by Tom Clancy
“All the things they did to me, they’re doing to the others. If I don’t do something, then it’ll never really be gone, will it?”
Kelly thought about that, and his own demons. You simply could not run away from some things. He knew. He’d tried. Pam’s collection was in its way more horrible than his own, and if their relationship were to go further, those demons had to find their resting place.
“Let me make a phone call.”
“Lieutenant Allen,” the man said into his phone in Western District. The air conditioning wasn’t working well today, and his desk was piled with work as yet undone.
“Frank? John Kelly,” the detective heard, bringing a smile.
“How’s life in the middle of the Bay, fella?” Wouldn’t I like to be there.
“Quiet and lazy. How about you?” the voice asked.
“I wish,” Allen answered, leaning back in his swivel chair. A large man, and like most cops of his generation, a World War II veteran—in his case a Marine artillery-man—Allen had risen from foot patrol on East Monument Street to homicide. For all that, the work was not as demanding as most thought, though it did carry the burden associated with the untimely end of human life. Allen immediately noted the change in Kelly’s voice. “What can I do for you?”
“I, uh, met somebody who might need to talk with you.”
“How so?” the cop asked, fishing around in his shirt pocket for a cigarette and matches.
“It’s business, Frank. Information regarding a killing.”
The cop’s eyes narrowed a bit, while his brain changed gears. “When and where?”
“I don’t know yet, and I don’t like doing this over a phone line.”
“How serious?”
“Just between us for now?”
Allen nodded, staring out the window. “That’s fine, okay.”
“Drug people.”
Allen’s mind went click. Kelly had said his informant was “somebody,” not a “man.” That made the person a female, Allen figured. Kelly was smart, but not all that sophisticated in this line of work. Allen had heard the shadowy reports of a drug ring using women for something or other. Nothing more than that. It wasn’t his case. It was being handled by Emmet Ryan and Tom Douglas downtown, and Allen wasn’t even supposed to know that much.
“There’s at least three drug organizations up and running now. None of them are very nice folks,” Allen said evenly. “Tell me more.”
“My friend doesn’t want much involvement. Just some information for you, that’s it, Frank. If it goes further, we can reevaluate then. We’re talking some scary people if this story is true.”
Allen considered that. He’d never dwelt upon Kelly’s background, but he knew enough. Kelly was a trained diver, he knew, a bosun’s mate who’d fought in the brown-water Navy in the Mekong Delta, supporting the 9th Infantry; a squid, but a very competent, careful squid whose services had come highly recommended to the force from somebody in the Pentagon and who’d done a nice job retraining the force’s divers, and, by the way, earning a nice check for it, Allen reminded himself. The “person” had to be female. Kelly would never worry about guarding a man that tightly. Men just didn’t think that way about other men. If nothing else, it sure sounded interesting.
“You’re not screwing me around, are you?” he had to ask.
“That’s not my way, man,” Kelly assured him. “My rules: it’s for information purposes only, and it’s a quiet meet. Okay?”
“You know. anybody else, I’d probably say come right in here and that would be it, but I’ll play along with you. You did break the Gooding case open for me. We got him. you know. Life plus thirty. I owe you for that. Okay, I’ll play along for now. Fair enough?”
“Thanks. What’s your schedule like?”
“Working late shift this week.” It was just after four in the afternoon, and Allen had just come on duty. He didn’t know that Kelly had called three times that day already without leaving a message. “I get off around midnight, one o’clock, like that. It depends on the night,” he explained. “Some are busier than others.”
“Tomorrow night. I’ll pick you up at the front door. We can have a little supper together.”
Allen frowned. This was like a James Bond movie, secret agent crap. But he did know Kelly to be a serious man, even if he didn’t know squat about police work.
“See you then, sport.”
“Thanks, Frank. ‘Bye.” The line clicked off and Allen went back to work. making a note on his desk calendar.
“Are you scared?” he asked.
“A little,” she admitted.
He smiled. “That’s normal. But you heard what I said. He doesn’t know anything about you. You can always back out if you want. I’ll be carrying a gun all the time. And it’s just a talk. You can get in and get out. We’ll do it in one day—one night, really. And I’ll be with you all the time.”
“Every minute?”
“Except when you’re in the ladies’ room, honey. There you have to look out for yourself.” She smiled and relaxed.
“I have to fix dinner,” she said, heading off to the kitchen.
Kelly went outside. Something in him called for more weapons practice, but he’d done that already. Instead he walked into the equipment bunker and took the .45 down from the rack. First he depressed the stud and action spring. Next he swiveled the bushing. That allowed the spring to go free. Kelly dismounted the slide assembly, removing the barrel, and now the pistol was field-stripped. He held the barrel up to a light, and, as expected, it was dirty from firing. He cleaned every surface, using rags, Hoppe’s cleaning solvent, and a toothbrush until there was no trace of dirt on any metal surface. Next he lightly oiled the weapon. Not too much oil, for that would attract dirt and grit, which could foul and jam the pistol at an inconvenient moment. Finished cleaning, he reassembled the Colt quickly and expertly—it was something he could and did do with his eyes closed. It had a nice feel in his hand as he jacked the slide back a few times to make sure it was properly assembled. A final visual inspection confirmed it.
Kelly took two loaded magazines from a drawer, along with a single loose round. He inserted one loaded clip into the piece, working the slide to load the first round in the chamber. He carefully lowered the hammer before ejecting the magazine and sliding another round into place. With eight cartridges in the weapon, and a backup clip, he now had a total of fifteen rounds with which to face danger. Not nearly enough for a walk in the jungles of Vietnam, but he figured it was plenty for the dark environs of a city. He could hit a human head with a single aimed shot from ten yards, day or night. He’d never once rattled under fire, and he’d killed men before. Whatever the dangers might be, Kelly was ready for them. Besides, he wasn’t going after the Vietcong. He was going in at night, and the night was his friend. There would be fewer people around for him to worry about, and unless the other side knew he was there—which they wouldn’t—he didn’t have to worry about an ambush. He just had to stay alert. which came easily to him.
Dinner was chicken, something Pam knew how to fix. Kelly almost got out a bottle of wine but thought better of it. Why tempt her with alcohol? Maybe he’d stop drinking himself. It would be no great loss, and the sacrifice would validate his commitment to her. Their conversation avoided serious matters. He’d already shut the dangers from his mind. There was no need to dwell on them. Too much imagination made things worse, not better.
“You really think we need new curtains?” he said.
“They don’t match the furniture very well.”
Kelly grunted. “For a boat?”
“It’s kinda dull there, you know?”
“Dull,” he observed, clearing the table. “Next thing. you’ll say that men are all alike—” Kelly stopped dead in his tracks. It was the first time he’d slipped up that way. “Sorry . . . ”
She gave him an impish smile. “Well, in some ways you are. And stop being so nervous about talking to me about things,
okay?”
Kelly relaxed. “Okay.” He grabbed her and pulled her close. “If that’s the way you feel . . . well . . . ”
“Mmm.” She smiled and accepted his kiss. Kelly’s hands wandered across her back, and there was no feel of a bra under the cotton blouse. She giggled at him. “I wondered how long it would take you to notice.”
“The candles were in the way,” he explained.
“The candles were nice, but smelly.” And she was right. The bunker was not well ventilated. Something else to fix. Kelly looked forward into a very busy future as he moved his hands to a nicer place.
“Have I gained enough weight?”
“Is it my imagination, or . . . ?”
“Well, maybe just a little,” Pam admitted, holding his hands on her.
“We need to get you some new clothes,” he said, watching her face. the new confidence. He had her on the wheel, steering the proper compass course past Sharp’s Island Light, well east of the shipping channel, which was busy today.
“Good idea,” she agreed. “But I don’t know any good places.” She checked the compass like a good helmsman.
“They’re easy to find. You just look at the parking lot.”
“Huh?”
“Lincolns and Caddys, honey. Always means good clothes,” Kelly noted. “Never fails.”
She laughed as intended. Kelly marveled at how much more in control she seemed, though there was still a long ways to go.
“Where will we stay tonight?”
“On board,” Kelly answered. “We’ll be secure here.” Pam merely nodded, but he explained anyway.
“You look different now, and they don’t know me from Adam. They don’t know my car or my boat. Frank Allen doesn’t know your name or even that you’re a girl. That’s operational security. We ought to be safe.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Pam said, turning to smile at him. The confidence in her face warmed his blood and fed his already capacious ego.
“Going to rain tonight,” Kelly noted, pointing at distant clouds. “That’s good, too. Cuts down visibility. We used to do a lot of stuff in the rain. People just aren’t alert when they’re wet.”
“You really know about this stuff, don’t you?”
A manly smile. “I learned in a really tough school, honey.”
They made port three hours later. Kelly made a great show of being alert, checking out the parking lot, noting that his Scout was in its accustomed place. He sent her below while he tied up, then left her there while he drove the car right to the dock. Pam, as instructed, walked straight from the boat to the Scout without looking left or right, and he drove off the property at once. It was still early in the day, and they drove immediately out of the city, finding a suburban shopping center in Timonium, where Pam over a period of two—to Kelly, interminable—hours selected three nice outfits, for which he paid cash. She dressed in the one he liked best, an understated skirt and blouse that went well with his jacket and no tie. For once Kelly was dressing in accordance with his own net worth, which was comfortable.
Dinner was eaten in the same area, an upscale restaurant with a dark corner booth. Kelly didn’t say so, but he’d needed a good meal, and while Pam was okay with chicken, she still had a lot to learn about cooking.
“You look pretty good—relaxed. I mean,” he said, sipping his after-dinner coffee.
“I never thought I’d feel this way. I mean, it’s only been . . . not even three weeks?”
“That’s right.” Kelly set his coffee down. “Tomorrow we’ll see Sarah and her friends. In a couple of months everything will be different, Pam.” He took her left hand, hoping that it would someday bear a gold ring on the third finger.
“I believe that now. I really do.”
“Good.”
“What do we do now?” she asked. Dinner was over and there were hours until the clandestine meeting with Lieutenant Allen.
“Just drive around some?” Kelly left cash on the table and led her out to the car.
It was dark now. The sun was nearly set, and rain was starting to fall. Kelly headed south on York Road towards the city. well fed and relaxed himself. feeling confident and ready for the night’s travail. Entering Towson, he saw the recently abandoned streetcar tracks that announced his proximity to the city and its supposed dangers. His senses perked up at once. Kelly’s eyes darted left and right, scanning the streets and sidewalks, checking his three rearview mirrors every five seconds. On getting in the car, he’d put his .45 Colt automatic in its accustomed place, a holster just under the front seat that he could reach faster than one in his belt—and besides, it was a lot more comfortable that way.
“Pam?” he asked, watching traffic, making sure the doors were locked—a safety provision that seemed outrageously paranoid when he was so alert.
“Yes?”
“How much do you trust me?”
“I do trust you, John.”
“Where did you—work, I mean?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, it’s dark and rainy, and I’d like to see what it’s like down there.” Without looking, he could feel her body tense. “Look, I’ll be careful. If you see anything that worries you, I’ll make tracks like you won’t believe.”
“I’m scared of that,” Pam said immediately, but then she stopped herself. She was confident in her man, wasn’t she? He’d done so much for her. He’d saved her. She had to trust him—no. he had to know that she did. She had to show him that she did. And so she asked: “You promise you’ll be careful?”
“Believe it, Pam,” he assured her. “You see one single thing that worries you and we’re gone.”
“Okay, then.”
It was amazing, Kelly thought, fifty minutes later. The things that are there but which you never see. How many times had he driven through this part of town, never stopping, never noticing? And for years his survival had depended on his noting everything, every bent branch, every sudden bird-call, every footprint in the dirt. But he’d driven through this area a hundred times and never noticed what was happening because it was a different sort of jungle filled with very different game. Part of him just shrugged and said, Well, what did you expect? Another part noted that there had always been danger here, and he’d failed to take note of it, but the warning was not as loud and clear as it should have been.
The environment was ideal. Dark, under a cloudy, moonless sky. The only illumination came from sparse streetlights that created lonely globes of light along sidewalks both deserted and active. Showers came and went, some fairly heavy, mostly moderate, enough to keep heads down and limit visibility, enough to reduce a person’s normal curiosity. That suited Kelly fine, since he was circulating around and around the blocks, noting changes from the second to the third pass by a particular spot. He noted that not even all the streetlights were functioning. Was that just the sloth of city workers or creative maintenance on the part of the local “businessmen”? Perhaps a little of both, Kelly thought. The guys who changed the bulbs couldn’t make all that much, and a twenty-dollar bill would probably persuade them to be a little slow, or maybe not screw the bulb in all the way. In any case, it set the mood. The streets were dark, and the dark had always been Kelly’s trusted friend.
The neighborhoods were so . . . sad, he thought. Shabby storefronts of what had been mom-and-pop grocery stores, probably run out of business by supermarkets which had themselves been wrecked in the ‘68 rioting, opening a hole in the economic fabric of the area, but one not yet filled. The cracked cement of the sidewalks was littered with all manner of debris. Were there people who lived here? Who were they? What did they do? What were their dreams? Surely not all could be criminals. Did they hide at night? And if then, what about the daylight? Kelly had learned it in Asia: give the enemy one part of the day and he would secure it for himself, and then expand it, for the day had twenty-four hours, and he would want them all for himself and his activities. No, you couldn’t give the other side anythin
g, not a time, not a place, nothing that they could reliably use. That’s how people lost a war, and there was a war going on here. And the winners were not the forces of good. That realization struck him hard. Kelly had already seen what he knew to be a losing war.
The dealers were a diverse group, Kelly saw as he cruised past their sales area. Their posture told him of their confidence. They owned the streets at this hour. There might be competition from one to the other, a nasty Darwinian process that determined who owned what segment of what sidewalk, who had territorial rights in front of this or that broken window, but as with all such competition, things would soon attain some sort of stability, and business would be conducted, because the purpose of the competition was business, after all.
He turned right onto a new street. The thought evoked a grunt and a thin, ironic smile. New street? No, these streets were old ones, so old that “good” people had left them years ago to move out of the city into greener places, allowing other people, deemed less valuable than themselves, to move in, and then they too had moved away, and the cycle had continued for another few generations until something had gone very badly wrong to create what he saw now in this place. It had taken an hour or so for him to grasp the fact that there were people here, not just trash-laden sidewalks and criminals. He saw a woman leading a child by the hand away from a bus stop. He wondered where they were returning from. A visit with an aunt? The public library? Some place whose attractions were worth the uncomfortable passage between the bus stop and home, past sights and sounds and people whose very existence could damage that little child.
Kelly’s back got straighter and his eyes namower. He’d seen that before. Even in Vietnam, a country at war since before his birth, there were still parents, and children, and, even in war, a desperate quest for something like normality. Children needed to play some of the time, to be held and loved, protected from the harsher aspects of reality for as long as the courage and talents of their parents could make that possible. And it was true here, too. Everywhere there were victims, all innocent to some greater or lesser degree, and the children the most innocent of all. He could see it there, fifty yards away, as the young mother led her child across the street, short of the corner where a dealer stood, making a transaction. Kelly slowed his car to allow her safe passage, hoping that the care and love she showed that night would make a difference to her child. Did the dealers notice her? Were the ordinary citizens worthy of note at all? Were they cover? Potential customers? Nuisances? Prey? And what of the child? Did they care at all? Probably not.
