Assault on the Empress (5 page)

“So. What is it you want, General Argus?”

Argus was a thin-faced man, lantern jawed, brown eyes that alternated between looking wicked and looking bored, but always penetrating. In his mid-fifties or so, a high forehead under immaculately tonsored hair washed at the temples with grey, Argus struck Darwin Hughes as the sort of man who still bad the proverbial hex on the dames, as they used to call it.

“Mr. Hughes. Let's put our cards on the table, shall we? You wouldn't have come if you hadn't already suspected what I wanted. ”

“Put your cards on the table then,” and Hughes thumped his open palm against the little round table between them. They were two among perhaps a dozen patrons in Whiskey Hollow, Hughes insisting on the nighttime meeting in a public place, Argus acquiescing with not a great deal of reluctance. It was here that Feinberg's arm had been slashed. Hughes wondered if what had happened here during a barroom brawl had sealed Feinberg's doom in that plane over the desert? Or was there any sort of thing as fate at all?

The country music group was between sets, the late crowd not yet in and no rush to continue. It wasn't the Neal James Band tonight as it had been that night, but instead a group he had never heard of and doubted he would like as much. But he hadn't come for the music anyway.

“The mission you and your associates carried out. The surgical strike. I'm not going to apologize, Mr. Hughes, for the rather shabby treatment you and your men got. But, if you accept my proposal, I can promise you it will never happen again. Colonel Leadbetter's superior is out of the picture now. Entirely. I have the full authorization of the President and both the House and Senate leadership. I needn't caution you that what is said between us tonight should go no further.”

“No, you needn't.”

“All right. Let's be blunt, then, Hughes. You and your people did a great job. We fucked up. Maybe cost that Feinberg fellow his life because of it. What I need to know is this: Can you get together with Cross and Babcock and reassemble your team? Can you work with us again?”

“Nothing personal, General, but you're full of shit. That's the rather distinct advantage of being a civilian, one of many if I may say so. But when a general is full of it, you can tell him so. No. I'm not setting up Cross or Babcock or anybody else for what happened to happen again.”

“Are you aware, Mr. Hughes—well, certainly you must be. Terrorism is an on-going concern, and the problem will only get worse before it gets better. What you and your men did—”

The waitress came over and Hughes smiled at her. “Another round of beer for y'all?”

“The same as last time?” Argus asked Hughes.

“Fine, although I might not be here long enough to finish it.”

“Hmm,” Argus smiled evilly. Argus looked at the waitress. “Then two of the same please, thank you.”

She smiled back and left.

Hughes drained the last of his beer from his glass, Argus doing the same.

“I'm not getting involved again.”

“You already are involved, Hughes. Just like every free man and woman is involved. But you're lucky. Unlike most people, you have the opportunity to do something rather than just sit and talk about—”

She was back fast with the beers, took the empties, reassured them the band would be starting another set, then left. Argus held his beer in his right hand, but didn't sip at it.

“What you and your men did gave the enemy a severe shock. They haven't recovered from it yet.”

“That's nice.”

“You didn't blanch at the word enemy, Hughes.”

“I know who you mean, General.”

“But they will recover. And sooner than anyone expects, terrorism will come home. And then we'll really need a small, elite force like yours.”

Hughes sipped at his beer, put it down. “I don't have such a forced, General Argus.”

“But you could get them back,” Argus said emphatically, leaning forward across the table. “What I'm offering, Hughes, is a chance to be your own man. You'd be able to reject any assignment you felt your people couldn't or shouldn't handle.”

Hughes let himself smile. “You can't offer me a free hand, General. You don't have a free hand yourself. It would work out the same. We'd step on somebody's toes or somebody'd get cold feet and we'd be left out in the cold again. Like last time. And besides, there's another concern which may not have occurred to you, General. But it's occurred to me. We got away with it last time, more or less, without anyone seeing our faces, knowing our identities. That'd grow old rather quickly, wouldn't it? Let's say we did go to work for you, even under the conditions you suggest. It would be just a matter of time until the enemy, as you put it, discovered our identities and went after us. Then what? A man can't live on the edge twenty-four hours a day forever and call it living.”

“Hear me out, Hughes. I've thought of all that. Nobody except Leadbetter knows all three of your identities except the President and myself. What if it stayed that way. For all the gripes you may have against Leadbetter, he tried to take care of you. He wouldn't betray you. And there's nothing the outside could learn that would link him to you as the controller for the previous mission. And your secret would be safe with the President, certainly. The President asked me to consult Leadbetter concerning your identities. Leadbetter wouldn't even tell me. The President drove to Leadbetter's house and asked him, personally. That's the only reason both the President and myself have your name and the other two, the only reason I have any of the details of the last mission. You see, Leadbetter got caught in a trap. He never had the authorization he thought he had, so when his superior pulled the plug, he had nowhere to go. I've got the authorization. And not just the President's, as I told you, but congressional leadership from both parties. The rug can't be pulled out from under you. And, if it is, it'll be pulled out from under me as well. I'd be your coordinator, not your controller. I'd take the mission requests, run them by you, and if it's a go, get you anything you needed for mission support. And we can take care of the identity situation.”

“How?”

“All three of you die.”

Hughes knew better than to choke on his beer, but it was a touch-and-go thing for a split second. “And why would we be doing something like that, General Argus?”

“Blind identities with no link to your expertise, your background, anything. Since you and your men would be on call at all times because of the very nature of the work, we make the entire operation blind.”

Hughes put down his beer. “Spell it out.”

“We have the Justice Department Witness Relocation Program work out new identities, tailored for each of your needs, nothing in them to suggest who you once were. We could do the same thing through the CIA, but they'd smell a rat and all we'd need was some interdepartmental memo going into the wrong hands and the whole thing could be blown. So, the Justice Department. Then all record of the establishment of the new identities is destroyed. The three of you would never see one another except when you were working a job for us.”

“Us?”

“Me. The President. Yourselves, whoever. You'd come to the rendezvous separately, your identities unknown to all personnel involved, leave on the mission, return for debriefing and be returned to your false identities with no one the wiser. It'd work, Hughes. And you can make it work.”

“I'd have to talk it over with Cross and Babcock. It's not the sort of decision I'd make on my own even if I could.”

“Then you'll consider it, sir?”

“Yes, I'll consider it. But I'll need to present it to Cross and Babcock. If either of them doesn't go with it, the idea is off. They were the best men for such a team when I picked them and that hasn't changed. There should really be a fourth man.”

“I'm allowed the three of you. No one else. No one else can be trusted enough to be brought in. If you need a fourth man and you think I could be of some assistance, I'll be there. I've got Airborne and Ranger and Special Forces behind me. My military record'll be open to you. And obviously, if it ever came to that, regardless of my rank, you'd be the mission commander. You'll try, then?”

Hughes sipped at his beer. The band was coming out for its next set. They looked like young kids. “Where's Cross and where's Babcock?”

“Abraham Cross was in Rome, playing piano at a hotel bar. I assume he's still there. Lewis Babcock's involved with something in Chicago. I'm not sure what, exactly. He's taken up private practice of the law again, but went to Chicago very suddenly about three days ago. We're trying to look into it.”

“I'll look into it. I'll need to talk with Lewis first in any event, because without Lewis's help I wouldn't have a prayer of convincing Cross. And with Lewis's help, my chances won't be that much better in any event. Where in Chicago?”

“I have the address locked in my office safe. I can get it to you in the morning. I have a plane waiting at Clark County Airport near Athens to take me back to Virginia. Call you at nine?”

“All right.”

“I'll order the immediate transfer of twenty-five thousand dollars into your checking account to cover your travel expenses. It'll be there by morning.”

“I'll give you the number,” Hughes began.

“No need, sir. I already have it. I'll try to dig out more information on Cross if that'd be helpful.”

“Not at this stage. But I have one question. How do we die?”

For the first time, Brigadier General Robert Argus burst out laughing.

Lewis Babcock's feet were freezing and he stomped them against the pavement just like he'd seen the cops on the beat do when he'd been a little boy. Maybe it had helped them, but it hadn't helped him.

Behind the brick fence before which he stood in the snow and the wind lay a community within a community within a community. It was Madison Park, an exclusive residential enclave within Hyde Park on the South Side of the city of Chicago.

There wasn't a gun in his pocket, but he wished there were. Once already a private security patrol car had stopped, the searchlight on the side of the car catching his face. The two security officers had gotten out of their car, approached and asked politely—more politely than usual, he imagined when they saw that the black man they were gently rousting wore expensive clothes—why he was waiting here, if there was any trouble.

He had given them a convincing, premeditated lie. “I'm a friend of the Collins' and my brother was picking me up, but he must be running a few minutes late. Must be the damned weather.” He had shot his cuff dramatically and studied his Rolex wristwatch intently, long enough for them to note the expensive timepiece, thus adding to the impression that he was respectable. He had learned that to some people, it mattered not at all who you were, but merely how much you were worth; that was the measure of respect.

“Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence Collins?”

“No. I don't know a Lawrence Collins. Albert Collins.”

“Thank you very much, sir.” One man had nodded to the other and both had returned to their car, killed their light and half skidded, half driven away.

Babcock had checked for a name in the complex beforehand, anticipating that his presence would be questioned.

He had waited some more and this time he checked the time with genuine interest. If Cleophus Butler didn't show in another five minutes, he would give it up.

And then the car came around the corner, the glare from the headlights catching the falling snow, the headlights washing across the opposite side of the street and then settling down along the middle, cars parked end-to-end on both sides, some of them so heaped over with snow it looked as though they hadn't been moved for days or longer.

The car slowed down.

For the umpteenth time, he wished he had a gun in his overcoat pocket.

The car came to a full stop. He heard a power window cracking ice as it began its rolldown, then after a second heard a voice from the darkened interior of the Cadillac asking, “You Lewis Babcock?”

“I'm Lewis Babcock.”

“Get in the car, brother.”

“You Cleophus Butler?”

“Get in the car, man, or the car leaves without ya.”

Babcock shrugged his shoulders under his coat and started toward the curb, climbing the precarious hillock of frozen slush and snow, skidding down, balancing against the hood of a Lincoln Towncar, then onto the street. He stopped beside the open front window. “So?”

“Get in.”

He heard the click of a doorlock going up and he reached for the front-door handle, opened the door and peered inside. Under the dome light, he could see a skinny, acne-scarred face a few shades lighter than his own, the hair obscured with a knit cap that was full of lint. The man—face, clothes—didn't go with the car, which was new, even smelled that way as Babcock slipped in on the passenger side and slammed the door shut against the cold, his eyes scanning the rear compartment before he did so to make certain he wasn't getting in over his head. He heard the lock button click down closed, studied the outline of face and hands and shoulders in the greenish light emitted by the dashboard. And now the new-car smell was mixed with something stronger, body odor. The mixture, with the heat blowing full on, was more than mildly nauseating.

“Mr. Butler. Ernie's wife Thelma said you might be able to shed some light on what was going on.”

“Women talks shit a lot, man.”

Lewis Babcock said nothing.

“What you to her? Some kinda private eye—or maybe she you private ass?”

Now Babcock spoke. “Thelma and Ernie are old friends, Mr. Butler. If it matters, I'm a lawyer and when I heard about Ernie's difficulties, I offered my assistance, realizing full well that Emie could never have done the sort of thing of which he's accused.”

“You sound white.”

“You don't.”

The car was starting to move, Babcock feeling the hairs starting to stand up on the back of his neck, something he had discovered was not merely the invention of some writer of fiction.

“Where are we going, Mr. Butler?”

“I got some friends that always grooves on meetin' outa town brothers. ”

“That's a charming offer, but I'm afraid I can't meet your friends now. Perhaps some other time. But my schedule's rather tight. Ernie's pre-trial hearing is the day after tomorrow.”

“Just sit back and enjoy the ride, lawyer. And watch you ass or you won't live to enjoy nothin' else.”

“Indulge me in aquestion,” Babcock said casually. “Do you know what really happened to the cocaine Ernie and the other police officer were transporting to Eleventh and State?”

Cleophus Butler just started to laugh, the Cadillac picking up speed. Lewis Babcock had parked his rented Ford near the high school a few blocks away, and he suspected where Butler was taking him. “Do you know, Mr. Butler?”

“I know. But nobody gonna tell you, Oreo. One more dead pig don't matter shit to me.”

Lewis Babcock said quietly, “I see,” then threw himself across the seat toward Cleophus Butler, his left hand slamming Butler's head against the rolled-up window, his right hand grabbing for the wheel. Butler shouted an obscenity, Babcock slamming Butler's head into the window again, harder this time, his body weight going against the man so his left foot could reach the brake. The Cadillac was rocketing forward, sideswiped an anonymous half-snow-covered sedan, ricocheted away from it and peeled away the fender of a Mercedes. Butler's hands were grabbing at him, Babcock's left elbow smashing back into the face, Babcock hoping he'd missed the nose, not wanting Butler dead.

The Cadillac swerved left, half climbing another car, Babcock finally having the break as he cut the wheel right, the Cadillac half falling from the other car, Babcock throwing his body weight down on the brake, the Cadillac skidding now, out of control, body slamming another car on the left with its rear end, wedging itself tight totally blocking the street as it shuddered once and stopped.

Babcock grabbed for the key, killing the ignition, pocketing the key. Butler was starting to stir. Babcock, on one knee on the seat, hands at Butler's throat, shook the man violently. The face was a mass of blood but Butler was still conscious. “The life of Ernie Hayes matters to me, motherfucker. Who stole the cocaine, iced Ernie's partner and set him up for the fall? Talk!” Babcock backhanded Butler across the nose, spreading it over onto Butler's left cheek, Butler crying now. “Who?!”

“The Devil's Princes, man—all right?”

“Who in the Devil's Princes?”

“Randy Jones, Tyrone Cash and Balthaszar Roman—all right!”

Babcock started patting him down, finding the bulge of a gun, ripping it from Butler's waistband. “Why? I mean, fine, all that cocaine. But why set up Ernie?”

“You pig buddy busted Tyrone maybe a year back and Tyrone got his ass kicked. And when he started crazy-talkin' that Randy Jones's sister told the cops on him, Tyrone went after Randy's sister with a belt and got him a coupla licks on her face until you buddy pulled him off her. Then Tyrone went after you buddy with the bat, and that's when he got his ass beat. All right?”

“What about Randy Jones? Didn't he do anything about this Tyrone going after his sister?”

“Shit, man, nobody mess with Tyrone. Randy's sister a whore anyway, man.”

Sirens were in the distance and they might be for this, Babcock thought. There were lights coming on in some of the buildings on both sides of the street. “They still got the cocaine, Butler?”

“I dunno, man!”

Babacock backhanded him again. “They still got it!?”

“Yeah—yeah—too much to dump on the street too quick.”

Babcock let him collapse into the seat. “I'm leaving. You tell the cops or your pals in the Devil's Princes you told me anything, even mention you ever heard of me, and I'm putting it out on the street you spilled your guts on the Princes and Tyrone and all the rest of his bad asses, right? And you know what'll happen to you. Understand?”

“I never seen ya, man.”

Babcock kept the gun; it felt like some kind of a .25 automatic in the darkness. He slid back across the seat and tried the door. It still opened and Babcock stepped out into the snow and the cold. He hunched his shoulders down, pulled his collar up, thrust his gloved hands into his pockets still holding the gun. He'd dump it at the first likely looking trash can….

Seamus O'Fallon watched the sun rise. It would only last for a few seconds, and then the sun would be lost in the deep grey overcast. The headaches had kept him up the rest of the night after the attack on the RUC barracks. They had driven to the harbor and taken the waiting launch northwest, slipping between Ireland and Scotland, the seas poundingly heavy with the storm, and the yacht that had been waiting to take them aboard precious little more comfortable until it had gotten underway. Then the swells hadn't been so bad. But by then the headaches had returned and there had been no sleep for him.

Young Martin had been up all through the night as well, throwing up. O'Fallon could hear the head going each time it was flushed.

The first time, Seamus O'Fallon had done the same. But for a different reason: too much whiskey celebrating. If young Martin made it through this next one and still kept his balls, O'Fallon thought, then Martin would be one of them truly. But the problem was, of course, that none of them would make it out alive from this one. The British would never let them. But all the blood would be on British hands, not theirs.

He lit another cigarette with the butt of the last one, cupping it with his hands against the wind, the deck rolling beneath his feet, spray washing up here on the wind as they would hit into a wave, but not as badly as it did over the prow. It was cold, he knew, but he didn't feel it. The headache took care of that and everything else.