Azrael
A Clifford Driscoll Mystery
William L. DeAndrea
For Meredith
T
HIS IS THE THIRD
book in my series of mythologically titled spy stories. All the characters, incidents, and institutions are fictitious, except for the FBI and the KGB, which are used fictitiously. The Northside Church is intended to represent no actual religious denomination. The town of Kirkester and its neighboring towns are invented as well.
The only factual element of the story is the running catalog of Soviet atrocities, which are well documented, though you wouldn’t think so if all you see are regular American media.
As in
Cronus
and
Snark,
the previous books in this series, I want to stress that while there is a Congressional committee that oversees American intelligence operations, and it has a chairman, the character called the Congressman is in no way intended to represent anyone who has ever held that office.
Finally, I wish to thank Richard Meyers, for help on some technical details, and Barbara Gonzo, without whom Azrael would never have flown at all.
—WLD
Kirkester, New York, May
H
E HELD THE BOY’S
head under until the bubbles stopped, then gently lowered it through the last few inches of cold, clear stream water until it rested on the bottom.
He was—had been—a fine-looking boy,
Saturday Evening Post
material, sandy hair, bright hazel eyes, freckles. He had just landed a sunny when Roger spoke to him for the first time.
“Nice fish,” Roger said.
“Not bad for a sunny,” the boy conceded. His name, Roger knew, was Keith Smith. He was three weeks short of his tenth birthday.
“I didn’t expect anyone to be out here,” Roger said.
“Usually isn’t,” the boy told him. He finished unhooking the fish and put it in a water-filled plastic bucket. Then he reached into a plastic bag that sat beside him on the rock, took out a slice of white balloon bread, tore off a piece, wadded it into a ball, stuck it on a hook, and tossed his line back into the stream.
“The trouble with sunnies is that they’re too easy to catch. Nobody usually comes here, because the water’s too calm. All you get here is sunnies, and little ones, at that. All the real fishermen are upstream, where the water is faster and the good fish are. Except, every once in a while, I see a couple of colored guys on the other bank fishing for eels. Did you ever eat an eel?”
“Sure,” Roger said.
Keith looked at him skeptically. “Okay, well, I never have. Sounds gross to me. Still, the black guys swear by them.”
“Are they here today?”
“Naw, never on a weekday. They used to. They’re pressmen. When they worked the night shift, they were here a lot, but they got rotated onto days, so they can only come on Saturday and Sunday.”
“Sounds like you’re here a lot,” Roger said.
“Sometimes. I like to go where the bigger fish are, but my dad has to take me. I was going to go there today with him—he’s on vacation—but he got called in special because of that thing in the Middle East.”
“Is your father a diplomat?” Roger asked, though he already knew what Frederick Smith did for a living.
“No,” the boy said. “He’s associate managing editor of
Worldwatch
magazine. He’s on call all the time.” Keith’s voice held a mixture of pride and a sort of wistful resentment.
“But what brings you out here?” Keith asked. “Not fishing.”
Roger grinned at him. If he let himself, he could get to like this boy. Of course, there wouldn’t be time. “That was easy enough to figure out,” he said. “No gear.”
Keith grinned back; Roger went on. “No, I just like to walk in the woods, by the stream. I’m new around here, so I try to take a different direction every day. Except when it rains, of course. Didn’t expect to find anyone to talk to. My name’s Roger.”
“Mine’s Keith,” the boy said. “I don’t mind talking.” He slid over to make more room, but Roger never joined him. Instead, taking care to walk only on the rocks (it wouldn’t do to leave footprints), he circled around to the side of the boulder the boy sat on. At one point he lost his balance and went down. One knee and one hand landed in the water.
“Are you okay?” Keith asked.
“Fine, fine. Just slipped. The sun will dry me out in no time.” He rose again. In his hand, he could feel the weight of a moss-covered stone. He showed it to Keith. “I think this is the one that got me.”
The boy nodded. “The moss makes it slippery. You could break your head.”
Roger came closer, then hit Keith in the temple with the mossy side of the rock, a short, straight blow that did the job with merciful efficiency. Keith slumped over sideways without making a sound. Roger lifted the boy’s body carefully and brought him down to the stream, to the place where he’d slipped and picked up the rock. He put the stone back in its place, mossy side up, then took Keith’s head between his hands and held it under the surface. Roger’s lips moved.
When it was done, Roger looked around for traces of his presence. He had walked where he’d leave no footprints, and the rough natural surfaces of the rocks and trees would take no fingerprints.
Someone, some uneducated person, might wonder about the serene expression on the boy’s face, might say that if he’d slipped and fallen and hurt his head, there should be a surprised look there.
Someone
might
say that, until someone of superior knowledge informed him that there was no scientific basis for that kind of assumption.
Roger wasn’t worried about it. There was a good chance that there would be no recognizable expression on the face by the time the boy’s clay was found.
Besides, Roger had no intention of changing the boy’s expression, even if he could. Keith had done no one any harm. He deserved the peace.
Roger looked down at him for a long moment, then took a deep breath and walked away. He was careful to step only on stones, to leave no traces of his having been there.
The heat and humidity had steamed the neighborhood clean. There was a patch of shimmer above the sidewalk, and swing sets and tricycles sat gleaming and abandoned in small front yards behind low privet hedges.
This was the Flats, the lower-middle-class section of Kirkester (there were no poor), but life was pleasant here all the same. All the men of the neighborhood, and most of the women, were out working in air-conditioned offices or printing plants or stores or restaurants or at the new Quality Inn near the Hudson complex. Those who didn’t work would be lying down in air-conditioned bedrooms after a tough morning’s housework or with their children at the James Hudson, Sr., Memorial Pool.
No one would see him, Roger was sure, and if someone did, no one would recognize him. He looked like an exhausted door-to-door salesman. Kirkester was a town that still got door-to-door salesmen; the police kept them away from the fancier neighborhoods.
Roger had a sweat-stained hat on his head, a pair of lavender-beige summer suit pants on his legs. He carried the jacket. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, his tie was loose and his collar was open. He was carrying a sample case that was obviously heavy. He was trying very hard to look like a man who was just hoping to make it to where his car was parked on the next block.
He was, in fact, headed away from his car. Well, not his car. It had been provided for him by his employers. Untraceable. They were good at things like that.
He followed the sound. As his groundwork had shown him, it was very likely to be the only sound in the neighborhood, aside from the hum of air conditioners. This sound was the clang of metal on metal to a rock beat. Roger was close enough to hear the lyrics of the song now. It seemed the singer (presumably, but not demonstrably, a male) wanted to make love to a girl during a nuclear holocaust. Roger shook his head and followed the music up a driveway.
Louis Symczyk was lying on his back under a wheelless sports car supported by blocks. Every once in a while an oily hand would appear and grab one of the wrenches arrayed just in reach. From under the car came alternating grunts, first of effort, then of, Roger supposed, musical ecstasy.
The song—it was coming from a tape player—was very loud, and Roger walked quietly.
He stood and watched the young man for a minute. He never went more than ten seconds without changing wrenches, and he never touched more than one wrench each time he reached for one. It was a pleasure to watch someone at work who knew what he was doing.
Roger sometimes wished someone would appreciate what he did. But his employers judged him only by results; technique didn’t come into it. And of course, Roger didn’t dare breathe a word about purpose. Not theirs, and
definitely
not his.
And that left only the work to be done.
“Hello,” Roger said.
Casters rolled on concrete, and Lou’s face appeared from under the car.
“Oh, hi,” he said. “Didn’t hear you come up.” Even with sweat-soaked hair and oil marks on his face, he was a handsome young man.
“Sorry to bother you,” Roger said. The idea was to sound a little breathless, which wasn’t difficult, considering the weight of the briefcase. “It’s just that it’s so hot, I feel like I’m burning up. I think I’m going to have a stroke in a second if I don’t splash some water on my face.”
