Their clothes were still there, the bed unmade, and no signs of any struggle. Welsh went back down the alcove to the bathroom, moving one quiet step at a time. All the time he was pleading with God not to let her be in there. He'd do anything, just don't let her be in there. He opened the door and turned on the tight.
The bathroom was spotlessly clean. And empty.
Standing there in the bathroom, after the ordeal of the past hours, his emotions as brittle as glass, Rich Welsh finally broke. He began to cry and couldn't stop. He didn't see how she could still be alive. And everyone who could have told him where she was or what happened to her was dead by his hand. His hand. Welsh had never felt so isolated in his life. He had no idea what to do.
Chapter Forty-Two
After the indulgence of tears, there was nothing for Rich Welsh to do but ratchet his emotions back down and deal with the situation. He searched the room for any signs of Maggie or her fate, and found nothing.
No one at the motel paid any notice to the man in the raincoat with one hand in his pocket and a stricken look on his haggard face.
Welsh got in his car and drove blindly. The Springfield Mall came up in his field of view, and he cut across two lanes of honking traffic to make the entrance. He parked in the crowded lot, nicely hidden, and afterwards couldn't for the life of him remember any details of the trip from the motel.
Another eruption of emotion brought him out of the trance, and he pounded on the steering wheel in his rage. It was not supposed to happen like that. He thought he'd done everything right. He'd been prepared for violence and risk, even welcomed them like a fool. But he hadn't been prepared for loss. Welsh only stopped pounding when the muscles in his arm gave out. He opened Gutierrez's case for something to do, some hint to his next step.
There were Tino and Gutierrez's wallets, with fake Virginia driver's licenses. Guatemalan diplomatic passports, but not in their own names. Room keys from a number of hotels, where Welsh assumed they'd been staying. Welsh's own wallet. Two Washington, D.C., Metropolitan Police detective badges and IDs that looked genuine. Margaret Scanlan's wallet. Welsh tenderly moved that off to one side. A black leather-bound appointment book that had to have belonged to Gutierrez.
Then the toys. A matched pair of Israeli Mini-Uzi 9mm submachineguns; only fourteen inches long with the stock folded and 1,200 rounds per minute at the cyclic rate. Eight twenty-five-round magazines. Two short sound suppressors with all the manufacturer's markings removed. No problem getting them into the U.S. if you had a diplomatic passport. A cell phone, which Welsh assumed was the means of keeping in touch with the lookouts in the van. The switchblade, a roll of duct tape, and two pairs of handcuffs. A set of lock picks. The stun gun. The stun bag projector, two bags, and a box of CO2 propellant cartridges. A box of surgical rubber gloves, and another of large gauze pads. Finally, a zippered leather case like a shaving kit. Welsh opened it up and found ampules of sodium pentathol, a can of chloroform, a bag of sterile disposable syringes, and a surgical scalpel handle and a box of blades. He could still feel the two small welts on his thigh where he'd been injected. There were also bags of white powder; either cocaine or heroin, Welsh couldn't tell which. The taste test only worked on TV; neither cocaine nor heroin had any taste. But perfect for leaving at the scene of an overdose.
"Jesus Christ!" Welsh exclaimed out loud when he reached the bottom of the case. Two Vietnam-era M26A2 fragmentation hand grenades, with Israel Military Industries markings in English. He immediately ripped off two pieces of duct tape to wrap around the pins. With the car bouncing around, if a pin fell out there would be a dandy explosion.
There was nothing else of any interest except a little over twenty-five thousand dollars in cash. Expense and escape fund. Welsh transferred the money to his pockets.
He returned to the appointment book. All the pages up to that day had been neatly ripped out. Gutierrez had probably been unprofessional enough to record his movements, but professional enough to destroy the record when it was no longer needed. There was a single entry for that day: "K at 8." The meaning presented itself immediately. But where?
He set the book down and double-checked the wallets for anything he might have missed, using the switchblade to cut the stitching and rip the leather open. Nothing. He slashed open the lining and bottom of the case itself. Still nothing. He went back to the appointment book, checking each page for any more writing. Still nothing.
In his frustration he sliced off the binding, and inside the back cover was a photograph. Folded around it was a piece of a Washington street map. The section was of The Mall, and an X was marked on the opposite side of the reflecting pool from the Vietnam War Memorial. The photo showed a park bench, circled in magic marker, along a path at the very same spot.
It was the sort of thing an intelligence officer sometimes had to resort to when a contact either didn't know an area or couldn't be relied upon to remember details.
Even with everything else flooding his mind, the plan fell into place like a straight line to a certain destination. Welsh closed his eyes and went over every possible thing that could go wrong.
In the mall he purchased a pad of paper, pens, a padded envelope, a nylon jogging suit, a scarf, and a bottle of aspirin for his crushing headache.
Back in the car he wrote Special Agent MacNeil of the FBI another memo. He didn't mention Maggie or the two guys in the van, but added a postscript to expect the package of recordings in the mail. The memo went into the envelope along the Guatemalans' wallets, passports, and hotel room keys.
A twenty-four-hour courier service on North 19th Street in Arlington promised to deliver the envelope to MacNeil at his home, at exactly 7:00 the next morning.
Welsh drove around to kill time. Thinking about her was driving him crazy. All that held him together was the certainty that at eight o'clock that night someone was either going to tell him everything, or pay the whole price.
Chapter Forty-Three
Welsh was careful not to show up until only a few minutes before 8:00. He knew that the other party attending the meeting would make very sure the area was completely clear before committing himself.
His train pulled in to the Metro station on The Mall, and he came up on the escalator. He was wearing the nylon jogging suit, sneakers, baseball cap, and the scarf wrapped around his nose and mouth. There was an early cold snap and everyone on the street was dressed too lightly for it. It made them walk fast and keep their heads down. Welsh broke into a slow jog, heading toward the Lincoln Memorial on the sidewalk bordering Constitution Avenue.
The Lincoln Memorial was haloed in its usual warm blue light. Near the Vietnam War Memorial, Welsh took out the cell phone, dialed 911, and reported a man with a gun near the Department of Agriculture building on the far side of The Mall past the Washington Monument. A minute later he watched two police officers run past him in that direction.
It was 8:02. He pulled the scarf over his face and tugged the long sleeve of the nylon jacket over the revolver in his hand. He started jogging again, crossing over the front of the Lincoln Memorial onto the path on the other side of the reflecting pool. He couldn't see the bench from there; it was in a good spot, well screened.
Nothing succeeded like simplicity. As he ran down the path Welsh casually looked over at the bench, and saw Thomas Kohl sitting there with his right hand inside his jacket.
Welsh decided to stop a little short so he'd have a better angle if Kohl got the pistol out or decided to try and shoot through the jacket. He halted abruptly, dropped into a crouch, and thrust his arm out so the pistol came clear. "Pull that hand out and you're dead," he barked.
Kohl froze.
"Let go of the piece," Welsh commanded, "and spread your fingers out so I can see them through the jacket."
Kohl thought about it for a short second. Then Welsh could see his hand relax.
"Now take the hand out real fucking slow," said Welsh. "Don't fuck around, I'd just as soon blow you away."
Kohl did it in slow motion.
"Drape it on top of the bench, just like the other one."
Once Kohl had done as Welsh directed, he said very calmly, "Listen, I think…"
"Shut up," said Welsh. "Don't say another fucking word." Keeping the pistol aimed at Kohl's chest, he very carefully circled around to the back of the bench. As he left Kohl's view, he said, "Don't even think about it."
Welsh jammed the barrel of the revolver in Kohl's neck and reached into the jacket with his free hand, bringing out a SIG-Sauer P-228 9mm automatic. He pressed the decocking lever to drop the hammer, and put the pistol in his pocket. Then he patted down Kohl's front and belt area.
When he was done, Welsh said, "Skid forward on your ass and drop to your knees. Keep your arms spread out from your body, like Christ on the cross."
As Kohl moved, Welsh could see him weighing his chances at each step, waiting for an opening.
Welsh edged around the bench. "Move forward on your knees, into the middle of the path." Then: "Okay, flat on your stomach, keep the arms spread."
Kohl dropped smoothly onto his outstretched hands.
Welsh could see that Kohl was braced on his palms, ready to spring if he got the chance. "Get those palms up in the air, and spread the legs wide," said Welsh. He knelt down, jamming the pistol barrel into the base of Kohl's skull, one knee hard in the small of Kohl's back.
Welsh heard footsteps and voices. A man and a woman were coming down the path. They saw the scene and screeched to a halt. "Hey," the man said tentatively.
Welsh dug the barrel harder into Kohl's neck. He had Gutierrez's badge out, and waved it at them. "Police officer," he announced. "I'm making an arrest, move on."
"Oh, yes, sir," the man said, tremendous relief in his voice. They both shot past and disappeared down the path.
"You're no cop," Kohl said into the ground.
Welsh pushed his face into the asphalt. "I thought I told you to shut up." He began a frisk, starting at the arms, then the hair and collar, then down the back. Taped to the inside of Kohl's belt, at the small of his back, was a handcuff key. Welsh threw it onto the grass. "Cute." Most cops got shot because routine made them careless.
Welsh repositioned the revolver to the base of Kohl's spine and went down the legs. He found a small Walther .380 automatic in an ankle holster.
"Put your left hand on the back of your head," said Welsh. He snapped on one handcuff bracelet, then wrenched the arm around into a lock. "Right hand behind your back." He jammed his left knee into the back of Kohl's neck, pinned Kohl's left arm with his right knee and all his weight, and cinched on the other bracelet.
Welsh had Kohl roll over. He frisked his front thoroughly, including the crotch. It was the best place to conceal a weapon, because even the hardest guys got timid feeling around there.
Welsh dragged Kohl to his knees, then told him to get on his feet himself. They moved out: Kohl in front and Welsh behind and beyond kicking range. He gave directions and added the caveat, "Run and you're dead."
They cut across the grass to Welsh's car on Independence Avenue. He'd parked it there four hours earlier. The minute he found the right spot he'd locked up the car and taken the subway out of Washington entirely. No matter how much prior surveillance Kohl had done, it was just an empty car that had been sitting there for hours.
Welsh put Kohl on his knees again while he unlocked the car door. Then he grabbed the handcuff chain and yanked Kohl into the backseat. His arms level with his neck, Kohl had no choice but to go along, and no time to try anything.
Kohl was face-down on the seat with Welsh sitting on top of him. Welsh grabbed a plastic bag from the floorboard, opened the twist tie, and stuck the bag over Kohl's nose and mouth. In the bag was a handful of gauze pads soaked in Gutierrez's chloroform. Kohl struggled fiercely, but was still within a minute. Welsh kept the bag on a little longer just to be sure.
The smell was making him sick. He sealed up the bag and threw it and the rubber gloves he'd been wearing into a larger bag, knotting the top. He rolled Kohl onto the floorboard and covered him with a blanket.
With a feeling of grim satisfaction, Rich Welsh climbed into the front seat, opened all the windows, and drove off.
Chapter Forty-Four
Thomas Kohl sat propped up against the trunk of a large oak tree. His arms were straight over his head, duct tape banding them to the trunk. There was more tape circling
his torso. His legs were spread and extended on the ground, his ankles tied to the ends of sticks that had been sharpened and pounded into the earth like tent pegs. He was dressed only in shirt and pants. His bulletproof vest and other clothes lay in a neat pile beside him. A big nine-volt flashlight was on the ground between his legs, the beam shining into his eyes. But Kohl was still unconscious.
It was night and clear, with bright stars and a half-moon. The temperature was near freezing, and Rich Welsh's breath steamed around his head. He was nearby sitting on a blanket, taking in the smell of the woods and waiting patiently. They were in the Quantico Marine Base, the land navigation test area, to be precise, about two hundred yards from a dirt trail where Welsh's car was parked.
Kohl groaned loudly, and began to stir. He came around, and flinched at the light. His eyes were wide and helpless, like a deer frozen in a poacher's jacklight. Finally he said in a rasping voice, "Listen, I think you're making a mistake here. Whatever the problem is, you've got the wrong man."
Without a word, Welsh sat down in front of him and turned the light on himself. Then he took off the scarf covering his face.
Kohl recoiled. "Welsh!"
"Kind of like Banquo's Ghost, aren't I?" Welsh asked with false cheer. "Always turning up where I'm not wanted. I guess you didn't recognize my voice through the scarf."
Kohl recovered impressively and turned authoritarian. "Welsh, do you have any idea what kind of trouble you're getting yourself into?"
Welsh jumped to his feet and kicked Kohl twice in the ribs. Hard, and it felt good. Harsh exhaled grunts came out of Kohl at each blow. "Gutierrez is dead," Welsh said flatly. "Him and three of his boys. And by the way, he also tortured me. I'm feeling a little emotionally fragile right now, so you'd be well advised not to fuck with me."
Kohl then took what Welsh thought was a desperate shot, perhaps thinking that Welsh had only gotten lucky and followed him to the Mall. "You can't think I was involved with that?"
Welsh kicked him in the ribs one more time, then reached down and turned on a digital recorder. They listened to Kohl's Guatemala conversation with Lieutenant Colonel Armando Gutierrez, and when it was done Welsh shut the machine off. He showed Kohl the page from Gutierrez's appointment book, the photo of the park bench, and the map.
Listening to the tape, Kohl had seemed to visibly shrink. Quite understandably, he changed his approach. "What do you want?"
"What makes you think I want anything?" Welsh replied casually.
He must have broken a rib, because Kohl had to force the words out. "I'm sitting here with you in the woods. You didn't call the cops; you grabbed me all by yourself. What do you want?"
There was a lot of ego there. Welsh could hear the humiliation of being trapped and taken. "You're going to answer some questions. If you don't want to, we'll see how much you remember from the CIA resistance-to-interrogation course. I'll be honest with you, Tom, I've got a lot of issues to work out. I guarantee there's no one around for miles. Now, what happens afterward is going to depend on how cooperative you are. But I can tell you that if you don't help me out, you'll end up in here." Welsh swung the light over to reveal a freshly dug grave. The dirt was piled on the old green tarpaulin from the trunk of his car.
"You wouldn't dare."
Welsh laughed again; it had a brittle, high-pitched edge to it. "Hey, asshole, I've already got a body count of nine, starting in Guatemala. And as far as I'm concerned you're more responsible than any of them." He paused. "Shit, it might happen anyway. Unlike yourself, no doubt, I'm an
amateur at field interrogation. I might get too rough and waste you by accident."
Kohl didn't have anything to say.
"I'm in a bit of a hurry," said Welsh, picking up the Mini-Uzi, "so I'm going to ask you some questions and zero this weapon at the same time."
He extended the single-strut folding stock and screwed the sound suppressor can onto the barrel. "How did you find us?" He wanted to know if it had been his fault.
"It was a fluke," Kohl said quickly. "One of the Guatemalans was out shopping at the Springfield Mall. He saw the girl, Scanlan, and followed her back to the motel. Then he called Gutierrez."
Welsh inserted a magazine into the pistol grip and cocked the action. He placed the stock into the pocket between his shoulder and collarbone and peered through the sights. "Why did you go to work for the Guatemalans?"
Kohl was getting his second wind. "What difference does it make?"
That arrogant tone helped Welsh squeeze the trigger. A single shot. It was a good suppressor; the only sound was the metallic clacking of the bolt moving forward and back. "I was using one of your fingers for an aiming point, but the sights were off. About two clicks to the right and one down." He adjusted the front and rear sights.
Kohl tried to pull his fingers down into a fist, but found they were taped upright to the trunk. The fear rose in his voice. "It was a dirty war, but what the hell do you think the country would have been like if the Communists took over? We didn't make up our missions, we were given them. Then when the missions went public, the people who gave the orders got amnesia. A lot of good loyal men got fired for only doing what they'd been told. And the rest of us? Just twist there in the wind until it's time to dump you too!" He was shouting now. "I was not going to be one of the Company's human sacrifices! I gave them half my life, two marriages, and some of my blood. I owed the Guatemalans more than I owed them."
William Christie 02 - Mercy Mission Page 27
