Some Die Nameless

by Wallace Stroby

  His ribs were throbbing again. He got the Walgreens vial from his pocket, opened it, and shook out a Percocet. In the cabin, he washed it down with tap water.

  Cracked ribs, he thought. The gift that keeps on giving. Maybe a ruptured spleen and bruised kidneys as well. Pure luck he was here now, alive.

  He closed and locked the cabin door, drew the curtains to create a blessed dimness. Pain was pulsing in his sides. He went into the bow, crawled into the unmade bunk.

  He thought about the notebook, the addresses there, the phone number. Places to start.

  There might be a chance someone else was coming for him, he knew, to finish what Bell had started. Or he could have internal bleeding that would kill him while he slept. He was too tired to care.

  Eight

  The gates were open, so Lukas turned the Lexus into the driveway, drove up through the tunnel of oak trees to the pillared porch. There were panel trucks parked in the wide circle of driveway, landscapers at work in the big front yard.

  He parked behind the trucks, got out. He’d slept fitfully on the plane, gotten another couple hours at his house outside Arlington before making the hour’s drive to southern Virginia. He still felt the familiar sense of dislocation he got after long flights, the one-second remove from everything around him.

  A man he didn’t know was waiting for him on the porch. He wore a dark suit with an open neck, no tie. There was a white plastic receiver in his ear, and an automatic holstered on his right hip, beneath the jacket. Buzz-cut hair and wide shoulders. One of Kemper’s men, running to type. Ex-cop or ex-military or both, all jacked up on testosterone and authority.

  Lukas stopped at the foot of the steps.

  “You’re supposed to use the intercom,” the guard said.

  “Knew I forgot something. Gordon here?”

  “Is Major Farrow expecting you?”

  “Call him and find out.”

  The guard hard-eyed him, lifted a lapel, spoke into the button mike there. Lukas watched a squat Central American in a ball cap and sunglasses ride a mower across the lawn.

  “He’s coming,” the guard said.

  “I’ll save him the trip.” Lukas started up the steps. The guard moved in front of him. Lukas took a step back, smiled. “You sure you want to do this?”

  “I’m going to need you to wait right there.”

  “You’re new, right?”

  The guard didn’t answer.

  Lukas nodded at his holster. “That a Glock 17? Looks it from here, but it could be the 22. That what he’s giving you boys these days? Reliable weapon, though I’m betting you couldn’t get it clear of that rig before I took it away from you.”

  The guard came down a step. Lukas moved back, getting ready, measuring the distance between them, and then the door opened, and Farrow was there.

  “Stand down, Sergeant,” he said.

  Without turning, the guard said, “I told him he should have used the intercom.”

  “Well, he’s here now, isn’t he?”

  “Gordon,” Lukas said. “Just in time.”

  Farrow looked annoyed. “Come on in.”

  Lukas moved to step around the guard. He blocked him again. “I’ll need you to raise your arms.”

  Lukas smiled, shook his head.

  “Then you don’t go in.”

  “Winters, it’s fine,” Farrow said.

  “Strict policy, according to Mr. Kemper.”

  “Let him in, on my authority. It’s all right.”

  Lukas waited, neither of them breaking eye contact.

  “Sergeant,” Farrow said.

  Winters gave it another moment, then moved aside. Farrow held the door open. They went in. Winters stayed on the porch.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” Farrow said. “Coming here like this?”

  “Debriefing, right? I thought you’d want to hear. Last night you were anxious for me to get back.”

  “You were supposed to call when you landed. We would have arranged a meet. You can’t just show up here anytime you want. You know better than that.”

  They went through the marbled foyer into the living room. A staircase ran up on each side, joined at a second-floor landing.

  “Is he here?” Lukas said.

  “No, he’s not. And you shouldn’t be either, with all these people around. It isn’t good. Come on, we’ll talk in the study.”

  They went up the right-hand stairs, and into a side room that ran the length of the house. Light poured through tall windows, lit dust motes in the air.

  Growing up, this had been Lukas’s favorite room. It still impressed him. Shiny hardwood floor, a big desk, wood filing cabinets, a leather couch and chairs. There were fresh flowers in a bowl on a low table in front of the fireplace. On the wall above the desk, photos of Kemper with three different presidents.

  Farrow closed the door behind them. Lukas wondered again how old he was. Midsixties at least, to have done some of the things Lukas had heard about. Gray-steel flattop, deep-cut crow’s-feet, but a younger man’s energy, the belligerent strut of a bantamweight.

  “What’s with the trucks?” Lukas said.

  “Fund-raiser tonight for Senator Harlin. They’re setting up out back.”

  “The ‘Keep America Strong’ guy? He still your man? Someone should tell him that catchphrase is getting old.”

  “I’ll mention it to him.”

  Lukas wandered over to the desk. The top was empty except for a landline phone, a glass ashtray, and a carved rosewood box. He opened it. Cigars inside, habanas. He took one out, passed it under his nose, drew in the dark aroma.

  “Take as many as you like,” Farrow said. “We get them by the case now.”

  Lukas put the cigar back, closed the box. “I don’t smoke.”

  “Right. I forgot. No smoking, no drinking.”

  Lukas turned back to him. “I used to play in this room, when I first got here. With my Hot Wheels. I’d set up the track right there in the middle of the floor. You remember that?”

  “I remember.”

  “I loved those things. Now I haven’t been in this room in what, almost a year?”

  “Has it been that long?”

  “At least. There was a time I was always welcome in this house. I knew everybody. And everybody knew me.”

  “Times change.”

  “Your man out front, he any good?”

  “Winters? Army Ranger. Two tours in Afghanistan, one in Iraq. He’s in charge of house security.”

  “I thought that was your gig.”

  “I’ve moved on.”

  Lukas went to the window. A wide green canvas tent had been erected on the back lawn. At the far end of it was a stage with an oversized American flag as a backdrop. Under the tent, white-shirted workers—most of them Hispanic—were setting up tables and unfolding chairs.

  “How was the flight?” Farrow said. “The pilot’s new. Just hired him a few weeks ago. He used to work for the Agency.”

  “The flight was fine. Where’s the old man?”

  “Up in Annapolis. He’ll be back tonight for the reception. Tell me how it went over there.”

  Lukas turned to him. “Shouldn’t we wait? Won’t he want to hear this too?”

  “I want to hear it first.” Farrow reached into a jacket pocket, drew out a hard pack of Marlboros and a silver Zippo lighter.

  “It went like we guessed,” Lukas said. “I showed him the money, wanted to see which way he’d go. It was quick.”

  Farrow lit a cigarette, put away the pack and lighter. “He have anyone with him?”

  “One man, and a driver. Dealt with.”

  “And our loose end over there?”

  “Tied off.”

  “What are the chances Penskoff’s people will try to come back at us?”

  “From what I heard, they’ll be happy he’s out of the way. His time was over. He just didn’t know it.”

  “Where’s the cash?”

  Lukas sat in a leather ch
air near the cold fireplace. “Way I look at it, that was hazard pay, with a travel surcharge.”

  “You kept it.”

  “Tariq and I split it. We earned it.”

  Farrow blew out smoke. “That guy makes me nervous. I never know what he’s thinking. Hard to read those Arabs.”

  “You don’t need to worry about him. He’s my concern.”

  “Still, it bothers me. His background and all.”

  “We invaded his country, fucked it up forever,” Lukas said. “Got most of his family killed, made him an orphan. Now he works here, for us. Ironic, right?”

  “Not really. He’s getting paid. Money’s money. Things were rough for you too, when you were a kid. I know.”

  “You don’t know anything about me.”

  “I know enough.”

  Lukas let that pass. “Why the rush for me to get here?”

  Farrow ashed his cigarette in the fireplace. “We sent someone to do some work. It didn’t happen. And now we can’t find him.”

  “How long?”

  “He was supposed to report back as soon as it was done. He hasn’t. There’s been no contact for almost forty-eight hours.”

  “He on the payroll?”

  “Not officially.”

  “You pay him up front?”

  “Half.”

  “Enough to make it worth running off?”

  “He knew better. And he had more coming.”

  “What was the work?”

  “Two Tangos. Stateside. He’d located them, was ready to move. That was the last we heard.”

  “Which means your guy spit the bit. Or one of your Tangos did him first.”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “I know him?”

  “I don’t think so. His name was Bell. He went way back with us, to Acheron.”

  “Why’d you send him instead of me?”

  “He knew the targets,” Farrow said. “He could get close to them. Someone else might not have been able to.”

  “They worked for Acheron too?”

  “They did.”

  “Then they all worked with you.”

  “I was their immediate CO, yes.”

  There was a soft buzz. Farrow took a cellphone from his jacket pocket, looked at the screen. He silenced the ringer, put the phone back.

  “How much you promise him?” Lukas said. “Turn on his buddies like that?”

  “Enough. He had money issues. He was motivated.”

  “Offered more than money too, I’d bet. A nice cushy job somewhere in the company, right? A pension, benefits.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Which he was never going to get anyway, regardless of how things went.”

  Farrow took a last draw on the cigarette, flicked it into the fireplace.

  “You guys kill me,” Lukas said. “You and the old man both. You demand loyalty, and you undermine it every chance you get.”

  “It was work. A job, like any other.”

  “You track your guy after you sent him out? Or was he on his own?”

  “We gave him a cell to use, with GPS we could follow. He switched it off about a week ago.”

  “You get a fix on it before that?”

  “An address in Silver Spring, Maryland. An apartment he kept. It hasn’t been activated since. He called me from another phone a couple days later, said he’d found both men. One was in Florida, the other in Pennsylvania.”

  “Pennsylvania?”

  “Yeah.”

  “This have anything to do with that work up in Philly?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “To me it does. Are they connected or not?”

  “Not directly, no.”

  “Am I supposed to figure out what that means?”

  “It means no.”

  “You have the addresses for the other two?”

  “I do,” Farrow said.

  “You want me to clean up this mess, it’ll cost. More than last time.”

  “We’ll work it out.”

  “Then my other question is why you were after them in the first place.”

  “That shouldn’t be a factor.”

  “It is to me. If they’re all ex-military, that’s a complication. Be good to know who I’m dealing with. Bell might have told the others everything. All three might be holed up somewhere, waiting to see who comes looking for them.”

  “They might. That’s why I called you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re a man of unique talents, Lukas. I have the feeling there’s not much you can’t do.”

  Lukas got up, went back to the window. Men were stringing red-white-and-blue bunting along the stage.

  “Quite a spread,” he said. “I hope the senator appreciates it.”

  “At ten thousand a plate, I’m sure he will. Election’s only eight months away, so he’ll take every dime he can get. If he stays on track and keeps his dick in his pants, he might be looking at a White House run in a couple years.”

  “Then he’s a good friend to have.”

  “He will be. He has to hold on to his Senate seat first, though. Even with us backing him that might be a tough fight.”

  Lukas turned from the window. “Give me everything you’ve got on all three. I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “Time is a factor.”

  “It always is. How’s the other house coming along?”

  “Which one?”

  “The new one. On the island.”

  “Slow. It’s the Bahamas. Nothing happens fast. And once hurricane season starts, everything slows to a crawl. We’ll be lucky to get it finished this time next year.”

  “Maybe I’ll come visit someday. Get a tan.”

  “I’m sure he’d like that.” Farrow went to the door, opened it.

  “Next time I come here,” Lukas said, “I want to see him.”

  “I’ll talk to him, see what we can work out.”

  Lukas faced him in the doorway. “If he thinks he can start treating me like one of his jarhead gofers—do this, do that, keep your mouth shut—we’re going to have a problem.”

  “You know he doesn’t think that way. You’re special to him. And I’m sure he has plans for you.”

  “I’m sure too,” Lukas said. “That’s what I’m worried about.”

  Nine

  Halfway up the hill, Tracy wanted to quit. Her legs were burning, her breath a knife in her side. Happy now she’d stopped at two glasses of wine the night before. She’d woken that morning planning to call in sick, but guilt had gotten the best of her, driven her out of the house.

  She ran on, willing her legs to keep moving, and then she was over the hill, the road flattening out again. Slowing to a walk, she tried to catch her breath, pressed her palms into the small of her back. She stayed close to the guardrail, giving the few cars that passed a wide berth.

  The cellphone in her waist pack buzzed, a text alert. She unzipped the pack, rooted past her keys and the two-ounce canister of pepper spray for her phone.

  The text was from Harris, asking when she was coming in. Riding my ass already, she thought. This won’t end well.

  She considered texting him back, decided against it. She’d see him soon enough.

  The phone buzzed again, an incoming call. Al Donovan’s number.

  “You should have stuck around,” he said.

  “Why?”

  A pause. “You know I shouldn’t be calling you, right?”

  “But you did. What I miss?”

  “That rowhouse body. We turned him just after you left. He did have ID. Guess what else we found.”

  “That’s what you’re going to tell me.”

  “A nice, shiny 9-millimeter shell casing,” he said. “That decomp’s a homicide.”

  She was on a stool at Reading Market, halfway through a bowl of jambalaya, when she saw Donovan come in the Arch Street entrance. She’d left a folded copy of the previous day’s Observer on the seat beside her. Now she
moved it to the counter, and he slid onto the stool. He wore a blue zippered jacket over his uniform, with yellow City of Philadelphia patches on the shoulders.

  “Thanks for meeting me,” she said. “And thanks for the call.”

  Grace, the counter girl, came down, brought him ice water in a red plastic glass, took his order.

  “Did you write about our guy?” he said. “If so, I didn’t see it.”

  “There was no interest up the ladder. Limited resources, so there’s a lot of competition for attention these days.”

  “Too bad. This might change their minds.” He set a small blue thumb drive on the counter between them. “That’s for you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Some information you’ll be interested in. Go ahead and put it away.”

  She palmed the drive, slipped it in a jacket pocket.

  “Our John Doe’s got a name,” he said. “And a rap sheet.”

  “The ME able to lift prints?”

  “Yeah. He was in the NCIC system. Emilio Mata. Forty-five, at least that’s what his sheet says. Comes up with an address too. But in D.C., not Philly.”

  “D.C.?”

  “Yeah, long way to come to get shot, right? Gets better. There was a driver’s license in his wallet. Picture matches the guy, far as we could tell, but the name on the license is Esteban Marota, and this time the address is here in Philly, over in Fairhill.”

  “You’re losing me.”

  Grace brought a bowl of clam chowder, left plastic-wrapped crackers and a rolled napkin with a spoon in it. Donovan undid a shirt button, tucked in his tie, buttoned it again. He took a spoonful of chowder, blew on it.

  “Nineteen years ago, Emilio Mata caught a charge in D.C.,” he said. “At some point after that, he got himself a Pennsylvania driver’s license under a different name. That’s not easy to do.”

  “What was the charge?”

  He opened a package of crackers, crumbled them into the chowder, and stirred it. “Weapons offense, illegal handgun. Charge dismissed.”