THE BRUTUS LIE

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  Brutus's pen was a bleached cream three-story clapboard building, perhaps seventy feet on its facade, surrounded by a ten- foot chain-link fence. A sign with peeling black letters read "Trade-Winds Tuna Company." On their left, mothballed Navy ships lay nested to piers. Faded haze gray superstructures, naked masts stripped of their radars, and gun turrets spotted with red lead stretched beyond their view. To their right loomed the Consolidated Industries Shipyard. A large container ship was perched nearly complete on her ways. White letters on her bow announced Empress Olivia. Welders, riggers, and painters swarmed her decks. Two overhead cranes reached over the ship. Thick steel panels descended into Empress Olivia's hold. Pneumatic tools ripped at the air as they got out of the car, arc welding lights flashed behind protective covers. A heavy sledge clanged deep within the ship.

  Carrington walked around, opened the trunk, and hoisted a lead-lined suitcase. Their feet crunched on gravel as they approached the fence. A man in a dark brown suit walked out of the building and wordlessly unlocked the gate.

  The main door had a foot-square chicken wire safety glass panel. They waited until a face flashed behind the panel and they heard a loud, electronic click. They walked in, and the door swung shut behind them, muting the shipyard hammering next door. Two men stood in the lobby and eyed them as they passed. The building was cool, their soles squeaked on the green linoleum floor. Opening a set of double doors, Carrington led Renkin past a row of small offices, each crammed with heavy black file cabinets. Bright red labels marked "secret" were fastened below dial-combination handles. Three of the offices were occupied. Men sat at metal desks in white shirts and ties, talking on telephones. Pistol butts bulged from shoulder holsters.

  Renkin's eyebrows went up.

  "They'll find him. They're tracing," Carrington explained as they turned up a flight of stairs.

  "Maybe you should check with them."

  "In a minute, sir. Here, this is it."

  A dark, heavy-set man stood before a thick door. Carrington waved a hand at the entrance. "OK, Vito."

  The man nodded and unlocked the door. Carrington walked in, then motioned for Renkin to enter.

  Felix Renkin stepped into a well-lighted room. Four wooden desks were stacked against one wall. A counter and empty cabinets took up the opposite wall. He sniffed. The room smelled dank and humid. It hadn't been used while the X-3 project was active.

  A figure in a striped teeshirt and dark trousers lay tied and manacled to a chair that had been tipped over. Touching his nose bandage, Renkin stepped forward to inspect the man's face. The prisoner was unconscious, yet breathed heavily.

  Renkin put his hands on his knees. "You really worked him over."

  Carrington lay the suitcase on the counter. "Yeah, he kind of looks like he did in those Petropavlovsk photos."

  Renkin nodded. "Sit him up and place him against the wall, please."

  "Yes, sir. Hey, Vito, give me a hand."

  Carrington and the guard wrestled the chair upright and shoved it against the wall. The captive's head rolled and slammed against the plaster. He groaned.

  "That's all, Vito. Close the door on your way out." Car­rington's mercenary nodded, walked out, and pulled the door shut with a dull thud.

  While Renkin waited, Carrington rummaged in the suitcase and selected a Ruger .44 single‑action magnum. He loaded it with a hollow point round and spun the chamber.

  The man in the chair groaned again and tried to raise his head.

  "Hello, Brad, you look good without a beard." Carrington stepped before the prisoner. "Ah, Doctor Renkin. You should stand off to the left in case of ricochet."

  The prisoner raised his head. His blackened left eye was closed. An ugly gash ran from the corner of the eye down to his cheek. The other eye was partly open but no pupil showed. His face was bloody. The swollen mouth hung open. Pinkish saliva drooled from one corner.

  "Interesting uniform for a Spetsnaz."

  "No, sir, that's a Soviet Navy uniform, petty officer second class. Must have been a disguise."

  Carrington raised the pistol with both hands. "You ready, sir?" The hammer ratcheted back.

  "Uhhh," a gurgle from the man in the chair. "Serzhant. Josef."

  Renkin said, "I'll wait outside." He headed for the door.

  "Brad. Zady doma ne odin chelovek, a dva." The man coughed, then weekly spat phlegm. It dribbled onto his teeshirt.

  Carrington's heart jumped. No!

  Seconds passed.

  Renkin's hand lingered on the knob. He turned. "What did he say, Carrington?"

  "Uh. Something about a sergeant."

  "What else?" Renkin, his hands on his hips, walked back to the prisoner.

  "He said, 'There are two men, ah, outside on the patio, not one.'"

  "Did he use the word 'Brad'?"

  "Yessir." Make up your mind, damnit! "Do you still want to do it, Dr. Renkin?"

  The prisoner's right eyelid fluttered, "...ya grzhdanin Sovetskozo Soyuza."

  Renkin rubbed his jaw.

  "Sir, do you--"

  "Shut up, Carrington. Let me think for a moment."

  Carrington uncocked and lowered the magnum.

  "Tell me what he said." Renkin sighed.

  Carrington said, "Says he's a Soviet citizen."

  "You knew?"

  "Not until now."

  "But how--"

  Dobrynyn gurgled loudly.

  They jumped.

  "Poshol ty na khuy, Dr. Renkin." His head fell to his chest.

  "He knows who I am, Carrington. What did he say?"

  "Ah, politely, he said, 'Screw you, Dr. Renkin.'"

  "Indeed." Renkin sat on the workbench and crossed his feet.

  "Sorry, sir." Carrington ran a hand through his hair. "Must have shaved off the beard. They weren't in the same room. One was--"

  "Yes, yes. Please be quiet." Renkin put his palms on the bench, swung his feet, and studied the floor. After a moment, Renkin actually smiled, a rare gesture outside the cloakrooms of the U.S. Capitol Building. "Your screwup could be our good fortune." He stared at Carrington.

  Carrington shoved the pistol in his belt. Leaning against the opposite wall, he rubbed his eyes and folded his arms. I don't need this crap now. I need sleep. Let's blow the Ivan's brains out so I can go back to bed. "I don't understand."

  Renkin pointed. "That's Anton Dobrynyn."

  "Yes, sir. Uh, I said I'm sorry." Carrington walked to the prisoner and propped the unblemished eyelid open. "Out like a light."

  "The advantage is that we have a bargaining chip when Mr. Hatch shows up. A goodwill trade, so to speak, to take the pressure off their concern with the V‑22 purchase." Renkin looked down and muttered, more to himself than Carrington, "Plus, we can't return their $250,000 since we bought the Houston office building."

  Renkin didn't mention the question of ramifications of world opinion if Dobrynyn's story became public. His having an American brother would cause intrigue and ultimate sympathy that would weigh heavily against the Soviets. And Renkin could, if he choose, add a bombshell about being Dobrynyn's father. He could twist the story. Talk about a pathetic German mother who, perhaps, he loved. Yes! And how he had been torn from her arms when he was transferred to the Pacific. He would say he wanted to go back and find her but learned too late that she'd been killed by a bomb blast and that the boys had disappeared. The Soviets couldn't fight that. The press would bury them. And espionage charges in the U.S. might be mitigated if the press took off on the story of Anna and her twins.

  The Soviets would want Dobrynyn dead in any case, Renkin figured. His recent escapade in Petropavlovsk and, particularly, his heritage presented difficult problems for them--

  "Sir?" Carrington let Dobrynyn's eyelid flop shut and nudged his cheek with his knuckles.

  "One moment." What if he had Carrington interview Dobrynyn on videotape and got the full story? After that, he could hand Dobrynyn over as a goodwill gesture and would have the videotape as backup if the
Soviets became difficult.

  Except that--Renkin's feet swung faster--there was Lofton. His would-be protégée had seen him kill Thatcher. That wouldn't be too hard to refute, but Lofton knew too much about everything else. He needed Lofton dead as much as the Soviets needed Dobrynyn dead.

  Felix Renkin looked at Carrington. "The disadvantage, Mr. Carrington, is that Brad Lofton, not that man," he pointed to Dobrynyn, "is on the loose--plus the sergeant they escaped with." His lips pressed together. "Therefore, tighten your net. I want Lofton captured, now."

  Carrington unloaded the pistol and walked to the suitcase.

  "Do you understand?" Renkin roared.

  "Yessir." Carrington stopped. His head jerked in a nod.

  "First those brain-dead Russians. And SOSUS couldn't keep up with him. That damned attack submarine flubbed its opportunity. And now you." Renkin pointed a finger and yelled, "Bunglers! Idiots! I want him. Now, damn you!"

  Dull thuds and clangs drifted across from the Empress Olivia.

  Renkin drew a breath. "And make arrangements to leave for Washington tomorrow. I'll try to wind up or postpone my meetings." He jumped off the bench and walked to the door. "Let's go. I have to catch Phillips's press conference."

  Carrington packed the magnum and shut the suitcase. "Uh, sir?"

  "What!"

  He nodded at Dobrynyn. "What do we do with him?"

  "Get him cleaned up, fed, and attended to. Mr. Hatch's conversations should be with a subject who doesn't smell of his own excrement. And have some videotaping equipment set up here. I want you to interview this man first thing in the morning." Felix Renkin turned and walked out of the room.

  Sunlight. Something jiggled. Lofton heard scraping sounds but pushed them aside. His eyes were open, blinking. A face. Someone bent over him. He fought for consciousness. Who was it?

  Blond, towheaded, freckles on young cheeks, green eyes; a boy, perhaps ten or eleven, stared openmouthed at him. Lofton sat up suddenly, and the spinnaker slipped off his shoulders.

  The kid jumped back and found his voice. "Mommy! Someone's in here!"

  Feet rushed the companionway. Tanned thighs, shorts. Bonnie Duffield stepped into True Blue's cabin.

  Their eyes locked. Lofton flicked his wrist--no Casio--and pulled True Blue's three-quarter-ounce spinnaker cloth over his bare shoulders.

  "Who is it, Mommy?"

  "Brad! My God, you're all right!" Bonnie started toward him. The boy pulled at her elbow. "Tim, stop it, please. This man is Brad Lofton. He's a friend of mine."

  "Did he know Daddy?"

  Past tense. Lofton looked at her.

  Bonnie nodded, shrugged, her eyes scanned the deck. "No, he didn't. Look, Tim, there's your math book, take it to the car. I'll be up in a minute."

  The boy grabbed the textbook off the starboard shelf and trudged past Lofton. "Mommy," he said, "why can't we stay here today?"

  "You know why," Bonnie said. "Go on up. I'll be right there."

  "OK." The boy looked at Lofton, then shuffled up the small ladder. True Blue rocked as he jumped off.

  "I--" they both said.

  Lofton looked down.

  "You first," Bonnie said. "The papers are full of what happened at Kirby's last night. Was that you?"

  "Yes, we'd just arrived. What time is it?"

  "Almost eleven o'clock. You said 'we'?"

  "Yes, I have a twin brother."

  "A what?" She sat next to him and took off her glasses.

  "My own twin, Bonnie. An identical twin. He looks exactly like me. He saved my life. And...and... Look, I have to find Walt. Do you--? What's wrong? Bonnie?"

  She sat next to him.

  "Bonnie...?"

  Her eyes glistened. "Brad. Walt's dead. A--"

  "No!" Lofton roared.

  Bonnie took his hands. "A car accident, the morning you left. It was terrible. I didn't know what to do. I couldn't talk to anybody. Finally I spoke with Daddy about it. He said he would nose around, but they--"

  "What happened?"

  "They said there were drugs in his car. The autopsy report showed his intoxication level was very high."

  "He never did anything like that." Lofton's mind spun. Autopsy. Cutting up Walt. Alcohol. He shook his head, "No!"

  "I know. We talked...about you...about him after you left. Two, three hours. We had breakfast, then he went home to clean up for his trip to San Diego. I liked him...and now..."

  Her arms went around Lofton. "Oh, God, Brad. It's been awful."

  They rocked and swayed.

  "Where?"

  "Ortega Highway, about halfway to Lake Elsinore. He skidded into a power pole. It fell and electrocuted him."

  "He wouldn't have taken Ortega Highway to San Diego."

  "I know."

  Deep within him, a wail grew. It caught in his throat, he fought to keep it in. He shook, his hands spasmed. "Renkin!" he cried loudly.

  Bonnie's arms went tighter. Her tears ran on his shoulder.

  "Renkin staged it. Walt didn't make it." He looked at her. "Do you know if he talked to anybody?"

  She shook her head.

  "So that's why nothing happened on this end. No wonder they got away with throwing me in jail and ...and...killing those poor fishermen..."

  "Killing who?"

  "Those bastards!" Lofton clenched his teeth. "Those dirty, bastards! And Renkin's goons were there to shoot up Walt's house and kidnap my brother." His head went to the nape of her neck. She drew him close as he shook and wrapped both arms around his head.

  "My best friend." Lofton's eyes became liquid. "Walt."

  "Brad," she said softly.

  "They took my brother away. I didn't even know I had one until two weeks ago. He saved my life."

  "Yes."

  He buried his head in her neck. "He didn't have to help me. He just did it."

  She rocked him for a moment.

  Lofton jerked up and looked at her, his eyes red. Tears ran down his cheeks. "Bonnie, this is hard to say, but, subconsciously, I've always felt like something was missing in my life. Then I met Anton..."

  They fell silent as she rocked him. After a while, he told her about Petropavlovsk and their return to Kirby's the previous night. He talked faster. His sentences fused. He stuttered.

  She held him as he sat in a heap, crying openly, the spinnaker gathered about his nakedness. Bonnie pulled him to her breast while he shook, then kissed him on top of his head, and they swayed.

  "Mommy?" from outside.

  "Up in a minute, dear." She kissed Lofton's forehead and eyes, then his lips. "Gotta go, Brad," she said softly. "Look, stay here and get some sleep. I'll take Tim to his soccer game, then bring us dinner."

  Lofton sniffed and rubbed his nose. "Feel like a damned crybaby. I'm sorry."

  They hugged tighter. "It's all right." She nodded at his soaked uniform heaped on the deck. "Do you need clothes, too?"

  "Yes, everything. I still have my billfold." He reached down to his trousers, pulled out his wallet and handed over damp currency.

  She took the money. "I'll be back as soon as I can." They hugged again, then she put on her glasses, rose, and made for the ladder.

  "Bonnie."

  "Yes?"

  "I'm sorry about Bob, and I'm sorry to throw all this at you on top of it. When did it happen?"

  A curtain dropped over her face. "Five days after you left. He died in his sleep. He'd been almost brain-dead for a long time, they said. And," she exhaled loudly, "we knew it."

  She'd been through a lot, Lofton realized. First Kirby and then her husband.

  They looked at each other. Both tried to smile and failed.

  "Back later, Brad. I'll close the hatch. Get some sleep."

  Bonnie Duffield went through the companionway. She replaced the hatch-boards and snapped the canvas in place. True Blue rocked gently as she stepped off and walked away. Lofton eased back on the settee and pulled the spinnaker around him. His eyes glistened, and tears ran for a long ti
me before he fell into a deep sleep.

  While Lofton walked up to the guest dock to shower and shave, Bonnie set the table with cold cuts, potato and bean salads, lettuce, and rolls. She finished and checked the clock. Lofton had only been gone five minutes, he'd be up there a while. She tapped a fingernail on a tooth. Do it. Grabbing her purse, she jumped off True Blue and headed for her car.

  She returned with the Chardonnay ten minutes later, finding Lofton bent over the NAV table. His back was to her as he studied a chart. "Chow time, Brad. Dig in. Look what I got." The sack rattled she pulled the bottle out.

  He turned briefly. "OK. That looks good." Lofton's attention returned to the chart. He twirled a pencil on a pad.

  Bonnie rummaged for plastic glasses, checking him from the corner of her eye. He stood with locked elbows, his hands gripping the NAV table edges as he stared at the chart.

  "Brad? You hungry?"

  "Yes. Very." Lofton pushed away from the table, sat stiffly, and heaped a plastic plate while she uncorked the wine. He looked different, and it wasn't, she decided, the clothes she'd brought which he wore now: Levis, pullover dark green sweater, and topsiders. He'd changed. Imperceptibly, Bonnie noticed, something was different. Wrinkles, not those of age or debilitation, had gathered around narrowed eyes; his mouth had a certain resolve under slightly flared nostrils. His stance at the chart table and even now as he sat seemed firm...almost tense.

  She poured the wine and started on her own food as Lofton bent close to his plate. His fork moved swiftly. My God! "When was the last time you ate?"

  "Umph," he slurped. "Brutus. Crackers and some canned beans. A lot of our stuff was ruined. And I didn't count on having two mouths to feed on the way back. We had to ration." He looked up at her as he forked in another huge load. Without apology, Lofton wolfed everything on the table while Bonnie managed to salvage half a plateload for herself.

  "I'll bet you drank bug juice." She tried a smile.

  Lofton leaned back and laced his fingers over his stomach. "Oh, yeah. We had some of that..." His eyes wandered around the salon, then fixed over her shoulder. His brow was knitted.