by Jack Bowie
“Gary called me early this morning. He said Macon had jeopardized the whole operation. He also thinks Macon killed Cal to cover his tracks.”
“His own son-in-law? Jesus, I don’t believe it.”
“Oh, cut the bleeding heart shit, Sean. You hated Cal just like the rest of us. And you know Macon was getting soft. Lost his guts I’d say.” Wicks tossed his bottle in the sink and reached in the refrigerator for another.
“Why’d Gary call you?”
“He asked me to take over the cell.”
Wicks could see the shock on the Irishman’s face. He couldn’t screw this up. Without O’Grady’s support they’d all be buried with Macon in a week.
“I don’t know why,” Wicks continued. “And I damn well didn’t ask him. All I know is that we’re in this together now, Sean. You want to run the cell that’s fine with me. But I sure as hell don’t want Gary sending Alexander in here to clean us up.”
O’Grady pulled up a chair and dropped down. Wicks waited him out.
“Okay, you want to play big shot with Gary that’s fine with me. For now. What do we need to do?”
“I figure we just keep our mouths shut,” Wicks said. He was still shaking but maybe they could get through this. “Nobody knows what happened to Macon. Maybe he just flipped out. But we’ve got to keep the exercises on schedule. That’ll keep Gary off our backs until we can figure out a plan. You okay with that?”
“Yeah. I’ve got some more conversions to do but I’ll get ‘em done.”
“Good. I’ll go through Macon’s papers and see what I can find. We play it according to the plan and get through this weekend.”
“Whatever you say, boss. I’ll get back to the store. Call me if you need anything.”
“There is one other loose end I need some help with, Sean.”
* * *
“This is bullshit, Tommy. I can’t do this. Doc and Ricky ain’t never done anything to nobody.” They were sitting in O’Grady’s van outside Doc Flaherty’s office. It was a cool Georgia night; a sea of stars twinkled in the rural sky. In the office, a single light shone from a rear window.
“It’s a little late for that don’t you think?” Wicks replied with a sneer. “I was at the courthouse. Remember?”
O’Grady glared at his friend from the driver’s seat. “That was different. Maybe Macon did go nuts. Who knew all this was gonna happen?”
“Get over it, Sean. We’ve got work to do. If either of these guys blows what we’ve been doin’, the Feds’ll have us in Jesup with old Charlie. And it won’t be for just shootin’ at a couple of Troopers.” He paused before voicing the other option. “Or maybe you’d rather tell Gary to piss off.”
O’Grady shuddered and shook his head.
“Then let’s go,” Wicks commanded.
They were dressed in fatigues, assault boots, and black knit hoods. Those and the other items in the back of the van had been scrounged at the farm. Gary had enough materiel stashed there for a dozen assault exercises.
Wicks jumped out of the van and headed for the front door.
He pulled off his hood and knocked. A light came on over the entrance.
“Tommy?” Flaherty said as he opened the door.
“Sorry to bother you, Doc. I just came from Ricky’s house. He’s doing real bad. I think you oughtta come take a look.”
“Damn,” Flaherty said. “I was hoping that last round of antibiotics would do the trick. Come on in while I get some things. You’re lucky to catch me. I was about ready to head home.”
Wicks nodded, but luck had nothing to do with it. He and O’Grady had been watching the office since mid-afternoon. They knew only Flaherty was inside.
He stepped across the threshold and closed the door. “Waiting for any patients, Doc?” he asked.
“Nope. Just finishin’ up today’s records. Let me file ‘em away and we can go.”
Flaherty walked down the hall and disappeared into one of the back rooms. When he reappeared, he had a stack of folders in his hand. Then he turned and went through a door behind the reception area. Wicks followed him.
They entered a room filled with tall metal book shelves, all overloaded with manila folders.
Flaherty dropped his files on a small table and turned to Wicks. “You shouldn’t be in here, Tommy,” he said. “It’s our medical records room. I’ll meet you in the lobby when I’m done.”
Suddenly a bell sounded throughout the small house. Wicks spun around and tried to decide what to do. Was it an alarm?
“Sorry,” Flaherty commented walking to the door. “That’s my telephone. I set it on the bell when I’m alone in the office. It’ll just take a second.”
Wicks made a decision. “Sorry, Doc. I don’t think so.”
As Flaherty passed, Wicks pulled a Glock from his waistband and slammed the handle of the automatic into the side of the aging physician’s head. The brittle bones splintered under the force and sliced into the side of his brain. He fell to the floor like a handful of pick-up sticks.
Wicks quickly scanned the shelves and found that the old country doctor had refused to bend to even the slightest hint of modern filing procedures. No fancy color codes on these files. They were all in alphabetical order.
He ran his finger across the labels, looking for his objective. Yanking out a file, he opened it and read the notation:
Ricky Dalton - bachelor, barkeeper, militia
Wicks folded the file and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. Then he grabbed Flaherty’s hands and dragged him to the front door.
The bell was still ringing when he called to O’Grady.
* * *
They drove to Dalton’s small farmhouse on the other side of town. The place was known to everyone in Tyler: the Dalton family had lived here for almost seventy years.
Wicks and O’Grady crawled into the rear of the van, collected their bags and hopped out the rear doors. O’Grady ran to place the packages while Wicks headed for the front door.
There was no way he wanted to even get near this disease-ridden piece of crap, but he had to be sure Dalton was there. There had been too many mistakes already.
He knocked, then, hearing no response, tried the doorknob. It turned and he went inside.
“Ricky?” he called from the front room.
Nothing.
“Ricky!”
“Who’s that?” came a weak voice from upstairs.
Wicks galloped up the stairs and found Dalton in a large bedroom on the second floor. He was lying in bed covered in enough blankets to bury a horse. His face was ashen grey.
Dalton looked up when Wicks came to the door. “Tommy? Is that you?”
“Yeah, Ricky. It’s me.” Wicks stayed in the doorway, not wanting to get any closer than was necessary.
“I ain’t doin’ so good, Tommy. Really feel like shit.” Dalton coughed and Wicks instinctively covered his mouth with his arm. He had to get out of this tomb.
“I know, Ricky. I brought the Doc for you. He’ll be here soon.”
“Thanks, Tommy.” The words were slow and frail. “You’re a good friend.”
“Eh, yeah. You just stay put. Just a couple minutes.”
Wicks took the stairs two at a time, then rushed out the door. Once he’d cleared the porch, he stopped and bent over to catch his breath. When he looked up, O’Grady was dragging Flaherty’s body out of the van.
“You okay?” O’Grady called. “You look like shit. Ricky there?”
“I’m fine. Ricky’s in bed upstairs. Everything set?”
“Yeah, but I could use a little goddamn help here.”
They dragged Flaherty into the farmhouse. The Irishman went back to the van while Wicks pulled Dalton’s medical record from his pocket and lit it with a small butane lighter. The file smoldered for a moment then burst into flames. Once he was sure the record had caught, he tossed the paper torch under a low-hanging curtain. The flames reached up for the cheap material, slid off, then grabbed firm. It would be
enough.
O’Grady already had the van running when Wicks hopped in the passenger seat.
“How long?” Wicks asked.
“Two minutes,” O’Grady replied. “I was gettin’ worried.”
“Let’s get outta here. We’re done.”
The blue van drove quietly off into the night, only a faint flicker emanating from the farmhouse. Two minutes later the structure erupted into a volcano of flame.
Dalton had always said that as the last of his family, he wanted to die in his home.
Well, the old sot got his wish.
Days later, the unfortunate accident would be blamed on a gas leak and subsequent explosion.
* * *
Gary stepped from the woods and jogged back to his car. The flames from Dalton’s home cast soft, dancing shadows as he traced back across the field.
So far Wicks had lived up to his bravado. The exercises this weekend shouldn’t be a problem. Even he could keep the cell, or what was left of it, together for a few more days.
One more week and the watcher could leave Tyler, Georgia behind. Shepard had finished the molds. It would be a spectacular op—quite something to put on his resume.
Gary smiled. If only he could let anyone read it.
Chapter 40
Hotel Krasnapolsky, Amsterdam, The Netherlands
Friday, 8:00 a.m.
Braxton woke with his shoulder throbbing. He groped over the bedside table for the aspirin and codeine prescription Dr. Magdar had given him, swallowed two of the pills, and collapsed back into bed, knowing he was now far too awake to ever get back to sleep.
After Slattery’s telephone call, Klaber had pressed for another hour to get Braxton to confess to something. The Inspector had eventually given up, and, with Braxton dressed in the clothes Magdar had provided, had driven him back to the Krasnapolsky. The consultant had then asked the concierge for two favors: first, to confirm his return to the States the next day, and second, to see that he was not disturbed until then.
That had been eighteen hours ago, and the second request had certainly been followed. He reached for the phone to check on the first.
“Good morning, Mr. Braxton,” came the deep male voice from the front desk. “I hope you are feeling better today.”
“Yes, thank you,” Braxton replied, rotating his now less painful, but still quite stiff, shoulder. “Do I have any messages?”
“Yes, sir. Three. From last evening. The first is from Hendrick. He has confirmed your flight from Schiphol today. We will have a driver waiting for you at 10:30.”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary, I can catch a cab.”
“Oh no. It would be our pleasure, Mr. Braxton. To make up for the unpleasantness of your stay. We have also taken the liberty to refuse certain, shall I say unseemly requests, from reporters. There have been a number of stories on the television and in the tabloids. The Krasnapolsky believed you would like to avoid these contacts.”
“Why yes, thank you very much. It was very kind of you.”
“Our pleasure, Mr. Braxton.”
Now Braxton understood why Vision One had chosen the Grand Hotel Krasnapolsky. No hotel in the States would have avoided the opportunity for that publicity.
“The next message is from a Mr. Fowler, in the United States. He inquired as to your status. He was quite insistent in speaking with you.”
“I can imagine. I pity whoever had to take the call.”
“Yes, sir. There is a notation about that. He asked that you call him as soon as possible. The last call was from one of our guests. Miss Marino. She was very concerned about your health but understood our request to not bother you. She also asked that you call. Would you like me to put you through?”
Did he really want to talk to Marino now? She would likely want to help take care of him. And he didn’t want to deal with that baggage now.
“No, thank you. Just leave a message for her. Thank her for her concern and tell her I’ll get back to her after I return to Washington.”
“Yes, sir. I will leave it in her mailbox. Is there anything else?”
“Could you call the number for Mr. Fowler?”
“Of course, sir.”
There was a short pause, then Braxton heard a weak “Hello?”
“Morning, Sam. What’s up?”
“Adam? It’s goddamn . . . 2:00 a.m. What the hell are you doing calling me now?”
Shit. He had forgotten the time difference. “Sorry, Sam. I just woke up and got your message.”
“Are you okay? We heard there was a shooting.”
“Yeah. Just a scrape on my shoulder. I was lucky.”
“You’re damn right. Were you with the Chinese guy that got killed?”
Guess news does travel fast.
“We were walking together. The attack, I guess that’s what it was, is still kind of a blur.”
“This have anything to do with that Marino gal?”
Braxton considered the question. No, they couldn’t be connected. “I don’t think so, Sam. But did you get anything on her yet?”
“So far she looks clean, but I’ve still got a couple of feelers still out.”
“Thanks. But I need you to do another check. Name is Kam Yang.”
“Yang? Isn’t that the name of the scientist that was killed over there?”
“That was Tak Yang. Kam was his brother. He was killed in a car accident a week or two ago.”
“Helluva coincidence.”
“That’s what I’m worried about. The accident happened somewhere around D.C. See what you can find out.”
“Will do. When are you coming back?”
“Today. It’ll be good to get home.” That was an understatement. “Oh, don’t ask Slattery about Yang.”
“Why not?”
“I think Yang was a spook. Probably NSA.”
“Shit, Adam. I told you not to get messed up with those guys. Roger involved in all this?”
“Yeah. I’ll explain when I get back. Give me a call tomorrow.”
“For sure. You take care of yourself.”
“Thanks. Now get your butt back to bed.”
* * *
Gary drove the rental up the dirt road and stopped in front of the farmhouse. It was a warm Georgia morning and a light breeze carried the sweet smells of jasmine and magnolia through the car’s open windows. This truly was a beautiful property. Rich Georgia clay, row after row of flowering shrubs, wide stands of pecan trees, and rolling verdant meadows. An ideal place to retire. Too bad he’d never have the chance.
Entering the house, he saw Wicks and O’Grady arguing across the trestle table.
“What’s the talk in town?” Gary asked. “Any trouble?”
“Trouble? Shit, the whole town’s in a panic!” O’Grady’s thick Irish brogue rang through the meeting room. “How do you think they’d feel? First Brown gets killed, then Macon and Cal disappear, now Ricky and Doc Flaherty go under. Everybody’s wonderin’ who’s next.”
“Come on, Sean,” Wicks responded, putting his hands on his partner’s shoulder. “It ain’t that bad. Sure folks are upset. But they’ll get over it.”
“We gotta stop this, Tommy. Just for now. I know what we’re doin’ is important. But if we don’t have the support of the town they’ll turn us all in.”
So. The old gunrunner did have some smarts. Maybe I picked the wrong guy.
“Shit,” Wicks answered. “Nobody’s gonna say anything, Sean. You just don’t know these folks.”
“Actually, I agree with Sean,” Gary replied. “All the trouble has given us too much visibility. We need to quiet things down. Give folks a chance to get back to normal. After the exercise we’ll shut down for a while. That okay with you, Tommy?”
“Sure, Gary,” Wicks said. “Absolutely right. Get things back to normal.”
“And you can sit out CHARLIE,” Gary added. “We’ve got more than enough cells ready to make our point. You get the teams through the training this weekend and I’ll
take it from there. Oh, and we’re just about done in the lab. When the boys are finished, you can go down and clear everything out. I’ll give you a call.”
“We’ll take care of everything, Gary. There won’t be any more screw ups.”
“I know, Tommy. I know. We’re all counting on you. And Sean.”
He could almost see the gleam in Wick’s eye. The little bastard couldn’t wait to get downstairs. Well, it would be worth waiting for.
* * *
“Cindy! What are you doing here?” Tracomb said as he entered the closet. Cindy Falmouth was a Biochem that worked in another section of NCC. Tracomb had seen her a few times at company events.
“Gina asked me to swap times with her. She had a doctor’s appointment.”
“Well, welcome to Satisfaction Central. Make any customers happy today?”
“Come on, George,” she replied as she straightened up the area around the telephone. “This isn’t so bad. It’s important we all understand what our customers want.”
“What they want is for us to get their orders to them. Something I can’t do sitting in front of this damn phone. You buy all that quality crap?”
“Yes, I do. Up to a point. Maybe Phillips does get carried away but he’s trying to make a difference. You ought to give him a chance.”
Tracomb furrowed his brow and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Hey, I’m here aren’t I? Woodruff straight out refused.”
“I heard. I think he’s wrong.”
“We’ll see. So far there haven’t been any repercussions. But if I were him, I’d be updating my resume.” Tracomb took his position in front of the phone and started down the customer list.
Falmouth started out the door, then turned. “Oh, I meant to ask you about one of your entries.”
“Which one?”
She came back to the desk and leafed through a few pages in the customer listing. “This one. The CDC. What is this mark?” She pointed to a light pencil scrawl in the margin.
“It’s a question mark. What does it look like?” Who made her the Quality Police all of a sudden?
“Okay, but what does it mean? Did you contact them?”
“Yeah. I called. The contact name’s wrong.” Falmouth gave him a sour look. “What’s the big deal?”
