “Up? Up here? Of course. Here you go—”

  He leaned his forehead against the intercom casing and fumbled with the button for a while, his heavy lids closing, then he pushed himself off the wall and maneuvered his meticulous way back into the kitchen, where, after a few minor mischances, he managed to get some coffee brewing; coffee, since Mandy, like all right-thinking people, detested tea—an insipid footwash, she had once called it. The pot was filling nicely and he stood there watching it for a time, idly wondering where the thumping sound was coming from.

  “Micah, it’s me. Open up.” That voice—it was oddly familiar. Could it be Mandy Pownall? At the door? He decided to look. It was. She stood there in the hallway, her arms full of papers and boxes,

  her face pale in the soft glow of the hallway light. She was wearing a black silk Dragon Lady number and was done up perfectly, hair piled up into a kind of silvery tiara, a pale elegant face, slightly drawn, her lips outlined in black, her eyes shadowy, with a greenish light in them.

  “Oh, bloody hell, Micah. You’re completely potted.” “Am I?” She swept past him and went down the hall with her burden of

  papers and boxes, trailing the scent of frangipani and musk. He watched her as she walked away and reminded himself that, first of all, he was drunk, quite triumphantly drunk, and therefore quite out of the running, and, second, that this was Mandy Pownall, the Virgin Queen of London Sector and old enough to be his ...his aunt.