The Echelon Vendetta

by David Stone

  He followed her down the hall, using the wall to guide him, and found her behind his granite countertop, searching for coffee cups, straining to reach an upper shelf. The black kimono rode up her

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  thighs and Dalton could see that she was wearing stockings and a

  garter belt. Seamed stockings at that. She turned and saw him staring at her legs. “Oh stow that, boyo. You’re no use to anyone right now.” “I have been known to rise to that sort of challenge.” “Not with me, you manky git. Have some coffee.” “I do not desire coffee,” he said, with some precision. “I will

  however have some more Bolly.” He looked around, blinking. The bottle was nowhere to be seen. “What have you done with my Bolly?” Mandy set a cup of black coffee down in front of him. He eyed it

  as if it were a beaker of bunker sea oil. “Drink it.” “I would rather set my nose hairs on fire.” She reached for a candle and held it up to his nose. “Here you

  go, then.” He waved it off, and sat heavily down on one of the bar stools. “To what do I owe ...?” “Serena Morgenstern told me you’ve been hiding out up here for

  two whole days, getting yourself as pissed as a lord.” “Bright girl. Clever. Notices things. I was going to say ‘perspica

  cious,’ but I didn’t think I could manage it.” “You look like hell.” “You, on the other hand, look like Hedy Lamarr.” “You mean Mata Hari, don’t you?” “Her too.” “Are you coming back to work?” “In the fullness of time, Mandy. Can’t you see I’m in mourning?” “Laura wouldn’t want to see you like this.” “Don’t you kid yourself. Laura was a cool hand with the Bolly

  herself. I recall a New Year’s Eve party in Chicago where she was in-

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  spired to do a rather memorable striptease on the bar of the Nikko; management was very exercised about it. God she had wonderful legs. And all those present agreed that her breasts were splendid. Both of them, although I tended to prefer the one on the right. Her right, not mine. I named them, you know? Muffin and Scooter. Scooter was the other one. God bless them both. I find it odd that women do not generally make it a practice to name their naughty bits. I mean, consider the possibilities. Not too late for you, dear. Have you ever—”

  “No. I haven’t.”

  “Didn’t think so. Would you like to know the name of my—”

  “No, I would not.”

  “You’re sure? It’s quite clever. A play on the Gaelic word for—”

  “Very sure.”

  “Well then, as Marcel Proust once remarked, Où sont les meubles de ma tante? Here’s to the remembrance of things past. Here’s to Muffin and Scooter, lost and gone forever. Where’s my drink?”

  Mandy raised the coffee.

  He took it with a sigh. “I see the forces of moral improvement are upon us. How may I assist you to the door, sweetheart? Or would you prefer a window? I have several, all of them offering speedy access to the cobbles that lie beneath.”

  Mandy, ignoring him, was unpacking what looked to be company files from a battered cardboard box. She set them down in front of Dalton and placed a small stainless-steel laptop computer on top of the files.

  He drank some coffee while she did this, staring dully at the files and thinking that they looked familiar. “This stuff is from Porter’s desk at Burke and Single.”

  “Correct,” said Mandy, looking at him with her head tilted to one side, her expression unreadable, guarded.

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  “What are you doing with it? We’re not allowed to bring that

  stuff home.” “Did you love Porter, Micah?” Dalton blinked at her. Her dark eyes were fixed on his. “Love Porter? Love’s a big word—” “I did.” “I know, Mandy—it’s a damn—” “We were lovers. You understand? Micah, try to concentrate.” “Lovers? You and Porter?” “Yes. For years.” Dalton set the coffee cup down and rubbed his face, trying to

  clear his head. Mandy refilled his cup and watched him in silence. “Okay. Lovers. Yes, well that’s ...that’s fine. I’m glad.” “I’m glad you’re glad. That’s not the point. All of this stuff is

  supposed to go to Jack Stallworth by the diplomatic pouch.” “When?” She looked at the clock on the wall of the kitchen. “About two

  hours ago.” “You didn’t send it?” “No. Micah, are you functioning yet?” “I’m getting there.” “So did you love Porter?” He looked at her carefully for a while. “Yes. I guess I did. He was

  a fine man—” “I need your help. I can’t send this to Langley until I get it.” “What do you want me to do?” “You asked me to turn Porter’s life upside down. Remember? In

  the bathroom at Porter’s house?” “Yes. I do.” She handed Dalton a dark blue business envelope. His name was

  written on the envelope. In the upper left corner were the letters PN.

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  “It was in my lingerie drawer. In my flat. Taped to the back of the drawer. It’s been there for a while, I think.”

  Dalton held the envelope under the downlight from a halogen, tapped it against his palm. “What’s this about, Mandy. You’re dead serious, aren’t you?”

  “I am. Look at this.” She showed him a page of numbers. He blinked down at it. “Numbers are not my strong suit.” “This is one of the Burke and Single accounts that Porter was

  handling. Five years ago a lot of funds started to move out of this account. I haven’t been able to trace all of it, but nine point seven million dollars went to the purchase of a ship. A cruise ship.”

  “Nine million dollars?”

  “Yes. A French ship, fitted out as a hospital ship—originally La Celestine, based in the Philippines. She was reflagged under a Tongan registry and renamed the Orpheus.”

  “Who owns her?” “No idea.” “Are you suggesting that Porter has been using Burke and Single

  funds to pay for a French hospital ship? And why would he, anyway? What would Naumann want with a cruise ship? Mandy, this is just paranoid bullshit. There has to be—”

  “Open the envelope, Micah.” “You’ve already read it, haven’t you?” “Yes.” He peeled the cover back and extracted a satellite photo of two

  ships, one white and one matte gray, moored very close together, somewhere at sea, and a single pale blue sheet.

  —February 17 2005—Osama Hassan Nasr—Milan disappeared— whereabouts unknown —February 13 2005 Orpheus moored off Venice

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  —March 19 2006—Hamidullah Kadhr—killed in crash of private

  plane off Cagayan de Oro in Mindanao—no wreckage found— —March 21 2006 Orpheus docks in Guam —September 8 2006—Aphostikos Sidheros—plane drops off

  radar en route to Rhodes —September 15 2006 Orpheus off coast of Naxos —June 10 2007—Musaf Ali Mabri—Deputy Chief Pakistani

  Intelligence Agency—dies in crash of light plane while vacationing

  in Alexandria —June 5 2007 Orpheus seen off Cyprus —photo: NRO Condor Six—Orpheus in International Waters off

  coast of Ireland, being refueled by MT Montauk Tanker— August 11 2007 0923 hours

  Dalton looked at the satellite shot again; digitally enhanced, the shot showed two long ships, surrounded by very heavy seas—one a white-painted cruise ship and the other a long wide-bodied tanker— with a boom slung between and some kind of heavy cable, or a fuel pipe, stretched between them.

  “I looked up the MT Montauk, Micah. It’s leased to Sea Lift Command. It’s a shallow-draft tanker capable of mounting what’s called ‘under-way refueling,’ operated by the Defense Department. And here it is linked to a ‘private ship’ a hundred miles off the coast of Ireland. What does all this look like to you?”

  Dalton rubbed his forehead, fighting a headache. “It looks

  like ...what’s the word?” “Extraordinary rendition.” “Yes. It looks like we’re arranging the crash—” “Or faking the boarding in the first place
—” “—of various light planes in order to cover the kidnapping of

  these men. I know the first guy here—” “Osama Moustaka Hassan Nasr,” said Mandy. “He’s a terrorist.”

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  “Yeah. He was scooped by one of our ER teams, right off the street in Milan. Some Italian prosecutor has indicted thirteen of our guys for it, or tried to. Hamidullah Kadhr is an al Qaeda computer tech. If we actually have him alive that’s a very good thing.”

  “Especially if al Qaeda thinks he died in a plane crash.”

  “Aphostikos Sidheros. We know he was funneling money to the Chechens. And this guy Musaf Ali Mabri, second in command of the Pakistani Intelligence Agency. Half of the Pakistani intel units are al Qaeda sympathizers. He’s one. Christ, this is a beautiful operation!”

  “Yes. I suppose it is,” said Mandy, doubt in her tone.

  “They’re using the Orpheus to hold them. Man, a hospital ship. In international waters. Completely secure. No tiresome visits from Amnesty International or the Human Rights Watch. Medical facilities on board. Lots of room for holding cells. Psych wards. They could take these guys apart cell by cell—”

  “At sea no one can hear you scream?”

  “Yeah...Man, forget Gitmo. It’s brilliant! Perfect! A textbook black op. Mandy, this is—”

  “Micah, listen to me. This is why Porter was killed.”

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  friday, october 26 231 belle haven estates huntington, virginia 5 p.m. local time

  tallworth’s estate took up half a mile of frontage along the Potomac, a rambling Frank Lloyd Wright home composed of red cedar and tinted glass and square beams, hidden from the gate by a stand of old-growth oaks. The setting sun was casting long shadows across the well-groomed lawn, and a fountain jetting up from a formal garden sparkled with golden lights. Dalton walked around the house and found Jack Stallworth in his greenhouse down by the Potomac—a long, glassed-in Japanese-style building with a pressurized double door that hissed when he pushed it open. The interior was easily ninety degrees, the walls ran with mist, and a pale fog hung over the rows and rows of exotic plants that filled the interior. Stallworth called from somewhere deep in a jungle of ferns and vines in a far corner.

  “That you, Micah?”

  “Yes.”

  “Back here. Mind the stones. They’re a little slick.”

  Dalton walked down between two low brick tables and pushed aside a stand of sago palm. Stallworth, in jeans and a plaid shirt, was kneeling in front of a large Japanese urn, pushing peat into the rim.

  “Nice to see you. Thought you were in London.” Dalton laid the blue envelope on the lip of the urn. Stallworth

  peered at it over the rim of his glasses, and then looked up at Dalton. “What’s this? You resigning?” “No. Better read it.” Stallworth wiped his muddy hands on a rag and opened the en

  velope. He stared down at the satellite shot and then slowly scanned the single page of type. He finished, folded it in three, put it back inside the envelope along with the satellite shot, and handed the envelope back to Dalton. “You best forget you ever saw that, Micah.”

  “We’re running a dark operation, aren’t we?” “Yes. Leave it—” “The Agency bought the Orpheus and we’re moving it around the

  globe. A floating prison. Coordinating with rendition operations. Only we don’t have to worry about borrowing Gulfstreams from sports team owners or friends in Wall Street. Because we have our ship right there.”

  “Damn right.” “Yes. I have no problem with this.” “Then what...” “It’s lovely. No FISA court. No ACLU crap about wiretaps or

  extraordinary rendition or pissing off a prosecutor in Milan.” “Yes. We agree. So what are you so angry about?” “You gave Porter up to that Comanche, didn’t you?” Stallworth shrugged, straightened up, put a hip on the edge of

  the urn, and folded his arms across his chest. “What’s this? Revenge?” “Just curious.”

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  “Porter was curious too.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Dalton saw a flicker of navy blue. He glanced to his left and saw Naumann’s ghost standing by the glass wall, in his blue pinstripe, arms folded, staring at Stallworth, his face set. He inclined his head to Dalton and looked back at Stallworth, who had been watching Dalton’s face.

  “What are you looking at?”

  “Nothing,” said Dalton. “You said Porter was curious?”

  Stallworth looked away, breathed in, sighed it out. “The Orpheus project is critical to our survival.”

  “I can accept that. I even agree. What I don’t get is exactly how Porter was a threat to it.”

  Naumann’s body had become rigid, his face tight. He never took his eyes off Stallworth. Dalton half-expected Stallworth to feel Naumann’s glare.

  But of course, Naumann wasn’t really there at all, was he?

  “Porter was a threat.”

  “How?”

  “He was questioning the funding.”

  “Questioning the funding? What do you mean?”

  “He thought far too much money was going out. He disapproved of some of the expenditures. He thought they were ambiguous and might be construed as fraud—in a way, as skimming the funds for personal uses. He wanted to formalize the accountings. He thought that one day there’d be a Senate inquiry—he said that these things will always come out eventually—and he didn’t want the cash flow to look ...irregular. He wanted us to bring in the GAO and take the Orpheus project onto the black books of the budget. The rest of us disagreed.”

  “Who’s the rest of us?”

  “Reliable men.”

  “Cather?”

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  “Of course. The whole thing was his idea.” “Porter would never have compromised the Orpheus project.” “No. But he was ready to compromise us.” Dalton studied Stallworth’s face for a time, a look that Stallworth

  returned with quiet malice and no trace of unease at all. A kind of half smile played around his hard mouth and his small eyes were cold. Across the little greenhouse space Naumann’s figure was still, his expression closed, his eyes dark. Through his body a beam of pale sunlight lay on the broad leaves of a towering fern. Naumann seemed to be wrapped in this warm light, as if it were coming from inside him.

  Dalton looked back at Stallworth. “Who gave Porter’s name to Pinto?” “I really don’t know. Someone on Cather’s team.” “How did you know that Pinto wanted it?” “Jesus. The man actually called Personnel pretending to be Gibson.

  Personnel bounced the call to Bob Cole and Cole pushed it on to

  me. It wasn’t hard to figure out what he was looking for.” “Why not just kill Porter yourself ?” “You.” “Me.” “Yeah. You would never have let it go. We needed somebody for

  you to hunt. And you did a fine job, Micah. We’re all extremely—” “What about his family? Joanne? And the girls?” “We had no idea Pinto would ...that was unfortunate.” “Send him to me,” said Naumann, speaking softly. Dalton turned to look at Naumann. “Send him to you?” Naumann nodded. Stallworth blinked at Dalton. “Who are you talking to?” “Porter.” Stallworth’s faced went pale, and he raised his hands. “Porter? Micah, listen...”

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  “Send him, Micah,” said Naumann. “Send him now.”

  Dalton pulled out the Ruger and shot Stallworth three times, two in the forehead, one in the heart.

  Then he put the weapon back inside his suit pocket, smiled at Naumann’s ghost, took a long ragged breath, and walked away.

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  monday, october 22 colorado highway patrol hq butte, montana 10 a.m. local time

  aptain Bo Cutler was leaning back in his office chair, boots on the desk, staring out at the smoke rising from the slag heap over the crest of Copper Butte when Coy Brutton knocked on the doorjamb.

  “What you got there, Coy?” “Federal Express. For you.�
�� Coy lifted up a package about the size and shape of a beer cooler. “Who’s it from?” “Don’t say, Captain.” “You scanned it?” “Jesus, no. Should I?” “Ah hell. Give it here.” Coy walked it over, set the box down on Cutler’s desk. “Gimme a knife there, Coy.” “You think maybe we should call the fire guys?”

  “Why? Do I smolder? Am I in flames?”

  “Okay, okay. Ease up. Here you go.”

  He handed Cutler an old Ka-Bar, which Cutler used to slice the white plastic wrap off the package. He slid the wrap down, set it aside, and lifted the box up. It was a beer cooler, and it was heavy. He shook it. Something inside it thumped.

  Coy backed away from the desk.

  Cutler sighed and ran the tip of the blade around the tape sealing the top of the cooler. He put the knife down and lifted the lid off the box. Inside it, covered in melting ice and sealed inside a large Ziploc bag like the ones used to hold cabbages, was a human head. It had been cut off at the collarbones. “Hacked off” was a better description. There was a large star-shaped hole in the forehead, and most of the back of the skull seemed to be missing. The expression on the dark-blue face was one of fear, and the open eyes, though dull and clotted and opaque, still held a look of horror, of mortal dread. Around the severed head was a corona of matted hair, silvery, very long. In the bottom of the box, underneath the head, was a long ivory-handled stiletto. The handle looked as if it had dried blood on it.

  “What the hell is this?” said Coy, his face green, his mouth dry.

  “This,” said Bo Cutler, lifting the head up, “is a promise kept.”

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