Keith Thomson - Once a spy

“What about the new experimental treatments in the news? Wouldn’t the CIA have the resources to get him in on any of that action?”

“We could pull strings, sure. In Japan they’ve had nice results using histone deacetylase inhibitors, but only at the early laboratory animal testing stage. The Swiss have had some success boosting HSF1 levels. In worms. It will be three to five years before they can say the same for humans, if things proceed without a hitch.”

Charlie suspected Drummond had information pertaining to medical advances in Geneva, Switzerland, that Fielding did not. But by saying so, Charlie sensed, he would terminate Drummond’s prospects of getting there. Instead he asked, “So why not just put him in one of your secret agent nursing homes for three to five years, or however long?”

“As you and he have demonstrated, they’re not all that secure,” Fielding said.

“The Monroeville Hunt and Fish Club’s the gold standard?”

“Even Langley has trouble with leaks, and that’s with a thousand times the security. Duck would be a lightning rod in the best of those places. And we can’t take risks with Placebo. It’s not just any secret. It’s the kind you die to keep.” Fielding looked to Hattemer. “Were Duck in his right mind, he would take the L without hesitation.”

Hattemer’s eyes fell precipitously, as if the subject repelled him.

Charlie said, “I’m guessing you don’t mean the train.”

“L, as in lethal pill,” Fielding said.

“My father has one of those?”

“As do I, in a ceramic bridge over the farthest two upper molars, with a spring-loaded release activated by the tongue. The capsule itself dissolves in saliva, releasing saxitoxin, which acts in fifteen to twenty seconds.”

“Oh.” Charlie had learned all that he’d hoped to. He burned to stay and put forth an argument on behalf of Drummond’s preservation, but he suspected he stood a better chance arguing on behalf of Marxism here. It was time to get galloping.

The discomfort with which Hattemer shifted kept Charlie rooted, however. The case was about to move to a higher court, Charlie felt. One with a soul.

Hattemer descended heavily from the bay window and strode between Charlie and Fielding. Pivoting to face Fielding, Hattemer asked, “How hard is it to imagine that when Drummond was standing at the brink, lucid or otherwise, he wasn’t keen on the abyss?”

Fielding’s golden brows nearly crisscrossed. “It’s possible in the way anything is possible,” he said.

Hattemer looked at Charlie. “Nick here has never been keen on trusting sensitive matters to oversight, and I don’t fault him for that to a certain extent. You find yourself with a sinking ship, you want to do something besides twiddle your thumbs while a bunch of bureaucrats in a conference room a thousand miles away have their general counsel draft memos to all the appropriate committees so that a vote can be taken on whether to get a ‘finding.’ And meanwhile someone, or someone’s aide, may leak the story to the Washington Post. So when whoever Nick had keeping tabs on me found out that I was going home sick this afternoon, he deduced that those of us whose job it is to provide oversight were now aware of his ‘situation’ and, accordingly, the dreaded wheels of bureaucracy were about to start grinding. With no choice but to play by the official rule book, he asked for the chance to aid me in my determination of whether there were sufficient grounds for the National Security Council to consider a waiver to the Executive Orders prohibiting assassination. There are some folks on the council who’ll say that the secret takes precedence, and that this, sadly, is one of those cases where ideal ends come at the cost of morally dubious or dangerous means.” He turned back to Fielding. “I, however, believe it’s our obligation to take care of Drummond. I don’t care if it means putting a hospital bed in Fort Knox.”

Charlie wanted to leap up and applaud. The prevailing seriousness limited him to a negligible smile, and perhaps even that was too garish: Fielding seemed to take a measure of him and dismiss him as nothing, all in a glance.

“We’ve had enough trouble in the past two days,” Fielding told Hattemer. “Any more and we risk word spreading to what extent our ordinary appliance salesman is no ordinary appliance salesman. The entire operation could be blown. He made a decision in his choice of career to place the service of his country before his own life.”

“The ‘L’ is taken when in enemy hands,” Hattemer said. “I was under the impression we’re on the same side he is. On our side, when our people are in trouble, the fundamental guiding principal is We Take Care of Our Own, even if that means moving a mountain.”

“We are taking care of our own, the hundreds of our operatives and the millions of innocent citizens whose lives are in the balance as long as he keeps getting up in the morning.”

Hattemer nodded. “Some of them might die. Or they might not. Either way, we don’t set aside our ideals whenever it’s convenient.”

“Sometimes in this business, taking care of our own means taking care of them.” Fielding pantomimed shooting a gun. “We may not like it, but we do it-you know that.”

“Well, we can’t do it, under any circumstance.” Hattemer’s face reddened. It seemed Fielding had stepped on an especially sore spot. “Think about what Ryszard Kuklinski said when he fled the Soviets: ‘America is the only country in the world which does not abandon its people.’ If our people ever worry about being burned by their own, they’ll be less willing to take risks. Then we’ll be trounced, because the bad guys like risk too much, and because we’ll have ceded the high ground. The high ground isn’t just the most secure place to be, it’s what makes us the good guys.”

Again Charlie felt like clapping. Fielding did clap. It looked and sounded so. But afterward a wisp of bluish smoke rose from his hands, from an aperture in what Charlie initially had taken to be the Lincoln’s keyless remote.

Hattemer hit the floor like a felled oak, blood springing from his chest. While struggling to staunch the flow, he died.

Shock pinned Charlie to the couch.

“He left me with no choice,” Fielding said, as if seeking absolution. “The ship is indeed sinking, and he was the proverbial fifth man in the lifeboat. You’re familiar with that proverbial lifeboat, yes?”

“Don’t know that one,” Charlie could only mumble.

“If there are five men in a lifeboat that holds only four, you have to toss one man overboard. If you keep all five, you see, the boat sinks and everyone drowns.”

Charlie felt like saying, “I give that a three, on a scale of one to ten for Justifications for Playing God.” But the ideological mania-or possibly just plain mania-burning within Fielding would not be doused by any sort of reasoning. “Got it,” Charlie said instead, as if he meant it.

Fielding seemed mollified. He pushed a thin, metal-jacketed projectile into the “keyless remote,” then aimed the weapon at Charlie.

“Now, where is he?” Fielding asked.

Charlie looked away and considered his options. He watched the last log in the fireplace roll over, smothering the flame.

With resignation, he said, “Upstairs resting.”

With the keyless remote aimed at him, Charlie was forced to return the SIG Sauer, surrender the Walther he’d wedged into the back of his waistband, then silently precede Fielding up the stairs.

They came to a wide, dimly lit hallway lined with pastorals in oil and seven tall doors. Fielding turned with shoulders raised. Charlie pointed to the farthest door.