Dark Heart

by James Phelan

  It turned out that Tweedledumber was no dummy. Krycek saw the feint for what it was, and he hit Walker with a lowered shoulder, hard.

  The hardest that Walker had ever been hit was not some blindside on the football field. It was an IED, in Iraq, that had hammered their up-armored Humvee and sent it flipping through the air and into the third story of a building. A rewired 500-pound bomb, some tech guy would later say as he surveyed their wrecked vehicle and the crater left in the street. The Airman next to Walker had been impaled by a shattered axle. Up-armored Humvees weigh upward of 6000 pounds. The axles are huge. That blast was huge. Walker had sustained shattered ribs and a concussion.

  This impact felt similar to that. The giant’s shoulder was the same size as Walker’s rib cage, and the only saving grace was that very size, which spread the load—if that much force and mass had hit Walker with a smaller point of contact, he’d have had broken ribs and perhaps shattered vertebrae and collapsed lungs as the impact compressed his body. Still, the impact took all the wind from him and he was picked up clear off his feet as they went crashing into a Chesterfield sofa.

  Walker, fighting for oxygen, didn’t pause. You give in straightaway, you die. And there were no tap-outs in these kinds of fights, just like there were no asterisks in life: Walker fought well * until he didn’t. No. Not today. There was no coming second in this fight. By the way they fell Walker’s left arm was around the giant’s neck, with the guy’s head against the back of the sofa, and Walker squeezed. His arm barely fit around Krycek’s neck, but he gave it everything he had, as he managed to take his first inward breath and expand his diaphragm against the crushing force.

  Tweedledumber was having none of it. He stood up, taking the full weight of Walker hanging on around his neck—and jumped backward. As they were falling through the air, Walker let go, and pushed off the giant’s back. He fell awkwardly, on his side, more air crashing out of him. The giant landed on his back, and it seemed like the whole building shook. The mirror certainly rattled. Hot embers spilled from the fireplace.

  Walker took a heaving breath and rolled some more then got to his feet and picked up the fire-poker.

  Krycek got to his feet and picked up a table.

  Walker felt unsteady on his feet and felt his left ear—his fingers came away with blood. He remembered back twenty years to a fellow cadet’s snowboarding accident in Colorado where he’d fallen over on the snow and had blood coming from his ear and had to be airlifted to Boulder to have his spleen removed. The guy had been fine, and Walker knew you could live without your spleen, but you couldn’t live if a giant buried a table in your head, so he moved, fast.

  The fire-poker bored straight down in a double-handed grip that split the wooden table in half. Krycek threw the two halves at Walker: a hundred pounds of broken timber hit him, hard, and he went over. The giant moved in, kicked at Walker’s head, a kick that would have made a field goal from 200 yards. Walker rolled to his side as the kick swooshed through the air. He brought up the fire-poker and buried the sharp end into the underside of the giant’s thigh. It went into the meat until it hit bone, where it stopped.

  Then, two things happened at once.

  The giant let out a shrill cry, high pitched, like a little kid squealing as loudly as they could just for fun.

  But this was no game between little kids, and Krycek was feeling it. And then the second thing happened, as he was still squealing: he fell backward, his hands going to the poker, his leg raised, one leg on the floor and he dropped. His head hit the marble mantel, and the two-inch-thick slab of stone cracked, as did his head, then he collapsed with a heavy thump that shook the floor joists. He was out cold, and his big shaved head was starting to steam from the heat of the fire just inches from it.

  Walker got to his feet, then grabbed the ankles of the giant and pulled him away from the fire to the middle of the room. Not because he felt bad about the guy being burned alive—if he remained unconscious he’d not feel any pain—but he had no desire to smell flesh cooking in the room. Walker sat in one of the armchairs and caught his breath. His chest ached.

  Then the door opened, and two people entered.

  69

  Walker recognized Lewis and Harvey from the files Paul had prepared. Whether they’d been waiting outside the room the whole time, listening to the tussle that had lasted just a couple of minutes, Walker did not know. What he did know was that he was staring down the business end of a Colt 1911, the much-venerated .45 automatic that had served the US military with distinction since its introduction in the 1920s, only superseded in the mid-1980s by the smaller-caliber 9-millimeter M9 Beretta. A fine piece of machinery, in the hand of an ex-Army Ranger. The weapon was in Harvey’s hand, and he could be in any corner of this room, and Walker in any other corner, and he’d not miss. And the Colt .45 had awesome stopping power, so Walker would be close to dead before the second shot got him. Walker stayed seated.

  The two newcomers looked from Walker to their guy sprawled on the floor and back to Walker.

  “Sorry about your giant,” Walker said. “If I knew he’d squeal like a pig I’d have done things differently.”

  Harvey moved around Walker and sat on the Chesterfield that had been crashed into earlier, and kept the .45 on him. Lewis went to the fireplace and used the tip of his highly polished Oxford dress shoes to kick the hot coals from the oriental carpet and back onto the stone hearth.

  “Good idea,” Walker said. “Don’t want another of your houses to burn to the ground.”

  “You think you’re clever,” Lewis said, turning to face Walker. “So, why don’t you tell us what you think you know.”

  “I know you’re both cooked,” Walker said. He was still struggling to get his full breath back. It felt like the right side of his rib cage was on fire. It hurt to breathe, so he was taking small, shallow breaths that made him feel like he was never getting enough oxygen. He was beginning to feel light-headed, so he sat forward, his elbows resting on his knees, trying to take some weight off his torso. It helped, a little. “This is the end of the line, fellas.”

  Harvey chuckled.

  “I know in 2003 that you two participated in a secret think tank of worst-case terror attacks, and you’ve since implemented a cutout terror network called Zodiac.”

  Walker watched for reactions. There was one. Harvey laughed. Lewis was silent.

  “My father was there too,” Walker said.

  “Your father’s a dinosaur,” Harvey said. “And he should have stayed dead. Like Bloom will, because he was a good man.”

  “What do you know about that?” Walker said, staring at him.

  “I know those two old sons of bitches were at a deal that went wrong in Syria,” Harvey said, the pistol unwavering. “That Bloom’s body was recovered among the dead. That your father’s wasn’t. Pity.”

  A faint glimmer of hope flickered inside Walker. These two guys are no fans of David Walker. Which didn’t put his father in the clear in terms of founding Zodiac, but it was starting to point that way. “What happened to Bloom’s body?”

  “Burned, probably,” Harvey said. “Did he mean that much to you? If you ask me, he was lucky he survived as long as he did.”

  Walker thought about Bloom, and what he’d taught him. All those sayings. All those discussions over drinks. All the laughs, and all the wisdom. Clear liquor is for rich women on diets. Friends—one to three is sufficient. A blowjob is not worth blowing your cover over—learn from my mistakes. Work the angles. Get in and get out. Play dirty, fight dirty. If you fight, fight to win. There are no asterisks in life. Eat and sleep when you can; you might not get another chance for a long time—and even if you do, what’s the harm? Bloom was a big man. A true gourmand. Six-five and 300 pounds, who’d first made a name for himself as a young CIA agent helping Mossad hunt down surviving Nazis in the seventies. Quick of wit and handy with a blade. A handsome brute. And as much a father to him as David had ever been.

  “You two have
been running Zodiac,” Walker said. “I can prove it.”

  “Tell me,” Lewis began in a patronizing tone, “what is this Zodiac?”

  “Nice try,” Walker said. “You know all about it, Senator. And you know what? I know all about you, and your cooked-up security clearance.”

  That got to him. Lewis looked to Harvey. Spooked.

  “Got your pal Harvey here to take care of the poor bastard from OPM, the guy doing the background checks, because he touched on things in your life you wanted to keep secret,” Walker said. He saw the truth on Harvey’s face—he wasn’t nearly the liar that Lewis was. But he’d found their weak spot. “I’ve got full transcripts from the widow, on file, off site. So, come clean on Zodiac, and we can make a deal.”

  “A deal?” Harvey said. He looked down to his Colt .45, then back up to Walker. “What on earth would we deal?”

  “And you’re in no position to deal, Walker,” Lewis said, regaining some composure.

  “Oh really, Harvey, not even when your own Homeland agents are currently detained by the FBI?” Walker said. He saw a tic in Harvey’s face. “We know about your burner phones with your crooked agents, for your little clean-up mission. How’d that work out? I’m still here; Rachel Muertos is still here; Clair Hayes is still here. And we’ve got your bent Homeland agents, in custody. Kingsley and Jennings. And Jennings is already singing like a bird.”

  “He knows too much!” Lewis said to Harvey. The Senator ran his hands through his hair. “Shut him up!”

  Harvey grimaced. Walker smiled.

  “Why were you working with Almasi?” Walker asked. “Tell me that. Why were you trafficking people out of Syria and the Mid East?”

  “I think we’ve heard enough from you,” Harvey said, and he stood up from the couch, the pistol still leveled at Walker’s center mass. “Maybe, if you’re lucky, you’ll get to hang out with Bloom in some place where dead spies end up.”

  “You don’t care about all the information I’ve got off site?”

  “Kingsley and Jennings?” Harvey said. “You think they’ll talk? They’ll get theirs. They’re nothing to worry about. You know who we are? Who I am? I make people disappear, Walker. Gone. Bloom. That Muertos bitch’s husband, Steve. The OPM idiot who dug too deep during my friend’s background check. Countless others. Not even names worth remembering. Gone. Poof! Into the ether, never seen or heard of again. Because they got in my way. My way!”

  Walker paused before speaking, watching the tic in Harvey’s eye, a vein pumping away in his temple. “What’d you do with Steve, Muertos’s husband?”

  “Steve got too close,” Harvey said. “He was a rogue element. Looked where he wasn’t supposed to. He should have stayed in line. He was lucky with the way he went out; it could have been much worse.”

  “You’ve killed a whole lot of patriotic Americans in your quest for money and power.”

  “Small price to pay.”

  “He might be taping this,” Lewis said to Harvey, his voice quiet.

  Harvey smiled and looked at Walker. “You taping this, boy?”

  Walker stood, slowly, straining with the pain. He held his arms up. His right arm could barely move for the pain in his shattered ribs.

  “Why would I tape you two idiots?” Walker said. “It’s not like you’re ever going to see inside a courtroom. Look at you. I know who you are. You’re untouchable. You can be embarrassed if some information gets released, but so what? You can spin your way out of it as quick as the news cycle refreshes on people’s phones. But tell me about Zodiac. You know it means everything to me. Explain it.”

  “What about it?” Harvey asked. “What do you think you know, junior?”

  “I know it’s twelve cutout cells, with no interlinking ideology other than chaos,” Walker said. “That it was putting twelve separate worst-case scenarios together, each triggered by another in the chain, so it could never be traced back to one—or two—people. That it was being helped along, financed, by someone—or, evidently, two people. My question is motive. Look at you two.” He gestured around. “Look at this place. You’re meant to be as patriotic as any American can aspire to be. Your ancestors created this country as we know it. Or is all this just a cover to wreck things from within?”

  “Harvey,” Lewis said, his voice now urgent, “would you make him shut up?”

  “Let’s humor the kid. His father started Zodiac, right? We just gave it a little nudge along, made it a reality.” He looked from Lewis to Walker. “Right, Walker? You want to talk about ancestors? This was your father’s brainchild. We just made it all it could be. And it’s going to be glorious . . .”

  “So, you admit it,” Walker said. His heart was beating fast. The way Harvey was telling it, this was all about them, not his father. David Walker’s idea, his out-of-the-box worst-case scenarios, let’s look out for it, let’s be prepared. And it was all their doing.

  “Attacks on the homeland are always going to happen,” Harvey said. “Better it be from the devil you know.”

  “There’s more to it than that,” Walker said. “You started in New York, you tried to take over the CIA from the inside.”

  “Private spies,” Harvey said. He looked to Lewis. “That was a good idea, you mark my words. Ahead of its time, perhaps. What else you got, boy?”

  “You orchestrated the events in St. Louis.”

  “Triggered, boy,” Harvey said. “Gave a nudge, to certain parties. Some funding. Some breadcrumbs. All they needed was the means. They brought the motivation. That’s always been the beauty of your father’s plan, see?”

  “Bringing down the Net,” Walker said. He felt heat rush up his neck as he wanted to take these two over-privileged sons of bitches down. “The so-called abduction of an NSA agent, forcing the President’s hand to enact the Kill Switch.”

  “And you’ve been a pain in our butt every step of the way,” Harvey said. “I give you props for that. Who knew Air Force could be so resourceful.”

  Walker tried to smile, and he took a couple of steps toward the fireplace, away from Harvey, and to the left of Lewis, so that he was on the door side, and they were on the bookcase side. There was the Glock on the mantel, the weapon Tweedledumber had set there, out of view to the others for the large brass urn. Walker stepped over the sleeping giant. He let out a noise at the pain that shot through his ribs as he made the motion.

  “Where do you think you’re going, Walker?” Harvey asked. He brought the pistol up, single handed, pointed again at Walker’s center mass. He’d shoot and drop Walker a clear second before Walker could grab the Glock and get a shot off. But it was the only good option he had. “We missed out on putting a Walker in the ground once before. The same won’t happen again, certainly not today.”

  •

  “We want everyone alive,” Somerville announced to the agents around her, as she strapped on a bulletproof vest. They were assembled two buildings down on Massachusetts Avenue. “But if it comes to it, Lewis and Harvey are our bad guys. Your team got that?”

  “Yes ma’am,” the leader of the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team said.

  “Where the hell is Muertos?” Somerville said, looking around the hotel’s driveway. “I told her to stay put. Someone find her!”

  70

  Walker looked up when the door of the room opened. Two people entered.

  Rachel Muertos.

  And his father.

  “David Walker, as I live and breathe,” Harvey said, keeping the gun on Jed. “Come on in. Shut the door after you, and put your hands in the air.”

  David Walker shut the door and turned back to the room, his arms raised. Walker searched his face for a sign and found none. Muertos looked guilty, and after a quick glance she avoided Walker’s eye.

  “Now, take your jackets off, both of you,” Harvey said.

  David Walker did so, Muertos too; Jed staring at the barrel of the Colt .45 the whole time.

  Harvey moved toward them. “Keep your hands in the air.�
�

  David Walker did so. Staring at his son the whole time. Sadness in his eyes. That it had come to this.

  “You too,” he said to Muertos. She did so. “Turn around, both of you, slowly.”

  He motioned to Lewis with his free hand.

  “What?” Lewis said.

  “Check them.”

  “Check them?” Lewis said.

  Harvey said, “For a gun, or a wire.”

  Lewis shook his head. “I don’t know how to do that.”

  “Just have a look and feel to see if there’s a gun or recorder on them.”

  Lewis went to David Walker and Muertos. He patted them down, back and front, and nodded to confirm they were clean.

  “What are you doing here?” Walker asked his father.

  “Rachel called me,” David replied.

  “When?”

  “Half an hour ago.”

  Walker looked to Muertos. He’d given her his cell phone, and she’d rung his father from the hotel next door. She’d known he was in town the whole time. They were in this together, somehow, for some reason. He hadn’t just said Find Jed Walker and let her be. He’d been in contact, or at least contactable, this whole time. Using her to drive Jed. Using Jed to uncover who was controlling Zodiac.

  “Did you even call Somerville?” Walker asked her.

  Muertos looked at Harvey’s gun and didn’t answer.

  Lewis headed back to Harvey’s side of the room but stopped at the mantel over the fireplace when he spotted the Glock pistol. He picked it up.

  Harvey looked to Walker and smiled. “Nice try.”

  “Let these two go,” David Walker said. “They don’t belong here. This is between us.”

  “David, David, David . . .” Harvey said. “There’s no letting go. This is it. Your son said it before. Our clean-up over the past couple of days fell to pieces, several times—because of your boy. But now here they are, and we’ve got you too. Sure, Hayes is out there, and my two guys are in custody, but that’s all an easy fix.” He looked to Lewis and smiled. “Gimme that.”