Reckoning

by J. B. Turner

  “How?”

  “Where were you brought up?”

  “The Bowery.”

  Hacking coughs from below. “How did your father die?”

  “My sister killed him with scissors. Satisfied?”

  Suddenly, the hatch clicked open.

  Nathan pulled it back. Inside, Mahoney was collapsed, face blackened, with two kids huddled in the corner and a mother covered in blood. Nathan jumped down into the basement and took out the children first, one under each arm, through a patio door and into the back garden, then turned a hose on them. The youngsters were spluttering and crying and shaking.

  “Where’s Mommy? Where’s my daddy?” the youngest girl screamed.

  Nathan was breathing hard and still coughing. “Wait here.”

  He headed back into the smoke-filled kitchen, crawled along the floor, and jumped into the dark basement. He picked up Mahoney’s unconscious wife and slung her over his shoulder, climbed out, and carried her out to the back garden. Blood was dripping from his hands from the gunshot wound to her leg.

  “Call 911 now!” he shouted to the kids.

  The eldest daughter pulled out a phone. “My battery’s dead!”

  “Fuck!”

  He laid Mahoney’s wife on the lawn and the children doused her leg with water.

  Nathan jumped back down into the basement and dragged out Mahoney. He pulled him outside, and his kids hosed his face for a few seconds. He spluttered to life.

  Mahoney stared up at Nathan as he gasped for air. Tears filled his eyes as he held his wife.

  Nathan handed Mahoney the dead operative’s cell phone. “Find out what’s on that. This guy was sent from the Canadian facility.”

  Mahoney took the phone, blinking away tears.

  Nathan took one long, final look at the Mahoneys.

  “You saved us,” Mahoney said. “Why?”

  Nathan didn’t answer. He just turned away. Headed down the path at the side of the house as smoke billowed out of the rear. He jumped in the operative’s station wagon and started up the engine.

  He drove into the night, not turning around or glancing in the mirror, back along dark, deserted Montauk Highway.

  Fifty-Five

  Berenger was ushered through the warren of tunnels underneath the Toronto facility by two security personnel. He was shown into a windowless room. Inside, sitting behind a desk, was a withered man with rheumy eyes.

  The man indicated the chair opposite, and Berenger sat down.

  Berenger stared at the man opposite. He wondered if this was Fisk. He was maybe in his eighties, possibly older. His skin was sun scarred and mahogany brown. But his suit hung limply on him.

  The man sighed. “He killed them all.”

  Berenger said nothing.

  “Does that surprise you?”

  “Of course it surprises me. I mean . . . everyone?”

  “Everyone . . . apart from you.” The man’s gaze settled on him, letting the words sink in. “Why do you think that is?”

  “Why do I think what is?”

  “Why do you think you’re the only one left?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “The only one . . . Do you know how the others died?”

  “Yes, I’ve just been told. Terrible.”

  “Nathan Stone is out of control.”

  “His behavior patterns the last time, the way it all went to shit, should have been a warning.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, his handler on this job contacted me shortly before he went missing to say he’d conveyed his doubts to Clayton as to Nathan’s suitability, or more to the point, his lack of suitability.”

  “Hang on, the handler on this job, McKeevit, spoke to you about this?”

  “Yeah, and apparently Clayton didn’t listen to his concerns.”

  The man leaned back in his seat, stroking his chin. “The five original members of the Commission have all been neutralized by that fuck.”

  Berenger nodded.

  “By that one man. I say man . . . I don’t know if I can call him that.”

  “Do we know where he is?”

  “No. But his sister’s back in the nuthouse in Florida.”

  “Psychiatric hospital would be more accurate.”

  “Whatever.”

  “So there are no plans to take her again to punish him?”

  The man shook his head. “Look where that got us. To the verge of extinction.”

  “Fair point.”

  “The question is, Where do we go from here? I mean, we have several highly skilled operatives within this facility, but none of them have the experience of working at the highest levels. It might take the better part of a year to get a new team in place to restart this operation.”

  Berenger wondered where the man was going with this.

  “Which leaves us with a major headache. Well, actually, it leaves us with several headaches. First, Mahoney is still alive. He knows too much. And that’s not good. Because we needed that fuck out of the way to clear the ground ahead of the forthcoming spectacular. But Nathan dragged it out, stalling, trying to figure out how to extricate himself from it. And he succeeded. Against all odds. So that’s a problem.”

  Berenger nodded.

  “Second, we have no executive in place, no command and control structure if you will. They’ve all been taken out. Third, we still have Nathan unaccounted for. I believe—at least, this is what I’m hearing through the cops—that Nathan neutralized one of our best operatives in the Hamptons.”

  “Listen, I’m a psychologist. This command-and-control thing isn’t my area of expertise, as you know.”

  The man was quiet for a few moments. “True. That said, we had an unbelievably qualified team in place, and Nathan Stone single-handedly laid waste to them. To the whole fucking thing. I mean . . . there has to be retribution.”

  Berenger allowed the man to say what he had to say.

  “Are you psychoanalyzing me? Is that what this is?”

  “Not at all. Just taking stock of what you’re saying. It is without question a huge fuck-up.”

  The man pointed at Berenger. “I like that kind of talk. That’s the sort of straight talking I like.”

  “Look, I’m not exactly sure what you called me in here for.”

  “The operation, which is imminent now—we don’t have a lead for it. I want you, Mark, to see this through until its conclusion.”

  Berenger was stunned as he tried to come to terms with what the man had said.

  “You’re former CIA, you’ve operated in this world, you’re aware of the sensitivities, and you’re scrupulously fair. Sharp. But you adhere to one of our central tenets.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You believe in American hegemony. You believe passionately that we have to intervene, mold, and sculpt events for the greater good. You believe our country needs to do what is necessary in the shadows to keep us at the forefront of this world. And for that we need access to resources. Consider if we weren’t intervening around the world. China and Russia and Iran would smell blood. They smelled blood in Syria. They intervened. And we were caught unawares.”

  Berenger sighed. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “All you need is to be locked in here until this is over, overseeing the events.”

  “I had planned to head back home.”

  “We want you to assume overall responsibility. And we’re well placed to offer you whatever it takes.”

  Berenger was already being paid a high six-figure sum for the three-month contract. “I don’t know.”

  “What don’t you know?”

  “This isn’t what I do.”

  “I get that. But the plans are all in place. We have people here. We just need someone to oversee everything. Clayton was the overseer. And I want you to be my overseer on this, to make decisions you feel are best for the operation.”

  Berenger shrugged. “Why not you?”

  “I’m t
oo busy dealing with the fallout, liaising with various intelligence agencies, to become the operation head. So that leaves you, Mark.”

  Berenger took a few moments to consider his situation. “And the plans are in place? Time scales, objectives?”

  “Every hour is planned. You just need to sit, listen, and watch. Chances are it will work without any input from you at all.”

  “My wife and kids will be expecting me tomorrow night.”

  “You’ll be with them, all things being equal, in a week. We have two patsies we’re going to drop on the Canadians. Islamist sympathizers in Toronto. Misdirection afterward, confusion, fog of war, all that stuff.”

  “What if the Canadians want to find out what’s inside this place?”

  “We have a cover story just in case.”

  “I’m not fond of the idea of being in here if it all goes to shit.”

  “This facility has been designed in compartments. We could invite them in and show them what we want them to see. Two-thirds of the facility is underground.”

  Berenger’s mind was racing. He felt obligated to step in. He was a patriot. He believed in American hegemony. The security of the West relied on American might, power, and reach. He couldn’t abide the doctrine of nonintervention, isolationism, advocated by some. Including the late Senator Crichton. It was dangerous to America, its interests, and those of its allies. But perhaps more than anything, the position would give him a chance to be privy to any decisions about how to neutralize Nathan. His mind raced as he began to imagine how it would work. He began to imagine having such power over Nathan. A man he was fascinated with. Even obsessed with. Since the first meeting, Berenger had kept a private diary of every meeting he’d had with Nathan. How he looked, spoke, behaved. His mannerisms. The lingering icy stare. This role would be a unique opportunity to be part of the inner circle at a crucial time. His private diary would become a momentous record of their extraordinary relationship, which had spanned years.

  The more he thought about the chance to influence actions to bring Nathan down, the more excited he got.

  It now seemed as if everything that had happened was for a reason. So he could be the one to decide if Nathan would live or die. And how he would die. That in itself was intriguing. They had always sought his opinion. But he never had the last word. He wanted the last word. To know that he was the one who would decide how to neutralize Nathan.

  He began to fantasize. He needed experts who would guide him. What would they recommend? Would he lay a trap for Nathan? Would it be a simple fall? The kind that Nathan understood.

  “I want to make you an offer,” the man said.

  “What kind of offer?”

  “It’s a one-time, one-week offer, and it means you have to oversee this operation, including the days ahead.”

  Berenger pondered on this.

  “Now I understand you might have misgivings. But I have faith that you are the right man for this. I have faith in you. And you’ve been integral to several of our operations.”

  “Nathan’s inclusion has brought us to the edge of the precipice,” Berenger said. “My specialty is the mind, the motivations driving men, but what we’re facing is not just this oncoming operation. It’s the outstanding matter of Mahoney still loose, the neutralizing of this facility’s operative, and Nathan Stone himself as a wild card. This is not good. Look, my contract is for three months. I knew my responsibilities.”

  “I haven’t mentioned money. You have a young family. Commitments. College tuition.”

  “I’m comfortable.”

  “I want you to feel very comfortable. Ten million dollars tax-free. Cayman special account.”

  Berenger whistled. “Just for a week?”

  The man nodded. “I have to warn you, there can be no contact between you and your family, or anyone else for that matter, over the next week. Am I clear?”

  “That’s not a problem.”

  “Good. We’ll get a message to your wife.”

  Berenger felt his heart beginning to race. “OK, I’m in.”

  The man smiled. “You’ve had an inkling about the forthcoming parallel operation I’m assuming.”

  “I knew something was afoot. Is it someone on the list?”

  “The list was updated two months ago. This man is an addition. We began to assess our capability in the light of the damage done by Nathan. And we realized the glaring omission of this target, who has been advocating something very similar to Senator Brad Crichton—protectionism, withdrawing from NATO, becoming friends with Russia.”

  Berenger nodded.

  “We have devised a very elegant plan for this man. We looked at his medical records, and something caught our eye. A condition of his. We believe it is imperative that the target, a very high-profile Canadian, is silenced. And that’s why we were relying on Nathan Stone. Ideally, we wanted Mahoney out of the way first. Get him out of the way before the main event. Clear the ground. So Mahoney wouldn’t get suspicious and think to link the death with our other dealings in Canada and around the world. Sadly, it’s not turning out that way. But we’ll deal with that. We’ll get to him. Sooner rather than later.”

  “This Canadian is the next hit?”

  “He’s a big fish. We had considered suspending our operations. But we decided to go forward. What you need to know now is that the Commission will never die. It will continue no matter what. We have tentacles across the military, intelligence, and political spheres. And we will go on. We have plans. Big plans. Long-term goals.”

  “Killing Clayton and the others wasn’t the end of it?”

  The man shook his head. “Absolutely not. Everyone can be replaced. We have some top-notch operatives that we can deploy on any continent at twenty-four hours’ notice. Nathan can be replaced. And yes, even Clayton. That’s why we’re reaching out to you, Berenger. You will chair the Commission.”

  Berenger sighed as he contemplated the magnitude of what he was being asked.

  “You need to get up to speed.”

  Berenger felt a surge of adrenaline through his body. “I have the final say?”

  “Of course.”

  “Have I got the power to pull the plug if I feel it’s necessary?”

  “Absolutely. You are the overseer.”

  “Where do I sign?”

  “Nothing to sign. I’ll transfer two million dollars to the Caymans within the hour. And eight million more on successful completion.”

  “Who’s the target?”

  The man smiled. “You’ll find out.”

  “When?”

  The man leaned over and shook his hand. “Soon. In the meantime, come with me.”

  Berenger got up from his seat and followed the man down a narrow corridor, past security guards, then into a further biometric screening zone. He wondered if they were headed into an operations room. But instead he was shown into a huge windowless room with a one-way mirror.

  He walked up to the mirror and stood beside the man. On the other side of the glass was a woman doing sit-ups and squat thrusts in what looked like a glorified boxing gym.

  The man turned and smiled. “This is Deshi.”

  “Who is she?”

  “She’s an assassin. From Chechnya.”

  Fifty-Six

  It was midafternoon amid bright sunshine when Nathan pulled up at a diner outside Pittsburgh. He’d stopped off at a motel in New Jersey and grabbed a few hours’ sleep. Ditched the car he’d taken from the dead operative he killed in the Hamptons and stole another, a Honda SUV, from a hotel parking lot in downtown Trenton. Now he was feeling refreshed but in dire need of sustenance.

  He pulled up a stool at the counter and ordered a gigantic late breakfast. Pancakes, eggs, home fries, toast, hash, waffles, washed down with Coke. He wolfed it all down. Then he had apple pie and ice cream and two black coffees.

  The waitress was fiddling with the TV remote and switched it to Fox News. A female reporter was standing outside a house in East Hampton, police
tape flapping in the wind.

  Nathan leaned in close to the waitress. “Can you turn that up, honey?”

  The waitress turned up the volume.

  The reporter said, “Police sources believe a home invasion at this colonial house not far from beautiful East Hampton was the cause of this horrific incident. The family, believed to be that of a journalist from the New York Times, whose identity is being withheld at this time, were enjoying a vacation when their lives were cruelly violated. It’s thought they hid in a cellar basement as the attacker tried to burn them out of their hiding place. Thankfully, the family managed to fight back, wounding the unnamed attacker in the eye, allowing the family to escape. The attacker is believed to have perished in the blaze, his charred remains found in the vicinity of the kitchen by horrified cops who rushed to the scene.”

  Nathan listened intently. It was clear that Mahoney and his wife hadn’t told the police the full story. And the cops had assumed it was just a violent home invasion.

  The more he thought about it, the more he began to question his actions. First, killing the men who had sought to control him. The consequences were obvious for him. He was facing the possibility they would kill his sister whether or not he assassinated Mahoney. That, for him, had been the deciding factor. He’d come to the realization that it would be in their interests to disappear him and his sister permanently once Mahoney was out of the way. They had left him no choice.

  Nathan’s mind flashed back to the killing of Stanton. It was a cold-blooded way to end the guy’s life. Did he feel bad about it? On reflection he felt Stanton, like Clayton Wilson and the three other men he’d blown up on the Upper East Side, had gotten what was coming to him. Live by the sword, die by the sword.

  “You want more coffee, honey?” the waitress behind the counter asked.

  “I’m good, thanks.” He paid the check and left a ten-dollar tip, then left.

  Nathan got into the SUV and headed off. He made a call to the psychiatric facility on the edge of the Everglades.

  A man answered. “Everglades Psychiatric Hospital.”

  “Looking to speak to the director.”

  “Who’s calling?”

  Nathan said, “I’m calling about my sister, Helen Stone, who was taken out of the facility a few days back. This is urgent.”