They agreed on coffee on the marbled deck overlooking the harbor road and the sun brightened sea. Then they might stroll about, discussing the edges of their affairs, until later, when the memorizations and intensive orienting would begin.
Information was Andre's arena, and paper was his usual weapon. However, unlike Sabot, who appeared unarmed, Andre's holstered Walther sometimes outlined against his suit coat.
The case officer was not comfortable with his gun, but he had caught the attention of certain buyers of Turkish poppy concentrate. Andre's interests were political, and international smuggling only interfered with his maneuvering and machinations. He wished the morphine peddlers away, but they, he was told, wished him dead.
Andre had suggested that his effectiveness in the Middle East had been compromised. Andre wanted out, before powerful drug cartels removed him permanently. The Langley offices agreed, and within days Andre would be gone.
While his successor seized reins, it was thought that Andre could safely meet Sabot. The island was rarely used by the Company, and Andre should be as safe there as he could be in or around the Mediterranean.
Sabot saw a face. The features were tanned, the nose prominent. A face among many, but alarm touched the agent's mind. Until he saw the second man, Sabot could not place the first. The two gave recognition. With seeming casualness Sabot looked about. As expected, he found the other three.
The Geraldos—brothers, killers, apparently immune from national justice, hit men so well connected that none had been convicted. Assassins known to Interpol, recognized by police of a dozen nations, yet so heavily protected by mighty bribes and powerful political immunities that they killed and walked away.
On rare occasions a Geraldo was charged. Witnesses disappeared, documents were destroyed, and investigating officers intimidated, or if necessary, eliminated. The Geraldos strode above the law, feared because they appeared untouchable; feared because they marched as one; a family so tightly knit, few would care to challenge them.
Sabot did not fear them. The Geraldos were criminals. If they had business on the island, it would not be with him. Still, bullets could fly. Sabot examined his options more carefully.
To his back, a low wall fell from the broad porch to the narrow cliff road. Traffic was occasional. There was no cover along the road. Beyond, the cliff dropped to certain death on boulders and in powerful surf. A poor position to defend, but if trouble erupted, Sabot could be over the wall and out of sight.
Three of the Geraldos sat at a table. The other two loitered near obvious exits. But, the Geraldos might only be cautious, keeping their own guard high.
Sabot did not know the Geraldos, he had seen photographs and barely scanned a summary, but he did not like the feel of it; there was tenseness, an expectancy. When Andre appeared, Sabot would suggest they move away.
Andre came. He sat down quickly, a rumpled man, ill-at-ease when he should have been calm and relaxed. He chose to sit almost beside Sabot, where his back was protected by the sea. Andre's eyes shifted nervously, but Sabot doubted they saw much.
A peculiar contact, the agent decided, a man about finished with field work. Would he someday find his own nerve failing, haunted perhaps by phantoms too numerous to put to rest? Sabot expected he would get out before then.
Sabot said, "Before we begin, it would be safer to move. The Geraldos are here, and they could be on business."
The case officer appeared to freeze. With an obvious effort he forced himself to speak.
"My God, Sabot, they found me!" He swallowed convulsively and his hand tremored on his tabled briefcase.
"They are after me, Sabot." Despite his panic, Andre was wise enough not to look.
Sabot, too, was shaken. "Would they try here, in front of twenty people?"
"They might. The police would do nothing. My God, what will we do?"
"We'll go over the railing behind us. The street is an easy drop. Run downhill to the docks. Go fast because there is no protection along the road." Sabot leaned forward, his arms beneath the table, as though he might be planning to upend it and use it for cover.
Andre choked, "We will never make it. Are they all here?"
"All five."
Sabot's voice tightened. "Wait. One is working this way. Just one. The others aren't moving. We'll have to wait this one out. It could be just talk."
The Geraldo moved casually among the tables. To others he would seem only another guest, still wearing a light coat against a possible sea chill. Did his lips hint at a smile? Certainly there was confidence in his approach.
Andre sweat and Sabot sat unmoving, his hands still in his lap. They waited and the Geraldo saw their expectancy.
He came to the table, both hands showing. His bow was short. His glance dismissed Sabot and he spoke to the case officer.
"Senor Andre? A message from Marseille." A hand swept the light coat aside and Sabot saw the sawed off shotgun slung beneath an arm. Andre clawed frantically for his pistol but the double barrels came up with practiced ease.
Sabot shot from alongside the table. The .38 Special made only a loud popping across the expanse of the hotel porch, but the Geraldo lurched and Sabot shot him again. The assassin crumpled and Andre had his Walther out.
The Case Officer moved ponderously, shocked into indecision. The remaining Geraldos were coming like a wave. Frantically, Sabot shoved the slow moving Andre toward the low wall, but the man seemed unreasoning and fought his pistol to eye level.
Sabot rolled away. Tables crashed and a woman screamed. Andre's Walther began to bounce in his hand, but he stood exposed and bullets ripped him, jerking his body and sending the pistol flying.
From behind a table, Sabot aimed and squeezed carefully. A Geraldo clutched his side and sagged against a brother. Sabot went over the wall, swung for an instant, and dropped to the roadway.
Tension drained him of strength and the road stretched empty except for a single car humming downhill, only a driver showing.
Sabot pointed his pistol upward at the empty wall and waited. The approaching car faltered uncertainly and Sabot waved it forward, concentrating on the wall above.
The car was almost even when a head showed above the wall. A Geraldo! Sabot fired his last two rounds and the head struck the stone before disappearing.
The car driver hit his accelerator, but Sabot dived at the window. Half in, his legs dangling, he waved his empty pistol at the frightened man behind the wheel, who enthusiastically stomped the gas. Sabot heard firing, but nothing came near. He was away.
At the docks, his fisherman took him aboard and cast off. Fishermen understood these things—fisherman by day, smuggler when practical. Sabot's man lost them among a hundred similar boats searching a decent catch.
Sabot paid with his American dollars and added the Smith and Wesson revolver, with its ankle holster.
By morning, the agent was hidden in an American consulate. A day later, Sabot was at Langley, Virginia for debriefing.
Two Geraldos lived. The execution had inexplicably become a debacle. Andre had been easy, but the devil with him? What sort of man sat at table with a pistol in his hand? Who was he that killed three times, almost before the brothers could recognize their difficulty?
The youngest and the oldest Geraldo survived. Their immediate search for their enemy failed.
Police were outwardly solicitous. They were appropriately enraged, sorrowful, or embarrassed by the bloody tragedy on their island, but the Geraldo could feel their hidden satisfaction and sense the unseen smirking. Geraldo grief was consuming. Geraldo pride was tortured. Geraldo honor had been puked upon.
When they had cared for their dead and controlled the worst of their furies, the Geraldo began their search. For their enemy's name, location, nationality, occupation, anything—they would pay lavishly.
The brothers would continue their business, but in payment for their services they would now prefer information.
From guests and the hotel register th
ey expected the killer might be American, but in the Geraldo's darker world, little was certain. The dead Andre could have met with any nationality.
The driver of the commandeered automobile was completely shaken. He blurted what he knew, including that the killer had spoken in Spanish, which gave little help.
The brothers took the hotel's register page signed, L. Sabot. The name could be known, but it would not be used again. The handwriting might, someday, be helpful.
Informers would listen. Men of experience would remember. Bribes would be paid and rewards would be delivered.
The first information came from a fisherman who had taken their enemy to safety. He described an American who spoke fluent Spanish. The fisherman showed his pistol. The revolver's serial number had been removed, but the holster appeared custom made. It might be traced.
The fisherman was rewarded and allowed to go. The Geraldo might have killed him, but it should be known that informers would be well favored. Others might then come forward.
+++
Hanson said, "The Geraldo brothers are searching for Sabot, Logan. They are really shaking the tree."
Logan gritted his teeth, but he had known the Geraldos would not walk away.
Jim Hanson sighed, "Well, Sabot is finished. His file will be buried and we will do what we can to eliminate cross referencing. The Geraldos will hunt but they will come up empty."
Logan Dell hoped so.
"In the meantime, you have leave. Take it. Call in weekly. Use the name, Thomas E. Glynn. We will have a new assignment by the time you're ready."
Hanson hesitated, as though unsure of how to continue.
"The shrinks say you are fine, Logan. No deep agonies or heavy guilt. I'd like to hear your feelings on it. Straight out, nothing hidden. Are you all right, Logan?"
Logan gave the question the seriousness required. He recognized the personal interest and appreciated it.
"I'm tired, Jim, sort of wrung out. Right now I doubt anything the agency could offer would sound interesting. But, yeah, I'm all right." Logan shook his head as though a little confused.
"What I need is to go home. I'll farm a little with my best friend and hang around with people who don't carry guns or sit with their backs against a wall."
Hanson thought about it. Some men under stress chose liquor, women, and loose living to shed the strains. A few he had known fled to isolation. They walked deserted beaches or climbed alone in uninhabited mountains.
Jim Hanson knew his men. He knew their backgrounds. He had known Logan Dell since boyhood. For Logan, going home would be right. He would be safe in the Perry County hills. Familiar things would enfold him, and his buddy, Mickey, still remembered and mentioned often in their talks, would give Logan normalcy.
Logan had killed three men within a minute's time. A brilliant defensive action, the agency recognized. Solid hits and an imaginative escape. Nothing traceable left behind.
Andre had been bullet riddled; Logan Dell untouched. Hanson shuddered; administrative men should not be exposed to field conditions. If Andre had been an active operative, it was not improbable that he and Sabot would have killed all the Geraldos.
The agency had erred in not removing Andre to safety. They had done better with Logan Dell. Hanson closed Sabot's file., he hoped for the last time.
To Logan he said, "Check out a new pistol, Mister Glynn. You may be among friendlies, but the agency requires you to be armed."
"You know I gave away my holster, as well. Those kinds of fishermen do not work for free."
"Pick up a new one." Hanson chuckled. "The model you like is made in Brazil—for a man who does not exist. Untraceable, of course, Logan."
"Of course, Jim." Logan almost smiled.
+++
1958
Farming was looking up. Mickey guessed he finally had the hang of it.
Government had settled down and had quit jerking around the farm programs. Although he questioned the rationale behind federal farm subsidies, there was no doubt the farmer could more comfortably plan his operation. Price supports for wheat were solid and Uncle Sam was increasingly willing to buy all the milk farmers could produce.
Mickey Weston liked the Eisenhower presidency. Pundits complained bitterly over Ike's time on the golf course, but the country seemed at ease. People trusted Eisenhower's military background to keep the Russians at bay. In other matters, the president had appointed good men and then stood aside to let them do their jobs. Just how a boss should act, Mickey believed.
When the Soviets shot up their Sputnik satellite, the press and loud political opposition had gone berserk. Yet, if you read between the screechings, you discovered that the USA could have done the same any time. As usual, the bellowing and braying made headlines but failed to reflect a true condition. Mickey supposed Ike might have missed a putt or two over it.
When Mickey and Sis had married, the older Westons had moved to Sis's house in town and left the farm to the kids.
Two years later, John and Mame Dell moved to Duncannon. Logan bought their farm, with the provision that Mickey would run the place.
Whew, Mickey thought, that had been nine years past. Time did march on. The ten thousand dollars Logan had borrowed to buy the place now seemed a remarkable bargain.
Having Mickey work the land barely paid Logan's farm taxes. As soon as he could, Mickey bought all but a pair of acres and the house from Logan. That pleased them both.
It was the house Logan wanted. Mickey rented it out for his friend and the income allowed regular improvements.
When he and Sis modernized, Logan's house got the same treatment. Someday, Logan would come home to stay, and he wouldn't have to invest his life savings remodeling a tumbledown old shack.
It wasn't that money was floating around for the taking. With dairy cows there were no holidays. Fields kept to their cycles, and Mickey didn't dare to compare his dawn to dark labors with the eight hour days and forty hour weeks put in by most workers.
Still, little by little, he had pulled ahead. His crops flourished because he used the best methods. His cows gave more and richer milk than most for the same reasons. Mickey read the journals and acted on good advice. Education paid off, though the rewards came in small doses.
Paying off Logan's shares had been easiest. Logan accepted any amount on any schedule and agreed with Mickey's accounting without examination.
In the early years, the banks had squeezed hard and exacted their pounds of flesh, but these days, the Westons had paid-up acres. They were solid and substantial farmers. Mickey drove a new pickup, and they kept an almost new Ford car for going places.
When he came home, Logan stayed with Sis and Mickey. He invariably looked around a bit, then declared Mickey's the most boring existence he had ever encountered.
"How can you stand it, Mick? Up to your shins in cow flop, plowing the same furrows you scraped last year, even getting the same rotten reception on your TV and radio. Man, this must be awful!"
Mickey nodded, as though seriously weighing Logan's complaints. "Yep, it's a brutal way to live. Guess I get so used to it I forget the pain, until some far rover like yourself crawls home to remind me.
"It's tough, Logan, my own comfortable bed at night, with a loving wife cooking my favorite things. Country is ugly, too. All these hills and valleys with woods and streams. When my eyes tire, I can't find much to look at except handsome farms and pretty towns, maybe a few deer in the fields and a pheasant along a tree line."
"I didn't claim it wasn't pretty around here, Weston. I said it was boring."
"Might be for a stranger who doesn't follow the high school teams, won't socialize, hates fishing, and won't hunt. City is a whole hour away with a paved road getting to it. We go there once in a while, believe it or not."
The next day Logan was as likely to suck in a lungful of air and exclaim, "Boy, this is about the best place to live I've encountered. No woods smells as good as a Perry County one.
"You ever notic
e every place has a special smell, Mick? If you blindfolded me in Burma and shipped me around I'd know when I reached Perry. You've got it made here. Don't know why I ever left."
Mickey would nod and say, "Tell you what, Logan, tomorrow you can help milk—that's about first light, seeing you've forgotten. Then you can take the Farmall over to the Ruby place and put in a few hours plowing. Since it rained good, we'll be walking the north fields picking up stones this afternoon. We can use a day's work from a man who loves the place as much as you do."
Logan always looked sorrowful and chose an excuse. "Mick, I'd like to help out but I've got to...." Logan had no end of ways out. "Tell you what, Mick. You just go on ahead and I'll join in when I get back. Unless it's too late, of course."
+++
Logan came home from somewhere. As usual he was tanned almost black, but skinnied down and tired looking. He claimed he had been recording on an oil survey in Indochina. Mickey didn't believe him; Logan lied all the time. Still, it didn't pay to challenge what Logan said. If he claimed certain monkeys had no tails or that Japanese criminals wore elaborate tattooing, you'd best accept it. Mickey had doubted, looked things up, and been wrong. It seemed as though Logan only lied about what he had been doing and where he had done it.
This time clues slipped out. Mickey put them together and got Australia. What his friend had been working on, he could not determine.
Jim Hanson had been solicitous. "You look about beat, Logan."
"I am. That bunch set a hard pace."
"But you got 'em."
"The 'T' men got them, Colonel. But you're right, we did the hard part."
Hanson let his eyes rest on the Eisenhower photo gracing a wall. About every federal office in the world had a presidential picture, even here, buried in the bowels of Langley. How many had he stared at unthinkingly? He brought his mind back to his agent.
"So, take leave, Logan. The world thinks it is quiet, so we can pretend that it is."
Cronies (Perry County) Page 10
