by Tom Clancy
“I think I can hold up, sir.”
“Ever been to Quantico?”
“No, Admiral.”
“Bring your boat. There’s a marina there and it’ll give us a place to chat. Sunday morning. Ten sharp. We’ll be waiting, Mr. Clark.”
“Aye aye.” Kelly heard the phone click off.
Sunday morning. He hadn’t expected that. It was going too fast, and it made his other mission all the more urgent. Since when had the government ever moved that quickly? Whatever the reason, it affected Kelly directly.
“I hate it, but it’s the way we work,” Grishanov said.
“You really are that tied to your ground radar?”
“Robin, there is even talk of having the missile firing done by the intercept-control officer from his booth on the ground.” The disgust in his voice was manifest.
“But then you’re just a driver!” Zacharias announced. “You have to trust your pilots.”
I really should have this man speak to the general staff, Grishanov told himself with no small degree of disgust. They won’t listen to me. Perhaps they would listen to him. His countrymen had vast respect for the ideas and practices of Americans, even as they planned to fight and defeat them.
“It is a combination of factors. The new fighter regiments will be deployed along the Chinese border, you see—”
“What do you mean?”
“You didn’t know? We’ve fought the Chinese three times this year, at the Amur River and farther west.”
“Oh, come on!” This was too incredible for the American to believe. “You’re allies!”
Grishanov snorted. “Allies? Friends? From the outside, yes, perhaps it looks as though all socialists are the same. My friend, we have battled with the Chinese for centuries. Don’t you read history? We supported Chiang over Mao for a long time—we trained his army for him. Mao hates us. We foolishly gave him nuclear reactors, and now they have nuclear arms, and do you suppose their missiles can reach my country or yours? They have Tu-16 bombers—Badgers you call them, yes? Can they reach America?”
Zacharias knew that answer. “No, of course not.”
“They can reach Moscow. I promise you. and they carry half-megaton nuclear bombs, and for that reason the MiG-25 regiments are on the Chinese border. Along that axis we have no strategic depth. Robin, we’ve had real battles with these yellow bastards, division-size engagements! Last winter we crushed their attempt to take an island that belongs to us. They struck first, they killed a battalion of border guards and mutilated the dead—why do that, Robin, because of their red hair or because of their freckles?” Grishanov asked bitterly, quoting verbatim a wrathful article in Red Star. This was a very strange turn of events for the Russian. He was speaking the literal truth, and it was harder to convince Zacharias of this than any one of a number of clever lies he might have used. “We are not allies. We’ve even stopped shipping weapons to this country by train—the Chinese steal the consignments right off the rail carriages!”
“To use against you?”
“Against whom, then, the Indians? Tibet? Robin, these people are different from you and me. They don’t see the world as we do. They’re like the Hitlerites my father fought. they think they are better than other men—how you say?”
“Master race?” the American suggested helpfully.
“That is the word, yes. They believe it. We’re animals to them, useful animals, yes, but they hate us, and they want what we have. They want our oil and our timber and our land.”
“How come I’ve never been briefed on this?” Zacharias demanded.
“Shit,” the Russian answered. “Is it any different in your country? When France pulled out of NATO, when they told your people to take your bases out, do you think any of us were told about it beforehand? I had a staff job then in Germany, and nobody troubled himself to tell me that anything was happening. Robin, the way you look to us is the same as how we look to you, a great colossus, but the internal politics in your country are as much a mystery to me as mine are to you. It can all be very confusing, but I tell you this, my friend, my new MiG regiment will be based between China and Moscow. I can bring a map and show you.”
Zacharias leaned back against the wall, wincing again with the recurring pain from his back. It was just too much to believe.
“It hurts still, Robin?”
“Yeah.”
“Here, my friend.” Grishanov handed over his flask, and this time it was accepted without resistance. He watched Zacharias take a long pull before handing it back.
“So just how good is this new one?”
“The MiG-25? It’s a rocket,” Grishanov told him enthusiastically. “It probably turns even worse than your Thud, but for straight-line speed, you have no fighter close to it. Four missiles, no gun. The radar is the most powerful ever made for a fighter, and it cannot be jammed.”
“Short range?” Zacharias asked.
“About forty kilometers.” The Russian nodded. “We give away range for reliability. We tried to get both but failed.”
“Hard for us, too,” the American acknowledged with a grunt.
“You know, I do not expect a war between my country and yours. Truly I do not. We have little that you might wish to take away. What we have—resources, space, land—all these things you have. But the Chinese,” he said, “they need these things, and they share a border with us. And we gave them the weapons that they will use against us, and there are so many of them! Little, evil people, like these here, but so many more.”
“So what are you going to do about it?”
Grishanov shrugged. “I will command my regiment. I will plan to defend the Motherland against a nuclear attack from China. I just haven’t decided how yet.”
“It’s not easy. It helps if you have space and time to play with, and the right people to play against.”
“We have bomber people, but nothing like yours. You know, even without resistance, I doubt we could place as many as twenty bombers over your country. They’re all based two thousand kilometers from where I will be. You know what that means? Nobody even to train against.”
“You mean a red team?”
“We would call it a blue team, Robin. I hope you understand.” Grishanov chuckled, then turned serious again. “But, yes. It will all be theoretical, or some fighters will pretend to be bombers, but their endurance is too short for a proper exercise.”
“This is all on the level?”
“Robin, I will not ask you to trust me. That is too much. You know that and so do I. Ask yourself, do you really think your country will ever make war on my country?”
“Probably not,” Zacharias admitted.
“Have I asked you about your war plans? Yes, certainly, they are most interesting theoretical exercises and I would probably find them fascinating war games, but have I asked about them?” His voice was that of a patient teacher.
“No, you haven’t, Kolya, that’s true.”
“Robin, I am not worried about B-52s. I am worried about Chinese bombers. That is the war my country is preparing for.” He looked down at the concrete floor, puffing on a cigarette and going on softly. “I remember when I was eleven. The Germans were within a hundred kilometers of Moscow. My father joined his transport regiment—they made it up from university teachers. Half of them never came back. My mother and I evacuated the city, east to some little village whose name I can’t remember—it was so confusing then, so dark all the time—worrying about my father, a professor of history, driving a truck. We lost twenty million citizens to the Germans, Robin. Twenty million. People I knew. The fathers of friends—my wife’s father died in the war. Two of my uncles died. When I went through the snow with my mother, I promised myself that someday I would defend my country, too, and so I am a fighter pilot. I do not invade. I do not attack. I defend. Do you understand this thing I tell you, Robin? My job is to protect my country so that other little boys will not have to run away from home in the middle of winter. Some of m
y classmates died, it was so cold. That is why I defend my country. The Germans wanted what we had, and now the Chinese want it, too.” He waved towards the door of the cell. “People like . . . like that. ”
Even before Zacharias spoke, Kolya knew he had him. Months of work for this moment, Grishanov thought, like seducing a virgin, but much sadder. This man would never see his home again. The Vietnamese had every intention of killing these men when their utility ended. It was such a colossal waste of talent, and his antipathy to his supposed allies was every bit as real as he feigned it to be—it was no longer pretense. From the first moment he’d arrived in Hanoi, he’d seen first-hand their arrogant superiority, and their incredible cruelty—and their stupidity. He had just achieved more with kind words and not even a liter of vodka than what they and their torturers had failed to do with years of mindless venom. Instead of inflicting pain, he had shared it. Instead of abusing the man beside him, he had given kindness, respecting his virtues, assuaging his injuries as best he could, protecting him from more, and bitterly regretting that he’d necessarily been the agent of the most recent of them.
There was a downside, however. To achieve this breakthrough, he’d opened his soul, told true stories, dredged up his own childhood nightmares, reexamined his true reason for joining the profession he loved. Only possible, only thinkable, because he’d known that the man sitting next to him was doomed to a lonely, unknown death—already dead to his family and his country—and an unattended grave. This man was no fascist Hitlerite. He was an enemy, but a straightforward one who had probably done his utmost to spare harm to noncombatants because he, too, had a family. There was in him no illusion of racial superiority—not even hatred for the North Vietnamese, and that was the most remarkable thing of all, for he, Grishanov, was learning to hate them. Zacharias didn’t deserve to die, Grishanov told himself, recognizing the greatest irony of all.
Kolya Grishanov and Robin Zacharias were now friends.
“How does this grab you?” Douglas asked, setting it on Ryan’s desk. The wine bottle was in a clear plastic bag, and the smooth, clear surface was uniformly coated with a fine yellow dust.
“No prints?” Emmet looked it over in considerable surprise.
“Not even a smudge, Em. Zilch.” The knife came down next. It was a simple switchblade, also dusted and bagged.
“Smudges here.”
“One partial thumbprint, matched with the victim. Nothing else we can use, but smudges, uniform smudges, the prints department says. Either he stabbed himself in the back of the neck or our suspect was wearing gloves.”
It was awfully warm this time of the year to wear gloves. Emmet Ryan leaned back, staring at the evidence items on his desk, then at Tom Douglas, sitting beside them. “Okay, Tom, go on.”
“We’ve had four murder scenes, a total of six victims. No evidence left behind. Five of the victims—three incidents—are pushers, two different MOs. But in every case, no witnesses, roughly the same time of day, all within a five-block radius.”
“Craftsmanship.” Lieutenant Ryan nodded. He closed his eyes, first mentally viewing the different crime scenes, then correlating the data. Rob, not rob, change MO. But the last one did have a witness. Go home, Ma’am. Why was he polite? Ryan shook his head. “Real life isn’t Agatha Christie, Tom.”
“Our young lad, today, Em. Tell me about the method our friend used to dispatch him?”
“Knife there . . . I haven’t seen anything like that in a long time. Strong son of a bitch. I did see one . . . back in ’58 or ’59.” Ryan paused, collecting his thoughts. “A plumber, I think, big, tough guy, found his wife in bed with somebody. He let the man leave, then he took a chisel, held her head up—”
“You have to be really pissed off to do it the hard way. Anger, right? Why do it that way?” Douglas asked. “You can cut a throat a lot easier, and the victim is just as dead.”
“A lot messier, too. Noisy. . .” Ryan’s voice trailed off as he thought it through. It was not appreciated that people with their throats cut made a great deal of noise. If you opened the windpipe there could be the most awful gurgling sound, and if not, people screamed their way to death. Then there was the blood, so much of it, flying like water from a cut hose, getting on your hands and clothes.
On the other hand, if you wanted to kill someone in a hurry, like turning off a light switch, and if you were strong and had him crippled already, the base of the skull, where the spinal cord joined the brain, was just the perfect spot: quick, quiet, and relatively clean.
“The two pushers were a couple blocks away, time of death almost identical. Our friend does them, walks over this way, turns a corner, and sees Mrs. Charles being hassled.”
Lieutenant Ryan shook his head. “Why not just keep going? Cross the street, that’s the smart move. Why get involved? A killer with morals?” Ryan asked. That was where the theory broke down. “And if the same guy is wasting pushers, what’s the motive? Except for the two last night, it looks like robbery. Maybe with those two something spooked him off before he could collect the money and the drugs. A car going down the street, some noise? If we’re dealing with a robber, then it doesn’t connect with Mrs. Charles and her friend. Tom, it’s just speculation.”
“Four separate incidents, no physical evidence, a guy wearing gloves—a street wino wearing gloves!”
“Not enough, Tom.”
“I’m going to have Western District start shaking them down anyway.”
Ryan nodded. That was fair enough.
It was midnight when he left his apartment. The area was so agreeably quiet on a weekday night. The old apartment complex was peopled with residents who minded their own business. Kelly had not so much as shaken a hand since the manager’s. A few friendly nods, that was all. There were no children in the complex, just middle-aged people, almost all married couples sprinkled with a few widowed singles. Mainly white-collar workers, a surprising number of whom rode the bus to work downtown, watched TV at night, heading to bed around ten or eleven. Kelly moved out quietly, driving the VW down Loch Raven Boulevard, past churches and other apartment complexes, past the city’s sports stadium as the neighborhoods evolved downward from middle- to working-class, and from working-class to subsistence, passing darkened office buildings downtown in his continuing routine. But tonight there was a difference.
Tonight would be his first major payoff. That meant risk, but it always did, Kelly told himself, flexing his hands on the plastic steering wheel. He didn’t like the surgical gloves. The rubber held heat in, and though the sweat didn’t affect his grip, the discomfort was annoying. The alternative was not acceptable, however, and he remembered not liking a lot of the things he’d done in Vietnam, like the leeches, a thought that generated a few chills. They were even worse than rats. At least rats didn’t suck your blood.
Kelly took his time, driving around his objective almost randomly while he sized things up. It paid off. He saw a pair of police officers talking to a street bum, one of them close, the other two steps back, seemingly casual, but the distance between the two cops told him what he needed to know. One was covering the other. They saw the wino as someone potentially threatening.
Looking for you, Johnnie-boy, he told himself, turning the wheel and changing streets.
But the cops wouldn’t change their whole operating routine, would they? Looking at and talking to winos would be an additional duty for the next few nights. There were other things that had higher priority: answering calls for holdup alarms in liquor stores, responding to family disputes, even traffic violations. No, hassling drunks would just be one more burden on men already overworked. It would be something with which to spice up their normal patrol patterns, and Kelly had troubled himself to learn what those patterns were. The additional danger was therefore somewhat predictable, and Kelly reasoned that he’d had his supply of bad luck for this mission. Just one more time and he’d switch patterns. To what he didn’t know, but if things went right, what he should soon l
earn would provide the necessary information.
Thank you, he said to destiny, a block away from the corner brownstone. The Roadrunner was right there, and it was early still, a collection night; the girl wouldn’t be there. He drove past it, continuing up the next block before turning right, then another block, and right again. He saw a police cruiser and checked the clock on the car. It was within five minutes of its normal schedule, and this one was a solo car. There wouldn’t be another pass for about two hours, Kelly told himself, making a final right turn and heading towards the brownstone. He parked as close to it as he dared, then got out and walked away from the target house, heading back to the next block before dropping into his disguise.
There were two pushers on this block, both lone operators. They looked a little tense. Perhaps the word was getting out, Kelly thought with a suppressed smile. Some of their brethren were disappearing, and that had to be cause for concern. He kept well clear of both as he covered the block, inwardly amused that neither knew how close Death had passed them. How tenuous their lives were, and yet they didn’t know. But that was a distraction, he told himself, turning yet again and heading to the objective. He paused at the corner, looking around. It was after one in the morning now, and things were settling down into the accustomed boredom that comes at the end of any working day, even the illegal kind. Activity on the street was diminishing, just as expected from all the reconnaissance he had done. There was nothing untoward on this street, and Kelly headed south past the rows of brownstones on one side of the street and brick row-houses on the other. It required all of his concentration to maintain his uneven, harmless gait. One of those who had hurt Pam was now within a hundred yards. Probably two of them. Kelly allowed his mind to see her face again, to hear her voice, to feel the curves of her body. He allowed his face to become a frozen mask of stone and his hands to ball into tight fists as his legs shambled down the wide sidewalk, but only for a few seconds. Then he cleared his mind and took five deep, slow breaths.
