“Shit!” He turned, and called, “There’s nobody here!”
“What?” Bobby’s head came up in the opening to look, but Fred was now checking the cars out for someone crouching there.
Kelly told himself that patience was almost always rewarded. That thought had enabled him to fight off the buck fever that always came when you had a target in your sights. As soon as his peripheral vision caught movement at the opening, he brought the gun left. A face, white, twenties, dark eyes, looking at the other one, a pistol in his right hand. Just a target now. Take him first. Kelly centered the crosshairs in the bridge of the nose and squeezed gently.
Smack. Fred’s head turned when he heard a sound that was both wet and hard, but when he did, there was nothing there. He’d heard nothing else but that wet, sharp sound, but now there was also a clatter, as though Bobby’s chair had slipped off the desk and he’d fallen to the floor. Nothing else, but for no apparent reason the skin at the back of his neck turned to ice. He backed away from the edge of the roof, looking all around at the flat, rectangular horizon just as fast as his head could turn. Nothing.
The gun was new, and the bolt still a little stiff as he drove the second round home. Kelly brought it back to the right. Two for the price of one. The head was turning rapidly now. He could see the fear there. He knew there was danger but not where or what kind. Then the man started moving back to the opening. He couldn’t allow that. Kelly applied about six inches of lead and squeezed again. Pingggggg.
Smack. The sound of the impact was far louder than the muted pop of the shot. Kelly ejected the spent cartridge and slammed in another as a car approached on O’Donnell Street.
Tucker was still looking at Bobby’s face when his head jerked upwards, hearing the thud of what had to be another body, rattling the steel-bar joists of the roof. “Oh, my God...”
37
Trial by Ordeal
“You’re looking much better than the last time, Colonel,” Ritter said pleasantly in Russian. The security officer rose and walked out of the living room, giving the two men privacy. Ritter was carrying an attaché case, which he set on the coffee table. “Feeding you well?”
“I have no complaints,” Grishanov said warily. “When can I go home?”
“This evening, probably. We’re waiting for something.” Ritter opened the case. This made Kolya uneasy, but he didn’t allow it to show. For all he knew there might be a pistol in there. Comfortable as his imprisonment had been, friendly as his conversations with the residents in this place were, he was on enemy soil, under the control of enemies. It made him think of another man in a distant place under very different circumstances. The differences ate at his conscience and shamed him for his fear.
“What is that?”
“Confirmation that our people are in Hoa Lo Prison.”
The Russian lowered his head and whispered something Ritter didn’t catch. Grishanov looked up. “I am glad to hear that.”
“You know, I believe you. Your letters back and forth to Rokossovskiy make that clear.” Ritter poured himself some tea from the pot on the table, filling up Kolya’s cup also.
“You have treated me correctly.” Grishanov didn’t know what else to say, and the silence was heavy in him.
“We have a lot of experience being friendly to Soviet guests,” Ritter assured him. “You’re not the first to stay here. Do you ride?”
“No, I’ve never been on a horse.”
“Ummhmm.” The attaché case was quite full with papers, Kolya saw, wondering what they were. Ritter took out two large cards and an ink pad. “Could I have your hands, please?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Nothing to worry about.” Ritter took his left hand and inked the fingertips, rolling them one at a time in the appropriate boxes on one card, then the other. The procedure was duplicated with the right hand. “There, that didn’t hurt, did it? You can wash your hands now, better to do it before the ink dries.” Ritter slid one of the cards into the file, substituting it for the one removed. The other just went on top. He closed the case, then carried the old card to the fireplace, where he ignited it with his cigarette lighter. It burned fast, joining the ash pile from the fires that the custodians liked to have every other night. Grishanov came back with clean hands.
“I still don’t understand.”
“It’s really nothing that need concern you. You just helped me out on something, that’s all. What say we have lunch? Then we can meet with a countryman of yours. Please be at ease, Comrade Colonel,” Ritter said as reassuringly as he could. “If your side sticks to the bargain, you’ll be on your way home in about eight hours. Fair enough?”
Mark Charon was uncomfortable coming here again, safe though the location might be this early into its use. Well, this wouldn’t take long. He pulled his unmarked Ford to the front of the building, got out, and walked to the front door. It was locked. He had to knock. Tony Piaggi yanked it open, a gun in his hand.
“What’s this?” Charon demanded in alarm.
“What’s this?” Kelly asked himself quietly. He hadn’t expected the car to come right up to the building, and had been loading two more rounds into the clip when the man pulled in and got out. The rifle was so stiff that he had trouble getting the clip back in, and by the time he had it up, the figure was moving too rapidly for a shot. Damn. Of course, he didn’t know who it was. He twisted the scope to max-power and examined the car. Cheap body... an extra radio antenna ... police car? Reflected light prevented him from seeing the interior. Damn. He’d made a small mistake. He’d expected a down-time after dropping the two on the roof. Never take anything for granted, dummy! The slight error made him grimace.
“What the hell is going on?” Charon snapped at them. Then he saw the body on the floor, a small hole slightly above and to the left of the open right eye.
“It’s him! He’s out there!” Tucker said.
“Who?”
“The one who got Billy and Rick and Burt—”
“Kelly!” Charon exclaimed, turning around to look at the closed door.
“You know his name?” Tucker asked.
“Ryan and Douglas are after him—they want him for a string of killings.”
Piaggi grunted. “The string is longer by two. Bobby here, and Fred on the roof.” He stooped by the window again. He’s got to be right across the road there...
Charon had his gun out now, for no apparent reason. Somehow the bags of heroin seemed unusually heavy now, and he set his service revolver down and unloaded them from his clothing onto the table with the rest of them, along with the mixing bowl, and the envelopes, and the stapler. That activity ended his current ability to do anything but look at the other two. That was when the phone rang. Tucker got it.
“Having fun, you cocksucker?”
“Did you have fun with Pam?” Kelly asked coldly. “So,” he asked more pleasantly, “who’s your friend? Is that the cop you have on the payroll?”
“You think you know it all, don’t you?”
“No, not all. I don’t know why a man would get his rocks off killing girls, Henry. You want to tell me that?” Kelly asked.
“Fuck you, man!”
“You want to come on out and try? You swing that way too, sweetie-pie?” Kelly hoped Tucker didn’t break the phone, the way he slammed it down. He just didn’t understand the game, and that was good. If you didn’t know the rules, you couldn’t fight back effectively. There was an edge of fatigue on his voice, and Tony’s also. The one on the roof hadn’t had his shirt buttoned; it was rumpled, Kelly saw, examining the body through his sight. The trousers had creases inside the knees, as though the man had been sitting up all night. Had he merely been a slob? That didn’t seem likely. The shoes he’d left by the opening were quite shiny. Probably up all night, Kelly judged after a few seconds’ reflection. They’re tired, and they’re scared. and they don’t know the game. Fine. He had his water and his candy bars, and all day.
“If y
ou knew that bastard’s name, how come you—goddamn it!” Tucker swore. “You told me he’s just a rich beach bum, I said I could take him out in the hospital, remember, but no! ... you said leave him fuckin’ be!”
“Settle down, Henry.” Piaggi said as calmly as he could manage. This is one very serious boy we have out there. He’s done six of my people. Six! Jesus. This is not the time to panic.
“We have to think this one through, okay?” Tony rubbed the heavy stubble on his face, collecting himself, thinking it through. “He’s got a rifle and he’s in that big white building across the street.”
“You wanna just walk over there and get him, Tony?” Tucker pointed to Bobby’s head. “Look what he did here!”
“Ever hear of nightfall, Henry? There’s one light out there, right over the door.” Piaggi walked over to the fuse box, checked the label inside the door, and unscrewed the proper fuse. “There, the light don’t work anymore. We can wait for night and make our move. He can’t get us all. If we move fast enough, he might not get any.”
“What about the stuff?”
“We can leave one guy here to guard it. We get muscle in here to go after that bastard, and we finish business, okay?” It was a viable plan, Piaggi thought. The other guy didn’t hold all the cards. He couldn’t shoot through the walls. They had water, coffee, and time on their side.
The three stories were as close to word-for-word identical as anything he might have hoped for under the circumstances. They’d interviewed them separately, as soon as they’d recovered enough from their pills to speak, and their agitated state only made things better. Names, the place it had happened, how this Tucker bastard was dealing his heroin out-of-town now, something Billy had said about the way the bags stank—confirmed by the “lab” busted on the Eastern Shore. They now had a driver’s license number and possible address on Tucker. The address might be bogus—not an unlikely situation—but they also had a car make, from which they’d gotten a tag number. He had it all, or at least was close enough that he could treat the investigation as something with an end to it. It was a time for him to stand back and let things happen. The all-points was just now going on the air. At the next series of squad-room briefings, the name Henry Tucker, and his car, and his tag number would be made known to the patrol officers who were the real eyes of the police force. They could get very lucky, very fast, bring him in, arraign him, indict him, try him, and put his ass away forever even if the Supreme Court had the bad grace to deny him the end his life had earned. Ryan was going to bag that inhuman bastard.
And yet.
And yet Ryan knew he was one step behind someone else. The Invisible Man was using a .45 now—not his silencer; he had changed tactics, was going for quick, sure kills... didn’t care about noise anymore... and he’d talked to others before killing them, and probably knew even more than he did. That dangerous cat Farber had described to him was out on the street, hunting in the light now, probably, and Ryan didn’t know where.
John T. Kelly, Chief Boatswain’s Mate, U.S. Navy SEALs. Where the hell are you? If I were you... where would I be? Where would I go?
“Still there?” Kelly asked when Piaggi lifted the phone.
“Yeah, man, we’re having a late lunch. Wanna come over and join us?”
“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.