Arch Patton

by James Strauss

  The day was cold and windy. The sun remained high overhead in its accustomed place. My vest was sufficient protection in such weather, but a ride on the Tundra Cat would be frosty indeed. Discomfort would have to be endured and ignored. Hoping that at least one of my stalwart assault team members was in place, I headed for the bar. Nobody was drinking. Passengers were just gathered, talking to one another. My team was in readiness. Even Günter and Borman.

  “Do you want me to clean the table,” Marlys queried as she produced a clean towel in her right hand.

  The table wasn’t dirty. Don and Dutch came over.

  “We’re going to the cemetery now,” Don said.

  I checked my watch.

  “Your radio code is ‘Andre,’” I informed him, “and the Basque is ‘Number One,’ I’m the ‘Cherub.’

  It was too early to head over to the museum. In fact, it was one of those rare times when there was nothing to be done.

  “Let’s go,” I said, getting up from the table.

  To accompany Don and Dutch to the cemetery to see about the boy made sense. It would occupy me and keep me from making a mistake. It would also keep me from being seen just sitting around appearing to be waiting for something. Missions succeeded on action and timing. They often failed, however, on nuance or on the smallest details, which might have been overlooked.

  The Russian tank had never moved from its position threatening the ship. The tankers all slept in bags under their tank. I noticed movement as we passed and envisioned the men taking advantage of the free booze nearby. And, of course, Marlys’ splendid charms. Speaking no Russian, I deduced that the translation for ‘beautiful woman’ in Providenya had to be the same as that for ‘stranger.’

  We walked among and around the metal grates and fences surrounding each grave in the cemetery. We came to the end of the point. The high point over looked the entire harbor and the mountains beyond. Providence Bay extended as far north as our eyes could see. I looked down, searching for the Zodiac. Filipe would be manning it, but I had no idea how he was going to explain launching it from up above the lido deck. No action stirred aboard the ship.

  Suddenly, from below me, four heads popped up. The boys all jeered at our shock and surprise.

  “There’s a small cave down here,” the Khromov boy said up to us.

  Don sat down and took something from one of his overcoat pockets. He passed it to the boys. I looked at him. It was a bottle of rum. I sighed. I would have hoped that we would attempt to have the boy sober and functional for the action parts of our plan. At least we might have tried. Don detected my obvious displeasure. He reached up, and then pulled down on the edge of my Banana Republic vest.

  “The boy doesn’t drink at all. The rum is for his friends.”

  I smiled back at the big man, again understanding why I liked and trusted him so much. I crouched down, motioning the Russian youth to come closer. His friends were already drinking their bottle of rum.

  “You must keep your friends here. They must not attract notice. That is vital to our plan, if you want to come with us.”

  The boy nodded vigorously, looking troubled. Worried, I thought, because we might withdraw our offer. The United States did not have the best reputation in the world for keeping its promises. I put my hand on his shoulder.

  “I promise you, as one man to another, that you will get aboard that ship and you will have a life in the United States. On my honor.”

  He said nothing, while pressing my hand with his own.

  “We’ll be back, or someone will. You have a hard job. You have to sit tight and do nothing. Can you do that?”

  The boy said, “Yes.”

  “Let’s go,” I announced, not really knowing if I would see the boy again.

  Outside the bar the tankers were gone, but the tank was still there. I went in through the door to the old warehouse. About forty passengers were already back and they were bellied up to the bar, drinking shots like sailors on payday. The tankers mingled among them.

  Marlys worked up and down the long row of assembled pallets. She looked at me, giving me only an inscrutable expression. I made a beeline for the same back table I had sat at before.

  Once there, I sat down. I turned slightly so I could take in the whole room. Hathoot strode in behind me and approached the end of the bar where Borman and Günter conversed and drank, in spite of my lecture about being sober for the mission. That Dutch was not with them was the best news I could hope for. The three officers sat together.

  My watch said nine-thirty. We were still early. I motioned for Marlys, who came to my side almost immediately.

  “I need a piece of paper,” I whispered to her.

  She left and then returned. I took a small yellow pad from her hand. I marveled that she had found such a thing in a broken down warehouse in Siberia. Yemaya was astounding in so many ways.

  I took out my Mont Blanc and then began to write, using very small letters. It was a note to my control officer involving matters of citizenship for the Basque and for the Khromov boy. When finished, feeling like I had penned my last will and testament twice in twenty-four hours, I folded the paper and waved for Marlys once more.

  She took the note, plus the pad, and then brushed my ear with her lips, as if grasping its content. Her lips were like a flow of hot lava crossing the surface of my right lobe. I touched the appendage, letting my hand linger there. Marlys worked the back of the bar again. I saw her gaze my way as I held my ear. We stared at one another for what seemed like many minutes.

  Don and Dutch approached my side. I let my hand fall as nonchalantly as I could.

  “Hathoot took off for the museum. How long do you want to give him?” Don asked.

  I struggled not to show embarrassment. Once more, I had let personal affairs interfere with the mission. I hadn’t even noticed Hathoot’s exit. I motioned for both big men to sit. They complied.

  “How is this going to go down,” Don inquired, “since we’re about to do it?”

  Don and Dutch were visibly nervous. I understood. It was their first mission, and their first exposure to “wet work.”

  Violence was not natural to human beings, especially not civilized human beings. They had to be taught it. And they had to be trained in it over a long period before they mastered it. I counted on neither man to commit violent acts. I was reserving that role for myself alone. But I was not about to lay out a scheme that had bloodshed in it. I would rather work with both men while they were suffering from physical shock than have them, or one of them, back out on me at the very last moment.

  “I don’t know,” I lied, and then moved them into action. “Let’s go.”

  Khromov wouldn’t know how to deal with Hathoot, since the boxes he was attempting to pass off were not something he really intended to sell. Hathoot might penetrate the charade, all too easily. The man might be evil, but he was for certain intelligent and long experienced in trade.

  We trudged to the museum. A few passengers lounged outside on the fractured concrete walk way. We entered through the double doors of the main entrance. Don had been to the museum many times before, so I relied on him for guidance.

  A long staircase was set into the side of a wall just before us. I could see no one within eyesight. Don and Dutch started up the stairs. I quickly pulled the automatic from my pocket, removed the suppressor from my vest, and then screwed the two well-machined tools together. I was done and ready before we had taken ten steps upward. Neither Don nor Dutch detected any change. I carried the assembled weapon down, next to my side. It was almost invisible, unless you looked directly at it.

  Solid wooden floors squeaked under the weight of our passage as we walked along a narrow hall. Arriving at a solid door near the end of the passage, Don held his ear close. I motioned for him to open the door and enter. Don followed my instructions, while Dutch lined up behind h
im.

  From behind the big men I spotted Hathoot standing next to the director, holding small objects in his hands. His was a puzzled look.

  I brought the silenced automatic up, aimed carefully, and then shot him in the exposed muscle of his right thigh. I closed the door carefully behind me, hearing a shocked, choking cry and the thump of his fall to the floor.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE:

  To Live and Die for Dixie

  A small tendril of smoke curled up from the end of the suppressor, which I had once more pointed down at the floor. The machined steel part had done its first job well. There had been almost no sound. Possibly, a short, stiff hand-clap, but nothing more.

  With the exception of Hathoot’s squirming body emitting mewling cries of shock and pain, the tableau was frozen. Both Don and Dutch stood, unmoving, from their places upon entering the room. Professor Khromov cupped small enamel boxes in his hands, both still extended before him as if to showcase the pieces of art. A side door then opened.

  “What was that noise?” Dora said, stopping dead when she saw Hathoot in agony on the floor.

  I had not raised my weapon at her entrance. I sighed in relief. Long experience and training had kicked in. Citizens never took kindly, or easily, to having suppressed guns pointed at them. So far, I had avoided loud noises and screaming.

  “I need the room,” I bellowed in a commanding voice.

  I moved to Khromov’s desk whereupon I plopped down my heavy little canvas bag. I would be needing some of its supplies immediately.

  Hathoot clutched his thigh tightly. My shot had been near perfect. Very little blood oozed out. No arterial hit. No veins. Just a good clean entry and exit through the side of his large quadriceps muscles. Having been shot there once, I knew the pain he had taken and still experienced. It was like getting struck by a baseball bat, fully swung. Nobody in the room even twitched. Time stood still.

  “I need the room,” I repeated, gesturing Dora to leave.

  I liked the saying. I had heard it first on a television show. I had liked it then. I was fast coming to realize, however, that it did not work so well in real life. I walked over to the wooden door, gripping the frame with my left hand. The silenced Kel-Tec was in my other hand. When Dora saw the gun for the first time, her eyes bulged.

  “You shot him,” she pointed back at Hathoot’s contorting figure. “That nice man. You shot him, didn’t you?”

  I grunted at her. “Did you think your son was going to get a new life in the United States for nothing? This is no game. You get what you want, we get what we want. So get in the damn room!”

  I gestured more forcefully with the gun. A few drops of oil spilled from the tip of the barrel. That, I think, more than anything else, galvanized her into action. She ran through the opening. Khromov followed, holding the boxes. I relieved him of them with my left hand as he went by.

  “Evidence,” I explained.

  He looked at me with disdain. His expression was one, I was certain, that he normally reserved for cockroaches or worse.

  Dutch followed Khromov, asking nothing. Don moved, but spoke before relocating.

  “You need any help with him?” he asked.

  I shook my head, once.

  “You shot him, alright, but what are you going to do with him now?” he asked, his face serious.

  “Shoot him again,” I said very quietly and then closed the door.

  My words had not been missed by Hathoot. His contortions ceased, although he still clutched his leg tightly with both hands. A small puddle of blood pooled near his knee. The small amount pleased me.

  “Don’t shoot me again,” Hathoot pleaded, holding one bloody hand up toward me.

  I looked past his outstretched hand, gauging just how to place a bullet through his other thigh. I wanted the man out of action and unable to move about on his own. That necessitated damage to both legs.

  “I’m not a bad man,” Hathoot implored, his voice dusky and cracking with pain.

  I waited for an opening for my next shot, watching the man carefully. I presumed it was his first time being shot. The first time was the hardest. You never got used to it though, at least I hadn’t. I had only been shot four times. But three of those bullets had struck almost as one. I preferred getting shot to being knifed. Being sliced violated more viscerally.

  “Not a bad man?” I mused while I waited. “You’re a white slaver with a heart of coal. A very small lump of coal, I might add.”

  He moved. I moved with him, but it was not enough. My opening was too small. I couldn’t afford to kill the man. My shot had to be right. He spoke again, this time in anger.

  “And you’re a lousy gigolo. A thieving, low-life sex maniac.”

  I stopped examining him for the shot, my automatic lowered to the floor, in shock.

  “What?” I said, for his words had drummed into me like cold wind-driven rain.

  “You’re taking my woman away. And I’ve liked you. I’ve been your friend,” he whined.

  I stared at the little rotund purser. I could not believe my ears.

  “Marlys? Do you want Marlys? How old are you? You’re even worse than I thought!” I exclaimed, bringing my gun back up for the shot.

  “Marlys?” He said, in obvious consternation. “What about Marlys? I’m talking about the woman, the real woman, not that girl. The real woman you’re sleeping with!”

  His words were so succinctly delivered, so sated with wounded pride, that they rocked me again.

  “What woman?” I yelled down at him, but my automatic once more pointed at the floor.

  “Sophia,” Hathoot fired his own bullet at me, as solemnly as if we were in the sacristy of a Catholic church.

  “Sophia?” I echoed in obvious wonderment.

  He glared at me. “You call her Benito. She is wonderfully beautiful — and you demean her as Benito.”

  I was flabbergasted. I tried to talk several times, but each time nothing would come out. Then I wanted to double-up in laughter. Benito was his woman. The man loved Benito. And I was “sleeping” with her. Well, I was, sort of. Still dumbfounded, I returned to his original statement.

  “You’re my friend? You’re a good guy? Explain those things to me.”

  I brought the gun back up. He lowered his bloody hand and then replaced it against his damaged leg.

  “I have a heart. I understand you. I have followed you since you came aboard. I gave you that room. I gave you the CD player. I made the disk.”

  I was stunned. He, Hathoot, had put those haunting songs on the disk? He had given me the room. Those things showed a huge heart, but I counter attacked.

  “Yeah, you gave me the CD player all right, loaded up with tape recorders!” I snorted the words out, attempting to get past the other troublesome points he had made. I was growing more and more uncomfortable with the situation as each second ticked by.

  “One recorder,” he corrected me. “And I need it back. That thing cost me eight hundred dollars. I needed to know just how far you and Sophia had gone. Whether there was any chance for me at all.”

  The air went out of me with his last words.

  “Of course,” I muttered, turning to the side, my weapon forgotten. “Of course, its love — not espionage. Not greed. Not extortion. No, it’s got to be love.”

  I reconsidered. I knew that I couldn’t shoot the little man a second time. Not for love.

  “What about the bondage-slavery thing you’ve been running,” I asked, but I could tell that my own word’s inflection was more hopeful than convincing.

  He smiled crookedly at me, through his pain.

  “I gave Marlys and her mother twenty thousand dollars. They were broke, abandoned. They had nothing. Now her mom has a roof over her head and is waiting for her daughter. I gave her this job to pay me back. Is that so bad?”

 
“Jesus Christ,” was all I could say.

  I unscrewed the suppressor from the muzzle of the automatic and then slipped it back into its special pocket in my vest. I put the pistol away. I picked up the canvas bag and carried it down to the prone man’s side.

  “Does this mean you’re not going to shoot me again?” Hathoot entreated.

  I ignored him while taking out the tape and bandages. I pulled out a syringe, took off the plastic wrapping, and then drew ten milligrams from the bottle. I squeezed a tiny bit from the needle before punching the rest into Hathoot’s damaged thigh.

  He squealed.

  “Oh shut up,” I said, putting the needle and bottle back in the bag. “Roll over and drop your pants. I’ll bandage this. It’s deep and painful, but not serious. And stop making a big deal out of it.”

  The purser complied. I taped and bandaged away. The man’s legs were pure white with great black hairs all over the place.

  The thought of him and Benito in bed together tickled me. I almost laughed aloud, but held back. I had a million questions for the man, but no time. The mission was pressing against us. The driver of the Russian jeep would be waiting and growing less and less patient with each passing minute.

  Hathoot and I moved, awkwardly, to the adjoining room.

  “We thought he’d be dead,” Don said and then went on, “Are you going to shoot him again, somewhere else?”

  I shook my head as I noticed Hathoot’s face flash terror once again at hearing Don’s words. I waved my right hand downward at him to let him know that he was out of immediate danger.

  “That plan is down the drain,” I said, almost to myself. “I don’t know what we’re going to do now.”

  “What plan?” Hathoot asked, pulling himself slowly from the floor until he was standing, shakily with the support of the professor’s desk.

  It didn’t matter what the little man knew at that point.

  “We planned to trade you for the boy at the gulag. The one we are trying to get out. The Commissar wanted to lock up another American, for budget purposes, in the kid’s place. We were going to give him you.”