William Christie 02 - Mercy Mission

by William Christie

  The waiter appeared to inquire about dessert. Both declined, Welsh only because he was full. He would have loved to make Kohl sit there and watch him eat. Then again, after running his mouth like that, he'd probably get stuck with the check.

  Kohl signed the credit card slip. "I really wish I could convince you to help us, Mr. Welsh. It would be to everyone's advantage, especially yours."

  Now Kohl sounded like he was passing a kidney stone every time he called Welsh "Mister." Welsh knew this wasn't die end of it, so he thought he ought to add a final note. "Did you ever hear what Lucky Luciano said about U.S. Senators?"

  "No." Kohl was no longer pretending to be all that interested.

  "He said, 'A U.S. Senator can make more trouble, day in and day out, than anyone else.'"

  "That's very interesting."

  Leaving the restaurant, Welsh reflected that it was true only if the U.S. Senator happened to be in your corner.

  He was going to have to do some more research on Kohl. The CIA was one institution you didn't want to have anything on you. You could only buy someone who wanted to be bought. And you could only blackmail someone with something to hide, or something he wanted that you could take away. Welsh didn't think he fell into any of those categories, but there was one thing he knew for sure. If he ever did, Thomas Kohl would be the first one knocking on his door.

  Chapter Seven

  Welsh spent the rest of the week pinned to his desk, trying to get ahead of the paper before he had to leave for Guatemala. As usual, no matter how hard he bailed, the water kept lapping up around his ankles.

  On one of those days, the phone rang just before lunch. He pinned the receiver into his neck almost without pausing at the computer keyboard and announced, "Rich Welsh."

  "Is this Richard Welsh?" a voice asked.

  The ex-Marine in Welsh wanted to say, "Didn't I just fucking say that?" But Welsh the Senate aide patiently replied, "Speaking."

  "Yes, Mr. Welsh, my wife and I are remodeling our home, and we'd like to talk to you about doing our interior decorating."

  Now Welsh recognized the voice, and it brought a smile to his face. "I'm sorry, sir, I think you have the wrong Richard Welsh. I'm not a decorator."

  There was a pause. "You're not?"

  "No, sir."

  "Well, do you know any good decorators?"

  "Sorry," said Welsh, stifling a belly laugh.

  "Okay." The other party broke the connection.

  Welsh left the Russell Building and went in search of a pay phone. With Washington, D.C., the way it was, and in the era of the cellular phone, it took him a while to find a working one. He set his notebook on the metal counter, dropped in some change, and dialed the number of another pay phone.

  "Are you sure you don't do interior decorating?" Michael Longenecker asked in lieu of saying hello.

  "You've seen my apartment," said Welsh. "What's up?"

  They weren't just playing cloak and dagger. In Washington telephone calls went through secretaries, and secretaries filled out phone logs and message forms. And if someone opposed to a stand you had taken wanted to find out who was telling you the things you weren't supposed to know, it was easy enough to wander through your office and read what was lying on the desk. It happened every day.

  "You ready to copy?" Longenecker asked.

  "Go."

  'Tim Brock is one of the known aliases of Thomas Allen Booker. Joined the U.S. Army in 1967. Volunteered for Airborne school, then Special Forces. Vietnam-era Green Beret, you know what I mean?"

  "Got you," said Welsh. During the Vietnam War the Army went for relative quantity as opposed to quality in Special Forces. A lot of guys got in, right from boot camp, that wouldn't have either before or after the war.

  "Special Warfare School, qualified as a communications specialist," said Longenecker. "Seventh Special Forces Group, Fort Bragg. Then 5th Group, Vietnam.

  Two months with 1st Mobile Strike Force Command, Da Nang. Then the rest of his tour with 5th Group Headquarters, Saigon."

  "Well, which was he?" Welsh demanded. "A wounded stud or a couldn't-cut-it dickhead who got himself shitcanned from the Mike Force?"

  "Special Forces has its turds too," said Longenecker. "Just not as many. No Purple Heart or any other combat award. Somebody did give him his Combat Infantryman Badge. And an Army Commendation Medal from 5th Group; the green weenie. No V for valor on that. From Nam back to Bragg, 6th Group this time. Reenlisted 1971. Then a parachute accident in 1973. Must not have liked it much, 'cause five years in Special Forces and he was only a senior jumper."

  It took Welsh a second to remember. That was between thirty and fifty-five jumps. Not many for Special Forces.

  "He got a medical discharge for that last jump. Hundred-percent disability," Longenecker said. "He shows up in Guatemala in 1979. Buys a cattle ranch in the northeast part of the country, the Peten. He does some favors for the Guatemalan Army, mainly training advice and letting them use his ranch. That's normal for anyone who wants to do business and prosper down there. There's also a report that he helped train one of the local death squads on his ranch."

  "Army and death squads?" Welsh asked.

  "Usually not much difference between the two," Longenecker replied.

  "Okay, go on."

  "Drug Enforcement Administration had some questions about the small planes he was letting use the landing strip on his ranch. But they didn't pursue it."

  "Why," Welsh asked.

  "The file I'm quoting from is Defense Intelligence Agency. There's a recruiting hands-off notice, which leads me to believe that Booker kept the CIA informed about what he was doing with the Guatemalans. Standard operating procedure south of the border. You become a source for one agency of the federal government to keep all the other agencies off your back. Good insurance policy."

  "It sounds like this guy is connected down there."

  "Damn straight. And if he was, or is, refueling drug planes on their way up north, then he'd have to be kicking back a piece to the local chiefs."

  "Army or government?" Welsh asked.

  "At least Army. They run the show in the Peten. But probably both."

  "This is great stuff," said Welsh. "Anything else?"

  "That's it. Just keep in mind that ninety percent of what's in intelligence files is rumor, gossip, and conjecture. So give this guy the benefit of the doubt."

  "Even though he sounds like a total creep?"

  "Even though he sounds like a total creep. God knows what your file says. And don't bother asking me for it."

  "Don't worry," said Welsh. "I could give a shit. Hey, buddy, I owe you another big one."

  "I know," said Longenecker. "It's already recorded in my black book of favors owed."

  Welsh went back to the office, carefully memorized the notes he'd taken, and just as carefully fed the notebook pages into the office shredder.

  Chapter Eight

  Welsh was lying on his back, in the dirt. He kept trying, but he couldn't move. A man stood over him, pointing a gun. Welsh was so frightened he was hyperventilating. Just as the man was about to fire, something yanked him out of the way. Then he was sitting up in bed and Carol was hanging onto his arm.

  "Rich, you were having a nightmare."

  Welsh let out a deep breath. "Damn! I sure was. Thanks, Carol." Sweating and clammy, he flopped back on the pillow. The last time something like that had happened was during a high-stress no-sleep week of negotiations over the defense appropriations bill. He'd had recurring dreams of being back in high school. It was a toss-up which nightmare was scarier.

  "Are you all right?"

  "I'm okay. Just a bad dream."

  Carol leaned over and turned the light on. "Rich, please tell me what's wrong."

  "Nothing. Really."

  "Something's been bugging you all week," Carol persisted. "I've never seen you like this."

  Welsh didn't say anything. What could he do, tell her what his so-called routine investigation w
as turning into?

  "It's what you're doing, isn't it? We used to talk about everything; why won't you talk about this?"

  "Carol, I can't."

  "You don't trust me, is that it?"

  Welsh fought off the impulse to sigh out loud. "I do trust you. When I can tell you, you'll understand, but right now I just can't."

  They were both quiet, and Welsh was hoping to get back to sleep. Then Carol said, "I want to talk."

  "Carol, I told you…"

  "Not about that. About us."

  Welsh looked up at the ceiling. Of course it had to be today. Thomas Kohl would be nothing compared to this. He would rather charge a machinegun than have an emotional confrontation with a woman. It already felt like someone inside his stomach was trying to chop his way out with a hatchet.

  "Carol, couldn't we talk over breakfast? It's not even dawn and I'm flying out today."

  "I want to talk now."

  It was said in the sort of tone that didn't allow for any debate. Welsh put his hands behind his head and waited fork.

  "I've been thinking about this for a while," Carol said. "I'm thirty-four years old. I feel like I'm getting too old for dates and coming over here for sex three or four times a week."

  There was just no escaping gravity, Welsh thought. Whatever went up always had a way of dropping back down on you.

  "I'm tired of my life the way it is," Carol went on. "I'm tired of living in an apartment. I'm tired of being alone."

  Welsh's face gave him away.

  "I don't think what I want sounds so terrible," Carol said angrily.

  "I've always been straight up with you," said Welsh. "You know how I feel." He'd given up lying to women in his early twenties. It made life both easier and harder, but was worth it.

  "Why don't you tell me, Rich? Why don't you come right out and do it?"

  "Okay," said Welsh. "I'm sorry, but I like apartments. I hate houses and mowing lawns and puttering around. I like having everything I own fit in the back of a rental truck. I'm not domestic. Neither was my father, but I won't put a woman and kids through what he did. That's the plain truth."

  "It sounds more like a preplanned speech for when anyone gets too close to you."

  "It's not. I'm just telling you the way I am. I won't pretend to be anything else."

  "I know you're a lone wolf; I've known that all along. But I can't believe that alone is the way you always want to be."

  "You're not mad because of the way I am. You're mad because it's not what you want." Welsh had yet to meet the woman who regarded him as anything other than the raw clay on which to shape her vision of the ideal man. He didn't consider himself perfect, or even normal, not by any stretch of the imagination. But if he knew one thing, it was that you cannot change people. You can love them, hate them, tolerate them, sometimes influence them, or ideally, even accept them for what they are. But you cannot change them.

  "You know, Rich, there's something I haven't been able to figure out. Is it that you can be one cold bastard on command, or is it that you really are a cold bastard?"

  Welsh kept silent. He'd heard of men winning arguments with women, but he had no personal experience of it.

  His silence only made Carol angrier. "Okay," she said, "this is the point where I say, 'You really don't love me, do you?' So let's get it over with."

  "Not enough to give you what you want, Carol. Enough to not want to hurt you."

  "Great. That makes it all fine then. Richard no-hard-feelings Welsh." Now Carol was up and charging around the bedroom, collecting clothes.

  Welsh just lay there, wanting to pull the covers up over his head but not having the nerve.

  When Carol slammed the door behind her, Welsh leaned over, opened up the drawer of the night table, and took out a small revolver. He followed her down the stairs and waited by the door, watching to make sure she got to her car safely. When she drove off, he walked back up the stairs. The first fight of dawn was just breaking.

  Welsh let himself back in and set the pistol down on the coffee table. How the fuck did that happen? He felt rotten. He felt relieved. He felt ashamed of himself for feeling relieved.

  Going back to sleep was out of the question. He had to do something. So he decided to finish packing for his trip to Guatemala.

  Since he hated dragging a lot of stuff around in his travels, it didn't take long. All his suits were tropical-weight; he took a dark blue and dark gray. A couple of dress shirts, ties, and polo shirts. Because he didn't know how far out of town the investigation would take him, a pair of black ripstop cotton trousers and a featherweight but mosquito-proof long-sleeve cotton shirt. Because nothing else could hold up as well, a pair of well-broken in jungle boots. And because it was Central America, the first-aid kit he always took backpacking, along with mosquito repellent and water-purification tablets. Even brushing your teeth in the local water was enough to tie the pampered North American digestive system into a knot. It all fit into a carry-on bag and a small day pack.

  Then an envelope full of cash and a leather dress belt. A hidden zipper opened up the inside of the money belt, and Welsh carefully slotted the dollars in. He'd been to quite a few places around the world where the locals fell on their ass laughing when you asked where the nearest ATM was.

  As he worked, a thought kept turning over in his mind. What the hell was Carol's reason for slapping him with an ultimatum at 4:50 in the morning on the day of his departure? Could it be that she wanted out and wanted an excuse? It might be yet another rationalization, but Welsh found it comforting nonetheless.

  Comforting enough to try for a little more sleep. He was careful to set his alarm.

  When it went off two hours later, he felt worse man if he'd stayed up. His bags were by the door, the cab was called. Then, just as he made a final circuit around the apartment to see what he'd forgotten, Welsh noticed his revolver still lying on the coffee table.

  Swearing to himself, Welsh snatched the pistol off the table and trotted to his bedroom closet. Dropping to his knees, he moved a cardboard file box and a pile of sneakers out of the way. He grabbed the section of molding facing the open door, and pulled it up off the tongue-and-groove tracks he'd mounted on the wall. Then he slipped a finger into the small hole the removal of the molding had revealed in the wall panel. Welsh pulled, and the entire panel swung open, hinged on one side, and revealed a small safe.

  One day he'd been trying to drag some files out of the closet and nearly kicked through the panel by accident. After a little curious messing around with a screwdriver, he discovered that the space behind it had been left open to accommodate the bathroom water pipes.

  Then it was a just a matter of a weekend's work. The safe was a small fireproof model, but with a plate on the dial to make it hard to punch. He'd bolted it to the floor studs, and then scored the edges off the bolts.

  Welsh opened the safe and set the Smith and Wesson Model 340 on the top shelf. Already inside was his Glock 21 .45 automatic, ammunition, birth certificate, and other hard-to-replace documents.

  Everything else in the apartment was insured, and therefore not worth worrying about. He closed the safe, replaced the panel and molding, and returned the closet to its usual disorder.

  Then, satisfied that anything else he might have forgotten was insignificant, Welsh threw his bags out into the hallway and locked the door behind him.

  Chapter Nine

  As the flight from Miami thumped and bounced its way through the mountain clouds toward Guatemala City, the well-dressed Guatemalan matron seated next to Rich Welsh leaned over and confided in English, "You should use the bathroom before we land."

  Welsh didn't think he could have heard that right. "I beg your pardon?"

  "The bathroom. Use the bathroom on the plane."

  Welsh flashed back to his mother's usual admonition before long car rides as a child. Maybe he'd brought out this lady's maternal instinct. Maybe she was some kind of nut. But he still had to ask politely, "Why?"


  "You do not wish to use the bathrooms in the airport."

  "Ah," said Welsh, finally getting it. "Dirty, or dangerous?"

  "Filthy," the lady assured him. She shuddered involuntarily, as if even the memory was too hard to bear. "Filthy."

  "Thank you very much," said Welsh as he got up to take care of business. When someone went out of their way to give you unsolicited advice like that, you'd best take it.

  It was 7:20 PM local time when Welsh stepped out onto the air stairs of Aurora International Airport. He'd gained an hour, but that didn't help much after a day spent in airports and on planes.

  The arrival/departure area was guarded by a few indolent policemen who carried their submachineguns every possible way except professionally. Welsh judged them worse than useless. In an event of an emergency, two thirds would doubtless drop their weapons and run for their lives, while the rest would go berserk and shoot anything that moved, friend more likely than foe.

  Welsh got in the line at the Banco de Guatemala booth to change a few dollars into quetzals. Only a few, because changing them back was a hell of a lot harder. Welsh's rule was no black-market money exchanges when on government business, even though he figured he was about the only U.S. government employee who felt that way. The line was correspondingly short.

  Immigration was next. Welsh couldn't help noticing an official-looking gentleman standing behind the immigration officers. It wasn't just the pistol bulge in the suit jacket. The sunglasses were a little much in a reasonably well-lighted terminal.

  Customs was the last stop. The inspector was about twenty-two and looked like some politician's otherwise unemployable nephew. But that wasn't much different from the Department of Motor Vehicles back home. Welsh had gone to the trouble of traveling in a suit, something he didn't normally do. The more important you looked, the less likely some petty bureaucrat would risk screwing with you.

  But before Welsh could unzip the pockets of his bag, another Guatemalan in a suit too nice even for a secret policeman showed up and asked, "Mr. Welsh?"