Mickey Spillane - The Killing Man

I said, "I hear you."

"Good. I believe Mr. Ferguson has something to say."

The CIA agent shifted in his chair to face Pat. He reached in his pocket and took out an envelope I recognized right away. "Captain Chambers, I have an item here that was routed through our office for identification."

He dumped the tooth I had found into the palm of his hand.

Pat's face hardened and he said tightly, "I was supposed to get a report in my office."

"Let's simplify things," Ferguson said. This time he looked at me. "I understand you found this."

I hedged a little. "I came by it, yes."

"How?"

"Let's say I'm in the business of looking for clues. I was a victim of a crime of aggravated nature and made it my business to look for my assailants. That is what is called a clue."

"I don't need sarcasm, Mr. Hammer."

"None intended," I said soberly. The hardness eased out of Pat's face.

"You assumed this came from the mouth of an assailant?"

"Something did. This was the only thing that could have."

"And you took it right to Captain Chambers."

"Correct." I knew what was coming and got there first. "The mugging on me wasn't any street crime, so don't let's beat that dead horse. This went down as a very knowledgeable venture by people who knew all the ropes. They had teamwork, knew drug handling, didn't bother to confiscate my money or weapon . . . hell, they even wore spook shoes that could handle any surface efficiently and quietly."

"You are referring, of course, to the CIA?"

Pat spoke up and said, "That's where the identification finally came from then, didn't it?"

Ferguson took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Yes." When he had gathered his thoughts, he went on: "The recipient of that partial had the work done at a government facility after he lost it on a CIA operation. It was listed in his file and recorded on the computers."

"Who was he?" Pat asked.

When Ferguson didn't answer immediately, I said, "Want me to leave the room?"

A touch of scorn was in Ferguson's voice. "I don't think that would make any difference at this point, would it, Captain Chambers?"

"You said it in the beginning, pal. He's in this pretty damn deep and if he wants to make anything public he can do it. Just remember that he's still a good guy."

"Well put. All right, the partial belonged to an agent named Harry Bern. He was an old hand who came into the agency in 1961. He had a military background, was well rated but considered a little reckless out on assignments. When there was all that fury about extremes in our covert operations, certain agents considered touchy were released. He was one of them."

Pat said, "I suppose you checked his passport?"

Ferguson seemed surprised at that. To him cops weren't expected to think that far ahead. "He made numerous trips abroad. Apparently he's in this country now."

"Apparently," I muttered. "And he's not alone."

This time Ferguson squirmed in his chair again. "Another one we released was his partner, Gary Fells. They came in together and they went out together. They had almost identical background and personality profiles."

For the first time Bradley let out a hrumph to get our attention and when he had it, said, "Their quizzing you, Mr. Hammer, as to the whereabouts of Penta is what brings the State Department's interest into the picture."

"You can't locate either of these guys?" I asked.

"Remaining invisible if they have to is one of their specialties."

"Good training."

"Should be. They were in the first cadre General Rudy Skubal commanded."

Neither Pat nor I showed any change of expression, but we both knew what the other was thinking. General Skubal wasn't new to me at all. A long time ago he had tried to recruit me into his organization, even going to the trouble of having Pat put some pressure on me. Old Skubie, I was thinking, who took himself and the other tigers, as he called them, deep behind enemy lines for twenty-two months, a wild bunch of trained fighters fluent in Slavic languages, who raised complete hell with enemy communications until they rejoined with American units after the Normandy landing.

Most of those tigers went into frontline field work with the CIA in its early days and became shadow legends with government spooks.

"Where do we go from here?" Pat asked.

Bradley unclasped his fingers and made a steeple of them. "Nowhere. That is, you don't. As of now, the police department is being removed from the case. Of course, Captain Chambers, you know what that entails, don't you?"

Pat nodded, saying nothing.

"As for you, Mr. Hammer, your total silence is required. Not requested, but demanded. There will be no more investigating the Penta affair or your assailants since this all will be in the hands of federal agencies. The nature of this case is so sensitive that the fewer involved the easier it will be to process. Now, are there any further questions?"

I said, "Is looking into the murder of Anthony DiCica any part of the Penta business?"

Bradley unsteepled his fingers and gave a shrug. "I can't see what DiCica has to do with it, Mr. Hammer. Penta was after you. "

"Thanks a bunch," I said. "Since I'm to be the quiet target then, do I get any cover?"

"I may sound callous, Mr. Hammer," Bradley told me, "but you've already made your sentiments very clear. You prefer to remain unguarded. Now, just to make sure we all understand your position, do you or do you not prefer a guard? I ask this because in your way, you too are a professional and licensed to carry firearms."

"Just let me take my chances, Mr. Bradley. I get nervous when people are watching me."

"So be it," he said and stood up. The meeting was over.

When Pat and I got to the street, he said, "You got to go anywhere?"

"No, but I'll walk you to the garage."

"Sure, then maybe you can tell me about that bit with DiCica."

"Come on, Pat, we're both thinking the same thing. It could have been DiCica he was really after and anything else was a sham. What have you got on the guy?"

We had stopped on the corner and Pat checked his watch. "I'm going off duty. How about a beer?"

"How can you go off duty? It's afternoon."

"I'm the boss, that's how."

"Fine, a beer sounds great and Ernie's Little Place is right here. You ever been in Ernie's?"

"No."

"Good. Neither have I."

Over the beer Pat told me about Anthony DiCica. He had a listing of all his arrests, convictions that were a laugh, and the victims he was suspected of killing. Every dead guy was involved in the mob scene and two of them were really big time. Those two were hit simultaneously while they ate in a small Italian restaurant. It was suspected by the police that it was more than a social dinner. It was a business affair and the killer, after shooting both parties in the head twice, made off with an envelope that had been seen on the table by a waiter. Following the hit there had been an ominous quiet in the city for a week, then several more persons in the organization either died or were mysteriously missing before a truce seemed to be declared. It was two weeks later that Anthony DiCica's head collided with a pipe in a street brawl.

"Let's make a script out of this, Pat."

"Okay," he agreed. "Our boy Anthony went a little bit further when he hit those mob guys. He knew they were plotting against his employer and grabbed the papers. When he saw what he had, he knew he was in a position of power, but didn't quite know how to handle it, so hid it somewhere." He paused. "Now your turn."

"The mobs turned on themselves thinking of a double cross somewhere, then realized what had happened and cooled it. It took a couple of weeks to locate our Anthony, but they went a little overboard in bringing him in and cracked his skull. After that he was no good to anybody. They still needed his goods and had to wait for him to come out of the memory loss before they could move . . ."