by Tom Clancy
“I had calamari at your place the other night. Not bad. Your mother cook it up?” Kelly inquired softly, wondering about the reply he’d get.
“That’s right,” Tony replied pleasantly. “Old family recipe, my great-grandmother brought it over from the Old Country, y’know?”
“You know, you surprise me.”
“How’s that, Mr. Kelly?” the man asked politely, his voice more relaxed now. He was wondering what effect it would have on the other end of the phone line.
“I expected you to try and cut a deal. Your people did, but I wasn’t buying,” Kelly told him, allowing irritation to show in his voice.
“Like I said, come on over and we can talk over lunch.” The line clicked off.
Excellent.
“There, that ought to give the fucker something to think about.” Piaggi poured himself another cup of coffee. The brew was old and thick and rancid now, but it was so heavily laced with caffeine that his hands remained still only with concerted effort. But he was fully awake and alert, Piaggi told himself. He looked at the other two, smiling and nodding confidently.
“Sad about Cas,” the Superintendent observed to his friend.
Maxwell nodded. “What can I say, Will? He wasn’t exactly a good candidate for retirement, was he? Family gone, here and there both. This was his life, and it was coming to an end one way or another.” Neither man wanted to discuss what his wife had done. Perhaps after a year or so they might see the poetic symmetry in the loss of two friends, but not now.
“I hear you put your papers in, too, Dutch.” The Superintendent of the United States Naval Academy didn’t quite understand it. Talk was about that Dutch was a sure thing for a fleet command in the spring. The talk had died only days before, and he didn’t know why.
“That’s right.” Maxwell couldn’t say why. The orders—couched as a “suggestion”—had come from the White House, through the CNO. “Long enough, Will. Time for some new blood. Us World War Two guys . . . well, time to make room, I guess.”
“Sonny doing okay?”
“I’m a grandfather.”
“Good for them!” At least there was some good news in the room when Admiral Greer entered it, wearing his uniform for once.
“James!”
“Nice principal’s office,” Greer observed. “Hiya, Dutch.”
“So, to what do I owe all this high-level attention?”
“Will, we’re going to steal one of your sailboats. You have something nice and comfortable that two admirals can handle?”
“Wide selection. You want one of the twenty-sixes?”
“That’s about right.”
“Well, I’ll call the Seamanship Department and have them chop one loose for you.” It made sense, the Admiral thought. They’d both been close with Cas, and when you said goodbye to a sailor, you did it at sea. He placed his call, and they took their leave.
“Run outa ideas?” Piaggi asked. His voice showed defiant confidence now. The momentum had passed across the street, the man thought. Why not reinforce that?
“I don’t see that you have any to speak of. You bastards afraid of the sunlight? I’ll give you some!” Kelly snarled. “Watch.”
He set the phone down and lifted the rifle, taking aim at the window.
Pop.
Crash.
“You dumb fuck!” Tony said into the phone, even though he knew it to be disconnected. “You see? He knows he can’t get us. He knows time’s on our side.”
Two panes were shattered, then the shooting stopped again. The phone rang. Tony let it ring a while before he answered.
“Missed, you jerk!”
“I don’t see you going anywhere, asshole!” The shout was loud enough that Tucker and Charon heard the buzz from ten feet away.
“I think it’s time for you to start runnin’, Mr. Kelly. Who knows, maybe we won’t catch you. Maybe the cops will. They’re after you too, I hear.”
“You’re still the ones in the trap, remember.”
“You say so, man.” Piaggi hung up on him again, showing who had the upper hand.
“And how are you. Colonel?” Voloshin asked.
“It has been an interesting trip.” Ritter and Grishanov were sitting on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, just two tourists tired after a hot day, joined by a third friend, under the watchful eyes of a security guard ten yards away.
“And your Vietnamese friend?”
“What?” Kolya asked in some surprise. “What friend?”
Ritter grinned. “That was just a little ploy on my part. We had to identify the leak, you see.”
“I thought that was your doing,” the KGB general observed sourly. It was such an obvious trap and he’d fallen right into it. Almost. Fortune had smiled on him, and probably Ritter didn’t know that.
“The game goes on, Sergey. Will you weep for a traitor?”
“For a traitor, no. For a believer in the cause of a peaceful world, yes. You are very clever, Bob. You have done well.” Perhaps not, Voloshin thought, perhaps not as far into the trap as you believe, my young American friend. You moved too fast. You managed to kill this Hicks boy, but not CASSIUS. Impetuous, my young friend. You miscalculated and you really don’t know it, do you?
Time for business. “What about our people?”
“As agreed, they are with the others. Rokossovskiy confirms. Do you accept my word, Mr. Ritter?”
“Yes, I will. Very well, there’s a PanAm flight from Dulles to Paris tonight at eight-fifteen. I’ll deliver him there if you wish to see him off. You can have him met at Orly.”
“Agreed.” Voloshin walked away.
“Why did he leave me?” Grishanov asked, more surprised than alarmed.
“Colonel, that’s because he believes my word, just like I believe his.” Ritter stood. “We have a few hours to kill—”
“Kill?”
“Excuse me, that’s an idiom. We have a few hours of private time. Would you like to walk around Washington? There’s a moon rock in the Smithsonian. People love to touch it for some reason.”
Five-thirty. The sun was in his eyes now. Kelly had to wipe his face more often. Watching the partly broken window, he saw nothing except an occasional shadow. He wondered if they were resting. That wouldn’t do. He lifted the field phone and turned the crank. They made him wait again.
“Who’s calling?” Tony asked. He was the formidable one, Kelly thought, almost as formidable as he thought he was. It was a shame, really.
“Your restaurant do carry-out?”
“Getting hungry, are we?” Pause. “Maybe you want to make a deal with us.”
“Come on outside and we can talk about it,” Kelly replied. The reply was a click.
Just about right, Kelly thought, watching the shadows move across the floor. He drank the last of his water and ate his last candy bar, looking around the area again for any changes. He’d long since decided what to do. In a way, they’d decided that for him. There was again a clock running, ticking down to a zero-time that was flexible but finite. He could walk away from this if he had to, but—no, he really couldn’t. He checked his watch. It was going to be dangerous, and the passage of time would not change it any more than it already had. They’d been awake for twenty-four hours, probably longer. He’d given them fear and let them get comfortable with it. They thought they held a good playing hand now, just as he’d dared to hope they would.
Kelly slid backwards on the cement floor, leaving his gear behind. He’d need it no longer no matter how this turned out. Standing, he brushed off his clothes and checked his Colt automatic. One in the chamber, seven in the magazine. He stretched a little, and then he knew that he could delay no longer. He headed down the stairs, pulling out the keys to the VW. It started despite his sudden fear that it might not. He let the engine warm up while watching traffic on the north-south street in front of him. He darted across, incurring the noisy wrath of a southbound driver, but fitting neatly into the rush-hour traffic.
&n
bsp; “See anything?”
Charon had been the one to suggest that the angles precluded Kelly from seeing all the way into their building. He might try to come across after all, they thought, but two of them could each cover one side of the white building. And they knew he was still there. They were getting to him. He hadn’t thought it all the way through, Tony pronounced. He was pretty smart, but not that smart, and when it was dark, and when there were shadows, they’d make their move. It would work. A dinky little .22 wouldn’t penetrate a car body if they could make it that far, and if they surprised him, they could—
“Just traffic on the other side.”
“Don’t get too close to the window, man.”
“Fuckin’ A,” Henry said. “What about the delivery?”
“We got a saying in the family, man, better late than never, y’dig?”
Charon was the most uncomfortable of the three. Perhaps it was just the proximity to the drugs. Evil stuff. A little late to think about that. Could there be a way out of this?
The money for his delivery was right there, next to the desk. He had a gun.
To die like a criminal? He watched them there, left and right of the window. They were the criminals. He hadn’t done anything to offend this Kelly. Well, nothing that he knew about. It was Henry who’d killed the girl, and Tony who’d set the other one up. Charon was just a crooked cop. This was a personal matter for Kelly. Not a hard thing to understand. Killing Pam that way had been brutal and foolish. He’d told Henry that. He could come out of this a hero, couldn’t he? Got a tip, walked right into it. Crazy shoot-out. He could even help Kelly. And he’d never, ever get mixed up with anything like this again. Bank the money, get the promotion, and take down Henry’s organization from what he knew. They’d never bust him back after that, would they? All he had to do was to get on the phone and reason with the man. Except for one little thing.
Kelly turned left, proceeded west one block, then left again, heading south towards O’Donnell Street. His hands were sweating now. There were three of them, and he’d have to be very, very good. But he was good, and he had to finish the job, even if the job might finish him. He stopped the car a block away, getting out, locking it, and walking the rest of the way to the building. The other businesses here were closed down now—he’d counted three, up and operating throughout the day, totally unaware of what was happening . . . in one case just across the street.
Well, you planned that one right, didn’t you?
Yeah, Johnnie-boy, but that was the easy part.
Thanks. He stood right there at the corner of the building, looking in all directions. Better from the other side . . . he walked to the corner with the phone and electrical service, using the same half-windowsill he’d used before, reaching for the parapet and doing his best to avoid the electrical wires.
Okay, now you just have to walk across the roof without making any noise.
On tar and gravel?
There was one alternative he hadn’t considered. Kelly stood on the parapet. It was at least eight inches wide, he told himself. It was also quiet as he walked the flat brick tightrope towards the opening in the roof, wondering if they might be using the phone.
Charon had to make his move soon. He stood, looking at the others, and stretched rather theatrically before heading in their direction. His coat was off, his tie loose, and his five-shot Smith was at his right hip. Just shoot the bastards and then talk to this Kelly character on the phone. Why not? They were hoods, weren’t they? Why should he die for what they did?
“What are you doing, Mark?” Henry asked, not seeing the danger, too focused on the window. Good.
“Tired of sittin’.” Charon pulled the handkerchief from his right hip pocket and wiped his face with it as he measured angles and distance, then back to the phone, where his only safety lay. He was sure of that. It was his only chance to get out of this.
Piaggi just didn’t like the look in his eyes. “Why not just sit back down and relax, okay? It’s going to get busy soon.”
Why is he looking at the phone? Why is he looking at us?
“Back off, Tony, okay?” Charon said in a challenging voice, reaching back to replace the handkerchief. He didn’t know that his eyes had given him away. His hand had barely touched the revolver when Tony aimed and fired one shot into his chest.
“Real smart guy, huh?” Tony said to the dying man. Then he noticed that the oblong rectangle of light from the roof door had a shadow in it. Piaggi was still looking at the shadow when it disappeared, replaced by a blur barely caught by his peripheral vision. Henry was looking at Charon’s body.
The shot startled him—the obvious thought was that it had been aimed at himself—but he was committed, and jumped into the square hole. It was like a parachute jump, keep your feet together, knees bent, buck straight, roll when you hit.
He hit hard. It was a tile-over-concrete floor, but his legs took the worst of it. Kelly rolled at once, straightening his arm. The nearest one was Piaggi. Kelly brought the gun up, leveling the sights with his chest and firing twice, changing aim then and hitting the man under the chin.
Shift targets.
Kelly rolled again, trained to do so by some NVA he’d met. There he was. Time stopped in that moment. Henry had his own gun out and aimed, and their eyes met and for what seemed the longest time they simply looked, hunter and hunter, hunter and prey. Then Kelly remembered, first, what the sight picture was for. His finger depressed the trigger, delivering a finely aimed shot into Tucker’s chest. The Colt jumped in his hand, and his brain was running so fast now that he saw the slide dash backwards, ejecting the empty brass case, then dashing forward to feed another just as the tension in his wrist brought the gun back down, and that round, too, went into the man’s chest. Tucker was off-balance from turning. Either he slipped on the floor or the impact of the two slugs destroyed his balance, dropping him to the floor.
Mission accomplished, Kelly told himself. At least he’d gotten one job done after all the failures of this bleak summer. He got to his feet and walked to Henry Tucker, kicking the gun from his hand. He wanted to say something to the face that was still alive, but Kelly was out of words. Maybe Pam would rest easier now, but probably not. It didn’t work that way, did it? The dead were gone and didn’t know or care what they’d left behind. Probably. Kelly didn’t know how that worked, though he’d wondered about it often enough. If the dead still lived on the surface of this earth, then it was in the minds of those who remembered them, and for that memory he’d killed Henry Tucker and all the others. Perhaps Pam would not rest any more easily. But he would. Kelly saw that Tucker had departed this life while he’d been thinking, examining his thoughts and his conscience. No, there was no remorse for this man, none for the others. Kelly safed his pistol and looked around the room. Three dead men, and the best thing that could be said was that he wasn’t one of them. He walked to the door, and out of it. His car was a block away, and he still had an appointment to keep, and one more life to end.
Mission accomplished.
The boat was where he’d left it. Kelly parked his car, an hour later, taking out the suitcase. He locked the car with the keys inside, for that too was something he’d never need again. The drive through town and into the marina had been blissfully empty of thought, mechanical action only, maneuvering the car, stopping for some lights, proceeding through others, heading for the sea, or the Bay, one of the few places where he felt he belonged. He hefted the suitcase, walked out the dock to Springer, and hopped aboard. Everything looked okay, and in ten minutes he’d be away from everything he’d come to associate with the city. Kelly slid open the door to the main salon and stopped dead when he first smelled smoke, then heard a voice.
“John Kelly, right?”
“Who might you be?”
“Emmet Ryan? You’ve met my partner, Tom Douglas.”
“What can I do for you?” Kelly set his suitcase down on the deck, remembering the Colt automatic at the small of
his back, inside the unbuttoned bush jacket.
“You can tell me why you’ve killed so many people,” Ryan suggested.
“If you think I’ve done it, then you know why.”
“True. I’m looking for Henry Tucker at the moment.”
“He’s not here, is he?”
“Maybe you could help me, then?”
“Corner of O’Donnell and Mermen might be a good place to look. He’s not going anywhere,” Kelly told the detective.
“What am I supposed to do about you?”
“The three girls this morning, are they—”
“They’re safe. We’ll look after them. You and your friends did nicely with Pam Madden and Doris Brown. Not your fault it didn’t work out. Well, maybe a little.” The officer paused. “I have to take you in, you know.”
“What for?”
“For murder, Mr. Kelly.”
“No.” Kelly shook his head. “It’s only murder when innocent people die.”
Ryan’s eyes narrowed. He saw only the outline of the man, really, with the yellowing sky behind him. But he’d heard what he said, and part of him wanted to agree with it.
“The law doesn’t say that.”
“I’m not asking you to forgive me. I won’t be any more trouble to you, and I’m not going to any jail.”
“I can’t let you go.” But his weapon wasn’t out, Kelly saw. What did that mean?
“I gave you that Officer Monroe back.”
“Thank you for that,” Ryan acknowledged.
“I don’t just kill people. I’ve been trained to do it, but there has to be a reason somewhere. I had a good enough reason.”
“Maybe. Just what do you think you accomplished?” Ryan asked. “This drug problem isn’t going away.”
“Henry Tucker won’t kill any more girls. I accomplished that. I never expected to do any more, but I took that drug operation down.” Kelly paused. There was something else this man needed to know. “There’s a cop at that building. I think he was dirty. Tucker and Piaggi shot him. Maybe he can come out of this a hero. There’s a load of stuff there. It won’t look too bad for your department that way.” And thank God I didn’t have to kill a cop—even a bad one. “I’ll give you one more. I know how Tucker was getting his stuff in.” Kelly elaborated briefly.