‘And Wol Pot was mixed up with the White Palm Triad.’
‘That’s what immigration thinks.’
‘So the question now is, is the Thai still alive? And still on our side?’ Hatcher said. ‘That is, if he was ever on our side to begin with.’ He stared out at the harbor for a moment and added, ‘And you called this a simple job?’
‘Come on, Hatch, don’t go jumping to conclusions. So we got a glitch in the program.’
‘We’ve got a man dead, that’s what we’ve got, and that’s all we’ve got. I’d call that more than a glitch.’
‘Shit,’ Sloan said, ‘we’ve been in the soup too long to let a thing like Porter’s death stop us,’
‘You’ve been in the soup,’ said Hatcher. ‘I was in Los Boxes.’
Sloan sighed. ‘Let’s keep it pleasant,’ he said, still smiling, still Mr Sincerity, ‘for old times’ sake.’
‘Old times’ sake got all used up.’
‘I was just doing my job.’
‘You were doing what a bunch of weasels in the White House basement told you to do.’
Sloan leaned closer to Hatcher, his fingers wiggling like those of a magician about to perform a trick, his smile so constant it might have been permanently implanted on his face.
‘That is my job,’ he said with oily finality.
Though his smile never faded and his voice was quiet and level, Sloan felt suddenly uneasy. There had been a time in all the years they worked together when he didn’t have to explain anything to Hatcher; when he laid out the parameters and Hatcher instinctively knew the program. Was Hatcher rejecting the whole concept of the brigade? That had not occurred to Sloan. He had assumed that Hatcher only felt betrayed.
Sloan, his eyes narrowing but the smile remaining, said quietly, ‘You getting religion on me, pal? You’re gonna get yourself wasted, you start worrying about the wrong things. I taught you better than that.’
‘Sometimes I get a little confused about just what the hell you did teach me. Besides, it was different then, there was a war on. . .
Sloan threw back his head and laughed heartily.
‘For Christ’ sake, there’s always a war on someplace. You need a war? Shit, we got Lebanon, Israel, Iran, Nicaragua, Afghanistan. We got a whole supermarket full of wars, take your pick.’ He poured himself a stiff drink of scotch and dropped an ice cube in it. ‘Hell, we do what we have to do, Hatch. We got two choices on any given day — do it or don’t do it. If you don’t know the options going in, if you haven’t made the decision, they’ll get you. You don’t have time to figure the odds, that’s the way you get dead. All you got is clicks and reflexes. And if you don’t do it, they’ll do it to you. Have I ever told you any different? Was there ever any question in your mind about that?’
‘My whole bullshit career is questionable,’ said Hatcher. ‘I can’t even tell anybody what I did in the war.’
Still chuckling, Sloan said, ‘Is that it, you want to write about your war experiences?’
‘That’s not the point. There’s sixteen, seventeen years of my life that are blotto, like they never existed.’
‘You think I betrayed you, and that’s clouding your judgment,’ Sloan said softly. His tone had turned compassionate. Sloan had all the buttons. Push one, you got compassion. Push another, you got patriotic fervor. Push another, you got flattery. Hatcher remembered their first meeting, in a private room of the Occidental Restaurant in Washington where Sloan — as always, confident, almost fatherly — first outlined his personal gospel, describing the Shadow Brigade as a ‘golden opportunity, a chance to do something for your country that’s necessary, and which also offers a freedom of thought and action you don’t find in other branches of the service.’ No mention that this ‘branch of service’ had no records or that it was privately funded and did not even exist officially. Hatcher, the wet-eared kid out of the academy, all full of himself, was stroked and sweet-talked and razzle-dazzled and bought the whole package, no questions asked. That lunch had changed Hatcher’s life forever.
‘It was more than betrayal, Harry. Hell, you were my mentor. You got it done. You got the mission done and I looked up to you for that.’ Hatcher stopped for a moment, got himself a cup of coffee. ‘All those years in Los Boxes, all I thought about was you burning inc for some bum in the State Department. It wasn’t just doing the time. I trusted you, Harry, and you turned me up. And you’re still doing it.’
‘You’re getting holy on me,’ Sloan said with a chuckle and a shake of his head. ‘What’s your way of doing it? Take the river pirates to court for running dope to our boys in Saigon? Let our double agents dance on our graves? Compromise with the triads? Shit. Let me tell you something, pal, we learned to fight in dirty wars. And that’s what we’re gonna have from now on, dirty wars. Well, you don’t win dirty wars with Marquis of Queens- berry Rules. You kick ass and go for the body mass.’
‘The way they do it in Brazil and Argentina?’
Sloan sighed. ‘You know your trouble, Hatch? You’re trying to equate morality and warfare. Totally incompatible. If the rest of the Army had fought the war in Nam the way we fought it, we wouldn’t’ve got our ass kicked out of there and you know it. We learned how to beat our enemies from our enemies. A soldier doesn’t need a uniform or a fancy title, all he needs is the will to get it done. I repeat, if you don’t do it, it gets done to you. That’s the law according to Harry Sloan and it’s kept me alive for a bloody long time and it did all right by you, too. You’re just thinking too much, Hatch. How many times’ve I told you, consideration gets a man killed.’
‘Harry, you’re living proof that it’s possible for a man to talk faster than he can think.’
‘Well, laddie, when your ass is in the sling, you better do it before you think about it or you’re history.’
But it was obvious that Hatcher’s reevaluation of the brigade worried Sloan, for he slipped back to the subject. ‘You do a thing and it’s over,’ Sloan said with a shrug. ‘Why agonize over all that. You never made any moral decisions, they were made for you.’
‘Maybe that’s the point. Maybe I should’ve. Maybe this is about drawing the line.’
‘Hah!’ Sloan said. ‘This is old Harry you’re talking to, remember. You giving me ideology? Before lunch! Let me tell you something, we never did a job wasn’t worth the doing. You want to get bug-eyed about methods, procedures, whatever, that’s your problem. But don’t belabor a beautiful morning with ideology, don’t give me slogans and posters. My ideology is reality, and the reality is, it’s us against them. You and me, we don’t lose, pal, it’s not in our vocabulary.’
‘You made moral decisions, so did I. Spur-of-the- moment moves . .
‘Exactly. Exactly!’ Sloan said, interrupting him, his eyes twinkling again and the enthusiasm back in his tone. ‘Spur of the moment. There aren’t any moral decisions in warfare, Hatch, there’s winning and losing. God and country. Beyond that, it’s all superfluous.’
‘We got rules, Harry.’
‘Yeah, right.’
Hatcher said, ‘Anyway, this isn’t about God and country, as you put it. It’s about you and me. Just don’t ever back-stab me again. You do and I’ll . .
‘I know.’ Sloan leaned over closer to him, the smile getting broader, the gray eyes still twinkling. ‘You’ll put me where the fish can’t find me.’
There was no percentage in belaboring that subject any further. Hatcher knew he was blowing smoke at the moon. Sloan was a man impervious to insult or hurt, a man who believed what he did was right and necessary and morally justified.
‘Forget it,’ Hatcher said flatly, ‘I didn’t come here to do you any favors, anyway. I came to find Cody.’
Sloan nodded, his smile reduced to a wry grin. ‘Fair enough. So what have you got so far?’ he asked. ‘You sure been leading my boys a merry chase.’
Before Hatcher could answer, the phone rang. Sloan glared at it.
‘Now what?’ he said. He crossed, t
he room and picked it up. He talked with his back to Hatcher. His hair was still damp from the shower and beads of water twinkled on his undried back. The phone was plugged into a small black scrambler, its red light aglow.
‘Sloan,’ he said in his soft voice. ‘S12424. Jack be nimble, Jack be . . . Okay, we’re clear, I’m on the scrambler, what’s the problem? What? What! My God, when? Damn it, Spears, he had ten people guarding him! . . . I know what I said . . . No, don’t do that. I assume the media has this . . . I understand that. Uh-huh. . . uh-huh. . . No, you stic1 with the original story. Let the FBI handle it. . . . No, not the CIA, keep them out of it. . . . Hold on, let me think. . .
He turned toward Hatcher and rolled his eyes and shook his head. His face seemed to be getting redder, although he kept his voice under control.
‘No pictures of Cosomil,’ he said into the phone. ‘Keep him under wraps right where he is. I ‘want you to leak a story to the media that he’s hiding cut in . . . uh .
Hawaii . . . No, the Big Island, Kauai’s too small, yeah. . . . Right, let ‘em run around there for a week or two looking for him. . . . That’s fine. Thanks, Spears. If I’m temporarily out of pocket, check in with Flitcraft, he can always find me.’ He slowly cradled the phone.
‘Well, laddie, I got a new problem. Major, major. You want to hear the headline in tomorrow morning’s New York Times? “Mandrango Iron Man Campon Assassinated in Atlanta Disco.”
Hatcher’s mouth dropped open. It had been Campon’s coup in Madrango that had enabled Sloan to spring Hatcher from Los Boxes. Then six months later the Communist guerrillas had retaken the capital. The revolt had been seesawing for several years.
Sloan gave Hatcher a quick account of the murder of the deposed Central American dictator. ‘Our people are speculating that the assassin was disguised as a stork.’
‘A stork!’ said Hatcher.
‘It was a costume ball. Three other people, including an innocent woman bystander, were killed. We got two more, her date and a waiter, in serious condition in the hospital.’
‘Your outfit was guarding him?’
‘Uh-huh. Plus half a dozen of his own men.’
‘Who was in charge over there?’ Hatcher asked incredulously.
Sloan hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘Spears and Hedritch.’
‘Spears and Hedritch!’
Hatcher thought to himself, What the hell was Joe Spears doing body guarding Hector Campon? He remembered Spears as a burned-out California surfer with rice for brains.
‘Spears, for God’s sake!’
‘That was our front, a personal security service.’
‘How the hell did you get involved in this?’
‘Because Campon was too hot for the Secret Service to handle. The taxpayers would have raised hell. So I got the job.’
‘But Spears? He fried his brains twenty years ago lying around Santa Monica beach.’
‘Yeah, well, he and Hedritch’ll be protecting mailbags in Tomahawk, Wisconsin, for the rest of their lives.’
‘If you put both their brains together you end up with a half-wit.’
‘Look,’ Sloan said, his face reddening. ‘First I inherit this deposed presidente with two brigades cooling their heels on the Madrango border, .waiting to go back in and chase the Commies out. He needs weapons, he needs ammo, he needs air, he needs military a.d.v.’s, he needs every fuckin’ thing but the urge, so he comes up to D.C. looking for help and our leader starts calling in favors all over the Hill. He’s looking for fifty million bucks for Campon and I’ve got to baby-sit the bastard while all this is going on. Three weeks in Fort Lauderdale, two weeks in St Louis, a month and a half in Chicago, two weeks in a houseboat fifty miles out of Atlanta. All of a sudden he’s history and we got big troubles.’
‘But Spears and Hedritch?’
Sloan slid open the door to the balcony of the bright, airy room and stood with his back to it, letting the breeze dry him off. He sipped his drink and stared at Hatcher. ‘I had six men on this, pal. This Campon was no Boy Scout. Skipped the country with five, six mill stashed in Switzerland. A monumental hell-raiser with the morals of an alley cat. Burning up my control teams left and right. Spears and Hedritch were all I had left. But’ — he pointed a finger at Hatcher — ‘that’s also what made him valuable. He was General Macho Man and his men idolized him, idolized him. And we need Madrango back, it’s key to everything we’ve got going in Central America.’
‘So how did you lose him?’
‘He wouldn’t stay put. He liked the night life, the ladies.’ Sloan shrugged. ‘It caught up with him.’
‘So what’s plan Baker?’ Hatcher whispered casually.
Sloan looked at Hatcher suspiciously. ‘Who says I’ve got a plan Baker?’
‘You’ve always got a plan Baker, Harry. First thing you taught me: Always locate the back door. And Madrango’s been your baby since the beginning.’
Sloan sighed. ‘The back door is General Cosomil. Not as flamboyant or popular as Campon, or as young, but he’s dedicated. A good tactical officer. What we’ve gotta do is martyrize Campon so his men’ll line up behind Cosomil. Right now he’s under wraps. Ferris and Joyner head that control team and they’re the best I got.’
He took another sip and wiped his lips with the back of a thumb.
‘You going back to Washington?’
Sloan shook his head. ‘I’ve got it under control for now. The State Department’ll step into it now. My job’s to keep Cosomil alive until he can get back in there.’
‘Well,’ Hatcher said, ‘there’s always the bright side. Congress’ll probably give them all the aid they need now.’
Sloan paced the room for several minutes. He stopped and did some deep-breathing exercises.
‘That’s not my problem,’ he said finally. ‘Or yours. Let’s get back to our business.’
‘Hell, I forgot what we were talking about,’ Hatcher said.
‘You were running my boys all over the lot,’ Sloan said dryly.
‘Just some exercises to get back in shape,’ Hatcher answered.
‘Turn up anything?’
‘Not much.’
‘You been awful busy,’ Sloan said with a cock of his head.
‘From the look of Buffalo 1ill, I don’t have a lot of time.’
‘Any idea why Cody might be in hiding?’
Now, that’s a strange question, thought Hatcher.
‘You’re way ahead of me,’ he said. ‘I’m still trying to find out if he’s alive or not.’
‘Well, what do you think?’
‘If you mean have I made any earthshaking conclusions in the last seventy-two hours, the answer is no. I’m not a DA, I don’t have to prove anything. At this point I’m waffling back and forth. Sometimes I think Cody’s alive, sometimes I think this Wol Pot is scamming us all. It depends on the equation.’
‘Well, why do you think he’s alive?’
‘I didn’t say he was. I’m just not as sure he’s dead as I once was.’
‘Why not?’
‘Little things. I’ve got a gunner that now admits one of the men in Cody’s plane probably got out. I got an ex-POW tells me he heard about this transient prison camp and one of the prisoners was a VIP who could have been Cody — could have been. I got two wingmen — one thinks Cody was a crazy glory hunter, the other thinks he was the second coming. And that’s about all I got. Very hazy stuff.’
‘But you think there could be validity to Wol Pot’s story?’
‘I didn’t say that. It’s all part of the equation. When I figure out what X is, I’ll let you know the answer.’
Sloan chuckled. ‘Playing ‘em close to the vest, huh? Why, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you don’t trust me anymore,’ he said sarcastically.
‘Now, why wouldn’t I trust you, Harry? Your stock-in- trade is deceit. Murder and lying are your profession. And you double-crossed me. What’s not to trust?’
Hatcher paused and took a swig of c
offee. He had told Sloan only what he had to tell him. I{e had left out some things, like the note left at the Wall in Washington to Polo from Jaimie, whoever Jaimie was. And the reference to Thai Horse, which could mean only one thing to Hatcher
— heroin. Ninety-nine pure China White from the Golden Triangle. But he wasn’t about to throw that out yet. Sloan was far too interested in why Cody ‘was hiding. It was setting off all kinds of danger signals in Hatcher’s head. Hatcher knew exactly what Sloan was thinking at that moment. He was thinking, If Cody is into some really bad shit, it would be easy to eliminate the problem. To Sloan, termination was an easy solution for any problem. But he never said it out loud. He always left the dirty words unsaid.
Sloan threw off the towel and started getting dressed.
‘We’ll go into Bangkok and see what we can turn up,’ he said, slipping on olive drab boxer shorts and an undershirt.
But Porter’s death and the possible disappearance of Wol Pot had put a new wrinkle on the mission. Now Hatcher’s mind was working in other directions, searching for options.
‘I’ll meet you there in a day or two,’ he told Sloan. ‘I’ve got some things I want to check out here.’
‘Such as?’
‘I’ll let you know that when I’m through.’
Sloan started to tie his tie. There was a knock on the door.
‘Christ, now what!’ Sloan said.
TRIADS
A tail man, arrow-straight, with a sculptured handlebar mustache was standing in the doorway. He wore a spotless white linen suit. Hong Kong cop, thought Hatcher. He had the air.
‘Colonel Sloan?’ he asked. His British accent was sharp enough to hone a knife on.
‘Yes?’
‘Sergeant Varney, sir, Hong Kong police.’ He showed his credentials.
‘A pleasure,’ Sloan said in his most diplomatic tone. ‘Come on in, what can I do for you?’
Varney entered the room as if he were reporting to the Queen, almost sniffing the air. He smiled stiffly at Hatcher. ‘And you must be Mr Hatcher,’ he said, offering his hand.
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