Randy White - Dead Silence

Translation: “Gloves are off. Zero signature. ”

I’d had only a few hours’ sleep but suddenly I wasn’t tired. Harrington had either seen the photo of Will or he, too, had reviewed data on the Cuban Program. Something had changed. I was now authorized to deal personally with the Cuban interrogators.

X-F. X referred to the Executive Order of February 1976, which Congress had revoked, thus reestablishing assassination as an option.

F was Farfel, the nickname assigned by men he’d tortured.

0-sig meant just that: Zero signature, no trace. Successful assassins leave a body. Harrington’s group, the Negotiators, did not. People disappear. It happens every day.

The euphemisms vary with the times and situations. Neutralize, terminate, liquidate, eliminate are the standards used in thriller films but never by anyone I’ve ever worked for or with. Pros prefer substitutes that provide built-in deniability or the hope of a legal out. X-F. How can you prosecute a man for writing that?

There are others: Preemptive Solution. Assignment Targeting. ATQ- Assignment Targeting Qualified. PPI- Person of Preemptive Interest. PCC -Post Conflict Causality.

Eternalize was Harrington’s favorite because it could be explained away as an attempt to write or say Internalize. It was a typo. Or a word that was misheard.

It had been a while since I’d been assigned a target and almost a decade since I’d been authorized to operate within the boundaries of the U.S. I was pleased, but also aware that it could add to the legal nightmare I might one day face. In Fidel Castro’s files, it was possible my name was on a small list of American contractors with a W designation. W, as in World License.

There were fewer than ten of us-far fewer now, possibly. An organization like the Negotiators didn’t hold reunions or pose for class photos. Each member was a self-reliant cell. In nearly two decades, I had met only three fellow members-as far as I knew anyway. No, I had met four. Only recently, I had been introduced to a great man, last name Wilson. It was just before his death.

In legalese, W designees were sanctioned by the Executive Branch to use lethal force against enemies or preassigned threats anywhere in the world as long as the designee operated within the parameters detailed in the National Security Act of 1947.

A World Court wouldn’t consider it legal. Nor would courts in most of the countries where I have worked. There is no statute of limitations on murder, and the U.S. now had extradition treaties with almost every member of the United Nations. Harrington was risking the same nightmare.

Gloves off.

Well… if he was willing, I was willing. Besides, it was different this time.

I took another look at the photo. It wasn’t a real casket. The box was smaller, with a towel for a pillow instead of crinoline lining. Black eyes stared at me. Rage-it was there. Unbroken. The boy was still battling the beast, even as the beast consumed him.

Spirit like that I wanted to preserve, but I’m not naive. If they had buried the boy, I doubted he would live for more than a few hours, fan or no fan. Carbon dioxide would build up fast-a kindness, possibly, because Will’s heart would survive a lot longer than his sanity if we didn’t find him. Judging from what I knew, the boy was wound pretty tight to begin with.

For a moment, my mind drifted, trading places with the kid, and I felt a welling panic. How many days would I last in a box, mouth and hands taped, listening to my own heart beat in the relentless silence? Barbara Mackle had endured eighty-six hours, then continued to prove her heroism by living a full and stable life. But she at least had a small light, and her hands were free in a space large enough to roll over in…

Enough. Concentrate, Ford!

People died every second of every day. Will Chaser’s spirit wouldn’t save him, but I might if I collected the right data and reassembled it cleanly. Even if I failed, though, I would go after the Cuban. Didn’t matter where he went or how long it took. One day, Farfel would turn around and I would be there.

I stood and stretched, taking a nonchalant look at the mansion, then the road. No traffic, no outside activity. I cleared the phone, then opened the message from Montbard. We had talked earlier so I knew it contained information I wanted.

It read: Symbols-yes. Rituals-many. Connection-no, not for 150 years. Obligations-binding but benign. Covenant-sorry.

I had asked Hooker to research Skull and Bones and comment on similarities, if any, between it and the Freemasons. Montbard’s family connection to the Freemasons dated back centuries. An ancestor had been a founder of the Knights Templar: Andre de Montbard, a rhythmic name, so it was easy to remember.

Symbols and rituals-yes.

I had been right. Skulls, aprons, all-seeing eyes: The fraternity used Masonic symbols and similar rituals. In Hooker’s opinion, there was only a historical connection, including obligations that he considered harmless. He had warned me, however, there might be information he couldn’t share.

“Freemasons take an oath, you have to understand. We’re bound to it or we wouldn’t be Masons.”

The organization’s covenant? Sorry. He couldn’t tell me.

Good enough. Unless Hooker was party to some bizarre world conspiracy, Skull and Bones was just a college fraternity-powerful, yes, but it was not a sinister cult. That didn’t guarantee members weren’t capable of committing crimes, murder included, but it reduced the odds that they had participated as a group.

It also narrowed the list of motives. Fear, greed or insanity: the big three when it comes to premeditated crime.

I glanced across the road at the Myles estate, alone and aloof on a hundred million dollars’ worth of ocean frontage, and I narrowed the list to two.

Was Nelson Myles scared, or crazy, or none of the above?

Archibald Heffner had told police that Myles was at his winter home-Sarasota, I’d overhead him say-and was furious about us exhuming the horses. “Tell your boss he’s damn lucky Nels can’t fly back until next week. Maybe he’ll calm down by then.”

Nelson Myles didn’t know it but he was damn lucky to be in Florida because I still believed the boy had been at Shelter Point Stables. Maybe still was. I would’ve preferred to question the man personally. Just the two of us, alone in this quiet place.

I believed the kidnappers had been here because… why?

One reason was Heffner’s reaction when I mentioned ground radar. The odd sensory experience I’d had holding the rock had something to do with it, too. Irrational, no question. Part of me found that amusing, but interesting. Tomlinson’s subconscious, I was convinced, assembled information so effortlessly, he wasn’t even aware of the process. Had my subconscious retained a data byte that my forebrain had discarded? It was possible.

But there were also too much solid, intersecting data to dismiss as coincidence. At Dinkin’s Bay, JoAnn Smallwood, one of the live-aboard ladies, collects paradoxical lines. One was an uncomfortably good fit: Until I believe otherwise, I will act upon what I believe. Another one applied, too: I have no choice but to believe in free will.

If I was right and found what I was looking for, it could lead me to Will Chaser. That was reason enough to enter the Myles estate illegally.

I switched off the phone and pocketed it. No more interruptions.

I walked down the ridge toward the mansion, pretending to study utility lines strung from pole to pole along the road. I was wearing a coat over new coveralls, a Yankees cap and a tool belt that jangled. Anyone watching would think I was a telephone repairman returning to work after a break spent dozing in the trees.