But he could no longer permit himself such moral leeway. The scope of the larceny proposed at this afternoon’s meeting obliterated any remaining doubt. Nicholas A. Neumann was standing on the dark side of the legal fence. He couldn’t lie to himself anymore. He had willingly abetted a criminal wanted by the drug enforcement authorities of several Western nations. He had lied to an agent of the United States government working to bring that man to justice. And now he stood on the brink of helping a bank commit an act of financial fraud unparalleled in recent history.
No more, Nick swore to himself. Like a bowstring drawn too far, he would spring reflexively in the opposite direction. He would make up for what he had done wrong. He thought for a minute about resigning his post, about running to the Swiss authorities. He imagined himself arriving at police headquarters brimming with good intentions, so eager to expose the corruption that was at this moment, Officer, devouring the United Swiss Bank. Nick laughed at himself. Some ploy! The word of an employee at the bank all of seven weeks, a foreigner in spite of his Swiss passport, pitted against that of Wolfgang Kaiser, the nearest thing to a folk hero this land of gold and chocolate had to offer.
Proof, young man! Where is your proof?
Nick laughed disconsolately, realizing that only one course of action was left open to him. He would have to stay at the bank and conduct his investigations from within. He would partition his soul and show Kaiser its dark side. He’d slip deeper into the evil tapestry being woven inside the Emperor’s Lair. And all the while, he’d keep an alert eye peeled for his moment. He didn’t know how or when. Just that he had to do everything within his power to obtain enough evidence of wrongdoing to warrant the freezing of the Pasha’s accounts.
Nick spun on his heels and walked up the rickety gangway. A pair of hungry swans and a lonely mallard followed him. He raised his head and noticed a black Mercedes sedan lolling at the curb. Before long, the passenger door opened and Sterling Thorne stepped out. He was wearing his trench coat, collar turned up against the cold.
“Hello, Neumann.” Thorne’s hands remained conspicuously in his pockets.
“Mr. Thorne.”
“Call me Sterling. I think it’s about time we became friends.”
Nick couldn’t smother a smile. “That’s okay. I’m happy with our relationship the way it is.”
“Sorry about that letter.”
“Does that mean you’ll take it back? Maybe toss in an apology?”
Thorne smiled grimly. “You know what we want.”
“What? To crucify the man I work for? To help sink United Swiss Bank?” Saying the words, knowing that yes, they were exactly what he himself had pledged to do, made Nick feel tired. Tired of defending the bank from Konig’s takeover. Tired of Thorne’s persistent interference. Tired of his own nagging doubts. Still, as if allergic to Thorne, he said, “Sorry, that isn’t going to happen.”
“I made myself a promise that we’re going to stay calm today,” Thorne said. “We aren’t going to argue like a couple of alley cats. You heard what I told Kaiser the other day. I saw by your eyes that you believed me.”
Christ, Nick thought, the guy never said die. “That was some scene you made up there. Uncle Sam would be real proud of you.”
“Sounded like an encyclopedia, didn’t I? All those dates and figures. Only stating the truth. I don’t enjoy hound-dogging you like this. It’s just my job.”
“Is blackmail part of your job, too?”
“If necessary,” said Thorne innocently, as if blackmail were just another form of friendly persuasion. “I’m sorry to hurt your feelings, but your pride means a damn sight less to me than getting my hands on Ali Mevlevi. I told you the other night about Jester—the agent we had in place next to Mevlevi.”
“Has he turned up yet?” Whoever Jester was, Nick felt for him. He’d been in the same lousy position.
“He hasn’t and we’re worried about him. Before he went under, Jester swore that your boss and Mevlevi were real close. Apparently, they go way back. Seems Mevlevi was one of your boss’s first clients in Beirut when Kaiser was setting up the bank’s office over there in the Middle East. I think I remember hearing Kaiser deny that, don’t you? How do you like your boss palling around with one of the biggest smugglers of heroin in this hemisphere?”
Nick didn’t like it one bit, but he’d be damned if he’d let Thorne know.”Let me stop you right here,” he said, placing a hand on the agent’s jacket.
Thorne grabbed his wrist and stepped closer to him. “You are working for a man who kisses the ass of the scum who killed his son! A low-life bastard who values money over his own blood. You are aiding and abetting the worst men on the face of this planet.”
Nick pulled his hand free and retreated several steps. His position was untenable. “Maybe you’re right, this guy, Mevlevi, the Pasha, whoever, is a major heroin smuggler and he does his banking at USB. I agree, that stinks. I’m on your side here. But do you expect me to rifle through the bank’s papers, to request duplicates of his transfer confirmations, to steal his mail from his post box?”
Thorne looked deeper into Nick’s eyes, as if he had spotted the glimmer of something promising. “I see you’ve been thinking about it.”
Nick’s carefully constructed defenses were crumbling. “It can’t be done,” he said. “Not by me, not by anyone, except Kaiser or Ott or one of that group. And even if I did get you the info, it’s illegal for me to turn it over. I’d go to jail.”
“We can get you to America on the next plane.”
“So you told me. And then what? I hear whistleblowers are warmly welcomed by corporate America.”
“We’d keep your name secret.”
“Bullshit!”
“Dammit, this is about more than your career at the bank.”
Thorne had never spoken truer words. “And what about Mevlevi himself, or his cohorts?” Nick asked. “You think they’re going to just let me go? If he’s as bad as you say, he’s not going to let me walk away, free and easy. If you want this guy so badly, why don’t you just get out there and arrest him?”
“I’ll tell you why. Because Mr. Mevlevi lives in Beirut and never comes out. Because we can’t crawl within ten miles of the Lebanese border without violating a dozen treaties. Because he’s got himself holed up in a compound with more firepower than the First Marine Division. That’s why! It’s a shitty situation. The only way we can get him is by freezing his money. We need your help to do that.”
Nick had already decided what needed to be done, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to invite Thorne along for the ride. Thorne was his cover. Nick didn’t want to be treated like one of the good guys. “Sorry, no go. I am not ruining my life so you can nail one of ten thousand bad guys out there. Now excuse me, I have to go.”
“Dammit, Neumann, I’m giving you the word of the United States government. We will protect you.”
The word of the United States government.
Nick tried to find an answer that would put off Thorne once and for all. But he had lost his concentration. He couldn’t stop Thorne’s pledge from reverberating in his head.
The word of the United States government. We will protect you.
He stared at Sterling Thorne and for just a second, he swore he was looking into the slack-jowled face of Jack Keely.
# # #
“Neumann, it’s good to see you here,” says Jack Keely. He is nervous, fidgeting on the balls of his feet. “Colonel Andersen called my superiors, said something about you augmenting. You want to be a lifer, eh? Congratulations. Said you’re interested in Intelligence? Maybe a liaison position between Quantico and Langley?”
First Lieutenant Nicholas Neumann sits at a table in the visitors’ entry hall at the headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency in Langley, Virginia. It is a large room with a high ceiling and fluorescent lighting. On this hot June day, the air conditioners labor to keep the building cool. Nick wears his class A “alpha” dress greens. Two new
ribbons adorn his breast—one for duty in the Pacific theater of operations, the other for meritorious service. The second is a surrogate for the Bronze Star awarded for valor in combat during an operation that never officially took place. He balances a black cane in his right hand. The cane is a step up from the crutches he wore out during his four-month stay at Walter Reed Hospital. The truth is that he has been declared NPQ—not physically qualified—for further duty. He cannot become a career officer, even if he wanted to. In ten days he will be discharged from the United States Marine Corps. Colonel Sigurd Andersen, of course, knows this. As he knows about all of Keely’s intrigues.
“Thanks for finding the time to see me,” says Nick, motioning as if to stand.
Keely waves him down. “So your wounds have healed?” he asks lightly, as if a quarter pound of shrapnel, like a bad haircut, is only a temporary nuisance.
“Getting there,” says Nick. He rubs his leg gingerly to show that there is still a long way to go.
Keely relaxes, now that he has assessed Neumann and found him not to be a physical threat. “Any specific posting you have in mind?”
“I’m interested in assuming the type of role you played aboard theGuam,” says Nick. “Coordinating incursions onto foreign soil. Marines are more comfortable having one of their own run an operation. I thought maybe you could talk to me about what it takes to do that kind of a job. I mean, since you did such a fine job with my team.”
Keely grimaces. “Boy, that was a screwup. I’m sorry I couldn’t talk to you about it more aboard ship. Regulations. Of course, you were hardly in a condition to speak with anyone when they hauled you aboard.”
“Sure,” says Nick, squinting his eyes, remembering.
“Radio malfunction,” continues Keely. “I’m sure Colonel Andersen told you. We didn’t pick up your distress signals until you were patched through the open airport communications channel. In the future, remember to guard that as a last resort. Not a secure com link.”
Nick swallows his hatred of this man. His anticipation grows. He tells himself it won’t be long now. “We had a man down,” he says evenly. “We were being pursued by a superior enemy force. Operations command had not responded to our signals in over seven hours. Does that count as enough of alast resort ?”
Keely rummages in his breast pocket for a cigarette. He slumps in his chair, assuming his usual arrogant posture. “Look, Lieutenant, no one likes to dredge up the past. The basic intel was on the money. You took out Enrile. We achieved the mission goal. We still don’t have a clue as to who set up the ambush. Anyway, your boys fucked the extraction. It was a navy job to maintain the ship’s communications equipment in proper working order. If one of your radios was on the fritz, what was I supposed to do about it?”
Nick smiles and says that he understands. Behind the smile, he maps out the progress of his assault. He plans every blow that he will deliver to this man’s lying body. He has chosen Langley for an express purpose—so that Keely will never feel safe again, so that for the rest of his life he’ll cower before turning a corner and hesitate before opening a door, so that he’ll always wonder who’ll be there to meet him and pray it won’t be Lieutenant Nicholas Neumann.
“What’s past is past,” Nick says amicably. “The reason I came, Mr. Keely, is to get a tour of the navy liaison facility. I’m sure Colonel Andersen mentioned it. I thought maybe you’d give me some pointers about which channels would be most receptive to my requests for duty.”
“Sure thing, Neumann. Follow me.” Keely throws the butt of his cigarette into a cold cup of coffee, which had been left on the table. He stands up and tucks his creeping belly into his pants. “You okay on that leg?”
# # #
Nick follows Keely down a featureless corridor: linoleum floor, eggshell walls, all strictly government issue. They are returning to the visitor center after having visited the Satellite Imaging Department—run by a former marine named Bill Stackpole, a close friend of Colonel Andersen’s.
“Jack, I’ve got to use the head,” says Nick as they approach a rest room. “I might need a hand.” The visit has gone well. Nick and Keely are now friends. Keely insists he be called by his first name.
“A hand?” asks Keely, and when Nick offers an embarrassed grin, Keely obliges. “Sure thing. . . Nick.”
Nick waits until Keely is inside the rest room, then moves quickly. He drops the cane, then turns and grasps the unsuspecting man by the shoulders, spinning him around while throwing an arm around his neck to pin him in a headlock. Keely yelps in fear. Nick seeks the carotid artery, and with his free hand, blocks the flow of blood to the brain for five seconds. Keely collapses to the floor, temporarily unconscious. Nick removes a rubber doorstop from his pocket and wedges it under the door. He knocks twice and hears the same signal given in return. A sign stating that the rest room is out of order has been placed on the door. Stackpole has delivered.
Nick limps to Keely’s prostrate body. Despite the pain from his leg, he bends over to slap the ruddy face twice. “Get with it,” he says. “We have a hot date.”
Keely shakes his head, instinctively avoiding a third strike. “What the hell is going on? This is a secure government facility.”
“I know it’s a secure facility,” says Nick. “I fucking secured it. You ready?”
Keely raises his head and asks, “For what?”
“Payback, brother.” Nick’s right hand flashes downward and catches Keely across the cheekbone, sending him sprawling onto the floor.
“It was the fucking radio,” gasps Keely. “I told you already.”
Nick draws back his left foot and kicks the agent in the face. Blood splatters across the tile floor. “Give me the good news,” he says.
“Forget it, Neumann. It’s beyond you. We’re talking realpolitik, policies that influence the well-being of millions of people.”
“Fuck your realpolitik, Keely. What about my team? What about Johnny Burke?”
“Who the fuck’s Burke? That green looie who got shot in the gut? That was his fault, not mine.”
Nick reaches down and grabs a patch of Keely’s scalp. He brings the man upright so that he can stare into his eyes. “Johnny Burke was a man who gave a shit. That’s why he died.” He butts Keely with his forehead, crushing the older man’s nasal cartilage and breaking his nose. “You’re dirty,” he says. “I smelled your stink back in the ops room of theGuam before we went in, but I was too fucking naive to do anything about it. You set us up. You knew about the ambush. You sabotaged the radios.”
Keely pushes both hands to his nose, trying to stanch the flow of blood. “No way, Neumann. It wasn’t like that. It’s bigger than you think.”
“I don’t care how big it was,” says Nick, towering over Keely’s quivering body. “You set my men up and I want to know why.” He draws back his boot and freezes, suddenly sickened by his bloodlust. For nine months he has dreamed of this moment. He has imagined the crunch of his fist against Keely’s cheek. He has told himself that his actions will constitute only revenge and that Johnny Burke deserves at least this measure of satisfaction. But now looking at Keely’s prostrate form, ropes of blood hanging from his nose, he is no longer sure.
“Yeah, all right,” says Keely, throwing his hands to his face in an impotent gesture to ward off the blow that does not come. “I’ll give you the story.” He drags himself to a corner of the rest room and puts his back to the tiled wall. He blows a clot of blood from his nose and coughs. “The Enrile hit was sanctioned by the NSC, the National Security Council—we wanted to show the Philippine government we were behind them in their efforts at building a long-lasting democracy in the American tradition. I mean without all the Marcos cronyism and corruption. Understand?”
“So far.”
“But some members of the Philippine government didn’t think the plan was sufficient. It wasn’t enough to accomplish their goals.”
“Sufficient for what?” asks Nick.
“To bring ba
ck the U.S. in a bigger way to the Philippines. You know, like the old days. Capital investment, new business, a spigot of dough opened full bore. They needed an excuse to bring America charging back into the Philippines.”
“And that excuse was American blood?”
Keely sighs. “A plea from a fellow democracy. Our boys killed planting freedom’s flag. Christ, it works every time. If you heroes had just died like you were supposed to, we’d already have ten thousand servicemen back in Subic Bay where they belong. We’d have a squadron of F-16s sitting pretty at Clark Airfield and half the Fortune 500 bursting down the doors trying to get back in the P.I.”
“But that wasyour gig, wasn’t it? Setting us up. The NSC didn’t know shit about that. Right, Keely? That was between you and your pals in the P.I.?”
“It was a win-win proposition. Some of us over here made a little extra money, all the poor devils in the P.I. would make out a lot better, too.”
“Win-win?Did I hear you spouting that bullshit, you miserable fuck? You set up nine United States marines to die so you could feather your own lousy nest. You got one good man killed and another permanently disabled. I am twenty-five years old, Keely. I’ll have this leg for the rest of my life.”
Keely’s moral complacency drains the pond of mercy that had begun to form inside of Nick. Qualms about physical retribution and the purposeful infliction of pain vanish. His world turns to black, and then very distinctly, he hears something inside him snap. He sees Burke’s smoldering torso splayed on the Philippine sand; he recalls the ragged crater carved from the back of his right leg, can feel himself gagging at the sight, not believing that ishis leg; he hears the plush tones of the doctor’s voice telling him that he will never walk properly again and relives in a microsecond the painful months of rehabilitation to prove him wrong. He spins and lashes out with his strong leg, whipping the hardened toe of his boot with all his force into Keely’s exposed crotch. Keely expels his breath and keels over onto his side. His face is a deep crimson and as he vomits, his eyes look as if they will pop from his skull.
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