Stephen Hunter - Time to Hunt

“So I heard.”

“That election will have a lot to do with whose Russia it will be in the next twenty-five years and what happens to those twenty-thousand nukes — and to us. It’s very complicated, rather dangerous, and it’s not at all improbable that there’s some kind of Russian interest in this business you’ve spoken of.”

Bob’s eyes narrowed as he considered this.

“You’re thinking. I can tell. What do you intend to do? That is, if I don’t swear out charges for breaking and entering?”

“You won’t,” said Bob. “Well, to find out what happened to Donny, I guess I have to find out what happened to Trig. I guess I’ll follow that trail. I have to solve this if i have any chance of nailing this guy who’s hunting me. If i keep moving, keep him away from my family, it may work out.”

“This is very interesting to me, Swagger. I want to follow up on this. I can get you people. A team. Backup shooters, security people. The best.”

“No. I work alone. I’m the sniper.”

“Look, Swagger, I’m going to give you a phone number. If you get in trouble, if you learn something, if you get in a jam with the law, if anything happens, you call that phone and the person will say ‘Duty Officer’ and you say, ah, think up a code word.”

“Sierra-Bravo-Four.”

“Sierra-Bravo-Four. You say ‘Sierra-Bravo-Four’ and you will get my attention immediately and you will be stunned at what I can do for you and how fast. All right?”

“Fair enough.”

“Swagger, it’s too bad about Fenn. The game can be rough.”

Bob didn’t say anything.

“Now go on, get out of here.”

“I should beat the shit out of you for what you did to Donny. He was too good to use that way.”

“I did my job. I was a professional. That’s all there is to it. And if you ever do strike me, I will use the full authority of the law to punish you. You don’t have the right to go around hitting people. But if you do, Swagger, remember: not the face. Never the face. I have meetings.”

Bob wondered what it would be like to be born in a house like this one. It was not really in Baltimore, but north of Baltimore, out in what they called the Valley, good horse country, full of rolling hills, well packed with lush green vegetation, and marked with fine old houses that spoke not merely of wealth but of generations of wealth.

But no houses as fine as this house. It was at the end of a road, which was at the end of another road, which was at the end of still another road. It had a dark roof and many complexities, and was red brick swaddled in vine, with all the trim white, freshly painted. Beyond it lay acres of rolling paradise, mostly apple orchards; but the house itself, tall and dignified and a century old, could have been another form of paradise. The oak trees surrounding it threw down a network of shadows. A cul-de-sac announced a final destination outside it, and off to the right were formal gardens, now somewhat overgrown.

Bob parked the rented Chevy, adjusted the knot on his tie and walked to the door. He knocked. After a while the door opened and a black face, ancient as slavery, peeked out.

“Yes, sir?”

“Sir, I am here to talk to Mrs. Carter. I spoke to her on the phone. She invited me out.”

“Mr. Stagger?”

“Swagger.”

“Yes, come in.”

He stepped into the last century, hushed, now thread bare. It smelled of mildew and old tapestries, a museum without a sign in front of it or a guidebook. He was escorted through silent corridors and empty rooms with elegant, dusty furniture and under the haunted gaze of illustrious predecessors until he reached the sunroom, where the old lady sat in a wicker chair, looking out fiercely on her estate. Beyond, from this vantage, the windows displayed a view of a formal garden and a long, sloping path down through the apple trees.

“Mrs. Carter, ma’am?”

The old woman looked up and gave him a quick, bright once-over, then gestured him to the wicker sofa. She was about seventy, her skin very dark with too much Florida tan, her eyes very penetrating. Her hair was a ducktail of iron gray. She wore slacks and a sweater and had a drink in her hand.

“Mr. Swagger. Now, you wish to talk about my son. I have invited you here. Your explanation of why you wanted this discussion was frankly rather vaporous. But you sounded determined. Do you care about my son?”

“Well, ma’am, yes, I do. About what happened to him.”

“Are you a writer, Mr. Swagger? He has been mentioned in several dreadful books and even got a whole chapter in one of them. Awful stuff. I hope you are not a writer.”

“No, ma’am, I’m not. I have read those books.”

“You look like a police officer. Are you a police officer or a private detective? Is this some paternity suit? Some snotty twenty-five-year-old now says Trig was his father and he wants the bucks? Well, let me tell you, those bucks aren’t going to anybody except the American Heart Association, Mr. Swagger, so you can forget that idea right now.”

“No, ma’am. I’m not here about money.”

“You’re a soldier, then. I can see it in your bearing.”

“I was a Marine for many years, yes, ma’am. We would never say soldier. We were Marines.”

“My husband — Trig’s father — fought with Merrill in Burma. The Marauders, they called them. It was very rigorous. His health broke; he saw and did terrible things. It was very unpleasant.”

“Wars are unpleasant things, ma’am.”

“Yes, I know. I take it you fought in the one my only son gave up his idiotic life to end?”

“Yes, ma’am, I was there.”

“Were you in the actual fighting?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Were you a hero?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I’m sure you’re merely being modest. So why are you here, if you’re not writing a book?”

“Your son’s death is somehow tied up with something that hasn’t yet been answered. It’s also tied up, I think, with the death of that young man I mentioned earlier, another Marine. I just have a glimmer of it; I don’t get it yet. I was hoping you could tell me what you knew, that maybe in that way there could be some understanding.”

“You said on the phone you didn’t think my son killed himself. You think he was murdered.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I don’t yet know.”

“Do you have any evidence?”

“Circumstantial. There seems to be some level of intelligence involvement in this situation. He may have seen something or someone. But it seems clear to me that there were spooks involved.”

“So my son wasn’t a moron who blew himself up for nothing except the piety of the left and the sniggering contempt of the right?”

“That would be my theory, yes, ma’am.”

“What would be more of your theory? Where is this heading?”

“Possibly he was used as a dupe. Possibly he was murdered, his body left in the ruins to make it look like it was a protest thing. His body would make that almost certain.”

She looked hard at him.

“You’re not a crank, are you? You look sensible, but you’re not some awful man with a radio show or a news-letter or a conspiracy theory?”

“No, ma’am.”

“And if you do come to understand this, what would you do with that understanding?”

“Use it to stay alive. A man is trying to kill me. I think he’s also a spook. If I’m to stop him, I have to figure out why he’s after me.”

“It sounds very dangerous and romantic.”

“It’s a pretty crappy way to live.”

“Well, if you went into most houses in America and laid out that story, you’d be dismissed in a second. But my husband spent twenty-eight years in the diplomatic corps, and I knew spooks, Mr. Swagger. They were malicious little people who were capable of anything to advance their own ends. Theirs, ours, anyone’s. So I know what spooks do. And if the spooks of the world killed my son, then the world should know that.”