Randy White - Dead of Night

One key fits the door. The second key fits a lock to the drawer’s false bottom. I opened the first door and removed a small box that contains gold coins I’ve collected around the world, a small sack of raw emeralds, several folders filled with documents considered important. Insurance policies, titles, stuff like that.

Once the main compartment was empty, I opened the second lock, and removed the false bottom. Beneath it were more folders, a neat stack of notebooks, five counterfeit passports, and other detritus from a covert life.

I was momentarily nonplussed when I saw that two manila envelopes were missing. Over the years, I’d grown used to seeing them when I opened the compartment. Both had been labeled in red ink. One was OPERATION PHOENIX. The other read: DIRECCION: BLANCA MANAGUA.

I’d kept the documents for years because they were my leverage against people who might try to leverage me, and a guard against potential legal problems from which no statute of limitations would ever protect me.

But not so long ago, I’d destroyed both folders. Had tossed them into a driftwood fire. At the time, it’d seemed a safe thing to do.

Now I wasn’t so sure.

I still had all of my old notebooks, though. I removed them, pausing to linger over names that I’d written on the covers in precise block print. Each notebook catalyzed visual memories, some good, some bad.

A few of those memories were as unpleasant as seeing parasites spilling larvae into water. A couple, worse.

I restacked the notebooks on my bed, pausing over the familiar titles:

CAMBODIA/KHMER ROUGE NICARAGUA/POLITICS/BASEBALL HAVANA I. HAVANA II SINGAPORE TO KOTA BAHARU (WITH 3RD GURKHAS) THE HANNAH SMITH STORY

There were others.

I set the notebooks aside. Then a letter I hadn’t read in a long time. I was tempted to open it, but didn’t. It was from a colleague I’d once dated, Dr. Kathleen Rhodes, a beautiful woman who’d ended the relationship with this note.

I placed it with the notebooks.

There was a second envelope that contained a letter. It was addressed:

Tomlinson In the event of my death

I set it aside, also.

Lying atop a black Navy watch sweater was a 9 mm SIG-Sauer P-226 semiautomatic pistol, a dense black weight. Folded and tucked into the finger guard was a card that Harrington had given me not so long ago.

A name was on the card preceded by a single word: ETERNALIZE.

When “Executive action” became part of the public record, another euphemism became requisite. “Eternalize” was a good choice. Spoken or written, it could be INTERNALIZE, a typo, or something misheard.

Always give yourself an out.

Next to the pistol was a SATCOM telephone, government-issue. SATCOM is a satellite-based wireless communications network with a sophisticated scrambler system. You can speak freely.

I’d kept the thing locked in my lab, but finally stored it here because I found its distinctive bonging chime irritating. The chime was suggestive of a clock in a British drawing room at high tea-very civilized.

The stuff I’d discussed on this phone was anything but civilized.

When I touched the power button, I was relieved that it had some juice. I punched four more buttons, and, a moment later, heard Harrington say, “I knew you’d come crawling back. I hope Parker didn’t have to slap you around too hard.”

“A sweet guy like him? I was just telling your gorilla-sized delivery boy what a fine man you are. But he seems to think you’re an asshole. Which he’ll tell you himself… if his jaw doesn’t have to be wired shut.”

Harrington snorted, but was already done with small talk. “I have a couple of interesting jobs. Or have you decided to go ahead and pop your buddy?”

My buddy. The name on the card.

A great many years ago, when Tomlinson was a very different man, he’d supposedly been involved in something that had caused the death of some good people. Tomlinson had regretted it ever since-in fact, it had done a lot to make him the man he is today-but certain people had never forgotten. Harrington, for one. Who better to even the score than Tomlinson’s best friend? But I had delayed-delayed, hoping that it would all blow over. With Harrington though, nothing ever blew over.

I said, “I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. For a while, I thought Tomlinson was just leverage. A way to keep me on the job. You’d spare him; I’d keep working for you. But you’ve been pushing so hard, I’m starting to think he worries you for some reason. Something I don’t know about. Is that why you want him taken out?”

“Does it matter?”

“If I had a choice, it would.”

“You do. Your buddy doesn’t.”

“It won’t be me. I’ll never do it. Not a chance.”

“Never say never. For now, you’re being nice, buying him time. But time’s going to run out, you know.”

“We’ll see. Now, what did you have in mind?”

I told Harrington to tell me about the assignments. I’d see if I could fit one in between having a baby, running my business, and trying to live a normal life.

Abu Sayyaf, a violent Islamic fanatic, had helped plan a train bombing in Madrid-killed a couple hundred innocent souls-and was now working on a plot to target school buses in the U.S., according to intelligence assets.

“Various agencies have people tracking the progress,” Harrington said. “But they don’t do the kind of work we do. Up close. Personal.”

Terrorists believe they can implode the scaffolding of a society by creating chaos. Bombing schoolkids was madness, but an effective madness if chaos was the goal.

Hal’s sources had told him that Sayyaf would soon be taking a cruise, possibly out of Lauderdale. They weren’t sure of the dates. Something about his European mistress having problems shaking her husband.

“What I’m thinking is, maybe you can introduce yourself to the gentleman one night while you’re at sea. A quick hello. Then good-bye.”

I knew what that meant. Could picture it. I had done a similar assignment years before. The complexities of International Maritime Law, and a dark, dark night, are both safe havens of a sort.

“The job’s yours if you want it.”

I had no qualms about intercepting a man capable of planting bombs on school buses. A couple of years back, I might’ve struggled with the notion. No longer. For better or worse, I’ve come to terms with who I am, and what I am. Darwinism describes the human condition as accurately as it explains the competitive process that is natural selection.

Harrington told me, “I’ve got one more. You’ll find this interesting. Bioterrorism, maybe. Biosabotage, at the very least. We’ve got a lead on what we think is a network. There’s a small-time smuggler named Bat-tuy Nguyen who’s trying to go big-time. Vietnamese, but out of Bangkok and Cuba. He’s into the illegal reptile trade, importing dangerous exotics.”

I was listening. Knew Harrington would save the best for last.

“Nguyen’s been branching out. His people have been buying nasty stuff no normal collector wants. Fifty-gallon drums of contaminated water from malaria hotspots in Gabon and Cambodia. Shit holes of the world. Rats from a Ugandan laboratory. Bribing the staff. The rats have been infected with the plague. Bubonic, and there’s another type-”

“Rats don’t carry plague; their fleas do,” I interrupted. “Bubonic and pneumonic. Rats carry the fleas. Jesus Christ, is he selling this stuff to people who have the technology to do something with it?”

“We don’t know, it’s all fresh intel. We’re not even sure if the stuff is headed for the States. But something happened today that spiked our interest.” From the man’s confident tone-I’ve got you hooked. You’re back-I knew what it was before he said it.