Dead of Night (15 page)

Jones had had enough. He was waving his hands. “No, uh-uh, I’m done. Another shot to the head like that last one, I might go out permanent. I feel like I’m gonna puke.”

I know what it’s like to be humiliated, so I helped him to his feet, and put some warmth in my voice. “Okay, no harm done. Now take off that wire you’re wearing. We’ll talk.”

From the pocket of his sport coat, he removed an expensive-looking ballpoint pen and held it up. “This thing’s digital; records up to six hours. Probably ruined now ‘cause of the water.” He handed it to me. “How’d you know?”

“Oh ... just a wild guess. I’ve worked with Harrington a long time. By the way, he set you up. He knew how I’d react if you pulled some boot camp takedown routine.”

Jones showed surprised.
“Why?
Like it was a test for both of us, maybe?”

I slid the digital recorder into my pocket. “It’s exactly the sort of thing he’d do, suggesting you take a shot at me.”

“Gezzus,” Jones said, “if that’s the truth, I feel kinda stupid.”

I told him, “When I deal with Hal Harrington, that’s the way I usually feel, too.”

Still outside, Parker handed me an envelope made of heavy white paper. The thing had gone into the water with him. Soaked.

I told him, “You stay out here and drip-dry. I’ll take a look at this and be right back.”

The envelope was sealed, as our orders were always sealed, with melted wax stamped with a crest. I’d studied the elements of the crest on more than one occasion. The seal consists of a familiar Freemasons’ symbol seen on the back of every U.S. dollar bill: a pyramid capped with an all-seeing eye. There’s also a sword—a crusader’s sword, I was once told. At the base of the pyramid are three words in Latin that, translated, read:
Forever conceal,
never
reveal.

I went into the lab, used a scalpel to open the envelope, and removed a single page on which were typed three words: “Call me immediately.”

Unsigned. A typical Harrington finesse.

I crumpled the letter and used a Bunsen burner to set it ablaze. The damp paper popped, sputtered. I watched until it was reduced to gray ash before carrying it to the toilet and flushing.

I couldn’t use the lab phone to call him. No. I had to use a
special
phone.

I went out the screen door toward the house. Jones was waiting at the railing, looking over a dark bay that was encircled by a darker, elevated ridge of mangroves.

“You dry yet?” “No. How you expect me to get dry so quick, man? Even the air on this island is wet.”

“Welcome to Sanibel. Where do they have you based?”

“I can’t tell you. I’m not supposed to.”

“Near Langley, huh?”

“Yeah. Near there. It was snowing a little when I left.” He’d been fussing with his jaw again, but stopped to slap at something on his neck, then his forearm. “Hey, the mosquitoes are bad out here. What kinda place has mosquitoes at Christmas? Getting bit in December, man, this just isn’t right.”

I said, “Deal with it. It’s what you get for swimming with your clothes on. By the way, I’ve decided your boss is a jerk.”

“Maybe so, man. I’m not gonna argue. I think my damn jaw’s busted.” He slapped himself on the cheek. “
Ouch.
Hey—you got any bug spray?”

I said, “Sure. Lots of it,” as I opened the door and stepped into my house.

 

 

The three ceiling fans were revolving at their slowest speed, stirring the balmy winter air. The floor light between the reading chair and my old Zenith Transoceanic shortwave radio was on, and so was the light over the galley sink. I’ve learned to use yellow bulbs for exactly the reason Jones was outside whining. Mosquitoes have complicated eyes, but they are not sufficiently complex to recognize the color yellow. They aren’t attracted to light they cannot see. Fewer bugs.

I pushed the beaded curtain aside, stepped into my bedroom, and rummaged through the desk until I found two silver keys on a ring. I got down on hands and knees, and pulled the fireproof ship’s locker from beneath my bed, and opened it.

One key fits the door. The second key fits a lock to the drawer’s false bottom. I opened the first door and removed a small box that contains gold coins I’ve collected around the world, a small sack of raw emeralds, several folders filled with documents considered important. Insurance policies, titles, stuff like that.

Once the main compartment was empty, I opened the second lock, and removed the false bottom. Beneath it were more folders, a neat stack of notebooks, five counterfeit passports, and other detritus from a covert life.

I was momentarily nonplussed when I saw that two manila envelopes were missing. Over the years, I’d grown used to seeing them when I opened the compartment. Both had been labeled in red ink. One was OPERATION PHOENIX. The other read: DIRECCIÓN: BLANCA MANAGUA.

I’d kept the documents for years because they were my leverage against people who might try to leverage me, and a guard against potential legal problems from which no statute of limitations would ever protect me.

But not so long ago, I’d destroyed both folders. Had tossed them into a driftwood fire. At the time, it’d seemed a safe thing to do.

Now I wasn’t so sure.

I still had all of my old notebooks, though. I removed them, pausing to linger over names that I’d written on the covers in precise block print. Each notebook catalyzed visual memories, some good, some bad.

A few of those memories were as unpleasant as seeing parasites spilling larvae into water. A couple, worse.

I restacked the notebooks on my bed, pausing over the familiar titles:

There were others.

I set the notebooks aside. Then a letter I hadn’t read in a long time. I was tempted to open it, but didn’t. It was from a colleague I’d once dated, Dr. Kathleen Rhodes, a beautiful woman who’d ended the relationship with this note.

I placed it with the notebooks.

There was a second envelope that contained a letter. It was addressed:

I set it aside, also.

Lying atop a black Navy watch sweater was a 9 mm SIG-Sauer P-226 semiautomatic pistol, a dense black weight. Folded and tucked into the finger guard was a card that Harrington had given me not so long ago.

A name was on the card preceded by a single word: ETERNALIZE.

When “Executive action” became part of the public record, another euphemism became requisite. “Eternalize” was a good choice. Spoken or written, it could be INTERNALIZE, a typo, or something misheard.

Always give yourself an out.

Next to the pistol was a SATCOM telephone, government-issue. SATCOM is a satellite-based wireless communications network with a sophisticated scrambler system. You can speak freely.

I’d kept the thing locked in my lab, but finally stored it here because I found its distinctive bonging chime irritating. The chime was suggestive of a clock in a British drawing room at high tea—very civilized.

The stuff I’d discussed on this phone was anything but civilized.

When I touched the power button, I was relieved that it had some juice. I punched four more buttons, and, a moment later, heard Harrington say, “I knew you’d come crawling back. I hope Parker didn’t have to slap you around too hard.”

“A sweet guy like him? I was just telling your gorilla-sized delivery boy what a fine man you are. But he seems to think you’re an asshole. Which he’ll tell you himself... if his jaw doesn’t have to be wired shut.”

Harrington snorted, but was already done with small talk. “I have a couple of interesting jobs. Or have you decided to go ahead and pop your buddy?”

My buddy. The name on the card.

A great many years ago, when Tomlinson was a very different man, he’d supposedly been involved in something that had caused the death of some good people. Tomlinson had regretted it ever since—in fact, it had done a lot to make him the man he is today—but certain people had never forgotten. Harrington, for one. Who better to even the score than Tomlinson’s best friend? But I had delayed—delayed, hoping that it would all blow over. With Harrington though, nothing ever blew over.

I said, “I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. For a while, I thought Tomlinson was just leverage. A way to keep me on the job. You’d spare him; I’d keep working for you. But you’ve been pushing so hard, I’m starting to think he worries you for some reason. Something I don’t know about. Is that why you want him taken out?”

“Does it matter?”

“If I had a choice, it would.”

“You do. Your buddy doesn’t.”

“It won’t be me. I’ll never do it. Not a chance.”

“Never say never. For now, you’re being nice, buying him time. But time’s going to run out, you know.”

“We’ll see. Now, what did you have in mind?”

I told Harrington to tell me about the assignments. I’d see if I could fit one in between having a baby, running my business, and trying to live a normal life.

Abu Sayyaf, a violent Islamic fanatic, had helped plan a train bombing in Madrid—killed a couple hundred innocent souls—and was now working on a plot to target school buses in the U.S., according to intelligence assets.

“Various agencies have people tracking the progress,” Harrington said. “But they don’t do the kind of work we do. Up close. Personal.”

Terrorists believe they can implode the scaffolding of a society by creating chaos. Bombing schoolkids was madness, but an effective madness if chaos was the goal.

Hal’s sources had told him that Sayyaf would soon be taking a cruise, possibly out of Lauderdale. They weren’t sure of the dates. Something about his European mistress having problems shaking her husband.

“What I’m thinking is, maybe you can introduce yourself to the gentleman one night while you’re at sea. A quick hello. Then good-bye.”

I knew what that meant. Could picture it. I had done a similar assignment years before. The complexities of International Maritime Law, and a dark, dark night, are both safe havens of a sort.

“The job’s yours if you want it.”

I had no qualms about intercepting a man capable of planting bombs on school buses. A couple of years back, I might’ve struggled with the notion. No longer. For better or worse, I’ve come to terms with who I am, and what I am. Darwinism describes the human condition as accurately as it explains the competitive process that is natural selection.

Harrington told me, “I’ve got one more. You’ll find this interesting. Bioterrorism, maybe. Biosabotage, at the very least. We’ve got a lead on what we think is a network. There’s a small-time smuggler named Bat-tuy Nguyen who’s trying to go big-time. Vietnamese, but out of Bangkok and Cuba. He’s into the illegal reptile trade, importing dangerous exotics.”

I was listening. Knew Harrington would save the best for last.

“Nguyen’s been branching out. His people have been buying nasty stuff no normal collector wants. Fifty-gallon drums of contaminated water from malaria hotspots in Gabon and Cambodia. Shit holes of the world. Rats from a Ugandan laboratory. Bribing the staff. The rats have been infected with the plague. Bubonic, and there’s another type—”

“Rats don’t carry plague; their fleas do,” I interrupted. “Bubonic and pneumonic. Rats carry the fleas. Jesus Christ, is he selling this stuff to people who have the technology to do something with it?”

“We don’t know, it’s all fresh intel. We’re not even sure if the stuff is headed for the States. But something happened today that spiked our interest.” From the man’s confident
tone—I’ve got you hooked. You’re back
—I knew what it was before he said it.

“Nguyen’s been importing contaminated water from East Africa, too. The CIA’s people thought it was the same deal. Mosquito larvae. Someone was buying. But, this afternoon, we got a report through the Centers for Disease Control saying that a certain bigshot Florida biologist had identified a weird sort of parasite near Disney World. Something called ‘guinea worms.’ Maybe they’ve spread through the water system.”

He continued, “Nationwide, we have some other indicators, too. California, Arizona, some other places. Small-time bio-attacks aimed at screwing up local economies. But Disney? This one’s big enough to put our little team on the job.”

Yes. He had me.

I said, “I found the parasites in a corpse, a friend’s brother, not in the water system. You don’t want to hear about it.” I was thinking about the guinea worm samples I had in my backpack. If Jones had broken the jars when he jumped me, I might have done more than dump him over the railing. Or... maybe putting him in the water with the parasites was the worst thing I could’ve done.