Reign in Hell

by William Diehl

  “I was thinking of something else, Mr. President. Jonathan Swift said it: ‘It is a great disadvantage to fight with those who have nothing to lose.’ I think Martin Vail understands that. We made a promise to him. His people are working night and day on the RICO cases.”

  He looked at her without expression. “Good night, Marge,” he said. She looked at him for a moment more and left.

  Pennington went back to the sofa and took a sip of his drink.

  “Okay,” he said, “where were we? How big a force are we talking about, Billy?”

  “I would defer to the Army on that.”

  “Then I think I should bring in Jesse James and get an expert opinion.”

  Brandon “Jesse” James was General of the Army and a former deputy to Pennington. He was a gung-ho commander who had been compared to Patton because of his garrulous and independent nature. He was also the best field officer Pennington had ever met.

  “Will he do it?” Hardiston asked.

  “I’ll talk to him. Just the two of us, man-to-man.”

  “Jesse has a mind of his own,” Hooker said.

  “Well, the bottom line is, he’ll do whatever the hell his commander in chief tells him to do.”

  “Do you think there’s a danger military action will provoke more terrorist attacks? Or will they back off?” Hooker asked.

  There was a lull. Pennington looked at Hardistan, who raised an eyebrow for an answer.

  “That depends on the body count,” the President replied.

  CHAPTER 27

  The cab driver stared through the passenger window at the minister. He was dressed in a heavy black coat, a black felt hat, and a gray suit with a backward collar. He sat, leaning on his cane, on a bench overlooking the Oklahoma City park where the Alfred B. Murrah Building had once stood.

  Aaron Stampler, now known as Abraham, had pushed his contacts down under his lower lids and was staring ahead through his sunglasses, past the wire fence draped with toys, flowers, and photographs of the victims. He felt his pulse quicken as he imagined the moment the truck had blown up. In his mind he saw half the building slide away, smelled the odor of fire and death, heard the clamor of destruction and the chaotic screams that followed it, saw the ruined building with wires dangling from it like entrails.

  A masterpiece, he thought.

  “Excuse me, Reverend.”

  He turned slightly in the direction of the voice, saw the young woman standing beside him. She was holding a bunch of flowers and there was a gentle smile on her face.

  “Yes?”

  “I couldn’t help noticing you. I thought perhaps I might describe the park for you.”

  “What a nice thought,” he said. “But I prefer to remember it as it was.”

  “You’ve been here before?”

  “No, but it’s been described to me.”

  “Did you lose someone in the explosion?”

  He thought of the bomber. “Yes,” he said.

  “I’m sorry. I’ll just go on, then,” she said.

  “Thank you. You’re very kind.”

  “I lost my family here,” she said, and moved away.

  Abraham sat for another two or three minutes and savored the moments, then went back to the cab.

  “Airport,” he told the cabby.

  He was surprised that the Sorcerer was familiar with the Oklahoma City jetport. Abraham’s simple message had said: “Sorcerer. Will be making a stop over at the Oklahoma City airport tomorrow, ten to noon. Hope to see you then. Fisherman.”

  The answer was just as simple: “Fisherman: Concourse Two. Brogen’s. Ten A. Sorcerer.”

  Brogen’s was a restaurant with a bar facing the concourse walkway. Abraham sat down at the bar and ordered a diet Coke. The phone rang and the bartender snatched it up, listened a moment, then cupped the mouthpiece:

  “Anybody at the bar who calls himself the ‘Fisherman’?” he asked.

  Abraham waved his hand. “That would be me,” he said. The bartender was surprised. He handed him the portable phone.

  “Thank you,” Abraham said. “This is Simon Peter,” he said into the phone.

  “You didn’t mention you were blind.”

  “It didn’t come up.”

  “Go down the concourse to your left. Gate C is the second gate down on your right. There’s nobody there right now, the gate doesn’t get a flight for two hours. Go to the back of the waiting area. There’s a row of chairs there. Count six seats over and sit down.” The line went dead.

  Abraham laid two dollars on the bar, thanked the bartender, and left. He walked close to the wall on the right, pretending to feel his way along with the cane. When he reached Gate C, he followed Sorcerer’s instructions.

  Clever, he thought. Six seats over faced the wall. No window, no reflection. He sat down on the sixth chair and waited.

  Across the concourse, Woodbine watched the blind man feeling his way down the walkway with his cane. He had chin whiskers and was dressed in black and gray. Woodbine turned into the gate area, found the seat and sat down, then waited for two or three minutes. Nobody was following Simon Peter. Woodbine who walked across to the gate and took a chair directly behind him, who opened a copy of USA Today and held it high enough to conceal his face but low enough to see over the top.

  “I’m the Sorcerer,” Woodbine said in a low voice.

  “Simon Peter,” Abraham answered, then added, “the Fisherman, if you know your Bible.”

  “You look like a Mormon preacher.”

  “No, just a plain old Baptist Bible thumper.”

  “No offense.”

  “Of course not. Some of my best friends are Mormons.”

  “How come you picked Oklahoma City?” Woodbine asked.

  “I wanted to visit the Murrah site. I wanted to get a sense of that masterpiece of business.”

  “Masterpiece my ass. He fucked the job up royally. That’s what happens when you send an amateur to do a pro’s work. Piss-poor planning and his getaway program was ridiculous.”

  “Well, I got a certain amount of joy out of just being there, imagining what it was like. The whole side of the building collapsing. All the confusion. The sirens, people screaming, the smell of fertilizer and oil. I relived it in my imagination.”

  “You’re one sick puppy, Reverend.”

  “And you’re not?”

  “I’m a businessman. If there wasn’t a call for my services, I’d be selling hardware for a living.”

  “Do you enjoy it?”

  “What the hell kind of question is that?”

  “Just curious. You’re infinitely efficient. I figure a man that good has to enjoy his work.”

  “I get a certain satisfaction out of it. The tougher the job, the better it tastes. I don’t take just any job, you know. I like to think what I do contributes something to society.”

  “I admire your rationale.”

  “Let me tell you something, I don’t share the General’s viewpoint. The Army taught me a trade, made me very proficient at it. I’ve got nothing at all against the government. But if the General wants something done, it’ll get done. I owe him that. I’ll always owe him that.”

  “Loyalty is an admirable trait.”

  “You’re not loyal to him?”

  “I share his doctrine.”

  “You want to get your ass handed to you on some mountainside in Mon-fucking-tana?”

  “It may not happen that way.”

  “Yeah, I know. You’re all going to hide out in the hills and make guerrilla raids on shopping centers and filling stations and hang judges and shoot forest rangers.”

  “It’s a wake-up call. Things have to change in the country. We can’t let the niggers and Jews keep running it into the ground.”

  “I’ve got no complaints, Reverend. Things have gone very well for me. I may even retire.”

  “Hopefully you have time for one more job.”

  “Is it challenging?”

  “Oh yes, I think it
will easily meet your criteria.”

  “Who’s the mark?”

  “You watch television.”

  “A lot more than you do.”

  They both laughed.

  “A good one,” Abraham said. “You recognize the name Martin Vail?”

  “The lawyer who was with Hardistan in Ohio. He’s with the Justice Department now, isn’t he?”

  “Assistant Attorney General, to be exact. A special prosecutor. He’s aiming his big guns at the Sanctuary. Challenging enough for you?”

  “It shows promise. You realize, of course, if you take him out, there will be more just like him.”

  “No, he’s unique, Sorcerer.”

  “You know him.”

  “Our paths have crossed.”

  Abraham took a key from his pocket and laid it on the armrest of his chair.

  “There’s a locker key here. The locker’s in the first bank after you leave the baggage pickup. There’s a file on Vail in the locker. Clippings, articles, a videotape. He lives in a penthouse in downtown Chicago, but one of the articles mentions a secluded cabin where he likes to get away from things. Trouble is, nobody knows where it is.”

  “I wouldn’t call that a problem. I found whatsisname, didn’t I?”

  “Pure genius. That’s why I’m here.”

  “He’s going to have a lot of weight around him.”

  “Two or three FBIs all the time. That worry you?”

  “Of course not, getting to him isn’t going to be the problem. Getting out after it’s done is the problem. Always is.”

  “I’m sure you’ll figure that out.”

  “Oh yeah. How much will the freight bear?”

  “A hundred. Usual arrangements. Half deposited in your bank before the end of the day, the other fifty when it’s done. Sound fair?”

  “If that’s what the General can afford, then it’s fair.”

  “Out of curiosity, what would the fee on this job normally be?”

  “Oh, I probably wouldn’t touch it for less than a quarter mil.”

  “Maybe you can write the other one-fifty off as a charitable contribution.”

  “Very funny.”

  “So I can tell the General it’s done?”

  “I’ll need a couple of days.”

  “I understand. This is a matter of some urgency. The weekend’s coming up. He’ll probably be at the cabin.”

  “It will be done as fast as it can be done.”

  “The General will be delighted.”

  “Good. Now if you’ll just stay the way you are for five minutes, I’ll be on my way.”

  Woodbine’s hand reached between the seats and gathered up the locker key.

  “Good luck with the Apocalypse.”

  And he was gone.

  Abraham waited for a few seconds and turned slightly, peering from the corner of his eye. All he saw was a stooped old man in a knee-length coat shuffling down the concourse toward the main terminal.

  CHAPTER 28

  The house, a two-story red brick structure with a wide front porch, was on a quiet street in a small village which boasted that its local hotel, the King’s Inn, now a bed and breakfast, had been host to George Washington during the Revolutionary War. There was a tree house in the empty lot across the street and a two-wheeler lying on its side on the lawn next door. It was a house out of time and place, from an era when people never locked their doors and drive-by shootings were unheard of. The mailbox was neatly lettered:

  Colonel Scott and Mrs. Barbara Grimes

  424 Hawthorne Avenue

  Latimore parked the car on the street and walked up a long sloping driveway to a brick path leading to the front door. The doorbell was answered by a pleasant woman in her early fifties wearing a plain housedress.

  “Mrs. Grimes?” Latimore asked.

  “Mrs. Grimes passed away two years ago,” she said. “I’m Alice, the colonel’s housekeeper.”

  Latimore showed her his identification. “My name’s Harrison Latimore, U.S. Attorney General’s office. I have an appointment with the colonel.”

  “Yes, Mr. Latimore, he’s expecting you. Come in, please.”

  She led him through a small entrance hall to a bright sun room. A staircase led to the second floor, and there were French doors facing it, opening onto a terrace. The walls were covered with photographs of Grimes, a sturdy man with brown hair, in the company of soldiers, receiving a medal, standing with a group of officers in the jungle.

  She walked around the room and pulled lace curtains across the windows, the rings zinging across the brass rods.

  “The colonel has a problem with his eyes,” she said. “Bright sunlight is painful for him, and he absolutely refuses to wear sunglasses indoors. Says he’s not a movie star.”

  Latimore chuckled along with her. She went to the foot of the stairs and rang a small dinner bell.

  “Colonel,” she called up the stairs, “you have a visitor.”

  “Is it Gary?” a thin, reedy voice asked.

  “No, Colonel, it’s the stranger.”

  “The stranger! Well. Right down.”

  Latimore was shocked when he saw Grimes. He came down the stairs slowly, holding both railings and taking a step at a time. He was dressed in an old terry bathrobe and furry slippers, his face so ravaged by time and circumstance it was impossible to guess what he had looked like in his prime. His hair, haphazardly combed, was dirty gray, and there was a white stubble of beard on his cheeks, a day or two’s growth. His eyes, once blue, were faded and lifeless. His arms were mere stalks, the skin white, the veins so close to the surface one could see his heart beating in his forearms. He was wearing only a yellowed upper plate and his lower lips sagged inward, and occasionally he tapped his mouth with a white handkerchief embroidered with his initials. His voice was a quivering memory and he gasped for breath between every sentence.

  “You have a guest, Colonel Charlie,” the housekeeper said kindly. “Mr. Latimore here came all the way from Washington to see you.”

  “Oh,” he said in a faraway voice. “Thank you. That’s very nice. Don’t get many visitors anymore, do we, Alice? Let me see, the last one was from an insurance company. Thought I’d passed.” He cackled at the thought. He offered a hand that was skeletal and tremoring with palsy. “Washington, you say? Are you from the Army?”

  “No sir,” Latimore said. “Remember we talked? I’m from the Attorney General’s office.”

  “Ah, well. VIP, eh?”

  “Not really, sir,” Latimore said with a smile.

  “Have a seat over here by the window,” the old man said, motioning to a small table with two chairs near an alcoved window.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “What time is it, please?”

  “Three-fifteen.”

  Grimes turned to Alice. “May I have it now?” he asked.

  “If you wish.”

  “Perhaps Mister, uh…”

  “Latimore. Just call me Harrison.”

  “Mr. Latimore, would you like something to drink?” he asked.

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  Alice whisked quietly out of the room. The old man squinted his eyes and stared through the thin curtains.

  “Looks like a nice day,” he said.

  “Yes it is, sir.”

  “You have nice manners, young man.”

  “Thank you. My mom would be glad to hear you say that.”

  Alice returned with a bottle of Sappora beer and a single cigarette on a napkin. He took the bottle in both hands, stared at it almost reverently, licked his lips, brought it slowly to his mouth, and took a deep swallow. He closed his eyes and sighed.

  “I saw a movie last night on the video,” he said. “What was that movie, Alice?”

  “Ace Ventura.”

  “Silly, but it made me laugh,” he said, and took another measured swallow of beer. “Do you have a match?” he asked.

  “Sorry,” Latimore said. “I don’t smoke.”

&n
bsp; “Good for you. Alice?”

  She lit the cigarette with a Zippo lighter. He very slowly inhaled, holding the smoke for a few moments, letting it out in a rush.

  “Colonel Grimes, I’d like you to take a look at a photograph and tell me something about the men in it.”

  Latimore slid the photograph of the Specter squad across the table. The old man took out a pair of rimless glasses and slowly and laboriously hooked them over his ears. When he focused on the picture, he looked shocked. His hand started to shake harder and he turned the photograph over and slid it back across the table to Latimore.

  “I don’t think so,” he said, and took another drag on his cigarette. “Don’t think what, sir?”

  “Don’t think I remember.”

  “Take another look, Colonel. It’s important.”

  The old man smiled and shook his head. “Nothing’s important to me anymore, son. And most of what should be I’d rather forget.”

  “Please take another look.”

  Grimes looked at him through misty eyes. “Why would you dig all this up now? Let ’em all rest in peace, if they ever could.”

  “We need to know how many of the men in that photograph survived the war, sir.”

  “If they did, I wouldn’t call it survival.”

  “Please try.”

  “Son, I’m an alcoholic,” the old man said, stopping at every sentence to take a breath. “One beer a day, every sip is ecstasy. I have emphysema. Four cigarettes a day, more if I can sneak ’em. I was an athlete once. Now I struggle to go up the stairs. I once wrote poetry, not very good poetry, but it gave me pleasure. Now my hands are so full of palsy I can barely hold a pencil. Every word is a struggle. I once loved a beautiful woman, now I’m impotent and she’s dead. Why am I alive, young fellow? My body is rotten, my brain, my lungs, my balls, everything has given out, but here I am. And all those young men. All those young men, dead in swamps and filthy rivers or worse, corrupted by me and others like me. Did I know these men? I was a major in the headquarters company, of course I knew these men. They came to me, some of them just children, and I sent them off into the jungle and never saw them again. Oh, I heard stories, we all heard stories. Verbal nightmares. What they did. What was done to them. Engstrom always brought his dead back, you know. Why bother? We would send our young warriors to Engstrom and then their service records would be sent someplace, then someplace else, then someplace else, and eventually they would end up in a cardboard box and thrown in a fire. Young men fighting for their country and then betrayed. Erased. They said it was to protect them. What a joke. It was to protect the government. To protect the Army. To conceal what the Army asked of Engstrom and what he did to them in the name of patriotism and love of country. What he did to their souls. What we all did to their souls.”