by Tom Clancy
His legs were still stiff as he walked out to get his car—he could have taken the courtesy van, but he’d been sitting for too long. The damp heat of a late spring day reminded him of home. Not that he remembered Cuba all that fondly, but his former government had, after all, given him the training that he needed for his current job. All the school classes on Marxism-Leninism, telling people who scarcely had food to eat that they lived in paradise. In Cortez’s case, they’d had the effect of telling him what he wanted out of life. His training in the DGI had given him the first taste of privilege, and the unending political instruction had only made his government look all the more grotesque in its claims and its goals. But he’d played the game, and learned what he’d needed to learn, exchanging his time for training and field work, learning how capitalist societies work, learning how to penetrate and subvert them, learning their strong points and weak ones. The contrast between the two was entertaining to the former colonel. The relative poverty in Puerto Rico had looked like paradise to him, even while working along with fellow Colonel Ojeda and the Machetero savages to overthrow it—and replace it with Cuba’s version of socialist realism. Cortez shook his head in amusement as he walked toward the parking lot.
Twenty feet over the Cuban’s head, Liz Murray dropped her husband off behind a vanload of travelers. There was barely time for a kiss. She had errands to run, and they’d call Dan’s flight in another ten minutes.
“I ought to be back tomorrow afternoon,” he said as he got out.
“Good,” Liz replied. “Remember the movers.”
“I won’t.” Dan closed the door and took three steps. “I mean, I won’t forget, honey ...” He turned in time to see his wife laughing as she drove off; she’d done it to him again. “It’s not fair,” he grumbled to himself. “Bring you back from London, big promotion, and second day on the job they drop you in the soup.” He walked through the self-opening doors into the terminal and found a TV monitor with his flight information. He had only one bag, and that was small enough to carry on. He’d already reviewed the paperwork—it had all been faxed to Washington by the Mobile Field Office and was the subject of considerable talk in the Hoover Building.
The next step was getting through the metal detector. Actually he bypassed it. The attendant gave out the usual, “Excuse me, sir,” and Murray held up his ID folder, identifying himself as Daniel E. Murray, Deputy Assistant Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. There was no way he could have passed through the magnetometer, not with the Smith & Wesson automatic clipped to his belt, and people in airports tended to get nervous if he showed what he was carrying. Not that he shot that well with it. He hadn’t even requalified yet. That was scheduled for the next week. They weren’t so strict about that with top-level FBI management—his main workplace hazard now came from staple pullers—but though Murray was a man with few vanities, shooting skill was one of them. For no particular reason, Murray was worried about that. After four years in London as the legal attaché, he knew that he needed some serious practice before he would shoot “expert” with either hand again, especially with a new gun. His beloved stainless-steel Colt Python .357 was in retirement. The Bureau was switching over to automatics, and on his arrival in his new office he’d found the engraved S&W gift-wrapped on his desk, a present arranged by his friend Bill Shaw, the newly appointed executive assistant director (Investigations). Bill always had been a class act. Murray switched the bag to his left hand and surreptitiously checked to see that the gun was in place, much as an ordinary citizen might check for his wallet. The only bad thing about his London duty was being unarmed. Like any American cop, Murray felt slightly naked without a gun, even though he’d never had cause to use one in anger. If nothing else, he could make sure that this flight didn’t go to Cuba. He wouldn’t have much chance to do hands-on law enforcement anymore, of course. Now he was part of management, another way of saying that he was too old to be useful, Murray told himself as he selected a seat close to the departure gate. The problem at hand was about as close as he was going to get to handling a real case, and it was happening only because the Director had got hold of the file and called in Bill Shaw who, in turn, had decided that he wanted someone he knew to take a look at it. It promised to be ticklish. They were really starting him off with a cute one.
The flight took just over two hours of routine boredom and a dry meal. Murray was met at the gate by Supervisory Special Agent Mark Bright, assistant special-agent-in-charge of the Mobile Field Office.
“Any other bags, Mr. Murray?”
“Just this one—and the name’s Dan,” Murray replied. “Has anybody talked to them yet?”
“Not in yet—that is, I don’t think so.” Bright checked his watch. “They were due in about ten, but they got called in on a rescue last night. Some fishing boat blew up and the cutter had to get the crew off. It made the morning TV news. Nice job, evidently.”
“Super,” Murray observed. “We’re going in to grill a friggin’ hero, and he’s gone and done it again.”
“You know this guy’s background?” Bright asked. “I haven’t had much chance to—”
“I’ve been briefed. Hero’s the right word. This Wegener’s a legend. Red Wegener’s called the King of SAR—that means search-and-rescue. Half the people who’ve ever been to sea, he’s saved at one time or another. At least that’s the word on the guy. He’s got some big-time friends on The Hill, too.”
“Like?”
“Senator Billings of Oregon.” Murray explained why briefly.
“Chairman of Judiciary. Why couldn’t he just have stayed with Transportation?” Bright asked the ceiling. The Senate Judiciary Committee had oversight duties for the FBI.
“How new are you on this case?”
“I’m here because DEA liaison is my job. I didn’t see the file until just before lunch. Been out of the office for a couple of days,” Bright said as he walked through the door. “We just had a baby.”
“Oh,” Murray noted. You couldn’t blame a man for that. “Congratulations. Everyone all right?”
“Brought Marianne home this morning, and Sandra is the cutest thing I ever saw. Noisy, though.”
Murray laughed. It had been quite a while since he’d had to handle an infant. Bright’s car turned out to be a Ford whose engine purred like a well-fed tiger. Some paperwork on Captain Wegener lay on the front seat. Murray leafed through it while Bright picked his way out of the airport parking lot. It fleshed out what he’d heard in Washington.
“This is some story.”
“How ’bout that.” Bright nodded. “You don’t suppose this is all true, do you?”
“I’ve heard some crazy ones before, but this one would be the all-time champ.” Murray paused. “The funny thing is—”
“Yeah,” the younger agent agreed. “Me, too. Our DEA colleagues believe it, but what broke loose out of this—I mean, even if the evidence is all tossed, what we got out of this is so—”
“Right.” Which was the other reason Murray was involved in the case. “How important was the victim?”
“Big-time political connections, directorships of banks, the University of Alabama, the usual collection of civic groups—you name it. This guy wasn’t just a solid member of the community, he was goddamned Stone Mountain.” Both men knew that was in Georgia, but the point was made. “Old family, back to a Civil War general. His grandfather was a governor.”
“Money?”
Bright grunted. “More than I’d ever need. Big place north of town, still a working farm—plantation, I guess you’d call it, but that’s not where it comes from. He put all the family money into real-estate development. Very successfully as far as we can tell. The development stuff is a maze of small corporations—the usual stuff. We’ve got a team working, but it’ll take awhile to sort through it. Some of the corporate veils are overseas, though, and we may never get it all. You know how that goes. We’ve barely begun to check things out.”
“ ‘Promi
nent local businessman tied to drug kingpins.’ Christ, he hid things real well. Never had a sniff?”
“Nary a one,” Bright admitted. “Not us, not DEA, not the local cops. Nothing at all.”
Murray closed the file and nodded at the traffic. This was only the opening crack in a case that could develop into man-years of investigative work. Hell, we don’t even know exactly what we’re looking for yet, the deputy assistant director told himself. All we do know is that there was a cold million dollars in used twenties and fifties aboard the good ship Empire Builder. So much cash could only mean one thing—but that wasn’t true. It could mean lots of things, Murray thought.
“Here we are.”
Getting onto the base was easy enough, and Bright knew the way to the pier. Panache looked pretty big from the car, a towering white cliff with a bright-orange stripe and some dark smudgemarks near midships. Murray knew that she was a small ship, but one needed a big ocean to tell. By the time he and Bright got out of the car, someone got on the phone at the head of the gangway, and another man appeared there within seconds. Murray recognized him from the file. It was Wegener.
The man had the muddy remains of what had once been red hair, but was now sprinkled with enough gray to defy an accurate description. He looked fit enough, the FBI agent thought as he came up the aluminum brow, a slight roll at the waist, but little else. A tattoo on his forearm marked him for a sailorman, and the impassive eyes marked the face of a man unaccustomed to questioning of any kind.
“Welcome aboard. I’m Red Wegener,” the man said with enough of a smile to be polite.
“Thank you, Captain. I’m Dan Murray and this is Mark Bright.”
“They told me you were FBI,” the captain observed.
“I’m a deputy assistant director, down from Washington. Mark’s the assistant special-agent-in-charge of the Mobile Office.” Wegener’s face changed a bit, Murray saw.
“Well, I know why you’re here. Let’s go to my cabin to discuss things.”
“What’s with all the scorching?” Dan asked as the captain led off. There was something about the way he’d said that. Something ... odd.
“Shrimp boat had an engine fire. Happened five miles away from us last night while we were on the way in. The fuel tanks blew just as we came alongside. Got lucky. Nobody killed, but the mate was burned some.”
“How about the boat?” Bright asked.
“Couldn’t save her. Getting the crew off was pretty tricky.” Wegener held open the door for his visitors. “Sometimes that’s the best you can do. You gentlemen want any coffee?”
Murray declined. His eyes really bored in on the captain now. More than anything else, Dan thought, he looked embarrassed. Wrong emotion. Wegener got his guests seated, then took his chair behind the desk.
“I know why you’re here,” Red announced. “It’s all my fault.”
“Uh, Captain, before you go any further—” Bright tried to say.
“I’ve pulled some dumb ones in my time, but this time I really fucked up,” Wegener went on as he lit his pipe. “You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?”
“No, not at all,” Murray lied. He didn’t know what was coming, but he knew that it wasn’t what Bright thought. He knew several other things that Bright didn’t know, also. “Why don’t you tell us about it?”
Wegener reached into his desk drawer and pulled something out. He tossed it to Murray. It was a pack of cigarettes.
“One of our friends dropped this on the deck and I had one of my people give this back to them. I figured—well, look at it. I mean, it looks like a pack of cigarettes, right? And when we have people in custody, we’re supposed to treat ‘em decent, right? So, I let ’em have their smokes. They’re joints, of course. So, when we questioned them—especially the one who talked—well, he was high as a kite. That screws it all up, doesn’t it?”
“That’s not all, Captain, is it?” Murray asked innocently.
“Chief Riley roughed one of ’em up. My responsibility. I talked to the chief about it. The, uh, I forget his name—the obnoxious one—well, he spit on me, and Riley was there, and Riley got a little pissed and roughed him up some. He should not have done it, but this is a military organization, and when you spit on the boss, well, the troops might not like it. So Riley got a little out of hand—but it happened on my ship and it’s my responsibility.”
Murray and Bright exchanged a look. The suspects hadn’t talked about that at all.
“Captain, that’s not why we’re here exactly,” Murray said after a moment.
“Oh?” Wegener said. “Then why?”
“They say that you executed one of them,” Bright replied. The stateroom was quiet for a moment. Murray could hear someone hammering on something, but the loudest noise came from the air-conditioning vent.
“They’re both alive, aren’t they? There were only two of them, and they’re both alive. I sent that tape on the helicopter when we searched the yacht. I mean, if they’re both alive, which one did we shoot?”
“Hanged,” Murray said. “They say you hanged one.”
“Wait a minute.” He lifted the phone and punched a button. “Bridge, captain speaking. Send the XO to my stateroom. Thank you.” The phone went back into place, and Wegener looked up. “If it’s all right with you, I want my executive officer to hear this also.”
Murray managed to keep his face impassive. You should have known, Danny, he told himself. They’ve had plenty of time to work out the little details, and Mr. Wegener is nobody’s fool. He’s got a U.S. senator to hide behind, and he handed us two cold-blooded killers. Even without the confession, there’s enough evidence for a capital murder case, and if you trash Wegener, you run the risk of losing that. The prominence of the victim—well, the U.S. Attorney won’t go for it. No chance.... There wasn’t a United States Attorney in all of America who lacked political ambition, and putting these two in the electric chair was worth half a million votes. Murray couldn’t run the risk of screwing this case up. FBI Director Jacobs had been a federal prosecutor, and he’d understand. Murray decided that it might make things a lot easier.
The XO appeared a moment later, and after introductions were exchanged, Bright went on with his version of what the subjects had told the local FBI office. It took about five minutes during which Wegener puffed on his pipe and let his eyes go slightly wide.
“Sir,” the XO told Bright when he was finished. “I’ve heard a couple of good sea stories, but that one’s the all-time champ.”
“It’s my fault,” Wegener grumbled with a shake of the head. “Lettin’ ’em have their pot back.”
“How come nobody noticed what they were smoking?” Murray asked, less with curiosity for the answer than for the skill with which it was delivered. He was surprised when the XO replied.
“There’s an A/C return right outside the brig. We don’t keep a constant watch on prisoners—these were our first, by the way—because that’s supposed to be unduly intimidating or something. Anyway, it’s in our procedure book that we don’t. Besides, we don’t have all that many people aboard that we can spare ’em. What with the smoke getting sucked out, nobody noticed the smell until that night. Then it was too late. When we brought them into the wardroom for questioning—one at a time; that’s in the book, too—they were both kinda glassy-eyed. The first one didn’t talk. The second one did. You have the tape, don’t you?”
“Yes, I’ve seen it,” Bright answered.
“Then you saw that we read them their rights, right off the card we carry, just like it says. But—hung ‘em? Damn. That’s crazy. I mean, that’s really crazy. We don’t—I mean, we can’t. I don’t even know when it was legal to do it.”
“The last time I know about was 1843,” the captain said. “The reason there’s a Naval Academy at Annapolis is because some people got strung up on USS Somers. One of them was the son of the Secretary of War. Supposedly it was an attempted mutiny, but there was quite a stink about it. We don’t hang people anymore
,” Wegener concluded wryly. “I’ve been in the service a long time, but I don’t go that far back.”
“We can’t even have a general court-martial,” the XO added. “Not by ourselves, I mean. The manual for that weighs about ten pounds. Gawd, you need a judge, and real lawyers, all that stuff. I’ve been in the service for almost nine years, and I’ve never even seen a real one—just the practice things in law classes at the Academy. All we ever do aboard is Captain’s Mast, and not much of that.”
“Not a bad idea, though. I wouldn’t have minded hanging those sons of bitches,” Wegener observed. It struck Murray as a very strange, and very clever, thing to say. He felt a little sorry for Bright, who’d probably never had a case go this way. In that sense Murray was grateful for his time as legal attaché in London. He understood politics better than most agents.
“Oh?”
“When I was a little kid, they used to hang murderers. I grew up in Kansas. And you know, there weren’t many murders back then. Course, we’re too civilized to do that now, and so we got murders every damned day. Civilized,” Wegener snorted. “XO, did they ever hang pirates like this?”
“I don’t think so. Blackbeard’s crew was tried at Williamsburg—ever been there?—the old courthouse in the tourist part of the place. I remember hearing that they were actually hung where one of the Holiday Inns is. And Captain Kidd was taken home to England for hanging, wasn’t he? Yeah, they had a place called Execution Dock or something like that. So—no, I don’t think they really did it aboard ship, even in the old days. Damn sure we didn’t do it. Christ, what a story.”
