Gates of Hades (8 page)

Outside, the moonless sky was black silk paved with diamond chips. Ducking below the railing of the deck to prevent presenting his silhouette against the stars, Jason scooted back to the other building, followed closely by Pangloss. Once inside, Jason went to the kitchen and out what served as the back door and down steps to a room originally designed as a garage. From there, man and dog went outside and circled the house to face the front.

Straining his ears, Jason could detect only the soft lapping of the tide at the beach and the wind's sigh through the few scrubby trees. He put one reassuring arm around Pangloss, using the other to hold the pair of night-vision binoculars to his eyes as he swept the beach. At the moment he could see only interlocking fields of dull green, the color the glasses used to concentrate all available light. Jason wished he had taken the time to buy the newer technology, vision aids that picked up heat to display images. Deep shadows might momentarily conceal something from the equipment he was using, but there was no hiding body heat from infrared.

He forgot his discontent as a green blob emerged from the darkness and took form. A man carrying . . . carrying . . . a long-nosed handgun. No, a handgun equipped with a silencer. Why go to the trouble of using a silencer when the nearest neighbor was miles away? Jason wondered. His curiosity was replaced by awe as four more figures followed the first silently up the stairs to the house's deck.

Five men for a single kill? In other circumstances, Jason would have been flattered his enemies took him that seriously. At the moment he had other things to think about.

Before moving, he swept the area a final time, to be rewarded with the green image of a sixth man standing guard a few yards between the beach and the house.

“Taking no chances, Pangloss,” he muttered to the dog. “Damn! Too many!”

In any action movie worth a box of popcorn, Bruce Willis or Arnold would have successfully taken on all six assailants, defeating each in a spectacular display of strength, marksmanship, and agility, Jason thought ruefully. Unfortunately, neither of those two heroes was available tonight. Six men, each armed, presented impossible odds in the real world.

He could simply flee, disappear into the night. But where? Anyone who had tracked him this far was not going to be discouraged by not finding him at home, and the islands presented few hiding places. No, he was going to have to terminate this venture here and now, giving himself plenty of time to find another place to live. Subliminally, he had known this moment would come no matter how much he hated the idea of leaving these islands. He had hoped he would not need the preparations for defense even as he had made them.

Jason sighed. His fight had been from the first very, very personal. He had taken satisfaction from the expressions on the faces of men who knew they would be dead within the next second. Satisfaction and a small degree of revenge, a minute reprisal for his loss. Tonight there would be only impersonal killing, from which he would derive little vindication.

Well, with one exception.

Commandolike, Jason crept forward on his knees and elbows, the plastic device between his teeth and the shotgun held in both hands. When he was close enough to see the sentry against the sky, he stood.

“Welcome to North Caicos,” Jason said softly.

He waited just the split second it took for the man to spin around and begin to raise his weapon, that nanosecond of hope he might survive.

The shotgun's muzzle flash burned into Jason's retinas
the image of the impact of six ounces of lead shot in the midriff, a blow that sent the man stumbling backward, hands flung outward if in one final, desperate supplication to his maker.

Before he could see clearly, Jason pushed one of the buttons on the remote. Instantly every light fixture or lamp in the building came on. Jason was standing just outside the rim of light that turned the surrounding sand a glossy silver.

Startled by the blast of the shotgun and the sudden brilliant illumination, two of the intruders ran out onto the deck, their weapons pointed in different directions. Even at this distance, Jason thought he could see shock and surprise on their faces. One had his mouth open, a black O in the bright lights.

“Come 'n' get it!” Jason shouted. “I've got a hell of a welcome waiting for you!”

Two more men joined the first pair in searching the darkness. Jason waited until one pointed at him before he dove headfirst into the sand at the instant he pressed another button.

Even with his face buried under his arms and eyes closed, the brilliance of the explosion lit the back of Jason's eyelids. He felt rather than heard the blast. By the time he raised his head, small pieces of debris and ash were floating down like a sprinkling of snow. Where the house had stood, timbers burned, sending sparks aloft in a Fourth of July fireworks show. There was no chance any living thing, including a recent infestation of mice, had survived.

Beside him, Pangloss whimpered.

He stood, running a hand up and down the dog's back. “Pangloss, looks to me like we're moving.”

 

 

The next afternoon

Reagan National Airport

Washington, D.C.

Dirty rags of clouds squeezed oily moisture into rivulets that streaked the window of the 717. Jason gave his seat belt another hitch as the plane bucked in turbulence before thumping onto the runway. Winter-dried grass, shiny black pavement, and drab buildings emerged from the cloying fingers of fog.

Had he really begun the day with the glory of a Caribbean sunrise in his face, albeit diminished by the stench of the charred wood of his former home? Was it the same day he had dutifully reported to the island's sole constable, Stubbs, about checking a leak in the lines from his butane tank, the undoubted cause of the explosion? Had it been only this morning when he had counted out money under the gaze of the head teller at Barclays Bank, stuffed his sizable withdrawal into a money belt, and headed for the airport?

Pangloss, living up to his namesake, had eagerly sniffed the oversize dog carrier and even wagged his tail as he
was locked into it. Now that they knew where he was, Jason couldn't risk leaving the dog until the unknowable time when his return could be made safely. The mutt would have to come along.

Jason felt he had traveled not only across space but also time. How often had he arrived back here? Hundreds? That was the difference, the disorienting factor. He was not returning home this time. The house in Georgetown and Laurin—neither was his anymore, no more than the life they had had.

He eased back in his seat and watched his fellow passengers stand and push into the aisle as the plane came to a stop. Idly, he watched as overhead compartments were opened and emptied. He hadn't brought much more than the clothes on his back, the rest having burned with the house. No problem. He could stop at one of the city's men's stores and outfit himself. With the money in the belt at his waist, he could dress himself however he wished.

The aircraft was almost empty when Jason finally stood. A blast of cold air from the open door made him thankful he had cleared customs in Miami. All he had to do was collect Pangloss and find a cab. There would, of course, be one stop, no matter what the weather, before he reached his hotel or a clothing store.

Reaching into the overhead compartment, he extracted his only luggage, a soft bag that contained toilet articles, extra socks and underwear, and a clean T-shirt, all purchased at West Indies Trading, North Caicos' only dry-goods store. He had declined to check the bag for two reasons. First, as an experienced traveler, he was all too aware of the chance of baggage taking an excursion of its own once entrusted to the airlines. The second was recent habit. A man waiting for his luggage to arrive on one of the crowded carousels was a man who could not move in a hurry if circumstances dictated. He saw no reason to break habits old or new.

 

 

Twenty minutes later

“Stop! Pull over for a minute!”

In the rearview mirror, the cabdriver's face was incredulous. “It's the Pentagon, mista. No stoppin' here.”

Jason was already out of the cab, oblivious to angry horns as he dodged his way through traffic. He stood looking at what was arguably the world's ugliest office building as though experiencing rapture.

Along the west side, a single charred capstone was the only marker. In front of it were flowers, singly or in bunches, but Jason had no trouble recognizing the long green stems of white gladioli, her favorite. He had a dozen placed there every week.

The simple gold band he wore on a chain around his neck was the only trace of her found. There was no grave for him to visit, no other physical place to vent his grief. It was here, across a busy street around unattractive architecture, where she had spent the last seconds of her life, that he came to be as close to her as the living might get to the dead.

If you weren't looking for it, the repairs would go unnoticed.
On that bright late-summer morning that had become America's darkest day, an airplane had slammed into the building.

It was like recalling an incident from childhood, so far away did 9/11 seem. First Lieutenant Peters, J., of the little-known and less discussed Delta Force, had been on temporary assignment here. His wife, Laurin, junior partner in one of the multitude of D.C. law firms specializing in lobbying activity, was in the building for an early morning meeting with the firm's largest client, the army.

The experience of going to work together was unique. Jason frequently was in places with classified names for indefinite periods of time. Laurin missed him, and the assignments were rarely to locales that could be described as garden spots. His paintings were acquiring a regular market, and her real estate investments, inherited from her mother, had become too large and profitable for her to manage and continue to work full-time.

They had decided to quit their present jobs in the next twelve months, spending the cold, wet Washington winters in the British West Indies and enduring the hot, equally wet summers in their Georgetown home. They built the house on North Caicos and spent an idyllic month there. They both loved it.

They were already counting the days.

Shortly before eight
A.M.
on September 11, 2001, he had shown her his temporary office in the Pentagon's second ring. She had a few minutes before her meeting.

“Can I bring you something from the canteen?” she'd asked.

It was much later he realized that most last words were probably equally banal.

“Sure. A large cup of coffee.”

Nodding, she had set off, never to be seen again. Had she remained with him for the next five minutes, she would still be alive. The thought tortured him on nights he could only toss and turn with survivor's guilt.

It had taken a minute or two after the crash for Jason to learn what had happened and where. A number of firemen suffered varying degrees of injury from a wild man trained to kill before MPs had succeeded in pulling Jason away from the inferno that had consumed his wife.

Once the adrenaline flow stopped, he had sobbed like a brokenhearted teenager. His rage was one of loss and impotent fury. Delta Force kept a more or less current brief on the world's nasties. Even before the presidential announcement, he had no doubt one or more of the terrorist groups had done this. He would, by God, get even.

But how?

His reverie in front of the Pentagon was interrupted by a hand on his shoulder. He spun around to look into the sympathetic face of a cop.

“Look, mister, I know you probably lost someone there, 'cause I see 'em all the time. But your cab's blockin' th' road. If you want, I'll hold up traffic an' let the taxi get to the parkin' lot. You can at least argue with them military assholes to let you stop there for a few minutes. Besides, you look like you're freezin'.”

Jason, clad in only a T-shirt and a pair of light cotton trousers, had been oblivious to the mid-thirty-degree temperature. Even his moth-eaten overcoat would have provided some warmth had it not been consumed in the fire.

Jason managed a weak smile. “Thanks, Officer, but I'll be going.”

He could feel tears that were not caused by the cold on his cheeks as he climbed back into the cab.

 

 

Chevy Chase, Maryland

The next morning

Jason had found a hotel in Crystal City with a kennel for Pangloss. Both had spent a morose evening: the dog in unhappy confinement, Jason considering calling to get a table at Kincade's, one of the capital's better seafood places, before deciding the restaurant was too infested with memories. Instead, he elected to avoid his room's ever-remindful view of the Pentagon and eat in a dining room that justified every joke that had ever been made at the expense of hotel food.

A morning sky unmarred by clouds and a sun that turned a city of glass into gold improved Jason's spirits. Better weather did nothing for Pangloss, who barked most pitifully when Jason left the kennel after checking on him. Renting a car, he was at a nearby men's store when it opened. After purchasing two sweaters, slacks, and a Burberry raincoat with removable lining, Jason got on the Beltway and headed north.

When he exited the multilane road, he picked his way carefully, relying on memories two or three years old.
Where quaint towns had dotted the landscape, strip centers and outlet malls competed for space. Rolling farms had become subdivisions of McMansions on tiny lots. By equal parts navigational skill and blind luck, he finally saw the snaking brick wall that formed the boundary of the office park he sought.

Jason scanned the uniform plaques outside each building until he found the one he wanted: Narcom, Inc., one more acronymically named entity whose title did nothing to inform the observer of the company's function or distinguish it from its neighbors. Its one unique feature was a subterranean parking lot, a seemingly superfluous amenity in an office park where space was readily available. At the entrance to the down ramp, a wooden arm blocked passage until a ticket was taken.