by Tom Clancy
And he played by those rules now, standing before the bright TV lights and saying nothing at all for about six minutes of continuous talking. There had been “interesting discussions” of “the great issues facing our country.” The Governor and the congressman were “united in their desire to see new leadership” for a country which, both were sure, though they couldn’t say it, would prosper whichever man won in November, because petty political differences of presidents and parties generally got lost in the noise of the Capitol Building, and because American parties were so disorganized that every presidential campaign was increasingly a beauty contest. Perhaps that was just as well, Fowler thought, though it was frustrating to see that the power for which he lusted might really be an illusion, after all. Then it was time for questions.
He was surprised by the first one. Fowler didn’t see who asked it. He was dazzled by the lights and the flashing strobes—after so many months of it, he wondered if his vision would ever recover—but it was a male voice who asked, from one of the big papers, he thought.
“Governor, there is a report from Colombia that a car bomb destroyed the home of a major figure in the Medellín Cartel, along with his family. Coming so soon after the assassination of the FBI Director and our ambassador to Colombia, would you care to comment?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t get a chance to catch the news this morning because of my breakfast with the congressman. What are you suggesting?” Fowler asked. His demeanor had changed from optimistic candidate to careful politician who hoped to become a statesman—whatever the hell that was, he thought. It had seemed so clear once, too.
“There is speculation, sir, that America might have been involved,” the reporter amplified.
“Oh? You know the President and I have many differences, and some of them are very serious differences, but I can’t remember when we’ve had a President who was willing to commit cold-blooded murder, and I certainly will not accuse our President of that,” Fowler said in his best statesman’s voice. He’d meant to say nothing at all—that’s what statesmen’s voices are for, after all, either nothing or the obvious. He’d kept a fairly high road for most of his presidential campaign. Even Fowler’s bitterest enemies—he had several in his own party, not to mention the opposition’s—said that he was an honorable, thoughtful man who concentrated on issues and not invective. His statement reflected that. He hadn’t meant to change United States government policy, hadn’t meant to trap his prospective opponent. But he had, without knowing it, done both.
The President had scheduled the trip well in advance. It was a customary courtesy for the chief executive to maintain a low profile during the opposition’s convention. It was just as easy to work at Camp David—easier in fact since it was far easier to shoo reporters away. But you had to run the gauntlet to get there. With the Marine VH-3 helicopter sitting and waiting on the White House lawn, the President emerged from the ground-level door with the First Lady and two other functionaries in tow, and there they were again, a solid phalanx of reporters and cameras. He wondered if the Russians with their glasnost knew what they were in for.
“Mister President!” called a senior TV reporter. “Governor Fowler says that he hopes we weren’t involved in the bombing in COLOMBIA! Do you have any comment?”
Even as he walked over to the roped enclosure of journalists, the President knew that it was a mistake, but he was drawn to them and the question as a lemming is drawn to the sea. He couldn’t not do it. The way the question was shouted, everyone would know that he’d heard it, and no answer would itself be seen as an answer of sorts. The President ducked the question of ... And he couldn’t leave Washington for a week of low-profile existence, leaving the limelight to the other side—not with that question lying unanswered behind him on the White House lawn, could he?
“The United States,” the President said, “does not kill innocent women and children. The United States fights against people who do that. We do not sink down to their bestial level. Is that a clear enough answer?” It was delivered in a quiet, reasoned voice, but the look the President gave the reporter made that experienced journalist wilt before his eyes. It was good, the President thought, to see that his power occasionally reached the bastards.
It was the second major political lie of the day—a slow news day to be sure. Governor Fowler well remembered that John and Robert Kennedy had plotted the deaths of Castro and others with a kind of elitist glee born of Ian Fleming’s novels, only to learn the hard way that assassination was a messy business. Very messy indeed, for there were usually people about whom you didn’t especially want to kill. The current President knew all about “collateral damage,” a term which he found distasteful but indicative of something both necessary and impossible to explain to people who didn’t understand how the world really worked: terrorists, criminals, and all manner of cowards—brutal people are most often cowards, after all—regularly hid behind or among the innocent, daring the mighty to act, using the altruism of their enemies as a weapon against those enemies. You cannot touch me. We are the “evil” ones. You are the “good” ones. You cannot attack us without casting away your self-image. It was the most hateful attribute of those most hateful of people, and sometimes—rarely, but sometimes—they had to be shown that it didn’t work. And that was messy, wasn’t it? Like some sort of international auto accident.
But how the hell do I explain that to the American people? In an election year? Vote to re-elect the President who just killed a wife, two kids, and various domestic servants to protect your children from drugs ... ? The President wondered if Governor Fowler understood just how illusory presidential power was—and about the awful noise generated when one principle crashed hard up against another. That was even worse than the noise of the reporters, the President thought. It was something to shake his head about as he walked to his helicopter. The Marine sergeant saluted at the steps. The President returned it—a tradition despite the fact that no sitting President had ever worn a uniform. He strapped in and looked back at the assembled mob. The cameras were still on him, taping the takeoff. The networks wouldn’t run that particular shot, but just in case the chopper blew up or crashed, they wanted the cameras rolling.
The word got to the Mobile police a little late. The clerk of the court handled the paperwork, and when information leaks from a courthouse, that is usually the hole. In this case the clerk was outraged. He saw the cases come and go. A man in his middle fifties, he’d gotten his children educated and through college, managing to avoid the drug epidemic. But that had not been true of every child in the clerk’s neighborhood. Right next door to his house, the family’s youngest had bought a “rock” of crack cocaine and promptly driven his car into a bridge abutment at over a hundred miles per hour. The clerk had watched the child grow up, had driven him to school once or twice, and paid the child to mow his lawn. The coffin had been sealed for the funeral at Cypress Hill Baptist Church, and he’d heard that the mother was still on medications after having had to identify what was left of the body. The minister talked about the scourge of drugs like the scourging of Christ’s own passion. He was a fine minister, a gifted orator in the Southern Baptist tradition, and while he led them in prayer for the dead boy’s soul his personal and wholly genuine fury over the drug problem merely amplified the outrage already felt by his congregation....
The clerk couldn’t understand it. Davidoff was a superb prosecuting attorney. Jew or not, this man was one of God’s elect, a true hero in a profession of charlatans. How could this be? Those two scum were going to get off! the clerk thought. It was wrong!
The clerk was unaccustomed to bars. A Baptist serious about his religious beliefs, he had never tasted spiritous liquors, had tried beer only once as a boy on a dare, and was forever guilt-ridden for that. That was one of only two narrow aspects to this otherwise decent and honorable citizen. The other was justice. He believed in justice as he believed in God, a faith that had somehow survived his thirty years of clerking
in the federal courts. Justice, he thought, came from God, not from man. Laws came from God, not from man. Were not all Western laws based on Holy Scripture in one way or another? He revered his country’s Constitution as a divinely inspired document, for freedom was surely the way in which God intended man to live, that man could learn to know and serve his God not as a slave, but as a positive choice for Right. That was the way things were supposed to be. The problem was that the Right did not always prevail. Over the years he’d gotten used to that idea. Frustrating though it was, he also knew that the Lord was the ultimate Judge, and His Justice would always prevail. But there were times when the Lord’s Justice needed help, and it was well known that God chose His Instruments through Faith. And so it was this hot, sultry Alabama afternoon. The clerk had his Faith, and God had His Instrument.
The clerk was in a cop bar, half a block from police headquarters, drinking club soda so that he could fit in. The police knew who he was, of course. He appeared at all the cop funerals. He headed a civic committee that looked after the families of cops and firemen who died in the line of duty. Never asked for anything in return, either. Never even asked to fix a ticket—he’d never gotten one in his life, but no one had ever thought to check.
“Hi, Bill,” he said to a homicide cop.
“How’s life with the feds?” the detective lieutenant asked. He thought the clerk slightly peculiar, but far less so than most. All he really needed to know was that the clerk of the court took care of cops. That was enough.
“I heard something that you ought to know about.”
“Oh?” The lieutenant looked up from his beer. He, too, was a Baptist, but wasn’t that Baptist. Few cops were, even in Alabama, and like most he felt guilty about it.
“The ‘pirates’ are getting a plea-bargain,” the clerk told him.
“What?” It wasn’t his case, but it was a symbol of all that was going wrong. And the pirates were in the same jail in which his prisoners were guests.
The clerk explained what he knew, which wasn’t much. Something was wrong with the case. Some technicality or other. The judge hadn’t explained it very well. Davidoff was enraged by it all, but there was nothing he could do. That was too bad, they both agreed. Davidoff was one of the Good Guys. That’s when the clerk told his lie. He didn’t like to tell lies, but sometimes Justice required it. He’d learned that much in the federal court system. It was just a practical application of what his minister said: “God moves in mysterious ways, His wonders to perform.”
The funny part was that it wasn’t entirely a lie: “The guys who killed Sergeant Braden were connected with the pirates. The feds think that the pirates may have ordered his murder—and his wife’s.”
“How sure are you of that?” the detective asked.
“Sure as I can be.” The clerk emptied his glass and set it down.
“Okay,” the cop said. “Thanks. We never heard it from you. Thanks for what you guys did for the Braden kids, too.”
The clerk was embarrassed by that. What he did for the families of cops and firemen wasn’t done for thanks. It was Duty, pure and simple. His Reward would come from Him who assigned that Duty.
The clerk left, and the lieutenant walked to a corner booth to join a few of his colleagues. It was soon agreed that the pirates would not—could not—be allowed to cop a plea on this one. Federal case or not, they were guilty of multiple rape and murder—and, it would seem, guilty of another double murder in which the Mobile police had direct interest. The word was already on the street: the lives of druggies were at risk. It was another case of sending a message. The advantage that police officers had over more senior government officials was that they spoke in a language that criminals fully understood.
But who, another detective asked, would deliver the message?
“How about the Patterson boys?” the lieutenant answered.
“Ahh,” the captain said. He considered the question for a moment, then: “Okay.” It was, on the whole, a decision far more easily arrived at than the great and weighty decisions reached by governments. And far more easily implemented.
The two peasants arrived in Medellín around sundown. Cortez was thoroughly frustrated by this time. Eight bodies to be disposed of—not all that difficult a thing to do in Medellín—for no good reason. He was sure of that now. As sure as he’d been of the opposite thing six hours earlier. So where was the information leak? Three women and five men had just died proving that they weren’t it. The last two had just been shot in the head, uselessly catatonic after watching the first six die under less merciful circumstances. The room was a mess, and Cortez felt soiled by it. All that effort wasted. Killing people for no good reason. He was too angry to be ashamed.
He met with the peasants in another room on another floor after washing his hands and changing his clothes. They were frightened, but not of Cortez, which surprised Félix greatly. It took several minutes to understand why. They told their stories in an overly rapid and disjointed manner, which he allowed, memorizing the details—some of them conflicting, but that was not unexpected since there were two of them—before he began asking his own, directed questions.
“The rifles were not AK-47s,” one said positively. “I know the sound. It was not that one.” The other shrugged. He didn’t know one weapon from another.
“Did you see anyone?”
“No, señor. We heard the noise and the shouting, and we ran.”
Very sensible of you, Cortez noted. “Shouting, you say? In what language?”
“Why, in our language. We heard them chasing after us, but we ran. They didn’t catch us. We know the mountains,” the weapons expert explained.
“You saw and heard nothing else?”
“The shooting, the explosions, lights—flashes from the guns, that is all.”
“The place where it happened—how many times had you been there?”
“Many times, señor, it is where we make the paste.”
“Many times,” the other confirmed. “For over a year we have gone there.”
“You will tell no one that you came here. You will tell no one anything that you know,” Félix told them.
“But the families of—”
“You will tell no one,” Cortez repeated in a quiet, serious voice. Both men knew danger when they saw it. “You will be well rewarded for what you have done, and the families of the others will be compensated.”
Cortez deemed himself a fair man. These two mountain folk had served his purposes well, and they would be properly rewarded. He still didn’t know where the leak was, but if he could get ahold of one of those—what? M-19 bands? Somehow he didn’t think so.
Then who?
Americans?
If anything, the death of Rocha had only increased their resolve, Chavez knew. Captain Ramirez had taken it pretty hard, but that was to be expected from a good officer. Their new patrol base was only two miles from one of the many coffee plantations in the area, and two miles in a different direction from yet another processing site. The men were in their normal daytime routine. Half asleep, half standing guard.
Ramirez sat alone. Chavez was correct. He had taken it hard. In an intellectual sense, the captain knew that he should accept the death of one of his men as a simple cost of doing business. But emotions are not the same as intellect. It was also true, though Ramirez didn’t think along these precise lines, that historically there is no way to predict which officers are suited for combat operations and which are not. Ramirez had committed a typical mistake for combat leaders. He had grown too close to his men. He was unable to think of them as expendable assets. His failure had nothing to do with courage. The captain had enough of that; risking his own life was a part of the job he readily accepted. Where he failed was in understanding that risking the lives of his men—which he also knew to be part of the job—inevitably meant that some would die. Somehow he’d forgotten that. As a company commander he’d led his men on countless field exercises, training them, showi
ng them how to do their jobs, chiding them when their laser-sensing Miles gear went off to denote a simulated casualty. But Rocha hadn’t been a simulation, had he? And it wasn’t as though Rocha had been a slick-sleeved new kid. He’d been a skilled pro. That meant that he’d somehow failed his men, Ramirez told himself, knowing that it was wrong even as he thought it. If he’d deployed better, if he’d paid more attention, if, if, if. The young captain tried to shake it off but couldn’t. But he couldn’t quit either. So he’d be more careful next time.
The tape cassettes arrived together just after lunch. The COD flight from Ranger, unbeknownst to anyone involved, had been coordinated with a courier flight from Bogotá. Larson had handled part of it, flying the tape from the GLD to El Dorado where he handed it off to another CIA officer. Both cassettes were tucked in the satchel of an Agency courier who rode in the front cabin of the Air Force C-5A transport, catching a few hours’ sleep in one of the cramped bunks on the right side of the aircraft, a few feet behind the flight deck. The flight came directly into Andrews, and, after its landing, the forty-foot ladder was let down into the cavernous cargo area and the courier walked out the opened cargo door to a waiting Agency car which sped directly to Langley.