Caravan of Thieves

by David Rich

  I did not have to wait long back in the living room. Junior came in, spotted the body bag, and just as he touched the zipper, I put my gun into his ear, again. He was not armed.

  “Hello, Junior.”

  “You keep putting guns in my ear. How’d that go for you last time?”

  “Last time isn’t over. Call your daddy. Nice and calm.”

  “Well, that’s just what I had in mind.” He started to rise, but I pushed him back to his knees. “General,” he yelled.

  I stepped back. “Sit down on that chair. Facing away from me.” Junior complied. He did not seem worried at all.

  The general came in, saw his son’s back and the body bag and turned to face my gun. He was wearing his Marine utility camo uniform, the brown desert version, but I could see him anyway. He was armed. His hand edged that way.

  “Keep your hands still, General.” I tried to make my eyes look wild and I jumped forward to scare him a bit, but he did not seem too scared. I turned him around and took out his gun, a Beretta M9, the standard issue. The general was a hotshot “one in the chamber, fifteen in the clip” kind of guy. I held his gun low, flicked on the safety with my thumb, and set the gun on the long table behind the couch. Maybe his arrogance would combine with my luck and he would make a move for it. Junior sat in the chair; his only movement was to cross his legs.

  Remington was a trim fifty-five-year-old man, short neat hair going to gray, parted on the left side. He had fine, little-man features. He could have had a career as a character actor playing corrupt corporate executives, but that would have meant quitting the conspiracy business. He wasn’t ready for that.

  “Put your gun down, Lieutenant.”

  “Well, sir, one of us is going to hold a gun on the other, and considering the way everyone has been treating me lately, I prefer to be that one.”

  He sighed, like a teacher dealing with an especially dense student. “I’m going to pick up my drink. I won’t throw it in your face.” He moved toward the coffee table, but I stood in his way and shook my head. I liked the idea of him wanting something he couldn’t have. He stopped, quite close to me, then pushed me. Generals don’t take no from lieutenants. How much harder would he have pushed if it were Jessica instead of a drink on that coaster?

  I slapped him back and forth with my left hand. He was not a coward. He stood his ground and inhaled deeply, as if he were going to huff and puff and blow me down. The more he wanted that drink, the more I did not want him to have it. “You didn’t come here to kill me, Waters. That’s clear. So what do you want?” His breath stunk of booze.

  “He wants to kill me. Or put me in jail,” said Junior.

  I wanted a different start to this. I wanted him to believe I was here to make peace.

  “What do you want, Lieutenant?”

  “You’ve been after me since Afghanistan. Here’s your money. I want it to stop. I want to be left alone. Junior is free, and that’s what you wanted.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Let me go back to Afghanistan. Or work for you in Iraq. In Kurdistan.”

  Junior laughed and stood up. I had to back up to keep them both in sight. “He wants to go back and pretend to be a raghead again. You can get stabbed that way, pal.”

  “Shut up!” The general knew how to say that in a way that made people obey. Junior sagged. The general stared at him for as long as it took to make sure he had perfect control of the situation. It didn’t take long, and in that time, he also managed to convey a good measure of anger with Junior. Done with that, he turned his talents on me.

  “Drop the act, Lieutenant. You interfered in an intelligence mission in Afghanistan, wrecking months of work and the reputations of good Marines, one of whom is my son. Now you’re doing it all over again stateside. You killed I don’t know how many men, good men, including Colonel McColl. I won’t be sending you anywhere.”

  Where was Jessica? She was supposed to be my witness. Where was Shaw? This was a bad plan and I should have known it, but I was too angry, too eager to nab Remington. Record his confession? That’s just a bad movie idea. Remington was a lifetime intelligence officer. It wasn’t that he might think I had a recorder, it was that a confession, or the truth, was hours and hours away from his mind. With a paint scraper, a mask, and two weeks, I might have been able to get through the layers of lies, but the batteries on the recorder would be long gone by then. But my fury stoked my foolishness. Retreat wasn’t possible anyway and playing innocent was just a waste of time.

  “Your son is just a greedy pig. A selfish, spoiled, incompetent crook. But you know that or you wouldn’t have tried to have me killed. He didn’t care who died, as long as he made money on the deal. He was fighting for his own side. Just like you are. This money is for you. There is no intelligence mission. It’s all just a two-bit conspiracy that will never go forward. You’re not taking over Kurdistan. This money is for you.”

  “What happens to the money is none of your business.” Junior couldn’t control his mouth.

  “Why didn’t you have him kill me, General? He’s been following me, at least some of the time. Why not order him to kill me? He’s killed Marines before. The money. You wanted the money.”

  “I do have orders for after I recover the money.” Junior was looking at the gun.

  “Shut up.”

  “Listen to your father, Junior. He’s got good advice.”

  “Oh, what the hell, no one is gonna believe a word from you. If my father had it his way, you’d be dead and we wouldn’t have found the money.”

  For a moment, the general’s shoulders sagged and his jaw went slack. I thought his eyes darted longingly to his empty glass. But he straightened up quickly and shook his head at his foolish son. “Your orders are to keep quiet.”

  Where was Jessica? Where was Shaw? Remington’s eyes told me I was right about him, but that was not any help at all. He stared calmly at me and focused on delivering his message. “Maybe we should let lieutenants from combat units run our intelligence missions. Maybe you should be in charge. You’re ignorant and untrained, which makes you dangerous. You have no idea what it means to follow orders. You never should have been accepted into the corps, much less promoted to officer. Colonel Gladden allowed you to help the civilian government find this money and the result is that you’ve turned it into a crusade against me. We should have kept you in the brig where you belonged.”

  As a summary of his defense and explanation of why I deserved court-martial and life in prison, it was not bad. Every officer would buy it. Every desperate criminal claims his crimes are important government business, so important that no one else can know the details, but this guy would be believed because he had the great reputation. He would get away with it. I had certainly busted up the operation in Afghanistan. The torture of Dan would be laughed off, especially since his own son had burned the evidence. What else was there? Dan stole the money. I recovered it but refused to hand it over because I wanted to drum up accusations against a Marine Corps legend. He had one thing exactly right: my crazy hatred of him had brought me here into a trap of my own making. My lie of innocence, wanting to join up, was blown. No good or useful lie occurred to me and all generals are immune to the truth so that was out.

  “Jessica,” I called out. “Come in here. I need you in here.”

  Remington’s eyes flared while we waited for Jessica’s reply or appearance, but I knew she would not appear. Junior smiled. I stepped beside the window with the childish idea that I would see Shaw on his way in. No one was there. Then a light flashed from far up the driveway and two shots rang, quickly followed by one more.

  Remington was eyeing his gun. I moved behind the door. “Stand still, General.”

  And as I glanced out, Junior raced into the hallway toward the bedrooms and disappeared. Remington saw him go. “Junior…” It came out soft and halfhearted, unlike anything I had every heard him utter. Then he looked at me and his eyes met mine, and for one brief moment we shared
a feeling: disgust. We quickly averted our eyes, as if ashamed of the moment, neither of us having the strength or will to acknowledge any mutual feelings. Lights arced across the window and into the room, sweeping across Remington. Tires crunched the gravel and the lights went out.

  Gladden entered with Pongo and Perdy, guns drawn. Maybe the realization that having four tigers by the tail might make my next steps difficult made me hesitate. Gladden read Remington’s expression and turned to face me. We held guns on each other. I kept glancing at Remington to keep him still.

  “Put it down, Lieutenant. That’s an order,” Gladden said. It was the kindest he had ever sounded. Pongo and Perdy pointed their weapons toward me, but they eyed the general, in case Gladden forgot to.

  “His son just ran down the hallway,” I said. “He wasn’t armed, but he might have weapons back there.”

  Gladden pointed to Perdy to check it out.

  “He’s behind it all,” I said. “He’s running an operation to take over part of Iraq. That’s what all the money was for. This ranch is one of their bases. I know it’s hard for you, but think about it.” Maybe this was not the best time to insult him, but how would he trust me if I suddenly changed my tone?

  “I’ll think about it when you’re in the brig.”

  “I’ll never make it there. He doesn’t want me telling this story. And he won’t like it that you’ve heard it. Not any of you.”

  Gladden looked at the general. His gun stayed on me, but Pongo shifted his focus enough for Remington to think the outcome was in doubt.

  Remington said, “The lieutenant has some wild theories, Colonel. Some of them have to do with ongoing, classified intelligence operations.” He moved sideways to the coffee table for his drink and hesitated, as if he didn’t care about it, before pouring it down his throat. I could tell it wasn’t enough. He held the glass for a few moments while he considered whether refilling it was possible.

  Everyone watched him. Even me, when I should have been paying attention to the guns. Gladden said, “We’ve been following him, sir. We’re going to take him back to Camp Pendleton and get to the bottom of it. He found the money. We know that.”

  “Oh, hell, it’s right there behind him. In the body bag. The general’s as guilty as a bull in a barnyard, and you know it. It’s all about guts now. Yours. Do you have any?”

  “Arrest him and be done with it, Colonel. I don’t have time for this.”

  I said, “Arrest him and your career might end. He’ll use all his juice to get out and when he does he’ll come after you, worse than he came after me. Much worse because you’re a cop and he knows you’ll always be suspicious of him. So this is your big chance, Colonel, to find out if you have it inside you. Are you a guy put on earth to arrest drunks? Or are you a real Marine? Can you risk it all knowing your chances are slim? This is so much fun.”

  This time Gladden did not glare at me. His lizard eyes were turned inward. The soft light made the crags in his leathery face seem deep as incisions. Remington was dismissive. “Cuff him, Colonel, and take him back to the base.” He moved to pick up his gun. Gladden stiffened.

  “Stay right there. Don’t touch that gun.”

  “You let him intimidate you, Colonel Gladden. I’m shocked. I had you as a hard-nosed Marine. You know better than to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

  “It’s about the only thing he knows.”

  “Shut up.”

  Perdy came back in. He shook his head: “No one back there.” He took a position next to the hallway, behind Remington.

  I liked this, liked watching Gladden have to face the truth. “Why is he here, Colonel? It’s impossible that I started it. You sent me. Either you sent me as a patsy or you sent me to get him. There’s no other way.”

  “Where’s Shaw?”

  “I don’t know. Didn’t you run into him outside?”

  Pongo and Perdy shook their heads.

  “If you don’t arrest him, I will,” said Remington.

  “Why are you here, General?” Gladden tried to sound calm and sincere and concerned. He had no practice so he was no good at it. He sounded like a straight man feeding lines to a forgetful star.

  “That’s classified, Colonel. Don’t ask again.”

  “When he kills you, that will be classified, too,” I added for clarification. That brought out the old Gladden. The eyes bulged and he leaned toward me and snorted.

  “You’re making it worse, Waters. General Remington, I have to ask you to accompany us back to Camp Pendleton.”

  “Are you arresting me?”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Well, you’re gonna have to,” I said.

  “Shut him up,” Gladden said to Pongo and Perdy.

  “You’re going to have to arrest him, or none of us will make it back to Pendleton. There’ll be an accident along the way. Or it will look like I got hold of a gun and we all got shot.” Pongo moved behind me and gave me the baton-across-the-throat treatment. Perdy came over to help, though that was not necessary.

  “Let me speak to you alone, Colonel,” said Remington quietly, conspiratorially, like an old friend who doesn’t want the kids to hear what he has to say. Gladden nodded to Pongo and Perdy. They hesitated, as if questioning him, but he glared for an answer and they pulled me outside.

  I managed to say, “Keep an eye on him.” The baton was eased. “I won’t run. I promise. But we better watch.” We stood looking through the big front window. The motion detector had turned on the outside light. We all stood still, positioned out of direct sight. The white-haired man was still unconscious in the bushes near us.

  Remington spoke and Gladden holstered his weapon. Remington was doing most of the talking. He wandered to the bar and filled his glass and took a deep draw and kept talking. We could only see Gladden in profile, or his back. As Remington roamed the room, drink in hand, Gladden held his spot, just turning slightly. He shook his head. That infuriated Remington, who was barking at him.

  Gladden shook his head again, but now Remington was near the couch, around the back of it, next to his gun. He stood there talking and it was clear that Gladden saw it. He tensed and bent his right arm.

  I looked at Pongo and Perdy. They saw what I saw and they were ready. Still. Weapons out.

  Gladden shook his head again. Remington shrugged, guzzled the liquor, put the glass down on the long table behind him, and his hand came back holding the Beretta. His arm tensed as he squeezed the trigger. We couldn’t hear the click, but we could see it. Nothing happened because the safety was on.

  Remington’s eyes fell and he froze. His mouth hung open in wonder. Gladden pulled his gun and pointed it at Remington. He was ordering Remington to drop the Beretta, but Remington did nothing for a long moment. I wanted to see Gladden’s face and knew I would regret forever not having that chance.

  Remington suddenly raised his gun. Gladden fired. Remington fell back. We were inside by the time he tumbled over the back of the cowhide couch, spreading red over the splotches of brown and white. Gladden turned on me.

  “You goddamn fucking sonofabitch…” And he slugged me hard in the jaw with his left fist.

  38.

  The cell was still ten feet by ten feet by ten feet. One thousand cubic feet of stale, thick, lethargic air. I sat in full lotus and brought up my vision. For two weeks, it had ceased to be a refuge and become a hangout which I wanted to avoid but couldn’t stay away from. Dan had infiltrated. A virus dressed as my father. He acted as host and honored, but uninvited, guest dispensing his unwanted gifts. I could change the venue, but he always found me. Two of us stuck in one thousand cubic feet. I brought up the Buddhist retreat and there was Dan. On the boat with Kate and Scott and the Big Boys—and Dan. Dan asked if I liked the boat.

  “Haven’t you had enough with boats?”

  “Good point.”

  He ran through his entire repertoire of stories, charming asides and compliments, and wisdom. The laughter must have had the
guards thinking I was cracking up. But I was just working my way to the question that had hung over me since I first heard why everyone was after him.

  “It was too much,” he said.

  “Liar.”

  “It was too much.”

  “That wasn’t why you didn’t touch it.”

  “It was so much. So much…”

  “So what?”

  “So much that it would never run out.”

  “So what? That’s not a reason to ignore it.”

  “It is. So much that life would be over. The chase would be over. No more deals to make. I’d always be on the other side of the deal.… I’d be the mark.”

  “You?”

  “See what happened when you got all the money? You got played.”

  “That’s not over.” But the comment stung. I turned it back to him. “So you hid it. Forever?”

  “For someone who would know how to handle it. For you.”

  I did not want to hear the rest. My training told me Dan in giving mode was a dangerous man. Being dead was only a minor safety factor. Dan gone sentimental was no use to me. Worse. The thought was unbearable. Unallowable.

  We changed the subject many times for many hours. Dan told me stories from before I was old enough to remember. He once trained me to burst into tears and beg him not to sell a desert shack and the surrounding property because I loved living there so much. Of course, he never owned it. He made me hide one time so he could get my teacher to help look for me. He wanted to go to bed with her and he did.

  I could enjoy his lies in that cell. I thought this might be good-bye. A farewell trip to the land of Thorough Deceit. Dan offered to go. “I’ll be back,” he said, which meant he would not be back. I stopped that. I could throw away the money but not the lies, not the tricks, not the charm. Dan was baggage, baggage filled with air.

  The clip-clop of Sergeant Matthews broke in and Dan vanished. I kipped up and stood close to the sergeant so my sweat and odor would bother him and he could hit me. But he didn’t do it. That meant the Marines thought this part was over, though I knew it was not over.