The young man knew that a “touch” was a killing, but he understood that killing was often necessary in defense of one’s country and moral principles. He had no qualms about that. He was impressed that the older man had such faith in him, excited at the opportunity, and without hesitation he answered yes.
When the young man went home for spring break, his neighbor presented him with a government-issue .45-caliber pistol. The young man worried that his mother or another family member might discover the weapon and question him about it, so he concealed it and carried it back to Lexington. As mid-April, time for the scheduled mission, neared, the older man returned to Lexington. He brought another .45 to replace the pistol he had given the young man earlier.
“I got it from somebody who won’t need it anymore,” he said, and the young man asked no questions. Instead, he watched the older man deftly replace all the springs in the weapon and put a new Accurizer barrel on it.
The mission, he said, had been postponed. He needed time for more surveillance.
May arrived with no further word, and on May 10, the young man’s twenty-first birthday, he went home to North Carolina. Two days later, on Mother’s Day, the older man came for him. They went to the country and practiced with their .45s and a .22 Ruger semiautomatic pistol, and the older man told him that their mission would be disguised as a camping trip and that it would be soon. That night, the young man returned to the room he rented in a private home in Lexington, and the following day the older man called to say the plan was on for Wednesday, two days away. Could he still go? A pang of fear struck the young man as he answered yes.
But on Wednesday the older man called again. Another postponement. He was having problems with his vehicle. A bearing would have to be replaced. Hang loose. He called again Thursday to say he would call on Friday. At three o’clock on Friday afternoon he called. Everything was go. He would bring the gear. Meet him at the Blue Ridge Parkway overlook on Roanoke Mountain, sixty miles southwest of Lexington, at six o’clock.
The young man went to the mountain, and there, at an overlook where hang gliders embark on daring and spectacular flights, he waited for hours, watching the sun set and the lights of Roanoke Valley twinkle on below, leaving briefly only once to drive down the mountain for a Coke and a candy bar, but the older man did not appear—no surprise, really; the older man rarely showed up when he said he would—and as ten o’clock neared, a ranger came to say the overlook was closing. The young man didn’t know what to do and returned to his room in Lexington. He was upstairs watching TV when the telephone rang downstairs and his landlady answered. The older man was calling, but the landlady thought the young man had left for the weekend and didn’t know he had returned, and before he could get downstairs, she had told the older man that he wasn’t there and hung up. The young man feared that he might have blown his opportunity, damaged the mission by not remaining in place (could that have been part of his test?). He called the older man’s mother, a family friend. If her son called would she tell him that he was back in Lexington? An hour later, the older man called back. He was at Roanoke Mountain. He would come to Lexington.
The Blazer was cluttered, as usual, with military field gear and weapons, including, the young man noticed, the Uzi machine gun in a camouflage bag that he’d seen on several occasions when they’d gone shooting in the country. The older man asked for his pistol and zipped it into a black canvas bag with another .45, his favorite. It was well after midnight when they headed for the Blue Ridge Parkway to acquire proof that they had spent this weekend camping. They stopped at Otter Creek Campground, but found it unsatisfactory and drove on to the southwest. Peaks of Otter would be better, the older man said. On the way, he mentioned a change of plan. A “situation” in North Carolina connected to the Texas mission had to be taken care of first. It required that touches be made in two cities, Winston-Salem and Charlotte, but the young man was not to worry. He would not have to put himself in danger, and he would be back in Lexington in plenty of time to pick up his take-home final exam in his medical ethics class.
“I’ll help you with it,” the older man said with a reassuring smile, pleasing the young man, who knew that his companion was a physician.
They arrived before dawn at Peaks of Otter, a National Park Service recreation area, and drove into the self-check-in campground near the base of Sharp Top, a cone-shaped mountain, 3,875 feet high at its stony peak. They selected campsite B-3, because none of the campsites near it was occupied. The campsite, which rose from a paved parking spot, was set into the mountainside behind a large granite boulder. A steel grill and fireplace had been built into the back of the boulder, near the concrete slab table. A stone wall made a level spot for the tent site. The fallen trunk of a huge tree separated the site from the one adjoining it. Through the trees down the mountainside, lights from the popular Peaks of Otter Lodge reflected off the surface of Abbott Lake, twenty-four acres of cold, clear water behind a grassy dam.
By the time the men got their camp set up, dawn was breaking pink behind Flat Top, a 4,000-foot mountain rising from the lodge, but both men were tired and they fell asleep quickly as the sparsely occupied campground stirred around them. The young man got up well after noon. His friend was seated at the picnic table with a black briefcase open before him. In the case, the young man saw a large scabbarded knife, perhaps a bayonet, a stainless steel .22-caliber semiautomatic pistol, a .45, several ammunition magazines, and a rechargeable electric razor. Lying nearby were a soft hat, a gray windbreaker, a pair of dark canvas sneakers. The older man pulled a surgical glove onto his right hand and began removing the standard .22-caliber long rifle bullets from the magazines and replacing them with subsonic shells, better for a job such as this, he said, because the sound would not carry so far. The glove was necessary, he explained, so that he would leave no fingerprints in case he didn’t recover all the brass.
When that job was finished, the older man produced a packet of hundred-dollar bills, peeled off three and handed them to the young man. “That’s yours,” he said. “I’m getting nine hundred for this operation. That’s a third. If I have to make it look like a robbery, we’ll split the take fifty-fifty.”
After the job was done, the older man said, he would dispose of the clothes he wore, even the hat and shoes. Thoroughness was essential in every mission, he emphasized. No detail should be overlooked. “That’s the reason the average criminal gets caught,” he said. “He doesn’t think about all of these things.”
The young man had heard him speak of thoroughness before. A shot to the body to bring a man down, the older man said, another shot to the head to finish him. Thoroughness.
Both men went down the hill to the small, cedar-shingled rest room, where the young man shaved and his companion nipped off the bristly hairs on his neck below his full, dark beard. Afterward, they gathered firewood and placed light sticks around the campsite to make it look “lived in.” The older man was hungry and they drove around the lake to the elegant waterside restaurant with its chic gift shop before returning briefly to the campground. They stopped at the gate, and the older man wrote his name and address on a registration envelope, folded the six-dollar fee into it, and dropped the envelope into the padlocked honor box, proof of their alibi if it should be needed. At a little after 5 P.M., they pulled onto the parkway, heading for North Carolina.
After a few miles, the Blazer left the parkway and wound down curvy and dangerous Highway 43 into the small, flood-ravaged town of Buchanan on the James River, then turned onto Highway 11 for the short connection to Interstate 81. Even on the interstate, the older man drove slowly, following his custom, rarely getting above forty-five miles per hour. Normally, the trip to Winston-Salem took three and a half hours; at his deliberate pace it took more than five.
On the way, they discussed the mission. Many things the young man would not be told. That’s the way it was in the Company. Information was closely controlled and released only on a “need-to-know” basis.
The young man understood. This was the plan: In Winston-Salem, the young man would drop off his partner near the site of the touch then go to a prearranged spot to wait—they’d decide exactly where when they got there. After the older man completed the job, he’d take a car from the site and drive to the meeting spot. The young man would follow him to U.S. 52, then give him a fifteen-minute head start and drive south to Interstate 85 and west to Charlotte. The young man was to note the last rest area before reaching Charlotte, then double back to it and wait. They would meet there after the second touch. On the way to Charlotte, the older man would stop and shave his beard, leaving a Fu Manchu for the second leg of the mission. On the return to Virginia, he would shave off the mustache—and dispose of his clothing along the way.
West of Pulaski, the older man turned south onto Interstate 77, and as darkness descended, he crossed the North Carolina line and pulled into the welcome center. He went into the rest room carrying a canvas bag and emerged in different clothing—dark slacks, a mesh T-shirt, and the gray windbreaker and canvas shoes that he had displayed earlier. Under the T-shirt was a bullet-proof vest.
“You want to drive?” he asked, and the young man agreed, thinking it might take his mind off his fears. But he had driven only a short distance, turning east on North Carolina 89 and south on U.S. 52 in Mount Airy, skirting the Mayberry Mall—a reminder that this was Andy Griffith’s hometown—before the older man decided he should be driving because he knew where they were going.
“Stop at a Neighbors station,” he said. “We need to get gas anyway.”
But the young man missed the first Neighbors station on the edge of Mount Airy, and his companion told him to drive on to another some distance ahead. When the young man missed that one, too, he turned around and went back. The station was a garish spectacle—red, orange and yellow, flag-bedecked and brightly lighted, set at the base of one of North Carolina’s most beautiful and famous landmarks, Pilot Mountain, with its distinctive tree-topped granite knob, a lone sentinel hunkering in the reflected lights of Winston-Salem, only twenty-five miles away. The young man was worried that he was growing noticeably more frightened. He went to the rest room to check himself, then bought a caffeine-free Coke to calm his troubled stomach.
As he drove on to Winston-Salem, sipping a Tab, the older man showed no signs of fear or anxiety. Calmly, he went over the alibi. If anybody ever asked about this night, they had been on a hike up Flat Top Mountain. Near the summit, they had been caught in a shower, stopped and built a fire to dry themselves, then hiked back down, returning to the campground early in the morning. This bothered the young man. The honor code at Washington and Lee, introduced by General Lee himself, was simple and explicit: a student should not lie, cheat, or steal, and should conduct himself as a gentleman at all times. He knew that the honor code was the foundation of the university and that lying could disgrace him and get him thrown out of school. But in this case, he was assured, deception was a matter of national security, overriding any honor code.
Soon both saw the skyline of Winston-Salem, with its distinctive Reynolds Building, a smaller version of the Empire State Building. It was nearly 10:45 when the older man turned west onto Interstate 40, then exited into downtown with its tobacco-perfumed air. As he drove northwest, he talked through their plan again. They passed shopping centers, a McDonald’s, a Burger King, and the young man saw a sign that said they were on Reynolda Road. It was a busy road, four lanes wide. A funeral home loomed on the right, Vogler’s, soon to profit from their mission, although the young man could not know that. The road swung to the right and curved downhill into open country. At the foot of the hill was a stoplight and another shopping center, Loehmann’s Plaza. The older man turned left at the stoplight and asked, “Where do you want to wait?”
The young man had seen a Hardee’s across from the shopping center near the stoplight. He’d wait there, unless it closed. If not there, he’d be at the Burger King they’d just passed. Or McDonald’s as a last resort. If he couldn’t stay at any of those places, he’d come back to Loehmann’s Plaza and park in front of the Food Lion.
The older man turned left at an old tile-roofed gas station that had been turned into a rental shop. The area was dark, the street a narrow concrete lane. No other cars were in sight. A few hundred feet past the turn, the Blazer stopped in a red-dirt lot beside a tiny concrete bridge. The lot was filled with dump trucks and construction equipment. Fetching his briefcase from behind the seat, the older man opened it for a final check, snapped it shut, pulled on a pair of leather driving gloves, got out, and disappeared into the night. The young man climbed behind the wheel and pulled cautiously away.
Eleven o’clock had just passed and Hardee’s had closed. The young man drove to Burger King. He parked near the road so the Blazer would be easily visible, locked up, and went inside, trying to appear nonchalant but fearful that his guilt and anxiety were showing. He got a cup of coffee and sat by the window, smoking cigarettes and watching the comings and goings of late-night hamburger eaters. He got up once for a refill, and after forty-five minutes he began worrying that the store employees were becoming suspicious. He went out to the Blazer and sat for several minutes fiddling with a Bach tape. His friend always carried classical music and often played it as he drove. Why didn’t he come back? Had something gone wrong? If so, how would the younger man know? What was he to do?
He didn’t want to go to McDonald’s, so he drove back to the small shopping center and waited in the empty parking lot. Fifteen minutes later, he saw a small gold car approaching slowly and recognized his partner at the wheel.
Relieved, he cranked up the Blazer and pulled into traffic behind the gold car, headed south on Reynolda, back toward downtown. He expected to follow it to Highway 52, as planned, but after a short distance, the older man turned onto a side street and stopped at a small vacant building, where he sat for a minute as if uncertain what to do. The young man waited, thinking his friend might get out with a change of instruction. Instead, he suddenly turned around and drove back to Reynolda Road. The young man followed as he turned right, heading south again. At a stoplight near Burger King, the young man pulled alongside the gold car hoping for a signal. Ignored, he dutifully followed when the light changed. At Coliseum Drive, the older man turned left, eastward. At University Parkway, another major thoroughfare, he turned left again, northward, past the coliseum. Caught by the light, the young man hurried to catch up when it changed. He made the turn and saw his friend some distance ahead, still driving slowly. Suddenly a police car appeared behind the Blazer, as if from nowhere. It passed in a rush and fell in behind the gold car ahead. Fear shot through the young man. Had somebody already put out a bulletin on the stolen car? Was his friend about to be arrested? Would he allow himself to be taken? What should he do if the policeman stopped the car? They hadn’t planned for this eventuality.
The young man slowed and switched lanes. As he did, the older man did the same thing, the police car following. The young man slowed even more holding back, watching. The brightly lighted business district fell away, and a grassy median now separated the parkway. The lighted steeple of Wake Forest University’s Wait Chapel appeared over the treetops to the west. Another police car came up quickly, falling in behind the first one, frightening the young man even more. At an intersection, the second police car turned left and sped off—just as blue lights began flashing atop the first car. The older man stopped in the left lane. The young man was panic-stricken as he drove slowly past the two cars, straining to see. He topped a hill and at the bottom saw the welcoming glow of another Burger King sign. He pulled in and parked so his friend could spot the Blazer—if he came. His heart was racing, and he took deep breaths trying to calm himself. He needed desperately to go to the toilet, but he wasn’t sure his legs would carry him inside.
He emerged from the rest room and went to the counter to get another cup of coffee. Standing in line, he noticed a policeman dozing in a nearby booth. The po
liceman stirred, got up, and walked to the front, stopping only a few feet from the young man, who turned away, staring straight ahead, struggling to control his fear and nervousness. He was certain the policeman could see his guilt, and he got his coffee and left quickly, expecting to hear the click of the officer’s heels behind him, a voice calling, “Just a minute there, young man!”
He hurried to the Blazer, still not knowing what to do, but before he got in, he was startled to see his friend approaching the door of the restaurant. The older man saw him, turned abruptly, got back into the gold car, and drove away. Relieved, the young man jumped into the Blazer and followed.
They went back the way they had come, and the young man realized they were returning to the area of the mission. They turned at Loehmann’s Plaza, as they had upon arriving, but continued past the rental place where they previously had turned. Around the bend from a stoplight, the older man pulled onto the shoulder and stopped. Uncertain, the young man drove by him and stopped a couple of hundred feet ahead. He looked back to see his friend get out and walk toward him, carrying the briefcase.
Bitter Blood Page 12
