Mother had done what Scarecrow would’ve done: she’d lured her pursuers into the mine and kept them occupied for as long as she could, giving Zack and Emma time to escape with the spheres.
Mother stepped out from her position, arms raised, her face illuminated by half a dozen barrel-mounted flashlights.
Mako keyed his radio: “Sir, this is Mako. We got one of the Marines, but she was a decoy. The other two are gone and they have the case. They’re somewhere else on the island.”
To Mako’s surprise, the voice that answered him was not Typhon but the Lord of Anarchy himself: “One of the Marines, you say? Is it the woman, the big one? Newman?”
Mako jabbed Mother with his gun. “Are you Newman?”
“Yeah.”
“Yes, it’s her.”
“Bring her to me, alive,” the Lord of Anarchy said. “Do not harm her. I intend to enjoy that pleasure myself.”
Elsewhere, Zack and Emma hurried through scrub, icy branches lashing their faces, running as fast as they could, away from the quarry-mine.
They knew full well that Mother would eventually be caught—that her fake last stand was designed to give them valuable time to get away and hide—and they didn’t want her sacrifice to be in vain.
Staying on the south side of the island, however, was not an option. While mountainous, it was too barren and treeless, too exposed. There was nowhere to hide. Nor was there any way to get in touch with anyone back home—to tell them that the Army of Thieves was being prevented from effecting their plan.
That meant venturing back north into the sprawling main complex of Dragon Island—to both hide and find some communications gear, and maybe even link up with the Kid and Mario.
Zack and Emma dashed across a shallow rocky ford in the river and headed back north, toward the main complex.
A mile or so behind them, two Army of Thieves Strelas stopped on the road overlooking the quarry-mine. The tattooed men on it glared at Mother—and offered a few lewd obscenities—as she was led away by Mako and his men.
One man ambled a short distance away from the main group, where he crouched on one knee and peered at the muddy ground.
It was Bad Willy. His left ear was now bandaged, but the gauze had leaked and an ugly splotch of blood stained it.
Bad Willy gazed long and hard at the muddy ground . . .
. . . at the fresh shoe-prints in it, including one kind of print that was not often found on secret Soviet bases.
Nike hiking boot-prints.
“Oh, Zacky-boy . . .” Bad Willy said. “I told you I’d find you.”
Calling his men to follow—on foot, since it was quieter, better for hunting—Bad Willy set off after Zack and Emma.
ICE FIELD TO THE WEST OF DRAGON ISLAND 4 APRIL, 1155 HOURS
VERONIQUE CHAMPION woke with a start.
She coughed a few times, blinking back to her senses, and then looked around: to find herself sitting in an orange inflatable life raft, moving slowly through a tranquil Arctic lead, paddled by Shane Schofield. High walls of ice rose on either side of her.
A thick waterproof field dressing was wrapped tightly around her belly and lower back, staunching the flow of blood from her gunshot wound.
“What—how did we get here?” she asked. “The last thing I remember is . . .”
Her voice trailed off as she peered upward, in the direction of Dragon Island. She could just see the peaks of Dragon’s southern mountains over the top of the lead’s walls.
Schofield smiled grimly. “You passed out. I dressed your wound and gave you a shot of AP-6.” AP-6 was a field drug developed by SEAL Team Six; it was both a painkiller and a stimulant; it dulled any pain but also jacked up a wounded solider long enough to allow them to get to a field hospital.
“You won’t be doing any somersaults or jumps,” Schofield said, “but you’ll be mobile enough. I managed to dispose of four of the spheres, but there are still two out there: Zack and Emma have them, back on the island, and Mother’s with them. We’re going back in now.”
“Going back? How?”
“I’m taking us through these leads toward the north of Dragon Island, to the old whaling village. I figure the cable car and gantry elevators will be more closely watched now and the submarine station is way over on the other side of the island, so the village is our only choice, the only place where we can land.”
“That’ll take a while.” Champion tried to sit up in the life raft but fell back, grimacing. “Ah . . .”
Schofield glanced at her. “You’ll live but you won’t be doing any more fighting today. The bullet missed your spleen by millimeters and, luckily for you, went right through.”
Champion groaned, blinking away the pain, and lay back against the inflatable bow of the raft. It was unusually peaceful here: the air silent, the water perfectly calm and the ice walls white as snow. It was like floating among the clouds.
“I figure it’ll take us about ten more minutes,” Schofield said, paddling slowly but firmly.
“Un moment, s’il vous plait. You saved me from that sinking plane?”
“Yes.”
“Why? Why would you do this? I was sent to kill you. I even told you that when all this is over, I would have to carry out my original mission.”
Schofield stopped paddling for a moment. The boat drifted. He looked at Champion long and hard.
“I saved you because this situation is bigger than your country’s vendetta against me, and I think you’re smart enough to know that.”
Champion returned his gaze. “You . . . trust me? Why?”
“Because you didn’t come to kill me just for France. You came because of your cousin. You thought he was wronged, an innocent civilian murdered by a professional soldier: me. Your premise was wrong but the motive wasn’t. It shows you have a sense of justice, of right and wrong, and I figure if you have that, you’re a decent person, and decent people can be reasoned with. They also deserve to be saved if it’s possible and it was possible.”
Champion cast her eyes downward. She seemed to be looking deep within herself. But when she looked up again, her gaze was hard.
“You’re wrong. I once had a sense of justice. I was once decent. Now I am an assassin. When this is over, wounded or not, I must carry out my orders. I must make sure you are dead.”
Schofield didn’t flinch.
“But you weren’t always an assassin, were you?” he said. “Sorry, but you’re not the type. You’re too thoughtful. Most assassins are cold-blooded for two reasons: one, they can’t empathize, and two, they’re stupid and any idiot can pull a trigger and feel powerful that way. But you’re neither of those things. Something happened to you.”
“You want to psychoanalyze me?”
“Got nothing else to do right now.”
“All right.” Champion lay her head back and gazed skyward, gripping her stomach. “I shall tell you about me, but only if you tell me about you—in particular, how a Marine recovers from the execution of his girlfriend by a psychopath.”
Now it was Schofield who looked down, but only briefly. “Okay, fine. You first.”
Champion said, “Before I was in the Action Division, I was in the DGSE’s Directorate of Intelligence. I monitored Islamic extremist groups in Algeria, Morocco and Yemen. In particular, their increasing enlistment of women. I befriended a Yemeni mother of five, named Hannah Fatah. She fed me excellent information for three years, information that prevented two attacks on Paris—one on the Eiffel Tower and another at Charles de Gaulle Airport.
“Then one day, Hannah asked to be brought in. She was pregnant again and she feared that her superiors had discovered that she was a leak. I brought her in, took her back to the DGSE field office in Marseilles. When she walked into the debriefing room, with my boss—my husband at the time—and his boss watching through a two-way mirror, she set off a small wad of Semtex that had been surgically implanted into her uterus.
“I never suspected anything—Hannah alread
y had a scar on her stomach from the Cesarean birth of her last child, and the explosive was concealed from our X-ray and cathode-ray scanners by a wrapping material made of human bone, designed to appear as a fetus. She passed through four security scanners before she got into that room and killed two very senior DGSE agents, one of them my husband, and three of my other colleagues. I alone survived. She had waited three years to do it.”
Schofield was silent.
Champion said, “My empathy for Hannah Fatah got my husband killed. My closest colleagues, too. So I decided that I would no longer live with empathy. I became cold. I transferred to Action Division, and made my first kill within a month. I’ve been doing it ever since.”
She paused. “Strange. In my research on you, Scarecrow, I struggled to find a defining reason why you became such an efficient killer of men.”
“Your research on me?”
“When you set out to assassinate someone, it is wise to know as much as you can about them. Pressure points, loved ones, weaknesses that can be exploited.”
“Why don’t you tell me about myself then,” Schofield said. “Let’s see what you know and I’ll tell you how accurate it is.”
“Okay,” Champion began.
AS THEY glided through the network of narrow leads, Champion spoke slowly:
“Shane Michael Schofield is the son of John Schofield, a successful businessman, and the grandson of Michael Schofield, a highly decorated Marine, call sign ‘Mustang.’
“Michael Schofield’s actions during World War II are legendary in the Marine Corps. Indeed, several of them are still classified more than sixty years later, including one fabled mission known only as Black Wolf Hunt. Your grandfather is revered in the Corps, a most admired man. You and he are close, and you dine together at least once a month.”
Schofield nodded. “So far, all correct.”
“But your father—John Schofield—was not a Marine, and you and he were not close, all the way to his death . . .”
Champion surveyed Schofield’s face as she said this. His distant look gave her the answer she was after. It was true.
“Your father was a businessman and a very good one,” she said. “He could never match your grandfather’s military accomplishments so he chose to outdo him in the acquisition of money and he became a very wealthy man.”
Schofield said nothing.
It went further than that.
His father had hated his grandfather, despised him, despised the respect he received everywhere he went. And even though Michael Schofield had never put any pressure on John Schofield to do anything other than what his heart desired, John had been haunted by the long shadow cast by his legendary father. It was, sadly, a torment that found expression in other ways.
Champion said, “Your father regularly beat both you and your mother: I found hospital records from your youth detailing several broken noses and cigarette burns on your forearms.”
Schofield said nothing. It was either the bastard beat his mother or beat him, and that was a no-brainer. His beatings had started at the age of twelve. He still bore small circular scars on his forearms from the cigarette burns.
Champion went on. “So when you turned eighteen, you joined the Marines and there you thrived. You became a pilot in the Air Wing, where you served with distinction until you were shot down over Bosnia, where a local warlord mutilated your eyes, leaving the distinctive scars that are the origin of your call sign.
“After your rescue, you became a regular Marine rifleman, rising quickly to Force Recon level. You commanded Force Reconnaissance Unit 16 on that mission to Antarctica which brought you into contact with my cousin. You survived that—a delicate affair involving allies at war and even American forces fighting American forces—but it displeased some in high places and you were subsequently assigned to the President’s helicopter, Marine One. It was an ornamental position and thus an insult for one so skilled and experienced, but you did it anyway.
“That assignment brought you into another incident that the U.S. has successfully hidden from the world: Colonel Caesar Russell’s coup attempt. The hunting of a President within the confines of his most secret base. Your acts there won you a classified Medal of Honor.”
Champion paused.
“Shortly after that, your father died, by his own hand.”
Schofield nodded silently. The bastard had got the death he’d deserved: bitter and alone, sitting in his wood-paneled office, he’d shot himself through the mouth.
Champion said, “Your mother had already passed away several years earlier. Yet, despite your father’s awful treatment of you as a child, he left you everything in his will. Twelve million dollars. Making you, a humble United States Marine, a very rich young man.”
Schofield said nothing.
This was all true, but few knew it. Champion’s sources were excellent. Mother knew about the money and Gant had known, too. And they had both approved of what he had done next.
Champion said, “You donated it all to the Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Washington, D.C. Every penny. An act of principle?”
“You could call it that.” Schofield shrugged.
“It was twelve million dollars. You wouldn’t have had to work again. Do you ever regret it?”
“Not for a second. It was a cruel man’s money and I didn’t want it. I sent it somewhere worthwhile.”
He looked away, kept paddling. Champion gazed at him for a long moment before going on.
“And then came the Majestic-12 bounty hunt during which the mis-sile-builder, Jonathan Killian, had your girlfriend, Elizabeth Gant, call-sign Fox, cruelly beheaded in a guillotine. This was a pivotal event in your life. You retreated from military activity for four months. Your superiors thought it had broken you. You can’t imagine how surprised they were when you turned up one day and said that you were ready to get back to work. Yet what did they do with you? They made you a teacher, and then they hid you away up here in a lowly equipment-testing unit. Another insulting assignment.”
Champion waited for him to respond.
“Fox’s death did break me,” Schofield said. “But ultimately I . . . I figured out a way to cope.”
“How?” Champion said. “I am genuinely curious. How did you cope? Like I did, by becoming immune to emotion?”
Schofield thought for a moment.
“No. No, I didn’t do that. In those first few months after the Majestic-12 thing, the Corps sent me to a bunch of psychiatrists, top-of-the-range shrinks, all with Top Secret clearance, the best money can buy. Hell, one of them charged a thousand bucks an hour.
“But none of them worked. I kept thinking about Fox, picturing her death. I kept thinking about what I could have done. I felt powerless. I retreated into myself.”
“So what changed?” Champion asked.
“I found a new shrink, not a psychiatrist, but a psychologist, a simple therapist. And not through the Corps. Mother found her, saw her flyer tacked to the notice board at her husband’s office and gave it to me—Ralph’s a trucker and the company he drives for was offering free therapy to its long-haul drivers because of rising divorce rates.
“Anyway, that psychologist’s name was Dr. Brooke Ulacco, and she wasn’t some old white male Ivy Leaguer. She was a mother of two boys and she worked part-time out of the basement of her townhouse in Baltimore. I started doing therapy with her.”
In his mind’s eye, Schofield could see it as if it were yesterday.
Arriving at the old townhouse, with its formstone walls, being met at the door by Brooke Ulacco, a tawny-haired woman in her forties with wide hips, a gentle smile and a razor-sharp mind.
He recalled sitting in her basement office—valiantly decorated with potted plants and some framed photos, but nothing could hide the pipes and water heaters—hearing the kids playing upstairs. He even remembered once when Dr. Ulacco called out: “Kids! I’ve got a client down here! Keep it down, will ya!”
Schofield liked that atmosphere
.
Others might have found it distracting, but to him it was normal and that made it wonderful. It was the real world. Real kids playing in a real way and a real mom telling them to play quietly. That was who he fought for and that was why he did what he did, why he fought terrible missions against terrible people in terrible places.
Ulacco also didn’t beat around the bush. She spoke plainly and honestly, sometimes brutally so. If she felt Schofield was skirting around an issue or an emotion, she called him on it, often cutting in with, “Now, come on, Marine, that’s not true . . .”
But she could also be extraordinarily kind. For instance, when he spoke of Gant, of her thousand-watt smile, of the wonderful person she had been, Ulacco would just sit back and let him talk. On those occasions, she never interrupted.
A problem arose early on: Ulacco didn’t have the same high-level clearance that the other shrinks did, so at first Schofield couldn’t tell her the details of what had happened on that fateful mission, just his feelings about them. After a time, though, when he felt he could trust her, he asked his superiors in the Marine Corps if Ulacco could be background-checked for the appropriate level of clearance, so he could tell her more. It took a few months, many checks (including two sweeps of her office for bugs) and three polygraph tests, all of which Ulacco endured without so much as a blink—she had a brother named Bryce fighting in Afghanistan, so she understood. But eventually clearance was given: “TS/SCI” or “Top Secret/Sensitive Compartmented Information,” which allowed her to be told the details of those missions relevant to Schofield’s treatment, and that made things much easier.
But while Ulacco’s straight-talking manner and humble basement office made Schofield comfortable, it was her unusual brand of therapy that had made him well again.
“So what could this part-time suburban psychologist teach you that the best minds in mental health could not?” Champion asked.
Schofield shook his head. “It’ll sound weird, but she taught me about memory techniques, including one particular technique called the method of loci. Some people call it a memory palace or memory cathedral. You order your memories into a visual location of some sort—a cathedral, a town, a house, whatever, so long as it’s a structure that you know very well and can thus picture easily. Then when you want to remember something, you travel through that memory location and find the memory you’re after. What Dr. Ulacco taught me was more than that: she taught me how to use a memory location to forget.”
Scarecrow Returns ss-5 Page 21
