Mack put down his drink and spread his arms wide. “Well, what do you want me to do about it? You want to hire me to spy on this guy? Because I’m sure as hell not gonna shoot him. You might not care about the guillotine, but I’m not going with you.”
“Mack, I would not dream of asking you to put yourself in danger. Jesus, I’ve known your family for longer than you have. But I want your advice. I want you to get me on a fast track to one of those international security firms. I’ve been reading about them. They are nearly all founded and staffed by ex-Special Forces guys, men from the Navy SEALs and the Rangers, from Britain’s SAS, even French paratroopers, guys who’ve served in the Foreign Legion.”
Mack looked doubtful. “I do know two or three guys who left the armed forces to join these types of corporations, but they’re mostly based abroad. I wouldn’t be sure where to start. But Jesus, Harry, these guys would want a fortune to take out a prominent French politician.”
“I’ve got a fortune,” replied Remson. “I’ll offer one million dollars, but I’ll go to two if I have to. A simple contract—no space for discussion; the money will be paid upon the death of Henri Foche. I’ll advance expenses up to fifty thousand bucks.”
“I can’t guarantee anything,” replied Mack. “But I’ll make some phone calls for you, and try to get a lead. You may have to get someone else to be a middleman after that. I’m a naval officer, and I couldn’t possibly be involved in such a scheme. But I’ll do what I can.”
Harry nodded, stood up, and offered Mack his hand. “Thanks, pal,” he said. “Remember, I’m not doing this for myself. I’m doing it for the town, for everybody.”
Mack shook his hand and replied, “I know you are, Harry. That’s just about the one shred of merit this entire lunatic scheme has—but I’ll do what I can.”
The two men left the study and walked back out onto the sunlit lawn, where the party was gathering a head of steam. Harry walked up to the stage and signaled for the band to stop playing. Someone handed him the microphone to address his guests.
“I want to welcome all of you here for the thirtieth time since I took over the shipyard from my father. Believe me, I’m very proud to see how many of you have attended every one of these summer parties. I appreciate your loyalty, and although we are undergoing some very difficult times, you guys are never out of my thoughts, and I am doing everything I can to protect the futures of you and your families, and, of course, the shipyard. I do not want to make a long speech, and anyway it’s not necessary, because you all know how I feel about every last one of you.” At this point a spontaneous burst of applause rippled out across the Kennebec River.
Harry Remson continued, “I want you all to enjoy yourselves. There’s about twenty cases of champagne out there. I don’t want anyone to die of thirst! Up on the raw bar, there’s seventy-five fresh lobsters Al and his son lugged up here this morning. The band I flew up here from New Orleans, and all this jazzy wine is because of my birthday—which isn’t for three months, but who’s counting? My family has been blessed through the years to have you working here. Without you, well, I don’t know if Dartford would exist.
“But before I finish I would just like particularly to welcome home one of our most distinguished citizens. He has been serving this country in the most elite frontline battalion in the entire United States armed forces. He’s served in the mountains and wild country of Afghanistan, he’s fought terrorists in Baghdad, and up and down the banks of the Euphrates River. He’s commanded his troops, he’s led America’s fighting men into the hellholes of the Middle East. And mostly he’s come out on top. He’s a United States Navy SEAL, ladies and gentlemen. He’s our own Lt. Cdr. Mackenzie Bedford. Let’s give him a real Dartford round of applause.”
Everyone clapped and cheered the iron man from SPECWARCOM, and Mack looked about as embarrassed as any naval officer possibly could. Harry, however, stepped back up and said, “I’m not going to ask him to make a speech, because he thinks he’s no good at it. So let’s hear it one more time for a true man of action who has served his country long and well.”
Again the crowd burst into applause and there were many cries of,
“Way to go Mack! Welcome home! Welcome home!”
Anne Bedford stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. “Welcome home, my darling,” she said. “This is where you belong.”
And so the party continued on its noisy good-humored course until around seven-thirty, when Mack walked over to Harry Remson and put his arm around his shoulders, saying softly, “Harry, are you sure you are really serious about this French adventure?”
Harry turned to face him, expressionless, and murmured, “We do not have any other course of action. If this Henri Foche is allowed to live, this town will die. I believe it’s an old battle commander’s saying, ‘When it comes right down to it, and it’s a matter of us or them? Well, there’s only ever going to be one answer, and it’s not us.’ I’m serious. I want Henri Foche removed, because that’s our only chance of survival.”
Mack replied, “I just wanted to check, but now I know. I don’t think I can do much, but I will try to plug you into a group of guys who might know what you should do. I did not mention it earlier, but a lot of them left the armed forces in the United States and Great Britain and became mercenaries, guys who will fight for money, for the outfit that will pay them the most. It’s a big business, and it’s conducted mostly in Africa. I probably can find a way to key into them, but it’ll take time.”
“Quick as you can, Mack,” said Harry. “We’re right on the edge at Remsons. I have to lay off some of the steel cutters this week, because I have nothing for them to do and not much prospect of getting anything. If I can’t get rid of Foche, I’m afraid we may have built our last warship.”
Mack Bedford nodded. “I’ll do what I can,” he said again. “I can’t do more.”
Mack and Anne drove home quietly, both conscious of the stark contrast between the joyful camaraderie of the Remsons’ party and the tragic circumstance that awaited them as soon as they entered their front drive.
The situation was, if anything, worse than either of them had expected. Maureen greeted them on the front porch with the news that Tommy had been very sick all afternoon and that she had spoken to Dr. Ryan at the hospital, who said Anne should bring him in first thing in the morning, nine o’clock. Maureen told them that Tommy was now asleep. And she kept repeating over and over, “It’s just so sad. It’s just so sad.”
Anne Bedford, perhaps above all others, knew that Tommy was dying. All the symptoms she had been warned about three months earlier were slowly coming true. The tiredness, the sickness, the loss of memory, the weakening of once tough young muscles. It was all falling into place. Anne did not know how long Tommy could possibly go on getting worse by the week, and she also wondered, despairingly, how long she herself could go on, faced with this daily heartbreak. “I think I’ll just go up and sit with him for a while,” she said.
Mack told her he would walk down to the shore and back.
But when he reached the water’s edge, he did something he had not mentioned to Anne. He took out his mobile phone and punched in the numbers to another cell phone, deep inside SPECWARCOM’s headquarters at Virginia Beach. It answered on the second ring, and a voice said, “Hi, this is Bobby Rickard speaking.”
Hey, Bobby, it’s Mack. Guess they haven’t killed you yet?
Sonsabitches tried their best, I can tell you that. I only got back last week. Wounded?
No. But one of them fucking tribesmen split my helmet with an AK bullet. Shit, I thought I was done for sure.
Not you, kid. Only the good die young.
Heh, heh, heh! Don’t know about that—you’re still here!
Mack laughed, and cut quickly to the point. “Bobby,” he said, “do you remember Spike Manning? Petty officer. Left the SEALs about a year ago?”
“Sure, I remember him. I went through BUDs with his brother, Aaron. They came from Alabama, right?”
“Yup. That’s the guys. You ever hear what happened to Aaron? Didn’t he join some security outfit?”
“I’m not sure, but Spike took over his dad’s road haulage business down in Birmingham. I might even have a number for him, if it’d help. He and I were in Kabul together. Crazy bastard got shot, remember? Wait a minute.”
Mack sat down against a warm rock and stared at the water, muttering to himself, “This has to be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”
And then Bobby was back on the line. “It’s area code 205, then 416- 1300. That’s Spike’s home.”
“Hey, Bobby,” said Mack, “I really appreciate that, but I’m in a bit of a rush. Let’s get together, when you’re up this way.”
“Sure thing, buddy.”
Mack punched in the numbers. A female voice answered.
Mrs. Manning? Hi, this is Mack Bedford. Do you think I could speak to Spike if he’s around?
Oh, sure. He’s watching the Braves, and they’re getting wiped out by the Mets. He’d be glad to come to the phone.
Moments later, Spike Manning was on the line
.
“Hiya, Mack. Where ya been, buddy? Someone told me you’d retired.”
“Yeah. I guess I’d worked in that madhouse for long enough, and my guys were getting wiped out three at a time, every darned week. I’ve had it with death. Done my share.”
Spike Manning, an endlessly cheerful southerner, said, “Yup. I came to the same conclusion. You just can’t go on getting beat up by a bunch of towelheads you don’t even know. We lost six guys in Iraq on my last tour.”
“Yeah. I hear they nearly got you as well?”
“Got hit in the right thigh, just missed the big vein. If they’d got it, I’d be gone. We were miles from help. Anyway, what’s up, bro?”
Mack hesitated and then said, “I met a guy up here in Maine who wanted to contact Aaron. Didn’t he join some security outfit?”
“Security! That was some mercenary outfit. Aaron’s commanding some group of fucking maniacs in Niger, trying to overthrow the goddamned president, I think. They’re paying him a fortune.”
“Can he take a phone call?”
“Hell, no. He’s living in a goddamned cave.”
“Can he receive a message somehow?”
“Yes, he can. The organization he’s working for is in Kinshasa. That’s in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. Not to be confused with the Republic of Congo, which has been fighting against itself for damn nearly as long as anyone can remember. Kinshasa’s a lot more stable. It’s on the other side of the Congo River. And the outfit you’re looking for is called Forces of Justice. You can get it through directory assistance, but they’re always changing the goddamned phone number. They can get a message to Aaron.”
Mack punched the letters into his cell phone memory and thanked Spike for his help. He switched off the phone and began to walk slowly home, not wishing to be missed by either his wife or her sister.
The following morning, Tommy seemed much better, but Anne decided to keep the doctor’s appointment anyway, and Maureen had to leave. Mack sat on the screened porch and somehow found the phone number of Forces of Justice on avenue du Roi Baudouin, a throwback in name to the old king of the Belgian colonizers.
He placed the call and was unsurprised when the phone was picked up by an automatic message service—
Please state your name and the nature of your business.
Mack replied, “Spike Manning, USA, trying to contact my brother, Aaron.” Almost immediately, a British voice came on the line, saying briskly, “This is Major Douglas, commander central Africa. How can I help you?”
“Sir, I am trying to get some work done in France. Do you have an office there?”
“Our operation is based in Marseille. I can’t give you an address, but there is a phone where you can leave a message—hit 33 for France, then try 491 2069. If you don’t want to be called back, give them a time when you’ll call again.”
Mack said, “Thanks a lot, Major. I can handle that.”
“
You on the East Coast of America, old chap?”
“Yessir.”
“They’re six hours ahead. And you want to speak to Raul.”
Mack checked his watch. It was 9:15, Monday morning, and he dialed the number. Again it was a message, and Mack spoke carefully. “I have some expensive work to be carried out in France. I will call in one hour. That’s 1615 your time. The name is Morrison.”