Code of Blood
George C. Chesbro
MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
the run
With Montsero offering a thousand dollars in bonus money to the winner, and with no rules except that the winner would be the first to cross the finish line, Chant had anticipated that there would be a lot of kicking, swinging of fists and elbows in the tightly packed starting area. Intent on masking the range of his skills from Montsero whenever possible, Chant had avoided initial physical combat by actually stepping back and to the side when Montsero had dropped his arm to signal the start of the cross-country run. As the others, cursing and swinging at one another, scrambled away, Chant unhurriedly removed his boots and socks and tossed them to the side.
Montsero grunted with surprise. “You’re not running on the beach at Acapulco, Alter. Your feet will freeze in this weather, if you don’t break a couple of toes.”
Chant merely smiled at the renegade psychologist, then started off at an easy trot after the others as the leaders disappeared over the crest of a small hill two hundred yards away.
Chant loped at an easy pace until he was over the hill, out of Montsero’s sight, then abruptly broke into a seiki-kwa style of running designed for moving with fluid grace and considerable speed over rough terrain Within a minute after shifting to seiki-kwa motion he had caught and passed the last runner besides himself at the back of the group. Chant silently shot past him, and the man could do nothing but stare in astonishment after the big man who seemed not so much to run as to float, his bare feet hardly seeming to touch the sharp rocks or frozen, rutted ground over which he passed.
The next five men were bunched together on the far side of a steep embankment leading down to a frozen stream; unwilling to risk breaking a leg by walking or running down the hill, the men were negotiating the descent on their backsides. Chant paused for just a moment at the top of the hill to gauge his own angle of descent, grinned with pleasure at the challenge offered by the precipitous slope, then leaped headfirst out into the freezing air. He hit the first patch of ice-encrusted snow on his left shoulder and rolled, coming up on his feet and immediately springing out into the air once again. In this way, by literal leaps and bounds, Chant flew down the steep embankment.
Sometimes it appeared that he must collide with one of the numerous outcroppings of sharp rock, but at the last moment he always glided just past or above them. An observer would have considered Chant’s headlong plunge down the steep, boulder-strewn slope suicidal, but in fact he was enjoying himself immensely, reveling in the sensation of flight through the cold air. All of his senses were finely focused on, tuned to, his surroundings, and his body had become not an opponent of, but part of the earth over which he traveled with such seemingly effortless grace and speed. This blood test, he thought, was perfect for his immediate purpose—which was not to win the race (which he knew he would), but to practice his very special mental and physical skills.
Within five minutes he had caught the leader; the man who had sprinted out ahead of the pack at the beginning was just ahead of Chant, virtually exhausted but plodding on nonetheless. Sensing rather than hearing Chant coming up behind him, the man stopped and turned, his face flushing with consternation and rage. With Chant barely twenty-five yards away, the man picked up a sharp-edged rock and flung it at Chant, who plucked the rock out of the air and, without breaking stride, flicked his wrist and flung the rock back at the man with the speed and power of a major league catcher firing a ball to second base. The man cried out in surprise and barely managed to duck in time as the rock whistled through the air over his head.
Obviously baffled by Chant’s speed and reflexes but still enraged by the thought that he could lose the race and bonus money, the ex-convict picked up a heavy, dead branch from the ground and, cocking it like a baseball bat, moved threateningly into Chant’s path. However, at the last moment the ex-convict thought better of attacking this strange, quiet man who had nearly killed him with his return throw of the rock, he dropped the branch, then quickly backed away as Chant loped past without even glancing at him.
Alone, comfortably ahead of the others, Chant stopped and glanced around him Throughout the run he had been occasionally bothered by the feeling that he was being watched—not by the ex-convicts, who were for the most part unobservant, inarticulate and respectful only of strength, will, and ruthlessness, but by someone else. The men pitted against him in these trials would be impressed only with what he did, not by how he did it; they would take no notice of the techniques of seiki-kwa, would care only that he had somehow managed to best them.
Montsero, or another trained observer watching him from a distance, could be quite another matter.
Chant finished the run, without employing seiki-kwa, and as he crossed the finish line pretended to be much more tired than he actually was.
CHAPTER ONE
It was a typically cold, rainy English day but in the great library of the Elizabethan manor that belonged to the man known as Sir Gerald Coughlin, a bright, cheerful fire burned In an armchair by the fire sat a towering man with iron-colored eyes and close-cropped, iron-colored hair.
Few here in England knew the true identity of this man, who years before in Vietnam had been Captain John Sinclair and was now known more frequently to both friends and enemies simply as Chant John Sinclair was the Most Wanted Man on the hit lists of everyone from the CIA and the KGB to Interpol and the FBI, not to mention a hundred or so local police departments around the world. He therefore found it preferable while in England to pose as wealthy and influential Sir Gerald Coughlin.
The man who fussed with a pile of newspaper clippings on a desk in one corner of the room was one of the few who knew all of Chant’s real identities; he was Alistair Powers, valet, butler, chauffeur, personal secretary, and researcher to Chant It was his duty to collect file clippings from newspapers around the world, collate information, and suggest possible future operations At this moment, he was in the process of winding up the paperwork on a successful operation Chant had recently finished—eliminating an old-age-home scam in Florida.
As Alistair worked, he would occasionally glance up idly at the television near his desk, whose images flickered silently on an all-news channel He was about to look away, when a picture on the silent screen caught his eye—and suddenly he felt his breath catch in his throat He just managed to stifle an exclamation of shock and sorrow.
On the screen, in stark close-up, was the bloody, bullet-riddled body of a gray-haired, aristocratic-looking man whose face was now clenched in a grotesque death grimace It was a face Alistair knew very well, for he had admitted the man many times through the gates of this very house—served him drinks and dinner, talked with him It was the face of a man who had known Alistair’s secrets, as well as John Sinclair’s, and whom Alistair had liked very much.
The camera slowly panned a few feet away to the corpse of a second, bearded man dressed in ragged clothes, and Alistair received his second shock.
Alistair knew that his employer, whose back was to the television, could not see the images on the screen, and he quickly turned up the volume on the set, rather than waste any time alerting Chant The camera cut to a montage of Rome.
“—after pursuing some of the most powerful and dangerous men in Europe, there is perhaps more than a touch of terrible and bitter irony in the fact that Vito Biaggi finally met his death at the hands of a down-and-out, crazed American ex-convict who undoubtedly did not even know who Vito Biaggi was In what Italian authorities agree was a senseless killing—”
There were a few minutes more of the same, but the newscast was nearly finished, and the television soon switched to coverage of the busy London social scene Alistair looked up from the television to se
e Chant once more staring into the fire, but he knew that his employer had heard and seen the shocking news. He sat back himself and stared at the ornate ceiling as his mind turned back to the bloody images on the television set, the announcer’s voice, and thoughts of the gentle, bearish Italian magistrate who had been one of the few people entrusted with secrets that could destroy and kill John Sinclair.
Alistair had never understood the process by which his employer chose the men and women he would confide in. There were large rewards offered by organizations on both sides of the law for information leading to the capture, or death, of John Sinclair; yet he, with what seemed to Alistair casual disregard for his own safety, continued to offer to certain people he had decided to trust the secret of his real identity. Alistair, of course, was one of the select few, yet he did not understand why he had been chosen. He knew only that John Sinclair had changed his life, given him more than he had ever hoped to have in his life, and that he would gladly give his life for the enigmatic man with the iron-colored eyes and hair who offered life and justice to some, while delivering quick, often gruesome, death to others.
Alistair had never been told how John Sinclair and Vito Biaggi, a man sworn to uphold the law, had become friends He did know that the Italian magistrate had been involved for more than a year in an intense and thorough investigation which attempted to unmask the identities of certain Europeans he suspected of channeling funds through Italian banks to terrorist groups around the world. Alistair also knew that the information Biaggi had acted upon in launching his investigation had been provided by John Sinclair, who had unearthed it in the course of an unrelated operation. The document John Sinclair had found and given to Vito Biaggi had hinted at the existence of an international cabal of amoral, apolitical businessmen who, in an attempt to purchase a kind of “terrorist insurance,” provided a significant amount of funds to both left and right-wing terrorist groups, in exchange for assurances that, in the event of the overthrow of certain governments, the interests of the funders would not be harmed.
Patiently but persistently, the Roman magistrate had taken the kernels of information that John Sinclair had provided and doggedly investigated, piecing together more bits of information and tracking down rumors Only three weeks before, Vito Biaggi had announced that he could prove the existence of a global conspiracy that had already cost the lives of hundreds of people; indictments were imminent, and Biaggi had warned that the names of some very prominent people in the European Common Market would eventually surface.
Now, Alistair thought, Vito Biaggi was dead, at the hands of an expatriate street criminal; the Italian had been hunting monsters in the European forests, and he’d been killed by a maggot that had crawled out of the American criminal justice system, a man Alistair had once known.
Alistair sat still for a long while, then finally broke the silence “Do you want me to make arrangements for you to attend Mr. Biaggi’s funeral, sir?”
“I’m not going to the funeral,” Chant said softly as he looked up from the fire “You’ll extend my regrets to Bianca, and tell her that I’ll be in touch. I’m going to make some inquiries into Vito’s death, and I want to start before too much time passes.”
“Sir, I know the man who shot Mr Biaggi.”
The iron-colored eyes flicked in Alistair’s direction “Where do you know him from?”
“His name was Tyrone Good, and we were in San Quentin together. He was a lifer, like me, and we must have been together fifteen, sixteen years.”
“Were you friends?” Chant asked evenly.
“Not likely. Good was a real pain in the ass; we just shared the same prison, and it’s pretty hard in prison for long-termers not to get to know each other. He must have been paroled six or seven months after I was, and he must have heard of the Fortune Society in New York City That’s where I saw him again, at one of their meetings. It was just a few months after that when you—” Alistair turned away and wiped at his eyes; it was impossible for the old man to speak of what John Sinclair had done for him without tears coming to his eyes.
“Go on, Alistair,” Chant said softly.
Alistair swallowed hard, found his voice “There really isn’t anything else After you wiped out the Salieri family and saved my granddaughter from them, you asked if I’d like to come and work for you. I never saw Tyrone Good again. That was better than two years ago.”
“Was this Tyrone Good Mafia?”
Alistair shook his head. “No way. I know what you’re thinking; that the people Mr. Biaggi wanted to nail might have hired a hitter to kill him. Tyrone Good wouldn’t have been the man, too stupid. You saw yourself: he got himself blown away.”
“Indeed,” Chant said in a slightly distant tone. “It would take a monumentally stupid man—”
“That was Tyrone.”
“—to try and rob another man on the street in broad daylight, when the man was surrounded by three or four bodyguards.”
Alistair nodded. “When I say Good was stupid, Mr. Sinclair, I mean like retarded. He also had a mean streak a mile wide, real psycho. After all the years I spent in San Quentin, I know something about Mafia types; some of them may be stupid, but they’re highly disciplined—and they’re not suicidal. I don’t think Good was working for anyone, Mr. Sinclair. He was crazy, and he just did a crazy thing.”
Chant sipped thoughtfully at his coffee. “And what do you suppose this crazy man was doing in Rome?” he asked softly.
Alistair thought about it, shook his head. “Good question, Mr. Sinclair. I don’t think Tyrone even knew there was such a place as Europe, and if he had there would have been no reason for him to go there. As a matter of fact, I can’t imagine where the hell he got the money; he was on welfare when I saw him in New York, and the only time I ever knew him to have more than five bucks in his pocket was when he and I both picked up a quick C-note by taking part in some weird college research project where they were studying ex-convicts” Alistair paused, again shook his head “How Good got to Rome is a puzzle, all right, but I still don’t see him being hired as a hitter by anyone who could afford better—and, from what I understand, the people Mr Biaggi was after can afford to hire the best Besides, Tyrone had his share of street smarts, he’d kill anyone for the fillings in their teeth—but not if there was a chance he’d be killed I still think he just wigged out.”
“Alistair,” Chant asked slowly, “do you know, or have you ever heard of, a man by the name of Axle Trent?”
“Nope, can’t say that I have Who’s Axle Trent?”
“Another American ex-convict Seven months ago, in Geneva, Trent shot down a British diplomat who was a key figure in ongoing truce negotiations between two waning factions in the Sudan Like Good, Axle Trent took it into his head to try to mug his victim in broad daylight, on a busy street, the police considered Trent, like Good, a most unlikely assassin, and they wrote off the murder as a senseless act by a psychopath with a long record of violent behavior.”
“Was this Trent killed by the police?”
“He bashed out his own brains on the bars of his holding cell an hour after he was arrested. The police never found his passport, and nobody could explain what he was doing in Geneva. I remember the incident, because I happened to be in Geneva at the time; the killing was widely publicized.”
“You think there could be a connection, sir?”
“I’m not sure yet,” Chant said slowly, and lapsed back into silence, staring intently into the fire.
Alistair knew better than to interrupt him.
Finally Chant looked up again “I’ll be flying to New York tonight,” he said “Can you call British Airways and arrange for tickets?”
“I’ll do that, sir, and I’ll also call Mrs. Biaggi for you, as you asked.”
Chant nodded “Express condolences for both of us, tell her I’m sorry I can’t be with her right now She’ll understand. Don’t mention anything about our conversation concerning Tyrone Good and Axle Trent.”
; “You’re going to New York to talk to Tony Black, aren’t you?”
Again, Chant nodded “Yes, I am, Alistair,” he said “Thanks for all your help You did well noticing that news broadcast when you did. I trust you to do all that’s right in Italy.”
“Thank you sir,” said the old man, quietly and with dignity.
CHAPTER TWO
His legs always hurt in cold, wet weather—the legacy of an old prison injury—and Tony Black paused at his desk to reach down and massage his thighs. After a minute or two the pain began to ease, and he went back to the pile of paperwork on his desk—applications for state and federal funding grants, correspondence with prisoners, requests for information and interviews, all the kinds of administrative details the ex-convict had learned to cope with since he had assumed the post of President of the Fortune Society almost a decade before.
He had not heard the downstairs door open, nor footsteps on the wooden stairway leading up to his second-floor office. However, suddenly he felt a presence in the room with him. He looked up and was mildly startled to see a big man, with longish red hair and a thick, droopy mustache, leaning in the doorway, looking at him. The man wore a three-quarter-length gabardine topcoat against the December chill, and in his right hand he held a sturdy walnut cane. Black leaned back in his swivel chair, ran the fingers of his left hand through his thinning blond hair, pushed his thick bifocals up on the bridge of his nose, and stared back at the man. He knew no one with fiery red hair who walked with a cane, but there was something about the presence of this big man with the thick shoulders, slim waist, and powerful thighs that seemed familiar.
“That you, Chant?”
Chant smiled, put aside the cane, and walked across the office. “Hello, Tony. How are you?”
Black rose, hurried around the desk, and embraced the man with whom he shared a friendship that had begun in the blood-soaked jungles of Vietnam. “Damn, Chant, it’s good to see you.”
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