Florida Firefight (15 page)

Washington was in the grip of a cold front. Outside, ash-color snow squeaked under his feet, and the air burned his throat. His breath fogged and his eyes watered.

People on the streets walked with their heads down, hats breaking the cold before them. Hawker fell into line, surprised that during his weeks in Florida he had lost the fast-paced gait of the city pedestrian.

At a bank with mirrored windows. Hawker stopped as if adjusting his tie.

The car that had followed him from the airport—a black, official-looking Chevrolet—was having a tough time following him now. Traffic was fast, and the car was moving slowly, matching his walk. Horns blared. A taxi driver flashed a finger angrily at the two men inside.

Hawker had plenty of time to get to the Hyde Street Diplomat's Club. He had nothing to lose by being followed, but he didn't like it. He turned in at a coffee shop beside the bank and made a phone call. Working as a Chicago cop, he had heard plenty such calls, and he had no trouble giving his voice the proper mixture of outrage and fear.

The black Chevy sat outside, double-parked. Hawker ordered tea and waited.

It didn't take long for the Washington cops to arrive. The blue light of their squad car
popped-pulsed
. A backup car skidded to a halt behind. Four officers jumped out, revolvers ready. Cops, Hawker knew, welcome the chance to stop a bank robbery before it occurs.

Hawker paid his bill and stepped outside. The sky was gray, and snow was falling. The cops had the two men against the Chevy, frisking them. The men were stripped of their weapons.

One of the men—a lanky man with an Abe Lincoln face—glared at Hawker.

Hawker smiled. He gave him a short salute and walked on.

The Hyde Park Diplomat's Club was a severe brown-stone with a brass nameplate. The doorman wore a uniform.

Hawker was given a guest pass and a key to a locker. The dressing rooms were plush: red leather furniture, blue carpeting. There were fruit juice and mineral water dispensers in the lounge, and three televison sets. Two of them were tuned to stock market reports, the other to an empty congressional meeting room.

The walls were lined with twenty-four-hour military clocks, showing time around the world. Hawker noted that Colombia was an hour behind Washington.

It was 10:58
A.M.

Except for two men dressing for handball, Hawker was alone. He locked his clothes away and carried his towel and razor into the glass and redwood steam room. He pulled the chain, squirting water on the rocks.

He had almost Finished shaving when a face pressed against the window. The door opened, and a fully clothed figure appeared through the swirling steam.

“Mr. Thornton?”

“In the flesh.”

The figure didn't smile. It pulled off its gloves and peered under both decks of the steam room and into the heating unit. Guillermo wasn't dumb. A person can't carry a wire—a tape recorder or a transmitting unit—into a steam room, but it can be hidden there. Now he was having one of his goons check the place out.

“Would you mind standing, Mr. Thornton?”

Hawker stood.

“Remove the towel and turn around, please.”

Hawker stood and turned.

“Now if you will kindly bend over—”

Hawker reached the figure in two steps, grabbed him by the collar and wedged his thumb and forefinger under the man's jaw, then slammed him against the wall.

“I think that's enough Simon Says for one morning, asshole. Now go send your boss in here like a good boy.”

The man's hand moved toward the shoulder holster inside his jacket. Hawker slapped him twice and took the automatic. It was a German-made parabellum. The man struggled to free himself, and Hawker applied more pressure with his thumb and forefinger.

It had a calming effect.

“Trouble, gentlemen?”

A rotund man with a gray wreath of hair appeared through the steam. His skin was the color of fresh mahogany and baby smooth, and his belly hung over blue boxer-type bathing shorts. There was a suggestion of the Mayan in the craggy nose and hollowed cheeks, but the brown eyes had a St. Nicholas crinkle, and his gray mustache gave him a grandfatherly look.

Hawker had expected an entirely different sort of man.

“Guillermo?”

“
Mr
. Guillermo, if you don't mind, Mr. Thornton. Allow me my prefix, please.”

“I think you have a candidate for AIDS disease here.”

Guillermo's face assumed a tisk-tisk expression. “You may go now, Hans. Oh, and Mr. Thornton has taken your weapon, has he? That is bad, Hans. We must have a little talk—but later.”

There was only a hint of sharpness in the South American's voice, but Hawker felt the bodyguard wince as if he had been whipped. He released him and handed the automatic to Guillermo. The steam room door closed softly.

“A thorough people, the Germans,” said the older man, arranging himself on the lower deck. He considered the automatic he held, then placed it on the redwood bench, away from Hawker. “One might expect two generations of living in South America to soften them a bit. But blood runs deep in such a people. Frankly, many of us were surprised they lost the war.” He chuckled. “The utter temerity of it—a nation smaller than this country's Florida challenging and nearly defeating the entire modern world.” His chuckle became a smile. “You are from Florida, Mr. Thornton. And you have come a very long way to see me. Why, I can't imagine.”

“No? Then I'm surprised you agreed to a meeting. You know nothing about me.”

“Come, come, Mr. Thornton. I do so tire of the diplomat's curse: the constant thrust and parry of language.” He made an embracing gesture with his arms. “This is the one place in Washington where one may be completely and totally honest. The mind boggles at some of the conversations which have taken place in the security of this little room.” His brown eyes burned into Hawker's. “So let's be frank, man. You know very well my people have had your background completely checked—and an intriguing background it is.”

Hawker had made the fake background information as intriguing as he could on his computer back on Mahogany Key.

“I'm sure the files available even to a man in your position are limited,” said Hawker baitingly.

“Don't be so sure, Mr. Thornton.” Guillermo waved one finger in the air, like a professor emphasizing a particularly telling point. “For instance, I know that you worked as both a bodyguard and an assassin for the Central Intelligence Agency—no, don't look noncommittal, for I know it's true. I also know you fell from grace with the organization. The circumstances might appear mysterious to the untrained eye, but I suspect you were indulging in a bit of smuggling during your world travels. No? I think so. And then that business of your being linked to the Communist Party—the Soviets, no less! Bravo!” The man laughed appreciatively. “Is it possible there are two James H. Thorntons? No, there is the bullet wound on your thigh, the appendix scar, and the knife scar—ah, you've added another to your collection.” The man presented him with a fatherly smile. “So tell me, how could I refuse an audience with one of the most intriguing Americans I've come across in many years? Especially when there is the possibility you may ask for employment. Not that I could hire you, understand. But I know certain people who might.”

Hawker shook his head. “I stopped working for other people years ago. It's not a job I want. It's business. Your business.”

Guillermo raised his eyebrows. “And what business might that be?”

“You're the one who suggested we be frank, Mr. Guillermo. So I will be. I know all about your operation on Mahogany Key.”

Hawker watched the man's face change; watched the smile melt; watched the jowls go slack; watched the dark eyes grow cold, malevolent and deadly. “I have no idea what you're talking about,” he said in a near-whisper.

“You do. But you have nothing to fear from me. I know that you're shipping in drugs. You have an organization down there run by an aide of yours named Medelli.”

Slowly, ever so slowly, the smile returned to Guillermo's face. “Drugs, is it?” he said, suddenly comfortable again. “And how did you come to that conclusion?”

“I had the same idea. I wanted to find the ideal place for maximum security trafficking. I don't like risks. I'm a very careful man.” Hawker shrugged. “When I settled on Mahogany Key, there was only one problem—your people already controlled it. But then I started thinking. I realized it might actually be to our mutual advantage. Why not work together? I bought a fishing lodge down there under the name of James Hawker. I have a few ideas—good ideas—about the import business, and I was hoping to have a nice discussion with this Medelli character.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” Guillermo said, smiling. “But it is an interesting tale. Please continue.”

“You know exactly what I'm talking about, Mr. Guillermo. Last night Medelli came to me with one of his goons. With a couple of my employees present, he tried to force me into selling my fishing lodge. The fool even pulled a gun on me. It was then I decided that I didn't want to deal with anyone that stupid. I had already done some checking. I figured I would be better off making my offer directly to the head man.” Hawker's eyes narrowed. “Here I am, Mr. Guillermo. Is the head man interested in talking?”

The older South American tapped his fingers on the redwood bench. Finally he said, “If I did know what you're talking about, Mr. Thornton—and I'm not saying I do—why should I offer such a valuable concession to a complete stranger?” He smiled. “I am a diplomat, you see. One does not simply give valuable information away. One trades information. You come with the offer of ‘business.' If, as you say, I have taken the risk of running a drug trafficking operation, then you must also assume I already have business. No? This little meeting has been interesting, but I'm afraid—”

“I have information,” Hawker inserted calmly. He had anticipated that Guillermo would demand just such an exchange. “I have information you badly need. Information that could save your career, not to mention keep you out of a federal prison.”

Guillermo raised his eyebrows. “By all means, tell me, Mr. Thornton. Give me this earthshaking information.”

“If you will give me your word that, provided the information is of sufficient worth—and it is—you will instruct Medelli to open business corridors to my fledgling operation.”

Guillermo nodded imperceptibly.

“Good,” said Hawker. He lowered his voice as if what he was about to say required secrecy. “You've been infiltrated,” he said. “You seem to know something of my own background, so you can understand that I still have friends in a position to … find out certain things. The informant is the local police chief, a man named Simps—”

“Simps!” snorted Guillermo. “He is just another cowardly, overweight American—”

“Wait until I finish. You're right; Simps is a coward. But he got caught taking payoffs as a cop in Miami. My people—” Hawker let himself smile, as if his tongue had slipped. “I mean, the people I once worked for brought the charges up again, to use as leverage. They have Simps on a string. I don't expect you to believe me, so I will offer you some proof. I know that Simps was recently ordered to plant listening and tracking devices either on Medelli's boat or in the main house at Chatham Harbor.”

“Where?” hissed Guillermo.

Hawker shrugged. “I'm not sure. From my own experience, I know that bathrooms are a favorite place—because that's often where people go to hold their most private talks. They think they're safe there.”

Guillermo nodded and wiped the sweat from his face. He looked at his watch. “Mr. Thornton, you look as if you need a break from this Turkish torture. Why don't you go for a nice swim, and I will meet you back here in, say, fifteen minutes?”

Hawker watched the doughy man leave, then found the pool. The water wasn't as cold as he'd hoped it would be, and it stank of chlorine.

He swam a strong four hundred yards, working out the feeling of sloth that travel always produced in him, working out the tension of his careful lies to the South American diplomat.

Guillermo was already waiting when Hawker returned to the steam room.

“You checked?”

The South American nodded. “They found two of the devices. On the boat. One under the vanity and one in the main salon.”

“There should be more. I know how they operate.”

“Mr. Simps will be killed, of course. They are looking for him now. It seems he left town. But he will be back, and when he returns he will spend a very long time dying. In the end he will beg them to allow him to die. Remember that, Mr. Thornton.” Guillermo's eyes were like stones. “The ultimate goals of my organization need not concern you. You are a selfish man and probably would not care anyway—and I do not mean that as an insult. I already admire what little I know of you. Your record seems to indicate that you have perceived what those of us from other parts of the world have long known: America has grown as weak and lazy and stupid as its citizenry. When the final fall comes, there are those who are already prepared to take over.” He nodded as if in benediction. “But we will be the best prepared. And, more important, we will be first.” He smiled. “Does such a thing bother you?”

“I welcome the day,” Hawker said airily.

“Good. Then I think it is possible that we can do business, Mr. Thornton. But remember—many people have tried to take advantage of us. And many, many people have died. Do I make myself plain?”

“Spare me the threats, Mr. Guillermo. You're right: I am a selfish man. I am so selfish that I always bargain fairly and always hold up my end of a deal—because I know that in this business you pay with your life if you don't.” Hawker put just the right edge in his voice, returning the threat.