A Knife Edge

by David Rollins

  Butler switched his blade to his left hand, letting me know it wasn't just his right I had to watch out for. He swung the knife at my face. I felt the change in air pressure as the tip swept by an inch away from my eyeballs.

  Butler suddenly leapt toward me and tried the same slash again. I moved into him this time, stepping inside his range, and smashed my forearm down on his arm as he brought it through. This inside move caught him by surprise. His neck was exposed to an elbow strike, but Butler was ready for it. He dropped to the floor before I could hit him and he rolled away, coming up in stance, perfectly balanced, ready to kill. We moved in toward each other, circling. I thrust with the Fairbairn-Sykes, hoping to open up his gut. Butler moved, and I missed. My momentum carried me forward, a little out of control, and I slipped on my own sweat. I fell forward. I tried to roll as Butler had, but slipped again. Butler was all over me like cheap aftershave. He stabbed his knife down toward the back of my head. I sensed this and moved. The point of his knife tip slammed into the floor beside my cheek and I felt a small concrete chip ping off my ear. I twisted away and came up on my knees before he could repeat the thrust. Butler saw his opportunity. He jumped forward and stood on the Fairbairn-Sykes, jamming it against the floor under his boot. I was vulnerable to a slash across the body, which would have opened me up like a ripped trash bag. I had no choice. I caught the blow with my arm. His blade buried itself deep in my deltoid, the muscle below the shoulder ball joint, almost cutting through to the bone. Oddly, I felt no pain. I watched it happen like it was someone else's arm. Butler ripped the knife out, cutting, tearing, and small hunks of muscle and skin clung to the knife's bloody serrations as he brought it away.

  I fell back against the wall before he could bury the knife in my guts, the blood surging from the severed blood vessels in my arm. I had nowhere to go. Butler had my knife as well as his. He came toward me, grinning, waggling them—one in either hand as if to say, “Now, which one will I use to finish you off?”

  I had no weapon, but I had a belt. The belt had a buckle on it. I struggled to my feet, unfastened it, and pulled it through the loops. A weight suddenly fell down through the inside of my pants and clattered onto the floor. I was so surprised I kicked it accidentally with my heel as I moved, and it flew across the floor. Goddamn it, the second .45 confiscated from the NK patrol, the one I'd jammed into the small of my back, held there by the belt. I'd completely forgotten about it. It spun into the pool of blood around Rossi. She suddenly lifted her head and picked it up. She had my full attention. Butler's, too. She thumbed off the safety. Aimed the gun. Bang! I opened my mouth. She shot Sean Boyle as he lay on the bed, clutching his stomach. The slug, a wad cutter, entered beneath his chin, smashing through his palate and turning the bone there into splinters that continued on through his brain, changing it to the consistency of mousse, and then blowing the top of his head clean off. Clumps of Boyle's brains spattered across Butler's face, momentaily blinding him.

  I threw myself forward into Butler as he clawed the gray matter out of his eyes. My knee slammed into his ribcage and I felt it cave in like rotten wickerwork. We both fell backward and I came down on top of him, his Ka-Bar sliding away out of reach. He brought up his leg. That's when I saw the small-bore revolver in a holster strapped to his ankle. I reacted, kicking his leg away, but he was determined to get to his gun. Life. Or death. I went for his neck, wrapping my hands around it. His skin was slick with brains, which oozed between my fingers like gray mud as I squeezed. With the busted-up knuckles of my left hand, I couldn't get a grip. Strangling the guy wasn't an option so I used my elbow, mashing it into the side of his face, twisting his brain stem, giving him something to think about. Butler's head rolled about, but he was still conscious, still going for that goddamn gun.

  I was exhausted. So was Butler. I kicked his leg away from his hand. I moved to hit him again. He moved his head to avoid my elbow, and that's when I saw Ruben's dagger—the Fairbairn-Sykes. It was under Butler, pressed between his body and the floor. I reached for the handle and pulled. It came away. The diversion gave Butler the chance to reach for his revolver.

  I had no time to think about what I did next.

  I slid the blade through his shirt, beneath his skin, between the bone fragments of his broken ribs. The cold steel blade sliced through small then large intestine. More pressure was needed to carve up through the tough muscle wall of his diaphragm. Butler gasped like he was wading into icy water. I heard the click as his thumb cocked back the hammer on his gun. I pushed up on the hilt, the blade's edge overcoming the resistance of muscle and tissue. Bom-bom-bom… I felt his pulse through the hilt when the tip of the dagger came to rest up against the wall of his throbbing heart. I was ready to call it quits. I didn't want Butler dead. I still had questions, and maybe this was the only guy left alive with the answers.

  Butler's mouth was open, his eyes wide. I heard the gun he was holding clatter to the floor. I relaxed. Suddenly, I felt his hands on mine around the knife's handle, slick with blood, sweat, and brains. Tears streamed from the corners of his eyes. With a final burst of strength he drove the blade higher, deeper into himself. And then, transmitted through the steel, I felt his heart explode, impaled on the tip of Ruben Wright's Fairbairn-Sykes.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  When I got back home I spent a couple days relaxing in a hospital bed, if such a thing is possible, while various people in white coats sewed me up, stuck me with hypodermics, and generally poked and prodded me. I told them there was nothing wrong with me that a few days off and a few servings of Kim's bulgogi couldn't fix, and even managed to get a cute nurse to go pick me up some take out on my last night there.

  Lying around with nothing to do except trouble the aforementioned nurse gave me time to put a few things together, and get some action happening on a few others. I needed to find out who Butler might have been referring to as “our mutual friend.”

  I gave Bradley Chalmers a lot of thought too and decided to make good on an earlier promise I made to myself to put him, Wu, and De Silver together for their mutual benefit. Assigned to that Senate oversight committee, Lieutenant Colonel Wayne was uniquely placed to help with this, if he was inclined to.

  When they released me from the medical center, I went straight over to OSI.

  “Yo, Vin, ‘sup?” Arlen glanced up from his keyboard when I walked in. He came around his desk, wearing a big smile, holding out his hand.

  I held up my right hand where he could see it, but not shake it. It was bruised and swollen, and that was the good one. The left was in plaster, those knuckles finally getting the attention they deserved. “OK with you if we also skip the friendly, welcome-home pat on the arm?”

  “Oh, right. I forgot. How many stitches?”

  “Enough to knit a scarf.”

  “Shit… How's the CIA woman?”

  “In bed with a drip.”

  “She hitched to a Company man?” said Arlen with a grin.

  I looked at him.

  “I know, I know. Sorry, Vin. Poor-taste humor. Been around you too long, I guess.” His grin vanished as his eyes examined my face, taking in the damage. “You gotta stop putting your body on the line, buddy. You ain't gonna go the distance.”

  “That's for damn sure,” I said.

  “I kinda heard a little of what's been going on. You did an amazing job,” he said, shaking his head.

  I gave him half a smile, which probably looked as uncomfortable as it felt. I'm not great with compliments.

  Arlen brightened and took a seat on the edge of his desk. “Got a call from a Lieutenant Colonel Clare Selwyn a couple of days back.”

  “Oh, yeah? Any message?”

  “Sends her regards. Told me to tell you that local law enforcement have taken one of the suspects into custody.”

  “Did she say who?”

  Arlen checked a pad on his desk covered in graffiti and numbers. “A Juan Demelian. That's your Ruben Wright investigation, right?”

  �
�Yeah. Selwyn say anything else?”

  “Wants you to give her a call.”

  “OK.” That was something I'd intended to do anyway.

  “We've got all kinds of people from upstairs—starting with General Howerton—leaning on us for a written report.”

  “It's coming.”

  “How much time will you need?” he asked.

  “Can you get me till the end of the week? Still got a loose end or two.”

  “See what I can manage, but don't count on it. And I got the note you sent through about the security-camera footage at the cafeteria. The bank statements you asked me to get have come through, too. All that have anything to do with those loose ends?”

  “That's them,” I said.

  “Well, Pentagon Police's idea of security is not to let anyone look at anything, ever. Crude, but effective. I've been promised the disks will get here in about an hour. The proviso is that they're returned tomorrow oh-eight-hundred sharp, and that no copies are made. Can I ask what you're hoping to find?”

  “Once and for all I'm going to nail the criminal responsible for the coffee in the Pentagon cafeteria.”

  “ Vin…”

  “If it turns out my hunch is right, you'll be the first to know, sir. Where've you set me up?”

  “Your office.”

  “Thanks.” I turned to go.

  “And again, good job in Thailand,” he said.

  I wasn't so sure. I'd helped stop that genie leaving its bottle, which was something. But it was a genie my tax dollars helped fund into existence in the first place. The realization reminded me of the World-According-To-Staff-Sergeant-Butler speech. Maybe, if I found what I hoped I'd find on those disks, I could prove Butler wrong.

  “Before you go, those ass-lickers from the GAO, have been asking about you again and I don't think it's to see your vacation snaps. And here's that code you wanted. Took some doing.” He glanced conspiratorially left and right, then whispered, “You didn't get this from me, OK?” He handed me a folded sheet of paper laser-printed with a long line of numbers and letters on it. “Careful, Vin,” he warned. “That there's dynamite. Make sure it doesn't blow up in your face, or mine.”

  I nodded. “Thanks, buddy.”

  “The bank statements are on your desk. Also, like you asked, we sent someone over to the Sofitel to see if anyone recognized Sean Boyle. Your hunch was right. Only seems they knew Boyle by a different name. Makes for interesting reading. The report's on your desk, too.”

  “A different name?”

  He nodded.

  I left his office and walked into mine down the hall. Fluorescent tubes hummed in the false ceiling. A few things had changed since I was last here. There was a fine layer of dust on the folders in my in-box. And on a small stand with wheels on its base there was a compact color monitor that looked like it had sat in a pawnshop for years. The shelf beneath it held an equally decrepit CD player.

  The report Arlen mentioned lay waiting on the desk. I sat and read the three pages written by the special agent who'd paid the Sofitel a visit, then spent half an hour reviewing those bank statements. Everything was pointing me in the one direction and I shook my head at the audacity. I needed one more piece to be certain of the woman's involvement. That, I hoped to find on the Pentagon's security recordings.

  The disks still hadn't arrived so I turned on my computer. There were forty-seven unread e-mails. I isolated the ones from the General Accounting Office—nine in all. I pulled up the expense form and filled it out, loading it with every possible expense and doubling a few while I was at it. While I was doing that, a brown package the size and shape of a shoebox arrived. The delivery guy, a cop in plainclothes, dropped it on my desk. I signed the form he waved under my nose, which sent him on his way. I ignored the package for the moment and returned to the expense form. I referred to the line of code Arlen had given me and copied the string of numbers and letters into the box. Then I hesitated. How much did I dislike Chalmers?

  “This much,” I said softly, clicking send. The processor made a sound like a beetle scratching on a wooden floor and the e-mail scuttled on its way.

  I trashed the rest of the e-mails, most of which were the usual banal office circulars pertaining to the proper requisition and use of stationery, which photocopier was down, et cetera. And then I gave Clare Selwyn a call. She answered on the fifth ring.

  “Colonel Selwyn.”

  “Clare. It's Vin.”

  “Hey, stranger. Where you been?”

  “Here and there. You?”

  “Same.” There was a pause. “Vin, I heard through the grapevine a certain SAS sergeant went home in a box, and that you put him in it.”

  I didn't say anything.

  “And I heard you got yourself pretty banged up too. You OK?”

  “I broke a couple of fingers but they've been glued back on.” I changed the subject. “Hey, listen, thanks for following through on all those things for me. Made a big difference.”

  “That's OK—hope you didn't get it all too late.”

  “No—worked out fine,” I said.

  “Oh, did I tell you we found more of Ruben's drugs … no, I didn't. Agent Lyne found them.”

  “Oh, yeah? Where were they?”

  “He took Ruben's Harley for a ride. Got a flat. Found them stuffed in a tube clamped to the frame.”

  “Was he looking for the spare tire?” I asked.

  “Probably,” Clare said with a laugh.

  “Will you give him a pat on the back from me?”

  “Will do.”

  “I got the news about Demelian being arrested,” I said. “He confessed? Should be able to get him on conspiracy to murder, and fraud too.”

  “Vin, there's a problem.”

  “What sort of problem?”

  “Pensacola PD found Amy McDonough hanging from her kitchen ceiling two days ago.”

  “Jesus,” I said.

  “There was no foul play. She left a note.”

  “What'd it say?”

  “One word—Sorry.”

  “Shit.”

  “With McDonough and Butler dead, there's no damning physical evidence that ties Demelian to Ruben's murder,” she said. “He'll walk on this one.”

  “So he gets off free as a bird.”

  “Weeeell, maybe not quite. Pensacola PD checked him out thoroughly. Seems the guy's not really an attorney. Did two years of law school, then dropped out. Never passed the bar. Been taking people's money for years under false pretenses, and hasn't filled in a tax return for years, either. You know how cranky the IRS can get when you don't do that. The DA says even with a plea bargain, Demelian'll do time, and plenty of it.”

  It wasn't quite conspiracy to murder, but it was better than nothing. “Clare, if you were here, I'd buy you a … a … chocolate sundae.”

  “Vin, please—I don't do phone sex.”

  We both laughed. It hurt my face.

  After we hung up I sat back for a minute and thought about Amy McDonough. I felt bad for her, but I felt worse for Ruben.

  I took my mind off that whole painful mess by turning on the CD player and monitor. There was a plastic take-out knife in a drawer and I used that to slit the packing tape sealing the box. Inside was a letter and floor plan showing the footprint of each security camera in the areas I was interested in.

  I read the letter and examined the floor plan. There were thirty-three security cameras covering the Pentagon's main cafeteria area, including the entrances and exits servicing it. Somewhere here in this box, there'd be evidence of a particular meeting between two parties.

  I knew the day in question and could guess at the hour, but that would still mean thirty-three hours of recording to sift through to find it—if it even existed. If I was smart about it, less. I pulled a disk from the box. On its sleeve was written the camera's number, which told me where it was positioned and the area it captured on the accompanying floor plan, along with the date and time of coverage. I fed the disk t
o the player.

  I was smart about it, but maybe not smart enough, which could be why it still took five and a half hours of watching the tops of people's heads to get through it all. At the end, I knew two things for certain. The first was that there were a lot of bald men working at the Pentagon. The second put me on a plane to LaGuardia to see that mutual friend Butler and I shared—the one he'd said wanted me dead.

  * * *

  As everyone knows, John Lennon lived at the Dakota Apartments building on Seventy-second Street in Manhattan, before he got himself shot outside the front entrance. If the place was expensive before the killing, prices at the apartment block afterward were murderous. Those New Yorkers, they love a gimmick.

  I flipped my badge at the doorman, a big guy with puffy cheeks and a soft, round belly that filled out his uniform like a full vacuum cleaner dustbag. He checked me over—MA-1 flying jacket, jeans, boots, the remnants of a badly battered face, and a plaster cast on my hand. Reluctance to let me in was written all over him, but he had no choice. The badge of mine told him so, as did the uniformed guys with their hands on their hips leaning against the two federal marshal Crown Vics parked in the street behind me.

  “Who you wanna see?” he asked, not sure he heard it right the first time. He cocked his left ear at me. I saw the hearing aid.

  I said it louder the second time.

  “Does she know you're coming up?”

  “Damn well hope not,” I said. “You follow me?”

  He gave me another uncertain look, then waddled up the front steps. Hip problems. An old guy like this should be propping up a bar somewhere, telling lies about his youth, not opening doors for rich people. “How long you been doing this job?” I asked.

  “Since a year after the battle of Chosin—that was a real war, son, not like this bull crap we're fighting today. I've been working this door since after I got out of repatriation. That's more'n fifty years.” His nose was red with cold, his top lip slick with clear, running mucus. He inserted a key into a security board and gave it a twist.