Dalton opened his mouth to say something soothing, but once Stallworth had lifted off there was nothing much to do but sit back and admire the contrail.
“No, wait! Yes! It’s
my
fault, isn’t it? I guess I should have been more
specific.
I should have said ‘and oh yes by the way please do
not
kick the living guts out of any goddam innocent Croatians, if you don’t mind.’ Next time I’ll remember to mention that, not that there’ll actually
be
a next time, because by the middle of next week
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you’ll be stuck in D Block at Leavenworth wearing high heels and... and a ...thong...”
He was beginning to lose altitude, distracted by whatever the hell was in Dalton’s arms.
“Okay, you got me. What’s in the fucking package?”
Dalton lifted up the parcel, grinned at Stallworth.
“A humble gift. For your collection.”
Stallworth grunted, as if it was entirely usual for one of his agents to arrive at Langley HQ with an armload of potted present.
Which it was.
“Give it here.”
Dalton handed the parcel to Stallworth, who swept aside a sheaf of papers on his desk and set it down carefully.
“What is it?”
“I think it’s a kind of flower. They said it was very rare.”
Stallworth’s face altered from choleric rage to a pale avidity as he used an old Marine Ka-Bar sitting on his desk to slice the paper wrapping away, unveiling a towering moss-covered branch anchored in a large terra-cotta pot. The branch was studded with, in Dalton’s considered opinion, alarmingly insectile bulbous-nosed corpse-colored flowers with bulging red penis-pistils in the center and soaring tiger-striped ears above, each one trailing a pair of twisted tendrils in spotted purple. In the sunlight streaming in through the window, the orchids glowed with a vivid unnatural light, a nacreous otherworld luminosity not unlike Saint Elmo’s fire.
Stallworth sat heavily down in his chair, limp, an expression of lust and creeping suspicion spreading across his bulldog face.
“God. My God. Sanders’ Paphiopedilum. Is it actually...”
“Is that what it is? I thought it was a gangrenous pustule.”
“You have no ...I’ll tell you what it is.”
His face went blank, his vision turned inward, and from his mouth in a kind of sacred drone there came a string of incantations:
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“A medium-size hot to warm growing lithophytic species found on southeast-facing vertical limestone cliffs in Borneo at elevations of one hundred and fifty to six hundred meters that has four to five linear shiny green leaves and multiflowered blooms on a suberect terminal with purple two-inch-long pubescent inflorescence with elliptical-lanceolate leaves and red-brown floral bract carrying two to five simultaneously opening flowers. How did you time them to be open when they got here? How the hell did you do that?”
“Skill. Timing. Professional dedica—”
“Do you have
any
idea what this is? Never mind. This is simply the rarest and most expensive orchid in the world. You’re not even allowed to pick— Christ, how did you get it into the U.S.?”
“I got this one in Florence, actually. The grower’s name was Bar-betta. He’s supposed to—”
“Fiorello Barbetta? He
never
sells his Sanderiana. Never.”
“These were a gift. He wanted you to try grafting one.”
Stallworth’s face took on a glow of uncomplicated pleasure.
“A
grafting
Sanderianum. From Barbetta
himself
? Really?”
“Really, Jack. Hope you like it.”
Dalton smiled, enjoying Jack’s rapt expression. As a matter of pure undiluted truth, the orchids were actually contraband, obtained by Dalton at painful personal expense—three thousand euros cash on the barrel—and then only after the sustained intercession of Bran-cati’s wife, Luna, who happened to be a personal friend of Fiorello Barbetta’s.
These flowers were from Barbetta’s personal collection of Paphiopedila in the Boboli Gardens greenhouse, and then flown, in the seat next to Dalton, by company jet directly from Florence to La Guardia, where he used his Agency ID to bypass a truculent customs agent totally incapable of horticultural leeway.
And then personally conveyed directly to Langley in the back of Dalton’s rented Town Car, which required a stop every fifty miles to
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spray the horrid little stinkweed with a misting bottle, not to mention maintaining the interior temperature of the Lincoln at a sweltering eighty degrees all the way down.
The price of peace in our time, thought Dalton—and from the dazed look on Stallworth’s face, worth every penny of it.
“So you approve? Jack? Jack?”
Stallworth seemed not to hear. All of his attention was focused on the delicate tracery of green vine, the moss-covered branch, and the ghastly orchids on his desk, on fire in the slanting light. The look on his face was sacramental, an acolyte in the presence of the divine.
“I don’t ...know what to say. I’ll write to him directly. Micah, I don’t know how to—”
His expression abruptly altered, hardening.
“Say. If you think that—”
Dalton raised his hands, palms out, shoulders lifting.
“Nothing to do with Venice, Jack. I know that.”
But Stallworth was gone again, already on his feet, looking pale now, patting at the tendrils, his lips pursed, his eyes widening.
“We’ve got to get these into the greenhouse. Here, you spray them,” he said, handing Dalton a bottle of water, “while I get the top off. There, on the pistils. Not too much. Okay. Now the petals.”
A flurry of brisk activity followed, Stallworth clucking away like a hen on the nest, Dalton lowering the orchids into a hastily cleared section of Stallworth’s coffin-size terrarium; more misting, more fluffing of the tendrils, and finally the lid coming down—“easy, Micah, easy, you handless son of a bitch”—and then they both sat down in their respective chairs, breathing hard, Stallworth glancing hungrily from time to time at the new orchids in their dripping sarcophagus and Dalton sipping contentedly from a cup of hot coffee poured from Stallworth’s espresso machine on his rosewood credenza.
Finally Stallworth tore his eyes away from Fiorello Barbetta’s ob-
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scenely expensive orchids to stare thoughtfully at Dalton through the profusion of greenery on his desk (pots of dripping ferns, a spray of purple iris in a sterling silver bowl, pink tea roses in a flute).
“That was decent of you, Micah. That’s a damn fine flower. And I thank you, I really do.” Dalton braced himself; sucking up in a manly way can only get you so far. “But Micah, this shit’s gotta stop, man. These guys in Venice.
This Gospic mutt. You know he’s got his thumbs up a lotta assholes.” “Jeez, Jack. I
don’t
need that image.” “Well he
does
—and somma it’s in our playpen. You follow?” Dalton did not, but he was beginning to. “Christ! He’s not an asset?” “No. But he calms the troubled waters for people we work with.
In the Balkans. Cather’s not happy Gospic is pissed at us.” “Gospic’s pissed at
me,
Jack. Not the Agency.” Stallworth dismissed that with a flick of the hand, fell into a
thoughtful silence while he considered Dalton over his glasses. “This stuff with the dago. Cora Vasari. She’s okay, is she?” “She’s not a dago, Jack, and yes. She’s okay.” “Give it to me straight. You used your Consular jacket.” “Yes. I did.” “Why the hell did you need it?” “I was looking for a guy I liked in the Naumann thing. I couldn’t
go around asking questions without some kind of legend. About Cora, Jack, you had to be there. She’s a knockout. I lost twenty IQ points just staring at her. So would you.”
Stallworth waved that off as well.
“These two Croats, the guys who showed up at her door later? This Radko mutt, NSA’s got a voiceprint off a cell phone, could be him talking to Gospic.”
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“Why? How?”
“Call came from Venice right after the Vasari woman got smacked around. A cell tower down in the Dorsoduro. Call went straight to Gospic, so it got tagged and logged into sigint.”
“NSA’s tapping Branco Gospic?” Stallworth rolled his eyes, lifted his hands heavenward. “NSA’s got a button mike in Hillary’s dildo, Micah. There ain’t
nobody
NSA isn’t tapping. They got more taps out there than Restor
ation Hardware.” “A mike in ...God, Jack, where does this stuff come from?” “Nothing wrong with colorful speech, Micah. As long as you’re
precise. I’ll have Sally send you the intercept voiceprint and whatever matches we can isolate; maybe you can use it to get a line on this Radko. If I ever let you back out in the field.”
“What does that mean?” “Micah. Think. We’re in Iraq and Afghanistan and we’re looking
sideways at Iran. Now you got us at war with Croatia.” “I doubt Gospic’s gonna send a crew all the way to America.” “You do, do you? Sometimes I wonder how the hell you got into
the Agency in the first place. We should have left you with the DIA— they’re all whack jobs in Army Intel. Gospic’s already
got
people here, in Detroit, San Bernardino, Trenton. Most of the ports.”
“You’re not
really
thinking about taking me out of Operations?” Stallworth said nothing for a time. “Look. Right now, I need to know how operational you are.” “You mean with the drug exposure?” “Yeah. We got the tox report from Hazmat. That’s quite a cock
tail you got in the snoot. Salvia, mostly, but also peyote, datura, and psilocybin derivatives. Easily vaporized. Very fine particulate mass, light as spores, totally sprayable. Dispersible as an airborne solvent if you work the matrix right. Outstanding tactical possibilities. One
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dose in the face and—this is the salvia part—you get this complete psychotic break. Like LSD, only immediate. Instantaneous. It gets right down into the cortex, unlocks the id, Pandora’s box. Whatever you got in there, your personal demons—”
“I know that. But have they got an antidote?” Stallworth studied Dalton’s face for a while. “Not yet. You still
seeing Naumann’s ghost?” “Not recently,” Dalton said, lying like a Persian carpet. “But you have? Right? The whole thing? An apparatus?” “Apparition?” “Whatever.” “Yes. Days ago. Maybe.” “That the truth?” “May God strike me dead.” “Is he in here with us right now?” said Stallworth. “Nope. Nowhere around.” Stallworth was looking decidedly undecided. “I don’t know,
Micah. You’re starting to look like a medical risk out there. There
are insurance concerns. Liability.” “I’m not gonna
sue
the Agency, Stallworth.” “No? Others have.” He sat back, his expression neutral, looking
at Dalton. “This salvia extract, Micah, the medics say it’s in your limbic system right now, and it could kick out at any time. You admit that you’ve had several hallucinations, the last one only a few days ago.”
Dalton wasn’t going to give that puppy any air. “Stop right there, Jack. You took the SERE counterinterrogation course at Peary. The Biscuits dosed us up with LSD, other drugs, locked us up in cages for days, sleep deprivation. We all
saw
things. I got a dose and I had some visual things happen. They went away. I’m better. That’s the end of it.”
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“We knew what to
expect
with acid. We don’t know the long-term effects of this drug.”
“I’m as stone-cold clear as a man can get. I give you my word. If I really thought I wasn’t operational, I’d say so. You said it yourself. I’m a solid field guy. I get the job done. Yes, I had a bad time on this last detail. That’s over. Don’t take me out of the field. I mean it. I live there. Everything that
makes
my life is in this job.”
Stallworth’s face reflected some mixed emotions. The reference to the Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape course at Peary— a nightmarish week filled with sleep deprivation, physical and emotional assaults, and disorienting nightmare mind games, often exacerbated by hallucinogenic drugs—left every course survivor profoundly shaken, almost broken. On the other hand, most of them went on to become superb field operators.
“I get your point. I really do. But your mental—”
“You Section Eight me, Stallworth, and I swear I’ll walk.”
“Ha! As if ! You have no other life.”
“That’s my point! Send me to Walter Reed and I’ll never get another field assignment. You know it. It happens all the time. You get looked at cross-eyed by your own guys. Nobody trusts you again. You can’t get selected, because the rest of the team won’t sign off on you, and even if they do they’re always watching you while you sleep. You’re operationally over. You end up down in Housekeeping with the rest of the walking dead, shuffling around in a worn-out bathrobe mumbling, looking under the bed for your pipe and slippers. I’m too young—”
“You’re almost forty.”
Dalton felt his anger rising, and under that his deep-seated fear of being left ashore, of being marooned on a clerical desert island, with nothing in his future but endless days of meaningless work, the loss of everything in his life that gave it its spark, its wild electric flow. “I
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understand that you’re worried. I don’t blame you. Hell, I’m worried too. But instead of booting me off to Walter Reed so I can go quietly bats, how about you give me some easy time?”
“What? Like a vacation? You just came back from a month off.” “No. Not a vacation. But something useful. How about it?” “I don’t know.” “Jack. Come on...” “What kind of job are you thinking about?” Dalton had his answer ready; he’d had it ready since he crossed