Florida Firefight (4 page)

“Then you won't be having your normal dinner, sir—dried goat cheese, vegetables and green tea?” Hendricks inquired.

Hayes gave another gust of laughter. “Hank likes to make his little jokes about my vegetarian ways, Mr. Hawker. And Hank—bring our guest a beer.” He looked at Hawker, raising his eyebrows. “You usually drink those diet beers, but you prefer Tüborg or Guinness, right? Tüborg, Hank. And don't bother with a glass. Mr. Hawker likes it in the bottle.”

Hendricks closed the door behind him, and Hayes waved Hawker into one of the leather recliners near the fire. “Hendricks is a good man. Been with me one way or another since 1949. Quite a hero during the Second World War. He was a sergeant major in British M16. Did espionage and counterespionage work outside the United Kingdom. Hell of an intelligence man. The Russians wanted him—offered him everything but an autographed picture of Stalin. Could have retired with a general's pension by now, but he's a fifth-generation gentleman's gentleman. He's dead-set proper during working hours—except for that wicked sense of humor of his. But once or twice a month we slip off together to fish or hunt, and he becomes my best friend again. He loves bird hunting, and so do I. I love everything about it: the smell of the gun oil and the fields; love to watch those dogs work. But it's hard to rationalize a vegetarian blowing mallards out of the sky. So Hank does the shooting, and I work the dogs.” Hayes smiled, and a pair of shrewd brown eyes locked on Hawker. “You see, I'm a hypocrite, Mr. Hawker. We all are, but I'm the worst kind of hypocrite: I realize what I am but go right ahead anyway.”

Hawker sat in his chair, watching the fire. He was smiling. It had been done very neatly. In the space of a few sentences, Hayes had told him that his life-style had been personally checked right down to the brand of beer he preferred. That had been impressive enough, but then Hayes had gone on and done what men in the high-powered world of international business never do: revealed a character flaw, served it right up on a tray. But there would be a price, that Hawker knew. Hayes seemed to be saying: let's cut through the bullshit. I'm prepared to be honest with you. You damn well better be honest with me.

Hawker turned to him. “So how did you get your information about me? Private investigation agency?”

“Private eye? Trench coat and cigarette following you through the streets of Chicago?” Hayes smiled. “Hardly.”

Hendricks entered with the tray, stone faced. When he left, the older man settled deeper into his chair, feet stretched toward the fire. He said, “Every century has a key word, Mr. Hawker. The seventeenth century was
exploration
, the eighteenth century was
civilization
. The key word for this century will undoubtedly be
datumization
—if you and Mr. Webster will forgive me. Anyone who has achieved any small success in this country has been investigated and categorized by someone somewhere. The most intimate details of our lives can be found in data banks in places that would shock most people. Data has become the new god, Mr. Hawker.”

He leaned toward the fire, looking closer at Hawker. “For instance,” he went on, “learning the details of your distinguished career was easy. In a relatively short time you compiled more than forty commendations for superior police performance. You are the only person to win both the Lambert Tree Award and the Carter Harrison Award for valor, Chicago's highest honors. You are also an expert marksman, boxer and scuba diver. You became best known for your enterprising methods—not to mention fearlessness—in hostage situations. In 1977 you architected a Chicago Special Weapons Attack Team, trained especially for dealing with such situations. Unfortunately, your growing reputation also brought closer scrutiny. Certain liberal factions in the city didn't like what they thought to be strong-arm methods. Your superiors were told to keep a close eye on you. In March 1982 you killed a kidnapper with what your superiors thought to be a risky shot. You were privately censured and ordered never, under any circumstances, to fire again without orders. In July 1983 your team was faced with another hostage situation. An escapee from a psycho ward had taken—”

“I know the grim details, Mr. Hayes,” Hawker said softly, but there was an edge to his voice. “I had a shot but didn't take it because I hadn't received orders yet. And the five hostages—a doctor and four nurses—were slaughtered. That's what all this is about, isn't it? I had three clear chances to shoot before your son, Jake, was murdered, and now you're wondering why in God's name I didn't disobey orders earlier and—”

Hayes waved his hands, interrupting. “No, James, it's not about that at all.” The older man sighed, and an infinite weariness showed itself for the first time. “I happen to believe life and death are much the same.” He waved absently at the Japanese matting in the corner, as if the smiling little Buddha were explanation enough. “I loved my son as I have never loved anything on this earth; I idolized him. But he is gone now. It's as simple as that. I can accept it, deny it, despise it or go mad with it. But he is gone. Nothing will change that.”

“Then why am I here? You didn't invite me just for an informal chat over cranberry sauce. Why the research into my background? Why the offer of honesty?”

Hayes studied him for a moment. “You're an intelligent man, Hawker. And I hope I won't offend you by explaining it all in my own way.” He looked at his watch. “Do you want to eat first?”

“No.”

Hayes nodded. “Okay. I'll lay it out as briefly as I can.” He pointed to the cases of insects he had collected. “I'm an amateur naturalist—”

“A highly respected amateur naturalist,” Hawker inserted. Both men smiled. “I did some checking of my own.”

“Okay, then: I'm a highly respected amateur naturalist. The awesome perfection of nature—its design … its balance—it's beyond our understanding. But it should never be beyond our acceptance. Nature is perfect. The point cannot even be argued. Try to see all of nature as a single organism. It regenerates, it provides for itself, it adapts to or destroys things alien to its cycles of existence. For instance, there's a tree in South America that would become extinct within a few years were it not for a specialized ant it hosts. The tree provides these ants with everything: special sap for food, special niches to lay their eggs, leaves perfectly designed to provide the ants shelter. In return, the ants never leave the tree—and they utterly destroy any other insect that comes to feed on the tree.”

“Mr. Hayes, if I'm supposed to understand this—”

“You will in a moment, Mr. Hawker, I promise.” He stuffed his pipe, struck a match and exhaled fragrant smoke. “Our society, when it is healthy, functions like any other organism in nature. It regenerates, it provides for itself and it adapts to or destroys forces that threaten its existence. Unfortunately, though, as you well know, our society is no longer healthy. For some strange reason—complacency, perhaps—it has lost the moral courage to police itself. Because it is necessary to its very survival, nature is sometimes completely and utterly ruthless. Our society has lost that frightening but necessary quality. Murderers are released after a few years to roam the streets again. Rapists are given a few sessions with state-employed psychologists, then sent away to continue their terrorism. If the ants on that tree in South America—or any other organism in nature—were that lax as guardians, their wards would cease to exist.” Hayes smacked his fist into his hand. “Extinction—as simple as that. There would be a few generations of biological chaos, then total death. In the same way, Mr. Hawker, our society is slowly but surely dying. I guess you could describe these last twenty years as our period of chaos.”

Hayes fiddled with his pipe momentarily. He gave Hawker a meaningful look. “Do you understand what I am saying, Mr. Hawker?”

Hawker did. Although he had never heard it explained so well, he felt the very same way. He nodded.

Hayes's eyes became lasers. “Then be very frank, Mr. Hawker. You know what I'm talking about, and you certainly have some inkling as to the direction this conversation may take. If we continue, are you going to contact one of your police chums and have me arrested for—for—”

“Conspiracy to commit revolution?” Hawker smiled. “If I did, I'm afraid they'd have to take us both away.”

Hayes grinned in return. He pressed a button. “Then maybe we should eat as we discuss the problem. Hendricks gets upset if my tsampa gets cold.”

For more than an hour the two men talked on. Hawker listened with an ever-growing respect for Jacob Montgomery Hayes. The man was brilliant without being patronizing. He was sincere without being pompous. And when he laughed, it was a good, deep gust—and usually directed at his own shortcomings. Hawker suspected what it was all leading up to, but he finally asked point-blank.

“We've circled the subject too often. How do I fit in?”

Hayes considered the question for a moment, then answered just as frankly.

“It's time society started standing up for itself, James. The courts and the lawyers have swamped themselves with this century's passion: data. They no longer care about right and wrong. They care only for the games they can play by manipulating data. Society is the victim, and it's time the victim started defending itself.” Hayes looked him straight in the eye. “I'd like you to help me lead the way. I want you to seek out communities plagued by crime and corrupt people. And, just like in those Neighborhood Watch programs of your dad's, I want you to show the people how to fight back.” He paused for a moment while this sank in. “The work will be dirty and thankless. And, as you have no doubt deduced, it will sometimes even be wrong in a legal sense. But it'll be right morally. And morality is the only true governor of any society.”

“And I'd be working alone?”

“If you wish. I've made millions, James, and my only heir is dead. When you leave money to charities these days, only about twenty percent of it filters down to those who really need it. I'd like to see something good come of my money, and I can't think of anything more desperately needed by our society. I'll finance everything, buy you any equipment or weaponry you need, send you anyplace you feel it would be helpful to go. I have plenty of connections in high places, and I think you'll find you'll get backing from some surprising sources.”

“You have no qualms about violence when necessary?”

Hayes shook his head. “I chose you not only because you're tough enough, but because your record shows you're wise enough to fit the punishment to the crime. If you're dealing with killers, then I fully expect you to kill. As I said, I have connections in high places. If the local law gets onto you, I'll help you in any way I can—but that's no guarantee you won't have to run for your life sometimes. As I said, it'll be a tough and thankless job.”

“If I went to work here in Chicago, I wouldn't last a week. The cops know my methods too well. They'd put two and two together.”

“I quite agree. That's why I have chosen another state for your first mission. We'll call it an experiment in socio-nature.” Hayes shrugged. “If it works, we'll both no doubt be happy, and we can expand the operation. If it doesn't, nothing will be lost.”

“I haven't said yes yet.”

For a moment Hayes was taken aback. But then he saw Hawker's slow smile, and he took the outstretched hand.

six

“A stranger, eh?” The Hispanic man flashed a wicked grin. “We do not like strangers on Mahogany Key.” His grin broadened, but no one was laughing. He took a step toward Hawker. “So let me give you some advice, gringo. You put the gas in your fine big car, you pay the nice lady inside, and then you disappear …” The man made an exploding motion with his hands. “Pewff!”

The smile was instantly replaced by a brutal glare. “You leave
now
, gringo. Or my friends and me”—the grin returned—“will be forced to cut your pale little ears off and stuff them down your ugly throat!”

The three men behind him roared. They were a seedy-looking bunch, in stained T-shirts and grimy jeans. They all wore sheath knives. In the balmy Everglades air the smell of them was overpowering: a combination of stale cigarette smoke and sour sweat.

It hadn't taken Hawker long to find out why Jacob Montgomery Hayes had sent him to this remote fishing village on the southwest coast of Florida.

Hayes had once made yearly visits to Mahogany Key to fly fish for tarpon. He had stayed regularly at an old and stately hunting and fishing lodge called the Tarpon Inn. Hayes had made friends of the villagers, and he had stayed in touch with many of them. Because he hadn't been able to get to Florida for some time, Hayes hadn't seen fear transform the town.

But one of the villagers had recently called and told him. Hayes's friend, the owner and manager of the Tarpon Inn, had pretended his telephone call was just a holiday exchange of greetings.

But Hayes soon realized it was really a plea for help.

Over the past year more and more Colombians had been moving into Mahogany Key. They flashed a lot of cash and bought all the homes and businesses available.

And then they began to buy homes and businesses that
weren't
for sale, using mobster methods to run many of the honest, hardworking townspeople from the village.

Their reasons for wanting to take over Mahogany Key were soon all too clear. The village was located south of Naples and Everglades City, on Florida's wildest and most remote section of coast. On the seaward side it was guarded by a maze of ten thousand uninhabited mangrove islands. On the landward side it was cut off by the bleak and unforgiving swamps of the Everglades.

There was no place better suited to trafficking in drugs.

And that was exactly what the Colombians were doing—with devastating success. They were making suitcases full of money, and now they were trying to take over the village totally.