Wet Work: The Definitive Edition

by Philip Nutman

  Corvino had been aware he’d teetered close to complete burnout for nearly a year. It was part of the reason he’d allowed Mitra to get close to him. But he’d been crazy to think it could work, that they could have a normal relationship once he retired. He’d been a soldier, a mercenary and, for the past fifteen years, an assassin. He’d killed more people than he could remember, lived in the shadows of the world most people took for granted, seen and done things the average person couldn’t accept.

  Like shooting a dead man.

  For the twentieth time that day he entered Mitra’s apartment, saw the blood-stained rag, fumbled for the light switch. Her flayed torso glistened wetly as the smell of death caught in the back of his throat.

  Mitra…what did they do to you?

  He stared at the picture of Billie Holiday but couldn’t see her. All he could see was Mitra’s body, her eyes opening, the silenced barrel of his gun touching the side of her head.

  He got up from the chair and paced the room.

  Who’d killed the men in the house?

  What was Skolomowski doing there?

  Why?

  The word became a mantra.

  Why?

  Del Valle and Hershman hadn’t believed his story. Maybe Ryan believed some of it, but in the limo, Corvino had read skepticism in his eyes, too. And Lang’s disappearance troubled Corvino.

  In the meantime, though, pacing with anxiety would achieve nothing. He hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours. Rest was a priority.

  Corvino returned to the chair and looked again at the photograph of Billie. It took him the best part of an hour to clear his mind. His breathing slowed. And the world outside his apartment retreated. With each deep breath, tension leaked from his tired body like grains of sand slipping through the funnel of an hourglass. And, after a while, even the apartment grew dim and slipped out of focus. The pale blue walls ceased to be solid, the white Venetian blinds folded into thin strips of ivory mist glazing over the wide, panoramic windows and their skyline view of the Capitol. The black-and-white tatama lights, standing on low tables at each corner of the room, dissolved into achromatic blocks, as did the rest of the minimalist furniture.

  His last thought before sleep took him was that Hershman probably had him under surveillance. Somewhere outside the building stood a parked van, probably a Ford Econoline with Maryland plates and the logo of a cable-TV company stenciled on its sides. The company name would be bogus, the telephone number nonexistent. Inside, two men dressed in maintenance overalls would be employing state-of-the-art equipment to monitor his every move.

  If that was the case, so be it.

  He had nothing to hide.

  — | — | —

  MUSCLE

  “…somebody’s going to get killed.

  Now that’s all I can tell you about it.

  I’m not playing. This is nothing to play about.”

  — Anonymous policeman

  From Cops, by Mark Baker

  — | — | —

  BRATTLEBORO, VERMONT. MONDAY, MAY 29.

  4:11 A.M.

  Reviving the dead was only part of Comet Saracen’s legacy.

  The radiation it had brought to earth produced a second effect, one just as deadly as the first. It attacked tissue, destroyed the body’s auto-immune responses, and accelerated disease. Be it the common cold, flu, measles, chicken pox, whatever, normally non-fatal viruses began to mutate and turned lethal.

  The first person to die from Comet Saracen’s other legacy was George Stanton, a forty-three-year-old insurance salesman who’d contracted measles from a client’s six-year-old daughter on Friday, but no one would ever know this. Neither the client nor Stanton knew the child had been incubating for nine days. Stanton had escaped the virus as a kid growing up in Little Rock, Arkansas. A keen athlete from an early age, he’d taken care of himself and seldom experienced a day’s illness in his life. In fact, he prided himself on his almost-flawless medical record and used it in his sales pitch. Exercise, a sensible diet, eight hours of sleep a night—that was his personal health insurance plan. But, as he liked to remind potential clients—and to George Stanton, everyone was a potential client—because the world was full of surprises, and you needed to take precautions, and there was no better precaution than an insurance policy—it didn’t matter how you tried to minimize risks, life could easily catch you with your pants down. A good insurance policy went a long way towards securing peace of mind.

  George was a good salesman. He had a gift. People liked him, trusted him—and they bought his policies. Lucky old George, his neighbors said. In prime health for his age, and so successful.

  But now he had the measles, the incubation period was accelerating, and within twelve hours, he’d be dead.

  He started to feel ill around 4 P.M. on Sunday after he’d mowed the backyard lawn. His back and muscles ached, but he didn’t really think anything about it. Just a little stiffness, that’s all. He hadn’t followed his usual exercise regime that week due to a business conference down in Hartford, Connecticut, which had taken up a lot of time. An hour later he realized his head was unusually hot. He took his temperature, and finding it was up, swallowed two aspirin. Half an hour later, feeling even more feverish, he took two more, and drank a glass of orange juice. By 9 P.M., he felt like he was coming down with the flu. Damn his luck. He’d taken Monday off to go fishing up at the lake. He decided to go to bed early. Maybe the aspirins and a good night’s rest would take care of it. Probably just the start of a summer cold. But sleep eluded him. Within the hour, his temperature had rocketed to 105 degrees and his skin itched like crazy. He tossed and turned in bed, hallucinating. By 11:33 P.M., he slid into a coma.

  At 4:11 A.M., George Stanton was dead.

  Unlike a lot of other folks, he stayed that way.

  Lucky old George.

  19th PRECINCT HOUSE.

  WASHINGTON, DC.

  MONDAY, MAY 29.

  7:23 A.M.

  Although they’d recently been repaired, the concrete steps of the 19th Precinct Station house showed signs of age no amount of reconstruction could recover. Unless, Nick thought, as he stood before the gray stone building, they ripped the whole lot out and completely rebuilt the building’s facade. Why bother though? The station house was functional and hadn’t been built with Architectural Digest in mind. Still, he couldn’t help reflecting that if more thought had gone into the building’s design, it wouldn’t look so damn depressing.

  It was his third visit to the 19th. He’d undergone his two days of basic briefing and orientation last week, and had been guided through every corner of what was to be his home away from home during his six months of field training. Once he’d gotten a feel for the streets, he’d be moved to another precinct, and his future as a D.C. cop would unfold with routine. But for the time being the 19th was home.

  He felt like a frontiersman who’d trekked across an uncharted landmass and who now stood on the slope of a valley, gazing down into a new world, wondering what he would discover there. The only way to find out was to take the first step. And then the next. And the one after that, meeting each challenge as he went. Stashing his car keys in the zippered pocket of his Nike gym bag, he took the first step, ascending the concrete towards the station entrance.

  Inside, Sergeant McBain sat behind the front desk listening to a tall guy with a ponytail describe a stolen car. The Sergeant nodded to Nick as he passed, the Ponytail whining adenoidally over the loss of his wheels.

  The corridor leading towards the locker rooms reeked of pine disinfectant, underscored by ripe sweat and grease, the latter oozing from a begrimed old man encased in dirty overalls on the bench by the notice board. Nick grimaced in disgust. The old guy smelled like he’d been dipped in dog shit and definitely wasn’t the kind of person you wanted to look at first thing on a Monday. Nick quickened his pace, ignoring the bum’s leering smile.

  The 19th was a large precinct housing three divisions—Homicide, Narcotics and Tr
affic—each with one hundred and twenty officers, detectives and patrol men. Nick had pulled homicide duty, another factor that worried Sandy. If he was going to be a cop, he’d be a real cop. He had no intention of spending the next few years giving out parking tickets or chasing speeders. But the 19th was in one of the toughest neighborhoods in Washington’s Northeast corner, and you could guarantee trouble at any time of the day or night. Or at least an endless parade of the dregs of humanity, like the bum stinking up the front desk.

  Nick turned left at the end of the corridor and descended the steps towards the locker room.

  Strip lighting illuminated the windowless rectangle, rows of tall, gray lockers segmenting the room into a grid which echoed with voices.

  “Hey, Packard.”

  Nick jumped as a meaty hand landed on his right shoulder.

  “How do I look? Dressed to kill or what?”

  The voice and hand belonged to John Capps, fellow rookie and regular wise ass.

  “Dressed to thrill, Capps,” he muttered, heading for his locker.

  Capps followed like a faithful pet.

  “Yeah, your Momma, Crappy,” fellow rookie Brion Tranksen said, clapping a hand to his crotch.

  “Fuck you,” Capps replied.

  Nick grinned. Tranksen was always giving Capps a hard time.

  “So, you ready for this or what?” Capps continued, ignoring Tranksen.

  Jesus, gimme a break, Nick though as he opened his locker. Only 7:30 am and Crapface Capps was demanding an audience.

  Capps boasted the sandblasted features of a kid who’d endured the purgatory of an adolescence ravaged by acne. He was the type of misfit every high school possessed. The kind of guy who didn’t fit in and was doomed to find himself the butt of every stupid joke the class prankster could dream up. Except that Capps had proven himself a wise ass to boot, and had obviously decided throughout their training at the Academy that Nick was going to be his buddy. Fat chance. Nick found the guy as appealing as a farting pit bull.

  Nick stopped in front of his locker, took the key from his pocket, and opened it. Capps stood beside him.

  “So, today we’re real cops,” he said as Nick removed his blue shirt and pants from his bag. “And it feels great.”

  “Shut up, Capps,” Tranksen ordered. “Packard doesn’t need your recruitment propaganda at this time of the day.”

  Capps took no notice. “What’re your plans for tonight? You gonna celebrate?”

  “No,” Nick replied, taking off his Van Halen T-shirt, hanging it inside the locker.

  “I was thinking maybe we should go to Shorty’s and have a few brews. Toast the end of our first day.”

  “No, thanks. I’ve got things to do at home.”

  Yeah, like watch the tube and eat a TV dinner, Nick thought. Going out for a few beers sounded good. But not with a dick like Capps. He’d ask Tranksen later what he was up to. Maybe they’d go over to The Bulldog sports bar and watch the ball game. The Yankees were playing the Red Sox. It’d be more fun than watching the NBC Monday Night Movie.

  “Okay. Just an idea.” Capps moved away, getting the message Nick wasn’t interested in small talk.

  “I’ll see you in the muster room,” Tranksen called from the doorway. Nick nodded, buttoning his shirt.

  The locker room was clearing as most of the uniformed officers headed off to get coffee before the shift briefing.

  “The Mets’ll never beat ‘em. No chance,” exclaimed a tall cop called Timpone whom Nick had spoken with during his orientation days, as he sauntered towards the door.

  “I’ll lay you ten they do,” replied Orr, his thick-set Irish partner, slapping Timpone on the back.

  “Done,” said Timpone as they exited.

  Cops. All they’re interested in are drinking, sports and women, his mother had said to Nick one summer night when they were sitting out on the porch, his father getting drunk in front of the TV while he watched preseason football. Have an interest you can share with your wife, she’d added with sadness in her voice. Make your free time meaningful.

  Sorry, Mom, he thought. I like sports, and I like to drink. But I promised you I wouldn’t turn out like Dad. And I won’t.

  “Packard! Get your head out your ass. It’s ten minutes ‘til briefing.”

  Nick turned to the speaker. It was Detective Sergeant Santos, his training guide.

  “Yes,” he muttered in reply.

  “Yes, Sir!” Santos snapped.

  “Yes, Sir!” Nick shot back.

  Santos had a reputation for being a hard ass, and Tranksen had commiserated with Nick when he’d found out who he’d been assigned to.

  At 5’10” and weighing 230 pounds, Richie Santos was the kind of guy you didn’t want to get on the wrong side of. The Hispanic cop’s temper was legendary in the 19th. Everyone from the lowliest patrolman to the hardened bulls in Homicide steered clear of him if he was in a bad mood. But Santos also had a rep for being a loyal, reasonable man when things were going smoothly. And above all else, he was renowned as one of the best men on the force when it came to training rookies.

  “Come on, pal, I’ve got no time for daydreamers,” he said as he walked over to Nick, who was now dressing at double time. “Dreaming on the job will get you shot, or worse. Got that?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Good. I’ll see you in five.”

  Santos turned and strode through the door.

  Nick clasped his top button and started to knot his tie.

  The battleship-gray walls of the muster room reminded Nick of a prison. I guess we’re as much prisoners of the system as the perps, he thought, half listening to Captain Sienkiewicz as he finished his standard speech-for-the-rookies following the shift briefing.

  The silver-haired captain gripped the sides of the podium, leaning forward for emphasis. On the chalkboard behind him were written two words: Attitude and Conduct. The former had a cross beside it, the latter a check mark.

  “Remember, when you’re on the streets you are not just there to keep the peace, you are also a representative of the police department. Conduct is paramount. The department is always under fire from liberals, civil liberties fanatics—and most often—from the public we are duty-bound to protect and serve. As rookies, you’re vulnerable. The most common complaint leveled at the department is excessive force. A rookie doesn’t have the experience to distinguish between reasonable force and excessive force. You will, with time, but tread wisely. The theory they teach you at the Academy is fine—in theory. The streets are an education in themselves.

  “Have a safe and productive first day, men.”

  Capps applauded as soon as the Captain nodded, the other rookies following suit, although none had his enthusiasm.

  “Jerk,” Nick mouthed under his breath, catching Tranksen’s eye. The mustachioed rookie winked, suppressing his broad grin.

  Santos, seated behind Nick, leaned forward, tapping him on the shoulder. “Save the attitude, kid. Leave it home.”

  Nick stiffened.

  “Come on,” the older cop said, adjusting his belt beneath this bulging waistline. “School’s out. We got work to do.”

  CIA HEADQUARTERS.

  LANGLEY, VIRGINIA.

  NOON.

  Del Valle sat behind his teak desk, his fingers forming a spire beneath his nose as he watched Corvino. Dominic stood by the window, staring out at the canopy of trees below them, sipping a mug of coffee. The first thing Del Valle had told him when he arrived was that he was suspended pending an extensive investigation.

  Corvino merely shrugged at the news. He’d expected as much.

  Del Valle read over Corvino’s report. Every detail was precise, just as he’d recounted it to them in the limo the day before. He had an almost photographic memory. That, combined with his lethal skills, made him a great asset. But his usually calm demeanor had slipped. Corvino was edgy and had paced Del Valle’s office until he’d asked him to either stand still or sit down.

&nb
sp; “Where you involved with Mitra?”

  Corvino said nothing.

  “Dom?”

  “Yes,” he replied, continuing to face out the window.

  “When did it start?”

  Nearly a minute slipped by before he answered. “Two years ago. The first time I worked in Panama.”

  Corvino turned, his lips pursed together into a thin line, pain lurking behind his dark eyes. “I know. It wasn’t professional. It should never have happened.”

  “Sit down.” Del Valle gestured compassionately with his left hand, then opened a manila folder in front of him. Corvino went to the desk, lifting the knees of his black cotton pants to preserve the sharp creases as he sat. Mitra’s face stared up at him from the photo Del Valle pulled from the file. He looked away towards the window.

  “Did she remind you of Suki?”

  Corvino didn’t reply.

  Del Valle picked up the picture. Mitra Alonso had been a very good-looking woman with the classical features of a Latino. Large brown eyes, an oval face, long black hair, a fine olive complexion. But if you changed the eyes from Occidental to Oriental and changed her skin tone to the hue of a Vietnamese, she could have been Suki Dien Phu. The two women—two dead women—had been the same height, the same build. Both were 5’2” and slim yet muscular. One had loved Corvino; maybe the other, too.

  “Tell me about it.”

  Corvino reached inside the pocket of his navy cotton jacket to retrieve a pack of Camels. He lit one. Said nothing.

  Suki had been the one woman Del Valle knew Corvino had loved. A Vietnamese prostitute still in her teens with a four-year-old son. Whenever Corvino was due R & R, he’d visited Saigon to stay with her—until the Pussy Oom Mow Mow club where she worked as a hostess had been blown apart one Sunday afternoon by a North Vietnamese bomb. She died instantly in the explosion, as did the child, who was in an upstairs room with the other hookers’ kids.