Black Ghosts (13 page)

“Larry,” Edward said in a soothing voice. “I think the antibiotics got to you. Look at the big picture, my friend. It doesn't make any sense. Why would anyone in the United States want to help a coup in Russia that could very well bring back the Cold War? Maybe this time it might not be that cold, either.”

“Don't you see?” said Larry, looking strained. “The military industry is dying off with this peace. The metal-eaters survive on conflict. As far as they can see, conflict is good for the economy—it stops unwanted immigration, it creates a lot of new jobs, and stops the strain on the financial markets due to the endless aid packages the Eastern bloc countries are receiving. They want the old world order, when you knew who your enemy was and could buy your friends.”

“Come to think of it, old buddy, it doesn't sound that bad.”

“It's not funny, Edward. This could turn the whole world into one big Bosnia.”

There was silence. Edward began to think of various lines of argument as to why he could not possibly get involved, but deep down he knew he was licked.

“All right, but only until you can get your act together.”

“Agreed,” said Larry. He shakily went back to bed. Edward took his report and sat behind a small desk in the corner of the bedroom to go over it again.

The door opened and Natalie came in. She seemed pleased to see Edward. Bending to him, she gave him a kiss on the cheek. Edward wanted to hold on to her. It was a nice welcome back from the cold, hard city.

Natalie opened her packages on the bed, showing them what she had bought. An innocent smile on her face, she was like a little girl showing off her toys. She had bought some new clothes for Larry “so he can get out of that circus tent he's wearing.” Turning to Edward again, she asked, “So what's new?”

“Edward's agreed to help us,” said Larry. She smiled, clearly happy with the news.

Edward didn't say anything, but her closeness and her sweet scent squeezed the knot in his stomach.

Downstairs, he closed himself in his office and again went over the information Donoven had given him. He needed to understand it better. Now he was no longer just a messenger, but an active player.

After some hours of doodling and drawing up little charts, he had a plan. He knew it was a crazy plan that could probably never be pulled off. But in this situation, he knew if anything could work, it would have to be crazy. The odds dictated that. He went back to talk it over with Larry.

“It's gonna take a lot of money,” said Edward.

“Money is no problem.”

“And I'm going to need some help.”

“All I can offer you is myself and Natalie.”

Edward could hear the shower running, which gave away Natalie's whereabouts. “Could you ask her to meet me downstairs when she's through?” he said. “I have something for her to do.”

“You got it.”

Edward went across the street to the convenience store, where he picked up a copy of Real Estate Weekly, a bulky tabloid-format newspaper with nationwide listings. Sitting at his table in the bistro, he thumbed through it until he found the pages for Long Island. While he searched the columns of print and the small photos, Natalie came in and sat opposite him. He looked up and smiled. Then he circled a couple of property listings for sale or rent in Bay Shore, outside New York. Both were for large suburban properties in their own grounds, with adequate shelter and privacy afforded by trees and fences.

“Here,” he said. “I need you to go to New York and rent one of these places. Fit it up to house at least fifteen people.” She noticed the change in his tone of voice; he clearly knew what he wanted and was taking charge. “Get furnishings, food, linen, everything. We want our guests to be comfortable. We'll also need a couple of small cars and a pickup truck—rented, ready, and waiting. If anybody asks, you're setting it up for a wealthy couple that likes to party.”

“Where's the money coming from?”

“Larry will arrange that, as much as you need. It's not the expense that matters, it's the time. How soon do you think you can get it set up?”

Natalie pushed out her lips in thought. “Four, five days should cover it.”

“Good.” Edward appreciated her businesslike manner. “How soon can you leave?”

Natalie shrugged. “Ten minutes?”

“I'll drive you to the airport.”

After he had dropped off Natalie, Edward drove back to Grantsville, thinking what else and who else he would need if his plan was to have a prayer. The list was long and getting longer with every passing minute.

Back at the apartment, while Larry slept, Edward dialed the number he had used when Larry had first been wounded.

The ringer tone sounded four, five times. Come on, Joe, where are you? Normally, he knew, Joe had a phone within reach all the time.

At last the ringing stopped and a voice answered. “Joe Falco.”

“Joe? It's Edward.”

“Edward! Sorry to keep you, I was in the can.” Joe laughed cheerfully. Impatient though Edward was, he forgave him. Ever since he had stepped on a mine while on patrol with the Fifth Marines in Hue during the Tet Offensive in 1968, Joe had been in a wheelchair. He had a veteran's pension and a disability pension, and his father had left him some money. Joe spent his days in a modest bungalow in New Jersey, surrounded by computers, radios, televisions, telephones, and the best hi-fi system money could buy. He spent hours at the computer, surfing the Internet, keeping in touch with other veterans and anyone whom, for whatever reason, he found interesting.

“How did that medic I sent you work out?” Joe asked.

“Fine. He did a very professional job.”

“Hey, would I send you an amateur?”

“Joe, I got another little problem, and it's going to take more than a medic to fix. I have a few other requirements here, if you know what I mean.”

“Fire away.”

“I need some grunts for a dirty job.” There was no point in trying to paint a pretty picture; honesty was mostly what veterans had left between them. “I have no idea how long this may take, although something tells me it won't take very long.”

“Okay. Who do you need?”

“I need about fifteen to twenty combat vets—you know, Green Berets, SAS, whoever you can get your hands on and trust.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“Joe, I need the best.”

“Relax, Edward. It's understood.”

“Okay. I also need two pilots, fixed wing, not choppers. I also need a communications expert, someone who can remember every goddamn radio frequency there ever was, and what played on it. Someone who can look at any piece of telecommunications equipment, old or new, and tell me exactly what it can and can't do. Someone who also knows computers inside out. You read me?”

“I read you,” Joe said slowly. “I know a guy in Philly, but I think he's out of the country. I'll look into it.”

“What ever happened to Monty?”

“Who?”

“Used to be a Sparky on the carriers. Guy's a genius, got a photographic memory. He was in my unit for a short time just before I left. Hell, the guy practically had radio antennas coming out his ears.”

“You mean Montgomery Houston?”

“Yah, that's the one.”

Joe chuckled. “I had a feeling his name would come up. But Edward, there's a problem. I can't reach him.”

“How come?”

“He ain't on the phone, he has no street address or post office box, and he doesn't keep homing pigeons.”

“Where the hell is he? The North Pole?”

“Nope. He's in New York. But you'll never find him.”

“Why not?”

“Seems like Houston always had a problem, you know, upstairs? He was never quite all there. I guess there's a name for that.”

“Yeah: human.”

“Well, some of these people who are, you know, that way, if anything bad happens to them, they get worse?”

“And is that what happened to Houston?”

“I don't know what happened exactly. Just that he couldn't keep his act together. He kept saying everybody was out to kill him. He wound up on the street, panhandling, hustling, whatever. He could be dead by now.”

“Damn!”

“Last I heard, someone saw him asleep in a doorway in the Village. That was about six months ago.”

“Where was the doorway?”

“Hey, you ain't planning to go look for him, are you?”

“I might.”

Joe laughed. “Still the same old Edward. Okay, I'll try to find out. What else?”

“I guess that's it for now.”

“What do you want me to tell these people?”

“Tell them I need them. It's a big job. Anybody who owes me one, I'm calling the debt in now, and we'll be even. But they have to come through for me. It's a once in a lifetime thing.”

“What is this, a heist or something?”

“No, it's legitimate business. But we could all get into deep shit because of it.”

“So why go through with it?”

“Because we'll be in deeper shit if we don't.”

“What the hell is it?”

“Trust me, Joe, I'll tell you as soon as I can. It's just I don't want anyone who isn't in to know anything about it. You read me?”

“I hate when people ask me to trust them, whatever. Give me a couple of days. I'll get back to you. Okay?”

“Okay. See ya, Joey.”

It was nail-biting time again, nothing to do but wait and think. Two days later, Natalie reported in. She had rented the safe house and was in the process of fitting it out. She already had the phone hooked up—she was in the living room when she called—and the furniture was on its way. That afternoon, she was taking the rented pickup to Wal-Mart to fill it with food.

“What kind of food do you eat?” she asked Edward.

“A lot,” he replied.

“A lot of what?” she murmured.

“Everything,” said Edward, “just get lots of everything.”

Later that day, Joe Falco called back. He had identified players for all the roles on Edward's list. They all were ready, willing, and able to hear what Edward had to offer them. All he had to do was say where and when. Edward gave Joe the address and phone number in Long Island.

“Tell them to call me there or just show up the day after tomorrow.”

“Okay. Listen, I found out some more about Montgomery Houston. Apparently it was his wife, woman named Hannah. He was already pretty shaky when he got out of the Navy, found her in bed with his best friend. That's what did it to him. Funny thing is, she was killed in a car crash couple of months ago. Houston probably doesn't even know it. He was last seen wandering around the Lower East Side of New York. I figured he's out of the picture so I found someone else—the guy in Philly.”

“Is he as good as Houston?”

“No, but still good.”

“Bring him in.”

“Okay,” said Joe. “Say, Edward, is this deal something I could help you with too? I mean, I don't get around much, but this sounds like something I'd like to get involved in.”

“You're involved already, Joe. I need you right where you are. You're my gatekeeper.”

“Thanks, Edward.”

“Thank you, Joe.”

Edward still had an important detail to get straight: the bistro. He had a long talk with Kelly in the back office, explaining that he had some family problems he must attend to.

“I didn't know you had a family,” she said.

“There's a lot you don't know.” He told her he was going to take a few weeks to handle the situation. Meanwhile, could she look after things here? No problema, she told him. Edward also explained that his friend upstairs would be sticking around and would handle any personal calls. He'd just had an operation, Edward explained, so his staying in the apartment while Edward was gone suited everybody.

The next morning, Edward packed a few belongings into a suitcase and took a flight to New York.

 

The revolving door at the Holborn offices of the Wish Foundation spun around, spitting Donoven out and into a dull, wet London street. The sidewalks were swarming with men in hats and raincoats, carbon copies of one another, moving silently in streams, never colliding. Tired secretaries, their femininity squashed into suits and sensible shoes, hurried to get out of the rain.

Donoven turned up his raincoat collar and sank his head deeper between his shoulders. He turned north, walking briskly along Kingsway. He was upset that an importunate clerk had delayed his departure from the office. The stupid bloke, Donoven said to himself. He hated when people tried to strike up meaningless conversations with him, especially when he was on his way out the door. He hated himself for being too polite, for not just brushing them off the way he wanted to. One day, when he had enough money stashed away, he would tell them all where to go. The idiot had kept him talking a full two minutes.

Trying to make up for lost time, Donoven quickened his pace. It was not that he had an appointment or someone waiting. As a sworn bachelor, he had no reason to be punctual in arriving home, except that it was in his nature. He derived a certain satisfaction from getting somewhere on time, even if he was the only one there.

He looked forward to returning to his flat in Russell Square at precisely the usual time. He would heat up the snack his housekeeper had prepared yesterday—today was her day off—and then he planned to spend the early part of the evening as he usually did, reading newspapers he subscribed to from around the world and taking notes. Having worked for so many years in the intelligence field, first for the British Secret Intelligence Service and then for himself, he could spot an event that had the intelligence signature on it. He believed he had a pretty good picture of what was going on in the world, even without the inside track his position at the Foundation gave him.