Code of Blood

by George C. Chesbro

  Chant found that he was being totally ignored.

  “All right?” the big man with the booming voice shouted. “Let’s get her upstairs!”

  With one person guiding each side of the gurney, the medical team raced down the length of the garage to a wide door, which sighed open to reveal a large freight elevator. The team pushed the gurney into the elevator, and the door immediately closed behind them.

  Everything had happened in less than forty-five seconds. Chant was impressed.

  Insolers got out of the car and, without even looking back, headed toward the elevator. Chant checked the magazines of both machine pistols and took the one with the most ammunition left; but he put on the safety catch before getting out and following the CIA operative, who was holding open the elevator door for him.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Insolers hung up the wall telephone and turned to face Chant, who was standing directly behind him “You certainly do like to stay close by, don’t you, Mr. Jones?” the slight, tall man said with a thin smile.

  Chant, certain even before Insolers had earlier put a finger to his lips that the entire safe house would be wired for sound, said nothing; for him, it was enough that the CIA operative was aware that his neck would be broken an instant after Chant suspected a trap was being set or sprung.

  “That was one of the doctors calling from the medical suite,” Insolers continued. “Miss Rawlings is going to be all right. They’ve flushed all of the drugs out of her system, and there doesn’t appear to be any permanent brain or kidney damage. She should be well in two or three weeks, and we’ll keep her here until she’s completely healed. You can see her in an hour, after she wakes up, but she probably won’t recognize you. It will take time for everything to come back to her.”

  Chant’s reaction was to nod, reach out, and grip the other man’s arm as he allowed his gratitude to show on his face and in his eyes.

  “You want a drink, Jones?” Insolers asked He shrugged when Chant shook his head, continued, “Well, I do If you’re going to stay close, you’ll have to come along with me.”

  Chant followed Insolers as the operative climbed a circular staircase to the second floor of the house, entered a well-appointed drawing room and library off the main corridor. Insolers closed the door, then went across the room and removed a thick volume from a bookcase. He reached inside the space, then removed his hand and replaced the book.

  “It’s all right to talk now, Sinclair This room is used for ‘clean’ talk, and I just turned off the tape system here.”

  “What are you going to tell your superiors about the one-sided conversations on the rest of the tapes?” Chant asked as the other man went to a sideboard and poured himself a stiff drink from a bottle of bourbon.

  “Beats me,” Insolers replied as he dropped some ice inside his drink and raised his glass to Chant “Maybe I’ll tell them I’ve begun talking to myself.”

  “Why are you so solicitous of my well-being, Insolers?”

  “For one thing, I owe you my life,” Insolers replied easily. “At the very least, they’d have badly compromised me; if you’d gotten away, I believe they almost certainly would have killed me.”

  “You know I damn near left you there.”

  “But you didn’t.” Insolers paused, lifted his chin slightly and narrowed his eyes. “Anybody who really knows anything about you knows that you’re a man of honor, Sinclair I respect you—and so does virtually everyone else at the agency, even if they do happen to want you dead. I told you we had a truce; I’ll let you know when the truce is over, and it won’t be at a time when you’re in jeopardy Maybe I want you to respect me as a man of honor, too; maybe it’s just possible that having John Sinclair’s respect is worth more to me than a three-grade promotion.”

  “Awarded posthumously.”

  “Awarded posthumously,” Insolers said, and laughed.

  Chant nodded toward the sideboard “I see you’ve got a bottle of single-malt Scotch over there. I’ll have some of that, on the rocks.”

  Insolers made Chant a drink, brought it to him, then sat down in one of the four leather armchairs in the room. Insolers motioned for Chant to sit in a chair across from him, and Chant did.

  “The Blake College thing was a CIA project from its inception,” the operative said, lighting a cigarette and tossing the match into the fireplace behind him “It goes back twenty years, testing different kinds of questionnaires and techniques. Blake and the insurance companies provided us with a front—not that unusual an arrangement, as you well know. Montsero was a renegade psychologist who got thrown out of UCLA for running unauthorized deception experiments—which he was doing for us, naturally.

  “It’s all part of Special Weapons research, and it was always designed to test the ongoing feasibility of using unwitting assassins who couldn’t be traced back to the government. We were doing it because we had—have—good reason to suspect that other governments are doing it. The government of the United States never used one of those men, Sinclair, and didn’t intend to—unless somebody else sent a similar type of assassin against us first. As far as we knew, all of the subjects who made it through to the final phase of the tests were paid their fees at that military base and then sent on their way.”

  “You never tested GTN on any of the men?”

  “Nope, never had to GTN is very effective, but we’ve got even better shit than that locked away and ready for use if we ever feel we need it. We know what those drugs can do, because they’ve been tested on Company volunteers. As far as the CIA was concerned, the Blake College operation was just a feasibility study and a means of keeping on hand a kind of stockpile of potential subjects. I’m still trying to put it all together, but the way I figure is that Montsero was the one who whispered something in someone’s ear about the potential for using subjects to further Blake’s personal political and economic interests Blake liked the idea, and their own operation was set up right under our noses—my nose, really—without Company knowledge or authorization. Then you came along.

  “I had two jobs. First, just as I did with you, I contacted every man and gave him that little spiel The idea was to test loyalty patterns and dependability, but it was really just a sideshow—more data for Company computers My most important assignment was to vet every person entering the program to screen out any potential enemy agents. You weren’t expecting any kind of thorough check when you penetrated the program, so you were blown fifteen minutes after I started checking out the application forms you’d filed; I found the real Neil Alter in Orlando, working for his brother selling condominums.

  “So the question became who you really were, and who you were working for Naturally, I figured you for an enemy operative, possibly Russian. You weren’t going anywhere I figured I could nab you whenever I wanted, so I ‘dusted’ you, wired your room, bugged your telephone, and did a few other things I thought would help me penetrate your operation and nab your controller. In the meantime, I let you roam free.

  “Then, just before the last of the trials on the military base, I got snookered I got word that I was to return to Washington for a meeting that never took place. The next thing I know, Montsero, an ex-convict, and a prominent couple have been butchered, and everybody and their goddam brother is going to New York City to hunt the infamous John Sinclair.

  “I didn’t believe you were John Sinclair—or, if you were, I didn’t believe you’d done the killings Sinclair might well have filleted Montsero and the other guy, but not an old man and an old woman. I smelled a whole stableful of rats. I still had you ‘dusted,’ and I had a miniature radio transmitter sewn into a pair of your pants, so I didn’t feel the need to rush out and tell anybody where you were; there were too many people involved in the manhunt, somebody was bound to screw up, more people might be killed, and you’d be gone. I still wanted to know who you really were, and who’d sent you.

  “I found you with the Rawlings woman, did some more checking and found out that you’d been
referred to her by Martha Greenblatt I also had an autopsy performed on the guy you killed in the welfare office, they found the GTN in his system, and I knew there was a good likelihood it had been manufactured here For the first time I began to suspect that it had been Blake, or men working on his orders, who had offed Montsero and the others. I also began to consider the possibility that you really were John Sinclair—and that possibility intrigued me no end. After I searched your room in the house in Rockland County and found the passports and other stuff, I decided there was no longer any doubt who you were. But I was still in no hurry to turn you in, since now I wanted to know why you were involved—and you seemed to be doing all my work for me.” Insolers paused, smiled wryly “When I wanted you, I figured all I had to do was look one or two steps ahead of me.

  “Then I lost you—or thought I did—when you slipped past my men in Rockland Houston was on my schedule anyway, and I must have gotten there a week or so after you I got into the research section at R.E.B. by using a forged letter that had Blake himself introducing me as a research chemist. I had great fun juggling test tubes while I faked that one, and it gave me time and freedom to do a lot of looking around.” Insolers paused, shrugged “I figured out what they were up to, and how they did it, but they nailed me before I could do anything about it. It’s a good thing I never blew the whistle on you, or I might not be here. Now, speaking of promotions, somebody has to take credit for exposing Blake’s operations and busting up that place in Houston. With your permission, Mr. Sinclair—and since I assume you don’t wish your name to be bandied about—I’ll take credit Is that all right with you?”

  “It’s more than all right with me. You’re a good man, Insolers.”

  “You’re a good man; like I said, you did most of my work for me. Maybe another reason I declared a truce is because I’ve noticed, over the years, that John Sinclair and I happen to intensely dislike a lot of the same people.”

  “Like R. Edgar Blake?”

  “Like R. Edgar Blake. Why do they call you ‘Chant,’ Sinclair?”

  Chant smiled, shrugged “It’s just a nickname.”

  “I’ve seen your dossier—at least I’ve seen the scrubbed version most field operatives get to see It says that some of your men started calling you that back in ’Nam; it says that it could have had something to do with the reactions of enemy soldiers.”

  “It’s not important, Insolers,” Chant said quietly.

  “What about Cooked Goose, Sinclair? What the hell was that operation all about?”

  “You don’t want to know. If they ever suspected I’d told you, you’d be a dead man Wait until you get your three-grade promotion; then you may be able to read all about it yourself.”

  “There may not even be a file on it.”

  “That’s true. When the men who know about it now die, the secret may die with them. It’s just as well.”

  Insolers studied Chant for some time, finally said, “After all these years, you’ve never told anybody what it was that made you desert. And yet, they still want to kill you Why?”

  “They must be afraid I’ll change my mind one day. And I may. Tell me about Tommy Wing, Insolers.”

  The CIA operative looked surprised. “How the hell do you know about that madman?”

  Chant smiled without humor “Oh, Hammerhead and I go back a lot of years. He’s the one who made me in the project; and he may be the man who tripped you up in Houston. He seems to be some kind of supervisor.”

  “Hammerhead?” Insolers said, and laughed. “Good name.”

  “You know about his tooth-fairy number?”

  “I heard about it.”

  “Tommy bites people he doesn’t like—usually to death Maybe he’s cleaned up his act—washed his teeth of it, so to speak.”

  Insolers shook his head “He hasn’t Sinclair, I know you once ran a scam on Blake How well do you know him?”

  “Only by his deeds and reputation.”

  “He’s a very strange man, Sinclair. He looks like a big, old crow, and in his own way he’s probably as criminally insane as Tommy Wing I’m told he’s gotten worse over the years. That castle he lives in dates back to medieval times, and there are rumors that some very strange things go on in there for his amusement The castle and grounds cover a lot of expensive Swiss acreage, and nobody really knows what he does with it all. Some of it may be used to train—and discipline—the top members of his private army, but that’s never been confirmed by the CIA Anyway, some of the rumors are gruesome It seems he’s a collector of bizarre instruments of death and torture.”

  “Tommy Wing would fit nicely into that category,” Chant said in a flat voice.

  Insolers smiled “Obviously Wing was in the Blake College program, two and a half years ago. He took the field trials quite seriously and ended up killing two men in the pit It looked like there was going to be a problem, so Montsero told Blake what had happened and asked for instructions. Blake got a big kick out of it, and had Tommy Wing flown to Switzerland for a personal interview Now Wing serves as the old man’s primary bodyguard, personal secretary, and general ‘gofer’ As it turns out, Wing was also Blake’s man in charge of security for the Blake College project—something I was never told about.”

  “Tommy’s really come up in the world,” Chant said dryly.

  “Now you’re going after Blake and Wing, aren’t you?”

  “That’s something I really don’t think you want confirmed or denied, Insolers Whatever I’m going to do, it’s better that you don’t know about it.”

  “I can’t help you on that.”

  “I don’t recall asking you for help.”

  Insolers was silent for some time. Finally he rose, went to the sideboard, and poured himself a drink. He raised the bottle of single-malt Scotch inquiringly, but Chant shook his head.

  “It occurred to me that you might figure the CIA would want to get even with Blake for going way out of bounds with our research project and using it for his own purposes.”

  “What the CIA wants to do about Blake doesn’t interest me one way or the other,” Chant replied evenly.

  “Okay Still, I thought you might be interested in learning a few more things about Blake which you probably don’t know R Edgar Blake is much more than just your average run-of-the-mill multibillionaire I told you he provided us with a front at Blake College, but that was only one of a number of front organizations around the world he provides for us, and for most of the other Western intelligence agencies. He’s been of invaluable help to the CIA, like certain very wealthy individuals and multinational corporations before him In exchange, of course, his companies get any number of lucrative government contracts.”

  “And protection?”

  “He doesn’t need our protection The man knows an enormous amount about CIA covert operations, past and present, around the world Virtually every intelligence agency in the West has had occasion to use Blake’s facilities or help at one time or another, and in effect we’ve sold our souls to the devil He’s got very damaging stuff on all of us, which makes him virtually a world power unto himself He has all the information he’s collected inside one of the most sophisticated computer systems in the world, inside one of the world’s most highly defended fortifications.”

  “What do the Swiss think of all this?”

  Insolers laughed “Are you kidding? With all that money? The Swiss love him! He’s careful not to break any Swiss laws, and the taxes he pays probably account for half the budget of the city of Geneva My point is this no matter what laws Blake has broken or bent in other countries, nobody—nobody—is going to make a move against him They’re too afraid of what information Blake might leak.”

  “What’s going to happen to all this ultrasensitive information when Blake dies?”

  Insolers shrugged. “That’s anybody’s guess; it’s not something the people at Langley like to think about. Knowing the Swiss, they’ll probably move in before anybody else and confiscate the records. That’s
fine with the CIA, because the Swiss won’t let anything in those computer records interfere with business; they might even destroy them. Anyway, I think you now have a somewhat clearer picture of the situation you’re up against.”

  “Thank you, Insolers Again.”

  “Back off on this one, Sinclair. You’ve already fucked him over pretty good.”

  “I hear what you’re saying, Insolers. I appreciate the information and advice At the moment, you’re the only person who knows I have even a passing interest in Blake.”

  “That’s arguable From the description a few people will give the Houston police, somebody’s bound to make you—which means I’m going to have to do some fast and fancy talking to my superiors, but that’s not your problem. Your problem is that somebody’s liable to figure out your next stop.”

  “If you thought you knew, would you tell?”

  “Nope. After what happened at the plant, I’m going to have to figure a way to put a lot of distance between you and me in order to save my own ass.”

  “I understand that you can’t do anything to help me attack Blake and Tommy Wing—if that’s what I plan to do Assuming I was planning to go to Geneva, would you take any steps to stop me?”

  “Nobody has to try to stop you,” Isolers replied without hesitation. “I think, by now, you appreciate how much respect I have for you and your skills, Sinclair. But all those skills are no match for the power Blake commands. Even a ninja can’t get into that castle. Blake hardly ever leaves it, and he doesn’t take a piss without six bodyguards around to shake his dick for him When he does go out, he travels in a bulletproof limousine If you think Howard Hughes was paranoid about germs, then you have some idea of how R Edgar Blake fears assassination And then, there’s his army.”

  Chant rose, drained his glass, and set it down on a table beside the chair “You’re sure the woman will be all right?”

  “I told you what the doctors told me,” Insolers said, rising “If you’re leaving, I’ll have somebody drive you to wherever it is you want to go.”