Chameleon

  Jerry Devlin, his mother's brother, listened to his dreams and his fears and talked to him. Nobody else did. His father, Emmett, crushed under the weight of family and job and assigned by fate to the worst kind of drab anonymity, had very little to say to anyone. Every night he sat with his pint or two of ale, staring out the window, down through the endless parade of slums, to a place where he could just barely see the ocean between the houses. One night, when Tony was nine, his father got up from the chair and followed his gaze, out the door, down the cobblestone street, and off into the fog and never came home.

  The crisis precipitated by the desertion of Emmett Falmouth was resolved by Uncle Jerry and Uncle Martin. Tony was very bright, so it was decided he would stay in school and Jerry and Marty would keep food on the table and make the rent and keep an eye on the kid.

  But there was always the weight. He had watched it bend his father until he looked like a hunchback. And now he watched the weight bow his mother, watched the wrinkles spread across her face like ripples on water, watched the color fade from her hair and the life fade from her eyes until one morning she could no longer get out of bed. It took her a month, lying there choking on her own phlegm, to die.

  When Father Donleavy came to the house, Tony made a confession. He told the priest he hated his father. Father Donleavy suggested a round of Our Fathers and Hail Marys and told him time would ease the pain. He went to live with Marty, and it was another two years before Tony realized Father Donleavy was full of shit. Time and Hail Marys did not get rid of the anger. Instead, it grew inside him, like a snake coiled in his stomach.

  Jerry always came at night. He was always armed. And the only time he spoke with bitterness about anything was when he talked about the British. Marty was different. He was apolitical. He had good friends among the British in Ulster. There was no fight in him and he and Jerry never discussed the Troubles. Nobody ever told Tony his Uncle Jerry was an IRA gunman, after a while he just knew it.

  Once, when Tony was twelve, a military payroll was robbed and there was a great deal of shooting and several men on both sides were killed. That night, Jerry came to the house and they sat at the table in the kitchen with the curtains drawn and Jerry took out a package wrapped in yellow oilskin.

  "Hide this fer me, will ye now," Jerry said. And Tony climbed out the window of his second-floor room and hid the package in a vent in the roof. Two weeks later Jerry took Tony out to the fields twenty miles from Newtonabbey and he opened up the package. It was a brand-new Webley .38-caliber pistol.

  "A grand weapon," Jerry said. "And 'tis toime ye learn to use it. Do it like yer p'intin' yer finger. Keep both eyes open. Imagine yer shootin' at the bloody Black and Tans."

  Tony took the gun and held it and put his finger on the trigger and it felt good in his hand and he could feel the energy from it charging through his body. He held the gun out at arm's length and sighted down along the barrel and the gun seemed to be an extension of his arm and his anger flooded down into his finger and he squeezed the trigger.

  Boom!

  The gun kicked up high and the power of the weapon made him dizzy with excitement and after that he practiced whenever he could, watching the bottles and rocks explode as he squeezed off the shots. Only it wasn't Black and Tans he imagined shooting, it was his father.

  "'Tis one thing to know how to use a weapon," Jerry said. "Just remember, plannin' is most important. Plannin' is everything. Always know how to get into and how to get out of a fix. And don't trust nobody. When ye can, work on yer own. Dead heroes ain't no good to nobody."

  When they were finished, he would hide the gun back in the rooftop vent. Occasionally Jerry would come in the night and get the yellow oilskin wrapper. And then he would return it a day or two later. Then one day they came to the house and told Marty that Jerry was dead, informed on by one of his own, and tracked down and killed by a new British colonel in Newtonabbey.

  Nobody came to get the gun. A month or two went by, and Tony realized it was his now.

  Tony played soccer in the street near the school which also happened to be across the way from the British patrol station. The colonel, whose name was Floodwell, was a stiff and proper man with waxed mustaches and suspicious eyes. Planning, that was important. And doing it alone. Twice a week at exactly six o'clock the colonel left the patrol station and walked three blocks to a narrow little street without a name that sat on The Bluffs. The street was a dead end and beyond the barrier, the land dropped away fifty or sixty feet to the street below. There were houses built into the side of The Bluffs whose basements were on the lower level. The colonel walked down the dead-end street and, using his own key, entered a house near the dead end and there he had a drink of Scotch and dinner and made love to the young woman who had rooms in the house.

  Tony planned his first execution all winter long, following the colonel, watching him from the darkness across the street. He found an abandoned house and used it as a short cut home from school each night. He memorized the house, knew every step, sat for long periods of time, listening to the rats cavorting in the darkness, making his plans.

  Between the vacant house and his own house, there was a small sentry house squatted on the corner and when there was trouble, the troopers stationed there pulled the barbed-wire barriers across the road. Tony had youth on his side. At fourteen, he was still small for his age. When he went home, he went down through the vacant house and out the basement door and crossed the street and walked close to the houses on the other side, staying in the shadows until he was almost to the sentry box. At first he would startle the two troopers at the check point, but they soon got to know him.

  On a Monday in early spring, he loaded the Webley, and folded it back in its oilskin wrapper. He got a potato from the pantry and bored a hole about three-quarters of an inch in diameter through the center of it and put the gun and the potato in the bottom of his canvas knapsack, covering them with books and his lunch. After school, he played soccer in the street near the patrol station. The knapsack lay on the sidewalk in full view of everybody for two hours. By five-thirty it was too dark to play any longer. He said goodbye to his friends and went straight to the deserted house on the nameless street. He got out the oilskin wrapper and unfolded it and held the Webley in his hand and felt its energy, like electricity, sizzling up his arm. He took out the potato. It was a trick Jerry had taught him.

  "It's good for one shot," Jerry had said. "Makes a .38 sound like a popgun. Whoever ya hit'll die with potato all over his mug." And he had laughed. Tony twisted it on the end of the barrel. He waited in the dark with the rats. He felt no fear, only exhilaration.

  The colonel entered the nameless street whistling a tune, his swagger stick under his arm. He walked with a marching step, jaunty and arrogant, his chin held up high. Tony stepped out of the doorway and stayed close to the house. He started to walk toward the colonel.

  He was ten feet away when the colonel saw him. "Hey!" he said. "You gave me a start there, boy. Step out here, let me have a look at you."

  Tony looked up at the colonel, but suddenly he wasn't looking at the colonel's thin lips or his long, arrogant nose or his glittering, cold eyes. He was looking, instead, at the face of his father. He stepped out of the dark, held the gun at arm's length and squeezed the trigger.

  The potato muffled the shot.

  It went pumf.

  And the potato disintegrated and the bullet ripped into the colonel's head just above his left eye and tore the side of his skull away. Bits of potato splattered against his shocked face. The force of the shot twisted him half around and he staggered sideways, his feet skittering under him, but he did not fall. He kept his balance and turned back toward Tony. The side of his face was a soggy mess. His eye was blown from its socket. Geysers of blood flooded down his jacket. His one good eye stared with disbelief at Tony. He took an unsteady step and fell to his knees.

  A window opened down the alley.

  "Whos'at? What's goin' on?" a vo
ice called out.

  Tony ducked into the shadows and stared back up the nameless street. A door opened near the end of the street, a shaft of yellow light cut through the darkness.

  Tony turned back toward the empty house and then his heart froze. Something grabbed his ankle. He turned, and the colonel had one hand around his ankle and his good eye was glaring up at the youth with hate, and his other hand was clawing at his holster. Blood splashed on Tony's pants leg. The colonel tried to say something, to scream, but all that came out was a bloody gurgle.

  Tony tried to pull away. He dragged the colonel a few feet toward the vacant house, but the officer had Tony's leg in a death grip. He started to release the pistol from its holster. Tony held the pistol an inch from the man's forehead and fired again. Floodwell's forehead exploded. Bits of skull and blood peppered Tony's face. The colonel rolled over and lay on his back gagging, then a rattle started deep in his throat.

  Tony bolted into the doorway of the house, wrapped the gun in its oilcloth packet and stuffed the gun down under his books. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his bloody face as he ran back to the basement steps. He heard footsteps on the street above and he kept running and wiping the blood off his face. When he reached the back door he stopped. He stuffed the kerchief down with the gun and stepped cautiously into the dark street. It was empty. He walked quickly to the other side, where the shadows were deeper and started toward the sentry post. He could see the two troopers inside the small blockhouse in the middle of the road. The street was open. The barbed-wire gate was pulled back on the sidewalk. The two troopers seemed to be working on the radio. He could hear its static as he drew closer.

  There was only blood on one of his pants legs. That was a help.

  He stayed in the shadows, walking very slowly, his eyes on the two Tans standing near the check booth.

  "I'm tellin' ya, Striker, it was shots," one of them said, "at least the second one was."

  "Awr, ya hear shots in yer sleep, Finch," the one called Striker said.

  Tony walked toward the two troopers who were silhouetted by the lights in the booth. In the future, he thought walking in the darkness toward them, he would try to think of everything that could go wrong. He would have more than one plan.

  Tony reached the barbed-wire gate that had been pulled back on the sidewalk. The two troopers had not seen him, they were busy trying to tune in their radio, but all they were getting was static.

  He held his leg against the barbed-wire fence and pushed until he felt one of the steel knots dig through his pants and into his leg. He pulled up and the barb tore deep into his flesh. He screamed.

  The trooper called Striker flashed his torch in Tony's face.

  "Help me, please! I've hurt m'self," he called out.

  "Jesus Christ!" Striker cried and rushed over to Tony.

  "You got yerse'f a bad cut there, son," he said, watching blood pumping through Tony's torn pants. "Dintcha see that wire?"

  "I was in a hurry. Played soccer too long, y'know. I'm really in for it now. Late for dinner and me pants is ruined. My uncle'll take the strap to me for sure."

  "'Ere, Finch, get out the kit. Our soccer champ, 'ere, has got hisself wounded on our wire."

  Finch was hitting the radio with his fist, trying to clear the static. "Wonder what th' hell's goin' on up 'ere?" he said. He looked at Tony's leg. "Christ, son, you really tore yourself up, now, dintcha. Hold still a minute, I got some iodine and a bandage in the first aid. Din' 'at sound like gunshots to you, Striker?"

  "I was fuckin' with the radio, Finch, I really din't hear it," he said. "Hang on, son, this'll have a bite t'it." He bathed the ragged tear in Tony's foot with iodine and bandaged it.

  The phone in the booth rang and Finch picked it up. "Was'at ... whas'at? Jesus, is he a goner? No, there ain't been a living soul down 'ere for half an hour ... just a school kid we know, cut his leg on the wire ... Rightch'are. We'll close her off now, but it's been quiet as a bleedin' church mouse down 'ere." He hung up. "You ain't gonna believe this, Striker. Somebody just blew the colonel's head off. Not two blocks from 'ere, up on Th' Bluff. We got to close up th' street. I told jez I 'eard shots."

  Tony squinched up his face and forced out some tears. "Owww," he moaned.

  "How far do ya live?" Finch asked.

  "Just two roads down, on Mulflower."

  "Kin ya walk on 'at?"

  "I think so." He tried it. The cut burned but he could stand on it. "I can make it okay. Thank ye, for yer help."

  "Watch yer step, lad. Ther's trouble afoot t'night. Get off the street's fast as yer can."

  "Yes, sir," and he limped off into the darkness as Striker and Finch began to move the barbed-wire gate across the road.

  By the time Tony was eighteen and had finished high school and had won himself a scholarship to Oxford, he had learned his profession well. To carry the pistol to England would have been foolhardy. Besides, Falmouth wasn't angry anymore. When he killed Floodwell, all Tony could remember was that getting even felt good, but as time went on, getting even became less and less important. Revenge turned to exhilaration. Now the simple act of killing made him feel good, the same way that a forward feels good when he makes a goal. It was what he did and he did it without remorse or feeling and he did it very well indeed. And he did it alone.

  The day before he left, he rode his bike out to Land's End and threw the Webley as far out into the ocean as he could. It had served its purpose. In four years, Tony had killed nine people. Two had been British, the rest were informers. Only one of them was a woman.

  At Oxford, Falmouth had made quite a record for himself, and for reasons known only to himself, after completing his Rhodes studies, Falmouth joined the British Secret Service. There was no record anywhere of Falmouth's early "training," and M.I.6 was glad to get him. He never went back to Ireland.

  "... with a first-class man."

  Falmouth snapped back to reality.

  "Excuse me," he said, "there was some static on the line. Could you repeat that?"

  "Sorry. I see this as a two-man operation. You happen to be very well qualified for the play and I've teamed you up with a first-rate chap."

  "Who?"

  "His name is Hinge. He's younger but he's been in the Game for several years. He's quite good, really. I consider him one of our best. He's been in on four team operations to date and acquitted himself admirably."

  "I see."

  "I'm sorry, in my haste I only did an A-level check on you. Have you ever been involved in the switch play?"

  "Rome. Four months ago. But it was a little different. It was the Red Brigades and we had to lift five people out."

  "Of course, now I remember. A very good show, I might add."

  "Thank you. It's still a very risky play."

  "But most effective when it works."

  "Agreed."

  "Do you know Caracas?"

  "I've been there, but I don't know the city that well. I know a driver there who's as good as they come."

  "Excellent."

  "What are we dealing with, some revolutionary gang?"

  "There's no politics in this. Just a bunch of local gangsters trained by the Rafsaludi, trying to shake down the company, although we have no fix on just how tough these customers are."

  "Well, the Rafsaludi can get very nasty."

  "Quite. It's a bonus job. Seventy-five thousand."

  Falmouth whistled silently to himself. He was already planning ahead.

  "It will have to be done fast. Perhaps even by tomorrow night. Certainly no later than the next day. The risk increases by the hour."

  "Yes, I know. Let's see, today is Monday ... you should have Lavander out no later than Wednesday eve."

  "All right," Falmouth said. "I'm in. I assume the operation is mine."

  "Yes, you'll be in command. Hinge is already cleared. Is Miami convenient?"

  "Fine."

  "There's a flight on Pan Am at ten-ten P.M. from Miami International
. It arrives at thirty-three minutes after midnight. Hinge will not be there until eight A.M. He's coming in through Mexico."

  "Weapons?"

  "Everything you need will be down there. Your contact is Rafael Domignon. The number is 53-34-631. There will be a packet at the airport for you, as usual."

  "Good. How do I know Hinge?"

  "Photo ID and the Camel ploy."

  "Fine. I'll report when it's over unless we have a problem."

  "Excellent, sir, excellent. I'm delighted you're handling this."

  "Thanks. Later."

  "Goodbye."

  Goddamn! What a rotten break. What a rotten, fucking break. But if this Hinge had the stuff, Falmouth could be back in the Bahamas by late Wednesday. If O'Hara shows, he thought, he'll wait.

  The packet was delivered by messenger at the Pan Am ticket counter fifty-five minutes before flight time. Falmouth took it to the men's room, entered a stall and sat on the toilet, studying its contents. It contained a round-trip ticket to Caracas and a passport, license and two credit cards under the name Eric Sloan, five thousand dollars in cash and unsigned traveler's checks, a three-by-five color photograph of Hinge, what appeared to be a slightly fuzzy Polaroid shot of Lavander, a list of all executives at the plant in Caracas, confirmed and prepaid hotel reservations at the Tamanaco Hotel, the best hotel in the city, and a filter-tip Camel cigarette wrapped in aluminum foil. He marked the filter tip with a pen and put the cigarette in his package of Gitanes. He studied the photo of Hinge for several minutes, started to burn it, then changed his mind and slipped it into a compartment of his passport wallet. He signed the traveler's checks and put them, with the cash, in his passport wallet, along with the receipt for the hotel. He studied the photograph of Lavander, a gangly, unkempt man with a gray complexion and thin, straggly hair, for several minutes, and when he knew the face, he burned the photograph and flushed the remains.