Reckoning

by James Byron Huggins

  Unlike today.

  A sadness rose within him. He mourned the loss of Simon, his dear friend, even as he profoundly egretted the mistakes that he had made – mistakes committed by the old fool that he had slowly become. He cursed himself for praying for peace where there could be no peace, for risking lives to placate the demonical ambition of a tyrant.

  For a moment his mind returned to the years when he was a simple man, when he had truly enjoyed the quiet act of communion, and prayer before prayer had become far less important than political power. He remembered the time when he simply believed …

  Before he ascended to rule from the greatest throne of the Earth.

  Solemnly he watched the distant sun burn orange through the grayish clouds that masked a deeper darkness on the edge of the approaching night. His deeply concentrated eyes strayed along the horizon, wondering at the man who resided there, the man he had once called a student, a brother, a friend. And, once again, a mourning controlled the steady heartbeat within his chest. His life was before him, a life of compromise and intrigue, of plots to deceive and plots to conquer those who would deceive even more gravely than he.

  It was a battle of gray light, with neither side wrong, and neither right, each as diabolical and desperate as the other. It was a war fought over ideals and in which ideals had been the first sacrifice, a make-believe battle for a make-believe dream. But, though it was born in madness, it was, in the end, a ferocious and unmerciful battle that he had won to become the most cunning and powerful of his kind, forging the strongest alliance of fools.

  No, he thought sadly, it was not mere foolishness that had motivated him. Cowardice, too, must have its share of the glory, the cowardice of a man who had long ago forgotten what it meant to truly serve God. But it was too late to undo what was already done. His fears had become flesh. And what he had despised most of all had become his closest companion.

  The guilt-weight of his sins felt heavy upon him, and he regretted what he had created, regretted the deceptions, the ruthless exercise of power that would astonish kings and presidents. He regretted his cowardice and, finally, regretted that his efforts to forge peace with a monster had caused the death of so many.

  Silently, watching the horizon, he nodded softly. For he had decided that the hour of regret was almost passed.

  Yes, he thought, soon there would come an ending to this. By the power that was his, by the all but incalculable power of the first and last great Throne of the Earth, he would force a hard ending to this.

  After a moment he turned, gazing down the path at the three who so sacredly served him, honored him, and motioned for them to approach.

  With old authority he spoke quietly to the first servant, a young man steady and alert who listened to his voice as he would listen to the words of Moses or Abraham or Joseph.

  "Summon D'Oncetta," the old man said. "Tell him that Clement, the Archbishop of Rome, would see him."

  *

  TWENTY-FIVE

  A yellow crime scene ribbon warned against entrance into St. Thomas Cathedral.

  Kertzman flashed his federal identification to a bored and unimpressed uniform cop in the doorway and entered the building.

  It had only taken Kertzman fifteen minutes at the Forensic Science building to discover what he needed to know. The SAS guy had worn a ballistic vest but two of the rounds had penetrated, hitting center mass, and two more scored as head shots.

  Kertzman would have to go to the Bureau office to examine the guy's possessions, including whatever identification and weapons he was carrying. But he'd do that later. For the moment he had something far more important to attend.

  Sir Henry Stephenson of England's Department of Foreign Affairs had already departed from the morgue when Kertzman arrived, leaving instructions for delivery of the former SAS member to Kennedy Airport, and a flight to England. Stephenson's note to Kertzman had suggested a meeting at the Cathedral of St. Thomas providing that the rendezvous could be concluded before his ten o'clock flight out of Kennedy.

  Kertzman entered the building, saw the elderly form of Sir Stephenson immediately.

  Standing with stately comportment at the front of the church, the Englishman was staring at the deeply recessed ceiling as if discerning what damage, if any, had been done by the smoke. Kertzman had taken ten steps when Stephenson turned, smiling pleasantly. The liaison for England's Foreign Office extended his hand and Kertzman took it, aware of a steady pressure, soft on the surface, but distinctly solid beneath the measured and careful contact.

  "It is my pleasure, Mr. Kertzman," said Sir Stephenson with a supremely cultivated courtesy. Kertzman saw that Stephenson was a man of a pleasant, though bland appearance.

  Silver-haired, of moderate build and in his late fifties, the Englishman carried himself with the easy, powerful dignity of a privileged governmental official. He wore a gray pin-striped suit of unknown make but with a decidedly English cut and patent leather Oxfords.

  "Same here," Kertzman nodded curtly. "I hope I'm not interrupting your plans."

  "Oh, no," Stephenson smiled agreeably. "I hope I am not inconveniencing you. I merely wanted to examine the scene of the crime before my flight departed tonight."

  Kertzman nodded, "So did I."

  He looked past Stephenson, down the hallway to the right, and pointed. "I believe a lot of it happened down that hallway, Sir Henry."

  Stephenson turned, nodded. “Yes, I am familiar with the excellent reports of your police. Shall we look over the scene?"

  Kertzman thought about what he really wanted to ask, decided to wait.

  "Sure," he replied. "We'll talk as we go. I know you don't have much time."

  Together they found the room where it had all happened. Red tiles marked the space where the SAS man had gone down, and a lot of white chalk circles marked the floor where spent brass had been collected.

  Kertzman entered the room, eyes scanning, seeing everything. Stephenson remained in the doorway, an austere man studying the dimly lit room with expressionless concentration.

  Kertzman spent a few minutes reading the layout, finding an explanation for damage, recreating the action in his head. He looked at the closet, studying the pattern of torn wood that reached across the floor, into the desk towards the spot where Gage must have stood. Finally Kertzman knelt, pointing, “Your SAS man, Sergeant Maitland, must have gone down right here.”

  Sir Stephenson studied the site, nodded silently.

  Kertzman looked again at the shredded wood. "Looks like Maitland just held his finger on the trigger of that Uzi and moved the weapon from right to left. Is that how the British Air Service trains 'em?"

  "Yes," Stephenson replied absently. "That's how the SAS are trained. Never waste short bursts with an automatic weapon. Hold the weapon behind the target, squeeze the trigger, and move the barrel forward, sweeping the pattern of fire over the location of the target. The only difficulty is in not moving the barrel so quickly that one leaves man-sized holes in the pattern of fire. It is supposed to be a certain formula for contacting the enemy."

  Kertzman looked up from the floor. "Not this time."

  "No," Stephenson agreed, and looked at the distant wall.

  Kertzman didn't turn. He had already noticed that the wooden shelves of the wall were strangely damaged, a piece lifted from the bookcase with no evidence of fire damage, no bullet holes disfiguring the wood panels. Someone had purposely lifted the panel.

  Sir Henry Stephenson studied the shelf.

  Kertzman studied Sir Henry.

  After a moment Stephenson quite obviously felt the concentration and looked down to meet Kertzman's gaze. The Englishman's smile was so faint, it was almost unnoticeable.

  "You want to check it, Sir Stephenson?" Kertzman asked blandly.

  The Englishman's voice was faintly amused. "I should like for you to have the honor, Mr. Kertzman."

  Kertzman moved carefully to the shelf, pulled a small flashlight from his coat, shone it into the
crack. A flicker passed over a thin shred of cellophane clinging to a jagged wooden splinter of the wall. Frowning, Kertzman lifted the cellophane carefully, examined it in the light.

  Sir Stephenson revealed no surprise, no emotion, no overly acute interest and studied the shred without touching it. Then he focused on Kertzman, nodding courteously.

  Kertzman removed a white paper envelope from his pocket, placed the cellophane inside, and together they returned to the sanctuary.

  Kertzman was the first to speak. "Makes you wonder, doesn't it?"

  Sir Stephenson nodded, gazing casually towards the ceiling. "Yes, Mr. Kertzman, it does make one wonder."

  For a minute Kertzman stood beside the quietly dignified Englishman. Then he walked a short space, gazing about, knowing he had already found something revealing but not understanding what it was. He stopped beside a pew, turned back.

  Calm and composed, the Englishman was unreadable, the perfect public servant – or the perfect spy. Kertzman centered on him as he spoke: "The fire department located two smoke markers. I guess you've already recognized what color it was."

  Stephenson laughed mildly. "I know little of military affairs, Mr. Kertzman. Only the most limited things. I understand some of the tactics, their training. But I have no expertise as you do. I am only a civilian liaison for the Foreign Office."

  Kertzman was getting tired. The long day had started badly, and he wasn't in the mood for dancing.

  “So tell me," he began gruffly, "why does England send over a man of obvious position to retrieve the dead body of an SAS boy gone bad? Seems like a lot of work."

  Stephenson's gaze was placid. "Oh, no, Mr. Kertzman, it’s actually a trivial thing. I am simply here to arrange for the transfer of the remains. And I am here to make assurances from the Foreign Office that her Majesty's Service had no sinister activities afoot on American soil – that sort of thing. I shall depart tonight, leaving this investigation in the proper hands of highly skilled American authorities like yourself."

  Kertzman half-laughed, looked towards the altar. "Yeah, I believe ya. And what do you make of that piece of cellophane I found behind the bookcase?"

  Sir Stephenson raised his eyebrows, considering. He glanced back towards the hall, waited a moment. "It might have been there for a considerable time. Possibly, it means nothing. Perhaps one of the firemen accidentally damaged the shelving in the chaos."

  "Could be," said Kertzman. "But, then again, it might be something else."

  Sir Stephenson gazed back at him, waiting.

  Kertzman felt tempted to provoke the Englishman. "It might be that something was hidden behind that shelf. Might be your boy wanted it. And died for it."

  "Make no mistake, Mr. Kertzman," Stephenson said slowly. "I know nothing of the true nature of this affair. But I can assure you that the British government has authorized no undertakings on your continent. Sergeant Maitland was discharged from the SAS over three years ago. He has not been our responsibility since then. In fact, as I understand it, he was – How do you say it? – freelancing?"

  Kertzman nodded wearily, ran a broad, calloused hand over his flattop, smoothing the short black-gray bristling haircut. Then, tiredly, he rubbed his eyes, and abruptly focused on Sir Stephenson with renewed concentration. When he spoke Kertzman's words contained a fresh speed, a new effort at logic, aggressive and vaguely hostile.

  "Let me tell you something, Stephenson," he growled, and the Englishman seemed to instantly lock onto the tone. "I'm tired of dancin' with mystery men. Just who are you?"

  Sir Stephenson maintained a demeanor of professional calm. "I am a public servant," he replied plainly. "Much like yourself, I suppose."

  "Well," Kertzman added, "I know a little about how you yahoos work. You don't say anything. You come in and look around and slide out, reportin' to your boss what you saw. And all those White House pansies accommodate you because they want to maintain relations. Everybody's real happy, cozy. But I ain't lookin' to maintain relations. I couldn't care less if you like me or what you think about me. I'm here to find the truth, if there is any. And I want to try and keep anybody else from gettin' killed. That's my responsibility. And since your boy was involved in this, that makes it your responsibility, too."

  "I repeat; Maitland has not been our responsibility for some time," Stephenson remarked coolly.

  "You trained him," Kertzman responded. "You taught him how to use that fancy machine gun where you move the barrel and keep firing and all that crap. Never miss the target. Only, I think he went up against somebody a whole lot better."

  "It's impossible to become too much better," Stephenson interjected casually.

  Kertzman was secretly pleased that he had somehow goaded the Englishman into responding, but he didn't expect much more.

  "Maybe not," he added, "but it don't really make any difference to me. He was still your responsibility. And now he's on my ground and I've got to deal with him. That means you owe me."

  Stephenson's eyes glimmered. Then, finally, he said, “I am aware that Sergeant Maitland was part of a group that was working with a KGB officer."

  "Are you?" Kertzman's voice was openly hostile. "Are you also aware that we've got five dead American soldiers who were probably also working with Maitland and this KGB guy?"

  Stephenson waited a moment before responding quietly. "Yes."

  Kertzman pressed. "You seem to be taking it real well, Sir Henry! If I were you, I'd be a little upset that a hotshot SAS man was working with the KGB. Unless I knew why. Then I'd probably be real calm. 'Bout like you." He hesitated. "So why don't you tell me something about this situation? What do a bunch of heavy hitters, men trained to do nothing but kill each other have in common? Can you tell me that?"

  "I should think that would be obvious, Mr. Kertzman." No alarm, no tone. “Skills."

  Kertzman absorbed that. "What did Maitland do in the SAS? You said that a person couldn't get too much better."

  Stephenson replied without admiration or respect. "He was a legend."

  "A legend at what?"

  A pause.

  "We have secrecy acts, Mr. Kertzman. I, too, am subject to them."

  Nodding, Kertzman continued, "Yeah, I know. But that don't mean you can't give me an idea why ‘Her Majesty' wasn't happy with him."

  "You presume."

  "I know he ain't in SAS no more," stated Kertzman more firmly. "I learned that the KGB guy ain't in the KGB anymore. I know that Sims and Myrick aren't Army Intelligence anymore. But all these guys are still working so they're working for somebody and they’re working together! I just can't figure out the why or who of it. But I will."

  Kertzman stepped closer with the words, throwing decorum to the wind. "Believe me, Stephenson. You can help me or not, but I will find out what’s happening. I've got a wheelbarrow load of dead soldiers who were capable of terrorizing any nation on Earth. But they keep getting wiped out. So there's a war going on over something and it's a miracle the players haven't destroyed a city yet. But they might if this keeps up, so I intend to put an end to it. We're responsible for the men we've trained, Stephenson. You're responsible for the man you've trained. Maitland couldn't have done any damage at all if you people hadn't taught him how. So you need to tell me what you know. If you don't, the blood's going to be on you. You might not care about that, but if any innocent people get killed in this I’m going to take it personally. And if it's in my power to blow this thing wide open for the world to see, I will. I'm tired of dancing. So if you want your secrets to stay secret, you'd better talk."

  Stephenson remained impassive. "And do you want the Russians to also participate in this investigation?"

  "Forget 'em," said Kertzman. "I don't have time to deal with the Russians. I got too many people in this now that I don't trust – including you! But I need somebody to tell me somethin', and it might just as well be you. I'll figure it out if you're lying. But if you're honest, and you actually tell me somethin' I need, I might be able to f
inish this for you real quiet."

  Sir Stephenson's silence was balanced on a cliff's edge.

  Kertzman's stone gaze and resolute posture never relaxed.

  Finally the Englishman spoke; "Did you discover the name of the Russian?"

  Kertzman nodded, "Yeah. Arkady Torkarev. But the State Department hasn't released anything on him, yet. They just told me he doesn't work for the KGB anymore. At least, officially."

  Stephenson spoke quietly, calmly, perfectly at home with secrets and with sharing secrets in strange places. "Correct, Mr. Kertzman. His name was, indeed, Arkady Torkarev. In 1971 he graduated from the Advanced Intelligence School in Moscow and was subsequently assigned to Covert Operations of the KGB, where, in time, he distinguished himself."

  "What did he do for the KGB?"

  Stephenson's tone was so casual that he might have been discussing trade relations, but Kertzman was chilled by what he heard.

  "He supposedly masterminded the assassination of Pope John Paul I and the Warsaw killing of Yuri Demonivich in 1982 of the West German Intelligence Service. And, also, in 1981 he sanctioned Ludmila Zhivkova of Bulgaria with a traffic accident."

  Kertzman scowled. "Why did he kill a woman?"

  Stephenson continued steadily, "Ludmila Zhivkova was the daughter of Bulgarian leader Todor Zhivkova. She was also a summa cum laude graduate of political science from Oxford University. When she returned to her country in 1981 she petitioned for Bulgaria's independence from Moscow. The Soviet Union demanded her silence. She would not comply. Torkarev was sent to dispatch her. We believe she actually died by poisoning. That was Torkarev's preferred method of sanctioning. However, her body was mangled by the accident and was never autopsied, so the exact cause of death was never determined. Then Torkarev orchestrated the unfortunate death of Georgi Markov by heart attack at Waterloo Station in London on December 21, 1988. And he was without question responsible for the sanctioning of Vladimir Simeonov, who perished in London in 1989 under mysterious circumstances."