All those years of dirty deals with the little devils in order to fight that big Russian devil, Welsh thought. Then one day all that was left were the little devils and a very bad smell in the room. And everyone who'd looked the other way now wanted to know who made it.
A spy's job was to lie, cheat, steal, manipulate, and even kill, all in a good cause—for country. Welsh could understand the effort to keep what the job demanded from turning you around. Loyalty to the organization and the cause had to be a big part of it. And then one day they tell you: Yes, you've been a good soldier, but now you have to fall on your sword for the sins of your masters.
"And what about the dead?" Welsh asked. "The Marines, and how many others? Everyone who got in the way of your comfortable retirement." There was no answer for that, so he moved on to a more pertinent question. "Where is Margaret Scanlan?"
"I don't know," said Kohl.
Welsh aimed carefully and fired again.
Kohl screamed. The bullet had taken off the forefinger of his left hand.
"Sights are dead-on now," said Welsh. "Hope you aren't left-handed." Seeing the look on Kohl's face, he said, "Yeah, you all did a hell of a job, put me right in the mood. So," he asked, in a voice as cold as the night air, "where is Margaret Scanlan?"
He took aim again, and Kohl, sobbing from the pain, said, "They're keeping her at a house in Woodbridge."
"Is she alive?" Welsh demanded, still looking at him through the sights.
"As far as I know."
"Give me the address."
Kohl said it; Welsh wrote it down. "Gutierrez had a cell," said Welsh. "Give me the number at the house. Don't even dream of telling me you don't know it."
Kohl gave him the number.
Now Welsh really had a reason to hurry, but there was one more thing. "Where is your protection?" he asked.
Kohl had sweated though his shirt, in spite of the cold. "I don't know what you mean."
"You've got your own stuff stashed away. For protection. So if they ever caught you and thought about putting you on trial, it would be like a cesspool backing up all over the government. You're going to give it to me."
Kohl spoke much too fast. "It's in a bank vault in Europe."
Welsh fired again, and there was another scream. Kohl thrashed against the tree trunk, and then threw up on himself. A thin trickle of vomit hung from the comer of his mouth, and he couldn't move his shoulder over far enough to wipe it off. He tried to spit the taste out of his mouth, but the saliva wouldn't come.
Welsh was unmoved. "The human capacity for deception is infinite. You're a pro, Tom, and the stuff is where you can put your hands on it within an hour, twenty-four hours a day. You're going to tell me eventually, so why not make it now. If not..."
It took Kohl two tries to get it out. "If not what?"
"You've got eight more fingers, to start with."
Kohl told him. And then: "Okay. A million dollars. I'll get you the girl and you let me go."
"A million, eh?" said Welsh. "Someone's been moving some white powder in his spare time. "Is that what your ass is worth? A million?"
If he'd been able, Kohl would have screamed it out. "Then what do you want?"
"Nothing," Welsh said calmly. "I think I understand everything now. I haven't got any evidence against you that would stand up in a court of law. Even the world's worst lawyer could get Corporal Richardson's recordings declared inadmissible. The CIA would say you'd been a rogue, a bad apple. Which you definitely have been. Any incriminating documents would either disappear or be withheld on national security grounds. All your years of honorable service to your country? Shit, you were probably even an abused child.
"So it's on me. What do you think I ought to do, Tom? Let you go, or put a bullet in your brain? Take your money? Forgive you, or make sure you never hurt anyone ever again? What would the parents of those Marines want me to do? What would Maggie Scanlan want me to do?"
Kohl was looking at him like an animal in a trap.
"It's a moral quandary, to be sure," said Welsh, rising to his feet. "Guess right about now you're wishing I didn't do three combat tours."
Chapter Forty-Five
Welsh managed to convince himself he wasn't handling it on his own just because it was his nature, nor was it a typical case of testosterone poisoning.
He was certain the Guatemalans wouldn't act like terrorists or criminals holding a hostage. As soon as they heard a police bullhorn, they would shoot Maggie in the head and try to make a run for it.
He was equally certain that would already have happened by the time the Woodbridge, Virginia, Police Department, the Prince William County Sheriff's Department, and the FBI finished arguing over jurisdiction.
The house had been chosen well. A sparsely populated, heavily wooded street bordered in three directions by Route 95 and the massive Potomac Mills shopping mall. Perfect escape routes in every direction.
Welsh very slowly and quietly circled the house, trying to figure out what to do. There were lights on, and people inside, but since all the blinds were shut tightly, he couldn't figure out who was in which room. And more important, which room they were holding Maggie in.
If he tried to sneak in quietly and was discovered, it was all over. If he tried to crash in and picked the wrong part of the house, she'd be dead before he could find her.
He was going to have to make them bring her outside to him. Pretty simple plan, and if it didn't work, he'd be able to hear the shots that killed her. How much easier to put the responsibility on the cops.
Welsh crawled up to the car parked in the driveway. It was between him and the house. He prepared the Mini-Uzi and set it down on the asphalt driveway. He took out Kohl's cell phone, a prepaid throwaway, and dialed the number Kohl had given him.
"Yes?" was the greeting.
Welsh had practiced the low raspy voice, and repeated his trick of scratching the mouthpiece to produce static. "This is Kohl, put Gutierrez on the line. Quick."
"He's not back yet," said the Spanish-accented voice.
"The police know about the house," said Welsh. "You've got to get out of there fast. Take the girl with you, get in your car, drive to the mall, and wait there. I'll call you back in about fifteen minutes. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Get moving." Welsh broke the connection. He put the phone in his pocket and picked up the submachinegun. He concentrated on controlling his breathing.
The back door slammed shut. Welsh got on his stomach and peeked around the front tire without exposing his head. Scanlan, handcuffed and with a hood over her head, flanked by two Guatemalans holding her arms. Neither had their guns out.
From underneath the car, Welsh watched their feet.
He pulled back on the Mini-Uzi pistol grip, locking the stock into his shoulder. When they were at point-blank range, Welsh sprang up and leaned over the hood. He squeezed the trigger twice and one startled face blossomed red.
But the other one had lightning reflexes, and dove to put the car between them. Welsh lunged across the top of the hood, flicking the selector switch to full-auto. The Guatemalan's hand was coming out of his jacket. Welsh pushed the Mini-Uzi over the side and emptied half the magazine into him.
Welsh rolled and landed on the body. Scanlan was still standing upright, hooded and shaking like a leaf.
Breathing so hard he couldn't speak, Welsh yanked the hood off her head, hooked his arm under her armpit, and dragged her back around the car.
Scanlan blinked her eyes to focus them. "Rich?" Then louder: "Rich!"
A window shattered in the house, immediately followed by a tearing burst of automatic fire. Bullets thudded into the car. Another Mini-Uzi from the sound. He pushed Maggie up against the wheel for protection and pressed the handcuff key into her hand. "Stay down!" he shouted. For a split second he thought about giving her a pistol, but she'd just get up and start shooting and he wanted her safe.
The low-powered 9mm ammunition wouldn't penetrate t
he car body, but they were still pinned down. Any move in any direction and they were easy targets. One guy was in the house firing. And maybe another maneuvering outside while they were pinned down? That wasn't a vote in favor of staying put and waiting for a neighbor to call the cops.
The Guatemalan in the house was a sprayer, ripping off an entire magazine in a single burst and then taking a few seconds to reload. In each lull Welsh risked a look, and located the broken window he was firing from. Welsh stuck his hand in his jacket pocket and found the hand grenade.
It was a drill. Spoon against the web of the hand. A really hard yank, because the pin never came out easily. A steady grip—if you milked it the spoon could slip, the cap could ignite, and 4.5 seconds later it blew up in your hand.
When the next burst stopped Welsh rolled the smooth metal grenade from his palm to his fingers, flipping off the spoon with a backhand motion. Thousand-one, thousand-two; he reared up and whipped the grenade at the window. He ducked back down; if he missed the window or the grenade hit a screen it could bounce right back at them.
The blast was deafening. It was always amazing how a little palm-sized egg could make so much noise. Welsh looked up, and smoke was pouring from the window.
Scanlan had the cuffs off. "Can you run?" he shouted.
"Yes!"
Welsh pulled the pin on the second grenade and lobbed it at the back door of the house. It blew.
He grabbed her hand. "Come on!"
They ran across the backyard, screened from the house by the acrid black high-explosive smoke. Inside the tree line Welsh dumped the Mini-Uzi and magazines. No fingerprints, he was wearing gloves. Sirens wailed in the distance.
They walked quickly through the woods, following the rings of white medical tape Welsh had left on the trees on his way in. It brought them to the side street on the opposite side of the mall, where his car was parked.
His embrace lifted her off her feet He buried his face in her neck and felt her lips against his ear.
"Rescued from the jaws of death in a shoot-out," she whispered. "Who the hell said men can't make a commitment?"
Chapter Forty-Six
Driving south on Interstate 95, Welsh decided that, no matter what they'd done to her, he'd make sure she knew that his feelings were unchanged and he'd be there for her. But she didn't seem traumatized. Unlike the big tough Marine.
He was just about to ask, as gently as he could, when Scanlan said, "Tell me what happened to you."
Welsh told her everything except the location where he and Thomas Kohl had had their discussion. He was immediately ashamed, but it was the difference between trusting someone with your life, and trusting someone with your life in prison. Then it was Scanlan's turn.
"A little while after you left the motel they crashed into the room. Except they had a key card, and the only thing that crashed was the chain. Six of them were all over me before I could even get off the bed. I tried to yell when you came back, but I was gagged and one of them chloroformed me. When I woke up I was in a house with no furniture except the chair I was tied to." She paused. "Gutierrez introduced himself. Did you ever notice how sadists are such genial fellows?"
"Getting to practice their hobby puts them in a good mood," Welsh said grimly.
"They threatened to rape me," she said.
Welsh put his hand on her knee.
"I told them to go right ahead: I was HIV positive."
Welsh's mouth flopped open at the sheer audacity of it.
"That took the wind out of their sails," she said. "After that, all they had the nerve to do was…." She hesitated, as if searching for the right word, and her tone was cold and clinical. "I guess molested would be the right word. Can you handle that?"
"The way I feel about you? I can handle that," Welsh replied.
Scanlan was wearing a satisfied little smile, as if he'd passed another test.
"But I'm glad I killed the sons of bitches," he growled.
"After that," she said, "Gutierrez used this electric shock machine on me."
"Did the same to me," Welsh said tightly.
"The first thing—boom!—he wanted to know where the recordings were. I didn't know. You went off on your own, you wouldn't take me with you, you wouldn't tell me your plans, you didn't trust me."
"He bought it," said Welsh.
"Play the stupid woman and they go for it every time," she said contemptuously. "But anyway, they couldn't wait to get to you. I was going to be the dessert after they made you give them everything."
She said it without batting an eye; it was Welsh who shivered.
"Gutierrez and three of the others left," she said. "The three who stayed were just ignorant little thugs; they thought they could get AIDS if I breathed on them. And you wouldn't believe how scared one of them was of you. He was a real backcountry boy, and he knew all about the hotel at Santa Elena and the jungle. He thought you had to be some kind of witchman who carried invincible magic. Then they got a phone call and all hell broke loose. They dragged me outside, and there you were."
"Do you know how lucky we were?" said Welsh.
"You still haven't told me where we're driving."
"Spotsylvania Battlefield National Park."
"That's nice. Why?"
"We have to dig something up."
"That's nice. What?"
A waterproof and everything resistant Pelican case. Buried beside a boulder near a road intersection and the shallow remains of a Civil War trench system.
Now Scanlan was driving and Welsh was examining the thick stack of CIA cables by flashlight. They were evenly divided between Kohl's communications with CIA headquarters and theirs to him as Chief of Station Guatemala. All were stamped TOP SECRET, along with the Sensitive Compartmented Information code word for the operation involved. NOFORN, meaning that the material could not be viewed by foreign nationals or intelligence services, and NOCONTRACT, denying access to contract agents or consultants.
"Everything is here," he told her. "Guatemalan generals in negotiations with representatives of the Cali drug cartel in 1988. A Canadian labor activist kidnapped and executed by a death squad linked to the Esteban family manufacturing interests. It's documented. The CIA knew everything that happened in Guatemala. They told everything to headquarters in Langley. And Langley didn't give a flying shit." He kept leafing through the papers. "There's a whole set on your brother, Maggie."
"What does it say?"
Welsh skimmed them. "You killed the right guy."
They both fell silent. Then Scanlan said, "We're coming up on the Capital Beltway."
'Take the 495 exit."
"Where are we going now?"
"Chevy Chase, Maryland."
She looked at the clock on the dashboard. "It's late."
"I'll call ahead," said Welsh.
Chapter Forty-Seven
It was a large country house on at least five wooded acres. Swimming pool, tennis court, the whole nine yards. But the white plantation house only dated back to the 1960's, so the ambiance could be achieved without having to deal with rotting timbers and plumbing that had to be rammed into spaces never meant for plumbing. Like all rich Eastern houses, it was screened from the road by tall trees. You had to deserve to see it.
The house was in darkness, and Rich Welsh was sitting in the living room, which bore all the trademarks of Mrs. Senator Anderson. He called her that, out of earshot, because he'd always imagined the title was the most important tiling to her, like all the Mrs. Colonels in the Marine Corps. Mrs. Anderson was Kentucky horse-rich, but even though the Senator had climbed all the way up from the bottom, he was the trophy spouse: the gold entry card into the top ranks of the Washington social scene. Welsh had never cared for her. Unlike his late predecessor, Senator Anderson didn't need to hire a dominatrix—he'd married one. She didn't care for Welsh either; he was help, and didn't suck up to her the way help was supposed to.
The living room was her territory, with the early Picasso, the Durer
engraving, the Bokhara rugs, and the silk upholstered furniture that took real nerve to sit down on. The manly Remington bronze, golf clubs, gun case, and elk head had all been exiled to the Senator's mahogany study.
A few minutes earlier a car had come up the drive, and now the front door was being unlocked. Footsteps came down the hallway, and the lights in the living room snapped on. Welsh remained motionless.
Senator Warren Anderson tossed his tuxedo jacket over the back of the couch and headed straight for the antique cherry-wood liquor caddy. He mixed himself a highball in a crystal glass. It must have been a real tough night for the Senator not to wait to go into his study and use his beloved set of glasses with the country club seal on them.
The Senator had a welcome taste of his drink, then turned and realized that someone else was sitting in the room. He froze, and when nothing bad happened he leaned forward, squinting as if trying to make out what he was dealing with. When he recognized Welsh, the heavy glass dropped from his hand.
"My God," the Senator exclaimed. "My God, Rich!"
Welsh had to fight against a middle-class instinct to dive for the carpet and start wiping up the spill. Instead he got up and directed the Senator to the couch. "Sorry about startling you, sir. Let me get you another drink." The Senator was quite pale, so Welsh made him a stiff one.
The Senator snatched the glass back and took a large gulp. He slumped onto the couch. "I can't believe it. Rich, I'm so glad to see you alive I'm not even mad about scaring me out of ten years I can't afford." He paused. "No doubt there's a reason for the dramatic entrance?"
"I'm afraid so, sir."
"How in the world did you know I was going to be here?"
"A couple of phone calls and I found out that you were at the Kennedy Center and Mrs. Anderson was back in Kentucky."
The Senator was returning to his normal ruddy color, and his habit of becoming sidetracked by minutiae once again came to the fore. "With all the money I spent on a security system, I would have thought I'd be seeing you first at the police station."
William Christie 02 - Mercy Mission Page 28
