Lawyers, Guns and Money

by Bob Mayer

  “That asset,” Kane began, trying to focus the dialogue on the more immediate issues, “was—”

  Plaikos held up a hand. “In the country without authorization or knowledge of our government. Thus, the case for reparations is weak.”

  “He was a multiple killer off the clock,” Kane said.

  Plaikos turned toward him. “Explain.”

  “The New York City police have at least five unsolved homicides of prostitutes killed and mutilated in the same manner. That was the work of the Brit’s man, Quinn. He was ex-New Zealand SAS. He also killed a number of people while working as an enforcer for the mafia. He was an out of control psychopath. Beyond that, I had no choice. He tried to kill me to keep his cover.”

  “Interesting,” Plaikos said. He faced the Academy, but his eyes were unfocused. “There is a very thin line in the covert world. We used to joke that the Army wanted us to kill, but only when, where and whom it authorized. Do it outside those parameters and one is a criminal. Do it inside and one is a hero and awarded a medal. It was even murkier in the Agency.”

  Kane patiently waited for Plaikos to work his way out of his musings.

  “I assume it was Trent who approached you about this latest matter representing King?” Plaikos finally asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What do they desire as reparations?”

  “What he originally wanted,” Kane said. “The plan for Westway and how Damon anticipated parceling it out among the various mafia families.”

  Plaikos frowned. “But Mister Damon is no longer with us. The information has been superseded by events.”

  “I mentioned that, sir,” Kane said. “He said it could still be useful.”

  “Probably,” Plaikos allowed. “Also, when you turn it over to him, you will have, in effect, become his asset. That might be more his point.”

  “I don’t have much choice,” Kane said.

  “Why is that?” Given that Plaikos had joined the fledgling CIA out of the OSS, Office of Strategic Services, at the end of World War II and served up until 1961 when he was shot down over Vietnam and lost his leg, he was still tuned in to the Agency and the covert world.

  Kane explained the threat Trent had made about the Kid.

  Plaikos listened, then asked: “Did Trent ever give you the ‘being part of the machine’ speech?”

  “Yeah, when he showed up at my place several weeks ago.”

  “What he fails to completely understand,” Plaikos said, “is that this concept includes himself. He is part of the Agency, but he is not the Agency. Sometimes people like him get a little full of themselves. The CIA will chug along fine without him as will his boss, Phil King. Ask yourself this, my young friend: if Trent follows through on his threat to your young friend, what will happen?”

  “He’ll have me on his ass,” Kane said.

  “Not an upside, is it?” Plaikos didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s a hollow threat. He might even do it, but I doubt it. People like Trent never do anything that could harm themselves. And every move must have a positive gain.”

  “I can’t ignore him,” Kane said.

  Plaikos shrugged. “Give him the information he wants, then. It’s not important, is it?”

  “Not to me,” Kane said.

  “But do not accept any quid-pro-quo. That keeps the relationship at arm’s length. Not following through on a threat is not a payment, per se. Technically, you won’t be his asset.”

  Kane nodded. “Getting my discharge changed won’t make much difference anyway.” Which reminded Kane of Mutt and Jeff. “There’s something else. It could be more important.” He explained the meeting with Trent and Shaw, the information about Damon, NORAID, the IRA et al. This took a while longer. While he was updating his mentor, Thao wandered off, examining the ruins of the fort.

  When Kane was done, even though he tried being succinct as in a debriefing, it had taken ten minutes. Plaikos never interrupted or asked for any clarification. Nor did Kane introduce his own conjectures about possibilities.

  “I’m glad you survived,” was the first thing Plaikos said, when he was sure Kane was finished. “I’ve heard nothing about the IRA sending people here. Seems like neither had Trent. But the bomb and what happened in the Bronx indicates they very much are. Do you have any idea what they could be planning?”

  “No, sir,” Kane said. “That’s why I want to check Damon’s ledger. See who the IRA contacts for weapons in Boston are since Damon blocked them in New York.”

  “Let’s look,” Plaikos said. He led the way down from the rampart. Thao joined them.

  They went to the gravel parking lot off Delafield Road.

  “I would say something about being conspicuous,” Plaikos said, indicating the Trans Am, “but I do not travel incognito, either.” His car was a rare MGA Mark II Roadster. He opened the trunk, or as he called it, the boot. He passed a manila envelope to Kane. “The photos and information for Trent.” Then a leather ledger.

  Kane took the ledger and opened it, paging through. While he did this, Plaikos and Thao walked a short distance away, speaking in the Montagnard dialect. Kane found what he was looking for and wrote the information in his notebook.

  “Got it,” he told Plaikos. He gave the older man the book. “The film?”

  Plaikos handed over the canister labeled Thomas Marcelle, 1966. “You know something isn’t right about this. Why would the Provos try to blow you up before questioning you about the missing money?”

  “I don’t know,” Kane said. “That bothers me too. Walsh also said something was off about them.”

  “Tread carefully,” Plaikos advised. “There are always wheels moving within wheels.”

  “Story of my life,” Kane said.

  “Where now?” Plaikos asked. “Boston?”

  Kane nodded. “By way of Devens.”

  “Give my regards to Sergeant Merrick,” Plaikos said. And he said something to Thao, probably for his sister.

  As the three walked to the Trans Am, Plaikos held up a finger. “You forget something, Mister Kane. If your records truly are lost or most likely removed from circulation by the Agency with a cover story so bad even the FBI could see through it, so is the dishonorable discharge.”

  “But I still have a copy,” Kane said. “What if someone asks to see my discharge? Or DD-214?”

  Plaikos shook his head. “Have I taught you nothing? Find a forger. Those documents are easily mimicked.”

  “Wouldn’t that be dishonorable, sir?” Kane asked.

  “I will take that in the spirit of irony,” Plaikos said.

  “Thanks, sir.”

  The three men shook hands.

  As Kane drove away, he glanced in the rearview mirror. Plaikos was standing next to his vintage car, watching. He disappeared as they went around a bend.

  “He is an interesting man,” Thao said. “He is very sad about my people. When I was a boy, the people in my village spoke of him as a legend. They say he tried to keep his word, a rarity among the CIA people who used us.”

  But Kane was already sinking into his own melancholy as he drove Delafield north, past the pond of the same name, eventually ending up on Washington Road and turning into the cemetery. He parked, reached behind, and retrieved the four pack of Harp beer he’d picked up on the drive from the city.

  “I will wait,” Thao said.

  Kane nodded his thanks. He didn’t meander, because there was much to do this day. He swiftly walked to Section XXXIV, where Theodore Joseph Marcelle was buried. Along with a number of their classmates. Thirty had given all, making ’66 the class most blooded by Vietnam. They’d graduated as junior officers as the war rose to a fever pitch. Bad timing, much as Plaikos’s class in 1941 where the plum assignment in June 1941 had been the Philippines under MacArthur. In six months, that turned into a death warrant for many.

  Kane opened one of the beers and poured it in front of Ted’s government issue marker. “Cheers,” he said, even though he didn’t part
ake. As the beer oozed into the sparse grass, Kane opened a second, but paused before pouring.

  “Your father is what you always knew he was, Ted. I’m sorry to tell you that. I wish I could say something else. Something positive. Toni is hanging in there. Got her business set up and running, but your dad’s fucking things up for her. She can’t let go of him.” Kane poured the second beer. He frowned as he opened the third. “I thought I’d let go of my old man. We both tried to do that by coming to the Point. But I guess it isn’t that easy, my friend.” He tipped the bottle.

  An MP patrol pulled into the cemetery, attracted by the flashy car parked near the admin building. Thao talked briefly to the military cop and it did a U-turn.

  Kane opened the last bottle. “Hate to say this, Ted, but I got to take him out. There’s no other way around this. It’s all too deep. He’s tied in with evil people who’ve done really nasty things. And whatever is coming, I’ve got a bad feeling about it.”

  13

  Sunday Afternoon,

  7 August 1977

  FORT DEVENS, MASSACHUSETTS

  Thao wrapped his sister, Bahn, in a warm embrace while Merrick held out a cold beer to Kane. The master sergeant was grilling in front of his quarters on Fort Devens, in a section where senior enlisted lived in brick duplexes. Merrick’s rank and name were written in removable black letters on a placard in front of their one step stoop. A half dozen soldiers, their spouses and assorted children were gathered, members of Merrick’s team. They were all younger and Kane didn’t recognize any of them.

  “No thanks,” Kane said to the beer. “Thao and I have to go into Boston soon.”

  “For?” Merrick asked. He looked at his wife, chattering away. “Thanks for bringing Thao. She’s been bitching at me ever since I made the mistake of telling her I saw you. She wanted to know why I didn’t take her down to New York. As if it were a pleasure trip.”

  “I’m afraid this is also some work stuff,” Kane said.

  “Does it have anything to do with the detonator?” Merrick asked, making sure no one was within earshot.

  Kane nodded. “Learn anything about it?”

  “Nobody I talked to recognized the configuration but I did find something odd on the fuse. It had been inserted into explosive before. Probably for training purposes. There was a trace of the explosive on it.”

  Kane wasn’t following. “And? C-4 is C-4.”

  “It wasn’t C-4,” Merrick said. “C-4 is white. This was orange. Semtex.”

  “Who uses that?”

  “Libyans,” Merrick said. “And they train the IRA with it and send it to them in covert arms shipments.”

  “That confirms what I was pretty much sure of,” Kane said. He briefly told Merrick about the FBI interview and the shooting at Van Cortlandt Park.

  The master sergeant flipped a couple of burgers while he listened. He called out and a short line formed. He doled out burgers and hot dogs, but the team members recognized that something was up, and after grabbing their food, backed off to lawn chairs and a picnic table, giving their senior NCO his privacy. While Merrick, with his two stars on his CIB was a semi-legend in Special Forces, Kane was more of an enigma, a name rarely brought up and then with uncertain stories. The Green Beret Affair was still a raw wound among the older members in the tight knit Special Forces community and a topic rarely discussed among the younger who had not experienced Vietnam.

  “You’re lucky,” Merrick said. “I tested the detonator. If they’d armed the bomb, it would’ve gone off. I figured out the frequency.” He chuckled. “Actually, I had my junior demo guy figure it out with my commo guy by trial and error. They kept trying FM freq’s until they got a spike on the meter.”

  With the top of the grill clear of food, Merrick shut the top. He nodded for Kane to come with him as their small bubble of conversation was becoming uncomfortable amongst the others. They walked down the street.

  “What do you think the micks got planned?” Merrick asked.

  “No clue,” Kane said. “We know they can use explosives and remote detonators. So that’s not good. The question is how much more demo do they have?”

  “I made some calls,” Merrick said. “Talked to a guy at Bragg who’s done some work with the SAS. Even did a short tour in Northern Ireland with them. They don’t publicize it, but the SAS does dark work there. He told me the IRA is pretty good with bombs. It took them a while to get proficient and they had a lot of what they call ‘own goals’ which I call fucking up and blowing themselves to little bits. But those guys are in it for life, not a tour of duty. And those who survive pass on the knowledge they acquire.”

  “What do they look for in terms of targeting?” Kane asked.

  “They started out going for damage to personnel; to kill and maim,” Merrick said. “But they’ve backed off that because of the negative press. Now they focus on symbolic targets and minimal causalities, especially to what they consider non-combatives. British troops, opposing countrymen and politicians are fair game. Fucked up.”

  “It’s always fucked up,” Kane agreed.

  Merrick paused in the street. “Something else, Will. After I talked to my guy he went to his commander and—”

  “Oh, fuck—” Kane began, but Merrick waved that away.

  “No, no. Not like that. He didn’t tell him anything about what we talked about. He told him about me. They want me in the unit.”

  “What unit?” Kane knew as soon as he asked. “Beckwith? Delta?”

  Merrick nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Why would—”

  “Promotion to E-9,” Merrick short-circuited Kane’s objections with pure practicality. “My oldest, Frank, is in college and the other one will be starting. Not that I think they need to go; what the fuck, I did pretty well without it. Still, maybe they can do something that doesn’t beat the shit out of their body and get them shot at. Doctor or lawyer or something. Plus, my ex is up my ass for money. And thanks for asking how they’re doing, by the way.”

  Kane felt the weight of the notebook in his pocket and Merrick’s ‘particulars’ that he hadn’t bothered to check on the drive up.

  Merrick was past that, knowing Kane as he did. “Plus, Bahn will be among her people at Bragg.” He turned back toward his place. His wife and Thao were sitting side by side in lawn chairs, deeply engaged in conversation. “I owe her.”

  “Yeah,” Kane said. “It makes sense.”

  They began walking back to the cookout.

  “What’s in Boston?” Merrick asked. “I checked on the guy that got busted in Third Battalion but couldn’t find out anything. He’s in Leavenworth, making little rocks out of big rocks. Nobody’s talking about it.”

  “I’ve got intel on an arms dealer in Boston,” Kane said. “Someone Damon worked with. There wasn’t much detail in his ledger. Just an address and a name.”

  “Shit,” Merrick said. “You got no clue what you could be walking into.”

  “I’ve got Thao with me.”

  “You’ve got me with you.”

  BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

  Kane and Merrick peered at the dark alley through the windshield. There was no movement, nor had there been any for the past forty minutes. The alley cut behind a row of warehouses near the waterfront in South Boston. Merrick had been working with some demo for the past twenty minutes on what he called a special, then they’d taken five minutes to rig it on Kane.

  Merrick started as Thao suddenly appeared at his open window, a wraith in the night.

  “I forgot how quiet you were,” Merrick said.

  “How’s it look?” Kane asked.

  Thao leaned in the passenger window. “Two men inside the front room with lights on. There is a larger section in the rear, the storage area, which is dark. I did not see any weapons, but I assume the men are armed. I sense they are waiting for someone.”

  “Not us,” Merrick said.

  “Him.” Kane pointed.

  A man strolled into the far end of
the alley and stopped at the door. He rapped once and then opened it and disappeared inside.

  “Three,” Merrick said, pulling the bolt back on the Swedish K, seating a round in the chamber.

  “We’re here to get information,” Kane reminded him.

  “Yep,” Merrick said. “Information.”

  “The rooftop is clear,” Thao added. “Warehouses on either side unoccupied. How will we approach this?” Thao asked as Merrick leaned forward. Thao slid into the back seat, the kit bag on the seat next to him along with Kane’s ruck.

  “Magnificent Seven style,” Merrick suggested.

  “It is a fine movie,” Thao agreed, “but do you think that is appropriate for the circumstances?”

  “We don’t know what the circumstances are,” Merrick said. “This is like doing a blind insertion into bad guy country. We got no idea how those guys are going to react. We go in all together it could provoke a response we don’t want. Because we’re after information, right?” He pointedly asked Kane.

  “Right,” Kane said. “I’ll go first. Give me two minutes or the sound of firing.”

  “Does that make you Yul Brynner?” Merrick asked. “’Cause I want to be James Coburn. He was the one with the knife?”

  “At the end of the movie,” Thao pointed out, “only three lived. Coburn’s character was not one. But, yes, he was the one with the knife.”

  “Then Steve McQueen,” Merrick said. “Does he live?”

  “Yes,” Thao affirmed.

  “Good,” Merrick said. “McQueen.”

  “Two minutes for me to make my pitch,” Kane said, checking that the .45 was clear in the holster, then he looped the map case over his shoulder, the silenced High Standard .22 ready. He adjusted the wiring of Merrick’s special rig. He walked down the alley, shoulders tightening.

  Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!