Chant

by George C. Chesbro

  “You do, huh? What else did King tell you?”

  “Nothing. He didn’t have to. I’d already begun to suspect what was going on after our little chat. I tried to warn you.”

  “Shut up, you son of a bitch.”

  “The irony of the whole thing is that you’ve never understood what’s really going on—not all of it. I told you that you should have found it odd that Langley would insist, over what I’m sure were your strenuous objections, that you approach me and try to feel me out on this thing.”

  Maheu frowned slightly, remained silent.

  “I’ll be leaving now,” Chant said quietly.

  Maheu’s frown changed into a faint smile. “Oh, really?”

  “I have no choice. What’s been done and learned can’t be undone or unlearned. Wherever I am, you’ll hunt me. I can certainly understand why you’re concerned about security. Operation Cooked Goose is quite insane. If word of it ever got out, it would be decades before the United States recovered from the political, psychological, and propaganda damage. The CIA would be destroyed.”

  “Kill him now,” Maheu said.

  Both Rangers thrust with their knives, but Chant was no longer standing between them. Suddenly the bleeding, slumped, and defeated man had, faster than the eye could follow, darted back. From his position behind the Rangers, Chant drove both his fists into the men’s kidneys. As their knees crumpled and they began to go down, Chant smashed their heads together, knocking them unconscious.

  An instant later Chant was around the desk, holding the point of one of the Ranger’s knives to Maheu’s throat. “Shout and you’re dead,” Chant said easily.

  Maheu, his face ashen, stared wide-eyed at Chant. “You should be dead,” he whispered hoarsely. “Why aren’t you dead?!”

  “A lot of people died so that I could live, Maheu. It’s enough that Greg and scores of Hmong are dead. And it was all for nothing; it didn’t have to happen. You’ve been used, pal.”

  Maheu squinted at Chant. “Used for what?”

  “You were used to send me a message—actually, to play a kind of deadly joke on me. That’s what all those people died for—to amuse an extremely evil and subtle man.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sinclair. Neither do you.”

  “I agree that you certainly don’t. Let me tell you what’s been going on here, Maheu.”

  “You can’t possibly know.”

  “No? Somebody in the CIA, almost certainly you, came up with the notion that it might be a good idea to assassinate some of the key leaders in the antiwar movement in the United States, after all, these are the people you and a lot of others blame for the fact that we’re losing this war. But it was going to be extremely tricky. The plan had to be airtight, with absolutely no chance of anybody unsympathetic tying it to the CIA. The assassinations would have to be flawlessly executed so as to be made to look like accidents.” Chant paused, raised his eyebrows slightly. “How am I doing, Maheu?”

  The CIA’s bureau chief stared at Chant in stunned silence.

  “Obviously, the plan hasn’t been put in effect yet,” Chant continued, “but it’s in the late planning stages. The Company contracted with an outsider, a Japanese who is absolutely without peer as an assassin and the coordinator of assassins, as a consultant on the project. This man isn’t that hard to contact if you know the right people; in this case, the Company probably learned of, and hired him through, the Company’s Mafia contacts. If you have enough money, this man will arrange to kill virtually anyone; he was probably responsible for the deaths of both John and Robert Kennedy, although I can’t prove it. This is the kind of man Langley has hired. If the go-ahead is given, he’ll coordinate a team of American assassins working in the United States. He’s your ‘Langley Jap,’ Maheu.”

  Chant sensed one of the Rangers stirring behind him. It was the man on Chant’s left—the Ranger who had taken particular pleasure in beating him. Chant did not turn.

  “How the hell do you know this?” Maheu croaked.

  “Would you ever have approached me and asked me the questions you did unless you were ordered to?”

  Maheu shook his head. “I told them there was absolutely no way you’d agree to be a part of the team, and that I shouldn’t even talk to you.”

  “But they insisted, didn’t they?”

  Maheu nodded. “It was the ‘Langley Jap’ who insisted that Operations insist.”

  “Right.”

  “You know him, don’t you?”

  The Ranger behind Chant was on his feet now, slowly and silently drawing his knife.

  “He’s an old enemy of mine,” Chant replied evenly, “and he’s been keeping track of me for a long time. Obviously, he knows what I’ve been doing in the war. More than anyone else in the world, even more than you, this man knew I’d never be a part of something like Operation Cooked Goose. Unfortunately for you, me, and the Company, the man has a rather perverse sense of humor. Also, he very much wants me dead; if he can enjoy a little joke while he’s having me killed, so much the better. In this case, he strongly suspected that a situation would develop where the CIA would be forced to kill me; my assassination at the hands of my own countrymen would have given him great pleasure.”

  “What are you talking about, Sinclair?”

  “Even though he knew I’d never participate, the Japanese wanted me involved in some way. He guessed, correctly, that you’d become very nervous about my being a security risk and eventually try to kill me. He may even have managed, somehow, to feed information about Operation Cooked Goose to Greg King, knowing that Greg would contact me and involve me even further.” Chant paused, continued with a lie. “Greg brought documents with him, and he gave them to me before he died in the fire.”

  “How do you know this Japanese, Sinclair?” Maheu’s voice was even now, meant to distract from the presence of the man Chant felt moving up behind him.

  “How I know him isn’t important. No individual or organization who’s ever hired him as a hit man really understands who he is, or why he does what he does.”

  “But you do?”

  “Yes, Maheu, I do For this man, killing is more than just a means of earning a great deal of money. It’s a ritual, a ceremony through which he believes he gains power for himself and his apprentices.”

  “Apprentices?”

  The Ranger lunged for Chant, who spun away at the last moment. He continued to spin, hit the Ranger under the chin with a high kick. The unconscious man fell on his back over the desk, and immediately Chant was on him.

  “You once expressed interest in ‘tricks,’ Maheu, I’ll show you one now. By rights, I should kill you—but I need you to carry my answer to Langley and their Japanese. Unfortunately, another man is going to have to die for your sins.”

  Chant ripped open the Ranger’s shirt, baring the other man’s chest. He raised his hand, brought the open palm down hard on the flesh over the sternum. Then he slapped the flesh again. And again.

  With the fourth, explosive slap, the flesh split apart. Now Chant used the side of his hand to split the sternum with one sharp, hammer blow, then pulled apart the ribs with a single yank. He reached into the bloody cavity, tore out the man’s heart.

  “Here,” Chant said as he tossed the still-beating heart into the stunned, green-faced bureau chief’s lap. “Here’s my answer to the ‘Langley Jap’s’ little joke. He’ll find it funny, even if he is going to miss a big payday; Operation Cooked Goose is finished as long as I’m alive. In fact, after you relay my message, the Company may even decide that the Japanese should be killed. If they can do it, which I doubt, I’d be most pleased.”

  Chant stooped down and removed his boots. He tied the laces together, draped the boots around his neck. He picked up one of the Ranger’s rifles from the floor and, without a backward glance at Maheu, walked out into the sunshine.

  The men in the clearing stared at him, their mouths drooping open at the sight of his bloody hands and clothing.
Chant stood still, gazing back at them, slowly swinging his rifle back and forth in an arc covering them all—a warning not to follow him. He secured the Ranger’s knife in his belt, then slowly walked backward to the edge of the clearing. He abruptly threw his rifle away, then turned and began to run.

  ELEVEN

  Chant stood just inside the treeline, studying the scene in the meadow below him. The huge machines used to cut and clear timber around the logging camp were sitting out in the open, glowing golden in the moonlight. Close to four million dollars’ worth of equipment had been left unguarded—or apparently unguarded.

  But something was wrong.

  Chant sensed a presence.

  Danger.

  Indeed, Chant sensed more peril in this single presence than he would have in the half dozen or so armed guards he had expected to find watching the machinery.

  Chant let his eyes go slightly out of focus, projecting his vision and hearing out into the night forest; he scanned, probed, the meadow and surrounding trees. He saw no one, heard nothing.

  Yet he continued to experience a clear, strong sense of danger.

  This presence, Chant thought, was part of Baldauf’s bridge to hope, the thing that must be destroyed. But not tonight, not until he had identified what, or whom, he was up against. He completely trusted his instincts, and his instincts now told him to walk away from what seemed to be a totally vulnerable target, only a fool tried to probe the nature of an enemy in a situation the enemy had set up.

  Chant turned and melted back into the forest.

  Still disguised as Colonel Fox, Chant checked back into the hotel in Sachmore City. He showered, then lay naked on the bed. He did not sleep; he went into a trance that was even deeper than sleep; in that trance, from a place deep inside himself, he sought to relax while at the same time marshaling the personal control and forces he would need for what he suspected might be the most difficult and dangerous battle of his life.

  The presence on the mountain in the high country.

  Baldauf’s contact in Chicago.

  Through that contact, Chant thought, Wilbur Baldauf had gamed access to a source of power many in the west thought they knew about and understood, but didn’t. Baldauf certainly didn’t appreciate the nature of the force he had brought into Mordan County, but that didn’t make the force less deadly.

  Chant remained in this deep state of meditation until dawn, at which time he rose, ate a light breakfast, dressed again in his Colonel Fox disguise. Then he read the morning papers while he waited.

  At ten o’clock, he received a call from Wilbur Baldauf. In a nervous, decidedly strained voice. Baldauf asked Chant to come out to his mansion.

  Master Bai, of course, knew who Fox really was, for his penetration of the enemy camp in disguise had been an elementary tactic. Unprepared and unarmed, Chant knew there was nothing he could do but stand in the library and wait to see what his finest, most dangerous and evil teacher meant to do with the information. It had been more than twenty years since Chant had last seen Bai, and thirteen since their long-range duel between Washington and Southeast Asia. The old man with the bald head, dressed in baggy sweatshirt and baggy pants, was now well past eighty, but there was absolutely no doubt in Chant’s mind that the sensei could still deliver death in a thousand ways with whatever he carried inside his nondescript clothes—and he could do it in the blink of an eye.

  Indeed, Chant wondered why he was not already dead.

  “Colonel Fox, this is Mr. Smith,” Baldauf said uneasily as he squirmed in his chair behind the great mahogany desk.

  The old man’s eyes gleamed with amusement as he bowed slightly to Chant. “Pleased to meet you, Colonel,” he said in perfect, unaccented English. His voice had a strange, birdlike, lilting quality to it—exactly as Chant remembered.

  “Likewise, Mr. Smith,” Chant replied evenly as he returned the bow.

  Without asking permission, the slight Japanese took a thick cigar from a humidor on Baldauf’s desk, lit it with a heavy, gold lighter “Colonel, Mr. Baldauf has called me in as a consultant on this matter of John Sinclair,” Bai said through a thick cloud of blue smoke. “He told me about you.”

  “I’m afraid Mr. Baldauf doesn’t have a very high opinion of me or my abilities, Mr. Smith.”

  Bai shrugged, continued to speak as if Baldauf weren’t even in the room. “That’s true. But then, I have the distinct impression that he’s already a bit disappointed in me. I can understand that. After all, he’s put out a considerable sum of money in order to persuade me to come here, and what he finds is an old, wobbly Japanese. He can’t understand why I should need to talk to an incompetent like yourself. However, as soon as Mr. Baldauf mentioned you, I knew you were a man I definitely wanted to meet. Tell me, what do you think of this John Sinclair?”

  “He’s well trained.”

  “Indeed, he is I can appreciate what you’ve been up against, Colonel Fox. You see, I was once one of John Sinclair’s instructors.”

  “What?!” Baldauf had lurched forward in his chair, knocking over the humidor. “You never told me that, Smith!”

  Bai touched his forehead, but did not turn around to look at the other man. “Didn’t I? My mind must be slipping. Old age, you know.”

  “How did Mr. Baldauf learn of you, Mr. Smith?” Chant asked casually.

  “My business is assassination. In fact, you might want to take my card, Colonel. In the opinion of most experts around the world, the contractors the Pentagon uses are no better than third rate. Americans are considered penny-wise and pound-foolish.”

  “You’ve never worked for the Pentagon, Mr. Smith?”

  Bai smiled thinly. “Well, I did have a contract—a sizeable one—some years ago, while the Americans were involved in that unfortunate episode in Southeast Asia. Regrettably, John Sinclair caused me to lose it. I’d certainly like to work with them again. I still think they’d be impressed with the results I get.”

  “I’ll give it some thought, Mr. Smith. Where did Mr. Baldauf come across your card?”

  “I believe Mr. Baldauf heard my name whispered by a client in Chicago some years ago. I have a global network of informers, and the information they possess goes both ways. People with the need—and adequate resources—usually learn of me, one way or another.”

  “Hey!” Baldauf shouted, waving his cigar in the air. “I don’t much like the idea of you two chitchatting on my time and money! What’s going to be done about Sinclair, Mr. Smith?!”

  Bai stood in silence for long moments, studying the tip of his own cigar. “Something has already been done, Mr. Baldauf,” the frail Japanese said at last.

  “What?!”

  “As far as you know, did John Sinclair strike anywhere last night?”

  “No, but—”

  “Would you like me to leave?”

  “Leave?! You’ve already got my fucking money!”

  “Would you like me to leave?”

  “No,” Baldauf said curtly, swallowing his anger. “You go ahead with what you were saying.”

  “Put out your cigar, please,” Bai said, grinding out his own in a large crystal ashtray. “Cigar smoke bothers me.”

  Baldauf flushed. He hesitated, started to rise from his chair, then sank back down and stubbed out his cigar.

  “Thank you,” Bai continued mildly. “Perhaps it is time to focus our attention on John Sinclair. It’s been many, many years since I saw him. However, I knew the young John Sinclair very well, and I—through various sources of information—have followed his career with great interest, particularly his wartime exploits. I’ve made some observations Are you interested in hearing what they are, Colonel Fox?”

  “I’m absolutely intrigued, Mr. Smith.”

  “Ah. I thought you might be.” Bai turned his head slightly. “Mr. Baldauf, would you care to hear how I came to know John Sinclair?”

  “I don’t give a shit about—!”

  “Good. Then I will tell you. Arthur Sinclair, John’s
father, was a career diplomat who’d spent decades in Japan, and was steeped in Japanese culture; indeed, he understood Japan better than any westerner I have ever met. John was born in Japan.

  “Arthur Sinclair brought his son to me when the boy was sixteen. Normally, I would never accept a student of such advanced age, but the boy had been trained since childhood by some of the best masters—”

  “Trained in what?” Baldauf interrupted.

  “Trained in what?” Bai studied Baldauf for a few moments, then shook his head slightly “Trained how to forge his life into a weapon, Mr. Baldauf Would you not agree that John Sinclair is a formidable weapon?”

  “Yeah,” Baldauf replied quietly, his arrogance and impatience temporarily drained from him “I’ll admit that he’s been giving me some problems.”

  “Of course—just as he has to any number of people and organizations over the past twenty years. That’s because very few people understand such a weapon, much less know how to defend against it In any case, the boy’s techniques—as far as they went—were flawless. He was highly intelligent, strong-willed, and incredibly gifted physically. He was the finest raw material I had ever seen, despite the fact that he was American I accepted him. Arthur Sinclair completely understood the risk. For a man with his beliefs, it was an incredible act of courage and a display of faith in his son for him to offer up the boy to me.”

  “What risk?” Baldauf asked quietly. “And why do you use the words ‘offer up’?”

  “Ah.” It was a sibilant sigh. “Arthur Sinclair believed in such things as honor and truth. I do not; I believe the only worthwhile goal in life is the accumulation of personal power, no matter what the cost; I believe that concerns about honor and truth are distractions. As a result, I possess very special knowledge and skills that others won’t—or can’t—teach. Arthur Sinclair believed, correctly, that his son could develop into a great warrior, but that to reach his highest potential he needed to know what I could teach him. In effect, Arthur Sinclair made the decision to gamble his son’s soul in the belief that the boy could enter the Black Flame, tap the power that was there, and emerge uncorrupted, with his spirit and former beliefs intact. It was a challenge; since I thrive on challenges, Arthur Sinclair’s request that I instruct his son became an offering.”