Sigma One

by Hutchison, William

  He recognized him immediately. There weren't too many six foot four men-mountains sporting a bright red flat top who had a scar running the full length of his face--from his right eyebrow down to below his chin. Walker instantly knew the man must be Hatchett and must be the messenger Radcliff had told him about. He had suspected this from a review of Lassiter's file for potential leads but to be sure, he typed Sergeant Hatchett's name into the computer terminal in his car and in seconds he had his supposition verified as Rory's picture and summary service record appeared on the CRT. He glowed with satisfaction as he scanned the record. He knew Radcliff would be ecstatic he had guessed right about the general contacting someone. Lassiter was too smart to try to take Kamarov himself. He had to have help. And now it was obvious that Rory Hatchett was that help. He also knew that the information in Rory's service record would serve him well and help him coerce the sergeant to tell all he knew about Lassiter's plans for Kamarov when he finally collared his henchman. He smiled again as he scanned the entry one more time. In a one line medical reference he had the data he needed which would allow him to bleed the information from Rory.

  Rory, the report stated, was extremely allergic to spider venom and the record indicated he had an almost schizophrenic fear of being bitten. He had had this phobia since his youth when he was bitten by a brown recluse in his native state of Texas and almost died as a result. Walker would use that fear to his advantage to get the information. The only potential problem he might have with the big man would be subduing him. Although Walker wasn't small himself, standing six feet two inches tall and weighing over two hundred, without the element of surprise there would be no way he could face Rory directly.

  Walker stared at the two figures approaching the base of the monument and began to devise a plan to catch Rory from behind. Thirty seconds later, Lassiter got to the monument and stopped. Walker saw him drop his towel and knew that that action must have been planned. As Lassiter turned and began to jog back the way he had come, Walker shifted his attention to Rory and watched as the big man reached down for the towel. Walker adjusted his binoculars into sharper focus and then saw Rory take a small cassette tape from the towel and put it into his cassette player he had hanging on his hip. Rory then turned and left not even glancing at Lassiter as he jogged away in the opposite direction.

  Walker smiled to himself and in a whisper exclaimed, "a tape, how clever." He continued to watch and when Rory was seventy yards from the monument, Walker put his car into drive and slowly accelerated onto the crowded street being careful not to draw attention to him by speeding toward Rory, lest he lose his element of surprise.

  When Rory was only a hundred yards in front of him, back turned, Walker saw him stumble slightly. Rory then grabbed his right shoulder and lurched forward as if being pulled by an invisible lasso. It was at this point, while Rory was struggling to regain his balance, that Walker could see blood spurting from a gaping would in Rory's back just above the right shoulder blade. He watched as Rory stumbled again and then fell to the pavement clutching his arm in pain.

  Before Walker could assess the meaning of the attack on Rory, behind him he heard tires screech. He looked up into his rear view mirror, and then saw a green sedan barreling up the street behind him heading straight for the victim. He could see two figures inside the car. The driver was in his early thirties, or so he gauged. Except for that he was nondescript. The passenger, on the other hand, appeared to be older, his gray hair barely visible behind his wrap-around dark sunglasses. He was far from nondescript and had a deeply scarred acne-pocked face. As the car pulled closer and then passed him, Walker saw the passenger's profile, and although he couldn't be certain, he vaguely recognized him as being Kuscov, a Soviet KGB hit man.

  Walker watched as the sedan sped past him. He didn't know what Kuscov was planning, but his presence there could only mean one thing: he must have been sent to intercept the messenger just as he was. That meant the KGB must suspect something. He snapped his head around and saw Rory slowly roll over onto his side and grab his shoulder in agony as the sedan continued toward him.

  Instinct then took over and Walker jammed his foot on the accelerator and launched his oar in pursuit of Kuscov. He could see the sedan rapidly closing the distance to Rory and he knew he couldn't catch them, but he continued accelerating just the same. He was forty feet behind the sedan and gaining when he saw it screech to a stop and Kuscov jump out. As the Soviet's feet hit the street, Kuscov turned around quickly and spotted Walker's car. The glare on the windshield from the late afternoon sun kept him from recognizing Walker as the driver, but the sight of the unanticipated complication to his mission prompted him into action. Walker watched as Kuscov nimbly reached inside his top coat, brandished his Walther PPK and pointed it directly at his car. Almost simultaneously with the flash from the muzzle, Walker felt the front end of the oar nosedive as the bullets penetrated the right front tire. Instantly the steering wheel was jerked out of his hands and his car went out of control. It jumped the curb and slammed into the trunk of a large tree throwing him against the steering column and knocking the wind out of him.

  Partly dazed by the impact and unable to catch his breath, Walker watched Kuscov kneel down and rip the tape out of Rory's hand. Kuscov then looked up at him, obviously trying to make certain he wouldn't be giving him any trouble. Satisfied that Walker wasn't capable of interfering, Kuscov looked back down at Rory and pointed his gun. At that point, Walker heard the shrill blast of a siren as it pierced the afternoon air and then he saw Kuscov squeeze off one more round into Rory's back. The Soviet then dived back into the sedan. By this time, Walker had regained his breath and was reaching for his radio to call for a backup when he saw Kuscov's car screech around the corner, a police car, in hot pursuit.

  As the two cars disappeared from sight, Walker tried the door handle, but it wouldn't budge. The door had been wedged shut from the impact. He tried it again, but again, it held tight. Finally, he squeezed himself out through the driver's side window, a task which was extremely difficult because of his size, and painful, because of his cracked ribs. When he finally got out, he hobbled over to Rory to see if he was still alive.

  As he bent down he could hear Rory's wheezy and labored breathing as he fought to hang on. Rory's eyes were slits and drool was running out the corner of his mouth, but he was still alive.

  Walker stared at the two holes the size of fists in the soldier's back and wondered how anyone could have survived such wounds. It was obvious it would take more than two slugs to stop this bull of a man, he thought to himself as he rolled Rory over onto his back and gently lifted his head.

  "Sergeant Hatchett?" Walker asked, determined to see if the man was coherent.

  No reply.

  He looked again at Rory's face and spied two tiny black wires running along his jawline. He followed the wires down to the cassette player Rory held clutched in his hand and then reached up and pulled the tiny earphones out of Rory's ears before repeating his question.

  "Sergeant Hatchett?"

  Rory moaned in response.

  "You've been shot! Don't try to speak. An ambulance is on its way. Just be calm and hang on. You'll make it."

  Rory nodded and Walker saw his jaws tighten as Rory gritted his teeth to fight off the pain.

  Seconds later, the unmarked ambulance arrived and two men stepped out and approached.

  "This him?" the first man said to Walker.

  "Yes!"

  "Out of the way. We'll take it from here." The second man replied ordering Walker to move.

  The two men knelt down next to Rory. The first checked his vital signs. The second bandaged his wounds to stop the bleeding. Moments later they loaded him into the ambulance. Walker got into the front seat between the two men before they sped off.

  In three days, Rory had recovered enough to sit up in bed and talk. He was grateful to be alive, but no matter how many times he was asked, he wouldn't divulge what was on the tape to Walker or the
two men who questioned him unceasingly. Not at first anyway.

  On the evening of the third day after twelve hours of torture by being stripped naked and having hundreds of tiny brown spiders crawl all over his naked flesh, Rory cracked and told all he knew. It wasn't a pretty sight seeing such a big man strapped to a gurney sobbing like a baby, but it had to be done. The spider venom ended his misery two hours later. The next day the two agents who had helped Walker quickly disposed of the body by weighting it down and sinking it in the Potomac.

  CHAPTER 17

  At the same moment Walker had first spotted Rory, Amanda's plane was lifting off from Dillies International Airport. At nine o'clock that Rams evening, Pacific Standard Time, she finally arrived over the crowded Los Angeles skies. Millions of city lights crisscrossed the streets below and twinkled up at the plane bringing oohs and aahs to the honeymoon couple in front of her who had just returned from their two week stay in Trinidad. The beautiful sight below went unnoticed by Amanda, though. She was too despondent and tired to care to even look out the window. She had been up for nearly three days, unable to sleep, unable to eat, unable to get her mind off Pat and the way he had treated her. She looked as exhausted as she felt. Her eyes were puffy; her makeup, put on sloppily; her clothes horribly wrinkled, and her hair a disheveled mess. She didn't look like she belonged in the first class section. She didn't feel first class. In fact, she felt a wreck and all she wanted was a hot bath and a good night's sleep. The next day she had to drive up the coast to San Louis Obispo and would attempt to contact Mr. Burt Grayson.

  As the plane's landing gear went down and it began to shudder as it decelerated, Amanda reached into her purse and pulled out the instructions Pat had given her. The handwriting was barely legible. It read: "Dear Amanda, I know this trip is rather sudden, but I feel you are the only one I can trust to accomplish this mission with Mr. Grayson. I know I mistreated you the other night. I apologize for that, but when you get back we can sit down and discuss it. I've included directions for your trip up the coast to San Louis Obispo. Regards, Pat."

  As she read the last two words she didn't know what to think. "Regards?" She thought, "what does he mean, regards?" She knew she hadn't misinterpreted his actions. She knew that night he had wanted her as much as she had wanted him, but he had stopped it. She hadn't, and she wouldn't have. She read on, not knowing how to interpret his meaning in the short note, but feeling a mixture of sadness for being sent away, and anger for him not being more loving.

  The note continued on the back. "Drive up the coast, north on the San Diego Freeway, the 405, until you reach the Ventura Freeway. It's called the 101, and will intersect the 405 in about ten to fifteen miles. When it does, take it West and stay on it up until you reach Santa Barbara, about 80 miles. Pass through Santa Barbara and then take the San Marcos Pass off ramp through the coastal mountains east. This shortcut should save you forty minutes as you head up the coast and will take you through some very pretty farm country. It also passes by Matteis' Tavern, an old stagecoach stop. If you're tired, it would be a good place to stop and rest. I've been there a few times myself and I know you'll enjoy its rustic atmosphere. It could be chilly depending on the time of day you pass through the mountains and the old wood fireplace there in the lounge should warm you."

  As she read these last few lines a tear came to her eye. He had obviously taken a great amount of care in his wording. She began to feel somewhat better. She read on.

  "After stopping at Matteis' Tavern, you'll be about five to ten minutes from where 101 North intersects the road you're on. Take it North, past Pismo Beach and on into San Louis Obispo. There I have reserved you a room at the Madonna Inn. I know you'll like it. When you arrive call me. Pat.

  The Madonna Inn is sprawling hotel just off 101, and is a beautiful place which caters to thousands of newlyweds and other lovers. It is unique to that part of California in that it boasts numerous "theme" rooms from which the patrons can choose to heighten their romantic fantasies (not the place one would expect to find in the middle of farming country). Pat specifically chose it for Amanda partly out of guilt, but mostly because of the fond memories he had for the place having once spent a beautifully debauched weekend there with a Navy nurse he met at Lemoore Naval Air Station in Central California when he was single just before he went to Southeast Asia.

  Amanda looked the note over again and then took out the brochure of the Madonna Inn Pat had included in the envelope. It was beautiful and brought a smile to her face. Before she could finish reading it, though, the airplane jolted as the wheels hit the runway and broke her reverie. An hour and a half later after getting her luggage and renting a car, Amanda closed her eyes and fell asleep, not in the Madonna Inn, but in the Airport Marina Hotel in Los Angeles. The tear-soaked brochure lay on the floor next to her bed.

  CHAPTER 18

  The next day was not quite a replica of the previous one. It was just as clear, but a little cooler in the morning as autumn made another weak attempt at bringing a change of seasons to the near constant temperatures of the California coastline. While Amanda slept until noon back in Los Angeles, Burt and Debbie had already begun their day up in Morrow Bay by taking an exhilarating jog on the beach at Burt's suggestion, something she found very curious because since she had known him, he had never been what she considered to be the athletic type. In fact, he had been quite the opposite, normally looking for an excuse not to exercise. But that day he was different. He had gotten up at dawn and by eight o'clock had already washed and waxed his car which Debbie thought very little of then, passing off his actions to merely a case of over-activity resulting from the change in his daily routine. She had no reason to suspect otherwise.

  By nine, they had finished their long jog on the beach which started east of 101, went under the freeway and south nearly to Morrow Bay rock and as they walked along the beach toward Debbie's parents' house, Debbie was feeling more comfortable with Burt than she had since his hospitalization. As a result, she thought it would be the perfect time to get some answers to the questions she had had since seeing the tape in his dorm room. She liked the new him, in spite of some of his idiosyncrasies, but inside still felt he was holding something back from her, something she should know.

  As she looked out into the distance, past the first set of breakers, she reached down and felt for his hand which she grasped tightly without taking her eyes off the ocean. They walked in silence like this, hand in hand, for another few moments while Debbie went over in her mind how she would be able to ask the questions she had without disturbing the good feeling that was growing between them.

  "Burt?" she said coyly.

  "Yes?"

  "Did you like yesterday as much as I did?" She asked as she squeezed his hand playfully remembering how good he had felt inside her, how close they had become.

  His answer wasn't immediate. Instead he self-consciously looked down at the sand and casually kicked at a broken shell that was in his path. Finally he answered, embarrassed. "Uh, uh."

  "So----" she said, trying to get him to talk further, to explain his feelings.

  "So what----" He answered evasively.

  "So, I was wondering when you were going to tell me what went on back in your dorm room. You know-----with your experiment."

  "What do mean?"

  "You know. What did you do anyway? What did it feel like? And don't give me any scientific explanation, just tell me what you were thinking when you linked. Okay?"

  "Why do you want to know that?" He answered sounding slightly annoyed. "You know my memory hasn't come back completely."

  "I just do," she persisted. And then instinctively using her womanly charms, she put her arm around his waist and rubbed her chest lightly against his arm while she repeated her request. "I just do, honey. Tell me, okay?"

  Unexpectedly, Burt wrenched her arm from his side violently and then slapped her hard across the face. He looked vicious and the shock of being manhandled and the glare in his eyes was
alarming. It immobilized her.

  "Listen, bitch! Don't pry! Okay? Just don't pry! Just because we screwed doesn't give you the right. You don't own me. I don't know what game you're playin', but count me ou------" He hesitated in mid-sentence, but didn't finish. He stopped walking forward and reached up and put his hands to his temples and grimaced in pain. He then blinked his eyes a number of times and shook his head and momentarily appeared dazed, and then looked up blankly.

  He had metamorphosed from a loving, caring person to a demon and then back again in the span of less than twenty seconds. Debbie was paralyzed with fear.

  Burt continued speaking in a normal tone of voice. All signs of viciousness were gone. He then reached down and grabbed her hand and replaced it on his hip and then, as if nothing had happened, as if the last few moments never even existed, he asked absent-mindedly, "what was it you were asking me, Debbie? I lost my train of thought."