Reckoning

by James Byron Huggins

  He nodded faintly. Everything was good.

  He recognized the familiar, sharpened combat sensation; he was in the zone, perfect and fluid, body reacting on instinct, mind in the machine mode with muscle reflex carrying him past the point where thought falls away from exhaustion.

  He could do a thousand things now, reflex providing the impulse, the initial spark, then leaving his muscle memory to execute and finish the task while his mind continued to the next level with what energy remained. Moving constantly ahead of wherever he was, like a master chess player forgetting his hands, his mind deeply advanced into the game while his body moved the pieces through only the faintest self-awareness.

  Closing his eyes, concentrating, Gage leaned his head back against the rock, checking equipment in his mind. The night visor and MP5 were gone. But he still had the ice ax, the knife, and the Hi-Power with six extra clips, plus half the rope.

  Most important, the manuscript was secured in the Lowe backpack.

  Staring up into the night, Gage calculated his injuries more thoroughly. His face was slashed high on the left side, blood already dry and clotted in the cold. But it didn't affect his sight; there was no swelling on the eye itself.

  Let it be. Worry about it later.

  Yet, as the moments passed, his entire body felt stiff with uncounted stresses and bruises that probably merited emergency room treatment. But emergency rooms were for other people. He had learned to move beyond torn muscles, stress fractures, and any other kind of similar wound that could break a man down.

  Overcome. Do what you do. Finish it.

  Thought was shut down and Gage reacted, moving with a corpselike stiffness.

  Dry breath burning in his throat, body wet with a condensing, shivering cold, he sat awkwardly upright on the horizontal granite slab; a relatively comfortable resting place on the otherwise treacherous slope.

  Wearily he pulled off the backpack, dragging it around in front of him to place it securely between his legs. He removed two Energy-bars, his canteen, painkillers, and an adrenaline injection.

  He chewed the first bar slowly, thoroughly, swallowing each bite with a large sip of water from the canteen. The water was heavily laced with Ricelyte to quickly restore his electrolyte level, improving nerve synapse, fooling his body into believing that it was stronger than it actually was. And slowly, degree by degree, he began to feel more recovered, rested.

  Methodically, he repeated the procedure on the second bar, drinking the rest of his water, knowing he would need it; dehydration was a lightning-fast killer this high in the mountains.

  Last, Gage inexorably shoved the piercing needle of the adrenaline syringe into the side of his neck, pushed the valve closed to inject the full dosage.

  Warm, flowing, and instantly lifting him to a comforting soft wave, the epinephrine increased his heartbeat, restored his energy, and fought back the overwhelming cloud of fatigue.

  Gage felt it coursing through him, all over, and he swallowed a Lorcet Plus to take the edge off the wracking pain. The barbiturate would enable him to work the torn muscles and stretched ligaments with less awareness of injury, pushing them far past the point where his body would protest the abuse. It was a dangerous procedure, but in the savage night world of military combat, it was the way men drove themselves past the edge, pushing their bodies to do what couldn't be done any other way.

  He waited for the painkiller to take effect, stared down dully. He sighed. Now for the hard part.

  Slowly, steadily, Gage began to attach the crampons to both boots; a difficult job because the leather straps were stiff with ice, frozen, unbending. Moving mechanically, he beat the crampons against the rock, breaking the rigidness, and in a long, protracted struggle, finally succeeded in attaching one to each ice-covered boot.

  Feeling the drug taking hold, moving more easily with each moment, Gage rose to his feet. He hoisted the Lowe onto his back and attached the shoulder straps.

  He gazed up the slope, fastening the belt and mechanically tightening the side-stays of the backpack to minimize lateral twisting of its weight, an act that could throw him off balance on the wall.

  Mentally, he went through it; crampons for climbing with his boots, ice ax in his right hand, the knife for the other hand.

  Keep three points on the rock at all times ... Move only a hand or a foot at a time ... Basic rule: Never move two points at the same time ...Go slow... Steady.

  Gage estimated; 1,000 feet and at least four hours to the top. He would reach the ledge in early morning, maybe two hours before sunrise. Sato would be gone, figuring him for dead.

  Then he remembered the brutal ten-mile descent into the town, how it waited for him after this long ordeal. And in a strange convulsion of his soul he remembered the desert, the walk under the moon to the tomb where he had died; felt again the pain and death and utter hopelessness. Something whispered to him, deeply, hauntingly, that the strongest part of him was permanently wasted and burned out in that long walk across the desert... leaving him forever weaker than he had ever been, before.

  "No," Gage murmured, falling weakly forward against the wall, leaning against the glacier, hands on the ice, shaking his head. "No, don't do it, boy ... Don't let fear beat you 'cause there ain't no life in it ... Ain't no life ..."

  Gage swallowed dry breath, gathering, felt grave dirt in hi3 mouth, dry and moldering. He looked up again, sight lost in the glistening blue-white ice. Eyes hot, he peered up the slope, searching; ice appeared rougher to the right, the grade at 60 degrees.

  He looked past it, to the sky, stars. His teeth were bared, his voice choked. "It's just you and me, old man," he whispered. "Just you and me ..."

  A second, and Gage closed his eyes, lowering his head.

  Come on ... Come on ... Finish it!

  He shouted, face twisting in rage, and swung his arm, spiking the ax sharply into the glacial wall.

  *

  FORTY-FIVE

  Night had faded into a cold silent morning, and the day had passed, itself, in relative silence. And now it was nightfall again.

  Stern was gone.

  The one called Radford had taken his place, and Sarah sat pensively in a maroon leather chair in the formal living room, staring at him.

  Radford appeared angry, vaguely hostile, and stared back. "You have no idea what this has done to my life," he said moodily, his angry gaze never leaving her.

  Sarah smiled, laughed lightly. "I hope so."

  He glanced out the window, towards the sunset.

  Her mind wandered over the day. Sato, the Japanese, had come in with the slate gray sunrise, but without the German, Carl.

  Sarah watched him pass through the room, caught his single, contemptuous glance, and felt real fear. Then he disappeared into the back of the estate, leaving her staring blankly at the wall where her gaze had fallen from his brooding face.

  Since that moment the house had been still, silent.

  Through the day she managed to catch brief snatches of sleep on the couch, but restless and worried, slept fitfully. She had not seen either the Japanese or Stern since morning.

  She shook her head, leaning her head back, tired. And heard Radford again.

  "My life is ruined," he said in a low, mumbling voice. "Ruined. Because of you."

  He had been drinking all afternoon.

  Sarah measured him, judged him unstable. "You did it to yourself." She carefully brought up one foot to place it on the chair. She rested her elbow on her knee, forearm across her chest, feeling a slight security in the casual physical shield.

  Radford rose, walked toward her unsteadily. "No," he said in a strange tone. "You ruined my life. You and that book."

  Sarah felt a sharp thrill of fear. Breath increasing, she stiffened.

  Radford stopped before her, smiling.

  "Gage is dead," he said, and laughed, watching for her reaction.

  Sarah frowned at him.

  "Do you want to know how?" he asked sweetly, leaning for
ward.

  Her face was bitter with resolve.

  Radford was amused.

  "Sato did him in," he continued and, strangely, seemed to tire of the game. He turned away wearily, waving a hand at nothing. "Dropped him off a glacier. Dead as a mackerel by now, I'll bet."

  Sarah had trouble catching her breath, but she didn't move at all with the words. "No," she said in a low tone. "He's alive."

  Radford turned back, eyebrows raised, smiling. "No, he ain't alive. He's deader 'a wedge, as Kertzman would say." He stared at her distantly. "You know," he added slowly, eyes suddenly remote, "I'd like to kill Kertzman."

  Sarah said nothing.

  "We had it all set up." Radford moved to a bottle of bourbon and poured himself a drink. He ignored the bucket of ice. The lukewarm whiskey sloshed heavily in the glass.

  "Yeah... all set up. Let Kertzman find the boy, then kill everybody, blame it on Gage." He nodded to himself. "Perfect containment, they said. And it would have worked, too. Would have worked out ... real well. Would have ended everything. Kertzman would be dead. Everybody'd be dead. I'd be a rich man, moving up in the world."

  He swallowed a long drink, belched, rubbed his chest angrily with one hand. Then he expelled a long breath, regarded her again with a grimace.

  "Now Gage's dead, Kertzman's alive, and I've lost my career. Lost my life. I'm going to have to..." He seemed to lose train on his thoughts, added in a whisper, "... do something."

  He pulled a pistol from his belt, turned to her. "Kertzman thought I was such an idiot," he mumbled, stepping closer, face flushed. "Thought I was such a fool. But I knew from the first ... what they were doing to him. I knew they were setting him up."

  Radford stared, unfocused, at her.

  "Makin' me run all those background checks," he sneered, laughing. "Then Milburn told me it was all a facade. Kertzman's game. Orders came down to trail Kertzman, keep him in sight. Everybody knew he'd find Gage, sooner or later. Old Milburn and me, we were in on it. Kertzman was a fool. Stupid old man. But he's gonna die, I tell you that. I'm gonna kill him myself. He ain't ... nuthin'. Just a lot of talk. Big hunter ..."

  He turned away slightly. "Coyotes," he hissed, "bears and lions and... how does it go? Bears and lions and tigers and bears?" He smiled at her, shook his head again. "We ain't in Kansas no more."

  He took another drink, laughed.

  Sarah focused, locked down her nerve. "You're drunk."

  Moving with startling speed and precision, Radford instantly leveled the pistol at her and thumbed back the hammer in a single practiced motion, eyes a wavering focus. He smiled stupidly.

  "What?" he asked quietly.

  Silence; tension.

  "Did you say something?" he whispered.

  Sarah didn't move, kept her eyes directed at the floor, closed them. She had told herself that she didn't really care about dying, but she still felt a fear, instinctive and uncontrollable.

  "You don't understand, woman!" Radford shouted, stepping closer. "MY...LIFE … IS ... OVER!"

  Her entire body tightened at the sudden scream.

  Radford leaned down over her, shoving the barrel of the pistol to her temple and Sarah kept her eyes closed, mouth tight.

  "You don't understand!" he shouted. "What am I gonna do? I wasn't getting enough money out of this to live forever! What am I gonna do? Go back and talk my way out of it?"

  Sarah waited.

  "No!" he screamed. "Never! Ain't gonna happen! It's over! What am I gonna do? Live in Europe the rest of my life? I hate this place! It stinks! The people are stupid! I did this for money! But I had a life! I had something going for me and now it's gone because of Kertzman! Because of Gage!" Radford shoved the barrel hard into her temple. "Because of you!"

  Sarah flinched to scream, raising her hands. Beside her, she heard a scrambling and... Impact!

  Dazed, she opened her eyes, holding her arms up to protect her face. Radford walked hesitantly away from her, the gun hanging limply, forgotten, in his hand.

  Standing beside her was the Japanese, hands empty. Naked except for a sumo-type garment worn around his waist and groin, he looked vaguely like he had been sleeping.

  For a minute Sato frowned down at her, then he turned, walked casually to Radford and carefully took the black pistol away from him. With a massive hand he grabbed Radford's shoulder and pushed him easily to the side. Radford collapsed onto the couch, fell over, instantly unconscious. In the next second the Japanese disassembled the weapon almost without moving his hands. The gun fell into several pieces. He dropped all but one in a chair, turned back toward her.

  Eyes wide, breath wild, Sarah looked at Radford. He appeared alive, his chest rising and falling with each breath but the Japanese had clearly done something to him, something she didn't understand. Radford didn't look injured; there was no blood, nothing. But he was clearly hit somehow.

  Confused, she focused on the Japanese who stood, unmoving, in the center of the room.

  Sarah waited for the Japanese to leave. But he stood quietly before her. Finally, understanding that he would not leave until she met his gaze, Sarah shifted her eyes, feeling alone and frightened with this unsettling force standing beside her. Slowly, she raised her eyes to the face of stern discipline and strength, the blackly impenetrable eyes of pure, cold will.

  Lightheaded, Sarah held the gaze, and she understood his meaning of strength. Tired, she chose to let it go, looked away. But Sato stood, still staring at her, waiting.

  "You were his woman," he said somberly.

  It was not a question.

  Sarah raised her face with a sudden spark, almost a curiosity. She didn't want to reply. A tension passed between them; held, endured.

  "He'll come for me," she said.

  Confusion was evident in Sato's narrow gaze for the slightest, flashing moment.

  "He is dead," he said in a flat tone.

  "No," Sarah said, voice brittle and eyes widening slightly with a shake of her head. "He's not dead. He won't die in this." A pause. "He'll come for me."

  Sato seemed amused. "And how do you know? Your God, does He tell you this?"

  Sarah held her silence.

  "You know nothing," he said.

  Her face was grim. "He's not dead," she said more quietly.

  Implacable, inhumanly disciplined and cold, Sato looked down upon her like a god beholding an unsatisfying, imperfect product of his own creation. For a moment he seemed to ponder her words, yet his presence revealed neither agreement nor disagreement, concern nor pleasure. It was, in its purest essence, a life-force that revealed nothing at all; not fear of death nor love of life nor compassion nor cruelty nor anything else that could be called human.

  Never could Sarah have imagined such inhuman control. It was as if, by the power of his will alone, he had forged his body and mind into something more than mortal.

  Steady, fighting a trembling, she faced the blackened gaze and the single thought returned; it was all she had.

  "He'll come for me," she whispered.

  Sato blinked, studying her.

  "It will make no difference," he said. "I will kill him."

  Sarah closed her eyes a moment, tempering herself against the force she faced. "No," she said softly. "You can't kill him. Nothing can kill him. Not in this."

  She stared at him. There was nothing more to say.

  Sato seemed touched by a faint anger. Frowning, he slowly stepped closer, one hand reaching around his waist to his back. And the hand emerged again with what Sarah knew by instinct was his soul, his essence.

  Held in his strong right hand, the tanto was horrible, a blade forged in dark fire, cold death. And as a living force, its razored edge caught a white line of light, capturing it, burning it into her eyes, searing.

  The Japanese poised, unmoving, before her. And in the eeriness of the moment his entire body, equally tempered and forged in the black flames of pure war, seemed a weapon equal to the blade.

  He stood over her.<
br />
  "We shall see," he said.

  *

  FORTY-SIX

  In a truly foul mood, Kertzman cleared customs without incident and moved through the lobby of Di Vinci Airport in Rome, catching the hue of a gloomy winter-gray sky through the late afternoon sun.

  Carthwright had volunteered an Embassy CIA man who could usher him past customs with diplomatic clearance and no hassles, but Kertzman had waved it off, preferring as little contact with the Embassy as possible.

  He found his bag on the cargo belt and moved past a cadre of white-shirted security men holding Beretta machine guns in the front lobby. He spotted at least 30 civilian police, maybe 40 military.

  At the exit of the cargo belt, at least four separated plainclothes cops stood watching, drinking coffee, doing a fairly good job of looking inconspicuous.

  Kertzman passed them all, looked at his watch. He swore softly; the entire day had passed with the flight, leaving only five hours till midnight. But he still had time to find the Medici Hotel on the Via Vittorio.

  Resisting the impulse to rush, Kertzman moved stoically, resolutely, past three additional beltways in the airport's undersized front lobby.

  A man in a blue coat accosted him. "Taxi, sir?" the man asked eagerly.

  Kertzman eyed him with a suspicious, vaguely threatening air and walked on. He brushed past four more drivers who solicited his service and stopped before a small man leaning dejectedly at a closed exchange counter.

  "You got a car?" Kertzman asked, impatient.

  Shocked, the man nodded.

  Kertzman dropped his suitcase, took out a Marlboro, gesturing downward as he lit. "Let's go," he rumbled.

  Thrilled at his sudden good fortune, the man bent and snatched up the suitcase.

  It would cost at least 50 bucks, with a little padding, to catch a cab instead of the train. But he had no patience for trains right now, no patience for ticket punchers or the long walk through the metro to the subway. And, anyway, the United States Department of Justice was paying.