by Bob Mayer
“Since before the end of World War II there have been very quiet whispers that there is an organization which has a Presidential mandate to police the world of covert operations. Something that FDR did right before he died, which is intriguing since we’ve been talking about his son. FDR trusted General Donovan and gave him sweeping powers with the OSS, but he was also looking ahead, beyond the end of the war. He was concerned about an individual or organization having that much power in peacetime. After all, by their very nature, covert operations are inimical to freedom.”
“What is this organization?” Kane asked.
“It’s known as the Cellar,” Plaikos said. “I’m not certain it exists, but the little I’ve heard indicates its very small. Run by one man. The rumor is that this man has the authority to sanction rogue government operatives without due process.”
“’Sanction’?” Kane asked.
“Kill,” Plaikos said. “There have been rogue operatives from the Agency and other organizations who have simply disappeared over the years.”
“Maybe they escaped and went deep under,” Kane said.
Plaikos shook his head. “No. That’s why there are whispers of the Cellar. As if someone were deliberately leaking info to let people know those bad apples didn’t get away. A warning.”
“The ‘Cellar’?”
“Odd name, I’ll grant.”
“I do not understand,” Thao said. “If the President was worried about someone like General Donovan, who else would he trust with such power? It seems as if this mandate is as much a problem as what it was designed to police.”
Plaikos graced Thao with a small smile. “True. But the right individual, carefully selected, could do it. Someone with no personal ambitions, with no political agenda. Someone who had been tested in a crucible and come out of it stronger and smarter and displayed a commitment to the greater good rather than personal ambition. A very rare person.” He pointed at the ledger. “Caitlyn wants that and thinks it will give her information. Have you gone through it?” he asked Kane.
“I’ve glanced at it,” Kane said. “Most of it is in one-time-pad code, given the five letter groupings. We found the arms dealer in Boston because there was a section that listed addresses and names, unencrypted.” He slid it to Thao. “What do you think?”
Thao opened the leather-bound book and quickly thumbed through the pages. “I agree. OTP. I would suspect those who encrypt this aren’t using daily pads because it’s not a message, but rather a record of things. The key for decryption is most likely a phrase that only those who have the need are aware of. Damon, since it was his book.”
“And Marcelle,” Kane said. “And both are dead. So the ledger is probably worthless.”
“Then why does she want it?” Plaikos asked. “I suspect that the phrase was specific to Damon and Marcelle. There might be a third party who knows it. Or, one might be able to discover it by studying the two men.”
“Ours would not take someone long to figure out,” Thao pointed out, since he and Kane used the diner’s sign, Vics Diner Good Food, as their key phrase.
“Would Toni Marcelle know it?” Plaikos asked.
Kane considered that. “Doubtful.”
Plaikos continued. “What we need to consider is if the address and name of an arms dealer in Boston wasn’t important enough to encrypt, what is encrypted in this?”
“Probably every bit of dirt Damon and Marcelle had and every illegal thing they were aware of,” Kane said. “Marcelle coughed up the location of his cache of dirt to Yazzie under torture and in doing so he put Toni in Yazzie’s sights. Marcelle might even have given up the key.”
“All possibilities,” Plaikos allowed.
“Back to this organization, the Cellar,” Kane said. “Where would—” he was interrupted by the pager he’d taken off Begay buzzing on his belt. He unclipped it and checked the screen. A phone number with an area code he didn’t recognize: 801. “Excuse me,” he said to Plaikos and Thao.
He went to the pay phone next to the kitchen. Flipped open the phone book hanging on a steel cord, checking area codes: Utah.
Kane dropped a couple of quarters and dialed the number. He recognized Yazzie’s voice when it was answered.
“Very prompt, Kane,” Yazzie said. “I appreciate that.”
“Back home?” Kane asked.
“Yes.”
“I thought you were from Texas?”
“We have operations in several states, but Utah is home.”
“Your brothers with you?”
“Yes.”
“All of them?” Kane asked.
Yazzie didn’t reply.
“Are you missing another one?”
“You responded via Begay’s pager so I must assume he is no longer with us.”
“He had a gun,” Kane said. “He was going to kill an innocent woman.”
“An ‘innocent’ woman?” Yazzie said. “What a curious turn of phrase. Speaking of which, have you heard from Ms. Antonia Marcelle lately?”
Kane gripped the phone tightly but didn’t step into the opening. He waited.
“Begay wasn’t supposed to go after you,” Yazzie said.
“And yet he did. Sounds like discipline is fraying at the edges. Are all the brothers still loyal sons? Why kill the woman? She didn’t know anything.”
“Was, what is her name, Trudy, killed?” Yazzie asked. “The news is slow here in the hinterland and deaths in New York City don’t rate a mention.”
“Begay got her,” Kane lied, trying to get Truvey some space. “Her death was unnecessary.”
“Not for me to decide,” Yazzie said. “Boss considered her a problem. He cleans up his problems.”
“No, his boys clean up his problems. I thought you were done with him.” Kane knew he was delaying the bad news.
“Begay wasn’t supposed to go after you,” Yazzie repeated and he sounded genuine. “He was always too eager. I think you’re good, Kane, but you’ve been extraordinarily lucky. Why was Dale shot in the back with a twenty-two caliber? Yet stabbed in the heart? That doesn’t make sense.”
“His bad luck,” Kane said. “Maybe he was running away from someone with a small gun and then fell on his own big knife?”
“How did Begay die?” Yazzie asked.
“He was too eager. But I will tell you this: I didn’t kill him. One might say he committed suicide.”
Several seconds of long-distance static ticked off.
Kane spoke first: “Don’t make me waste another quarter listening to your bullshit or to silence. Where’s Toni?”
“Visiting with us,” Yazzie said. “Come alone to Escalante, Utah. Also, bring whatever you took from Damon’s lair. The ledger that allowed you to find his weapon’s supplier in Boston. And the money. Two million.”
“The money burned up.”
“It’s possible but not plausible,” Yazzie said. “We’ll have to discuss that face to face in order for me to ascertain whether you’re telling the truth on that matter. But since you don’t deny it, you do have the ledger.”
“Like you discussed things with Thomas Marcelle? He lied about a ledger if he said anything. I don’t have it.”
“You’re not a good liar, Kane.”
“You are. Toni believed you.”
“We’re looking forward to your visit.”
“How do I contact you to meet once I get to Escalante? Same number?”
“Yes. I won’t answer, but someone will be there and they’ll give you the exact coordinates for us to meet. Come alone.”
The phone went dead. Kane leaned forward, resting his forehead on the wall for a few moments. He went back to Plaikos and Thao.
“Seems everyone wants the ledger. I’ve got a mission. I’m going to need some planning help.”
12
Wednesday Afternoon, 14 May 1969
THE PARROTS BEAK, CAMBODIA
The old man peers at Kane with eyes that have seen the Japanese, the French, and now the Americans as enemies
. All he can see is the muzzle of the CAR-15 and a piss and sweat streaked camouflage-painted face looking back at him. For Kane, the old man’s eyes are dark black, impenetrable. But his face crinkles in what might be a smile.
Kane slides his finger onto the thin sliver of metal. A twitch and the old man is dead, but then . . .
The old man winks and pulls back, out of sight. Kane waits for the bullets to tear in, hoping he can take the rounds and that will give Merrick and Thao a chance to get out, but he knows they probably won’t be able to get past his body. Or will it be a grenade, finish all three of them at once? Mix their flesh and viscera together in this dark, horrible grave?
The sound of the man moving away. No cry for help or of alarm.
The searchers are departing.
Kane collapses against Merrick.
“What the fuck,” Merrick whispers, but it really isn’t a question, more an exclamation of bewilderment and relief.
Kane doesn’t respond. The sounds of the enemy fade to silence. The normal rhythm of the surviving jungle returns. Kane checks his watch. Seventeen hundred hours. They have just a few hours of daylight. Their scheduled exfiltration is at twenty-three hundred hours. It’s a tight window on such an op: two minutes before, two minutes after, or else wait twenty-four hours and go to the alternate PZ. If that doesn’t work, the team is on its own unless it can communicate to the base camp.
Kane looks at Merrick, who nods. Kane knocks aside the vegetation. He puts the rifle outside. His leg muscles scream as he uses them for the first time in many hours. He pushes forward, slithering out of the hole. Picks up the CAR-15 and staggers to his feet, looking about.
No sign of the enemy.
Kane kneels and helps pull Merrick and Thao out. The three revel in being able to stand and stretch, get the blood flowing. In being alive. Neither Merrick or Thao bring up the confrontation. It happened; they’re alive. That’s all the matters.
Merrick gives the signal to move out. They walk into the bomb zone on line, five meters apart. They reach the first cluster of unmarked graves, actually bomb craters where the bodies had been tossed in, then dirt from the rim hurriedly shoveled in on top. The jungle will reclaim all soon enough.
They continue through the bombed-out remnants of jungle. Despite the best efforts of the burial party, there are numerous body parts scattered, already beginning to rot. The concussion of the bombs going off killed most, but those close enough to the detonation also took the blast.
Each of the men sling their weapons and pull cameras out of rucks and begin cataloguing the devastation, including the graves. They move fast, spurred by the fading daylight and the desire to make exfil.
Kane works on automatic, snapping shots of body parts and destruction. He swaps out rolls of film as he moves across the area, keeping Thao and Merrick in sight.
There’s equipment scattered all about. The NVA had scavenged anything still functional. What remains are pieces and parts of weapons, clothing, and other military supplies. And pieces and parts of what had once been humans. Kane pauses at a wooden hand cart blown over, spilling rotting food. As he focuses the camera, he notices that a hand is still gripping the handle.
A woman’s hand.
He takes the picture. Moves on. Pauses as he spots a violin, completely intact, lying in the mud. He kneels next to it. The wood is polished to a high sheen. The strings taut. Kane looks around the immediate area but nothing stands out. Mud, blasted trees. He shakes his head and moves on.
He sidesteps a pile of viscera, left behind when a body was dragged away to the closest grave. He begins to feel detached from reality in this otherworldly landscape. Thinks of his young son, Lil’ Joe and this gives him some grounding. Focuses on the task at hand.
Sees something in the mud. A film canister, like the ones he’s been using. Kane picks it up and puts it in the cargo pocket of his jungle fatigue pants. Keeps moving.
Merrick finds an officer’s map case, badly singed. He reaches to retrieve it, doesn’t spot the trip wire. As he picks it up, the wire is pulled.
But it’s not tied to a mine, as it normally would be. A flare pops, arcing up into the darkening sky. Thao and Kane turn toward Merrick, who should be dead.
But this is worse. There is only one reason for such a trap: the NVA want them alive. The question is how far away is the reaction force?
“Let’s go!” Kane shouts, pointing in the direction of the PZ.
The three men run toward the edge of the jungle.
A burst of AK-47 punches green tracers in the air just over their heads.
They automatically shift into their ‘contact rear’ immediate action drill. Kane, who is in the lead, steps to the side and wheels about, bringing the CAR to his shoulder as Thao and Merrick run past. He fires a magazine on automatic at the source of the enemy firing. Spins and runs after Merrick, dropping the mag and slamming a new one home, releasing the bolt and loading a round into the chamber as Thao does his turn firing to the rear.
They reach the intact jungle as its Merrick’s turn. He fires, then falls in behind as Kane does a quick compass check and makes a beeline for the PZ, fighting their way through the undergrowth. Kane halts two hundred meters from the PZ, considering, projecting, accepting harsh reality. He kneels, Merrick and Thao pressing against him, heads huddled. It is last light, day fading into darkness. They can hear shouts behind them, orders being yelled.
“They’ll have the PZ covered,” Kane says. There are only so many openings large enough to land a chopper in the area. The trip wire and flare indicate sophistication and planning on the part of the NVA .
“They knew we were coming,” Merrick says bitterly.
Kane points perpendicular to the route he’s been following. “E and E. Call in a prairie fire. Get Staboed out tomorrow night.”
Thao pulls out his pill box and hands each of them an amphetamine.
Green tracers tear through the jungle above their heads.
They run into the darkness.
Then they hear barking in the distance. The NVA have dogs on their scent.
13
Friday Evening,
12 August 1977
MEATPACKING DISTRICT,
MANHATTAN
It was an interesting group clustered around two tables pulled together in the center of the diner. An atlas was opened to the state in question. Shoulder to shoulder with Kane were Pope, Plaikos, Thao, Merrick, Kinsman and Mac. The latter two were sobering up fast with copious amounts of coffee.
Merrick had made the drive down from Fort Devens in record speed and was still in uniform, wearing jungle fatigues, his faded green beret stuffed in a cargo pocket. A Combat Infantry Badge with one star, indicating two wars, Korea and Vietnam, was sewn above a master parachutist badge. A dive school badge was below those. On his left shoulder was a Special Forces patch, indicating current unit. Above the arrowhead shape enclosing a dagger crossed by three lightning bolts and Airborne tab was a Ranger tab. The right shoulder patch, indicating combat unit, was the taro leaf of the 24th Infantry Division. Merrick had been soldiering for 27 years, beginning with being thrust into combat right out of boot camp into the Korean War. His truck was illegally parked outside and he’d brought in a duffel bag full of assorted gear and ‘goodies’ as contingency for whatever might come up in response to Kane’s ‘Prairie Fire’ phone call.
“First,” Kane said. “I want to make this very clear. This is my mission. I’m going alone.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Merrick said, still pissed he hadn’t been included on the IRA operation. “Before you go all hero on us, how about figuring out where exactly you’re going? Utah is a big state.”
“I’ll know once I call from Escalante,” Kane said.
Pope spoke up. “Crawford is originally from there. It’s a small town in southern Utah.” He indicated the page in the large atlas he’d hauled over from his apartment. “It’s empty out there. There’s an interesting side note regarding Crawford and Escalante a
nd the area.” He had a thick sheaf of papers, couriered over from his contacts at the Post and other sources. He’d been reading through it while they waited for Merrick to arrive. “There was an accident.” He pulled out a page. “Some Boy Scouts were heading out to the Colorado River to raft it before Lake Powell began filling. This was 1963. They went through Escalante. They had an accident on the way to the river. The place they planned on entering the river is called Hole In The Rock. The Scouts were from Provo Explorer Group 36, a chapter of the LDS, Latter Day Saints. Mormons. And one of those killed when their truck rolled was named Nez Crawford, age eighteen.”
“There was an eighth Flint Boy.” Kane thought about it. “Or Begay was the replacement for one of the seven originals. Where did this happen?”
“On the unimproved trail between Escalante and Hole in the Rock,” Pope said
Merrick slid the atlas over and perused it while Pope searched through stacks of pages.
“Okay. Hole in the Rock,” Pope said. “It’s tied up with the Mormons.” He glanced up, gauging his audience, then recalled bit and pieces from the article. “Real quick. The Mormons settled in the Great Salt Lake region in 1847. They spread out across most of Utah. However, it isn’t easy to get to southeast Utah from the center of the state. The Colorado River and large escarpments, collectively known as the Grand Escalante Staircase, are in the way. To go around means a trip of five hundred miles, so they sent scouts to find a shortcut. They discovered a crack in the western wall over the Colorado River. Which was two thousand feet below.”
“Two thousand feet?” Kane said. “That’s a long way down.”
“Yeah,” Pope agreed as he turned a page. “The notch was narrow, just wide enough to fit a wagon and sloped forty-five degrees down. They spent a winter prepping Hole in the Rock. Then they lowered their wagons and livestock and ferried across the Colorado River. This was long before the river was dammed and became a lake.”
Merrick had been comparing the atlas to one of Pope’s papers. He had an index card and drew two tick marks, then compared that to the legend. “It’s over sixty miles straight line from Escalante to Hole in the Rock. Nothing in between. You got the Escalante River to the left and this line of cliffs to the right. The accident had to have happened somewhere between. There’s no indication of any road on this map.”