by Bob Mayer
“I thought I did,” Kane said.
“Security will be an important department of my new firm and I need you in charge of it. Eventually we’ll have a west coast office. Spend part of the year in the sun.”
“You don’t want to replace Ted?”
“I won’t ever be able to. I accepted that from the start. It’s reality. Something I’m good at and you aren’t.”
“You going to keep insulting me?”
Toni rolled her eyes. “Jesus Christ, Will. The truth is not an insult. I’ve tried to help you.”
Kane didn’t respond.
Toni sat back. “Did Ted ever tell you why he went to West Point? What put that thought in his head? Because father had already planned a path for his only son. The same path he’d followed. Prep school. Yale undergrad. Harvard Law. Then the prosecutor’s office. West Point was a curveball father didn’t expect.”
Kane frowned, knotting the scar on his head. “Ted might have during Beast but that was a long time ago.”
“Men and their memory,” Toni said. She began tapping again. “Let me talk like a man then. Direct. So you understand where I’m coming from. I killed my little brother, Will. He went to West Point and ended up in Vietnam because of me.
“I started dating a cadet while I was in law school and Ted was in prep school. I took Ted up there one time. I thought he’d get a kick out of the place. I never imagined he’d fucking go there. By the way, that’s another thing father blames me for. First, ruining his plan for Ted and then, of course, Ted dead.
“You know what’s the worst part? That cadet liked me because he saw me one day in Manhattan while he was on weekend pass, and I quote the shithead after we got to know each other: ‘First thing I noticed was that your legs go all the way to your ass, Toni’. We didn’t last two months, but dating that guy changed Ted’s life. It ended Ted’s life.” Throughout that her fingers kept tapping.
“What’s going on, Toni?”
A tear rolled down her face. “I’ve kept up with my life, Will.” She stopped tapping and reached across the table. Put her hand over his, wrapping it tight. “Walk away from this, Will. Ted’s death carved out a piece of my heart that I’ll never get back. Ted’s, and then especially Lil’ Joe’s, did that to you too. I don’t think I could bear something happening to you.”
Kane turned his hand over, gripping her back. “Tell me, Toni.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Toni said urgently. “Don’t you get it, Will? I don’t know what’s going on. I’m surrounded by secrets. And so are you. Don’t pretend you don’t have your own share. Your missing years? Whatever happened in Vietnam with that double agent? What happened to Ted in Ranger School? The scars on his face from that? Army training did that?”
Her voice took on an edge. “What really happened to Ted at Dak To? I never bought the official Army version on the Bronze Star or your bullshit letter. Ted went down fighting? Weapon in hand? The closed casket? I tried to open it in the funeral home and it was sealed shut. Why do you seal a fucking casket? Father dragged me away. You’re the one who talks about things getting deep. We’re both in over our heads. Sometimes I wonder if Ted was the lucky one. Walk away, Will.”
“Are you going to walk away, Toni?”
“Yes. Very soon. And I want you with me at the new place. I need you. Will you?”
Kane shook his head. “I gotta see this through. It’s too deep now.”
She pulled her hand out of his grip. Put her sunglasses on. “By the way, do you even know your waitress’s real name? I’m sure you have no clue who her friend is you sent my way, do you?”
Kane didn’t respond.
Toni left the booth, exited to Gansevoort and disappeared.
Kane slumped back, the cheap vinyl sticking to his shirt.
“Sending ‘em away crying,” Morticia said, appearing at the edge of the table. “You’re a piece of work, Kane.”
“I don’t know what I am.” Kane unpeeled from the vinyl and slung the map case over his shoulder. He entered the kitchen.
Thao worked the grill, but his attention was on a thick book propped against the service wall separating the kitchen from the behind the counter space. He was turning the pages faster than the omelets, eyes scanning. Just over five feet, he was lean with whipcord muscles. Dark brown skin, straight black hair, his face reflected the genealogy of the people who had been driven from their coastal lands in the ninth century by invaders and sought refuge in the mountains of Vietnam, making their home there for all the generations since.
He turned as the door swung open and grinned. “Dai-Yu.”
Kane gave a slight bow. “Sergeant.”
“Women are difficult,” Thao said as he slid an omelet onto a plate and placed it on the service wall. He spoke precise English, slowly and carefully. Bacon sizzled and the exhaust fan rattled. It was ten degrees warmer than the diner, but Thao wasn’t sweating.
“People are difficult,” Kane said.
“Men are simple,” Thao said. “They are either good, evil, or existing. Most just exist. It is women who are the great puzzle.”
“Thank you for the peppers,” Kane said.
“You are welcome.” He expertly turned two omelets. “Those men Friday morning. They were evil. Especially the tall one in white. Very dangerous. He had a Browning Hi-Power under the table.”
“My bullets are bigger.”
Thao laughed. “That is so.”
“Give me a break,” Morticia said from the other side of the serving wall as she grabbed the plate and was gone.
Thao laughed again. “Women are indeed difficult.” But he said it in a low voice, so she couldn’t hear. He spoke in a normal voice. “Your sister, Mary, called yesterday. As she calls every Sunday morning. She kindly asked me to relay a message.”
“She wants me to go to Mass?”
“Yes.”
Kane didn’t say anything.
“Family is important,” Thao said. “Your sister seems like a good person.”
“She’s trapped there and can’t escape,” Kane said.
“Ah,” Thao said. “As you escaped?”
Kane once more had nothing to say.
“The young woman, Farrah, also called,” Thao said.
“What did she want?”
“She did not specify. She hung up when I told her you were not here.”
“All right.”
“The others send their thanks,” Thao said. “They are all well. They ask about you.”
“They don’t need to ask about me.”
“I tell them you are doing well. And Van Van left their usual tribute on Saturday.”
“Did you tell them—“ Kane stopped as Thao held up the spatula.
“One cannot tell them anything, Dai-Yu. They are in blood debt to you. The tribute assuages that debt. It is not about you. It is a selfish act on their part that appears otherwise. I deposited the money in the account.” He served up another plate. “It has been suggested it would be advantageous for the business to replace the covers on the seats in the booths. They are in very sad condition. There are sufficient funds.”
“By who? Morticia?”
“Yes. She is correct, of course. I have often thought the same.”
“Then why haven’t you said so?”
“I have just said so.”
Kane shrugged. “Your decision.”
“Your money, Dai-Yu.”
“Our money. We agreed.”
“It will be so.” Thao nodded slightly. “She is more than she appears.”
“Who? Morticia? She told me that’s not her name. Do you know her real name?”
“Yes.”
Kane waited but Thao wasn’t forthcoming.
“Well, who is she?” Kane finally asked.
“She asked respect for her privacy,” Thao said.
“Right,” Kane said.
Thao changed the subject. “Van Van nowwork for the Ghost Shadow Triad.”
“They
told you that?”
“Of course not.”
“How do you know?”
“The suits they wear.” He reached out and Kane forced himself not to flinch as Thao lightly touched the visible part of the scar on his head. “You have a hard head. You were spared and you were marked. That means something.” Thao nodded toward the front of the diner. “A car is outside. The young man is waiting on you.”
Kane looked over the counter. A white Mustang with blue stripes was at the curb.
“That young man is also in debt to you,” Thao said.
“What?”
“Not like Van Van,” Thao said. “He needs your presence every morning as an anchor as he works through this difficult time in his life journey.”
“I just give him money for the Times,” Kane protested.
“He needs you,” Thao said. “I will see you tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” Kane said to Thao.
“Tomorrow,” Thao repeated. “But Dai-Yu?”
Kane paused at the door.
“When I tell our friends you are well, I desire to be telling them the truth.”
Kane left through the diner to the Washington Street door. The Kid cut the engine and got out, keys dangling from his fingers.
“You wanted fast,” the Kid said. “’67 Ford Shelby, GT 500.”
“What does all that mean?”
The Kid rolled his eyes. “It’s fast, man. You didn’t say anything about gas mileage.”
Kane took the keys. “Where did you get it?”
“What’s wrong?” the Kid asked.
“Nothing. Where’d you get it?”
“I didn’t steal it,” the Kid was aggrieved. “A guy I know is the concierge at the Washington Square Hotel. The owner checked in this morning and won’t be using it for several days. Shacked up in a penthouse suite with a pile of coke and some company. His stays last several days if not a week.”
“Won’t he notice the odometer?”
“He’ll be lucky if he notices the car by the time he’s done with the binge,” the Kid said. He pulled a cassette out of his pocket. “Some music for the road. It’s got great speakers.”
“I don’t listen to—“ Kane began, but the Kid slid the cassette tape in his shirt pocket.
“Don’t worry. It’s not disco. Some guys from Forest Hills. They have a new sound.”
“Right.”
“You going to be okay?” The Kid asked. “Want me to go with you? I can drive.”
Kane tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his face. “Thanks. But I got it.”
“Bring it back to the concierge at the hotel when you’re done.”
Kane drove away. The Kid was still standing at the curb staring after him when Kane checked the rear-view mirror.
FORT DEVENS, MASSACHUSETTS
Kane speared the shovel into the ground with more force than needed. Threw the dirt to the side. The hole was three feet deep and he’d been digging for an hour. The two-hundred-mile trip to Fort Devens had blurred by in a little over twice that time.
Devens was a small Army post, split by Route 2 running from Fitchburg/Leominster to Boston. To the north of the road was a cantonment area housing an Army Intelligence School and the two battalions of the 10th Special Forces Group (Airborne) stationed in the States. The 1st Battalion was forward deployed at a former SS Barracks in Bad Tolz, West Germany. On the south side of Route 2, where Kane was digging, was a forested training area and in the midst of it, Turner Drop Zone, a large open field. He was beyond the southern edge of Turner, forty feet in the tree line.
“I can take a turn,” Lew Merrick offered without much enthusiasm. He was sitting cross-legged, a six-pack of Bud next to him, one third consumed.
Kane wiped the sweat off his forehead, leaving a streak of dirt. “Almost there.”
“Looks like,” Merrick agreed, without checking.
Kane kept digging.
Merrick indicated the beers. “I’d offer you one, but I know you’re not a fan.”
Merrick wore OD green jungle fatigues, a crumpled and faded Green Beret stuffed in one of the pants cargo pockets. The insignia of a master sergeant, three chevrons and three rockers, was on the collar. Master parachutist wings and a Combat Infantry Badge with a star, indicating a second award via a second war, were sown above his nametag. A scuba badge was below. The left shoulders of the uniform had the Special Force patch, an arrowhead shape enclosing a dagger crossed by three lightning bolts, reflecting the three modes of infiltration: air, sea and land. A Ranger tab was above it. The right shoulder, combat unit, was the taro leaf of the 24th Infantry Division. He was a big man, six-four, well-muscled, with thinning red hair, almost fifty years old and projected an air of I-Don’t-Give-A-Fuck that Uncle Conner would have envied. He’d enlisted in 1950 and experienced his first combat in the Korean War, one of the few survivors of the ill-fated Task Force Smith.
“How is Thao?” Merrick asked.
“Working hard, studying hard.”
“Hell of a soldier,” Merrick said. “Wish I had more of him on the team and less of these young douchebags coming out of the Q-Course.”
“We had forty thousand in Vietnam,” Kane reminded him. “We still lost.”
“Fuck that,” Merrick said. “We didn’t lose. Fucking politicians lost. No will. The Army is gutted. Vietnam destroyed it. Most of your Infantry grunts are Cat Fours who don’t know the difference between a doorknob and a grenade. A lot of the fresh meat we’re getting in to Group are pushed through the Q-Course to fill the ranks. They wouldn’t have lasted a week in the old days.”
Kane didn’t pick up the tired argument. Merrick was a warrior without a war.
“Does 10th still do joint training with the SAS?” Kane asked.
“We send a team over every so often on a JCET,” Merrick acknowledged, referring to Joint Combined Exchange Training. “Usually with the SAS. Scuba teams with the SBS. Used to run an officer exchange program with them but haven’t done it in a while.”
“What about New Zealand SAS?”
“Nah. They had some guys in ‘Nam, though.”
“I remember.”
“They also run that combat tracker school in Malaysia,” Merrick said. “Hard to get slots, but it’s a kickass school.”
“You heard any rumors of a rogue SAS guy here in the States?” Kane asked.
Merrick frowned. “No. Unless you consider Charlie Beckwith. He did the exchange with the Brits in the early ‘60s.”
“Fuck Charlie Beckwith,” Kane said automatically as he continued to shovel.
Merrick laughed. “You’ve never forgiven him for Ranger School, have you?”
“He was crazy,” Kane said.
“Still is,” Merrick said.
“His RIs did shit that went way beyond the rules,” Kane said.
“Yeah. You told me. That was fucked up what they did to your friend.” Merrick shifted the topic slightly. “The word from Bragg is Beckwith’s gotten authorization to form that unit he’s always wanted.”
Kane paused, pretending to be interested, but catching his breath, sweat dripping down his face. “What unit?”
“Counter-terrorism,” Merrick said. “He’s been bitching about it for years. Always thought the SAS walked on water and we needed a direct-action unit like them.”
Kane went back to digging. “Why did the brass finally okay Beckwith?”
“That Entebbe raid the Israelis pulled off last year impressed everyone,” Merrick said. “We have all these plane hijackings and bullshit terrorists setting bombs. Like those fucking Puerto Ricans in New York. Some generals finally got their head out of their collective ass and realized we need dedicated shooters to deal with it. Beckwith calls his unit Delta Force.”
“Why?” Kane grunted as he tossed another shovel of dirt.
“He’s a smart ass,” Merrick said. “We’ve got our Operation Detachment Alphas, Bravos and Charlies in Special Forces. So he’s going one better with Delta.”
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“That doesn’t make sense. Ours are team, company and battalion.”
“One of Beckwith’s trademarks is not making sense. Our old unit, Fifth Group, formed a team called Blue Light at Bragg for those same missions. Some good people on it that we know. And several Det-A guys I worked with. I don’t think Beckwith is going to do better than them from scratch. Not many guys are willing to leave the Groups to work with him. But it’s all fucking politics these days. Who you know. Whose ass you kiss.”
The familiar buzz of approaching turboprop engines crept through the woodlands silence. To the west a Hercules C-130 cargo plane was inbound to the drop zone at one thousand, two hundred and fifty feet above ground level. The C-130 was moving deceptively slow, 130 knots. As it crossed the trees at the far edge of the drop zone, bodies came off the ramp, one per second. Static lines reached their end, blossoming parachutes. The plane crossed and banked into a long racetrack over the Massachusetts countryside.
The shovel hit solid. Kane pushed dirt aside with his hands, uncovering wood. He shoveled and scraped, clearing the cache. “Rope,” he said.
Merrick passed him a length. Kane looped it through a bolt in the wood. Together they lifted a heavy box out of the hole. Five feet long by two wide and two deep. Below it was another similar box. Kane hopped in and they repeated the process.
By the time he climbed out, Merrick was wielding a screwdriver, opening the first one. Kane joined him and they removed two-dozen screws. Took the lid off. Thick plastic sheeting protected the contents. They unpeeled, revealing smaller wood cases.
Merrick lifted one out. “Forty-fives.” He unscrewed that lid. Pulled back the plastic and removed oilcloth from one of the guns. Handed it to Kane. “Feel better? I won’t have time to work on the trigger or add a dual safety if you need it right away.”
“I need it now. I can deal with the trigger.” Kane checked the gun. “Safety will just have to stay off.” The serial number was gone, acid burned. “Not as many as when we originally buried the cache,” he noted as he pulled the slide back, inspecting.
“You’re not the only one in need,” Merrick said.
