Matt Hilton: Dead Men's Harvest

He dragged the tarpaulin clear, uncovering an off-road motorcycle. He didn’t know the make, and didn’t care. It was enough that the bike was where he’d requested, as was the satchel containing a change of clothing and other items more important to him. He stripped out of the uniform, threw it from him like the reviled thing it was, and then slipped into jeans and shirt and leather jacket. His own shoes would have to do. There was a helmet, part of his disguise, and he settled it over his fair hair, pulling down the visor.

Light stabbed through the woods to the east.

Dogs barked frantically.

The helicopter roared close by.

To hell with them all.

He delved in the satchel and pulled out a gun. It was a Glock with spare clips of ammo. He secreted the gun in his waistband and stuffed his jacket pockets with magazines of bullets. That weapon was secondary to him.

Lastly he fished out the thing he desired most.

It flashed dully under the meagre moonlight, yet he still thrilled at the way the moonbeam caressed the blade as though it was liquid. In that second all his aches and pains, his minor abrasions, were forgotten.

He was back.

There would be no stopping him this time.

Ray Hartlaub was a veteran with as many years’ service with the CIA as I had with Arrowsake, the super-secret ‘extermination squad’ fielded by a coalition of nations including both the UK and the USA. I’d never personally come across the man, but had heard his legend over the years. Whereas I was always a soldier, Hartlaub had been one of the invisible men, the spooks, who went into disaffected areas of the world and fed us the information necessary to do our job. In many respects his had been a task even more dangerous than mine. As a rule I’d have been with a team, at the very least with one other man, whereas Hartlaub, by necessity, worked alone. He still came across as being of that mind. He could have pulled rank on Brigham, made him do the driving, but it struck me that he preferred to be in charge of everything. That was perhaps the only way he felt safe.

Charles Brigham was happy in the back, allowing us ‘old guys’ to sit up front as Hartlaub navigated the SUV towards the tiny Machias Valley Airport, which boasted a single runway. The snowfall had grown in volume, the hush that comes with a blizzard even dampening the thrum of the wipers.

The CIA is famed for its secretive ways, which possibly explained both men’s reticence on Walter Conrad’s death. All that either would allow was that he hadn’t suffered. Well, that was a blessing, but I wondered about what he faced in his designated afterlife. If such a thing as Heaven existed, there’d be some major explaining to do before St Peter granted him access.

I was content with the silence. It allowed me room for my own thoughts. I wasn’t dwelling on Walter’s death. We were both engaged in a trade where death is the usual outcome. In many respects we had inured ourselves to how grief placed its debilitating hand upon us. We compartmentalised the loss of our colleagues, used that stored-up rage to exact retribution on their killers. I was saddened by his death — for God’s sake, the man was like a father to me — but my sadness at that moment was outweighed by another death, one that I could not put aside: the death of my relationship with Imogen Ballard.

It was the thing that had gone unsaid as we’d lain side by side, slick with the perspiration of our lovemaking. We’d both been so eager to show our passion that it had gone beyond tenderness, and had become a purely physical thing. What we were doing wasn’t meaningful. It was a conjoining of two people, and that was all. We had come together through our love for Kate. We had found consolation in each other’s arms, but it had never been enough for either of us. Imogen was a beautiful, strong and giving person, and if circumstances had been different then maybe things would have worked between us. But not when Kate’s ghost was forever in our memories. How could I ever get over Kate when Imogen resembled her so closely that it hurt just to look at her? How could Imogen move on when she would forever feel guilt over Kate’s death? She couldn’t when I was a constant reminder of that fateful day.

When I’d gone inside to tell her about Walter, her eyes had filled with tears.

‘You’re going with them, Joe?’

‘Yes. There’s nothing else that I can do.’

‘But you won’t be back.’

It wasn’t a question. In any case I couldn’t answer. I’m not sure I would’ve had the right words.

‘I’m sorry about Walter. I know he meant a lot to you.’

A pang had dug its sharp talons into my heart, but not for Walter. Her words were loaded.

‘So do you, Imogen,’ I said.

She closed her eyes, trying to halt the flow of tears, but it was a battle she couldn’t win. She sobbed and it was such a heart-wrenching thing that it racked her entire frame. I moved close and held her tightly. She cried against my chest. When she stepped away she looked a little stronger. She touched a hand to my face. ‘Take care of yourself, Joe.’

‘It isn’t me I’m concerned about…’

‘You needn’t worry about me.’

‘Easy for you to say.’ I placed my palm over her hand, held it there. ‘You’ll always be special to me.’

‘I know,’ she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She gently took her hand away, and then tilted her lips to mine. Our kiss was dry, barely a buss of skin. Like a brother and sister chastely saying goodbye.

We didn’t say anything after that. It was best that we didn’t because we might have convinced ourselves that our relationship was right. I pulled my things together: not much, just a change of clothing, a toiletry pack and the fake documents I carried. I could have done with a shower, but that only meant prolonging the agony. The shower would have to wait. Bag of clothes in hand, I let myself out of the front door, closed it softly behind me. I felt Imogen’s gaze on me as I crossed over to the CIA men’s SUV. They didn’t look put out by having to wait for me, but even if they had, then so what. Imogen had deserved much more, but at least I’d had the opportunity to say goodbye.

The Audi was a slight hiccup. It meant I’d have to leave it in situ. If it had been my personal vehicle, that could have been a problem. I would have had to come back to retrieve it, when really what I — or more correctly Imogen — needed was to make some space between us. I’d never cut all ties because she held a special place in my affections, but she required time to find herself another man, someone who’d give himself wholly to her. Luckily, the Audi was a rental. I’d picked it up after my previous car had been shot to pieces and then scorched by flames during a job over in Pennsylvania a few months ago. A call to the rental firm would suffice for it to be collected.

The Audi, the SUV, they were just vehicles to get us where we were going, inanimate things. They meant no more to me than the Cessna airplane in which we took off into the storm, despite the severe weather. The pilot deserved a medal, because he flew the plane against all odds and we touched down safely on a nameless strip in the Adirondacks, where we transferred to yet another government SUV. My shower remained on the back burner, because there was only one place we were heading to, with no stops in between. The storm wasn’t as strong this far south, but it threatened us with gusts of icy wind and the snow couldn’t be far behind. Hartlaub drove like he didn’t want to contend with it a second time and we drew up to Walter Conrad’s retreat in a little under a half-hour.

Walter was a sub-division controller of black ops. Simply put, he ordered the deaths of persons deemed enemies of his country. By its very nature, the job made him a morose fellow. One of the simple pleasures that Walter enjoyed was whiling away the hours with a fishing rod in hand; it was ironic that his way of finding peace was through further killing. At least, he always argued, the fish had a fighting chance. His love of the sport had always brought him out here to his cabin, with his own private stretch of water barely three hundred yards below the house. For someone with so many enemies this was not a good place to come alone. Not that that happened too often.