“The FBI?” I asked, still not sure.
“They're part of the Organized Crime Strike Force and I have them on standby. They have a safe house out near Winchester, Virginia, and I can have you on the way out there in minutes. Okay?”
I frowned as I thought it over for a few moments. The FBI? Sooner or later, I knew it was going to come down to something like this. FBI? City cops? State cops? Maybe the damned CIA? I didn't like it, but eventually we had to trust somebody, even if it was this greasy U. S. Senator with his lacquered hair.
“All right,” I nodded to him. “Call them. But it's both of us, Senator. Both or none. We've been on the run long enough, and I don't want to see Sandy get hurt.”
“I wouldn't have it any other way, Pete. It's a smart move, real smart,” Hardin winked at me as he picked up his desk phone and began dialing.
I got out of the chair and walked slowly over to the window. With the flood lights on, the Capitol looked clean and white set against the black, night sky. It reminded me that the government of the United States really did have lot more integrity than Ralph Tinkerton and his ilk. That was when I realized how tired I was, more tired than I had been in years. Hopefully, we were on the home stretch now, and I was damned glad all of this would soon be over. Each of the past six days and nights had taken their toll like a long series of body punches. The first ones didn't seem that bad, but like a long heavyweight fight, each successive blow took its toll. Punch after punch left me slumped in the corner, bruised and battered. All I wanted to do now was to curl up somewhere with Sandy and tune it all out.
“You know,” Hardin wagged a finger in the air. “I always wondered about that guy Tinkerton. His operation always seemed a little too pat, a little too perfect, but he was careful. There was nothing I could ever get my arms around. Well, this will bust it wide open, wide open... Hi, Warren?” I heard him say into the telephone. “Tim Hardin here...“
As gazed absently out the window at the Capitol, I realized the dark window glass also captured the reflection of Hardin's outer office. I could see his receptionist's desk. I could see the rear side of the office's telephone console. And I could see that none of the little red lights were on. I looked back at Hardin again and saw he was talking into the telephone anyway. I looked at the console again, then back at Hardin, and it did not compute. None of the lights on the telephone console were lit. Then I saw another reflection. In the back corner of Hardin's office, I saw a gaudy, red and gold U. S. Marine Corps flag and an icy shiver ran up my back. Next to the flag hung a large, framed photograph of men in jungle fatigues. Younger men smiling and laughing. Some framed ribbons and citations. And I saw a framed motto that read, “Zero Defects.” Hardin's shrine was not nearly as extensive or imposing as the one Ralph Tinkerton had in his office in Columbus, but I knew we had been had.
Hardin hung up the phone and smiled at Sandy. “They'll be here in a couple of minutes, so why don't you give me all that stuff you brought, especially those flash drives, Pete, and I'll lock it all up in my safe,” he said as he held out his hand toward me.
“Sure,” Sandy said as she picked up her stack of papers.
I took the three flash drives out of my jacket pocket, but kept a tight grip on them, wondering how I was going to get Sandy's attention so we could get the hell out of there. “Uh, you know, maybe we should keep them with us, Senator.”
“Pete, Pete, they'd be safest right here in my office.” He held out his hand and gave me that confident, toothy smile.
“Yeah, but what if the FBI wants to go over all that stuff with us tomorrow,” I began edging away. I motioned toward his “shrine” and said, “By the way, Senator, I didn't know you were in the Marines.”
“Me? I did a few tours, sure… Semper Fi,” he smiled lamely, not having a clue what I was getting at.
That was when I heard that all-too-familiar Texas twang behind me. “Good boy, Pete, bravo! You are finally catching on, aren't you?”
I spun around and found Ralph Tinkerton's large frame filling the doorway to the outer office. He was dressed in a stylish, beige, summer-weight business suit and burgundy tie, looking every inch the successful lawyer, except for the black Glock automatic with a long silencer he was holding in his hand.
“Now, put those flash drives on the corner of Timmy's desk and back away,” he said as he pointed the gun at Sandy.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Zero Defects, a zip drive, and a bag of cash…
“What are you doing here?” Hardin shrank back, surprised and worried.
“That is an excellent question. What am I doing here?” Tinkerton chuckled as he motioned with the automatic for me to step back, then picked up the three flash drives and slipped them in his jacket pocket. “I would say I am checking up on my old partner, “Major” Timothy Hardin.”
“You damned fool!” Hardin exploded. “Don't call me that!”
“Don't call you which? Major? Or partner?” He motioned me back even further. “Now, sit down, Pete.” He pointed the Glock toward the chair next to Sandy's. “And see to it you keep your little feet flat on the floor, Miz Kasmarek. I would threaten to shoot one of you if you get out of line, but better than that, I'll shoot the other. You two got that?”
Tinkerton turned back to Hardin. “You know, Timmy, it is positively amazing what a fellow can accomplish these days with one of those sleek little jets you were nice enough to have Justice to buy for us. My, my, but it saves time. An enterprising fellow can go damned near anywhere — Columbus, Chicago, Boston, New York, even Washington — in no time flat. But it's even more amazing what you can learn with a couple of well-placed telephone taps, once you understand whose telephones you ought to be tapping.”
“You tapped my phone? My phone!” Hardin turned red.
“Yours, Charley Billingham's, Rico Patillo's ...”
“How dare you!”
“How dare I?” He feigned surprise. “Well, Tim, how else would I know you had these special guests coming in all the way from… now, where was it? Tennessee? You know how we Texans do hate to miss a party.” The look of amusement on the big lawyer's face quickly changed to anger and cruelty as he turned the Glock on Hardin. “These days, I “dare” to do a whole lot of things “major.” Especially when it's my neck that's in the noose and I learn a traitor has sold me out.”
“Stop calling me that!”
“Tim, Tim, fuzzy language is the first sign of fuzzy thinking. Stop calling you what? Traitor? Or, do you mean partner? Or, is it major again? This is all getting very confusing for me, so you must put it in itty-bitty little words that even a dumb west Texas hick like me can understand.” Tinkerton looked down at him with utter contempt. “Isn't it funny how you didn't object to what we did when it was Sergeant Dannmeyer and Lieutenant Tinkerton taking the orders and doing all your dirty work for you.”
Shut up!” Hardin hissed as he glanced nervously at Sandy and me.
“Surely you jest,” Tinkerton laughed cynically. “You are afraid of these two? Why, Major Hardin, I would bet the farm that my old friend Pete Talbott saw through your bull shit act a long time ago, even before I came walking in. Didn't you, Pete?”
I looked at Tinkerton and at Hardin, but I said nothing.
“You see, Pete here is a very smart boy,” Tinkerton went on. “He may not look like a whole lot, but it doesn't pay to underestimate him, I assure you of that.” He looked at his bandaged hand and flexed it. “I underestimated him several times and I learned that lesson the hard way.” He turned toward Sandy and me with those cold, gray, November eyes and a particularly nasty smile. “By the way, Pete, you and your little hump here owe me a new Rolex watch, remember? You owe me for a couple of other things too, and before this night's over I intend to take them out in trade.”
I saw Sandy's hands flex on the armrest, so I put my hand on hers. This wasn't a good time for her to rise to the bait.
“Let me venture a guess, Pete. I bet the good major told you he was
calling the FBI and they would swoop in here and whisk the two of you off to a safe house somewhere in the lovely Virginia countryside. Is that what he told you?” Tinkerton's eyes twinkled with amusement. “He was calling in the cavalry to the rescue, the bad guys would go to jail, and the two of you would live happily ever after? Is that the fairy tale you told them, Major? Oh, shame on you.”
Hardin glared at Tinkerton, but the Senator did not answer.
“The cavalry?” Tinkerton walked to the window and looked down into dark side city street beneath the window. “I don't see any horses, but there is a large, midnight-blue Mercedes with New Jersey license plates parked down there by the side door. Did you know that, Tim? Is that what the FBI is driving these days? Mercedes Benz sedans with Jersey license plates. Or, could that be a couple of Rico Patillo's gunmen sitting inside?”
He backed away and motioned me to the window with the Glock. “Come over here, Pete. Take a look for yourself… Carefully, very carefully.”
I stepped to the window and sure enough, there was a large, dark Mercedes parked in the side street near the building's rear entrance.
Tinkerton motioned me back to the chair. “You phoned the good Senator here and told him you and your little slut were coming down to Washington, right here to his office where you'd be safe, so you could personally hand him Louie Panozzo's files on those flash drives, didn't you?” Tinkerton shook his head. “You are such a fool, Pete. Do you have any idea what you had in your pocket? Do you? You were handing Timmy the world on a silver platter, on Rico Patillo's platter, and that Mercedes is what you were going to get in return, you and “Miz” Kasmarek.”
He motioned toward the Marine Corps flag standing in the far corner of the room, surrounded by all his photographs and decorations. “A Silver Star,” he shook his head sadly. “The voters ate that up, didn't they, Major? You should read the citation, it would make the hair stand up on the back of your neck. “Heroism above and beyond…” at “the risk of his own life…” against “a skilled and resourceful enemy…” and all the rest of that crap. It was great stuff, really. It took Sergeant Dannmeyer and me half the night and a bottle of Chivas in a Saudi bar to put that crap down on paper without vomiting.”
Tinkerton turned and glared angrily at him. “Semper Fidelis, Major? Did I hear you say “Semper Fi!” Always faithful. Duty. Honor. Country. Too bad you never understood any of it, Timmy.”
Slowly he walked around the chair until he stood behind Hardin and began tapping the Glock's silencer lightly against the side of the Senator's head. “It may sounds trite, Pete, but there really is no honor among thieves. None whatsoever.” He leaned over, almost whispering in Hardin's ear. “I might be a fanatic when it comes to things I truly believe in, but Timmy here doesn't believe in anything, not a goddamned thing except himself, his ego, and his career. He is an unrepentant crook, plain and simple, and all he wants is power. He was selling you two out and he was about to sell me out right along with you. Can't say Timmy didn't aim high though, that he didn't set some ambitious goals for himself. What he was buying, was nothing less than the White House.”
“You need to watch the caffeine, Ralph; it's making you a bit paranoid.” Hardin tried to laugh, desperate to regain some of his old composure. “The White House? You've gone way over the top this time.”
Tinkerton's smile faded as he swung the automatic in a short, vicious blow, raking the barrel across the Senator's cheek. “Semper Fi! How's that for “over the top” and “paranoid,” old buddy?”
The blow snapped Hardin's head sideways. Stunned, his hand went to his cheek and came away streaked with blood. Tinkerton was skilled at knowing a man's vanities and weaknesses, and he knew Hardin by heart. The Senator cowered in his chair as Tinkerton stepped closer and pointed the Glock at Hardin's head. “You ungrateful bastard, I have you on tape working the whole thing out with Rico Patillo!” Tinkerton pressed the silencer against the bridge of Hardin's nose. “What was it you called me? “A liability?” You told him it was, “time to cut our losses?” Isn't that what you told Rico… Major?”
Tinkerton was red hot now and I was surprised he didn't blow the Senator's brains all over the office carpet, right then. He looked at me and said, “Pete, we deserved better than this — you and I. If you had only listened to me back there in Columbus, boy, you and me, we had it all.”
He motioned toward the dark window. “As you may already have surmised, the gentlemen in the Mercedes are not with the FBI. The good Senator here arranged with Rico Patillo to have the two of you added to the concrete mix of a new Interstate Highway overpass near Paramus. Knowing Rico's people, I am certain those animals would have disposed of you fairly quickly and then amused themselves with Miz Kasmarek for the rest of the night. Unfortunately, sooner or later they would be coming back for me as well. That was the kind of scum I was cleaning out, Pete, eliminating it if you will, until my old pal Timmy sold us out.”
“Ralph,” Hardin tried to reassert himself. “Don't be a fool. You and I can still work this thing out.”
“Work this “thing” out? I think not, Tim. The only thing you and I have to work out is who kills who first, and unfortunately for you, I'm the one holding the gun now.”
Hardin blinked nervously as he looked at the window, at the office door, and then at Tinkerton's automatic.
“Too late, Major,” Tinkerton smiled, taunting him. “If you look real close at that Mercedes, you'll see there is no one inside. Well, there is, but the two grease balls who were in the front seat are now lying in the trunk, and they are very, very dead. Besides, I'm not worried about Rico anymore, because I have the flash disks now, and all of Louie Panozzo's wonderful accounting files. He may have been a fat slob, but he was a surprisingly clever accountant. He's got it all — the drug buys, the women, the meth labs, the crooked businesses and the squeaky clean ones, the bank accounts, the payoffs, the union boys on the pad, the whole enchilada, even all the money he paid you and every other bent politician on the East Coast. So I'll be the one running Rico now, and I can buy myself another Senator on any street corner in town.”
Tinkerton turned and looked at me. “Pete, I count you among my very infrequent failures. God, what a pair we would have made! And Timmy here? If he had not gotten so damned impatient, he might have made the White House the old-fashioned way and I might have ended up as Director of the FBI, or Attorney General, who knows?
The big lawyer's eyes seemed to turn wistfully toward the brightly lit government buildings outside. “Poor Louie,” he said. “He wasn't much of a poker player — too reckless, especially with his own life. I had hoped that the sharp edge of a scalpel might help him understand the precariousness of his position, but he would not tell me where those damned flash drives were. No, Louie wanted to be my partner. Imagine that? Another partner. Just what I needed, when I already had a loyal partner right here in Washington, didn't I, major?”
“Louie Panozzo, what a piece of work!” Tinkerton looked up at the ceiling and laughed. “So tell me, Pete, where on earth did you find them? Please?” He patted the pocket he had put them in. “It has been driving me nuts all week.”
“He hid them inside a car you didn't know about, an old wreck of a Buick. That's how I got out of Columbus. I found them taped inside one of the door panels.”
Tinkerton shook his head, chagrinned. “The door panels in an old wreck of a Buick. That figures.”
“You're a maniac, Tinkerton,” Hardin told him. “Even in Nicaragua and Iraq, the rest of the men thought you were nuts, you and that sicko Dannmeyer. Why do you think I recommended Justice put you in charge of security for the Witness Protection program to begin with? It was because no one could think of anyone as ruthless as the two of you.”
Tinkerton's eyes narrowed. He slowly raised the automatic and pointed it at Hardin's head again. But Hardin wasn't finished. “I'm not impressed by your threats, Tinkerton. You need me. The bodies? Those high-speed chases? Chicago, Boston, and now New York
? Like a fool, you've left too many bodies lying around and a lot of people are asking questions now — the newspapers, the local cops, my committee, the FBI — big questions. Without my protection, you're finished.”
“Finished? Perhaps you are right, Major. That's why I want the kitty.”
Hardin looked as if he had taken another unexpected hit. “The kitty? I don't know what you're talking about,” he answered, but his denial came too fast.
Tinkerton raised the Glock again and this time he pulled the trigger. There was a soft “Phutt!” and a Nine-Millimeter bullet tore off the bottom half of Hardin's right ear, before the heavy slug buried itself in the headrest of his big leather desk chair.
“Ah! Ah!” Hardin screamed as he grabbed the side of his face and spun sideways in his chair. When he pulled his hand away, there was blood all over his fingers, running down his neck and onto his shirt. Then Tinkerton pulled the Glock back, as if he was about to give Hardin a backhand blow across the mouth, but the Senator covered his face and shrank away in stark terror. “No, not the face,” he mumbled. “Not the face.”
Sandy turned her eyes away, but I continued to watch this horrific show, not knowing what Tinkerton would do next.
Tinkerton lowered the Glock and laughed as he looked down at Hardin's lap. “Why Senator, I do believe you have pissed you pants. Now get that kitty! Get it now, or by God, your precious 6:00 News face will be the last of your worries. I'll turn your brains into a fresco on that wall.”
“No, please,” Hardin cowered, completely broken as he raised his shaking hands to fend off any more gunshots. “Please.”
“Get it!” Tinkerton pointed the Glock at Hardin's other ear.
The Undertaker Page 35
