The Second Saladin

by Stephen Hunter

  He paused.

  “Yost, I ought to blow you the fuck in half for all you’ve cost me.”

  At the far end of the garage, a vehicle careened down the ramp and sped to thm. Before it had even halted, tiny Miles was out.

  “Good work, Paul,” he called. “We’ll take him now.”

  Another car arrived in the next second, and then several others.

  A team of medics had taken Danzig off, bleeding, his face swollen. He had not looked at Chardy. The body of Ulu Beg, too, had been removed, after a ritual of crime-site photography that Chardy could not watch.

  Miles meanwhile moved among the various groups of officials who’d arrived at the scene and took it upon himself to represent the Agency’s interests until a higher-ranking officer was located. A Deputy Director was due shortly—Chardy guessed it would not be Sam Melman—and the DCI himself had been awakened and briefed and was now on his way to Langley for an emergency session. It was also said that the President had been awakened, as had members of the National Security Council and the Senate and House Intelligence Oversight committees, each of which had dispatched a man or men to the fourth level.

  Chardy stood apart from all this. He drew on a cigarette deeply—he had not smoked for years and at first he coughed. But now he had it down again. He finished the cigarette, tossed it away.

  “Got another, Leo?”

  Leo Bennis handed him another.

  Miles was suddenly there, and as Chardy lit up, Miles whispered to him, “Paul, we can really run with this. You and I, if we play it right. All right?”

  “Sure, Miles. We’ll be big heroes. I’ll tell ’em you were in on it from the beginning; you were calling the shots. I’ll tell ’em you were the guy who caught the double.”

  “Paul, I’d really appreciate—”

  “Forget it.”

  “Right.”

  Miles bobbed away, disappearing among a group of men in suits who were asking questions.

  They were about to lead Yost off. He had been weeping. His face was ruined, his hair messy, his eyes swollen. He could not control himself and nobody had thought to give him a handkerchief. Yet now, sensing Chardy’s gaze on him, he looked over.

  It was hard for Chardy to feel anything. He thought he’d see Sam being led off; he’d hated Sam all those years. Yost. Who was Yost? He felt he’d been denied something he’d earned. Ulu Beg was dead. Johanna was dead. And somebody he’d never heard of, or really even known, was behind it all.

  They took Yost to a van, surrounded by FBI personnel. Miles had tried to get him released to the Agency for debriefing, but the FBI pulled rank. Still Miles insisted on knowing exactly where they were taking him, who was in charge, and began to establish groundwork for the future.

  “Maybe you’ll be big in the Agency now,” said Leo.

  “No,” Chardy replied. “I never wanted that sort of thing. I just wanted—”

  He stopped suddenly.

  “I know where Speshnev is,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Yost said, ‘Speshnev had planned to kill you himself.’ He did. Leo, get a car, get it fast. Clear these people out of here. Where’s that Ingram? Come on, Leo.”

  “Paul!”

  Chardy found his weapon—it had been impounded by the FBI and Chardy unimpounded it with a quick threat of violence—and ran for the car, inserting a new magazine as he ran.

  He leaped in and turned to Leo as the car peeled out of the garage.

  “There’s a last wrinkle. There has to be. To bury Saladin Two forever, to seal it off from living memory.”

  “Paul—”

  “At the hospital. Speshnev. He has to go for me.”

  The car squealed as it accelerated up the ramp, up four levels, and turned onto the parkway, siren wailing.

  “He’ll get in too. He’ll find the wing, the room.”

  “All our people are gone now,” said Leo. “They all hit the street after Danzig.”

  “God help him,” said Chardy, for now he saw what must happen. “God help Ramirez.”

  56

  It was a strangely quiet night, the strangest, the quietest since he had come north. It was a night for escape, but Ramirez felt so tired. They were putting something in the juice, he figured. His limbs weighed a ton; his vision was blurred, his mind working slowly.

  Or maybe Reynoldo Ramirez is slowing down with age. All men must. Why would the dark angel spare you, Reynoldo? You do not even pray except when somebody is shooting bullets at you and in this hospital in the far north among pale, bloodless, calm norteamericanos, nobody would fire bullets at you.

  He lay in the shadows, watching and not watching the television through his swollen eyes. The bulky bandage on his nose somewhat obscured his view, but it didn’t matter. He felt almost asleep, but not quite. Certainly there was a drug in his bloodstream. The whores! But he had no energy left to hate them.

  He was dreaming of escape and food and women. Mostly women: young women, Indian women, virgins to be exact. He had not done anything with his organ in months. It was worse than prison, where for a price a whore would accommodate you.

  Then a blond doctor came in.

  Eh? A new one.

  He stood silhouetted in the doorway. Ramirez waited. So they had not forgotten him, then. A new doctor even. Should he say something to the man, who just stood there? It was clear the man was not sure whether Ramirez was awake or not, for the Mexican’s bandaged face was hidden in the shadow. Ramirez puzzled over this irregularity of etiquette. Should I say something or not?

  But they checked in on him often like this, he knew; he’d caught them at it before: peeking in at strange hours to see how their “guest” was doing. So Ramirez was not surprised and not alarmed and decided to lie quietly until the doctor went away.

  Yet the doctor did not go away. He looked quickly up and down the quiet hall, then stepped in, pulling the door softly closed behind him.

  Most curious.

  Ramirez, lying still, watched the doctor slide along the wall. He came to the television, which was mounted on the wall, and reached up for the knob.

  Did he want a different show?

  But the doctor did not want a different show at all. He turned up the volume a bit, then a bit more.

  Ramirez didn’t like this at all. No doctor had ever done this before. Were they going to get rid of him? He was an embarrassment, after all, was he not? Had he not also been responsible for the death of that stupid young boy on the mountain?

  Mother of Jesus, help me.

  Holy Virgin, give me strength.

  I pray, Holy Catholic Mother, for your forgiveness. I have sinned and am a bad man, many times bad, many times, I’ve killed and whored. Forgive me, oh, Holy Mother. He wished he had some strength. He wished he could move; he wished he didn’t feel so doped, so logy.

  The doctor came over to the bed, reaching into his jacket. He pulled out a small pistol.

  He came closer, as though he could not see, and reached with one hand as though to find the soft throat that must have been in the shadow.

  Ramirez felt the man’s fingers at his skin.

  Mother of God, help your sinning son Reynoldo.

  The doctor brought over the other hand with the pistol and was going to fire straight down into the throat, but as he brought the thing close, the Virgin, in Her kindness and great forgiving love of the sinning Reynoldo Ramirez, rewarded him with a great spurt of strength which he invested in a short, upward, pistonlike blow into the doctor’s looming chin, knocking the stunned man backward, and Reynoldo rolled to his right, out of bed, all his quickness and cunning restored as if by religious miracle, and as he dropped off the edge of the bed, out of the line of fire, the man sent a shot whistling past to shatter on the linoleum.

  Reynoldo hit the floor and bounced off it to shove his shoulder into the bed in almost the same tenth of a second, moving it with growing acceleration until it slammed into the doctor furiously, knocking him against the
wall with a yelp of outrage. Ramirez rocketed to his feet, lifting the heavy bedframe as he rose, and flipped it on the pinned man. He heard another of the strange shots. He turned to look for a weapon but could see only the television set with a cowboy firing a gun on its screen, and he plucked it with both hands off the shelf and heaved it across the room to where the doctor struggled to free himself from the mess of bedding. The set hit the wall above and fell to the doctor’s head and again he screamed in pain.

  Ramirez did not pause to investigate, only turned and fled. He found himself in an empty green corridor, unlit, and saw the door at one end marked EXIT and ran for it, his gown flapping wildly, his ass and organs bounding in his sprint. He reached the door and found the whore snugly locked and lunged for the door across the hall. It opened, admitting him to a dark, quiet room.

  Had the doctor seen him enter?

  It didn’t matter. Ramirez looked about, desperately, for a weapon.

  Speshnev could see the footprints—the mark of a sweaty foot—leading down the hallway. He followed. His head was bleeding from the blow struck him by the television.

  Trust Chardy for the genius of improvisation: television as a weapon. How American.

  The blood ran into his eyes. He halted to wipe it away. He’d have to stanch it, and throw this doctor’s coat away before he tried the lobby again. Damn Chardy. He’d grown fat in the years, but not stupid.

  I should have fired instantly. Yet sometimes they screamed as the microtoxin froze up their respiratory system, so the precaution had been advised.

  Speshnev put the air pistol away. He pulled out the Luger from under his other arm. He snapped the toggle, chambering a shell. The silencer made the pistol a bit front-heavy. He knew he had to hurry—surely sooner or later someone would arrive at this far wing. But to rush stupidly could also prove tragic.

  The footprints led to the exit door and then away, to the door opposite.

  Chardy had to be in that room. He touched the door, pushed it open. It showed a black crack. He knew where Chardy would be: just inside the doorjamb, left side, crouched low. Chardy would punch for throat or temple. Speshnev moved the Luger to his other hand. He poised—then drew back.

  He did not have long to wait. Chardy, driven insane by the tension, was like all men of action without the gift of patience. Speshnev knew he’d come and he did.

  The door burst open and savagely the man came at him, low and so fast.

  Speshnev caught the plunging head with an upthrust of his stout knee and knew from the solidity of the impact that the blow was a rare masterpiece, perfectly timed, perfectly placed; he sidestepped adroitly—he was still fast himself—and clipped Chardy hard on the back of the skull with the pistol barrel, opening a terrible gash. Blood spurted everywhere. The man was driven to his knees, where for just an instant he fought the concussion until he yielded, collapsing forward with a smack, face down.

  I have you at last.

  Excitement raced through Speshnev’s widened veins. He leaned over and held the pistol six inches from the back of the head, and Chardy flopped about, twitching, then turned with great sluggishness half over and Speshnev could see for the first time that it was not Chardy at all, but some stranger.

  Where was Chardy?

  He stood. He felt violated by an immense betrayal.

  Where was Chardy?

  The answer to his question came as the door at the other end of the corridor opened in a burst and Chardy, among others, spilled into the green corridor, and if someone yelled stop neither he nor Chardy heard or cared to hear it. He raised his pistol, thinking that he still might have a chance, even at this late moment, but as he brought it up he knew he’d never make it, for he saw that Chardy had a machine pistol of some sort and the bullets arrived to cut through his chest and push him down.

  57

  In the wake of Sam Melman’s resignation and the subsequent Agency shakeup in the awareness of Yost Ver Steeg’s treachery, there was a considerable power vacuum in the Operations Directorate.

  Danzig had no official influence, of course, but he still knew important people and he still had favors owed him in the intelligence community. He made some phone calls and drafted several memos and even lobbied one or two influential men personally—difficult, because the swelling had not gone down and his eye was gaudily discolored. His efforts were partially rewarded.

  It was agreed to bring back one of the Old Boys, a retired officer of experience and judgment, to serve as interim Deputy Director of Operations until a suitable permanent tenant could be found for the job; but it was also agreed to appoint Miles Lanahan assistant Deputy Director in recognition of his brilliant service of late. Miles was twenty-nine; he was the youngest to reach that position by nine years.

  In the aftermath, Danzig suggested that Miles join him for lunch at an excellent French restaurant in downtown Washington. Miles agreed quickly, and on the appointed day arrived in an Agency limousine, and walked in wearing a new gray chalk-stripe suit of conservative cut. His shoes glittered blackly; his hair was cut crisply. But he was still a little nervous; he’d never been to a French restaurant before and he wasn’t sure what to order.

  He stared at the menu in the strange language.

  “A young wine, a Bordeaux. How does that suit you, Miles?”

  “Fine,” said Miles to the older man. “It suits me fine.”

  “The Margaux, please,” said Danzig to the wine steward. “The boeuf bourguignon is very good here,” he said to Miles.

  “That’s what I’ll have then,” said Miles.

  “And the usual for me, Philip,” Danzig said to the waiter, who disappeared as quietly as he had arrived.

  “Well, Miles, you’re looking prosperous.”

  Miles blushed under his acne, then smiled modestly. His teeth gleamed; he had brushed them that morning.

  “They’re treating you well at the Agency?”

  “I’m a hero,” Miles said. It was true. He was. In corridors, in conferences, in a hundred small ways he could feel it: he was a man who counted. He was the man who nailed Yost Ver Steeg.

  “You’re only getting what you deserve,” said Danzig pleasantly. He reached to adjust his dark glasses, which were not quite big enough to obscure the purple blotch that even yet surrounded his eye. Chardy must have really whacked him, Miles thought. Jesus, Chardy, you really are a piece of work. Hitting Joe Danzig. Jesus!

  Danzig’s injury had quite naturally inspired a great volume of rumor, made worse by the fact that at an unguarded moment a free-lance photographer had gotten a good close-up of it, and subsequently sold the picture to Time, which printed it in their “People” section over the caption “Danzig and pet mouse.” Danzig had issued soon after a statement that referred to a minor automobile accident in which no serious damage had been sustained. Of course nobody believed it. Danzig’s reputation as a man of outsize ego and libido and taste for young married women was widely known and it did not take much imagination to concoct a scenario by which he could acquire such a wound.

  “You’ll do well, Miles, I know you will,” Danzig said.

  “Thank you. I’ll work hard, I know that.”

  “I know you will.”

  “I was very lucky I didn’t go down with Sam.”

  “You are a survivor, Miles. I could see it from the start.”

  Miles nodded. He was. It was true. Miles’s true gift: landing on his feet.

  “Look, I wanted to thank you for the help you gave me,” Miles said.

  “It’s nothing. Please. You embarrass me Ah, the wine.”

  It was served. Miles watched as Danzig was offered a sip, took it, and approved.

  “Very nice,” he said, without looking at the steward.

  Miles’s glass was filled; he took a sip. It was good. His delight must have showed on his face.

  “It’s a Chateau Margaux, a ’seventy-seven. A very good one.”

  “Boy, it’s terrific,” said Miles.

  “Mile
s, I have been thinking. These last several weeks have been a real test for me. They’ve made me confront a lot of important issues. Namely, do I want to spend the rest of my life doing nothing except living comfortably but pointlessly?”

  “I’m sure you don’t,” said Miles, wondering where this was going.

  “I’m a relatively young man, after all. I feel I’ve got a lot to contribute.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Miles, taking a little sip of the wine.

  “I might want to be actively involved at some level—either officially or unofficially. Do you see?”

  Miles did not. But then he did. Yes, of course he did. Miles suddenly realized an alliance was being offered. So that was how these things worked: you help me, I’ll help you. But what could he—?

  He could do a lot. He saw it now: a lot.

  “Yes,” he said. “I agree, Dr. Danzig. I just want you to know you can count on me.”

  Danzig raised his glass, and paused for just a second. He seemed to consider the meal that lay before him, and perhaps the afternoon as well, or perhaps even beyond.

  “Miles,” he said, “to the future. It’s really ours, you know.”

  There was a counterpoint to this tête-à-tête, a somewhat less swanky one, which took place on the same day nearly two thousand miles away and involved two other participants in the affair of the Kurd.

  One of these, Reynoldo Ramirez, much recovered in health and glossily attired in a shiny new polyester suit, leaned forward and peered squint-eyed through a filthy windshield aglare with heavy sunlight and declared, “There! There it is!”

  His companion, Paul Chardy, merely nodded.