Hawkins gave a vague shrug, reaching for his glass again. “To better days.”
“So what happened after you left the service?”
“Things kind of went on a downward spiral. What the hell, Vic, I was trained as a damned soldier, not a brush salesman. Tried different things but nothing lasted. Money was scarce. I wasn’t pulling much in, so I started looking around for anything where I could put my training to use. You know what? Ain’t much there. Almost hooked up with a mercenary group going to Africa. Missed the boat there, too. Funny, I heard a month later the whole crew were wiped out by some local militia. So I guess my luck stayed with me that day.”
“And now?”
“I scratch around. Do a little social drinking, if you know what I mean. But I’m not eating too high off the hog, and that old pickup outside on the lot is the best I can afford right now.”
“What you working on now?”
“Now? Right now I’m drinking with an old Army buddy who looks like he won first prize.”
Lerner smiled. “Can’t complain.” He hesitated for a moment. “T.J., you up for a job?”
Hawkins toyed with his glass. “Is it legal?”
Lerner laughed. “Does it make a difference?”
“Hell, no. That deal I had with that jerk who was here wasn’t exactly tax deductible. Anything that kicks the honest and upright’s ass is just what I need. Walking the line didn’t do me any good. I did the right thing and the Army booted me out. Honorable discharge—that was their way of getting rid of me.”
“How about we get out of here? Let me buy you a decent meal and make a call. Could be I can find you a place with the people I work with. Hell, T.J., you got the credentials we’re looking for.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Lerner led the way out of the bar. His vehicle was parked at the edge of the lot. A dark metallic-gray Blazer.
“Cool-looking truck,” Hawkins said.
“What about yours?”
Hawkins grinned. He pointed across the lot to a battered and sad-looking Chevy pickup. The once-red paintwork had faded to a dull pink and numerous scratches showed rust.
“Some set of fancy wheels.”
“You said it, Vic.”
“Where did you buy that?”
“Let’s say it’s kind of borrowed. I don’t even have insurance, or papers for it.”
“That kind, huh?” Lerner grinned. “You bothered about leaving it lay?”
“Hell, no, the tank’s about dry anyhow.” Hawkins hesitated. “You mind if I pick up my bag?”
“Go fetch it.”
Lerner used his remote to unlock his truck and climbed in. He waited until Hawkins returned with a scruffy duffel over his shoulder. Opening the passenger door, Hawkins tossed his bag on the rear seat and settled in the passenger seat as Lerner fired up the powerful engine.
“Sweet sound.” He patted the leather seat. “I might move in. This is better than the trailer I’m living in right now.”
“Don’t worry, buddy,” Lerner said, “if this works out, you could be running around in one of these.”
As Lerner drove out of the lot, dust spewing up from beneath the heavy tires, Hawkins sank into the comfort of the seat, almost closing his eyes.
“Who do I have to kill to get one of these?” he asked. “Just remember that I got my own fantasy list to work through first.”
“That bad?”
“Fuck, Vic, look at me. One step off being a tramp. Man, I’ve been so long on the downslide I forgot what it’s like to walk tall. Be honest? If you can get me something I’m in. Man, I just want to climb out of this damn hole I been stuck in for too long.”
“OUR TWO-DAY STAKEOUT paid off. Looks like Lerner took the bait. He and T.J. just took off in Lerner’s truck. They headed west. That’s in the direction of the Townsend ranch. We’ll hang back. Give them some space until we know if it’s taken.”
“Keep us updated, Carl,” Price said. “Just don’t let anything happen to T.J. or we’ll have World War McCarter on our hands.”
Lyons smiled bleakly. He wasn’t a man to be fazed by anything, but given a choice between a room full of cobras and David McCarter on the prod, he admitted he would go for the snakes.
“Talk to you,” he said, and broke the cell phone connection.
He picked up the transceiver on the seat beside him and called Blancanales. “T.J. and Lerner in a metallic-gray Blazer heading your way, Pol.” He recited the license number. “Give them room. All we do now is watch and wait.”
“Understood.”
Lyons called Hermann Schwarz.
“The Politician has them under surveillance. They took off west from the bar.”
“Okay. What do we do?”
“Head back to the motel for now. We’ll coordinate once we hear from Pol or T.J.”
“MR. TOWNSEND, THIS IS T.J. Hawkins, the feller I called you about. We were in the service together until he got in a jam.”
“Heard about your trouble,” Townsend said. “You’re not the first to end up on the wrong end of military injustice. Might make a man want to get even. How do you feel on that score?”
“I think you already know that, Mr. Townsend. Since Vic called earlier, you probably have most there is to know about me.”
Townsend smiled. He jerked a thumb at the computer setup on the corner of his wide desk.
“We live in the age of information, Hawkins. Press a button and a man’s life spills right across your monitor.”
Don’t I know it, Hawkins thought. And now I also know I’m looking at your own information bank.
Hawkins waited. He wanted to see how Kurtzman’s data implants had colored his files. It was surprising, and a little scary, to realize just what could be done to someone’s background in the hands of a man like Aaron Kurtzman.
“Seems you’ve had quite a ride since you quit the military. Close scrapes with the law. What was that little fracas you had down in Albuquerque? They pulled you in for suspected dealings in illegal weapons. How come you walked away clean?”
Hawkins gave an embarrassed shrug. “I was kind of expecting problems, so I made sure I was well covered before the Border Patrol moved in. They searched, but they didn’t find a damn thing. While they were busting me, my deal was going through somewhere else.”
Townsend smiled. “So how come you’re walking around like a bum?”
“The deal was small-time, Mr. Townsend. By the time I paid off everyone it didn’t leave me with much, and the cops were still dogging me. I like making money. Problem is, I’m not too hot when it comes to working the financial side. So I had to move on. Since then, well, I guess my luck kind of went south.”
“With your guns by the sound of it,” Townsend said. “Your latest deal kind of bit you in the ass I hear.”
“Something like that.”
“Hawkins, I don’t deal small,” Townsend said. “You sound like the kind of man we could use. But don’t be fooled into thinking I tolerate any stupidity. Fuck around with me, and you’ll wish the Border Patrol had caught you. A stretch in Huntsville would be a vacation compared to what I could do to you.” He met Hawkins’s unflinching gaze. “Are we clear on that?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Townsend. Understood. I might not be too smart with finance operations, but I know how to take orders.”
Townsend visibly relaxed. “Fine. Vic, can you make room for Hawkins?”
“Sure. Plenty of spare rooms in the bunkhouse.”
“Get him some clothes and whatever he needs. Hawkins, there’s something coming up shortly. You can handle it with Vic. Let’s see if you’re as good as your rap sheet says.”
When Hawkins and Lerner left the office, Townsend turned to Ralph Chomski, who had been standing quietly to one side, observing. “Do the usual, Ralph. Keep an eye on him. See if he does anything we should be suspicious of. If he behaves himself, fine. If there’s anything, anything, that doesn’t sit right, you know what to do.”
“Oh, I know what to do,” Chomski said, his mood lightening at the thought.
“Now let’s have Mr. Kibble in here. I have a feeling I’m not going to be too happy with what he has to tell me.”
Chomski left the room. He was back a couple of minutes later, accompanied by a sandy-haired man in his early forties. Townsend indicated a seat in front of his desk.
“You have a good flight?”
The man nodded, his expression indicating he was in no mood for small talk.
“Sit down, Mark, and tell me what the problem is.”
Mark Kibble took the offered seat. He sat on the edge, refusing to allow himself to relax, and Townsend took that as a bad sign. The man was so tense he would snap in two if he bent over.
“The problem is, I can’t complete the arrangement.”
Behind Kibble there was movement. It was Chomski. He already had his hand inside his jacket. Townsend caught his eye and gave a slight shake of his head.
“Take your time, Mark. Tell me what the problem is. Would you like a drink?”
Kibble raised a hand in a gesture of refusal. “I need to get this said.”
“Fine. Go ahead.”
“There’s been some kind of security initiative. I don’t know where it came from, but the entire setup has been upgraded. New people running things. All codes changed and a fresh protocol put into place. They’re even installing some new hand-print identification procedure. One of those gizmos where you have to place your hand on a pad and it scans your fingerprints against records held in the computer. They took mine yesterday, and they have introduced more frequent stop and searches. There’s no way I can risk taking anything out now.”
“And you haven’t had any directives telling you why all this is happening?”
“Not a thing. Someone did ask, and they were told it was none of their business and to carry on with their work.”
“Do you think it might have to do with the missing items?”
Kibble shrugged.
He was running scared, Townsend realized, and a frightened man might easily let something slip.
“What do we do?”
Townsend smiled. He knew what he had to do. But not here. Not now.
“Mark, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We need to take stock. Stand back and look at this calmly. There will be a way around it.”
Kibble shook his head. “No. I’m out. If I got caught, I’d end up in some federal facility and I won’t risk that. Jesus, it would ruin my family. I have a wife. Children.”
“And you have a great deal of money hidden away in that special account we help you set up.”
“I’ll give the money back. It isn’t worth all this risk.”
Kibble was sweating now. He was ready to cave. The next step could be running to the Feds and telling them everything if it would help to pull him out of the deep, dark hole threatening to swallow him.
“I don’t see there being any need for that, Mark. You already earned that money for previous transactions.”
Townsend took a long moment to consider his next move. He wanted Kibble out of his house, well away before anything happened, because that was the next move.
“I just can’t do this anymore,” Kibble said, pushing to his feet.
“Okay, Mark. Leave it with me. I understand your position and I won’t push you into anything you can’t do. Perhaps it’s time to back off and let things cool for a while. Give things a chance to settle down. You agree?”
Kibble nodded, a little of the tension draining from his face. He watched Townsend stand and cross over to face him.
“I’m sorry this had to happen,” Kibble said.
“Like I said, Mark, don’t worry. We’ll figure a way around this mess. Go home. Be with your family. Someone will run you back to the strip and the Lear can fly you back to Dayton.”
Chomski waited until Kibble cleared the room before he spoke.
“He’ll do it,” he said. “Somebody gives him a hard time, he’ll spill his guts and point the finger. We can’t let that happen.”
“Nicely put, Ralph,” Townsend said. “You’ll never win prizes for diplomacy, but you head straight to the heart.”
“So?”
“Send a couple of the boys with him. Make sure they deal with it quietly. Just make sure there are no tracks that lead back to us. Fly him back home as excess cargo. Let his body be found by his local cops.”
Chomski turned and left the room, closing the door.
Townsend sat, staring out the window.
“That boy sure likes his work,” he said, voicing his thoughts.
Now that Kibble was out of the loop, he needed to work on his second string at RossJacklin Inc. He had to have the secondary circuit board. It was necessary if he wanted to deliver the full package to Director Han. Necessary and, more importantly, it would demonstrate Shadow’s ability to always complete its contracts. Since taking on the Chinese client, Townsend had profited greatly. His initial deliveries of vital components to the facility at Guang Lor had resulted in six-figure cash amounts being deposited in his Swiss account. There had been no delays, no complications. Han, as if to prove a point, had made immediate deposits, and had followed up with calls to Townsend to make certain the money had arrived safely. The man certainly knew how to maintain customer-client relations on an even footing. Townsend understood the courtesy. It was part of established Chinese custom. They understood the need for both the hard and the soft approach to negotiating a deal. Strict lines of communication, with everything handled quietly, resulted in a harmonious relationship. The American also knew there was another side to Director Han. It would only be revealed if Townsend failed to live up to his promises. The claws of the dragon would show and persuasive words would be lost in the roar of chastisement. He was in no doubt that Han would exact severe retribution if matters fell below his exacting standards.
Townsend assessed the situation. He realized why the security upgrade had happened. It was because of the CIA’s surveillance of the recent transaction. Bad enough that the Agency had gotten close enough to be on the spot during an exchange. Townsend’s CIA contact had prepared Townsend beforehand, allowing him to put on a display and had enforced the setup himself, leaving the Agency in no doubt as to what they could expect if they tried to interfere. They had nothing solid to move with and as long as Townsend could stay one step in front he would survive. It was all to do with keeping the balls in the air at the same time. Risk management came with the package. All Townsend had to do was to move the lines of engagement.
He picked up his telephone and punched in a number. He let it ring until a message clicked in. He waited until he was requested to speak.
“Call my number, Raymond. We need to talk. And it is urgent. I’ll expect your call back soon. Don’t make me wait too long.”
WHEN HE THOUGHT BACK to the night of the killing of the three CIA agents, it had taken a couple of hours for Pete Tilman to take in the full realization of what he had done, that there was no going back. He was fully committed now, even more than he had been before pulling the trigger. Yet even with that acceptance of having stepped over a line that wouldn’t let him go back, he felt little in the way of remorse. He lived in an uncaring world. One that decreed a man stand or fall by his own actions, and if he wanted to survive he had to make his stand for what he believed in. His actions had been dictated by that need for survival and his fear of being discovered.
His desertion from the path of loyalty to his chosen profession had been easy at first. The illicit thrill of playing a dangerous game had become a narcotic, fueled by the financial rewards and the closeness to men of power and influence. There was, too, the choice he made to kick back against the hypocrisy of the administration that preached one line of policy, while at the same time consorting with the devil. Government within government was no fantasy. Infighting and self-advancement created strange partnerships. Hidden agendas and the lust for power and wealth layered the administration wi
th secret alliances and back-door dealing that would have astounded the naive and the innocent. As an agent within the CIA, Tilman had been privy to certain aspects of the Agency that had surprised him at first, but as his own experiences clouded his clear vision he began to see the world in a different light. What was good for America became blurred within the twists and turns of policy, and there were those in power who were working, not for the elected administration, but for their own goals. And with these insights Pete Tilman’s disenchantment soured his view of what was good and what was evil.
His move from the path he had walked initially to his crossover came about painlessly. He hadn’t realized that his casual remarks at an embassy party in Washington had been overheard by someone from a group influencing illicit operations from the corridors of power. Within days of the party Tilman had been approached by a young woman he had briefly met that evening. It wasn’t until later that he realized he had been drawn into a relationship with her. By then he was so smitten he would have denounced the President himself. Tilman already lived beyond his means. He owed money. He wanted more money. It was as simple as that. And he was fast losing faith with the agency, tired of being pushed around by younger, lesser men who were rising rapidly while he seemed to be standing still, despite his impressive record. She had suggested he meet someone who could offer him a promising future, someone who could use his skills and his position in the Agency. His desire for her sucked him even deeper. He was addicted, and there wasn’t a thing he could do to break the habit. In his private moments he accepted his weakness. It scared him a little, but he quickly got over that feeling. One phone call, hearing her voice, a few minutes of being with her and drinking in the sweet scent of her, and he was a total devotee and would have committed murder at her suggestion.
In the end he did just that, gunning down three fellow agents in a moment of desire to maintain his new lifestyle and his position within the organization that now called the tune he willingly danced to.
Financial rewards were offered and taken without consideration of possible repercussions. Tilman had taken on board the full package. The people he was secretly working for, while maintaining his position within the CIA, expected results and he found he was able to comply comfortably. His Agency classification gave him access to high-level data. It allowed him to view sensitive material, check operational dispersement and gain advance warning of upcoming operations. Once he had carried out a number of these clandestine procedures with no comeback, the illicit excitement had made him eager for more. It was almost a secondary sexual thrill, this dangerous game he was playing, but it was so addictive. It gave him back the buzz he had almost forgotten, the kind of feeling he used to get in the old days when he’d run his own team and was involved in covert operations.
China Crisis (Stony Man) Page 6
