Black Ghosts (15 page)

“Well, he's regarded as somewhat of a loose canon in the Agency. They were quite surprised I asked for him. The good thing about him is that if we try and make him look dirty, they'll buy it in a minute.”

“So where do we stand now?”

“If we can't get the activation device, the whole array is useless. We should let the buyers know. I mean, if your clients try to use it they will be a very disappointed bunch, whoever they are.”

“I'll handle that. They don't need to know. The array is only one component of their operation. Once they're committed, array or not, they have to take it to the end.”

“So what do you want me to do about the mole in the Foundation? I could get our British friends to pick him up.”

“He's already been taken care of. I don't think he will give us any more trouble. Keep me informed about Larry Williams. I want to know as soon as you get him.” There was a short silence on the line. “You are trying to get him?”

“Yes, sir, we sure are. I have the Agency and the Bureau out looking for him. He's regarded as armed and dangerous. They've been told that he stole and was trying to sell advanced technology that could help some third-world dictator build a weapon of mass destruction.”

“Did you come up with that all on your own?” Singleton said, mockingly. “Just get the guy, okay? Otherwise I will not be pleased, Hays.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Keep me in the picture.” The phone went dead.

Bud sat there for a few more seconds. He knew that this private sideline to his official duties could turn bad on him at any moment. He also knew that if he could pull it off and stay clean, he was destined to be a very rich man. Nothing else mattered now. He had to get his hands on Larry, if the man was still alive.

“What's up, honey?” said Angela, startling him as she appeared in the doorway. She was wearing a loose terry-cloth robe. Apparently she had taken a shower, and now she looked ready for a second round. She came in and sat beside him on the sofa. “You look kinda preoccupied.”

“It's nothing,” he said, reaching for a cigarette.

“That can wait,” she said. Laughing, she began to caress him, her fingers moving lightly over his body until he was fully aroused again.

Later, as he drove home, Bud again thought about Larry. The irony of Bud's having been picked to run Larry was not making him laugh anymore. He was no longer sure he was so lucky. Now it was Larry or himself.

First thing in the morning he would have to brief the secretary of defense. He would make sure Townes knew Larry was a bad apple. Then they would have to admit to the president they had screwed up by picking the wrong man for the job. He would take full responsibility. Bud's mood was improving. After all, who could blame him? If you can't trust a veteran from the CIA, whom can you trust?

 

Edward looked shabby in his old coat, worn sneakers, and wrinkled T-shirt. The fact that he had not shaved for three days, or washed for that matter, added considerably to the strength of his cover. Before going on the streets, he had burnt a cigarette hole in the sleeve of his coat and rubbed ash into the T-shirt to give it that lived-in look. But after the second day, he not only looked the part, he also smelled it. He knew that when people are cast or fall into the gutter of life and are regarded as non-persons by the rest of society, they have to adapt in order to survive. It's a caveman existence on the rim of civilization. All the rules change, and there are no milestones to mark the path. Once he started to look for ways to clean up rather than look bad, he knew they would accept him.

The only way to get information from people who had nowhere to go was to listen. If you asked questions beyond the immediate needs of survival you had to pay for the answers, and what you got for your money was usually not worth much.

Edward thought he might find what he was looking for here. He left his car where he had parked it, on 34th Street, and headed down on foot to 32nd. Underneath the bridge, invisible to all but their own kind, were a few faded figures, blending into the heaps of garbage and discarded appliances. They were gathered around a black oil barrel from which the open end spewed black smoke and a few orange flames. He moved toward them. Thrusting his hands into his coat pockets, he could feel the small transistor radio he had bought from a pawnbroker on 37th Street the previous morning.

Already it seemed a long time since Edward had left the so-called civilized world, although in fact he was only forty hours into the grime.

“What can you tell me about street people?” he had asked Robert, his buddy from the NYPD, before starting his descent into the underworld.

Robert made a face. “What do you want to know? They're everywhere—can't get away from them. Most of them smell bad. What else can I tell you?”

“If I was looking for one guy in particular . . .”

“Good luck. There's a thousand of the suckers in New York City alone. Where you gonna start?”

“That's what I'm hoping you'll tell me.”

Robert looked at him. “You're serious, aren't you? Okay, let me think.” Robert chewed his toast for a minute, took a drink of coffee, and looked to the ceiling, his brow wrinkled. “Okay. Who is this guy? Who was he before he became a street person?”

“He was a radio operator in the Navy.”

“Name?”

“Montgomery Houston.”

“Ever use a nickname?”

“Monty, I guess. Why?”

“A lot of them are only known to other street people by a nickname. Okay, what else? Joined the Navy. Likes the sea. You could try the waterfront, for a place to start. Be careful, though. They are very protective of themselves. They know we don't give a shit about them, so they can get tough.”

There was something about Montgomery Houston that Edward just couldn't turn away from. He had no doubt that whomever else the gatekeeper had found for him would do just fine, but he wanted Houston. It was very possible, as Joe Falco had said, that even if they found him he might not be in the kind of shape they could use. But Edward knew that he was looking for part of himself out there. He needed to try to bring the man back, to let him know that even if he was no longer useful they still owed him. They owed them all, but Edward was going to try to pay one back, even if the debt wasn't his.

Edward approached the ragged group of people around the fire. One was a tough man in a brown trench coat. His hair showed random bald spots, as though someone had given him a haircut with a machete. He had a mad, vicious look in his eyes. Next to him was an old-timer with a dirty gray beard. He looked as if he was waiting to pass away where he stood in peace. Between them stood a black woman who mumbled, chanted, and sang like a person in the throes of religious ecstasy and spoke in tongues. The two men ignored her.

Edward moved closer, stretching his arms to take some of the fire's heat as he took his place in the circle. He said nothing and just stood there for a while.

“How ya doin'?” the old-timer said morosely, as if he had just emerged from a deep sleep and noticed a guest in his house. Edward nodded noncommittally.

“Fuck off,” said the tough man. “Fuck off or I'll kill ya.” He remained in place, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, as if waiting for the old man to send him to rip Edward apart.

“No you won't,” said Edward.

The tough man stared insanely into Edward's eyes. Then, seeing something there that frightened him, he looked back at the fire, his head lowered.

Edward took the radio from his pocket. “See this? It's broke. Know anyone can fix it?” The black woman stopped her singsong mumbling and looked at the device. So did the old-timer. The tough man kept his eyes fixed on the fire. Edward spun the dial. “See? I'm looking for someone who can make it work.”

The black woman looked at Edward. “Sparky knows,” she said. It took a moment for the coin to drop. “Where can I find Sparky?”

She turned her head toward the foot of the bridge, where it touched the gray river.

Edward couldn't see a thing at first, but as he came closer he saw the wet cardboard box and the figure huddled inside, staring blankly at the water, the faint ghost of a person Edward had once known.

“Sparky?” said Edward, keeping his voice down, not wanting to startle the man. The face was pale and expressionless. When he turned to look at Edward, his eyes were vacant. “I need to talk to you,” Edward said as he drew level.

“Why?” said the man, turning back and staring at the water.

“Do you know who I am?”

Sparky blinked his eyes. “What if I do?”

“I need your help.”

The pale man in the cardboard box looked at Edward. Then he shrugged his shoulders. “Me? You want me to help you? Do what?”

“Why don't we go get something to eat and we'll talk?”

The bundle of rags reached his filthy hand into his pocket and took out a half-eaten sandwich wrapped in newspaper. “Here, we can share this.”

Edward suddenly remembered that to Sparky he must seem just as miserable as Sparky himself. “Come on,” he said, reaching out to the man.

Sparky shrank deeper into his box.

“Have you heard from Hannah?” Edward asked.

Suddenly there was anger in the eyes that, seconds before, had been dead. Sparky sat up. “What do you want from me?”

“I need your help, man. What is so hard to understand about that?”

“What can you tell me about Hannah?” said Sparky, his voice quiet.

Edward breathed a sigh of relief. He knew it would be all right now.

“Let's get out of this place, buddy,” he said. “When was the last time you slept in a bed?”

Sparky scratched at the stubble on his angular jaw. “Let's go,” he said.

 

 

 

At first glance, it would be difficult for any outside observer to find anything that might link the dozen men seated around the spacious living room, except maybe for the fact that they were congregated, listening intently to Edward.

At a more thorough glance, one might notice a certain look, a somewhat weary expression on all of their faces. Edward knew that look well: He saw it every time he shaved. All of them together had seen enough anguish to last a generation. The two pilots looked like clean-cut Americans—until you noticed the tattoos on one and the scars on the other. Apart from Sparky, who sat in a corner looking lost, the rest were combat grunts. Seven were from the Green Berets—America's finest except, perhaps, for the two SEALs who sat next to them. There was one man from the British Special Air Services, known simply as the SAS, who'd been brought along by his friends, two Canadian veterans of the famous Airborne Regiment of Petawawa.

Already Edward could feel their particular energy starting to build. There was enough experience in this room to topple a government or save a nation. If only he could harness all that energy and experience, there was a good chance that even his hair-raising plan might succeed. They had the advantage of surprise on their side. Even if the odds were stacked heavily against them in every other aspect, surprise had a price of its own.

“So who are the bad guys in this thing?” asked a man named Tom, lighting a cigarette and automatically handing the pack to the person next to him.

“The Black Ghosts are the enemy.” Edward paused. “Well, they are the visible enemy. As far as we know, there are also people on our side that are helping them achieve their goal.”

“You mean Americans?” said Jeremy, a bearded man in a leather biker jacket with a large snake and dagger tattooed on his thick arm.

“Yep, they are Americans, all right. You know the kind: They sent us all to hell and didn't want us to come back and tell the rest of the people what jerks they were. They work behind the scenes, turning a profit from every drop of blood we have ever shed.”

“Who are we working with?” asked one of the Canadians, a tall, blond man with a hint of a French accent.

“We're on our own. We trust no one and work with no one but ourselves.”

“Who the fuck are we doing this for?” asked one of the SEALs, a thin man in a black turtleneck.

“And why?” asked the other SEAL, a man named Vern. “So they can kick our butts again? Who gives a shit anymore?”

“Okay, okay.” Edward could feel the reins slipping out of his hands. “We all have our reasons for being bitter, but this is bigger than that. If we don't do this, everything we stood for doesn't mean shit. Everybody that died gave his life for nothing, everybody. We all need to take one last shot at trying to get it right.” He stared back at Vern. “Why? Because I asked you to, because I believe it's important we do this, because there is no one else that is willing or able to do it.”

Edward picked up the cigarette pack from the coffee table and drew one. The thin man in the black turtleneck tossed him a Bic lighter. After he'd lit up, Edward tossed the pack back on the table. His voice was now low, calmer. “The reason we ended up in ‘Nam was the Cold War. We couldn't fight the Soviets, and the same went for the Chinese, so we got stuck in that bloody mess. We couldn't win, they wouldn't let us, and now it's the same people who want to bring that same shit back. They want to make a profit from another generation they can put through the meat grinder of war.”

He turned to face the men on the sofa, raising his hand in irony. “Limited war, of course, so they can control the expenses and make it worthwhile. They're just aching to start pumping out those damn body bags again, and the only thing standing between them and their goal is us.”