The Daisy Ducks (10 page)

"Where'd you get that?" he asked, not
taking his eyes off it.

"At Lexington Gardens, especially for you,
Liatis," said Mary.

Roantis broke off a sprig and sniffed it. He placed
it in his breast pocket so he could smell the aromatic oil. The
prickly ash is a member of the rue family. To all Lithuanians, the
rue plants are special, almost sacred. No Lithuanian household,
either in the old country or America, is complete without them. Rue
plants are to the Balts what the shamrock is to the Irish, the
thistle is to the Scots. "Thank you, Mary," was all he
said. But his eyes said it all. Then he dug into the grub like there
was no tomorrow.

After dinner, we returned to the living room with
coffee. Roantis was quieter and more subdued than I had ever seen
him. He looked positively elderly.

"We're not going to start until around
midnight," I told him. "Mary's brother, Joe, advised this.
He says that any tails will be easy to spot then. As additional
insurance, we'll have Joe with us in an unmarked state car. Liatis,
we've notified the BYMCU that you'll be on leave for at least six
weeks. All we want you to do is lie low, relax, and eat well. If you
behave, nature will do the rest."

He nodded, placid as a sheep. Roantis was a changed
man. At ten minutes after midnight we swept out of the driveway,
followed by Joe in his unmarked car. We arrived at the Adams cottage,
the Breakers, at two-thirty. The cottage sits on a bluff off Sunken
Meadow Road in the town of North Eastham. It overlooks Cape Cod Bay.
We trundled down the sandy footpath in the dark to the gray,
cedar-shingled house, painted with white and navy blue trim. All was
dark and quiet. There had been no sign of a tail along the way. After
a mug of coffee, Joe climbed back into his cruiser and left. He'd
just given up five hours of his off-duty time to see Roantis safely
stowed. Typical.

Next morning after breakfast, Mary and I went into
Wellfleet and bought several weeks' worth of groceries for Liatis and
Suzanne. We didn't skimp on the grub, laying in lots of steaks and
lamb chops. We stocked the freezer and refrigerator, and I left
Suzanne with $200, despite her protests, to tide them over until our
next visit. Roantis sat in front of the stone fireplace, soaking up
the heat and looking out over Cape Cod Bay. In midafternoon, he
discovered the stereo system and the collection of classical tapes.
He played them continually and scarcely moved until suppertime.
Suzanne told me she'd never seen him so relaxed.

"It's not relaxation, Suzanne," said Mary,
who was throwing leaves of romaine into a huge teak bowl, "it's
resignation. It's his sense of survival talking to him. Finally,
after years of self-destructive behavior, common sense is getting the
floor. Charlie,  do you think it's a good idea for Liatis to see
Moe a few times?"

"A very good idea, if Moe's willing."

"But Moe loves helping people. I'm sure he
wouldn't even charge anything."

"I know. But I don't know how keen Moe would be
on trying to reform a professional soldier. The fire on the grill is
almost ready. Where's that meat?"

Mary handed me a fat beef tenderloin, which I rubbed
with peanut oil, took outside to the deck, and placed in the covered
smoker-grill. Soon delicious aromas emerged from the contraption's
top in the form of light blue smoke, which swarmed around the cottage
walls in the sea breeze. I threw on a down vest and sat on a beach
chair to watch the sun go down over the bay. It was warm for
midwinter and, if you managed to avoid the direct breeze and sit in
the sun, almost balmy. Roantis came out and joined me.

Suzanne appeared at his side and handed him a mug of
hot chocolate, which he sipped. I heard a faint whine and growl off
to my left and turned to see a coastal trawler inching along the
horizon toward Wellfleet. Ahead of it was a low, dusky patch of
darkness on the water. Billingsgate Shoal. I thought back to the
close calls I'd had in connection with that sunken island and felt a
big adrenaline rush. There was fear there, too—but the surge of
excitement muted it and won out. I remembered my adventure, how I'd
prevailed against substantial odds, and the rush grew. Sad to say, we
live in a world in which risk is minimized or nonexistent. Most
things are taken care of for us. And life, while comfortable and
safe, has lost its challenge. We slip through our days in tired,
pathetic routines, as if smeared with petroleum jelly. And then comes
old age and death and we look back and ask ourselves, what have we
done with our lives except follow the dots and mark time? Adventure
is absent from twentieth-century life, and it's a damn shame. I had
to admit that Roantis's predicament sounded more and more attractive
to me. I couldn't help it. I turned back to the scarred and gnarled
man who sat next to me, sipping from the steaming mug.

"Tell me a little bit about professional
soldiering, Liatis. Who are these guys, and where do they hang out?
And why were you so sure about the kind of rifle that was used to
shoot you?"

"Hmmmmn," he said. "Mercking is dying
out, I think. The world won't stand for it much longer. Not that it's
not needed sometimes. Sometimes it's the only way out. But I guess in
twenty years or so there won't be any more mercs. Where do they hang
out? The big European cities, especially Paris, Marseilles, and the
ones in Switzerland. Then there are the better cities of the Far
East, like Kyoto, Hong Kong, and Bangkok. A lot of 'em can be found
in Manila and Sydney, too. South America's full of them: Rio, Buenos
Aires, Caracas . . ."

"How about here?"

"In America, the best single city is probably
Miami. Why? Because it's a wide-open town, for one thing. Shit—with
all the drug dealing and Mob hits going down, a merc doesn't stand
out, you know? Good place to lie low and look for action. Also,
Miami's close to Mexico, the Caribbean, and South America. They're
all just a short hop away. DC's another place. You'd be surprised how
many contacts you can make there. More than half the American mercs I
know have worked for the Agency at one time or another. There's
always some dirty little job they want done. And they pay like crazy,
too."

"C'mon Liatis, I have trouble believing that."

"Suit yourself."

"How many mercs are there in Boston?"

"Ha! Boston? Probably none except me. But
there're some in rural New England . . . You can bet on it. See Doc,
there are basically two kinds of men who go into this line of work,
this life. First, there's your sicko killer types. These guys are a
little off in the head, you know? They like to kill people. Period.
If they can do it legally and get paid too, so much the better. These
guys usually have military or law enforcement backgrounds, but
they're not really soldiers. They're misfits. They'll take any job
that comes their way, any excuse to pull that trigger. They'll work
for any government, even a ruthless dictatorship. These guys you'll
generally find in the big cities, bumming around in bars and
cathouses. They're scum. I've never worked with them and never will."

"And the second type?" said Mary, who had
come out on the deck with Suzanne. She snuggled down into her parka,
drawing the collar tight around her neck. "How is the second
type any better?"

"Well, the other type is a true professional
soldier. Generally he's spent ten to twenty years in a major military
service and has a good track record in elite forces. He doesn't like
to kill people, but is good at it when he must. This man is guided by
strong opinions and political ideals. He will take on only those
contracts which he feels will benefit the world as well as his
wallet. He's a professional soldier because it's what he knows and
does well. Almost always, this man has another source of income
besides soldiering, since he's picky about his merc contracts."

"And what's this other source of income?" I
asked.

"Could be just about anything. With me, it's
teaching martial arts. I know several mercs who are couriers and
bodyguards. Two guys I know own bars. One is a heavy hauler. A lot of
them are ranchers or construction workers. Quite a few are in the
security equipment or firearms business. Some are bush pilots. It all
depends. But this second-type guy, chances are he won't hang around
the big cities trying to make a contact. He's good enough so people
find him. Also, he's a loner. You won't find him working for somebody
else, certainly not at a desk job. Chances are, he'll be out in the
country where he can hunt, fish, screw off, and do what he damn well
pleases."

"And that's why you said there are mercs in
rural New England?"

"Yeah. Especially upcountry in Vermont, New
Hampshire, and Maine. But even more down in the southern mountains .
. . around the Smokies and the Blue Ridge. I can't think how many
great trackers and recon men came from there. Been doin' it since
they were toddlers, practically. So don't look for these guys in the
city dives. You'll find them out in the boonies, but only if they
want to be found. Otherwise, forget it."

"And you're the second type, of course,"
said Mary.

"Of course. See Mary, I was forced into
soldiering by the Germans. I killed a man when I was a teenager. I
shot the soldier who killed my best friend. Then I had to leave
Lithuania with some of my buddies because the Nazis were hunting us.
We wound up in England, where we joined the Polish Resistance under
Sossobowski. I fought in Operation Market Garden as a paratrooper at
sixteen. I guess I don't know anything but soldiering."

We took the meat off the grill and hustled it inside,
where I sliced it into juicy fillets. Roantis tucked into the steak
like a lion on the Serengeti. Afterward, when Mary and Suzanne were
talking over coffee in the kitchen, he and I sat in the study corner
of the living room and talked about military small arms.

"How come you're so sure about the appearance of
the rifle that shot you?" I asked.

"Because I know the kinds of rifles mercs use,
that's why. The modern military small arm is called the assault
rifle. It's an automatic rifle that can be fired as a semi-auto
single-shot."

"I know."

"Right. Now the U.S. military has adopted the
Colt M-Sixteen as our standard military arm. Too bad. That
two-twenty-three cartridge just can't hack it. Although it's a good
rifle for women and Asians, who are small. They like the li'l
two-twenty-three Armalite because it's lightweight and doesn't kick.
Now, on the wrong side of the iron curtain is the Kalishnikov, the
AK-Forty-seven. Nice rifle. Practically foolproof . . . and fires a
hefty round, too. Remember Doc, we used the Kalishnikovs in the Daisy
Ducks. We carried very little spare ammo with us—we dint need it."

"And the others?"

"Well, Germany, Switzerland, and Italy all make
very nice combat rifles. Israel and Finland both make nice ones too,
based on the Russian design. But the best is the Fusile Automatique
Légére, the FAL, made by Fabrique Nationale in Belgium. It's used
by most of the NATO forces and has been the standard British rifle
for a long time. It's top of the line. Accurate, dependable, and
fires a hefty three-o-eight round. They sell for two grand—and
that's military issue, with no fancy custom work."

I whistled. "And so that's what was used on
you?"

"I'm willing to stake heavy bucks on it. What I
keep saying is: the guy was a pro. Don't you go after him, Doc. I
know you're good and smart, but leave this guy alone. You're in
enough trouble with him already, shooting him in the leg. He's
probably still pissed at you. And these guys, they don't go to court.
They go for your throat."

"So you don't want me to help?"

"I do want you to help. I want you to find
Vilarde. Just lay off the other trails. Don't try to find the
marksman. Hell, he's out of the country now anyway. Let him be. I'll
go for him later. How long am I supposed to stay here?"

"About a month. Maybe longer."

"And how much will I owe you?"

"Nothing. It's all been taken care o£"

"Bullshit. How much?"

"Nothing. Anyway, your being here sure isn't
costing me anything except a couple of bucks for food. just relax and
rest up. If I get a solid lead on Vilarde, I'll want you healthy
enough to go looking for him—because I'm not going."

"Look Doc, we both know I can't pay you back
now. But remember, we get the Siva, you get your part of the cut and
all the expenses too, okay?"

"Yeah. Don't worry about it. Don't worry about a
thing except healing. See how little you can drink and how much you
can eat and sleep."

Mary and I pulled out of there the next morning after
coffee. We turned out of the drive and headed into Wellfleet to our
market, instructing the owner to put every and all purchases made by
Mrs. Roantis on our tab—no arguments.

An hour from home, Mary asked me if Roantis and I had
discussed the cost of his little respite on the Cape.

"No. In fact, I told him it wasn't costing me
anything. I said that so he wouldn't feel bad."

"Jeez Charlie, it's cost us over five grand
already. You didn't tell him you'd paid Bill Nesbit's fee, plus a
portion—a hefty portion—of the hospital charges?"