Martin Vail 03 - Reign in Hell

by Diehl, William

  He took another drag on his cigarette.

  “You know, at first, every time I sent one of them out I would write a poem. I had in mind, when it was all over, it would be an epic poem about young men serving their country. Then I heard the stories. And I would write the poem and go out and drink a bottle of Scotch whiskey. And finally I stopped writing verses and just drank the bottle of Scotch. And one day when they came for the boxes with the service records, I threw the poems in the box. So here I am, young Harrison, without even the strength to put a bullet in my brain. All my memories are gone but the worst ones, and I sit with them, sleep with them, spend my days with the ghosts of all those fine young men. Look at me, son, I don’t have enough juice left in me to shed one lousy tear.”

  Latimore, stunned by the old man’s startling confession, stared at the pillaged face and then remembered why he was there. He turned the photograph over and slid it back across the table.

  “Give it another try, sir.”

  Grimes stared at him, took another puff on his cigarette. He had smoked about half of it and he carefully snubbed it out and touched the end to make sure it was out and put it in the bathrobe pocket. He leaned back over the photograph.

  “Don’t take no, do you?”

  “The Attorney General doesn’t take no, Colonel.”

  “Hah, nothing changes.”

  He tapped the faces with a forefinger.

  “Shrack. Engstrom called him Black Bobby. This is Mez… Men…”

  “Metzinger?”

  “Metzinger, yes. Then there’s Jordan. Engstrom here and Jennings. This one is… uh, Wayne… Wayne… Wayne something. Can’t remember his last name.”

  He stared at the photograph for a few more moments.

  “One died,” Grimes said, still staring at the picture.

  “You mean one of them was killed?”

  “This was Engstrom’s special squad. This is Specter One, nothing could kill them. Tunny, that’s it, Wayne Tunny. Toughie from New York City.”

  “Which one didn’t survive?”

  “I told you, no reports were filed, no official entries of any kind.”

  “How about this one? You say his name is Jennings?” Harrison pointed to the man Jordan had called Oz.

  The colonel leaned over closer and stared down at the picture for a minute or longer. “Oscar Jennings.”

  “Oscar. Os,” Latimore said.

  “Os, yes. That’s what they called him. From the Midwest somewhere, I think. Wisconsin?”

  “And he wasn’t killed?”

  “I don’t know anything for sure, but I do know Engstrom never put anybody from Specter One in a bag. He was very proud of that.”

  “I thought all the squads were Specter squads.”

  “They were numbered. Number One was Engstrom’s personal squad, they were his boys. Engstrom lost a lot of men in those years. But not from One. That picture there probably was taken in the… late sixties, right in the middle of it.”

  “So let me make sure I’ve got this straight. We’ve got Black Bobby Shrack, Dave Metzinger, Gary Jordan, Engstrom, Oscar Jennings, and Wayne Tunny.”

  The old man nodded and slid the picture back to Latimore.

  “What happened to Jennings and Tunny?” Latimore asked.

  “God only knows.” He took a long sip of beer and tapped his mouth with the handkerchief. “So, what does Harr… uh…”

  “Harrison, sir.”

  “What does Harrison Latimore do for the Attorney General of the United States?”

  “Hopefully, the best I can, Colonel.”

  Colonel Grimes threw back his head and laughed heartily. “Oh yes. Didn’t we all hope that, son. Didn’t we all.”

  “We suspect that one of these men, either Jennings or Tunny, has turned into a killer for hire, sir. A very dangerous man.”

  “What’s so surprising about that? They were all dangerous men.”

  “But he kills for a living.”

  Grimes stared at him, his eyes watery from the strain. He took out what was left of his cigarette and called to Alice, who slipped quietly into the room and lit it for him. He drank his beer and smoked the cigarette.

  “Most recently, we think one of them may have killed a man in the government witness protection program.”

  “Ah,” Grimes said matter-of-factly.

  “That doesn’t surprise you?”

  “Should it? If he kills for a living, who he kills is immaterial. I assume anybody might be fair game.”

  Latimore put the photograph back in his pocket.

  “Surprises you that I’m not shocked, doesn’t it? Did it ever occur to you who hires these people? Ever occur to you that your own government might give them a ticket occasionally? A little job in South America. Kill a dictator in Africa. Somebody has to do it, son. And when they aren’t busy doing for them, they hire out. Man has to make a living.”

  “Who would know how to contact him?”

  “I couldn’t tell you that.”

  “Who could?”

  “Whoever hires him. Perhaps he was given a new name, new identification, a nice purse, and cut loose over there. Perhaps he did a few jobs, then came back to the U.S. Now, you want to contact him, you call a phone number. It’s an answering machine in an office in some dump of a building somewhere. And he calls the machine from a pay phone and checks his messages, and takes the jobs he wants to do. No names, no addresses. The money is deposited in a numbered account offshore someplace. It’s all very cut and dried.”

  “That sounds like an extremely well-educated guess, Colonel. Are you sure you can’t tell me anything else?”

  “I can’t tell what I don’t know. And I can’t know what never happened. The Phantom Project never existed. There never were Specter squads. And the Army buried them forever to make sure it was kept properly quiet.”

  “So why are you talking to me?”

  “It’s over thirty years, son. Some probably died in faraway lands, gunned down or tortured to death in stone dungeons in the Mideast someplace. Or maybe they just burned out and couldn’t work anymore so they took out the old service .45 and ate it.”

  “Somebody has to have the phone number of that answering machine.”

  “Well, that was just a manner of speaking. There are probably much more sophisticated methods nowadays, with computers and whatnot.”

  Latimore was trying to sort out what the colonel was saying. Only one man in Specter One had died, he said, but two of them were missing. Jennings and Tunny. But the one who died wasn’t killed. Jesus. Grimes was like everybody else in the government, they never gave you a straight answer. Ask them if it’s raining outside and they tell you the name of the weather girl on Channel 6.

  “Well, I thank you,” he said. “I guess I’ll just check Graves’ Registration in Washington.”

  As Latimore got up to leave, the old man stared at him and smiled. The colonel’s cigarette had burned down to the filter. He placed it gently in the ashtray and stared at it sadly, as if he were viewing the corpse of a friend in a funeral home.

  As Latimore reached the door, the colonel looked over at him and said, “Young Harrison?”

  “Yes sir?”

  “Just remember, what is, isn’t. And what isn’t, is.”

  CHAPTER 29

  FORT WAYNE, WEDNESDAY 9:25 A.M., CST

  Ron Campbell’s back hurt. They had been crisscrossing the area around Wapakoneta for two weeks and it was taking its toll. His partner, Ed Flores, was scrunched down in the passenger seat, sucking on a Tootsie Roll pop. That was good, it kept him from bellyaching. Flores had quit smoking four months before and was just becoming reasonable again after spending that time bitching and moaning about everything. Tootsie Roll pops, which he gnawed at constantly, had added ten pounds to his girth, but Flores blamed the added weight on his dry cleaner, complaining that they were using a new cleaning fluid that was shrinking his suits.

  He took the lollipop out of his mouth long enough t
o say, “What’s the name of this one?” and popped it back in.

  “Turkey Run.”

  “God. We’re really dragging the bottom.”

  “We’re down to landing strips and parking lots.”

  “We’re not gonna get a line on this guy, I can feel it.”

  “That’s what you always say, Ed. Don’t you ever get tired of being wrong?”

  “I can’t quit now, the odds are with me,” Flores said. “I’m bound to be right sooner or later.” He pointed off to the right. “There it is. Hell, it’s nothing but a shed and a couple of hangars.”

  “Looks like it has landing lights.”

  “Well glorioski.”

  They turned down a narrow blacktop road and parked next to what passed for the terminal. There were three black automobiles parked near the door and, around the side of the building, two older cars. Nearby, a tall, lanky young man was tinkering with the engine of a single-engine plane. He wore coveralls and had an oil-streaked towel thrown over his shoulder.

  “Hold it a minute,” Campbell said to Flores, who was headed for the terminal.

  Campbell walked over to the mechanic, who looked over his shoulder and nodded.

  “Hi there,” Campbell said. “Got a minute?”

  “What can I do you for?”

  Campbell held out the wallet with his ID card. “FBI. My name’s Ron Campbell. This is my partner, Ed Flores.”

  “Yes sir. Joey Bushkin.” He started to extend his hand and stopped. “ ’Fraid my hand’s pretty greasy.”

  “No problem, Mr. Bushkin. You work here?”

  “Yes, sir. I pump gas, do mechanic work. Got a dozen or so regulars that base their planes here.”

  “Get much overnight traffic, do you?”

  “Nah. Don’t have a terminal as such, just a coffee room, pay phone, a few sectionals, and a weather radio. Midwest Rentals has a cubbyhole inside, but Henry usually closes kinda early unless you call ahead. That’s Henry Goshen.”

  “Mr. Bushkin, we’re trying to run down a plane that may have landed here on the sixteenth, two weeks ago yesterday. This would be a light-colored, twin-engine plane.”

  Bushkin wiped his hands on the oily rag. “That’s an easy one,” he said. “Don’t see many like that anymore.”

  “You remember the plane?”

  “A 1983 Beechcraft Baron D-55 with twin 375 Lycomings. A rare jewel, and this baby was mint. I took a sneak peek inside. Built-in stereo, computer, the works.”

  “How long was it here?”

  “Let’s see, he came in the afternoon that Tuesday and he was gone when I come in Thursday morning. Left sometime Wednesday night, early Thursday.”

  “Happen to get a look at the pilot?”

  “Nope. I was over at the hangar working on a Cherokee when he landed. Just kind of an average-looking fella from what I could see.”

  “How was he dressed?”

  “Well, lemme think. Tell you the truth, I remember airplanes a lot better than I do people. I think he was in a suit. Maybe a gray suit.”

  “Did he refuel here?”

  “No, sir. But the D-55 has a range of maybe twelve hundred miles. Could’ve come a far piece without gassin’ up.”

  “How about his call number?”

  “Naw, don’t remember that. Like I said, I can remember every airplane made, been my hobby since I was old enough to hold a book, but I don’t pay much attention to people and numbers.”

  “And the rental manager’s name is Henry?”

  “Henry Goshen.” He nodded and pointed to the terminal. “He should be in there. He don’t know much about planes, though.”

  Goshen was in his late fifties. His shoulders were bowed and he was reading a newspaper from four inches away through glasses an inch thick. The room was painted pale blue. Goshen was behind a small counter on one side. Facing it was a worn sofa, a bottled-water machine, and a large map of the Fort Wayne area. The room was uncommonly warm, so Goshen had his jacket off. He was wearing a striped shirt, no tie, a belt and suspenders. He was chewing a toothpick. He looked up when Campbell and Flores entered the small office, slid his glasses down on his nose, and squinted over the rims.

  “Help yuh?”

  Campbell showed him his wallet. “FBI, sir. I’m Agent Campbell, this is Agent Flores.”

  “Well, well.”

  “We think you may have had a rental on the sixteenth, late in the day. Do you remember that?”

  “That’s over two weeks ago.”

  “Well, there doesn’t seem to be a traffic jam around here, Mr. Goshen,” Flores said. “Maybe you can remember back that far.”

  Goshen was leafing through a box of index cards. He stopped and pulled one up. He looked on both sides of it, then pulled it out.

  “Here it is,” he said. “Remember him now. Didn’t have a coat on.” He looked up. “It was cold and rainy but he didn’t have a coat on.”

  “Remember what he looked like?”

  Goshen looked at them for several seconds. “Average-looking fella in a suit. No coat.”

  “How about his hair?” Flores said. “Long, short, black, brown?”

  “Maybe he had a hat on.”

  “Maybe?” Flores said.

  “Would you recognize him if you saw him again?” Campbell asked. “Look at my eyes, son,” Goshen said sardonically. “These glasses is like reading through the bottom of a shot glass. He was clean-shaven and white. Anything else’d be guesswork.”

  “Would you have a carbon of the rental slip?”

  “Can bring it up on the computer.”

  “Please,” Campbell said pleasantly.

  Goshen tapped the keys, highlighted a date, and a copy of the rental agreement jumped on the screen.

  “There it is,” he said.

  “Can you print that out for us?” Flores asked.

  “Nope. Outta paper.”

  WASHINGTON, WEDNESDAY 12:42 P.M., EST

  Hardistan and Firestone were en route to the airport when the FBI agent’s cell phone rang. He answered before the second ring.

  “Mr. Hardistan, this is Ron Campbell, I’m on the Ohio task force.”

  “Sure, Ron, what is it?”

  Campbell was sitting sideways in the passenger seat of the car with his legs barely touching the ground. They were in front of the Hoosier Chalet Motel on the outskirts of Fort Wayne.

  “We got a break on the plane, sir. It’s a white 1983 Beechcraft Baron D-55 with blue trim. Range about twelve hundred miles. The perp stayed in the Hoosier Chalet Motel on Route 30 about fifty miles from Waller’s place. His rental car clocked 216 miles, which would be about right for two trips from Fort Wayne to Wapakoneta.”

  “That’s great, Ron. Have you reported this to Floyd?”

  “Yes, sir, he told me to call you personally. That plane is kind of rare, Mr. Hardistan. I think if we notify the FAA and get their help, somebody might spot it.”

  “Good idea. I’ll call Jim Norcross at the FAA as soon as I hang up. Got the call letters on that plane?”

  “No sir. It’s probably a phony anyway. He checked into the motel at a drive-in window and paid cash for two nights. He also ordered up room service and paid cash for that, but he was in the bathroom when the bellhop brought it up, left the money on the dresser. The car rental guy was almost blind and doesn’t remember what the perp looks like. Nobody remembers him. They all say the same thing, he’s an average-looking white guy. He had a Florida driver’s license registered to a Frank Pierce at 3224 Oceanview Boulevard, Fort Lauderdale. The license is a phony and there’s no such address in Lauderdale.”

  “Good work, Ron,” Hardistan said. “We’ll make a run on all licensed Beechcraft Baron D-55s and see if we get lucky. You and Flores did a good job. Tell him I said so.”

  Hardistan turned off the phone.

  “Chickens are starting to roost, Sam,” he said to Firestone. “But we still don’t know what the shooter looks like.”

  WASHINGTON, WEDNESDAY 3:12 P
.M., EST

  International Security, Ltd., occupied two offices in an obscure office building a few blocks from the White House. The company kept a low profile. It avoided publicity, was not listed on any stock exchange, and never advertised. Its name never came up in congressional hearings or conversations. Most members of the two houses had never heard of it. The media was unaware of its existence. Yet the CIA and the National Security Agency had been using ISL as “consultants” for thirty years.

  Its president, David Worrell, was also unknown in political circles. Worrell never attended parties or official functions. He did not contribute to political parties or politicians. The phone number was unlisted, and the hard disk in his computer was removed every night and kept in a safe hidden in Worrell’s office. He was a six-footer in excellent shape, with blond hair turning gray and a deep tan. He favored tweed jackets, gray Australian wool slacks, and dark-colored shirts open at the collar.

  The other office was occupied by a paraplegic ex-soldier of fortune named Le Blanq who spoke five languages fluently. Forty years before, during the Algerian freedom fighters’ rebellion against the French, he had lost the use of both legs when a bomb shattered his lower spine. Le Blanq was completely bald and had a barrel chest and massive arms offset by withered, useless legs. He looked awkwardly off balance in his state-of-the-art wheelchair.

  Le Blanq and Worrell were talent agents. Their clients were the governments of Britain, the U.S., France, Germany, South Africa, and Israel. The talent was the cream of the freelance intelligence community: terrorists, soldiers of fortune, assassins, safecrackers, information gatherers. ISL referred to them as “actors.”