by Tom Wallace
“Tuez le messager. It was on a note found in Simon Buckman’s hand.”
“Brought down by a bottom feeder like Simon Buckman. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.”
“Why, Lucas?”
“My boy, I could spend hours trying to explain the whys to you, but I’m afraid you would never understand. Not with that rigid sense of right and wrong of yours.”
Cain sat in the chair across the desk. “Try me.”
“Cutting straight to the heart of the matter, the answer is that I had no other option.”
“There are always options, Lucas. Especially for a man with your connections.”
“My boy, you don’t understand. It’s precisely because of those connections that I was left without options. Without choices.”
“Who, Lucas? Who could put a man like you in that position? And why?”
“I don’t know who.”
“Come on, Lucas. You can do better than that. You’re behind a plan to kill the president of the United States, and you expect me to believe you don’t know who ordered it? That’s asking a lot, don’t you think?”
“Maybe so, but it’s the truth. I don’t know. Faceless men; that’s all I can tell you.”
“Then let’s skip to the why.”
“Why do you think?”
“I have no idea.”
“Come, come, my boy, put that wonderful deductive mind of yours to work. Think. I am not a greedy man, nor am I unpatriotic. When you eliminate the obvious, what are you left with?”
“Blackmail.”
“Bingo.”
“Who?”
“My answer remains unchanged. I don’t know who.”
“Okay, Lucas, let’s forget the who and stick with the why. What reason would anyone have to blackmail you?”
“Old markers.” Lucas emptied his glass in a single swallow, then poured a refill. “Outstanding debts.”
“What old markers? What debts? Come on, Lucas, tell me. I want to know. I need to know.”
“The assassination of Sadat. The shipment of arms to Iran. Selling secrets to Russia. Dealing in the heroin trade. Giving money and supplies to the Taliban. Take your pick. My sins are many.”
“You were involved in Sadat’s death?”
Lucas nodded. “Sheik Abdel-Rahman ordered the fatwa. I arranged for the assassins to be brought in.”
“Why?”
“I’m a soldier. Soldiers take orders.”
“Are you telling me someone in our government ordered Sadat’s death?”
“Not directly in the government, but closely aligned.”
“This ‘someone’ had the juice to get you involved?”
“That surprises you?”
“Yes.”
“My boy, with your track record, you should be well beyond being surprised.”
“Who, Lucas? Who ordered it?”
“Who? How can I possibly answer that? A plan of that magnitude starts somewhere near the top, then like slime it works its way downhill. No one ever says the words ‘Let’s kill Sadat.’ There’s no paper trail, no taped conversations. It’s never like that. It’s communicated with a nod of the head, the lifting of an eyebrow, a wink. There’s a tacit understanding that ‘this must be done, so make it happen.’ And it happens.”
Lucas sipped more Scotch. “A sordid world we live in; don’t you agree?”
“What about the arms shipment to Iran?”
“I had a hand in it. Not a big hand, mind you, but enough to make me accountable. I had connections on both sides, so it was only natural for me to bring all interested parties together. Once that was accomplished, I performed a few minor functions, then dropped out and left it in the hands of others. Only one or two people knew of my participation. Or so I thought. Then, about six months ago, I received a call from a member of one of those extremist jihadist’s factions. He demanded that I meet with him. At first I wasn’t overly concerned—I figured him for a crackpot, a hot head. But when I met him, I learned otherwise. He had names, places, dates, my signature on a letter directly linking me to the operation. When I saw that, I knew my neck was in the noose. From then on, I did what I’ve done my entire life. I followed orders. Only this time, I served a different master.”
Cain slumped forward, letting Lucas’s words sink in. “And their orders were to kill the president? How could you, a lifelong soldier, even begin to consider such an act?”
“My boy, you haven’t been listening. I had no choice. If they had ordered me to kill Jesus Christ, I would have stood shoulder to shoulder with Judas.”
Cain’s head throbbed; his pulse raced. He felt dizzy, on the verge of throwing up. He leaned back, closed his eyes, took three slow, deep breaths.
Lucas continued. “Although I’m sure this isn’t going to mean much in the way of a defense, I’ll tell you anyway. The president was strictly a secondary player in this little drama. The main targets were the other three. You must understand: there are people in the Middle East who prefer war—the killing, the turmoil. Naturally, they don’t think much of the peace efforts. There is very little money in peace. They would like nothing better than to see any leader seeking peaceful solutions join Sadat in the grave. War keeps the money flowing in.”
“So you called in Seneca?”
“My only hope of avoiding the noose.”
“I’m afraid that bit of logic escapes me.”
“Elementary, my boy. You see, you and Seneca have always been different sides of the same coin. All I had to do was flip the coin. Either way it was bound to come up ‘killer.’ I couldn’t go wrong. Once Seneca was involved, it would only be a matter of time before you entered the picture. I made sure of that. Of course, I needed a reason for bringing you in, which Deke so kindly supplied when he failed to finish off Cardinal. Then I basically got out of the way and let you do your thing.”
“And you were covered either way.”
“Absolutely. If Seneca succeeded, I was off the hook with my Arab friends. If you stopped Seneca, I could hardly be faulted for the mission’s failure. I’d be safe. At least, until they hatched another plan.”
“Which they would have.”
“That’s the trouble with blackmailers. They tend to be very persistent.”
“You should have come forward, Lucas. You should have told someone, trusted some people.”
“Why? So I could watch everything I worked for turn to shit?” Lucas stood and pointed a finger at the wall. “So all of this would be reduced to nothing? So my past would be stripped away like so much dirty wallpaper? No, my boy; that was too steep a price to pay.”
“So you sold your soul to a bunch of terrorist thugs? Seems to me that’s a pretty high price.”
“My boy, I had no choice. I couldn’t fight it. The men who brought me on board for Sadat’s execution are dead, leaving me to face the music alone. Hell, Carter made Sadat a hero in this country. I had no desire to be the lone figure standing there answering for the death of a martyr. And the Iran thing? I wasn’t about to go through the same ordeal MacFarland and Poindexter went through. Or that asshole North. Those Congressmen would have thrown me to the wolves, hung me out to dry. Look what they put North through. He waved the flag, cried, ate apple pie—everything—and he damn near still got crucified. What chance do you think I would’ve had? And in today’s post-9/11 world, how do you think it would have looked when my dealings with the Taliban were uncovered? I would have been portrayed as an old fart trying to make a few extra bucks under the table. Believe me, it wasn’t that way at all.”
“I believe you, Lucas.”
“But you’re still going to turn me in.”
“Like you, Lucas, I have no other choice. You’ve committed sins you have to atone for. This. Cardinal’s death.” Cain paused, waited, then sent out an arrow that drove deep into Lucas’s heart. “Treason.”
“Ah, yes,” Lucas said softly. “You always were big on that one. Good and evil. America now and always. No middle groun
d. Not for you. Oddly enough, I take great comfort in that. You see, at my deepest core, I share those same sentiments.”
Lucas turned and looked at the Picasso painting. After several moments, his back still to Cain, he said, “Giants once roamed the earth. Men of talent, courage, vision. Men who dared to dream, who sought to create splendor and magnificence. They don’t exist anymore. They’ve been replaced by animals who seek nothing more than to prey upon the weak.”
“But you aren’t weak, Lucas.”
“Nor am I as strong as you believe me to be.” Lucas turned to face Cain. “You understand, of course, I can’t let you take me in.”
“Don’t make this any harder than it has to be. For either of us.”
Lucas reached into the pocket of his bathrobe, took out a .45 automatic, and aimed it at Cain. Tears streamed down his face.
“I’ve loved you as if you were my own son,” he said, his voice choking. “Indeed, in some ways, you are my creation. I don’t want to do this, my boy, but there is no way I can allow you to take me in.”
Cain eased around the side of the desk, his right hand extended. “You won’t shoot me, Lucas. Your hands could never be that bloody.”
“I must. Don’t you see? I simply cannot allow them to strip me of my honor. Of all that’s in this room. On these walls.”
“Give me the gun, Lucas.”
Lucas backed up until he was directly against the wall, beneath the Picasso painting. Shaking his head, he whispered, “I can’t. I simply can’t.”
“Give it to me, Lucas. It’s finished.”
Lucas smiled, nodded slightly, put the barrel of the gun against his temple and squeezed the trigger. The force of the bullet drove him violently to the left, slamming him hard against a file cabinet. Blood spattered onto the Picasso. His limp body bounced off the cabinet and dropped to the floor. He blinked twice, let out a final breath, then stared straight ahead. A steady stream of thick, red blood spouted from the wound like water from a spigot.
Cain knelt beside the lifeless body of his old friend, a man he loved like a father. He felt for a pulse, although he knew he wouldn’t find one. Lucas was dead. Cain stood and leaned against the wall. Emotions charged within him like rampaging electrons. Sadness. Shock. Relief.
Ultimately, his sense of relief won the race. Relief that Lucas found a way to avoid the humiliation and public disgrace he so feared. That he found a way to keep his past unspoiled. Lucas was free. No one would ever know.
His secrets would go to the grave with him.
The memory of a giant would be left untarnished.
An hour later, Cain pulled his car into a deserted shopping center parking lot and cut the engine. Leaning his head back and closing his eyes, he thought about all he had learned from Lucas. What surprised him most was his lack of surprise. Or outrage. Cain had long suspected Lucas of playing both sides. Many men in Lucas’s position did, oftentimes without realizing it. They were ghostly figures operating in a strange parallel world where the line between right and wrong was easily blurred, easily crossed. What he hadn’t suspected was the extent of Lucas’s activities, the depth of his double-dipping. Somewhere along the way, Lucas had taken a wrong turn, colluded with the wrong devils. How much damage had he caused? How many lives had been lost because of his actions? Those questions could never be answered.
Cain opened his eyes and picked up the envelope he had taken from Lucas’s desk. With trembling hands, he opened the envelope, removed the letter, and began reading.
Gen. Richard L. Collins (Ret.)
525 Ocean Road
St. Augustine, FL 32085
Aug. 15, 1987
Dear Lucas:
As you have no doubt heard by now, your old comrade in arms has recently been given a death sentence. It’s the Big C, pancreatic, inoperable, so far advanced that neither chemo nor radiation is a viable option. My doctor says I have maybe three months, but that’s being optimistic. Right now I feel fine. I do tend to get a little weak as the day wears on, but overall I’m coping. However, my doctor says when it kicks in for real, I will go downhill rather fast and the end will come quickly.
I have lived now eighty years, more than three-quarters of a century, a full, rich and rewarding life in every way. I have been blessed with a wonderful family, a wife who has endured both me and my military career with graciousness, tolerance, love, and understanding, and two daughters who are so gentle and loving that I sometimes question if they are truly mine. Those three have been the anchor in my nomadic life, the ones who held things together when I was circling the globe fighting big wars or putting out small fires. You and I were together on many of those excursions, so you know what I’m talking about. A career soldier’s family does not have it easy.
The prospect of imminent death does not frighten me, Lucas. It angers me. I am simply not ready to die, and the thought of having to do so at this time does not make me happy. Is it selfish for a man who has been given so much to want more time? Yes, but I couldn’t care less. When my time does come, if the Almighty greets me with open arms, I am likely to respond with a punch to his cheek. And if he’s foolish enough to turn that cheek, I’ll punch the other one as well.
I will not, under any circumstances, go gently into that good night. The Angel of Death will have a fight on his hands when he comes for me.
Yesterday, while looking through an old trunk in the garage, I happened across a photo of you, me, and Michael that was taken at Arlington Cemetery on July 4, 1960. Michael couldn’t have been more than 10 or 11 at the time, yet he was already as tall as either of us. Funny, but I can’t recall him being small. Odd, isn’t it, for a father to have no memories of his only son as a baby or a small child? I remember the girls as infants, but not Michael. He was always a man.
There have been many times when I envied your relationship with Michael. Oftentimes, I was downright jealous. In many ways, you have been more of a father figure for him than I have. You’ve certainly spent more time with him, and now that I am at the end of my rope, having not spent more time with my son may be my biggest single regret in life.
Our relationship, as you well know, has always been difficult and stormy. Michael and I seldom seemed to be on the same page about anything. Perhaps that was inevitable, given his extraordinarily high level of intelligence, which far exceeded mine. Goodness knows, he is a sharp lad and always has been. Whatever the reason or cause, we simply never clicked. We may as well have resided in different galaxies. I don’t think I was a bad father, and he certainly never was a bad son: a judgment, if accurate, that only adds yet another layer of mystery to the strangeness of our relationship.
Oddly enough, I fear this extreme assessment is more mine than Michael’s. Whereas I saw us as separated, he saw us as different. There was, for me at least, a gap that could never be bridged. I don’t think Michael ever saw our relationship in those terms. He maintained a hope I could never muster. You would, I suspect, take his side in this matter and you may not be wrong in so doing. The outsider looking in often has the more accurate perspective on such affairs.
You once told me Michael was the greatest soldier you’d ever been privileged to know. Coming from you, that is high praise indeed. As his father, and as a lifelong soldier, I can’t begin to express the pride I have for Michael. No father could want or expect more from a son.
However, I can’t deny a certain trepidation mixed in with that pride. I am not deaf—I have heard the stories. I know what they say about Michael, and I don’t doubt the veracity of those reports. I’m well aware of the myth surrounding him. I’m also certain he likely did more than has been shared with me. As his father, I am positive many of his “deeds” were kept from me. That was probably for the best. I have no yearning to know everything.
Yet, as I close in on the final page of my life, I am continually haunted by a series of questions: The Michael you know, the supreme warrior—where did he come from? Where did he obtain the strength, the will, to perform su
ch deadly deeds? Where did that confidence, that fearlessness, come from? And, finally, what price did he pay for such actions? I can’t imagine anyone doing the things he did, then walking away unscathed.
The biblical Cain received a mark for his actions. I have searched my son for such a mark and have not found it. I have looked deep into his eyes, hoping they might reveal answers to my many questions. But those answers are not there, or if they are, then they are far beyond my ability to grasp.
Therefore, I am left to wonder, Is my son a monster? Is he a ruthless creature lacking the quality of mercy? Is that my curse, going to the grave wondering if my own flesh and blood was capable of committing brutal and savage acts without displaying any emotion or regret? If so, I fear I’m in for an unsettling stay in eternity.
I can see you now, Lucas, ramrod straight with Scotch in hand. I can hear your familiar chuckle as you say, “There you go again, Richard, being overly dramatic. No, Michael was not a monster. He was Cain.”
Maybe that’s the answer, Lucas: sleight-of-hand wordplay to bring me peace before I die. Never confuse Michael for Cain. Isn’t that what you advised so many years ago, back when Michael was still in Vietnam? “Michael is your son, Richard. Cain is an aberration.” Wasn’t that how you worded it? Yes, I believe it was.
Once again you have the luxury of standing on the outside looking in. You can watch this aberration with awe and amazement, with a certain sense of detachment and always from a safe distance. I cannot. For me, he can never be an aberration. He is my son, always my son. Therefore, the ghosts of his past will follow me to my grave.
I am tired, Lucas. Far too weary to continue this pursuit of answers I will never find. Questions concerning the nature of good and evil, the mystery of faith, the very existence of a supreme deity, whether or not my son is a monster—they have tormented me all my life, and they torment me still. Sadly, I now must confess that those answers continue to elude me.
My days of tilting at windmills have passed, I’m sorry to announce. Father Time has won the race. He gets the big trophy. As for me, I ready myself for the final battle, one I know I’m destined to lose.
