Ted Bell - Spy

Franklin cleared the room of hostiles with his eyes before placing the Mossburg on the mantel. Then he quickly bent to retrieve what he could from the flames. He reached into the fire and managed to pull a handful of loose paper out, still burning his fingers and singeing all the hair off his forearm. He was reaching in again, realizing that his shirtsleeves were burning, when he saw the shoes, then the khaki legs of the man coming down the stairway leading to the second floor. Now his belt, now his torso…

No time to grab the shotgun.

He turned and faced him, letting the burning papers fall to the floor behind the sofa. He moved his right foot slowly, not lifting his heel, stamping out the papers with his boot, saving what he could.

The man in the red cardigan sweater was smiling as he came toward Franklin, kicking away furniture. The sheriff had seen the man’s eyes light for a moment on the shotgun sitting atop the mantelpiece. He could have been a lawyer or a banker, a pediatrician come down from checking on the sick kids upstairs in their beds. But he wasn’t. He had his finger on the trigger of the semi-automatic rifle in his hands, a 30-round banana clip waiting to be expended on a long Texas sheriff.

In his other hand was a five-gallon plastic jerry can of gasoline. Gas was sloshing out of the can as the man descended the stairs and crossed the room.

“Put down the weapon, sir,” Franklin said, moving behind the heavy sofa.

Red Sweater shouted something, a curse, in Arabic, and then heaved the half-empty can of gasoline toward the window with the burning draperies. The whole wall erupted into flames.

The sheriff used the moment to dive behind the large velvet sofa. The staccato sound of automatic fire filled the room. Franklin hit the wooden floor hard, using his shoulder to break the fall. He could hear and feel the thump of rounds slamming into the furniture as he rolled away, his right hand going behind his back, going for Homer’s Glock, stuck inside his waistband. The man kept firing, short bursts, into the sofa. He felt the pistol stuck in his jeans and pulled it, got it out in front of him.

Gun in hand, he rolled onto his stomach and peered beneath the wide sofa.

Two feet in brown shoes, sagging orange socks, moving toward his end of the sofa.

Franklin put one round into each ankle.

The man screamed out his sudden agony as he came down hard before the stone hearth. Franklin was on his feet and moving around the end of the couch. The Arab was on his back, somehow grinning through all the pain as he moved the muzzle of his weapon toward Franklin. The two men locked eyes.

The Arab fired, point blank range, the round grazing Dixon’s forehead. It stung, dizzied him for an instant, but he stayed with it, stayed on his feet. Warm blood was running into his eyes, but he saw the man’s finger tighten around the trigger.

The sheriff put one round in the center of the man’s forehead.

He stood there a second, woozy, his heart thudding in his chest. He looked around him. Fire was racing up the four walls now. The timbered ceiling above his head was steaming, the paint curling and peeling. It was seconds away from bursting into flames. Time to go. Franklin stuck the pistol back inside his waistband, then gathered up the shotgun and grabbed the smoldering papers he’d saved from the floor. Then he raced back into the kitchen. The fire had not yet reached this side of the house. At least not the ground floor kitchen.

There was an old-fashioned black phone on the island. It was probably the one Homer had used eight hours ago, standing here, calmly eating an apple from the pantry, watching the gentle snowfall outside.

He put the papers down beside the phone. There were at least a dozen or more, some ruined completely, others intact. He scanned each one, his eyes running uselessly over the Arabic print mixed with unintelligible scraps of English. One of them, half-burned, caught his eye. It was a map of some kind with notations in red ink. He looked at it carefully, holding it up to his eyes, then picked up the phone and called information. He got a human for some reason. He asked for a number in Washington and got it.

He studied the exposed beam over his head while he waited. It looked hot.

“Federal Bureau of Investigation, how may I direct your call?”

He explained who he was and why he was calling to three people before getting put on hold a fourth time. Then he hung up and called the State Department and asked for Secretary de los Reyes, explaining that he was a law officer and personal friend, and that she would recognize the name from the Key West conference. And that this was an urgent emergency call involving national security.

“Sheriff Dixon, this is Consuelo de los Reyes,” he heard her say after a minute or so. “Thank you for calling.”

“Yes ma’am, thank you for taking my call. I can’t talk long because the house I’m standing in is on fire.”

“Sheriff, you’ve got to get out—”

“Please, ma’am, it’s important, just let me talk here a second. I’m at place called Morning Glory Farm. Lee’s Ferry, Virginia. It’s on the River Road north of Fredericksburg. I’ve got one dead—”

“What river are we talking about, Sheriff Dixon?”

“Uh, well, I’m not rightly sure. I guess the Potomac.”

“The Potomac River, go ahead.”

“Like I say, we need a coroner out here. EMS. I got a dead deputy. Two dead Arabs, maybe three. They put some kind of device in the river. Homer believed it to be an unmanned submarine.”

“Homer?”

“My late deputy.”

“Sheriff, hold on for one second please, I’m asking for some of my people here to pick up and listen in. Fire and EMS vehicles are already en route to your location. And State Police.”

“Yes, ma’am. Anyway, like I said, my deputy saw this high tech submarine they carried in the truck. The wood crate it came out of, it’s about the size of a small Volkswagen. One more thing, before I go. These people were burning documents and computers, but I saved what I could. I have one paper in my hand right now. Burned piece of a map of Washington with a squiggly red line on it, and the words, parade route.”

“Parade route. Everyone get that?” de los Reyes asked her people listening in.

“And, trucks. There may be a lot of tractor-trailer trucks headed your way. No drivers, I don’t think. I’m guessing they’re remote controlled too. I don’t know what they’re hauling, but it probably isn’t good.”

“Get out of that house, Sheriff. Local police and FBI agents from Quantico are en route to your location right now. Do not endanger yourself, but take every scrap of paper possible and give it to the FBI team. Tell them everything you know.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ve got to go. This beam here is about to give way on me.”

“Go. Get out.”

“These people killed a boy who was pretty near kin to me. I’d like to help out up there if I can.”

“I’ll make sure you get to Washington. We’ll put you to work, don’t worry. We’re pretty busy around here because of the Inauguration.”

“Inauguration. When is that exactly?”

“Day after tomorrow, Sheriff.”

71

THE BLACK RIVER

I ’d rather go down the river with seven studs than with a hundred shitheads.”

The little Frenchman laughed. “C’est geniale! Brilliant!”

“I’m not making this stuff up, Froggy,” Stoke said to his old war buddy, “You know who said that? The founder of fuckin’ Delta Force, that’s who. Charlie Beckwith.”

“A tough guy, non? A legend, this man Beckwith. Even in France.”

“Even in France,” Stoke said looking at him in mock amazement, “Imagine that, will you? Hey, Frogman, listen to me,” Stoke said, suddenly dead serious. “We still got a lot of shit to figure out, mon ami. We’re going up against some true pencil-dick assholes in this frigging jungle. And we ain’t got a whole lot of time left to screw around here.”