Will Staeger - Painkiller

“Might,” Ebbers said. “Though at the moment I’m not particularly concerned with that.”

“No?”

“No.”

“You’re concerned with the matter of”-Muske licked his thumb, leafing through one of the documents Ebbers had given him-“Mango Cay.”

“Yes.”

“And the missing dictators.”

“And the speed,” Ebbers said, “of any actions we might undertake in these matters.”

Muske thought about that.

“I suppose you mean, among other things, the president,” he said, “would have taken a while to schedule the meeting once you contacted him.”

“At which point,” Ebbers said, “once he’d read those reports, or heard me out, he’d have contacted you.”

Muske inclined his head. “And you figure I would then have…”

“Called the secretary of defense to request a navy reconnaissance team be dispatched to investigate the island where the missing dictators were photographed.”

Muske nodded.

“Be damned,” he said, “if you didn’t save yourself twelve or thirteen hours.”

“If not a whole day.”

Muske said, “Give me a minute,” punched the intercom on his phone, and when the voice of his assistant floated from the speaker, he said, “Could you get Wally on the horn please.”

Ebbers knew Wally to be Walter Parke, the secretary of defense. He listened to Muske’s conversation with Parke, in which it was decided that the nearest navy vessel equipped with a marines recon squad would be redirected to Mango Cay.

Muske hung up and Ebbers stood.

“You don’t mind,” Ebbers said, “I’ve got a little family business to tend to.”

Muske rose and shook Ebbers’s hand.

“Give my regards to Deputy Gates,” Muske said.

Cooper’s call from the deck of his boat had been to an extension at the Pentagon.

When a thick female voice with a Louisiana lilt answered with the words, “Admiral Sullivan’s office,” Cooper identified himself and said that he would need to be connected to the admiral immediately.

“Chop-chop,” he said.

After a stretch of blank air, the secretary said that she would check whether Admiral Sullivan was available. In fewer than five seconds, the crisp, reserved voice of Robert C. Sullivan, Admiral, USN, punched into Cooper’s right ear.

“What do you want?”

Sullivan had the acronym CINCLANTFLT affixed to the tail end of his rank. Sullivan hadn’t always been commander in chief of the U.S. Atlantic Fleet, and in fact had spent some time in Cooper’s neck of the woods a little over a decade ago. He’d been the captain of a destroyer pulling regular calls in Puerto Rico, Guantánamo Bay, and St. Thomas, and during his stops at these various ports, Sullivan, who was married with three then-teenage children, had been prone to frequenting local massage parlors. The former captain made sure that he cultivated a reputation as a generous tipper, provided, of course, the services were sufficient to warrant the gratuity. The menu offered to Sullivan at these parlors always included happy endings, and Sullivan had been happy enough to lose count somewhere between four and five hundred sexual encounters, a hundred bucks a pop plus the tip. Cooper had always been curious whether Sullivan’s wife ever asked her hubby why he’d withdrawn so much cash during his tours of duty.

Cooper had occasionally visited such establishments himself, mainly in Puerto Rico and St. Thomas. During his visits, he’d come to note some familiar faces among the clientele out in the waiting rooms. Accordingly, he came to see the shops as a lucrative opportunity to build his list. He found that for a small fee, for instance, the proprietors of the various parlors were more than willing to install an automatic digital camera in each therapy room, and even agreed to handle the arrangements for monthly delivery of the data files to Road Town One-Hour Photo for convenient printing.

On the occasional night under the stars on the porch of his bungalow, Cooper would peruse the inventory of photographs, and found, to his delight, that many clients of the St. Thomas and San Juan massage parlors happened to work for such interesting organizations as the U.S. Department of State, the U.S. Senate, 354 of the Fortune 500, the FBI, CIA, Russian military intelligence, and, as in Sullivan’s case, the navy.

One autumn morning, Cooper had landed at Washington National, driven to Annapolis, and telephoned then rear admiral Robert C. Sullivan at home. He introduced himself as a lobbyist for a PAC seeking higher military budgets, offered to buy Sullivan a lunch, and Sullivan took him up on the offer the following day. At lunch, Cooper ordered a cheddar bacon burger and a Bass Ale, waited for the burger and Sullivan’s chicken parmesan risotto to arrive, then slid a pair of eight-by-ten black-and-white prints across the table.

In the first shot, though Sullivan was hard to identify, a “masseuse” had her hands wrapped around Sullivan’s not-insignificant member as he sat upright during what might have been referred to as a massage. In the second, Sullivan’s face was clearly recognizable, the navy man’s neck flexed and his trim waist slightly blurred as, in the picture, he fucked his masseuse, doggie style, one knee atop the table for balancing purposes.

Sullivan didn’t quite spit out his first bite of risotto, but did halt mid-chew. He coughed gently and set down his fork, then lifted his glass, took a sip of water, set it down, rested his elbows on the table, looked at Cooper without moving his head, and said, “Who the hell are you and what is it you want.”

After telling Sullivan he was merely a colleague on the federal payroll who might, someday, call upon him for a favor, Cooper raised his glass and toasted the unfaithful future CINCLANTFLT.

“May we all achieve happy endings,” he said.

Cooper was hearing Sullivan’s voice tonight for the first time since the lunch. Laramie watched him from her cross-legged position on the deck of the Apache.

“What I want, Admiral,” Cooper said, “is a favor. The favor I’m looking for shouldn’t present much of a challenge-not considering your rank, anyway. Congratulations, by the way, on your rise to glory.”

“What is it, then,” Sullivan said. “Tell me. I’ve been waiting for your call for nine years, you sadistic prick!” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I haven’t committed marital infidelity since our lunch. You’ve driven me into a born-again, self-imposed puritanical hell. I see cameras everywhere I go-even looking up some slut’s skirt from across a conference room. At least you’ve called-maybe now I can get you and your little cameras out of my head.”

“I’d like to know the selection of nuclear submarines currently at sea in the vicinity of the Windward Islands. Martinique, specifically. I’m fairly certain you’ve got three, maybe four down here with the feature I’m looking for, provided my bedtime reading is accurate. Which it probably is, since I wouldn’t be reading it if I didn’t have the twenty-first-highest security clearance in the United States. What’s your ranking?”

Sullivan remained quiet.

“Basically, Admiral, I could use a UUV and an MSLC. Both of which I assume you understand come as standard equipment in your typical SEAL Hole.”

Sullivan again said nothing.

“We both know how the Holes work-as a result, and fortunately for you, nobody will know a thing. Hell, Admiral, for a man like you, that might have a couple of meanings.”

“I’ll take a look at the available inventory,” Sullivan said.

Cooper said, “Do it in the next ten minutes and deliver the submarine by dawn.”

“Fine.”

“Got a pen? I’ll give you directions.”

When the pizza, and most of Cooper’s stash of beer, was gone, Laramie curled up on the deck beside the copilot’s seat and dozed off. Cooper set a hand on her shoulder.