A Present For Santa

by James Burke

  "Mr. Conners, I have an interesting answer to your requirement."

  "Yes?"

  "Yeah. My man ran into a buzz saw, but, luckily, he knew how to handle it as he'd been there before. Anyway he -"

  "Wait a minute. What's that mean? Buzz saw?"

  "I mean when my Washington man passed your requirement to his Pentagon contact, the contact almost shit. It seems he'd had the same request for the same check on the same two names a year ago. Y'see, this guy at the Pentagon - the contact - is old; my man is new, and his predecessor simply passed the contact on to him. The earlier checks were ordered by that predecessor - who's no longer with us, if you know what I mean."

  "Yeah. I follow you. But what's that about the buzz saw and why were there no Corporation records of that earlier Pentagon check?"

  "One at a time, Mr. Conners. The buzz saw was his description - the contact's - of what happened when he floated an inquiry last year. All hell broke loose. He was called into a top headman's office and chewed out. Lucky this guy can talk as fast as he can think and did a pretty good job of spinning a cover story, so they bought it."

  "But then there was no buzz saw this time?"

  "No, that's right."

  "Well, did he check?"

  "Sure, but he did it on his own. Didn't ask anybody. He got at both files, but there wasn't anything there but biographical data; nothing about their Pentagon assignments; nothing dated beyond their entrance on duty date at the Pentagon."

  "So what's it mean?"

  "The contact says it means that these two guys were probably assigned to a top secret task force in the Defense Department. From very little fact, some rumor, and some educated guessing, the contact says it might well be 'Squad C,' which is an action unit that works on foreign terrorists, hijackers, illicit munitions traffickers, and the like. It's a real hush-hush outfit."

  "Squad C?"

  "Yeah. It originally was the 'CRAF Squad.' It stands for Counter Revolutionary Attack Force, or something like that. Anyway, that's as far as it was safe to go. Our contact won't be able to get anything else, although he could figure out from the records that one guy, Morley, was with this Squad C over five years. The other guy only about two years. He said Squad C was a real elite outfit, whatever that means."

  "Any indication they knew each other?"

  "My man asked that very question, and the contact said there was no way he could tell. He didn't know how many people were in it or how well they were compartmented. He just couldn't say."

  "Not to worry. I think you've given me just what I need. One more thing, though. Why, do you think, was there no Corporation record of that earlier Pentagon check request?"

  "That's easy, Mr. Conners. The Washington man who's no longer with us - well, he was a close friend of Dante Cappacino."

  "I see. Yeah, I see. Well, thanks a lot. You've really been a big help. I'll be in touch if there're any loose ends."

  "Anytime. Ciao."

  Conners was still staring thoughtfully at the phone he'd put down, when it rang. "Mr. Conners?"

  "Speaking." The other voice was familiar, but before he could place it, the mystery was solved for him.

  "This is Savilli. 'He' wants to talk to you."

  Mr. Henry came on, the strength and magnetism of his personality evident even through the miles of wire and micro­ waves. "Ah, Dennis, how are you?"

  "Just fine sir, and you?"

  "Fine." He hesitated, then continued with just a hint of good humor. "I hope I'll feel even better after you tell me how things stand."

  "I believe you will, sir. We've narrowed it down to two men. Incidentally sir, your personnel chief and his staff have been most helpful, as you said they would be."

  ''I'm delighted to hear that." He sounded as if he really were.

  "These two men, sir, both live and work around here. They both have exactly the kind of background we figure Santa has to have; both had access to Dante, and both fit the description of Dante's young friend. Dante spent money and time checking them out, and I think he hired one of them to be his bagman partner.''

  "Why not both?"

  "No reason, sir. I mean he could have hired them both, but still only one is Santa. But I don't think he hired two of them, sir, because he only needed one, and he was a stickler for security. Why tell another man your secrets if you don't have to?"

  "So now you have to pick one. Which one is this Santa man, huh?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "What about taking both of them for a 'boat ride' and persuading them to open up?"

  "I think that should be our last resort, sir. They're both professional intelligence and counterintelligence officers and we have no idea of what they might have in the way of plans, contacts, 'special arrangements' in case of disappearance, all that sort of thing. If we spook them or 'dispose' of them too soon we may wind up like we did with Dante - two corpses and still no books and money. I feel strongly, sir, that we should know a lot more about them before we decide which is which and how to handle it."

  The old man chuckled. "You sure you don't want to go back and finish the law school, Dennis? You would be murder, so to speak, in front of the jury."

  Conners laughed too. "No sir, I think I'll just stay out of courtrooms."

  The old man really belly-laughed at that. "Yeah. See that you do. Now, how are you approaching this Santa man problem with these two?"

  "Penetration of their personal lives. We've bugged both their homes and phones. I've got a maid into one guy's house three times a week, and I've got a girl working on the other one."

  "Who are these people?"

  "The maid's a girl Sal Krupa has known for years. She's very good, and she's done exactly this kind of job before. The other girl I brought in from Chicago. She's new, but very smart and very beautiful and very reliable."

  "How'd you set them up?"

  "Well, sir, this guy Roamer has a maid - his wife is not home much. Sal persuaded the maid that she should 'have to go to California' for a couple months and that she should recommend a 'close friend' as her substitute. You know the routine, sir. It worked like a charm."

  The old man chuckled. "Yeah, I know. It's old but good. How about the other one? What's his name?"

  "Morley. Yes sir, I guess this routine's as old as the other one and just about as good. Morley is a lonely bachelor and the girl's a beauty. We just arranged to have them meet and let nature take its course."

  "And you're sure of both girls." "Yes, sir, all the way."

  "Good. Good. Yes, I like that. Now, Dennis, have either of these men given any signs that they have our money and our books? You know, any indication they're getting ready to leave town?"

  "No sir, not really. But that's another funny thing. One guy, Morley, just recently went to work for a travel agency in Palm Beach, and what does he do as soon as he goes to work? He makes a business trip to Europe. We're checking back through the airline company but I'll take odds he went to Switzerland. And the other guy! He's made five boat runs to the Bahamas in the past month, and at least twice he's anchored in at a little private, deserted island overnight. So you see, sir, they both still qualify. I'm hoping the girls can solve the riddle for us soon."

  "I hope so, Dennis. But you're right; I do feel better after talking to you. Sounds like you're running an efficient and sensible operation. My experience is that these usually succeed. And Dennis -"

  "Yes sir."

  "Remember this is a personal favor for me. I will not forget your hard work." Then he chortled ever so slightly. "Especially if it's successful."

  "Yes sir."

  "Good-bye, Dennis."

  "Good-bye, sir."

  11

  Jammy was worried. In his business, no news was bad news, and he hadn't heard a peep from Jersey since the phone call from Savilli telling him to have Conners come North. He'd asked Conners to call him on his return and Conners had done it. At the time Jammy thought this was a good sign - at least Mr. Henry hadn't cut him off
to that extent - but as the days wore on with no communication from the top, his concern increased. Conners, in accord with the instructions Jammy had given him, was regular and prompt in his telephone reports, and they seemed to be on the right track. Jammy hoped it wasn't too late, but his instincts told him it was. Because of the territorial lines he'd had to go to Mr. Henry - via Savilli, of course, that fucking zombie - to get an okay to hit that doctor in Washington. Tommy Winona - maybe Mario was right about him - had learned from a contact at the hospital that there was a stink brewing over the Ernie Pro hit. Some nurse had smelled a rat, and then they'd done a quick autopsy. Winona's contact said they had discovered who the doctor was. He'd been seen by the nurse coming out of the old broad's room just before she croaked. So he'd had to tell Jersey the whole story, admitting that the doc was a weak sister who wouldn't stand up to very much, if any, pressure, and asked for the okay to shut the simple asshole up permanently. He hadn't heard about that yet either.

  The phone buzzed. "Jammy?"

  "Who the fuck ya think it was?"

  "I’m sorry. There's a long distance call from Tommy Winona in Washington. Shall I put him on?"

  "Of course, you simple bitch. Put him on."

  A click, and Tommy’s guttural voice came on. "Jammy. How ya doin’out there?"

  "Okay. What's up, Tommy?"

  "Just thought you'd wanta know, the doc is gone."

  "What the fuck you talkin' about? Gone where?"

  "I mean dead! Gone! He was killed last night when his car went through a guardrail and hit a tree on the G.W. Parkway."

  "An accident?"

  "Yeah, Tommy, some timing." Jammy could smell that one from Chicago, but let Tommy accept it at face value. He'd never understand, anyway. They chatted a few more· minutes, then Jammy closed it out. "Okay, Tommy, thanks for keeping me posted. Appreciate it."

  "No sweat, Jammy. See ya later."

  Now Jammy was more than worried. He was close to panic. He knew as well as he knew his father's name that the Jersey guys had wasted the doc, ignoring him completely. This was the final insult. His stock was at rock bottom and it was time to cut and run. He buzzed on the intercom. "Yeah, Jammy."

  "C'min here a minute."

  The door opened and Sandy entered. An uncharacteristic wave of affection, totally without passion - at the moment, anyway - swept over Jammy. She was a sweet kid, not heavy on the smarts, but loyal and honest, at least with him, which was what counted now. He made his mind up. "Honey, I want you to go to the bank next door and draw out our business account. Don't close it - that'll take too much time - leave fifty bucks in it. How much we got?"

  "Right now?"

  "Right now."

  "Thirty-seven thousand, four hundred six dollars and fifty­ eight cents."

  He smiled for the first time that day, reaching out to pat her rosy cheek affectionately. "Now how the hell do you know that?"

  "I write it down every morning and subtract checks at the end of the day. I don't want you to get mad again."

  He chuckled, and gave her a light kiss, remembering the time she'd made the five thou mistake and they'd ended up with a check bouncing, which was a number one no-no in Corporation cover business practices. She'd been damn careful since then. It had taken a couple weeks for that black eye to heal to the point where she was presentable again. No way did she want another outburst like that.

  "Okay. Take out all but fifty and get it in big bills - half hundreds and half fifties. Then take five thou of that and get traveler's checks in your name. I'll meet you in the lobby coffee shop in thirty minutes. That should give you plenty of time. Okay?"

  "Sure, Jammy. I'm on my way."

  "And, Sandy . . ."

  "Yeah?"

  "Don't phone anybody, don't go anywhere but the bank, and don't get in any conversations in the bank or the coffee shop. Just do what I said and wait for me. Got it?"

  "Yes, Jammy. We leaving for good?"

  He glanced up sharply. The sweet broad wasn't all dumb. "You bet your ass, honey, as far and as fast as we can."

  "Good. See you at the coffee shop," She picked up her coat and boots and left. Matthewson just stood there shaking his head for a minute. He'd just seen a new Sandy. He wasn't sure whether he liked it as well as the old one.

  Matthewson opened the wall safe and shoveled everything in it into a briefcase. He took a small suitcase out of the closet and started throwing in nightclothes and underclothes (his and her office supplies), along with the contents of the medicine cabinet in the bathroom off his office. Then he did the hard part. He called Savilli in New Jersey and told him about the doc, saying with a laugh he hoped didn't sound too forced that they could cancel his request for a hit. Savilli said okay, he'd pass on the word, and rang off. Jammy grimaced to himself. Those assholes really had a high opinion of his smarts, didn't they. The fuckers didn't even give him credit for figuring out the doc's "accident." Oh, well, shit! At least it would get them a day or so start before that fire-eyed guinea fucker from New Jersey set his bloodhounds after them. A day might be all he'd need. He had the two phoney passports and over seventy-five g's in cash, and they could go a long way before tomorrow morning. And then, when things cooled off just a little, he could slip into Switzerland and get at that beautiful "retirement fund" he'd been building for so many years. He smiled to himself. Sometimes it's good if your enemies don't think you're too smart. He'd show those cocksuckers. In a couple days he'd be down on some South American beach with a new identity, watching those gook broads with the big tits, just like in the travel folders. And they'd be sticking their noses into passenger lists an' wondering why he wasn't on 'em.

  And then there was Sandy. He salivated and touched himself at the prospect of all that free time to ride that gorgeous pony. No more hiding in motels or office fucking. Hell, he might even marry her if that's what the sweet, dumb little broad wanted. Fuck Gina and fuck her private eyes. Let those mothers find him now.

  Jammy was sitting in the coffee shop when Sandy came in from the bank. She was all business, but she showed breathless excitement when she recited how she'd followed his orders to a T. Jammy kissed her cheek right there in public and didn't give a damn who saw it, then he picked up the suitcase and they took an elevator down to the parking garage. They got to Jammy's car quickly and he put the bag in the trunk. He admired the car as he uncharacteristically opened the door for Sandy, who was standing by it and waiting, also uncharacteristically, in ladylike fashion. God, how he was gonna hate leaving this beautiful hunk of metal behind. Thirty-seven thou' worth of the best European craftsmanship. Drove like a dream and rode like a limo. He loved it. Maybe he should leave it. Take a cab. No, hell, that wouldn't work. He planned to drive to Milwaukee, leave it in a lot somewhere downtown, take a cab to the Milwaukee airport, and disappear from there. This might even buy them another day or so. Besides, even if he left it here - safe in this garage - how the fuck would he ever get it back again? Yeah, let's go as we planned. He went around to the other side, got in, put the key in the ignition, and turned it.

  Martin Garrett stopped to relieve himself in the men's room before going to his parking place. He told all his friends later (as many times as they'd tolerate) that he'd been just one little piss away from eternity that day. As he came out of the lavatory door he could see that chubby dark guy who parked next to him getting into that flashy foreign car, then before he could take three steps the world became red, white, orange, and yellow, and a massive wall of sound and hot air slammed him back against the wall, knocking his glasses off and his wind out of him. Writhing and gasping on the floor, Garrett could see the burning, smoking mass of twisted metal that seconds ago had been his car, then he realized with a shock that the car next to it had almost disintegrated. The chubby man! Garrett struggled to his feet, still gasping for breath, and ran for the elevator.

  12

  That same Thursday afternoon Morley walked along the beach, heading north into a breeze that threatened to
become a brisk wind. It was far from chilly, but his light sweatshirt felt good. The mass of Canadian air that was giving ulcers to the citrus and vegetable growers up in the northern part of the state was putting a little bite in the breeze even this far south. But Morley scarcely noticed the weather; he was too busy running his mind at full speed. He had a lot to think about, and he feared that time was getting short.

  The second European trip had gone off as smoothly as the first. To Paris, on to Switzerland, again without going through French customs; Willi's boys at Zurich waved him through airport formalities with lots of smiles, and then he had made the final deposit in the Swiss bank. He could afford to relax with a walk on the beach. Morley smiled to himself as he remembered Willi. Same as ever: coldly formal on the outside, warm and generous on the inside. Willi had seemed truly pleased to see him, and, as Morley had figured, even happier to be able to do a favor for him. Morley had almost forgotten how rank functioned in most European countries. A friend of Willi's was an immediate VIP. Willi himself was obviously a highly respected and well-liked officer, but he left no doubt as to his expectations regarding the perquisites of his station in life. His subordinates reacted accordingly. And never a question! Willi took a friend on faith alone.

  And then the bad news. Terry had called yesterday. He'd just received an alert from his contact in the Pentagon. Somebody had rustled the leaves around Morley's old cellar door ­ not enough to cause a problem, but sufficient to show a coincidental interest that turned on lights in the contact's head. He thought it might be the same guy who'd made some more open inquiries about a year before, using some trumped-up reasons to explain his interest in Morley's unit and records. The "rustler" was more subtle this time, and if the man hadn't been warned to be on the lookout, the sniffing around might well have gone unnoticed. As far as Terry's contact knew, the guy didn't get anything, but of course that was something in it­ self - he did learn that Morley's personnel file was unavailable.

  Morley wasn't too upset by this - he had expected something of the sort sooner or later - but the fact that it was so soon had put a few of his hackles in a state of permanent erection. He had figured that the opposition was good and that they'd eventually tighten the list down to a few solid suspects, one of whom would be him, and then they'd go to work on these suspects. But he sure as hell hadn't figured they'd accomplish it quite so fast. It was a bit scary. Of course, he didn't know how many others were still in the running or how much meat they had to feed their suspicions concerning him. But this he knew: if they were willing to take risks like redoing that Pentagon check, then they were damn serious about him already, and his time was running out fast. He decided he'd better step up his timetable a bit, but not too much, because he'd felt from the start that it was important to maintain a slow, easy, and routine type of existence and not startle anybody with sudden moves until the big one.