by Tom Clancy
Possibilities. Billy makes contact with somebody. Who? What does Billy know? He knows where the product is processed, but not how it comes in . . . maybe the smell, the formaldehyde smell on the plastic bags. Henry had been careful about that before; when Tony and Eddie had helped him package the product in the start-up phase, Tucker had taken the trouble to rebag everything, just to be on the safe side. But not the last two shipments . . . damn. That was a mistake, wasn’t it? Billy knew roughly where the processing was done, but could he find it on his own? Henry didn’t think so. He didn’t know much about boats and didn’t even like them all that much, and navigating wasn’t an easily acquired art.
Eddie and Tony know about boats, you idiot, Tucker reminded himself.
But why would they cross him now, just when things were blooming?
Whom else had he offended? Well, there was the New York crew, but he’d never even had direct contact with them. He’d invaded their market, though, taking advantage of a supply shortfall to establish an entry position. Might they be upset about that?
What about the Philadelphia crew? They had become the interface between himself and New York, and perhaps they were greedy. Perhaps they had found out about Billy.
Perhaps Eddie was making his move, betraying Tony and Henry at the same time.
Perhaps a lot of things. Whatever was happening, Henry still controlled the import pipeline. More to the point, he had to stand and defend what he had, his own territory, and his connections. Things were just starting to pay off big. Years of effort had been required to get to where he was now, Henry told himself, turning right towards his home. Starting over would entail dangers that, once run, were not easily repeated. A new city, setting up a new network. And Vietnam would be cooling off soon. The body count upon which he depended was declining. A problem now could wreck everything. If he could maintain his operation, his worst-case scenario was banking over ten million dollars—closer to twenty if he played the cards right—and leaving the business for good. That was not an unattractive option. Two years of high payoff to reach that spot. It might not be possible to start over from scratch. He had to stand and fight.
Stand and fight, boy. A plan began to form. He’d put the word out: he wanted Billy and he wanted him alive. He’d talk to Tony and sound him out on the chance that Eddie was playing a game of some sort, that Eddie was connected with rivals to the north. That was his starting point to gather information. Then he would act on it.
There’s a likely spot, Kelly told himself. Springer was just crawling along, quietly. The trick was to find a place that was populated but not alert. Nothing unusual about that mission requirement, he smiled to himself. Toss in a bend in the river, and here was one. He checked the shoreline out carefully. It looked like a school, probably a boarding school, and there were no lights in the buildings. There was a town behind it, a small, sleepy one, just a few lights there, a car every couple of minutes, but those followed the main road, and nobody there could possibly see him. He let the boat proceed around a bend—better yet, a farm, probably tobacco from the look of it, an old one with a substantial house maybe six hundred yards off, the owners inside and enjoying their air conditioning, the glare from their lights and TV preventing them from seeing outside. He’d risk it here.
Kelly idled his motors and went forward to drop his lunch-hook, a small anchor. He moved quickly and quietly, lowering his small dinghy into the water and pulling it aft. Lifting Billy over the rail was easy enough, but putting the body in the dinghy defeated him. Kelly hurried into the after stateroom and returned with a life jacket which he put on Billy before tossing him over the side. It was easier this way. He tied the jacket off to the stern. Then he rowed as quickly as he could to the shore. It only took three or four minutes before the dinghy’s bow touched the muddy banks. It was a school, Kelly saw. It probably had a summer program, and almost certainly had a maintenance staff which would show up in the morning. He stepped out of the dinghy and hauled Billy onto the bank before removing the life jacket.
“You stay here, now.”
“ . . . stay. . . ”
“That’s right.” Kelly pushed the dinghy back into the river. As he began rowing back, his aft-facing position forced him to look at Billy. He’d left him naked. No identification. He bore no distinguishing marks that Kelly had not created. Billy had said more than once that he’d never been fingerprinted. If true, then there was no way for police to identify him easily, probably not at all. And he couldn’t live too long the way he was. The brain damage was more profound than Kelly had intended, and that indicated that other internal organs had to be severely damaged as well. But Kelly had shown some mercy after all. The crows probably wouldn’t have a chance to pick at him. Just doctors. Soon Kelly had Springer moving back up the Potomac.
Two more hours and Kelly saw the marina at Quantico Marine Base. Tired, he made a careful approach, selecting a guest berth at the end of one of the piers.
“Who might you be?” a voice asked in the dark.
“The name’s Clark,” Kelly replied. “You should be expecting me.”
“Oh, yeah. Nice boat,” the man said, heading back to the small dock house. Within minutes a car came down the hill from officer-quarters.
“You’re early,” Marty Young said.
“Might as well get started, sir. Come aboard?”
“Thanks, Mr. Clark.” He looked around the salon. “How did you get this baby? I suffer along with a little day-sailer.”
“I don’t know that I really should say, sir,” Kelly replied. “Sorry.” General Young accepted that with good grace.
“Dutch says you’re going to be part of the op.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sure you can hack it?” Young noticed the tattoo on Kelly’s forearm and wondered what it denoted.
“I worked PHOENIX for over a year, sir. What sort of people have signed on?”
“They’re all Force Recon. We’re training them pretty hard.”
“Kick ’em loose around five-thirty?” Kelly asked.
“That’s right. I’ll have somebody pick you up.” Young smiled. “We need to get you nice and fit, too.”
Kelly just smiled. “Fair enough, General.”
“So what’s so damned important?” Piaggi asked, annoyed to be bothered at short notice on a weekend night.
“I think somebody’s making a move on me. I want to know who.”
“Oh?” And that made the meeting important, if poorly timed, Tony thought. “Tell me what’s happened.”
“Somebody’s been taking pushers down on the west side,” Tucker said.
“I read the papers,” Piaggi assured him. He poured some wine into his guest’s glass. It was important at times like these to make a show of normality. Tucker would never be part of the family to which Piaggi belonged, but for all that he was a valuable associate. “Why is that important, Henry?”
“The same guy took down two of my people. Rick and Billy.”
“The same ones who—”
“That’s right. One of my girls is missing, too.” He lifted his glass and sipped, watching Piaggi’s eyes.
“Rip?”
“Billy had about seventy thousand, cash. The cops found it, right there.” Tucker filled in a few more details. “The police say it looks real professional, like.”
“You have any other enemies on the street?” Tony inquired. It wasn’t a terribly bright question—anyone in the business had enemies—but the skill factor was the important one.
“I’ve made sure the cops know about my major competitors.”
Piaggi nodded. That was within normal business practice, but somewhat risky. He shrugged it off. Henry could be a real cowboy, a source of occasional worry to Tony and his colleagues. Henry was also very careful when he had to be, and the man seemed to understand how to mix the two traits.
“Somebody getting even?”
“None of them would walk away from that kind of cash.”
�
�True,” Piaggi conceded. “I got news for you, Henry. I don’t leave that sort of bundle laying around.”
Oh, really? Tucker wondered behind impassive eyes. “Tony, either the guy fucked up or he’s trying to tell me something. He’s killed like seven or eight people, real smart. He took Rick down with a knife. I don’t think he fucked up, y’dig?” The odd thing was that both men thought that a knifing was something the other would do. Henry had the impression that knives were the weapon of Italians. Piaggi thought it the trademark of a black.
“What I hear, somebody is doing pushers with a pistol—a little one.”
“One was a shotgun, right in the guts. The cops are rousting street bums, doing it real careful.”
“I didn’t hear that,” Piaggi admitted. This man had some great sources, but then he lived closer to that part of town, and it was to be expected that his intelligence network would be speedier than Piaggi’s.
“It sounds like a pro doing this,” Tucker concluded. “Somebody really good, y’know?”
Piaggi nodded understanding while his mind was in a quandary. The existence of highly skilled Mafia assassins was for the most part a fiction created by TV and movies. The average organized-crime murder was not a skilled act, but rather something carried out by a man who mainly did other, real, money-generating activities. There was no special class of killers who waited patiently for telephone calls, made hits, then returned to their posh homes to await the next call. There were made members who were unusually good or experienced at killing, but that wasn’t the same thing. One simply got a reputation as a person whom killing didn’t affect—and that meant that the elimination would be done with a minimum of fuss, not a maximum of artistry. True sociopaths were rare, even in the Mafia, and bungled killings were the rule rather than the exception. And so “professional” to Henry meant something that existed only as a fiction, the TV image of a Mafia button man. But how the hell did Tony explain that?
“It isn’t one of mine, Henry,” he said after a moment’s contemplation. That he didn’t have any was another issue entirely, Piaggi told himself, watching the effect of his words on his associate. Henry had always assumed that Piaggi knew a good deal about killing. Piaggi knew that Tucker had more experience with that end of business than he ever wished to have, but that was just one more thing he would have to explain, and this clearly was not the time. For now, he watched Tucker’s face, trying to read his thoughts as he finished his glass of Chianti.
How do I know he’s telling the truth? The thought didn’t require any special perception to read.
“You need some help, Henry?” Piaggi said, to break a very awkward silence.
“I don’t think you’re doing it. I think you’re too smart,” Tucker said, finishing his own glass.
“Glad to hear that.” Tony smiled and refilled both glasses.
“What about Eddie?”
“What do you mean?”
“Is he ever going to get ‘made’?” Tucker looked down, swirling the wine around the glass. One thing about Tony, he always set the right kind of atmosphere for a business discussion. It was one of the reasons they’d been drawn together. Tony was quiet, thoughtful, always polite, even when you asked a sensitive question.
“That’s kind of touchy, Henry, and I really shouldn’t talk that over with you. You can never be ‘made.’ You know that.”
“No equal-opportunity in the outfit, eh? Well, that’s okay. I know I’d never fit in real good. Just so’s we can do business, Anthony.” Tucker took the occasion to grin, breaking the tension somewhat and, he hoped, making it easier for Tony to answer the question. He got his wish.
“No,” Piaggi said after a moment’s contemplation. “Nobody thinks Eddie’s got what it takes.”
“Maybe he’s lookin’ for a way to prove differ’nt.”
Piaggi shook his head. “I don’t think so. Eddie’s going to make a good living off this. He knows that.”
“Who, then?” Tucker asked. “Who else knows enough? Who else would do a bunch of killings to cover up a move like this? Who else would make it look like a pro job?”
Eddie’s not smart enough. Piaggi knew that, or thought he did.
“Henry, taking Eddie out would cause major problems.” He paused. “But I’ll check around.”
“Thank you,” Tucker said. He stood and left Tony alone with his wine.
Piaggi stayed at his table. Why did things have to be so complicated? Was Henry being truthful? Probably, he thought. He was Henry’s only connection to the outfit, and severing that tie would be very bad for everyone. Tucker could become highly important but would never be an insider. On the other hand he was smart and he delivered. The outfit had lots of such people, inside-outsiders, associate members, whatever you might call them, whose value and status were proportional to their utility. Many of them actually wielded more power than some “made” members, but there was always a difference. In a real dispute, being made counted for much—in most cases, counted for everything.
That could explain matters. Was Eddie jealous of Henry’s status? Did he crave becoming a real member so much that he might be willing to forfeit the benefits of the current business arrangement? It didn’t make sense, Piaggi told himself. But what did?
“Ahoy the Springer!” a voice called. The Marine corporal was surprised to see the cabin door open immediately. He’d expected having to jolt this . . . civilian . . . from his cushy bed. Instead he saw a man come out in jungle boots and bush fatigues. They weren’t Marine “utilities,” but close enough to show the man was serious. He could see where some badges had been removed, where a name and something else would have gone, and that somehow made Mr. Clark look more serious still.
“This way, sir.” The corporal gestured. Kelly followed without a word.
Sir didn’t mean anything, Kelly knew. When in doubt, a Marine would call a lightpole “Sir.” He followed the youngster to a car and they drove off, crossing the railroad tracks and climbing uphill while he wished for another few hours of sleep.
“You the General’s driver?”
“Yes, sir.” And that was the extent of their conversation.
There were about twenty-five of them, standing in the morning mist, stretching and chatting among themselves as the squad NCOs walked up and down the line, looking for bleary eyes or slack expressions. Heads turned when the General’s car stopped and a man got out. They saw he wore the wrong sort of fatigues and wondered who the hell he was, especially since he had no rank insignia at all. He walked right up to the senior NCO.
“You Gunny Irvin?” Kelly asked.
Master Gunnery Sergeant Paul Irvin nodded politely as he sized the visitor up. “Correct, sir. Are you Mr. Clark?”
Kelly nodded. “Well, I’m trying to be, this early.”
Both men traded a look. Paul Irvin was dark and serious-looking. Not as overtly threatening as Kelly had expected, he had the eyes of a careful, thoughtful man, which was to be expected for someone of his age and experience.
“What kinda shape you in?” Irvin asked.
“Only one way to find that out,” “Clark” answered.
Irvin smiled broadly. “Good. I’ll let you lead the run, sir. Our captain’s away somewhere jerking off.”
Oh, shit!
“Now let’s get loosened up.” Irvin walked back to the formation, calling it to attention. Kelly took a place on the right side of the second rank.
“Good morning, Marines!”
“Recon!” they bellowed back.
The daily dozen wasn’t exactly fun, but Kelly didn’t have to show off. He did watch Irvin, who was becoming more serious by the minute, doing his exercises like some sort of robot. Half an hour later they were indeed all loosened up, and Irvin brought them back to attention in preparation for the run.
“Gentlemen, I want to introduce a new member of our team. This is Mr. Clark. He’ll be leading the run with me.”
Kelly took his place, whispering, “I don’t know where th
e hell we’re going.”
Irvin smiled in a nasty way. “No problem, sir. You can follow us in after you fall out.”
“Lead off, jarhead,” Kelly replied, one pro to another.
Forty minutes later, Kelly was still in the lead. Being there allowed him to set the pace, and that was the only good news. Not staggering was his other main concern, and that was becoming difficult, since when the body tires the fine-tuning controls go first.
“Left,” Irvin said, pointing. Kelly couldn’t know that he’d needed ten seconds to assemble the surplus air to speak. He’d also had the burden of singing the cadence, however. The new path, just a dirt trail, took them into the piney woods.
Buildings, oh Jesus, I hope that’s the stopping place. Even his thoughts were gasps now. The path wound around a little, but there were cars there, and that had to be—what? He almost stopped in surprise, and on his own called, “Quick-time, march!” to slow the formation down.
Mannequins?
“Detail,” Irvin called out, “halt! Stand at ease,” he added.
Kelly coughed a few times, bending down slightly, blessing his runs in the park and around his island for allowing him to survive this morning.
“Slow,” was all Irvin had to say at the moment.
“Good morning, Mr. Clark.” It turned out that one of the cars was real, Kelly saw. James Greer and Marty Young waved him over.
“Good morning. I hope y’all slept well,” Kelly told them.
“You volunteered, John,” Greer pointed out.
“They’re four minutes slow this morning,” Young observed. “Not bad for a spook, though.”
Kelly turned away in semidisgust. It took a minute or so for him to realize what this place was.
“Damn!”
“There’s your hill.” Young pointed.
“Trees are taller here,” Kelly said, evaluating the distance.