The Second Saladin

by Stephen Hunter

  The van was gone.

  Oh, Christ, he thought.

  But a car wheeled up to him and a door flew open and he recognized some of the Bureau people.

  “Where’s Chardy?”

  “Get in, for Christ’s sake,” somebody commanded.

  “Where’s Chardy?”

  “Get in, goddammit. Danzig’s flown. There’s a flap.”

  The news staggered him. He could see Danzig having finally broken; he knew he should be there. Danzig alone, confused, walking the streets. There’d be a huge mess-up at Operations.

  He jumped in.

  “I’ve got to reach Chardy. Is he on a radio net or something?”

  “Everybody’s on the net tonight,” somebody up front said, and reached back to hand him a microphone. “You’re Hosepipe Three. Chardy’s Hosepipe One. Our headquarters is Candelabra.”

  Miles snorted. The Bureau’s idiotic games. He pressed the mike button and, feeling silly, said, “Hosepipe One, this is Hosepipe Three. Do you read? Are you there? Paul, are you—”

  The response was instantaneous and furious.

  “Hosepipe Three, this is Candelabra, get the hell off the air, we need this channel!”

  “Screw you, Candelabra. Hosepipe One, this is Hosepipe Three. Chardy. Chardy, it’s Miles, goddammit!”

  But there was no answer.

  Ulu Beg waited for his eyes to adjust to a dark that was less than total. Signs glowed on pillars; one far door was ajar, throwing a long slash of light through the chamber. Shadows fell away from this streak of light across the cement and he knew that to step into it would be to die.

  But he did not care. Only Danzig mattered.

  “Ulu Beg, listen to me.” The voice rang through the low space.

  But Ulu Beg did not listen. Instead, lying flat on his stomach, the silenced Skorpion in the crook of his arm, he slithered ahead like a lizard.

  Had Danzig moved? Ulu Beg guessed not. He wasn’t a man for much motion, no matter what the circumstances. He looked for a sign of the man but could pick nothing out in the dark.

  “Ulu Beg,” Chardy shouted, “it’s a Russian game. This fat man means nothing.”

  Ulu Beg slithered ahead.

  “Ulu Beg. The Russian, Speshnev, killed your sons.”

  Ulu Beg crawled ahead. He would not listen. But a memory of his sons came over him again, now at this ultimate instant. His sons: their smell, which he had loved so, gone. Their delicate lashes, their perfect fingers, their soft breathing, their quickness and boundless energy—gone. The memory convulsed him. He heard Speshnev instructing him in Libya: “Danzig killed your sons, betrayed them, made them die.” He’d had a photograph of the bodies. “Look. From an office in America ten thousand miles away he decreed death to the troublesome Kurds, death to your boys.”

  Let me be strong just another minute, he thought. Then kill me, Chardy. Kill me.

  “Ulu Beg. Don’t make me kill you,” Chardy called.

  “For God’s sake”—Danzig, sobbing from nearby—“save me, Chardy, oh, God, save me, please.”

  With a scream that was a sob, Ulu Beg rose and fired a clip at the voice. The hot shells poured from the breech and the stench of powder rose and he could see sparks where the bullets struck. Ricochets whined about. Then the bolt locked back: he was out of ammunition.

  He jammed in a new magazine.

  He searched around in the darkness and could see nothing. He looked back and heard sobbing ahead. He swung the metal stock over the piece, locking it in place. He rose and walked to Danzig. He found the fat man next to the door, weeping softly.

  “Naman,” he said.

  “Don’t!”

  It was Chardy, so close behind him he could almost feel the breath. “Don’t. Please don’t.”

  The van pulled up.

  “Colonel, are you sure?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Speshnev. “It’s quite necessary.”

  “We have technicians,” said the younger man. “Men of great skill and experience.”

  “Stepanovich, you always think of me, don’t you? I’m touched. But I’ve some experience myself. And I’ve been looking forward for some time to this.”

  “I wish you’d let me send some backup people along.”

  “Oh, no. Too cumbersome. Wouldn’t think of it.”

  “You’re sure, Colonel?”

  “No, I’m quite fine,” Speshnev said. He smiled. The damp warm air had somewhat disarranged his hair. He turned in the cab, opened the door, and stepped out.

  “You’ve got the device?”

  “Of course,” Speshnev said. “Right in here.” He tapped himself just under the arm, and the young man knew it to be a standard KGB silent killing device, a tiny CO2 pistol that fired small pellets of a traceless microtoxin.

  “And just in case?”

  “Of course, Stepanovich. The Luger.”

  He smiled, and the younger man marveled at his calmness. His whole operation hung in the balance and the old man himself was going to push it the final step. The younger man, by temperament a sentimentalist, wanted to weep in admiration. But he controlled himself as he watched the colonel head for the building.

  “Don’t! Please don’t,” Chardy heard himself urge with insane civility. He had the Ingram trained on the Kurd from a range of about fifteen yards. It seemed, in the passion of the second, immensely heavy. It was hot to his touch. He could feel his fingers on it, sense its weight, its warmth, its cruel details.

  “Don’t,” he cried again. He could feel his voice quaver, grow phlegmy. It was so dark; the seconds seemed to be rushing past.

  The Kurd was absolutely still, frozen against a pillar, his own weapon before him.

  “It’s a trick,” Chardy began to argue. If he could just explain it all. “It’s a Russian trick. It goes way back, it—”

  He wished he could breathe. He could feel the perspiration forming on his body. It was so hot down here; it smelled of cars, of gas.

  “Speshnev,” he thought to say. If he could get that part out, make him see that part of it. “It’s Speshnev—”

  “CHARDY KILL HIM!” Danzig screamed. “CHARDY STOP HIM!” The voice echoed in the chamber.

  Ulu Beg’s head moved just an inch in the darkness.

  “CHARDY! OH CHARDY SAVE ME JESUS!”

  “Speshnev killed—”

  “CHARDY KILL HIM KILL HIM JESUS!”

  “It’s the Russian, it’s Speshnev, it’s—”

  “CHARDY GODDAM—”

  Ulu Beg brought the Skorpion to his shoulder and Chardy heard a weapon fire a long burst. The Kurd fell to the pavement, the machine pistol clattering away. Blood ran from his mouth and out his nose and his eyes were open.

  Chardy looked down at the Ingram and pretended to be amazed that he’d fired. It had just happened, almost accidentally: a twitch, the slightest, faintest tremor of nerve running from a secret part of his brain down his spine and arm to the finger, and the weapon, its orchestration of springs and latches and chambers and pins set in motion, had fired eleven times in less than two seconds.

  No.

  You did it, Chardy thought.

  You did it.

  Chardy walked to the man. He searched for a pulse, found none. He reached and closed the two eyes and the mouth. He set the Ingram down and tried to roll the Kurd to his right side. But it would not work; the man kept slipping forward sloppily. Chardy was trying to get it right.

  “My God,” said Danzig, suddenly just behind him. “He could have killed me. You stood there for an hour. Chardy, you bastard. Do you think this is some kind of a game? My God, Chardy, you bastard.”

  Chardy at last stood, gripping the Ingram. He put it on safety. A terrible grief and rage filled his head. He swung and hit Danzig across the face, under the eye, with the heavy silencer, driving him down. The man lay on the floor among spent shells. It occurred to Chardy that he might have killed him and it occurred to him he didn’t care.

  He looked back at the K
urd, who lay untidily, half on his side, half flat, legs twisted, face blank.

  He explained to the corpse:

  See, they have this way of putting you in a jam where you have to do the only thing in the world you don’t want to, but you have to. It always works out that way. That’s how it worked with Frenchy and Johanna and with …

  At last he backed away. He could smell the burnt powder from his last burst. It clung in his nose and seemed to work through his capillaries as it climbed into his head.

  He tried to figure out what to do next and after some effort remembered he’d taken a radio unit. He fished into his jacket, pulled it out and snapped it on.

  “Candelabra,” he said without emotion, “this is Hosepipe One.”

  The unit crackled. It wasn’t receiving down here. He looked at it with disgust and almost threw it against the wall.

  Do your fucking job. I did mine.

  But then it spoke in a burst of grating energy.

  “—dy! Chardy! Chardy!”

  Another voice cut in.

  “Hosepipe Three, this is Candelabra. I said get the hell off the air.”

  Chardy spoke quickly.

  “Hosepipe Three, this is One. It’s Chardy Do you read?”

  “Paul? It’s Miles.”

  “Hosepipe One, this is Candelabra. Request position. Can you give your position. Chardy, where the fuck are you?”

  “Paul, listen. Listen, Jesus—”

  “Is he there?” the man in front said.

  Miles tried again. “Hosepipe One? Hosepipe One? Goddammit, Paul?” He turned to them. “I can’t raise him. He’s off the net.”

  “Hosepipe Three, this is Candelabra. Did you get a fix on Chardy?”

  Somebody grabbed the mike from Lanahan. “Candelabra, we’ve lost him.”

  “Did you get an acknowledgment?”

  “He was there,” Miles said. “He heard me.”

  “Candelabra, this is Three,” said the man up front next to the driver. “We didn’t get a fix either. We were barely receiving him. He must have been under something.”

  They drove on in silence.

  “What’s he up to?” Miles asked nobody in particular as the car raced down the parkway toward Key Bridge and Washington.

  Nobody answered him.

  Yost Ver Steeg was the first to arrive. He walked from the elevator across the cement, coming out of the light, his feet snapping on the pavement.

  Chardy, leaning wearily against the pillar with his headache and his grief, watched him come.

  “Hello, Paul. My people are on their way.”

  “Hello, Yost. I expected Sam.”

  “Sam can’t make it, Paul. Well, you tried. But you couldn’t quite bring it off.”

  “No. No, goddammit.”

  “It’s a pity too. Because the Soviet operation had already come apart.”

  “I know it had.”

  “I figured you did, Paul. I thought something was going on in that head of yours. I wish you’d come to me, Paul. I wish you’d trusted me. It would have saved a lot of trouble.”

  “It’s Sam, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Paul. Sam has been working for the Russians since nineteen seventy-four. One of the consequences of the Kurdistan thing. Sam is an insanely ambitious man, Paul. He was terrified that Saladin Two would be a big success and Bill Speight would become the next Deputy Director for Operations. So he sent old Frenchy to Vienna to blow the op. But Speshnev was too smart, too fast. Speshnev is very good, you know, Paul. He’s just about their best. He nailed Frenchy and he broke him, broke him wide open fast. And then he owned Sam. He just had Sam so tight there was no getting out of it. I guess it wasn’t long before they saw how their interests coincided. They’ve been helping each other along all these years.”

  “Jesus,” said Chardy.

  “I guess there’s some good news here for you, Paul. You didn’t betray the Kurds. You really didn’t.”

  “That’s just a technicality, Yost,” Chardy said. “A minor trick of timing. If I’m off the hook, it’s not because they knew one day before I told them or one week or one year. It’s because there was no hook. I tried; I failed. I did my best. I can’t ask much more from myself and nobody else has the right to, either.”

  “Now that’s a healthy attitude, Paul. That’s very healthy. I’m glad you see it that way. We knew all this some time ago, and believe me, the temptation was enormous to let you in on it. But I’m glad you worked it out on your own, Paul. We were just getting closer and closer and we couldn’t risk anything. And when it turned out Danzig had duplicates on the Saladin Two files, we knew Sam and Speshnev would have to cook something up. We used it: we thought we could get Speshnev as well as Sam. Now that would be a catch, wouldn’t it? A Soviet double and his Russian case officer? Damn, that would have been something!”

  Chardy lay back against the pillar. This headache would not go away.

  “The poor Kurd,” said Yost. “He’s the tragic figure in all this. He’s the most innocent of all. He was used and used and used. The poor bastard.”

  Chardy shook his head in pain.

  “And Danzig. Oh, I wish we’d been a little smarter, a little sooner. It’s such a dirty business, Paul. People just keep getting in the way. Sometimes you have to wonder about it all.”

  “Did you get them? Did you at least get Sam and the Russian?”

  “We arrested Sam an hour ago. When Danzig escaped. It was finally time. I wish you could have been there. He had no idea we were onto him. But there’s no evidence Speshnev ever came into this country. Sam will tell us, though. Eventually.”

  “I’m quitting, Yost. I’m getting out of it. Everything I tried to do I fucked up.”

  Joseph Danzig moaned. He rolled over and put his hand to his face.

  “My God,” said Yost. “He’s still alive. We better get some medical people here, Paul—”

  “Oh, he’s fine. He’s not shot. I hit him. I have a terrible, terrible temper. Did I ever tell you about the time I punched Cy Brasher? It was like that: I just let go. Oh, Christ, I’m in trouble. Jesus, he could have me sent to jail. It was so stupid of me. Why do I do these stupid things?”

  Chardy looked over.

  Yost had picked up the Skorpion.

  “Be careful, Yost. It’s loaded; it’s cocked. Those things are very dangerous.”

  “I know about guns, Paul. I was in the Delta during Tet.” He pulled the bolt back a hair and looked into the breech. “I can see the gleam of the brass cartridge in there.”

  “Put it down. You could hurt somebody. Jesus, I hope Danzig doesn’t press charges. Do you think you could put in a good word for me when he comes to? I’d really appreciate it.”

  Yost had the Skorpion pointed toward Chardy.

  “Sorry, Paul,” he said.

  “Hosepipe Three, this is Hosepipe Nine—do you read?”

  The man in front picked up the mike.

  “I’m reading, Hosepipe Nine.”

  “Who the hell is Hosepipe Nine?” Lanahan asked.

  “One of our other cars, out looking for Danzig,” somebody said.

  “Three, I’m on Rock Creek Parkway by the Roosevelt Bridge, and I received that transmission loud and clear. From Hosepipe One, I mean.”

  “Thank you, Hosepipe Nine. We copy.”

  “What’s that near?” Lanahan asked.

  “State Department. Lincoln Memorial. Watergate. Kennedy Center. It’s right in the middle of—”

  “Kennedy Center!” shrieked Miles. “It’s an Agency safe-house—the lower floor of the parking garage. You got a siren on this thing? Come on, hit it.”

  The siren began to wail and a portable flasher was clamped atop the sedan as it began to accelerate down M Street.

  “Come on, hurry,” Lanahan urged them again, and licked his lips out of fear. For now he knew what Chardy was up to.

  “He’s playing cowboy again,” he told them.

  Chardy looked at Yost. Yost wore his
pinstripe suit and glasses. He was about fifty. He had sandy thin hair. As always he was controlled, quiet, calm. He betrayed no unsteadiness.

  “It was just like you said, Yost,” Chardy said. “Sam’s ambition, Frenchy’s betrayal, Speshnev’s fast footwork. Except all the way there was one other character. It was you. You were Sam’s brains.”

  “He’s not very bright, Paul. He doesn’t have a first-class mind. He’s very smooth and charming, but he’s just not very bright.”

  “You sold him on blowing Saladin Two. And you went to Frenchy. And you sold Frenchy, offered him the big upstairs job. And when Speshnev cracked Frenchy, it was your name he coughed up. And it was you Speshnev nailed.”

  “What could I do, Paul? He had me.”

  “And when I’m in the cell and Speshnev can’t break me and he’s getting desperate until he tells me he knows about Johanna and he’ll lay her head on the table, it’s you he learned it from. And when Sam crucifies Bill Speight and me at the hearing, it’s because you’ve done his staffwork for him. And up he goes, and up you go. And all those years you’ve been working for him and everything he knew you knew and it went straight to Speshnev. And when you set Danzig up in Boston and everybody thinks you’ve fucked up, he finds you a new job in Satellites. But Satellites are ten times more important than anything in Operations. You’re right in the center. And if Sam should make DCI, he’ll take you along. And if something goes wrong, if somebody thinks there’s a double, and they begin to backtrack, the trail leads straight—to Sam. Sam takes the heat. Everybody watches Sam, not you. And during all this, it’s Sam I hate, Sam I’m trying to screw, Sam who drives me crazy. Not you. I don’t even know you. I never even heard of you.”

  “Paul, it’s time. Speshnev had planned to do this himself. It’s time to end it. Sorry.”

  He held the machine pistol in both hands and fired.

  The bolt jammed halfway forward.

  “I turned the first shell around in the clip,” Chardy said. “You should have looked more carefully.”

  Chardy took the Ingram out from under his coat.

  “This is how you fucked up. Because you underestimated everybody. Each step of the way, and by only a little bit, you underestimated everybody. You thought we were such losers. Old Speight did pretty good down in Mexico. That dreamy kid Trewitt did even better. And Miles, even little Miles came through when we needed him. Everybody was there when we needed them, Yost. And Frenchy: Frenchy was there too. You underestimated Frenchy the most. Frenchy left me a message, buried in an old computer disc, because he didn’t trust you. Miles bluffed his way into the pit this evening and dug it out. A minute before you arrived he reached me on this”—he pulled out the radio unit—“with your name.”