The Echelon Vendetta (52 page)

“Nice to see you. Thought you were in London.” Dalton laid the blue envelope on the lip of the urn. Stallworth

peered at it over the rim of his glasses, and then looked up at Dalton. “What’s this? You resigning?” “No. Better read it.” Stallworth wiped his muddy hands on a rag and opened the en

velope. He stared down at the satellite shot and then slowly scanned the single page of type. He finished, folded it in three, put it back inside the envelope along with the satellite shot, and handed the envelope back to Dalton. “You best forget you ever saw that, Micah.”

“We’re running a dark operation, aren’t we?” “Yes. Leave it—” “The Agency bought the
Orpheus
and we’re moving it around the

globe. A floating prison. Coordinating with rendition operations. Only we don’t have to worry about borrowing Gulfstreams from sports team owners or friends in Wall Street. Because we have our ship right there.”

“Damn right.” “Yes. I have no problem with this.” “Then what...” “It’s lovely. No FISA court. No ACLU crap about wiretaps or

extraordinary rendition or pissing off a prosecutor in Milan.” “Yes. We agree. So what are you so angry about?” “You gave Porter up to that Comanche, didn’t you?” Stallworth shrugged, straightened up, put a hip on the edge of

the urn, and folded his arms across his chest. “What’s this? Revenge?” “Just curious.”

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“Porter was
curious
too.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dalton saw a flicker of navy blue. He glanced to his left and saw Naumann’s ghost standing by the glass wall, in his blue pinstripe, arms folded, staring at Stallworth, his face set. He inclined his head to Dalton and looked back at Stallworth, who had been watching Dalton’s face.

“What are you looking at?”

“Nothing,” said Dalton. “You said Porter was curious?”

Stallworth looked away, breathed in, sighed it out. “The
Orpheus
project is critical to our survival.”

“I can accept that. I even agree. What I don’t get is exactly how Porter was a threat to it.”

Naumann’s body had become rigid, his face tight. He never took his eyes off Stallworth. Dalton half-expected Stallworth to feel Naumann’s glare.

But of course, Naumann wasn’t really there at all, was he?

“Porter was a threat.”

“How?”

“He was questioning the funding.”

“Questioning the funding? What do you mean?”

“He thought far too much money was going out. He disapproved of some of the expenditures. He thought they were ambiguous and might be construed as fraud—in a way, as skimming the funds for personal uses. He wanted to formalize the accountings. He thought that one day there’d be a Senate inquiry—he said that these things will always come out eventually—and he didn’t want the cash flow to look ...irregular. He wanted us to bring in the GAO and take the
Orpheus
project onto the black books of the budget. The rest of us disagreed.”

“Who’s the rest of us?”

“Reliable men.”

“Cather?”

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“Of course. The whole thing was his idea.” “Porter would never have compromised the
Orpheus
project.” “No. But he was ready to compromise
us.
” Dalton studied Stallworth’s face for a time, a look that Stallworth

returned with quiet malice and no trace of unease at all. A kind of half smile played around his hard mouth and his small eyes were cold. Across the little greenhouse space Naumann’s figure was still, his expression closed, his eyes dark. Through his body a beam of pale sunlight lay on the broad leaves of a towering fern. Naumann seemed to be wrapped in this warm light, as if it were coming from inside him.

Dalton looked back at Stallworth. “Who gave Porter’s name to Pinto?” “I really don’t know. Someone on Cather’s team.” “How did you know that Pinto wanted it?” “Jesus. The man actually called Personnel pretending to be Gibson.

Personnel bounced the call to Bob Cole and Cole pushed it on to

me. It wasn’t hard to figure out what he was looking for.” “Why not just kill Porter yourself ?” “You.” “Me.” “Yeah. You would never have let it go. We needed somebody for

you to hunt. And you did a
fine
job, Micah. We’re all extremely—” “What about his family? Joanne? And the girls?” “We had no idea Pinto would ...that was unfortunate.” “Send him to me,” said Naumann, speaking softly. Dalton turned to look at Naumann. “Send him to you?” Naumann nodded. Stallworth blinked at Dalton. “Who are you talking to?” “Porter.” Stallworth’s faced went pale, and he raised his hands. “Porter? Micah, listen...”

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“Send him, Micah,” said Naumann. “Send him now.”

Dalton pulled out the Ruger and shot Stallworth three times, two in the forehead, one in the heart.

Then he put the weapon back inside his suit pocket, smiled at Naumann’s ghost, took a long ragged breath, and walked away.

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monday, october 22 colorado highway patrol hq butte, montana 10 a.m. local time

aptain Bo Cutler was leaning back in his office chair, boots on the desk, staring out at the smoke rising from the slag heap over the crest of Copper Butte when Coy Brutton knocked on the doorjamb.

“What you got there, Coy?” “Federal Express. For you.” Coy lifted up a package about the size and shape of a beer cooler. “Who’s it from?” “Don’t say, Captain.” “You scanned it?” “Jesus, no. Should I?” “Ah hell. Give it here.” Coy walked it over, set the box down on Cutler’s desk. “Gimme a knife there, Coy.” “You think maybe we should call the fire guys?”

“Why? Do I smolder? Am I in flames?”

“Okay, okay. Ease up. Here you go.”

He handed Cutler an old Ka-Bar, which Cutler used to slice the white plastic wrap off the package. He slid the wrap down, set it aside, and lifted the box up. It
was
a beer cooler, and it was heavy. He shook it. Something inside it thumped.

Coy backed away from the desk.

Cutler sighed and ran the tip of the blade around the tape sealing the top of the cooler. He put the knife down and lifted the lid off the box. Inside it, covered in melting ice and sealed inside a large Ziploc bag like the ones used to hold cabbages, was a human head. It had been cut off at the collarbones. “Hacked off” was a better description. There was a large star-shaped hole in the forehead, and most of the back of the skull seemed to be missing. The expression on the dark-blue face was one of fear, and the open eyes, though dull and clotted and opaque, still held a look of horror, of mortal dread. Around the severed head was a corona of matted hair, silvery, very long. In the bottom of the box, underneath the head, was a long ivory-handled stiletto. The handle looked as if it had dried blood on it.

“What the
hell
is this?” said Coy, his face green, his mouth dry.

“This,” said Bo Cutler, lifting the head up, “is a promise kept.”

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