Terror in D.C. (17 page)

“Wait a minute, Jake,” Hawker said, interrupting. “This is the guy you want me to stop? It sounds like we ought to join him, if you ask me.”

“Up to this point I think you're right, James,” Hayes said calmly, tapping his pipe into an ashtray. “I agree. Much of what Curtis has done is admirable. But in the last two years he has changed, changed drastically. Back in Atlanta he was known as a fine man, a decent man, a humanitarian man. Politically he is ultra–right wing, but even his adversaries on the left admired him for his honesty and sense of fair play. But three years ago Wellington Curtis decided that sending money and mercenaries to Masagua wasn't enough. He decided that in order to really contribute he would have to go there, himself. He decided he would appoint himself general of his little army and take full control of the rebel movement. Apparently he did rather well during the first year there. Brilliant historians aren't always brilliant military leaders in the field. But he was. He and his men fought bravely and honorably, and he made the Moscow-backed regulars of Masagua look foolish more than once. But then something happened. I don't know what. Maybe a year in the jungle fighting for survival is a little too much for someone from a cultured background to stand. At any rate Curtis's methods began to change. And his ideas, his … philosophies became unsound. In Masagua gruesome stories of his troops beheading babies, torturing women, and raping little boys and girls began to filter out of the jungle. Rather than refuting the news stories, Curtis cut down on his contact with the outside world. He refused to do any more interviews and warned that any journalists found within his camp would be executed on sight.”

“You can't really blame him for that,” Hawker said wryly.

Hayes smiled and continued. “Even so, a photograph of Colonel Curtis appeared in
Time
magazine two months ago. I don't know how it was smuggled out, but it was a startling photograph to see, if one had known Curtis before he left Atlanta—and I did. The photo showed Curtis, who is now in his early fifties, wearing nothing but a breechcloth, a gun belt, and camouflage paint. In his left hand he was holding the severed head of a small girl. In his right hand was a knife.” Hayes took a sip of his mango juice, then returned it to the table. “James, in my opinion Colonel Wellington Curtis has gone quite insane.”

Hawker thought for a moment. “I have no ill will for the people of Masagua, Jake, but what does your story have to do with you or me or Thy? Didn't we agree when we started as … partners that there was more than enough corruption in the United States to take care of? So far every one of our operations has taken place back home. Are you sure you want me to get involved in Central America?”

Hayes shook his head. “I'm quite sure I don't want you to get involved in the problems of Central America, James. Unfortunately Colonel Curtis's unsound methods are not just being used in Masagua. They are being used in the United States, too—Georgia, to be specific. I'll explain.

“When Curtis first got involved with the rebel cause in Masagua, he drew on his personal wealth to finance his operation, but to a greater extent he drew on the wealth of friends who agreed with his political views. When these weird rumors about him began appearing in the news, his friends were curious, but they were sure that Curtis would return and refute the stories. But Curtis didn't return. Instead he withdrew. He has spent the last two years in the jungle without making any public contact with his friends in the United States.

“Finally his friends got together and sent out an appeal for Curtis to return to the United States and set the record straight. His reply—sent through two aides—was so obscene, so offensive to his friends, and so strongly worded that the news media couldn't even use it. His friends abandoned him, leaving Curtis without sufficient funds to continue. So Curtis has devised a new way to solicit funds.

“One year ago he sent his two most trusted mercenaries, Shawn Pendleton and Greg Warren, back to the United States. Pendleton and Warren go by the ranks of captain in Colonel Curtis's little army, but they are really nothing more than hired thugs. They belonged to the Hell's Angels for a while and smuggled drugs; each was arrested for armed robbery and assault in the early seventies, but the charges were dropped on a technicality. These are the men Curtis is using to solicit funds for the rebel cause. And the way they solicit funds is not pretty. They have put together two squads of men. With those men they tour Georgia. At first they simply described the colonel's cause and asked for donations. But the money didn't come fast enough, so Curtis had them revise their methods. The two hit squads—and that's what they are—began to use brutal methods to get money. Blackmail, extortion, terrorism, and, in last three instances, murder. They are absolute fanatics, and they will stop at nothing.” Hayes finished his fruit juice as Thy Estes, the beautiful redheaded United States senator reached out and took Hawker's hand.

“They've done terrible things, James,” she said. “I know you admire what Curtis has done in Central America, but he's gotten way out of hand. There is no official way to stop him. In Georgia the people are so terrified of his hit squads that they refuse to testify. And, of course, in Masagua we have no influence at all. Will you help? Will you go to Atlanta and try to infiltrate one of the two terrorist groups and put a stop to their bloody work?”

Hawker shrugged. “Have you forgotten, senator? The CIA wants my head on a platter. They have already come damn close to catching me twice.” Hawker gave the woman a look that only she would understand. “In fact, I seem to remember spending a long cold night in a barn outside of Belfast, hiding from two of their agents. Don't you?”

Her smile had a glint of wickedness in it. “I don't remember it being
that
cold, Mr. Hawker—but that's not the point.”

“Oh?”

“That's right, dear. The point is, I spoke with a Mr. Rehfuss of the Central Intelligence Agency—”

“You talked to Jerry?” Hawker said, leaning forward.

“Yes—at his request, by the way. And it seems that the CIA would like to enlist your help in cleaning up this Wellington Curtis business. As I said, the United States government has no influence in Masagua—”

“That never stopped the CIA before,” Hawker put in.

“You may be right, but in this instance, with the news media doing everything in its power to cripple the president's Central American initiative, the Agency would rather keep a very low profile. Mr. Rehfuss said that they were interested in hiring someone to work free-lance. They would like to hire you again, Hawk.”

“And drop all charges—whatever in hell the charges were?”

“If you agree to follow their orders”—the woman smiled—“for once.”

“And the Agency wants me to go to Masagua and eliminate Curtis?”

“The Agency might,” Hayes put in, “but we don't. I'm saying that as a friend, Hawk. It would be far too dangerous for you to go knocking around in Central America. But I think you could clear up the problems Curtis is causing in Georgia. That's the way to really get to him. That's the way to stop him. Shut off his money supply.”

Hawker thought for a long moment before looking at his old friend. “Jake, I'm anxious as hell to get away from this jet-set life I've been living. But I can't just fly off to Georgia. Not just like that. From what I've heard about Curtis he deserves better. He may have gone insane—but the rumors also may have been started by bullshit journalists. And even if he did stray off the path, maybe it's not too late for someone to bring him back. Maybe someone can straighten him out. You said yourself that he had been doing good work in Masagua. And, frankly, I believe too strongly in his cause to just turn him off like a spigot. I think Wellington Curtis deserves another chance, Jake. He needs to be shown where he has gone wrong.”

Hayes leaned forward, slightly impatient. “And how in the world do you propose to do that, James? Hack your way through the jungle, smile at his guards, wave at his Headhunter Corps, sit down at his feet, and calmly explain to this madman why you are going to have to destroy his American organization if he doesn't get back on track?”

James Hawker stood up, chuckling. “If you'll set up the meeting for me, Jake, that's exactly what I propose to do.…”

So Jake Hayes had arranged the meeting; a meeting with Curtis in Belize at eight
P.M.
at the Fort George Hotel on a Tuesday in June. But Curtis had sent his whore and confidante, Laurene Catocamez, instead. Now the woman had proposed taking him to Guatemala in the morning. By taking his key had she also proposed something more?

It would be a while before Hawker would find out. He exited the hotel to the walkway that led to his room. It was a clear Caribbean dusk: high, bright sliver of moon; orange afterglow of the setting sun; and a balmy wind that smelled of the sea. The Fort George Hotel was well named. Steel fence and barbed wire surrounded the grounds, protecting the outside entrances to the rooms. This was a more accurate picture of paradise in Belize and also of tropical retreats like Jamaica and the Bahamas; tourists had to be fenced away from the citizenry to protect them from the poverty and the crime and the hatred.

Hawker was anxious to get the hell away.

As he approached the door to his ground-floor room a rustling in the bushes drew his attention, a noise from behind. Hawker whirled quickly, reaching for the 9-mm. Beretta holstered beneath the sea-blue worsted blazer that he wore. But he was too late. Standing before him was the huge bearded black man he had seen moments earlier in the bar.

In the man's hand was a long-barreled revolver, pointed at Hawker's face.…

three

“Your name is Hawker? James Hawker?” the big man demanded, walking slowly toward the vigilante. “Answer me!”

Hawker took a deep breath, trying to control the rush of adrenaline charging through him. “I have a policy against making sparkling conversation when someone is holding a gun on me.”

The big man stopped and gave a deep, oily chuckle that was touched with the British accent of the islands. Hawker realized that the man reminded him of someone: Geoffrey Holder on the 7-Up commercials. “You are telling me you don't answer questions at the point of a gun?” The man smiled. “If that is true, Mr. Hawker, then I am very surprised that you are still alive.”

“That makes two of us, friend. Now why don't you just put that weapon away before one of us gets hurt.”

The man laughed again. “Yes, you are the James Hawker I have heard so much about. Calm in tight situations, they told me. Fearless—even taunting—when confronted by deadly force.” The laugh turned into a sneer as the man took a quick step and slapped Hawker sharply across the face. “And do you know what my reply was, Mr. Hawker? I told them you have not yet met me. I told them that before I killed you—and I
will
kill you in a very few minutes—that I would have reduced you to tears, to begging for your life. I told them that I would have you on your knees.”

His muscles tense, all his senses alert for the opening he needed, Hawker gave a mock sniffle as he wiped away the blood that now poured freely from his upper lip. “There,” he said, “I'm in tears. Now I'm begging you: Put that weapon away, you fat fuck, before I stick it up your dirty black ass!”

Hawker got just the reaction he had hoped for. The big man's nostrils flared with anger, and Hawker drew back the revolver to club him with it. As he did, Hawker stepped down on the man's foot, knocked his gun hand away, and drove his fist deep into the man's solar plexus. The huge man gave a guttural
whoof
, bending over in agony, as the vigilante took the huge right arm in his hands and drove it across his knee. The big man let out a shriek as the revolver spun wildly into the air and landed with a clatter on the cement. Hawker reached for the Beretta, but before he could get to it, the black man gave a brutal kick that caught the vigilante on the inside of the thigh, just below and to the left of the scrotum. The force of the blow knocked him to the ground, and his attacker jumped on him.

Wheezing and grunting, the two men fought brutally to get a choke hold on the other's throat. The man was tremendously strong, and Hawker realized quickly that he would probably lose any life-and-death test of strength. But he also realized that what the man had in muscle, he lacked in brains. Hawker pretended for just a moment to be blacking out. Immediately the big man shifted his position so as to get a better grip. At that moment of vulnerability Hawker punched him hard in the throat, used his elbow to club the man's nose flat, then rolled away, reaching for his Beretta.

Realizing that the fight was lost, the black man jumped to his feet with startling speed and vaulted over the barbed-wire-topped fence, ripping his hands and shirt as he did.

Hawker did not shoot as the man disappeared into the darkness. After a few moments he holstered his weapon and began to take inventory of his own physical condition. His upper lip was still bleeding, his throat felt as if he had swallowed ground glass, and his inner thigh hurt like hell. “
Damn
,” he whispered, breathing heavily. “What a night!”

The vigilante carried no handkerchief, so he used a small stick to pick up the man's weapon, careful not to smear whatever prints might be there. Who he could get to lift the prints—or who would even care that he was attacked—he did not know. Protecting the prints was an old cop habit, and he carried the weapon to the door of his hotel room and turned the knob.

It was locked. He had forgotten all about the woman, forgotten that she had left with his key.

Was the big black man her accomplice? Had she taken his key so that he would be left stranded on the walk outside, trying to get in?

Hawker gave the door a savage kick and called himself a foul name. How stupid could he be! A moment later, though, the door to his hotel room swung open. Laurene Catocamez stood looking at him. She wore one of Hawker's T-shirts. The darkness of her nipples stood out in contrast beneath the thin, white material. The shirt billowed out around the glistening swell of her lean hips and revealed the bottom curls of the triangle of her black pubic hair. She leaned against the door seal, a wry, sleepy, bedroom expression on her petulant lips. “Did I hear you call yourself a dumb fuck?” she asked, purring. “From what I have heard, James, dear, you are anything but.…”