Top Hook (4 page)

Shreed sighed. “So—The guy's name was Chen. Bao Chen—Zhen, we'd say now. I was going to recruit Chen, and he recruited me. Not the way you think, though. He made me a deal. We'd trade. I'd give him stuff, he'd give
me stuff. We were on the same level in our agencies; we'd help each other up the ladder. We'd both know the stuff wasn't first-class, not the stuff that would really hurt, so we wouldn't be traitors. More like scratching each other's back.”

Shreed made a face—mouth opened in a snarl, tongue pressed first against the inside of an upper molar, then against the teeth in front, like a chimpanzee. His head went back and he breathed in and out. “I knew when he made the offer that it was really why I'd busted him—so he'd recruit me. You see, I didn't care about going up the ladder that much. What I cared about was becoming a Chinese agent! Because I knew that the Chinese were my real enemies—the fucking Soviets were on the ropes, I knew it even back then—and I knew that if they made me an agent and trusted me, I could fuck them good!” He closed his eyes, then popped them open. “It disgusted me then. It disgusts me now.
But I had to do it. Do you see? Do you see, Janey?
”

Rain was falling on the streets outside the hospice. The night was warm; few people were out, yet one man had walked by the building three times. He had a dog with him, perhaps the reason for his walking, but the dog, a long-haired mutt, was miserable and was being dragged on its leash now. Still, the man walked.

He was Ray Suter, George Shreed's assistant. He was not there out of concern for his boss or his boss's wife. He was there to listen to the monologue being radioed to him from a microphone hidden in Jane Shreed's room. What he was hearing so excited him that he had forgotten the dog, and, hands plunged deep in raincoat pockets, he was striding along with the leash looped over a wrist and the dog trying to keep up on
its short legs. The dog had given up sniffing bushes and posts and was simply trying to survive.

Suter was stunned by what he heard. All he had wanted was “something on his boss”—the words he had used in getting somebody to plant the bug. What he had expected was something ordinary, perhaps sordid but not monumental—a confession to his dying wife of a woman on the side, or maybe office gossip, inner resentments of people above him, or ways he had screwed other people in the Agency. Something you could turn to good account when you wanted more power for yourself, more money, a leg up.

And now this. Suter was in a kind of shock—oblivious to the dog, the rain.
The man was talking about treason.

From time to time, Suter pressed his right ear. He had a hearing-aid-sized speaker there; the sound varied as he walked by the building and was sometimes so faint he lost it. At last, when there was no sound at all, he hurried away to the next street, where a closed van with a neighborhood parking permit stood among the bumper-to-bumper cars.

“I've lost him!” he snapped to the man who huddled in the back. A rich odor of pizza, doughnuts, coffee, and flatulence filled the van.

“It comes and goes.” The man was sitting in the dark with a cassette recorder and a couple of serious-looking electronic boxes. Suter could hardly see him in there, and he wanted to see him right then because he was thinking,
He's heard everything I've heard.
The full impact of that made it hard for him to speak, and he had to draw a deep breath to say, “He just fades away sometimes.”

“What'd I just say?”

“Goddamit, this is important! Shreed's spilling his guts! Move the van closer.”

“No way. I tole you, there's no place over there the cops won't notice me. Here, I'm golden.”

“I want you to move the van.” He didn't really care about the van; what he cared about was that suddenly he feared and therefore hated this man, this on-the-cheap private detective.

“You want me to get the goods on your boss. Well, that's what I'm doing. Djou feed that dog?”

Suter glanced at the cassette recorder. He had wanted a tape so that if there was something good, he could lay it on Shreed's desk if he had to, even play it for him. Now, the tape was like a bomb. “You're making only the one tape, right?”

“I promised my neighbor I'd feed the dog at eight. Gimme the can-opener.”

“I said, you're making only one tape!
Right?
”

“What'd I just say? I promised to feed the fucking dog, now gimme the can-opener. It's right under your ass.”

Suter had left the driver's-side door open, and the dog was sitting on the pavement in the rain. When it heard the can-opener start to operate on the can, it wagged its tail and then vaulted into the back seat, using Suter as a platform. He took a swipe at it with a hand and disentangled his wrist from the leash.

“Keep the fucking dog! Nobody's out there, anyway. We never should have brought it.”

“So whose idea was it? ‘Get me a dog for cover,' you said. Looka her eat! She's fucking starved.”

“Tony, I don't want a word of this getting out of that mouth of yours. You understand me?”

“What'd I tell you when we joined up? ‘I hear, I don't listen. Absolute confidentiality is my stock in trade.' Looka that doggie eat.”

Suter looked into the darkness at the sound of the
dog's slurping. “If any of this gets out, you're dead.” The word boomed in Suter's mind like a low-pitched bell: dead, dead, dead—

“What'd I just say?” In the dark, the other man patted the dog. “What'd you do, try to drown her? She's fucking soaked! My fucking neighbor'll have a cow, I bring her back like this. You're a cruel guy, you know that, Suter?”

Suter lit a cigarette, inhaled, sighed. “Yeah, I know that. Make sure you know it, too.”

The car was silent. The smell of wet dog and cigarette smoke joined the other smells. After several minutes, Tony said, “Your boss's talking again.”

“Christ!” Suter was out in the rain within seconds, pushing at his right ear and splashing away through the puddles. The bell kept tolling: dead, dead, dead—

“As soon as he drew a gun, I tackled the man in front of me and brought him down. Then I began to fire at the ones shooting into the front of the café. They returned fire and killed the man I had tackled.”

“You had a gun, Commander?” The Italian cop smelled strongly of cologne and leaned forward across the desk every time he spoke. Alan couldn't decide whether it was a very polite interrogation or a very thorough witness examination.

“No,
signore
, I did not have a gun. I took it from the man who was standing in front of me.”

“You are a commando? A specialist?”

Alan was now going over this ground for the third time. “I took him by surprise.”

“You overpowered one terrorist, took his gun, and shot a second.”

“Yes.”

The cop watched Alan with a kindly look of disbelief. Another investigator entered the room, a razor-thin man in a very nice suit.

“Why were you there at all, Commander?”

“I wanted a cup of coffee.” The name, Bonner, and all its implications hung before him. He wasn't ready to give them the woman yet. “
Signori
, may I remind you that I'm an officer in the US Navy, and that under international agreements I have the right to representation by my service, and to have them informed? Am I a suspect in this?” He wanted to say as well that his foot hurt like hell, but he didn't think they'd be sympathetic.

“It would be easier for all of us if you would simply aid our investigation, Commander. Are you uncomfortable?”

“I have a detachment to command.”

“You shot two men in our city, Commander. That causes us huge concern. You understand that since the recent unfortunate incident with the US plane and the cable car, Italians are very touchy about Americans killing people in Italy.”

Alan spread his hands in an engaging, almost Italian way, as if to say,
What can I do?

“I do understand that, but I also understand that you're keeping me without a charge, and I would like my command to be notified. I have cooperated. And I didn't kill both of them. I shot
one
. The other was shot by his own people. And they weren't Italians, they were Serbs.”

“Italy is not at war with the Serbs, Commander.” He put an index finger, pointed upward, beside his temple, as if he was signaling an idea. “I wonder if you did
not come to Italy to execute these men.” He raised his eyebrows:
Good idea?
Getting no response, he looked for the fifth or tenth time at Alan's passport. “You landed in Aviano just seven hours ago.”

Alan was unsure whether to react with anger or to continue to respond politely. He'd tried both for two hours, and he didn't seem to be getting anywhere. He started again.

“I tackled the man I had noticed in front of me as soon as he drew a gun…”

Shreed had been to the toilet and had splashed cold water on his face. He hated that face, most of all now—a whipped look, hangdog, drained from the effort of telling her. “Janey.” She gave no response. Maybe it was his own forgiveness he wanted, as much as hers. “So, Janey, there was this guy Chen. In Jakarta.”

No response.

“Jakarta. So we worked out a comm plan, all that old Cold War junk. Then I came back here for a tour and I got into computers. Bad days here, you remember—the Agency was in the doghouse, everybody pulled in like a flock of turtles. You called me ‘Captain COBOL.' Remember?” He smiled, used both hands to pull one leg over the knee of the other.

“In those days, you actually did your own programming. And I was good. Real good. They were making the first stabs at a net; they didn't even call it the Internet then, just ‘a net,' and I hacked my way into a big mainframe at Cal Tech and staked out some space for myself in the source code. Once I did that, I knew what was possible, and I waited for the Chinese to get good enough for me to use what I knew. I waited and
then piggy-backed on a couple of Chinese ‘students' who were sending computer stuff back on audio tapes, rode their data, and there I was—I had a way in, into China. The trouble was, computers were too new. So what I was, I was like a mold-spore that can exist for twenty years in the desert. I had to wait.

“Chen and I were exchanging stuff the old way, dead-drops and that crap, both moving up. It took ten years—then, finally, everybody had a PC. At last, it was
my
world. So I laid it out for the Ops guys—what we could do to the Chinks with computers, what now we'd call information warfare.

“Would you believe nobody in Ops cared, even then? The fact is they were scared shitless—a lot of fake Brit preppies who would do anything to protect the heritage of God and capitalism, and so let's send in some poor lower-class, preferably foreign asset to do our dying for us, but please, no high technology! HUMINT forever!” He wiped his hand over his bristly hair. “Stupid shitheads,” he muttered. After a minute or two, he got up and dragged himself to the window. It was raining hard, and there was only a single figure out there, somebody walking slowly in the downpour. There was something terrible about the loneliness of that figure, he thought. He shook himself as if it had been he standing in the rain.

“So I'm a traitor for a purpose, Janey,” he said. There, he'd said it—
traitor
. “I'm a traitor with a cause.” He continued to stare into the rain. The walking figure was gone.

“I'd have given them what I had, if they'd listened. I'd have risked even prison, if they'd listened. But they made me go it alone. They
made
me be a traitor.”

He looked to her for affirmation then, but she was still.

“So I went it alone. I programmed a poison pill, a worm, to fetch something from Chinese military intel. A kind of virus, but one like—what the hell is it? shingles? the one that sits in your spine for twenty years and then pops out—one that would sit tight until I told it to act. Then every time the Chinks upgraded, they took me with the upgrade. I'd go in and tinker a little, snoop around, see how much better they were getting at firewalls and passwords and encryption, and it got to the point where I knew I was going to have to do something or they'd either catch me or they'd wall me out.

“And then Chen lowered the boom on me. Nineteen ninety-four. Turned out I'd been suckered. Now he was going to get serious, and if I didn't play along, he'd turn me in to the Agency.” Shreed sighed, made a sound that was something like a laugh—short, barking gags of sound. “I thought I was playing him and he'd been playing me. We'd been doing a circle jerk for twenty years, and it was all a fake to land me. Now, the Chinks wanted good stuff—hard stuff.

“They had a website that flacked pornography. That was the comm link; we encrypted data and reduced it to one pixel and buried it in the middle of a porn image. That was what I was doing that night you caught me. I was sending them the data on a classified project called Peacemaker, and when you came in, I got rattled and I sent the last batch in clear. You scared me, baby. I felt like a kid caught jacking off.” Shreed massaged the bridge of his nose, sighed again. “Not your fault. Mine. But—” He gave the laughing sound again.

“Chen's really been bleeding me. Chen's an insatiable prick; I'm going to have to—I've got to end it. I've got to wind up my Chinese connection. You see? Janey?”

He put his hand on hers again, felt the skin cooler but not cold.

“Oh, baby, the things I've had to do! And the things I have to do yet!”

He got up, grabbed his canes, swung himself around the room; the movements were restless, angry, the prowlings of something in a cage. Still, his voice was tender when he said, “Maybe it's better you won't be here.”

He pulled himself to the window again, then away to her side, across to a corner, back.