The Executioner's Game (6 page)

Luther and Hampton sat in the Ford and watched ships unload at East Baltimore's Inner Harbor. The sun was out, but it was blocked by hazy clouds that made everything seem dismal and gray. Besides, it was nearing the horizon. Soon it would set, and the night would rise, taking the town to darkness.

The area was generally unkempt, and the steady wind was filled with the smell of fish and the ocean. Something about this place unsettled Luther. He didn't know whether it was instinct or the fact that he hadn't been in America in a long time, but something had his mind on a yellow alert.

Luther was settled near Wagner's Point in Baltimore. That's where the
Métier
had come into port.

Dockworkers hurried about with a measured energy that suggested they had a long time to work and a short time to live. Luther remembered that feeling, the state of normality enjoyed by ordinary people. It seemed so distant now in his world.

He was trying to figure out what Alex Deavers was think
ing when he so cleverly deceived them by switching ships. Of course he was covering his tracks, but with the government's information-gathering ability, it seemed an almost impossible task to get away cleanly. Still, Alex was too smart to have randomly chosen this city. It was too close to D.C., too close to E-1, to be anything but a calculated effort. Again, the question was why.

“I know that the wolf came here because it was the last place we'd expect him to,” said Hampton. “But that couldn't have been the only reason.”

“If I know Alex, he had something hidden here,” said Luther. “Money, a contact, maybe a weapon.”

“God, I hope it's not one of
my
weapons,” said Hampton.

Luther pictured Alex sneaking off the boat, paying off whoever had assisted him, then getting transportation. And Deavers had covered his tracks well. The locals and the FBI hadn't found a single person willing to admit that he'd seen anyone fitting Alex's unique description. And who wouldn't remember a disfigured man?

Hampton turned on his laptop, which was nestled securely in a holder built in to the dashboard. He pulled up the E-1 Operations Mission Program, called EOPM.

“What's it say?” asked Luther, aware of what Hampton was doing.

“Most of the men interviewed were telling the truth about Deavers, all but one. A man named Kraemer was noted as ‘suspicious' by the maritime authorities, the FBI, and the Harbor Patrol. Kraemer was part of the
Métier
's rescue team when it came upon the
Sjømannskirken
at sea.”

“But his story checked out,” said Luther.

“It did, but two men on the
Métier
noted that Kraemer had disappeared for a time after the ship was under way again.”

Hampton pulled up a picture of Kraemer. He was a round little white man whose features were doughy and bland. His skin was ruddy from years at sea, and his head was a mess of dark, greasy hair.

“A handsome figure of a man,” said Hampton.

“He's our target. He'll lead us to something.”

“You mean to the wolf.”

“I don't think Alex is here anymore,” said Luther. “It's been too long, and I know
I
wouldn't sit so close to D.C. for an extended period of time.”

They soon spotted Kraemer, who looked just like his picture. When he left work, Luther followed him away from the pier and into the city. Luther hit the Ford's CD player, and Outkast blasted from the speakers. The thick bass and Andre 3000's rapid-fire rap filled him with energy.

“You're going to kill me before the wolf,” said Hampton.

Kraemer made a pit stop at a 7-Eleven and came out with a plastic bag holding a six-pack of beer. Kraemer got into his car, popped the top on a can, and drank.

“Not a very safe driver,” said Luther.

Kraemer pulled away. Luther waited a moment and then followed. Although Luther didn't know the region, he did know that East Baltimore was the black part of the city and considered to be a dangerous area. That's where Kraemer headed.

Luther's mind worked as he trailed Kraemer into the heart of the inner city, watching the faces turn from white to black and the sky fill with darkness.

The streets in a place like this came to life at night. This didn't
unsettle Luther; it stimulated him. There would be danger, and he was ready. So far this whole wolf chase had been a mental cat-and-mouse game. He was definitely due for some real action.

A startling thought occurred to Luther. Could Alex still be in the city? Was this a trap of some kind? Luther got excited for just a moment; then he calmed down.

“He's going into the inner city,” said Hampton. “What's a white guy gonna do there?”

“I don't know. Any man can get into a lot of trouble in the 'hood,” said Luther.

Kraemer stopped his vehicle in front of a run-down, blasted-out building near East Fayette and North Port streets. Although Luther had never been here, he sensed that it was not a safe place.

Luther and Hampton watched as Kraemer got out, slipped what had to be money to two young black men, and went inside. The money, Luther knew, was payment for them to watch Kraemer's car, a brand-new Volvo, much too nice a car to be in this part of town at night.

Luther rolled by the building, and the two black men gave his vehicle more than a passing look. He drove for another two blocks, then turned around and headed back. The streets had the look of an urban war zone and reminded him a great deal of Detroit.

“So what's Kraemer doing here?” asked Hampton.

“More important, what does his presence have to do with Alex Deavers, if anything?”

Luther parked his Ford in the well-lit lot of a restaurant not too far from where Kraemer was. Hampton removed his sidearm, a 9mm Baby Eagle, and made sure it was loaded.

Luther took a few steps away, then spoke. “You got me?” he asked.

“Yep,” said Hampton, and Luther heard him clearly in a small earpiece he wore.

Luther took his P99 and proceeded back to the building where Kraemer had gone on foot. He was wearing jeans and a black hooded sweatshirt. He'd fit right in.

Luther walked the three blocks back to the building. With each step he grew more energized and more dangerous. The ghetto was just another kind of mission terrain, he reasoned. London, Prague, or East Baltimore—the mission was the same, and the rules and objectives still applied.

“If Deavers isn't here, as you suggest,” said Hampton, “we only need minimal effort.”

“And what the hell does that mean?” asked Luther.

“Try not to kill anyone,” said Hampton.

“Not making any promises.”

As Luther approached the building, he hoped the Volvo would still be there. It was. The two men were still watching the car, but now they were on the stoop of the building.

Luther saw that they were hard street types, the kind of men who'd probably do anything for money. He debated buying them off but didn't trust them to take his bribe. In most cases guys like this would just decide to rob him and stay loyal to their employer, in which case he'd have to kill them. He didn't want that. Still, he would have to engage them in order to find out why Kraemer was in this neighborhood and in this building.

“Two men in my way,” said Luther.

The street was desolate. It still smelled like some kind of trap, but Luther pressed on. He moved closer, and the two men saw him. If one of them bolted for the building, he'd have to move fast. But they didn't. To them Luther was just another brother
from the 'hood, someone they had no fear of. They had beaten and probably killed men who looked more dangerous than Luther. The men had no way of knowing that the man walking toward them could bring quick and sudden death.

One of them stood. He was of medium build and appeared to be only twenty or so. The other man was bigger and looked much more dangerous. That's the one Luther wanted. In multiple-adversary combat, it was axiomatic that the larger of the two was usually the greater threat. If Luther could subdue the big man, the smaller one would feel vulnerable and would be easier to defeat. And it was always best to expend your freshest energy on the bigger man.

Luther stopped a few feet from the standing man. He was wearing an Orioles baseball cap and a dirty gray T-shirt. The bigger man was wearing a blue Phat Farm sweatshirt. He just sat and watched, scowling.

“Keep walkin', nigga,” said the man in the gray shirt. His voice was thin but measured and very confident. “Nuthin' for ya 'round here, playa.”

Luther remained silent. And he did keep walking, right over to the other man. The big man stood up, but before he could react, Luther moved in and delivered a slashing blow to his throat. The man grabbed his neck, and Luther swept his legs from under him. The big man fell and hit the stoop hard, his head slamming on the bottom step. He was still clutching his neck and bleeding a little from the side of his head.

Luther had turned while sweeping the big man, and when he was done, he faced Mr. Gray Shirt. The smaller man was reaching into his pants. Luther pulled his P99 and held it right in front of the man's face. Gray Shirt stopped, and Luther easily disarmed him of the gun he'd been going for.

Luther pushed Gray Shirt toward the fallen man and then pulled the fallen man's gun from his waistband. He put both guns into the pouch of his sweatshirt.

“You a cop?” asked Gray Shirt.

“The white man,” said Luther, ignoring him. “Who is he, and why is he here?”

“Fuck you,” said Gray Shirt.

Luther stepped around Gray Shirt and kicked the big man in the jaw, breaking it. The sound made Gray Shirt flinch. Luther repeated his question.

“I don't know!” said Gray Shirt. “He just started coming here and paid us to watch his car. He stay here all night, and then he leave.”

“What room is he in?” asked Luther.

“He up on the second floor, first door. Don't nobody live in the place, man. It used to be a rock house, but—”

Luther didn't need to hear the rest of the statement. He punched Gray Shirt in the ribs, knocking the air out of him. Then he slammed his forearm into his jaw, and the man dropped to the ground. Luther took the bullets from their guns and tossed them, and then he tossed the guns into the sewer grate at the curb.

“And no one's dead,” Luther said to Hampton. “See how nice I can be?”

“Excellent,” said Hampton. “I can't wait to find out Kraemer's situation.”

Luther entered the building. The odor of decay and urine assaulted him. Dried blood and gang signs covered the wall of the stairwell he ascended. His mind was filling with memories of his life on the streets of Detroit. He'd been in many places like this. He'd watched them turn from homes filled with love and hope to abandoned shells, haunted by the ghosts of destroyed lives.

Luther got to the landing and approached the first door. He had to act quickly. This was looking more and more like some kind of setup.

Luther kicked in the flimsy door and entered with his P99 in hand. Kraemer turned and was startled, dropping his beer to the floor. He got up from the chair he'd been sitting in.

“About time,” said Kraemer.

“Don't speak unless I ask you a question,” said Luther.

Kraemer said nothing. Luther looked around for a second, then back to Kraemer.

“I'm only going to ask you once,” said Luther. “Who sent you here?”

“A man named Luther Green,” said Kraemer.

Luther almost lowered his gun. Alex. He knew. Somehow he knew that Luther would be sent after him.

“And why did he send you here?”

“He said you'd know. Said you two worked together for Immigration and were on the trail of some bad men. I didn't believe him at first. I mean, he looked like hell; his face was all mangled. He said he got that in Desert Storm. I was in the service, too, the marines.”

“What else did he say to you?” asked Luther, and now he almost wanted to laugh at the use of his name. Alex had not completely lost his mind. He still had a sense of irony.

“He gave me a lot of money and told me to keep coming here until a black man showed up asking questions,” said Kraemer. “You're here, so I'm out.”

Luther read the man. He was scared of what he was doing, yet he seemed a little relieved to see Luther.

“Why here?” Luther asked, almost to himself.

“Said you'd know that, too. Look, I did what he asked. Can I go now? I hate this place, and them guys outside are gonna jack me sooner or later, I just know it.”

“How long was he here?” asked Luther.

“A few days. Luther found this place. Look, I thought he was some kind of stowaway, but he had government ID, and he said he was working on something big. I don't want no trouble, you know? I was trying to help my country.”

“Think carefully,” said Luther. “Did he say anything else, anything at all?”

“No, but he did make me take him down to Veterans' Hall one day. He went in empty-handed and came out the same way, but he seemed to be different when he came out.”

“Different how?”

“I dunno. Happy, pleased about something. And I didn't ask him nothing. The man didn't like questions, and I ain't stupid.”

Luther lowered his weapon and told Kraemer to go, thanking him on behalf of Immigration. He also told him to wake up the two men outside, tell them that the cops would be here shortly, and to leave if they knew what was good for them.

Kraemer ran out, and Luther inspected the room. When he heard Kraemer's car pull off, he went down and checked the street. They were all gone.

“Now what?” asked Hampton, who had heard everything.

“I check the room,” said Luther. “Then we go to Veterans' Hall tomorrow.”

Luther went back to the room and found a few answers to his many questions.

“Why did he use your name?” asked Hampton.