The Second Saladin

by Stephen Hunter

  43

  At last there was peace.

  Ulu Beg slept a great while, arising to cleanse himself and to pray. He slept, he ate. He lay in the bed, staring at the ceiling. Hours passed, days perhaps.

  “We will simply have to go again,” Speshnev said in his crisp English, their common language.

  “Okay,” said Ulu Beg.

  “A vest,” said Speshnev. “A vest that can stop a Skorpion from close range. What a fine American invention.”

  “The head. Next time the head.”

  “Of course.”

  “But when?”

  “Soon, my friend. But for now, relax. Enjoy this place.”

  “Where are we?”

  “In the State of Maryland, on a peninsula. This old estate was built by a man who made millions of dollars manufacturing—cars? airplanes? washing machines? No. Mustard! For sausages. Ten thousand acres, gardens, pools, tennis courts, a nineteen-bedroom house, two guest houses, a collection of exquisite paintings, Chippendale furniture, rare old books. From mustard! And now the taxes are so high, only the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics can afford them!”

  The fat Russian smiled with great appreciation of his own humor; he had spoken with such precision that Ulu Beg was certain it was a treasured speech, delivered a thousand times before. He saw from the Russian’s expectant eyes that he was presumed to see the wit in it too, and he smiled politely, although he didn’t know what this “mustard” was.

  Rewarded, the Russian sat back. They were in an opulent bedroom of a guest cottage down a path from the main house. Outside, a pond in which swans glided gave way to a marsh. And from the front one could look and see three distinct zones: a meadow, a marsh, and a sparkling body of water, flat and calm. This world was green and blue—kesk o sheen in the Kurdish—and quiet. A gentle breeze frequently moved across it; it was a vision he took great sustenance from.

  “I am still overcome with what you managed to accomplish,” the Russian said. “You traveled across a foreign country to strike your blow. Then, having done so, you fled through an extensive manhunt. And when we finally made contact, you were planning your new attack. You are an extraordinary fellow.”

  The Russian’s technique was to flatter excessively. Ulu Beg had grown used to it; still, he wondered how much steel was beneath all this flab. The Russian had gray eyes—kind eyes, really—and blondish hair that in some lights was almost white. He wore rumpled suits and moved comically, yet this excess weight seemed also to conceal great strength. The Palestinians who had helped train Ulu Beg at the Raz Hilal Camp near Tokra, in Libya, called him, for reasons Ulu Beg never understood, Allahab, meaning, literally, The Flame. Ulu Beg took this to refer to the purity of his passion, his strength.

  “Do you need anything? A woman? A boy? We can arrange anything.”

  “I am content,” said the Kurd. He was somewhat offended; he was no buggering Arab. “Some rest. Freedom from pretending. Then another chance. This time I will not fail.”

  “Of course. The secret of my success—which is considerable, I might add—is simple. They ask me in Moscow, ‘Speshnev, how do you do it?’ ‘It’s easy,’ I tell them. ‘Quality people.’ I use them here. I use them in Mexico. I—”

  Ulu Beg blinked.

  “The best people,” Speshnev amplified.

  “Oh.” A compliment. The man would go to any length. “You are most kind.”

  “It’s only true,” Speshnev said.

  Ulu Beg nodded modestly. When would this fellow leave? The Russian’s warmth and nearness were overpowering. Ulu Beg felt suffocated in love. The Russian reached and touched his shoulder.

  “You are an inspirational man. Your story, your deeds, your heroism will last for centuries. Your people will make a great hero of you. They will sing songs.”

  But even as this ornate thought was expressed, it seemed to evaporate. The Russian rose gloomily, went to the window. He stared out of it painfully, not seeing the marsh and the sky and the bay. Russians were said to be a moody people. How quickly they changed.

  “It is the contrast,” he said. “I cannot stand it. It hurts me. It physically hurts me. The contrast between you and the other.”

  He brooded on the placid landscape. In the radiant light, his hair became almost pink, the color of his jowly face.

  “The other?” said Ulu Beg.

  “Yes,” said Speshnev. “The man who troubles my dreams.”

  “A man troubles mine too,” said Ulu Beg.

  “But not the same man. You think of the larger betrayal, the historical betrayal, the political betrayal. Of your people, as an act of state by the Americans to advance their own cause. You think of Danzig and the justice denied you, the justice deferred. You think of cold-blooded calculations made thousands of miles away by men in suits looking at maps. I think of something hotter, more immediately personal.”

  Ulu Beg followed nothing of these Russian ravings, moody wanderings through a gloomy landscape. The intensity was surprising, for in his normal life the man was the jovial type.

  “I think of a man with a talent, a great genius. The talent is for evil. He is an artist, inspired, a poet.”

  Ulu Beg looked at him uncomprehendingly. Yet the Russian seemed not to notice and plunged madly on.

  “You know, in this business it is not uncommon to get to know your opponent. Most often he is a chap such as yourself—decent, hardworking, a man you can respect, a man whom you could befriend were it not for the obvious politics. Yet once in a career one encounters what can only be called this talent for evil. It is not cold; it is hot. It is a kind of lust or need or obsession. A fervor. An absolutism that has nothing whatsoever to do with cause. It has no motive other than selfhood. It is the highest human vanity. I speak of a man who would sell his brother or torture someone helpless, not for politics or adventure but purely for the sensation of ego triumphant.”

  The short man gestured violently. Ulu Beg watched him, befuddled and unsure. Where was all this taking them? What significance had it? He had a terrible feeling of increasing complexity—what had been so simple must now take on another dimension.

  “I speak,” said the Russian, “of the man you call Jardi.”

  “But, Colonel—”

  “Stop. If you thought you knew this man, you do not. You know only a part of him, a part he allowed you to see. You know the soldier. But let me tell you another story.”

  Ulu Beg nodded.

  “After we captured him, I girded myself for the struggle, knowing full well how tough he’d be. He was, after all, an operative, a professional, for the American intelligence service. But such was not the case; in fact, exactly the opposite happened. He saw immediately how tight a bind he was in, where his best interests lay. And thus he did more than cooperate or collaborate. He gave us your group, for his own skin, but also, I tell you truly, for his own pleasure, his own pride. I confess I was shaken by this, perhaps even intimidated. I knew I should kill him, take him off the surface of the earth. Yet I hesitated; who could kill a helpless man? That indecision cost me dearly. He quickly insinuated his way into the favor of the Iraqis. I couldn’t touch him. In fact, the last twist, the helicopter deceit: that was his idea. I argued against it—we had won, after all, by then. But no, he insisted on a gesture. Think of the future, he told the Iraqis; here is a chance to make a gesture of such contempt, no Kurd would face the light for a thousand years. After all, he maintained, Ulu Beg is famous; let his end become famous as well.

  “I tried to convince them, to dissuade them, to make them see reason. Be reasonable, I pleaded. But he had won them over.

  “Do you know no Russian pilot would fly that mission? No, our boys would have no part of it. The Iraqis flew it themselves. And Chardy went along!

  “Naturally, I lodged a formal protest. But then I was arrested. He had me arrested! He had convinced the Iraqis that my opposition to the mission proved I was a traitor to their cause.

  “They took me to a cellar, Ulu
Beg, in that same prison where I found you years later. And Chardy interrogated me. Ulu Beg, can you imagine what he used on me? He used a blowtorch. He burned six holes in my body. I fought him for six days; I fought with all my might and will, Ulu Beg. And finally, when I was nearly dead, he brought me to the point of confession. I would have signed anything at that point. But somehow I found the will to resist one last hour. I lasted six and a half days, Ulu Beg, under the crudest of torments. Insects picked at my wounds. He mocked my beliefs; he used the name of the woman I loved against me. It was a profane performance. I was only saved at the desperate intervention of my own people, who at last located me. Chardy disappeared soon thereafter. I never saw him after the cell.”

  He looked at Ulu Beg. He was perspiring quite heavily now, in the memory of his ordeal.

  “You see how our quests are united, Ulu Beg. You will kill Joseph Danzig. And I will kill Paul Chardy.”

  44

  The postman was in a cruel mood that evening. He took somebody out with an elbow and people started staying away from him. After a while it got a little ridiculous and Chardy said, “Hey, listen, you’re playing way out of control, man. Just calm it down. You haven’t—” and the postman hit him in the mouth.

  “Watch yo’ face, motherfuckin’ white trashman. Watch yo’ fuckin’ mouth.”

  Chardy picked himself up from the asphalt. A black circle formed around him.

  “All right,” he said. “No problem. Didn’t mean anything.”

  Then he dropped the postman with a shot to the cheekbone.

  He was never sure who called the ambulance. It seemed to get there awfully fast. There was a great deal of confusion and he was explaining everything to a young cop.

  “You better stay off this playground,” the cop said. “You want to play basketball, you go to the suburbs. Go out to the University of Maryland. Go to the Y. But don’t come here, and then when they shove you around, don’t punch anybody. We find bodies out here all the time, mister. I don’t want to have to find yours.”

  “You better let us check it out,” the medic said. “Your pupils look a little dilated. You might have a concussion and they can be tricky. You might need some stitches to close that cut. You got Blue Cross?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then let us check you out, man. Just to be safe.”

  “My car’s here. I’m not going to any hospital.”

  “In the wagon, man. Let me look at that eye in the wagon.”

  “All right. Christ.”

  He climbed into the back of the ambulance and the medic opened his black bag and took out a .357 magnum and said, “Now just relax, Mr. Chardy.”

  They took him to a small Catholic hospital in Southeast Washington, Saint Teresa’s, and led him in, handcuffed, through a loading dock, up an old freight elevator, and down a quiet hall to what at one time must have been an operating theater but was now just a high-ceilinged room with tables and a few blackboards about, where a single man waited.

  “Unlock him. Sorry. You like to do these things neatly. You’re being watched, of course.”

  “Who the hell are you? What’s going on?” Chardy asked angrily.

  “Just sit down and relax. They say you’ve got a temper, but try to control it. Just for once, okay? Here, this’ll help.” He opened his wallet and showed off the card, which sported a photo of a square, blocky face next to an announcement of the presence, in official capacity, of Leo Bennis, Special Agent of the Federal Bureau of investigation. Chardy looked from the plastic-covered image to the real Leo Bennis, softer in life and a little older, and smiling mildly.

  “Howdy,” Bennis said. “You’re a hard man to track down.”

  “Feds. What the hell do you want?”

  “Let’s say we’ve become fascinated recently with a certain situation.”

  “Make an appointment with Mr. Lanahan. He’s the boss now. He’s a very busy man. He can probably see you sometime next spring.”

  “Paul, you’re so hostile. You’re seething with hostilities and resentments. Just calm down. Be nice.”

  “This is your party. You set it up; you brought it off. Get to the point.”

  “We always get this when we deal with the Agency. You people are such prima donnas. You think you’re such gods.”

  “I think I’d like to go. Is this official? Are you making an arrest? No? Then I think I’d like to go.”

  “Paul, I saw a movie last night. Let me tell you about it. It was a western.”

  “Bennis, just what the fu—”

  “It was about an old gunfighter, a cowboy. Off teaching school. Suddenly his old outfit asks him to buckle his guns on again. Sure, he says, why not? Anything for the old outfit. But my, my, some strange things begin happening. To name just one, he goes out to see the widow of an old chum. All of a sudden, bingo, in the middle of the day, off he goes. And when two of his pals tag along, he ditches them very neatly. He knows what he’s doing, this old cowboy. Of course he doesn’t ditch us. Because we know what we’re doing too.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Overhead. Chopper. We had six cars. Nobody was with you for more than a mile, and the chopper coordinated it all. I was in the chopper, Paul. We’ve got quite a unit going on this thing.” He smiled.

  Chardy looked at him. “Okay, so it’s a big deal to you. So what?”

  “Back to the movie, Paul. Why’d the cowboy go to the widow? Did the cowboy smoke out some kind of link that might put the pieces together for everybody?”

  “Maybe he’s just a sentimentalist.”

  “Won’t wash. Then why bother to drop the Agency tail? Why doesn’t he want the Agency to know he’s a sentimentalist? In fact, there’s all kinds of things he hasn’t told the Agency. He hasn’t told them about his nephew in Mexico. He sends the nephew money, his own money, from his own pocket. Everybody else thinks the nephew is dead. Now isn’t that curious? What do you suppose is going on in the western, Paul?”

  “I never go to movies.”

  “I don’t either. Hate ’em, in fact. But I’m kind of worried about this old coot. He’s playing an awfully funny game. And we’re only beginning to catch on to how funny this game is. What’s the Agency trying to pull, Paul? How come they sent losers like Trewitt and Speight down to Nogales under Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms cover? How far out is Ver Steeg? How far in is little Lanahan? How come the Agency requested us to program our computer to kick out any dope on seven-six-five Czech auto pistol ammo? And, on the other hand, never requested assistance in looking for Ulu Beg? Our people are good, Paul. They could have helped. Except they would have had to ask a lot of questions, Paul. And maybe somebody doesn’t want a lot of questions asked.”

  “They must hire you guys for your imagination. You ought to write books. Are you done? Can I go?”

  “Oh, I wish you’d be my friend, Paul. I really do.”

  “It’s getting late.”

  “Just remember what happens to the solo artists, Paul. Give it some thought. This business eats up the solo artists. Frenchy tried to go solo, and he got waxed, didn’t he? And Old Bill, in the sewer. Teamwork, backup units, technical support, infrared surveillance, computerized files—that’s the ticket now.”

  “Go back to the movies, Leo. There’s nothing anywhere that says I have to help feds poking around.”

  Bennis smiled. He had a bland government-issue face, an office face, baked in twenty years of fluorescent light. He was pudgy, in his forties, with sandy hair.

  “Paul, I know you think I’m just a cop. Right? A cop here to horn in on a wobbly Agency operation, a red-hunter, a security goon hungry for a bust. That’s what you think.”

  “I don’t know what your game is. I just don’t want fifty guys crashing in on me. I have to work this thing out on my own. I really do. You want to recruit me? Sorry. I’m working strictly for myself.”

  “Let me ask you, Paul, you think that kid can hack it down there? That’s bandit country. A cowboy like you, mayb
e. But that kid? That’s some first string you’re running. A beat-up old cowboy and a kid four years out of college, held together by a nun in Illinois, and up against you don’t even know what, except that you know people keep getting dropped, and nobody can get a line on Ulu Beg. You’re the one with the imagination if you think you’re going to get anything out of it except what Speight got. Here, let me show you something. Take a look at this.”

  He handed Chardy a typescript with several lines underscored in red.

  Chardy read it.

  “Where the hell did this come from?”

  “Came into Johanna’s apartment long-distance, the day after she died. We’ve managed to track down the guy that answered; he’s a Boston cop who was there as part of the civil investigation. He didn’t know anything about you or Ulu Beg or the Agency. He said he’d take the message in case he ran into you. But he never did. He must have forgotten. Cops—you can’t trust ’em.”

  It was a wiretap transcript of Sister Sharon trying to reach Chardy with a message from Trewitt.

  “He sounds like he’s onto something. And he’s in trouble,” Chardy said.

  “We got it two days ago from one of your Technical Services people up in Boston who was closing down the tap on her phone. And our next step was to put an intercept on any Western Union messages that came through to you care of your old school. This just came through and it’s why we decided to bring you in tonight.”

  Chardy read:

  UNC WHERE YOU? HAVE JEWELS NEED HELP BAD BANDITOS ABOUT EL PLOMO MEX NEPHEW JIM

  “El Plomo’s a town in the Carrizai mountains, west of Nogales, just over the border. The message was sent Tuesday by a Mexican national. It looks like Nephew Jim’s out on a very dangerous limb. Now we could go to the Agency about this, go to Miles Lanahan ano!—”

  “No,” Chardy said.

  “No, of course not. So what we’re going to do, Paul, is we’re going to go down there, yes we are; we’re putting together a little party tonight just for that. You see, Paul, we do like you. We want you to come along.”