by Ralph Dennis
“Not that I know about.”
Now Stiggers spooned the black bean soup into his mouth and swallowed. “Bob,” he said to the bonebreaker, “how much tape has run?”
“It’s at the tail.”
“Start it from the beginning.”
Bob hit the play button. Hall was surprised to hear his voice at the start of the tape. “No, I’ll stay with the Colt Python. What I need is a fresh set of loads.”
“Help yourself,” Moss said. “That’s Freddy’s Python, isn’t it?
There was a loud rattling, what might have been rocks rolling around in a can. Hall knew it was his hand clawing through a box of .357 shells.
“How long will you be gone?”
The click of the .357’s feeding into the cylinder. Hall said, “Thirty or forty minutes. Denise and I need the air.”
Sound of footsteps approaching. “Ready, Will?” Denise said.
“And eager.”
More steps. Down the hall to the living room. The front door opening and closing.
Aaron’s voice: “You trust him, Mr. Moss?”
“Yes.” Moss said.
The tape went dead. “He switched it off at this point,” Stiggers said.
Hall tilted his bowl and got the last spoonful of soup. “Why tape what we just heard?”
“Proof you had a weapon,” Stiggers said. “It was like signing a chit you’d been issue a sidearm.”
There was a loud noise from the tape. Moss was yelling.
“Cue it again,” Stiggers said.
Bob reversed the tape. He hit play again. Moss said, “Yes,” to Aaron’s question. Then the tape went dead.
“The first burst is here,” Hall said. “The one that downed Aaron. That’s when Moss hit the trip switch.
A loud noise.
“Somebody’s kicking the front door in.” Hall pushed his bowl aside and lifted his glass of white wine. He sipped and listened.
“Jesus Lord,” Moss shouted. It was almost a scream. “Rivers, we’re under attack.” Footsteps. Moss running for the arms cabinet. Other footsteps mixed with the heavy panting from Moss. The cabinet doors opening and banging against the wall. The subgun, an Uzi or an Ingram, opens up and drowns out everything.
Almost immediately, before that reverberation fades, there is another sound in the first-floor bedroom. The door opening and a muffled voice said, “Here’s yours, Rivers.”
The terrified voice of Rivers: “No … bib … bib …”
A long burst from the subgunner.
“What was he trying to say.” Stiggers pointed the question toward Hall.
“It sounded like Bible.”
“Run it again, Bob.”
Bob ran it twice. It wasn’t clear. “It does sound like Bible,” Stiggers said.
On the tape hurrying footsteps, heavy breathing, almost panting. One voice: “No sign of Hall.”
A second voice, muffled: ”We can’t wait for him. Time’s gone.”
Footsteps. Creaking of the door as it closes. Then silence on the tape.
“How long between the shooting and you return to the house, Hall?”
“Maybe ten minutes, give or take a minute.”
Denise brought a second bottle of white wine from the refrigerator. Hall pulled the cork. Denise filled his glass, Stiggers’ and her own.
“Bible?” Stiggers said. “That make any sense to you?”
“Not a bit.”
“You recognize the voices?”
“Not the one that’s clear. The man who killed Rivers was wearing something, a cloth or a scarf, over his mouth.”
“Speed it up,” Stiggers told Bob. “But don’t miss anything.”
Bob started and stopped his way through a long section of the tape. “Here.” Bob backed the tape a foot or so and hit the play button again.
The door opening, footsteps. Hall said, “Rivers, too.”
Denise lowered her head. Hall stood. “I’ve heard this before.” He took Denise by the elbow and helped her to her feet. “Better if you get packed.” He looked down at Stiggers. “Alright with you?”
Stiggers nodded.
When Hall returned to the kitchen a few minutes later, the tape was boxed and the player closed and ready to be stored away.
“Looks like you’re clear of it,” Stiggers said.
“Nice to know,” Hall filled the sink with hot water and dish washing liquid. He rinsed the bowls and dropped them in the wash water.
“What?” Stiggers carried the wine glasses to the sink. He wet a cloth and wiped the kitchen table.
“Nothing.”
“I heard you,” Stiggers said. “Still pissed?”
“To the boiling point,” Hall said.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It was approaching midnight. Denise’s bags were packed and placed by the front door. Splinters around the lock, where the door had been kicked in, showed white against the dark stain of the door. Hall turned and looked at Denise and shook his head. “This isn’t my idea.”
“I know, Will.”
“I think we’ve got time for a coffee.” He took her elbow and turned her toward the kitchen.
Stiggers sat sprawled at the kitchen table. A Melita coffeemaker was on the stove, the filter draining in the sink. Hall sat Denise down across from Stiggers and got two cups from the cabinet. He filled both cups and placed one in front of Denise.
Ray Stiggers gulped his coffee. “It’s a milk plane,” he said to Denise. “It stops at Richmond and then at Raleigh-Durham.”
Denise placed both hands around the coffee cup. She didn’t drink. “I’d rather stay here.”
“Admin gave the orders. It’s not like I’ve got any say in it.”
“The real question is whether I want to finish the program at the University. I’m not sure anymore.” A rashness seemed to spur at her. She put her hand on Will’s and looked at Stiggers. “I want to be where Will is.”
“So, it’s like that?” Stiggers smiled. “Perhaps you could wait for him there.”
She glanced at Hall. “Where will he be?”
Stiggers shook his head. “That’s for operations and security to decide.”
“You’re talking about me like I’m not here,” Hall said.
“In some ways you’re not,” Stiggers said.
“Is he clear? Am I clear?”
“It’s my estimate. It’s all on the tape. I can’t figure it any other way.”
“Call it luck,” Hall said. “We were lucky enough to be stomping around the countryside.”
Bob, Stiggers’ assistant, stopped in the doorway. “The car’s ready to take Miss Lawton to the airport.”
Denise tightened her grip on Hall’s hand. “Now they’re talking about me like I’m not here.”
“It’s the nature of the business,” Hall stood and looked down at Stiggers. “One day you’re here and the next you’re not.” He and Denise followed Bob to the living room.
Bob gathered up Denise’s bags. “I’ll put these in the boot.”
Hall opened the door for him and closed it after he was outside. Hall put his arms around Denise. “Aren’t we English around here? Boot? It must be the Rivers’ influence.”
Her breath was warm on his neck. “You’ll call me when you can?”
“As soon as it’s over.”
Hall emptied Denise’s cup and placed it in the sink. He reheated the coffee and topped off his cup. When he sat down next to Stiggers, he saw the black plastic briefcase that was on the table. Stiggers had his elbows on the briefcase.
“You knew what Rivers was trying to do? The plan he had about compartments?”
“I knew.”
“What do you think happened with it?”
“You want an opinion?”
Stiggers nodded solemnly.
“Rivers out-cuted himself. All he really told admin and operations and communications was that he was playing games and that he was here at the safehouse.”
“And …?”
<
br /> “It probably got him and Aaron and Moss killed.”
“The tape …”
“What about it?”
“One of the killers on the tape was asking about you,” Stiggers said.
“Which means …?”
“Operations was fed the information that you were considered killed in Ireland.”
“That would clear operations if the compartments were really airtight, if the job came by way of the Company.”
“That’s the way Rivers would have seen it.” Stiggers placed the briefcase on edge and unzipped it. “I was bringing this to Rivers. It landed on my desk late yesterday afternoon. The problem is I don’t know how it fits in.” He reached into the briefcase and brought out two sheets of paper. He read the first page, shook his head, and passed the pages to Hall.
It was a passport check for the man Mac tossed overboard on the ferry.
PP # M 2345085. Issued Salt Lake City, Utah to Baker, Warren Blair.
Issued: May 1977, ten-year limitation. Good until May 1987.
Purpose for use: business and vacation travel Intended visits: England, Ireland, France, Sweden and West Germany.
Hall lowered the page and looked at Stiggers. What he’d read didn’t mean anything to him either. He read on.
Subject male born Boise, Idaho 1/12/1948. Enlisted army 7/8/68. Completed basic training, transferred to Special Forces. After advanced training assigned 2/14/69 Vietnam. Completed one tour. Volunteered 2nd tour. Discharged Fort Bragg, injury related, 40 percent disability, on 4/23/72
Two years with Denver Police Department. Night courses in criminology and police sciences on G.I. Bill, Left Denver Police Department 6/15/74. Reason for leaving: disciplinary action following charges of police brutality, beating of drunks in holding tank.
7/5/74 WW Security Services applied for status of investigator and security man for Baker, Warren Blair. Service with Special Forces and Denver Police Department noted in application. Omitted mention of charges against him by Denver Police Department. Status granted by state of Utah. Also permission to carry concealed arms. WW Security based Flat Canyon, Utah.
Note: false statement possible in passport application. Subject male gave hometown as Copper City, Utah. No present town or city of that name in Utah atlas or abstracts. However, it was name of company mill town at the turn of the century. Site of International Workers of the World strike and riots 1910-11. Forty-three strikers killed before strike broken. Name, Copper City, changed 1932 to Flat Canyon.
“Can you make a call to someone at the research unit?”
“I think so,” Stiggers said.
Hall passed him page two. “The riots and strikes mentioned here. What company was involved? Is that company still around?”
“The Wobs, huh?” Stiggers carried the page into the living room. Hall followed him. Stiggers drew the phone toward him and dialed the Farm number. “Stiggers,” he said. “Fox three, Charlie one, alpha three, fox four.” He waited, the time it took for the computer to check his identification. “Alright, patch me in with Nancy Tyler in the computer section.”
Hall looked through the doorway, into the first-floor bedroom. The bed was changed, the sheets and blankets taken away, and the mattress folded so the bloodstains didn’t show.
“Nancy, Stiggers. I thought you might be working the graveyard. I need something fast. While I hold. It’s in the area of labor wars, strikes. The 1910-11 Wobbly … that’s International Workers of the World strike against a company in Copper City, Utah. What was the company involved? Is that company still doing business? Yes, I’ll hold.”
“Baker was the killer who tried to throw me into the Irish sea,” Hall said. “That was on the ferry to Rosslare.”
“The first I’ve heard of it,” Stiggers said. He moved the receiver closer to his ear. “Yes, Nancy, I’m still here. New York Times article, you say? No, I don’t want all the details.” He listened for a few seconds and nodded. “Greenstock Copper.” Stiggers lifted his eyes toward Hall. “Yes, that’s the easy one. See what else you’ve got on Greenstock.” A long wait. “You need it narrowed down? Nothing in the Wall Street Journal. Going back how far? Maybe there was a takeover or a sale.” Stiggers lifted his head toward Hall. “She needs a year. You want to make a guess?”
“A hunch. Try the date the mill town changed from Copper City to Flat Canyon.”
Stiggers ran his eyes down the page. “Try 1932, Nancy.”
“Could be a new company might want to wipe away the stigma of the Copper City union busting.”
“Could be,” Stiggers said. “I’m still here, Nancy. That’s it. Greenstock takeover by Kennedy Copper. Is Kennedy still listed? The Journal again.” Stiggers put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Anything else we need to know, Will?” He took his hand from the reciever. “It is still listed. Good.”
“Is there a connection between Kennedy Copper and Worldwide Metals?”
Stiggers repeated the question. “Is that right? Rivers did?” Stiggers turned to Hall. “Nancy has put together a file on Worldwide Metals for Rivers. She’s getting it now. Go ahead, Nancy. Right. Right. Thank you, Nancy.” He broke the connection. “Kennedy Copper is one of ten companies under the Worldwide Metals umbrella.”
“Now it makes sense,” Hall said.
Stiggers warmed the coffee over a gas flame until tiny bubbles appeared along the sides of the pot. He poured for both of them. “What now, Will?”
“You’re in charge.”
“Rivers and Moss hadn’t briefed me.”
“You’d have to take my word for it,” Hall said. “My word hasn’t been much good around the Company lately.”
“Try me.” Stiggers sipped the scalding coffee. “I think I can tell if it’s the way Rivers and Moss thought.”
“Set your mind for Rivers. Moss hadn’t had a new thought since 1970.”
Stiggers nodded. Hall filled him in on everything that had happened and why, starting with the Costa Verde factions, how Worldwide had supported Marcos and the blackeye the murder of Marcos had given the Company, right on up to the hit on Rivers to prevent him from flushing out the mole in the Company ferret out their man in the Company and take revenge against Worldwide.
“Rivers had a plan?” Stiggers asked.
“Two ideas. Both were intended as a method of telling Worldwide to stay away from Company business. He wanted to warn the people at the top that the Company wouldn’t be used and manipulated. One early idea would have been to use the stock market games. Trust busting, S.E.C. investigations of any shady or questionable practices we could uncover. The process might have taken a year or two.”
“At least that,” Stiggers said.
“The other, the one I think Rivers was leaning toward, would have been some immediate action. Some operation that would have hurt Worldwide, given them a bad lump and the warning at the same time.”
“A punitive strike?”
“On that order,” Hall said.
“It’s got Rivers’ touch to it.”
“We hadn’t settled upon a target. There was the risk of failure if Worldwide had moles in the Company.”
“I think I see a gleam in your eye, Will.”
“It just came to me. I’m sure that WW Security is responsible for most of the plotting, the roadblocks and the killings.” Hall made a face at the coffee. He’d had enough for the night. “They are based in Flat Canyon, Utah. That’s where we strike.”
“What kind of strike?”
“A wipe-out,” Hall said.
“I think the Old Man might go for it.”
Hall dumped the coffee dregs. He found the cognac decanter and poured a stiff shot in a water glass. He considered the Old Man, the director of the Company. From all he knew about Bledsoe, it didn’t seem likely. “I can’t see the Old Man risking it. The F.B.I. wouldn’t sit still for it. Worldwide Metals could exert some pressure through the House and Senate.”
Stiggers smiled. “Not that Old Man. The ex-Old Man.”
>
The ex-Old Man invited them to breakfast. Stiggers and Hall had eaten earlier at the safehouse. “I’d appreciate some coffee, sir,” Stiggers said. Hall nodded. The ex-Old man’s eyes bored away at him.
Breakfast was placed on a linen-covered table in the solarium, along with two extra cups and saucers, before the old gentleman led them from the living room. His name was Stanford Brewster and he’d walked in the halls of power since he’d been a young man. Now he was probably 75 but he carried himself with the vigor and the erect walk of a man ten or fifteen years younger.
Brewster ate his breakfast slowly while Stiggers filled him in on everything. Now and then he lifted his eyes from his plate and stared at Hall.
Brewster buttered a final thin wedge of toast and nibbled at it, small rat bites. After he swallowed, he touched his mouth with a crumpled linen napkin.
“The bastards,” he said. Flat and emotionless but it carried weight. He dropped the napkin beside his plate and stood. “Have another coffee and wait for me in the library.”
He marched away. After half-an-hour, Stanford Brewster joined them in the library. He’d changed from a dressing gown to gray slacks and a red sweater “I’ve made four calls to the city. As you might imagine there is a certain amount of anger about the accident that look the lives of Moss and Rivers and their driver.”
“Enough anger, sir?” This from Stiggers.
“More than enough. The last gentleman I spoke with was Winston. You remember Winston?”
“Buck? Yes, sir.”
Buck Winston was one of the last of the gentlemen mercenaries. He’d fought in more than half-a-dozen of those small brushfire wars in Africa. Back in 1976, he got tired of war and he returned to Maryland. With some family money added to his pay from those mercenary years, he went into business as an international arms dealer. His “in” with the Company, some of his rivals said, gave him an edge in most arms deals.
Brewster pulled back his sweater cuff and looked at his watch. “Mr. Winston will be here in two hours. He has also offered to recruit and equip twenty-five or even fifty men if we need that many.”
Hall put his cold coffee aside. “I think we need some proper intelligence about Flat Canyon.”
