Reckoning

by James Byron Huggins

  Carthwright shrugged. "I don't know." He hesitated. "I really don't have any idea. All I know for sure is that somebody with weight is behind it. Maybe a lot of them. Gage was into something that was way, way off the books."

  "But Black Light wasn't off the books," Kertzman said. "The Director of Central Intelligence or his designee sanctioned every mission. Every mission was documented."

  “Was it, Kertzman?" Carthwright leaned close. "If Black Light was legitimate, then why does someone want Gage dead so badly? And what is a document, anyway? Documents are just documents. They can say whatever we want them to say. They don't mean anything. They never have. Falsifying documents is how we survive in this business. I'm telling you right now, Kertzman, this investigation goes back to Black Light and whoever really controlled it in the Reagan years. It might be somebody high in the State. It could be somebody on the Hill. There's no way to know. But I think that whoever it was wants Gage dead. And we're both in danger. Just stay away from the high-ups in this, Kertzman. That's what I'm telling you. Just go after Gage. Find him." He hesitated, nodding. "Bring him in."

  Kertzman was silent. And after a moment Carthwright began speaking again, slower.

  "You have to ask yourself some questions, Kertzman. Who did Black Light really work for? Who passed the orders to the DCI? What was the true purpose of the unit? Think about it. Because it doesn't add up. The CIA hasn't had any real serious tactical work to do since Vietnam. After 72 almost all of the mercenary types were released. This is a spy business now, Kertzman. With satellites. With pictures taken from orbit that can tell us what kind of magazine a person is reading in his backyard. It's a game of computers, of analysts in white lab coats or doctors with degrees in psychiatry. The CIA doesn't need a bunch of deadeye gunslingers executing people all over the globe." He gathered his intensity. "And this is the crux. Covert military actions like that always work with our foreign political policy. It's not a military decision to use a unit like Black Light. It's a political decision. It's an Executive Office decision. And that's because a unit as powerful as Black Light can, almost overnight, change the political structure of any country on Earth." Carthwright paused. "Including ours."

  He glanced around, continued. "Think about this, Kertzman. What if a person, or persons, decided that they were going to go around the White House and the president during the Reagan and Bush years to determine America's foreign affairs? And what if they used an ultra-secret unit like Black Light to do it? Don't you think that those people would be willing to kill Gage to protect that secret? Or even kill you and me if they needed to?"

  Carthwright turned away for a moment, shook his head, looked back. "Kertzman, what government in the world would need a unit like Black Light for just an occasional sanction? I mean, we do preemptive hits against terrorist cells, an odd sanction of a dangerous defector. But that's small stuff. And Navy SEALs handle most of it. We don't just go around killing foreign agents, military officials, or national leaders. They can just kill one of ours! It's counterproductive." He paused, took a deep breath. "Unless," he added, "Black Light was so off the books that no foreign country was ever able to trace responsibility back to us. Unless the White House was so ignorant of its activities that there could never be a leak. And if that was the case, Kertzman, then Black Light could have been into anything." He looked helpless, shook his head. "Anything at all. They could have decided the course of any nation on Earth in a thousand different ways. They could have set the internal course for this country a long time ago and nobody would have a clue."

  He paused. "Now, for argument, let's assume that Black Light was a very secret, and very powerful, foreign policy instrument of some unknown controllers in the CIA or NSA. Then the unit got wiped out in Israel. Everyone but Gage. And let's assume that, for some reason, Gage has become a security problem. Let's say he's gotten involved in some sort of private war in the civilian sector, and now his old bosses are running scared. Now they're afraid Gage might be caught doing something in the private world and that he'll start talking and things will eventually unwind all the way back to Black Light and how it decided a lot of our foreign policy issues behind the president's back. Behind Congress's back. Then this country will have an entirely new scandal and new heads will roll."

  Kertzman's face was stone, his silence massive.

  Nervously, Carthwright waited a moment, eyes scanning the distant sidewalks. He spoke without looking back at Kertzman.

  "In the late eighties, Black Light was classified beyond me. I never really knew what the unit did. Everyone heard rumors about it, suspected that it was a paramilitary group out of Covert Ops. But when I got deeper into this investigation I knew something was wrong. I didn't say anything at first because I didn't know what to make of it. But now I do. These cowboys, no matter how good they are, have no place in the spy business anymore, Kertzman. They haven't for a long time. They're a liability."

  Carthwright turned back.

  "Look at the obvious," he continued, "because it doesn't add up. Black Light was launching constant covert military strikes and most of the documented missions don't even make sense. The documents claim that a mission was for surveillance or a theft or something else equally meaningless. But you know and I know that we wouldn't use a group like Black Light for something so frivolous as surveillance or thefts. Or even kidnappings. Every man in the unit would have fifty million dollars' worth of training. That's a valuable person. We couldn't risk losing one of them on some ridiculous stunt that a freelancer could do. And yet Black Light launched a mission every four or five weeks. So what were they really doing?" Carthwright shook his head again. "Who knows? They weren't doing what the documents say they were doing, I'll tell you that. Which means that we have no idea, really, what the unit was up to or who they were receiving orders from."

  The NSA man waited, his face confused. "Kertzman, we're lost in this. These people are masters at secrets, at concealing things. Gage did what he did and now somebody wants him dead to protect that secret."

  Kertzman felt reluctantly impressed, but he tried to hide it behind a visage of stone.

  "I'm talking about forces," Carthwright said, his voice firmer, more confidential. "I'm talking about people who can make things happen. And I'm telling you to watch your back, for all of us. In all honesty, Kertzman, I don't know you. It wouldn't mean a whole lot to me if you got killed. No offense. But—"

  "None taken," Kertzman said.

  "But you're in a game that could cost us all our lives," Carthwright continued, trembling now. "Somebody is using me and you to find this guy, Gage. We have to follow through or we're going to lose a lot more than a few inches around here. But somebody else in the family wants him worse than we do. And I don't mean prison. They want him dead."

  "So what do you suggest I do?" Kertzman growled.

  Carthwright's answer was quick. "Find him. Forget who's running this show. Just find the guy and let the rest go. Because if you threaten these people, we're all dead. All of us."

  "How do you know all this?" Kertzman's voice was disbelieving.

  Carthwright nodded. "I know. Believe me, I know."

  Kertzman almost laughed, focused on the NSA man. "That ain't enough, tough guy. You're gonna have to do better or I'm walking. Let you have it. Find him yourself. I couldn't care less if I lose a few inches around here. I'm a short-timer and I don't have to put up with them too much longer. And I sure ain't no hitter. I'm not going to find this guy just so somebody can bushwhack him. If I can't find out who wants him, then I'm not going after him."

  Carthwright shifted. "That's not a good idea, Kertzman. You're in this now. If you don't find him, they'll just take care of you because they'll be afraid of you. They'll think you're going to run a game on them instead of finding Gage like you're supposed to. Finding Gage is the only thing that is going to end this and keep us all alive. That's all we got."

  "And if I don't?" Kertzman growled, ignoring the numbness in his face, hands, and
feet.

  "I know the game better than you do," Carthwright said, his voice solid, confident.

  Cold and a long silence.

  "No deal," Kertzman said, turning. "I’m staying in. But I'm going to play it my way. I'm gonna push it to the wall. I'm going to document this meeting, just like everything else. I'm going to fix it so that if I get killed a lot of people are going to burn. Even you. It will be the biggest stink this city has seen since Water-Iran-Gate and whatever else has come down the pike in the last twenty years. The family jewels will be exposed, buddy, wide open, for all the world to see. You can count on it, and you can pass it on. I might go down, but I'll take a lot of people with me when I do."

  "You'll never touch them, Kertzman," Carthwright replied steadily, fixing him with an almost disappointing gaze. "This is the real world. And these are the people who run it. You and me, we don't even count. And we've actually got some power. But these people are way beyond us, Kertzman. Way beyond."

  "Maybe," Kertzman replied, nodding. "We'll see."

  Sensing vaguely that he had just committed suicide, Kertzman started away, leaving Carthwright in the cold. Then a sudden thought made him turn.

  "Just tell me one thing," Kertzman said.

  Carthwright responded, weary. "What?"

  "Who assigned Radford and Milburn to this?"

  Clearly, Carthwright was reluctant to answer.

  "I'm going to find out anyway," Kertzman said.

  Carthwright's stare wandered away for a moment, eyes roaming, a sudden concentration evident in the face.

  Gazed back at Kertzman.

  "I did," he said.

  *

  TWENTY-FOUR

  As a dead man rising, Gage stood at mid-afternoon. Sarah heard the movement, turned and saw him standing, swaying, one bandaged hand clutching the ribs that had been so badly bruised.

  His glazed eyes were flat, unseeing, and there was a pale, bloodless mask on his face. Beneath the paleness Sarah glimpsed an effort of will that struggled to command the body, but the body would not obey, began to wither as he stood on dead legs. Suddenly he took a step, stumbled.

  "Gage!" she shouted, but he was already collapsing as she ran. She caught him as he fell heavily forward, strained to direct his body to fall onto the bed. Then he crashed back, unconscious, as if struck, catching a single deep breath and then no movement at all, eyes closed.

  Sarah stared at him a moment, felt a vague fear, reached suddenly for his neck. For a minute she let her fingers rest on the carotid artery, searching, before she found it. Then she waited, measuring the almost invisible respirations against the pulse. After a moment she calculated the ratio.

  Pulse was weak at 40 beats a minute, respirations were at 15. She knew from experience that anywhere in the mid-forties to low-fifties was a normal pulse for him. But the strength of his pulse was thin. And the respirations were shallow and weak.

  She felt for fever.

  He was hot, beginning to sweat. She bit her lip, moved back away.

  Movement behind her. She turned, saw Barto, her father.

  "We heard you shout," Barto said hesitantly. "Is he ..."

  "No." Sarah shook her head, storm in her eyes. "Not yet."

  A sound.

  Startled, Sarah turned back to the bed.

  Gage's lips moved, the faint sound of delirium. A word.

  Sarah bent low, watching the face. She felt Malachi and Barto pressing up behind her. Her father's hand was on her shoulder.

  Gage whispered something indiscernible.

  Silence.

  Barto's voice was almost nothing. "What's he saying?"

  "I don't know if I heard him," Sarah said quietly, still watching. "Just a couple of words. But I don't understand what he wants."

  "What do you think he wants?" Barto asked.

  Sarah sighed, shook her head.

  "Sandman," she whispered, brow hard with concentration. "He said ... Sandman."

  *

  Antique white but blackened by the traffic exhaust of the surrounding streets, the Department of Forensic Science building for the Federal Bureau of Investigation in New York City was almost empty when Kertzman arrived.

  Using one of the reserved spaces, he parked the LTD in the rear of the building and placed a placard on his dash that notified any well-doers who might want to remove the vehicle that it was the property of the Federal Government. Then he started for the building.

  Sunlight was gone, and as Kertzman completed the four-hour drive from Washington he had used every minute to work the facts, figuring the angles of everything. But he kept coming back to the same thing: Carthwright.

  It all came back to Carthwright.

  From Carthwright's position in the NSA he could have easily run Black Light beginning to end, either for himself or for somebody else. And now it appeared that he was covering it all up, trying to find Gage, running the investigation himself.

  The walk across the lot was full of memories, words, and phrases that Kertzman had collected. And he matched everything that occurred to him against a single rule: Who would benefit from this?

  Kertzman knew from all his years as a street cop and ten years in the FBI that nobody did anything without motivation. Few people even assisted a law enforcement officer simply for the good of Mankind. Usually they helped only because they wanted the Law to do something for them that they couldn't do for themselves. They wanted revenge, or they wanted to legally eliminate their competition. Nothing was free, and everybody had a price.

  So what was Carthwright's motivation in directing this investigation? To save himself? To protect someone else? To see justice? And why did Carthwright deliver the warning? Was it really from unknown forces? Or was it from Carthwright himself?

  A bad feeling settled on Kertzman. No, he thought, it can't be that easy.

  It could never be that easy, or that obvious.

  And other things didn't fit: Carthwright had gone to great pains to make this manhunt a highly visible, thoroughly documented government operation.

  "... Call the Office of Security and confirm ... This meeting has been taped ... Document everything ..."

  But if Carthwright was guilty of having run Black Light, the last thing the NSA man would want to do is make the investigation highly visible. No, Kertzman thought, if Carthwright wanted to silence Gage then he would have done it from a distance without bringing himself into the picture.

  That single aberration was the only clue that made Kertzman suspect that Carthwright might not be guilty. But the rest didn't make sense – no sense at all.

  Kertzman shook his head as he continued forward, turned his thoughts to something else: Milburn.

  That was a lot easier to figure. If Milburn was Gage's supervisor, then he would know a lot more about Black Light than he had shared. He would know what secret purpose Black Light had really served. But Milburn didn't have enough weight to have run the unit by himself, so he was obviously taking orders, then and now which meant that Milburn was probably hunting Gage for the singular purpose of killing him. But for whom? Who was running Milburn?

  There it was again: Carthwright.

  Kertzman frowned. He made a mental note to look Milburn up when he returned to the capital.

  Then something else came back to him.

  No reason.

  The words whispered to Kertzman as he neared the doorway of the building.

  "Hey, Radford. How come you got volunteered in this mission?"

  “No reason …”

  But nothing happens without a reason. Not in a city where destroying people was a recreational activity. Not in a city honey-combed with tunnels that led to secrets that could destroy political dynasties and where Congress was bought and sold in deals that weren't even discreet enough to be called back room. And certainly not in an investigation that could bring down the highest-ranking members of America's intelligence community.

  As Kertzman reached the building he only knew one thing for certain.r />
  He couldn't trust anyone.

  *

  He was strong, even with age.

  He was 83 years old. And his legs felt strong with the strength of youth as he walked slowly, resolutely, up the highest slope above Urbino. Hands empty, he moved with easy grace, maintaining a dignity that did not lessen because of his somber clothing or the mistiness of night settling over the tiny Italian settlement below him.

  Reaching the ridge with steady steps, he paused, turning to gaze down on the hamlet. His breaths came deep, steady, the healthy breaths of a man who regularly found his way into the hills and mountains of his beloved country. Behind him, maintaining a respectful distance, his three servants followed, awaiting and guarding.

  Alone on the ridge he cast an austere shadow over the township. Tall and large, he still retained the stolid, roundly proportioned physique that had borne him with imposing presence through youth and middle age. It was a farmer's body and hinted of well-used, hardened strength with long arms and large, capable hands. He moved easily on stout legs that could walk for hours, even days through the hills, legs that had held their stride across eight decades though they were now slightly withered by time.

  His face was long and full but unrevealing of any personal quality. It was the face of a scholar, a philosopher; the patient face of a man accustomed to long days and nights of concentrated thought. He was completely bald, beardless and held an almost severe lack of any pleasing aspect. It was the countenance of a man who embodied something to the point that he had completely submerged himself within it; the face of a man who had cast his presence into the void so that he might signify some greater purpose.

  Melancholic, he gazed across the dusk.

  Strangely, he was still able to discern the finest details at a distance. His keen dark eyes scanned the city, wandering along the tiny cobblestone streets, streets that remained twisted and convoluted, forever resistant to the oppressive demands of modern society.

  He took a deep breath, nodding.

  Not in five centuries had the city changed. Far from the traveled path, it rested in the very shadow of the Alps, to his back. Isolated and difficult to approach, it had long been a refuge, a return to an earlier time when men could understand where battle lines were drawn – to a time when wars were fought with clarity and purpose.