by J. B. Turner
“He used to quote the same passage to me, sir.”
Black laughed. “I bet he did. My point is, the CIA is allowed to conduct operations that are secret, insomuch as our country’s national security is at risk or is perceived to be at risk. And entities like the Commission fall under that umbrella. Your idea was brilliant. Americans can’t know everything that’s going on. How could they? They’re too busy enjoying their liberty and freedom. But getting back to the Commission, we are clear that it shall remain intact—”
“Even in its current form?”
A pause. “We will consider all options. But only after this mission is complete.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Tell me, Catherine—and I won’t keep you too long, since I know you have pressing matters to deal with down in Florida—you know the gentleman in Wyoming quite well, don’t you?”
Hudson shifted in her seat, surprised at the question. “Fisk? He’s an old family friend, sir. I think I explained that at the outset.”
“You did indeed. And that made your proposal all the more persuasive. Fisk is a patriot. A true American.” Black sighed. “I remember your grandfather mentioned that Fisk’s own father, a Texas oilman, had made some gasoline invention way back in the day and became one of the country’s first billionaires. And a founder of the John Birch Society, apparently.”
Hudson went quiet. She wondered if Fisk’s power and influence, especially within the highest echelons of the CIA, were far more entrenched than she had imagined. She sensed from Black’s tone that any move to oust Fisk would not be countenanced. But why? Was Fisk untouchable? Slowly it began to dawn on her. How could she have been so stupid? Fisk wasn’t only a valuable CIA asset; he had probably been working for the Agency all along. Perhaps for decades. How could she have misread Fisk’s role? She had assumed he could be removed if and when she said so. But it was clear Fisk was not in any danger of losing his role. Far from it. She was the one who was actually at risk.
“Fisk’s father was a smart man,” Black said.
“Indeed he was, sir.”
“He saw earlier than just about anyone in America the threat from the Soviet Union, now Russia. But he also saw the threat from communism. He despised it. A visceral hatred of the state and state intervention. The same traits are there in his son, John Fisk Jr.”
Hudson said nothing.
“How well do you know Fisk?”
“Well . . . when I was younger I occasionally went with my grandfather on his visits to meet him down in Florida. Once in Wyoming.”
“What was your abiding memory?”
“I was allowed to get some chocolate ice cream. That’s all I was interested in.”
“Catherine, I’m glad you have a backup plan in place. My British friend Thomson is someone worth knowing.”
The abrupt change in topic threw her off balance once again, leaving her certain she’d said the wrong thing. “Yes, sir.”
“And when Stone and the woman are out of the picture, give me a call. We’ll draw up new plans for the Commission going forward.”
Hudson began to realize she was no longer calling the shots. It felt like a betrayal. An overwhelming sense of foreboding washed over her. “What kind of plans, sir?”
“You’ll see.”
The line went dead.
Forty-Three
Stone filled Barney’s pickup with gas, bought a pair of sunglasses, and headed north on US 1. He planned to return the vehicle to Barney, an hour’s drive away. Then he hoped Barney would be able to drop him back in the Lower Keys. If not, he could rent a car in nearby Islamorada before meeting up with Beatrice that night.
The truck’s window was down. The salty breeze felt good on his skin. He always loved driving on the Overseas Highway, the beautiful blue Gulf waters below. It felt like being suspended in time. He drove past Marathon and then farther up the Keys, past sleeping towns, villages, and roadside food shacks.
When he pulled up outside Barney’s home, he looked around. Nice, peaceful area. He locked the pickup and knocked on the front door.
Stone waited a few moments, since he knew Barney had suffered partial deafness in one ear after a shell exploded close to him in Vietnam. He knocked again. But still there was no answer.
Stone opened the mail slot and shouted, “Hey, Barney, you decent? I’m returning your pickup.”
He knocked a few more times. Still no answer.
He knew Barney liked to relax on his deck, maybe drinking a beer or two. Watching a ball game. He wondered whether he should just push the keys through the mail slot. Then again, he wanted to thank his friend.
Stone looked at the key ring and saw what looked like a front door key attached to it. He tried it in the lock, turned the handle, and the door opened. He assumed Barney had a spare set.
Stone looked around the hallway. “Barney, it’s Nathan. Sorry to barge in. Got your truck. Just dropping off your keys.”
Nathan headed into the living room. Looked around. It was all neat pastel colors. The smell of fresh furniture polish. He hadn’t figured Barney as the house-proud type.
“Barney, it’s Nathan. I’ve got your keys. I let myself in. You decent, you old bastard?”
Stone searched all over the house. No sign of Barney. He wondered if Barney had left in another vehicle. Had Barney gone for a drink at a local bar?
Stone headed out into the back garden and looked around. Neat lawn, high wooden fence. Wooden shed. No Barney.
He went back into the house. Headed into the utility room, where there was a washing machine and dryer and the door that led to the garage.
Stone turned the handle, but it was locked. He banged on the door. “Barney, it’s Nathan. You in there? You fall asleep?”
No answer.
Stone looked at the key ring. It held only the pickup keys and the front door key. He turned the handle again and pushed hard. But the door didn’t budge. He wondered if Barney had had a heart attack tinkering with one of the old engines he liked to repair. He shoved the door hard with his shoulder. It opened slightly. “Goddamn!”
He pushed harder and harder until the door to the garage began to give. He wondered what was jamming it. Was it Barney? Had he collapsed?
Stone’s gaze was drawn to a speck of red on the tiled floor. Had to be blood.
He pushed the door wider with all his strength. Inside the garage, curled in a ball against the door, was the bloodied and battered body of Barney.
Forty-Four
When Stone finally managed to get into the garage, he could see Barney had been wedged completely against the door. He stepped over Barney’s body and kneeled down beside his friend’s lifeless form. His mouth was twisted, as if he were in pain. His eyes were bloodshot and wide, staring at something in horror. Stone could see stab wounds to the throat and neck. Barney’s fingers crushed and bloodied. Stone turned and saw a workbench vise. Had his hands been placed in that? His head?
Stone felt his initial physiological reaction moving from shock to raw anger. A dark, terrible anger was brewing deep within him. Jolts of adrenaline rushing into his body.
The Commission had murdered Barney. It had to be them. They had managed to track Stone and Beatrice to the Keys after all. How was that possible? Barney was always careful to make sure he wasn’t being followed. Had they been followed from the moment Barney picked them up on Sombrero Beach in Marathon?
Stone replayed the scene again and again in his head and wondered how that could have been possible. There was no one there. Just that stoner kid.
The more he thought about it, the more he realized they had somehow seen Stone come ashore in the Keys. How, he didn’t know. But they had. Somehow.
It would have been relatively straightforward to follow Barney to his house. But he couldn’t remember any car following them. None at all. Was there some surveillance footage in or around Sombrero Beach that had been triggered with facial recognition software? Was that it? Fuck.
But
then why kill Barney? As a warning for Stone? Or were they just getting their kicks? Maybe they hadn’t expected Stone to turn up at Barney’s door so soon. Barney had obviously been tortured. Because they wanted to find out what he knew? How Barney knew Stone?
He stared down at the grizzled, battered, bloodied, twisted mess that had been his friend. Stone didn’t do friends as a rule, but he wouldn’t hesitate to call Barney one.
“I’ll find the fuckers who did this, Barney,” he said. Stone peered into his friend’s blank, dead eyes, feeling terrible that Barney had suffered for helping him out. “You have my word.”
Stone headed back into the house and looked around. He went upstairs and into a bedroom. There was a picture of Barney as a young man in Vietnam, smoking a cigarette. On the back of the photo it simply said, Mekong Delta, 1967. Other pictures beside his bed showed him with his wife and daughter, both of whom had been estranged from him for years, according to Barney.
Stone stared out of the back bedroom window to the neat garden and the sun-bleached lawn. A feeling of dread washed over him. He wondered if they had tracked down Beatrice too. But Barney didn’t know about the beach house in Cudjoe. That was something.
His gaze was drawn to the shed at the bottom of the garden. He remembered Barney had said it was his work base where he repaired old bikes. He made a few bucks doing that. Barney was a Harley-Davidson fanatic. He loved everything about the bikes. The machinery. The care and attention to detail. But more than anything, he loved the fact that the bikes were 100 percent American made. Barney was a true patriot. That he died in such circumstances was killing Stone inside. He was responsible.
He headed outside to the back garden to get some fresh air. He walked up to the shed and tried the handle. It was locked. He wanted to see inside more out of curiosity than anything. He headed back inside to the utility room. A rusty key with a piece of string attached to it hung from a nail on a plasterboard wall.
Stone took the key, which opened the creaking door of the shed. Inside, he saw a workbench. Lying around it were welding goggles, a digital radio, and some oily rags. In the corner was the tarp that had covered Stone and Beatrice the previous night in the pickup.
Nathan pulled back the tarpaulin, revealing a 1980s Harley-Davidson with state trooper paint and markings. Hanging on a nail was a garment bag. He unzipped it. Inside was an old-style motorcycle cop uniform.
Stone wondered how Barney had managed to keep hold of this gear after he was let go from the force for excessive drinking. Had the cops allowed him to keep the motorcycle as a memento? Then again, maybe he’d bought it all on eBay. Thinking back to better days.
Stone flashed back to the first time he’d met Barney. It was a decade earlier. A bar in Key West. Barney had got to talking. Stone didn’t want to talk. Eventually, Barney had bought him a drink. Stone felt compelled to buy him one back. Within a couple of hours, they were sharing stories about the army. Stone listened as Barney talked about Vietnam. The terror of night patrols. Being eaten alive by ants. Trapped in jungle firefights. Scared out of his wits. They had kept in touch after that until Stone had nearly drowned a few years back during that fucked-up operation in the Everglades that had ended with him getting plastic surgery in Saudi Arabia.
Stone’s mind snapped back to the present. He had been formulating a plan for getting Beatrice to safety. But Barney’s murder meant he would have to adjust his plans.
It was then, in that moment of reflection, that a germ of an idea began to form. It was rough. It was dangerous. It was a high-risk strategy. But the more he thought about it, the more excited he got.
Stone stood in the shed and looked around the confined space. He began to contemplate a move. A move that would get revenge for Barney. The high-risk strategy forming in his head at that moment was a way for him to escape from the Commission’s clutches. But it was also a way to get the bastards out of Beatrice’s life forever.
Suddenly, he could see the plan with staggering clarity. He mentally worked through the steps, closing his eyes as he envisioned each possible path and his response.
Stone pulled up a seat in the shed and sat in silence for nearly an hour, thinking and planning. Satisfied that he now knew what to do, he took out his cell phone and called his Cudjoe home.
“Hello?” Beatrice answered.
“Only me,” Stone said. “You back already?”
“Picked up what I needed and headed straight back. After what you said, I thought that would be the smart thing to do.”
Stone sighed. “Listen, do you still want to have a drink and bite to eat?”
“Yeah. Can we also talk about when I can finally go home? That’s top of my list. I need to see my daughter. My family.”
Stone cleared his throat. “Not a problem. We’ll talk about that. Absolutely.”
“I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. This is all very surreal.”
Stone said nothing.
“So, where do you have in mind?” she asked.
Stone cleared his throat. “There’s a really nice place. It’s called the No Name Pub. Big Pine Key.”
“Is this some sort of joke?”
“Seriously, that’s what it’s called. Cool place. It’s only about ten miles away from you.”
“What time?”
“Let’s make it nine p.m. So you should leave at eight forty-five.”
“That’s very precise.”
“I’m a precise person. That’s why we’re both still alive. Don’t leave until eight forty-five.”
“Is there any reason why I shouldn’t leave until then?”
A beat. “’Cause I say so. Plus, I don’t want you hanging around.”
“Got it.”
“What will you be wearing?” Stone asked.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“You got a T-shirt?”
“I’ve got a new floral-patterned dress.”
“What color are the shoes you’ll be wearing?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Simple question.”
“Are you messing with me?”
“No, I’m not messing with you. I’m asking you what shoes you’ll be wearing.”
“Have you got a fetish about shoes? Is that it?”
“Not at all. Can you answer my question?”
“Red flats. Happy?”
“Good,” Stone said. “Tell me again what the plan is?”
“Why?” she said. “You told me.”
“Just so I know you’re clear.”
“I’m headed to the No Name Pub on Big Pine Key, nine o’clock tonight. But I don’t leave until eight forty-five. Is that right?”
“Perfect.”
Beatrice sighed. “I so want to go home.”
“I know you do. And you will. Just be a little more patient. I’m working things out. Do you trust me?”
“I guess I’ll have to.”
“See you tonight.”
Forty-Five
De Boer sat in the back of a white van with three members of his team in a parking lot in Cudjoe, giving them an ideal line of sight to the beach house where the actress was staying. He checked the monitors for any sign of movement. But still nothing.
Two other teams were close by, awaiting instructions.
De Boer turned to Craig Thornton, who was looking pensive. “What are you thinking?”
Thornton had been South African special forces for nearly a decade. He was deep in thought. “I don’t know.”
“What’s the problem? I think this is shaping up nicely, don’t you?”
Thornton sighed. “Perhaps too nicely.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Nathan Stone is one of these guys who just seems to sense danger. He’s alert to it.”
“We tracked him down. We’ve got him in the kill box.”
“We don’t know where he is just now. Not defini
tively.”
“We know where he’s headed tonight. And the time and place. I’m happy with that.”
Thornton sat quietly, lost in his thoughts. “True.”
“He won’t be expecting us. The fact that he called the girl shows he’s let his guard down.”
Thornton sighed. “I hope you’re right, man.”
De Boer realized he was grinding his teeth. He wanted to wipe out both Stone and the girl and get back on a plane to South Africa. Finally wallow in the grief of losing Pieter.
Thornton stared out of a small window in the back of the van. “Kevin, how long have you known me?”
“A long time.”
“A long, long time. We know this stuff. And we’ve all met guys like Stone. We’re not too dissimilar from him. But he’s something else. I think we should’ve just killed the girl. And then gotten Stone. Separately. We could still do that. She’s in there.”
De Boer shook his head. “The element of surprise is what we have going in our favor. We know what time they’re meeting up tonight. He won’t know that we’ve traced her to this house. The strategy is perfect.”
“That’s where I think you’re wrong. By waiting till we think we have the right moment, we’re giving him more space to maneuver around us.”
“We’re creating the illusion that all is well. Tonight we get them both. At the same place. We will destroy this bastard once and for all. I hate the fucker. I want to rip his fucking head off.”
Thornton rubbed his face with his hands. “I don’t like it. I just don’t like it. Something feels wrong.”
“What exactly feels wrong?” de Boer snapped.
“Hey, chill, man. I just think you’re being too cautious.”
“Craig, you’ve been in this business as long as I have. One thing I’ve learned is tactical patience.”
“Don’t be giving me a goddamn lecture, man.”
“Fine. So let’s focus on the plan. We got the guys in place?”
“Yeah, one in the pub, two at the tables outside, and two more in an SUV nearby.”
