“What happened to the enemy?” Calvert asked.
“We took care of ‘em,” the American smiled faintly.
“Colonel…North, is it?” Calvert asked. “You’re Truman North, right?”
“Whatever you heard,” North grinned, “I didn’t do it.”
“Colonel,” Calvert said, from the heart, “whatever else you did, today you’ve done this boy—and me—a great kindness.”
“More like the other way around,” North chuckled. “You guys be safe.”
He turned and walked back into the trees without another word.
Later, in the valley, Filsen recounted how the grenade had laid him out. There was a large burn mark on the spot and the clear outline of a Filsen-sized body in the dirt.
Ranged in a rough circle around the burned spot were the bodies of 28 Viet Cong fighters, 19 of whom sported neat, dime-sized bullet holes in their foreheads or temples, and nine with either slit throats or broken necks.
If this North is even the shadow of that man, Calvert thought, he’d be the one to take this boy-o and Calvert would be the one to help.
He set North’s photo aside and picked up Clayton Wright’s, a pleasant mid-50ish face. Vaguely rugged and aggressively well-kept. Vanilla, Calvert chuckled; a human dial tone.
He turned up the next photo and frowned. Margaret is slipping, he thought ruefully.
It was a candid photo drawn from an American magazine, according to the credit line, of a known terrorist. She had been picked out of surveillance photos, in various disguises, in the company of members of Brigatta Rosso, Hamas, the I.R.A…an equal opportunity scoundrel, Calvert noted. The photo showed her in one of her personae, jet-setting playgirl/socialite. She was on the back burner, of course. Calvert came back to her in every break between cases, but how had Margaret gotten her so grossly misfiled? He turned the photo over, read the back, and felt as though a bomb had exploded in his gut. He looked at the picture again, this time more closely.
Yes, yes, there were definite differences. The eyes were blue and there was a tiny mole at the corner of the upper lip, but, unmistakably…
“Margaret!” he shouted. He saw heads turn all over the offices. Margaret came running in, eyes like dinner plates, a pencil shoved carelessly into her French braid.
“Get me Roderick Hooks at P.P.V.,” he barked, “and call in Philbrick and Sommers. Get us a car and call M.I.-6. Brian Leftwich. We’re coming over, now!”
He folded the file and crammed the lot into his satchel.
Fuck me, he thought, as he raced for the car. Sometimes it’s where you least expect it.
My cell rang as Simmons and I pulled up to the lodge, now festooned with a huge wooden sign saying “Coyote Creek Village Resort.”
“Coyote Creek?” I asked.
“The actual name of that little pissant brook over there,” Simmons chuckled.
“Tru North,” I said into the phone, grinning at Simmons as I did it.
“Tru?” the voice said breathlessly. “Rod Hooks. Listen, I have an Inspector Calvert of Scotland Yard here with me. Can you talk?”
“I’m in the middle of something but I can talk while I’m traveling,” I replied. “What’s up?”
“Colonel North,” a new voice began, “this is Chief Inspector John Calvert of Scotland Yard. Have you interviewed the wife of Doctor Clayton Wright…uh…Jane, I believe her name is?”
“About three hours ago,” I nodded. “It was related to this Colville tribe’s vote fraud. Why?”
“You’ve done background?” he asked quickly.
“No, actually, I haven’t,” I sighed. “Jack Bartinelli’s attorney, Art D’Onofrio, is the father of Jane’s best friend. He never b.g.‘ed Jane because he’s known her since she was born. Again, why?”
“I don’t have time to go through the whole thing but, in a nutshell, we believe she’s a twin and her twin is one of our leading Euro-terrorists.”
“You’re shitting me,” I blurted.
“I assure you I’m not,” Calvert said emphatically. “I got a bio pack on the Pembroke shootings and mistook her photos for those of our girl. It’s not just a resemblance. They’re identical. You know nothing about her background?”
“Rich parents, married to her L.A. plastic surgeon, fools around on him,” I said, glancing at Simmons. I wasn’t going to mention the gold until I had the means to salvage Truesdale firmly in place. “Other than that, she seems to have been the one trying to rig the Colville reservation referendum on the Pembroke project. I’m about to hammer down on her for that today, in fact.”
“Can you hold off and question her with her parents present?” he asked.
“Suits me,” I shrugged. “We’re asking about your suspicions, I take it?”
“Yes, and any recent contacts,” Calvert replied. “This woman is bad business, Colonel. M.I.-6 might have got a hit on one of her passports about 90 minutes ago at Orly. Apparently, she headed to the U.S. We’re talking with the F.B.I., now. If it is, indeed, her, she’s flying into O’Hare with a transfer to Salt Lake. Final destination is Spokane.”
“Jesus,” I murmured, my mind racing. “Is there any doubt?”
“Quite a lot, actually,” Calvert said bitterly. “She frequently sells off passports to petty female criminals. We scoop them up and ship them home routinely. We’re checking the Orly videos. If it’s her, she’s over the Atlantic, now.”
“I appreciate the heads-up, Inspector,” I said. “But, why me? I’d think you’d be talking with the Washington State Patrol or WSBI.”
“We think…check that, I think this is more than just a coincidence. I think she’s mixed up in this Pembroke business. I have a hard time believing our boy-o ran all over Europe shooting people without some advance intelligence. We know that our girl has been seen twice in what looked like a romantic clench with an as-yet-unidentified Caucasian male, possibly of Scandinavian origin. His one photo and description came up clean with every law enforcement agency in the world—which is pretty suspicious, in itself. According to a contact within M.I.-6, there’s a legendary C.I.A. shooter who may be Scandinavian. My contact says he may be the only shooter in the world who could have done the Pembroke board. I’m telling you because I think you’re my best bet to catch this fellow.”
“How so?” I asked, puzzled.
“A hunch,” Calvert chuckled, “based on a favor you did me once. You probably don’t remember.”
“You made too much out of that thing with Filsen, Major,” I smiled. “I was lucky.”
“No,” Calvert said quietly, “you were not. Can you isolate Jane and her folks?”
“Yeah…by tomorrow morning, latest,” I nodded. “How can I reach you?”
“Call the number in your phone,” Calvert replied. “Anytime.”
“Done,” I shot back. “I’ll call you.”
“Thanks, Colonel,” Calvert chuckled, “for both things. Oh, and Colonel?”
“Yeah?”
“Mum’s the word on this, all right?” Calvert said evenly.
“My word,” I assured him. “Later.”
“Later.”
I pocketed the phone.
“Jane Wright?” Simmons asked.
“Yeah,” I muttered.
“Never liked that one,” he sighed. “Nice to look at but you just know she’d drive you batshit.”
“She would for a fact,” I smiled. “Fortunately, she’s now officially toast.”
“So…I’m confused,” Simmons allowed, as we entered the woods and struggled up a small, steep hill. “If she’s your culprit for the vote fraud, what’s up with Joe?”
I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye.
“Can you keep this to yourself?” I asked, calculating furiously, “I mean, not even a word to Steptoe, Jack, Hooks, anybody.”
“Absolutely,” he said seriously.
“I think Joe may be the shooter,” I puffed. “Unless I’m dead wrong, he’s the guy in �
��Nam that everybody said was that C.I.A. marksman. I think he’s been theirs, all along, but now he’s out of sanction.”
“Jeez,” Simmons chuckled. “that’s…that’s a hell of a leap. How sure are you?”
“Sure enough that I’m probably gonna dig him up, no matter what he says,” I murmured.
“Jesus…”
Leftwich cradled the phone and dialed up the M.I.-6 operator.
“Gladys, get me Alec Higgins in the New York Bureau,” he said gently. “Could you do that immediately, please?”
He hung up and turned to face the room.
“Bloody woman’s driving me to drink,” Leftwich groaned. “Our people in Paris say it’s her. Fuck me if she didn’t finally get sloppy. I’m going to ask the F.B.I. to rush a warrant and aid in the arrest. I’m cashing in a big marker, here, but we’ll have her back at Heathrow in 36 hours.”
“I want the Yanks to gather D.N.A. from her,” Calvert called out. “I need proof before we see the Wright woman.”
“Our man in Spokane makes Jane Wright for the voting scandal with the Colville Indian Tribe,” Tony Pembroke interjected. “He alluded to other things she may be up to but wouldn’t go into it without proof. Perhaps a session or two with these F.B.I. chaps will start her talking.”
“It’ll never get that far without attorneys involved,” Hooks said quietly. “Her father will have her bailed out ten minutes after she’s picked up.”
“That’s why I’ve prevailed upon your investigator to get her under wraps,” Calvert nodded. “So far, none of the Washington authorities are involved. I’d like to keep it that way for a day or two.”
“No reason for the F.B.I. to even know about her, at this point,” Leftwich shrugged. “Calvert’s right, Tony. North will do a better job at prying her open.”
“Fine,” Pembroke sighed, “as long as she goes down.”
“She will,” Leftwich snorted. “The Yanks hold their bloody screwy elections sacred.”
“Pick up the sister, Lefty,” the director said, his first words since the meetings began. “We’ll manage to hang on to her for as long as we need.”
The director turned on his heel and left. Calvert nodded to Leftwich and gathered his satchel.
“Inspector,” Tony Pembroke said quietly, “about this North chap…”
“A very brave and motivated soldier in his time,” Calvert murmured. “My American colleagues say he still is.”
“We’re expending all this effort on the girl,” Pembroke pointed out. “What about the shooter?”
“We have an idea,” Calvert admitted. “But that’s all it is. The girl probably knows something. We’ll find out soon enough.”
Katja had planned never to use the Khazakstani woman unless she were bailing, getting out of the game for the last time. Now, she would do it for so radical an opportunity and time had only sharpened the similarities.
They met in a bathroom at Orly. Oksana’s quick change and passport transfer took less than two minutes but severely taxed Katja’s faulty knowledge of that obscure Khazak dialect. Oksana’s English was spotty but, as a career con-artist, she could produce a perfect, unaccented, Midwestern, “‘scuse me, where’s Gate 26?” without even trying hard.
Katja had grown very fond of the platinum locks, so the hatchet job she did on them, standing over the toilet with a folding mirror, was almost physically painful. She rubbed in the henna gel, sat for 10 minutes, checked the restroom, and then ran to the sink to rinse. The towel she patted dry with was ruined, so she climbed carefully onto the stall’s frame, raised a tile in the drop ceiling, and tossed the towel up next to the wall. It would eventually be found, of course, but she’d be long gone by then.
Going home was risky, she knew. As she packed in the sculpted dental prosthesis, watching the gaunt cheeks of her bloodlines fill out and soften, she considered the face in the copy of Northwest Magazine, comparing it to the one in the mirror. She added a temporary spray-on bronzer and painstakingly covered all exposed skin.
Finally, tinted contacts transformed the icy blue eyes to a liquid, beckoning brown.
Satisfied at last, she tidied up and slipped on the ripped jeans, HoobaStank t-shirt and tattered flannel top to go with the bandana and black eye shadow. A very plausible college-aged goth chick stared back. Her old Doc Martens boots completed the look and she marched out of the restroom like someone angry with life. Parents, government, school, and the world.
She could feel, as always, the blood flowing, the air infusing her lungs, the brilliant clarity of the adrenalin rush.
She slouched over to the United counter and plopped down her passport and Idaho driver’s license.
“One way to Salt Lake via Dallas? Name of Natalie Springfield?” she murmured.
Bettijean Moorage sauntered into Art’s office and closed the door. Art looked up from the text of a deposition he was massaging back to health and grunted with surprise.
“Did you need so…” he began.
“Art,” Bettijean interrupted, “shut up and don’t speak again until I’m finished.”
“B.J., if this is about the raise…” he sighed.
“Art,” she said sharply, “if you say so much as ‘boo’ for the next five minutes, I’m going to take this file and lock it up in my home safe and you’ll never, never know what it says.”
“Okay, okay,” he chuckled, throwing up his hands in surrender. “So, what’s this about?”
“Janie Wright,” Bettijean said simply, “and you’re not gonna like it much.”
“B.J….” Art groaned.
“Art,” Bettijean barked, slapping the file down on his desk, “just read it, okay?”
He sighed theatrically, pulled the file across to his desk pad, opened the front-leaf, and began to read.
In about 20 seconds, he went deadly still and quiet. For a good 15 minutes, the only sound in the room was the sharp crackle of papers turning.
He came to the last page and froze with it suspended in front of his face.
“How…” he began, his voice raspy and quivering, “how reliable is this?”
“Completely,” Bettijean replied. “That’s a Xerox from state records, shot this morning.”
“Dear God!” Art murmured. “Have you told Tru?”
“Not yet. Not about that part,” she yawned. “The rest of it, yes.”
“Call him, get him in here,” Art said tightly. “If you can’t reach him, call Jack.”
“Already did,” B.J. nodded, “but I haven’t gotten Tru, yet.”
“My God, what a mess,” Art moaned. “How…how could she…”
“Oh, c’mon Arthur,” Bettijean growled. “You still think of her as 12 and every other man in the world is angling to screw her. She can get away with anything she wants. Any pretty girl understands that before she knows how to walk.”
“How did you know?” Art gaped.
“I’m a brilliant and chronically underpaid harpy who doesn’t like her,” Bettijean smiled lazily, “and I’m just one of dozens. We’ve been digging.”
“Get her dad on the phone, will ya?” Art sighed. “I need all four of them in here before quitting time.”
“Now you’re talking,” Bettijean smiled.
“Oh, and…B.J.?” Art moaned, running his temples.
“Yo?”
“Put in papers for your 15% merit raise today,” Art smiled feebly. “You earned it.”
“Yeah,” Bettijean grinned, “I did, didn’t I?”
It was almost two miles from the Coyote Creek Lodge to the brushy spine of land called Deer Kill Ridge, where Joe’s cabin was situated on a broad shelf about 100 yards below the spray of boulders that defined it. The patchy trail meandered through the rocky terrain like a drunk through a minefield but, as I quickly discovered, it was the only logical path that didn’t involve serious rock climbing.
Simmons was showing no signs of w
ear and I was surprised to find how little strain it was for me, considering that most of my training regimen consisted of weights, nautilus, and treadmills. The most aerobic thing I do is running to the beer kiosk between innings at Mariners games. We were almost there and I could still breathe, see, and feel most of my extremities.
We hadn’t talked much on the way up. If any of my suspicions were true, there wouldn’t be much conversation once we got there. The Desert Eagle, as always, chafed at the callous in the small of my back but it’s weight was reassuring and kept me focused.
“We’re getting close,” Simmons said, panting lightly. “This guy’s a vet, Colonel. He owns, guns, most likely. He probably isn’t all that shy with ‘em. Stomping up to his front door ain’t a real good idea.”
“Yeah,” I nodded, “and if he is the C.I.A. phantom, he could have a bead on us right now.”
Simmons went a little pale and shifted left into the shadow of an old-growth pine.
“You think he could get a sight line in these woods?” Simmons said softly.
“Can you see the ridge?” I asked calmly.
“Yeah,” Simmons replied, glancing around the trunk.
“There’s a sight line,” I shrugged. “I could hit you from there. If he’s our shooter, he could do it in his sleep.”
“Shit,” Simmons grunted. “I just walked right up his fucking driveway, both times.”
“Like I said,” I chuckled, “maybe he’s not that Joe. I’m just being careful.”
“Second that,” Simmons breathed. “What now?”
“A little basic caution,” I smiled. “I’ll circle the hill. You go just off the path. Keep something between you and the ridge at all times. Same as ‘Nam—funny noises, flash of sunlight, movement anywhere, hit the deck and get small.”
“Signal, at the cabin?” he asked.
“If he’s there,” I answered. “I’m just gonna yell at him. I don’t want to sneak up on him. I just don’t want to get shot.”
“Got it,” he nodded. “15 or so?”
“Say 20,” I suggested. “Don’t know how rough the rest of this is.
“Twenty,” Simmons repeated. “Meet ya up top.”
Call Me Joe Page 23
