Gideon's Sword (5 page)

Dajkovic said nothing.

“I don’t know how long he’s going to be there, or where he’s going next. He’s got a computer with him, of course, which is as dangerous as he is. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“I understand
completely
. And I thank you for giving me this opportunity.”

“Charlie, thank you. From the bottom of my heart.” He grasped Dajkovic’s hand and then, in a spontaneous display of emotion, pulled him in and gave him a crushing hug.

As the fellow left, Tucker thought he noted tears in his eyes.

8

S
kyline Drive swept around the curve of Stormtower Ridge, and the Manahoac Lodge and Resort came into view, a collection of condominiums and A-frames surrounding a hotel and golf course at the base of Stormtower Mountain. The Blue Ridge Mountains, layer after layer, stretched off behind into the hazy distance.

Dajkovic eased his foot off the pedal as the car approached the entrance to the resort, and he came to a stop at the gate.

“Just checking in,” he said, and was waved through.

Crew had left this forwarding address at the Luna Motel, written it down “in case someone needed to find him,” according to the clerk. He was staying at this resort now—isolated, long drive to get to, no doubt with security cameras up the wazoo. So either, as Tucker had said, Crew was getting ready to meet a fellow operative…or this was a trap. The latter seemed more likely. But a trap for whom? To what purpose?

Dajkovic swung into the entry drive and parked in front, giving the valet a five-dollar bill. “I’ll be back in five minutes.”

“Oh yes,” said the lady at the front desk in response to his query. “Gideon Crew checked in this morning.” She clicked away at a keyboard. “Left word for you he was climbing Stormtower Mountain—”

“For me?”

“Well,” she said, “the message he left says a man would be coming to meet with him, and we were to tell him where he’d gone.”

“I see.”

“It says here he’s climbing Stormtower by the Sawmill Trail, expects to be back by six.”

“How long is the climb?”

“About two hours each way.” She looked at him with a smile, her eyes running up and down his physique. “For you, probably less.”

Dajkovic checked the time. Two o’clock. “He must have just left.”

“Yes. The message was left at the front desk…just twenty minutes ago.”

“Do you have a map of the mountain?”

“Of course.”

She produced a map—an excellent topographic one, with the trails clearly marked. Dajkovic took it back to his car and climbed in. The Sawmill trailhead was down the road, and the map showed it to be a winding path going up the ridge of the mountain, apparently following an old fire road.

It was entirely possible Crew had left the directions so his contact could find him. Yet it seemed unlikely. No one involved in espionage would be so ham-handed as to leave such a trail. Yes, it seemed more likely that this was a trap. Not a trap for him, specifically, but for anyone who might be pursuing Crew. And if so, then Crew would be on the mountain—waiting along the Sawmill Trail to ambush anyone coming up behind him.

He examined the map. A much quicker, more direct way to the summit led straight up the main ski lift cut, on the back side of the mountain.

Driving through the resort and past the golf course, Dajkovic came to the parking lot for the ski area. He got out and opened the trunk, removing a gun case. Back inside the car, he unlocked the case and removed an M1911 Colt and a shoulder holster, donned the holster, tucked the loaded weapon into it, and pulled on a windbreaker. A fixed-blade knife went into his belt and a smaller one into his boot, and a Beretta .22 was slipped in his trouser pocket. Into a small backpack he threw some extra ammunition, binoculars, and two bottles of water.

Once again he examined the map. If Crew was planning an ambush, there were a couple of obvious places for it where the Sawmill Trail passed through an area of exposed knobs.

As he stared at the map, he became convinced this was where the ambush would take place.

9

D
ajkovic started up the ski lift cut, moving fast. It was half a mile to the top, and unrelievedly steep, but he was in peak physical condition and could make it in ten minutes; then, cresting the mountain, he would head down the Sawmill Trail, bushwhack to the summit of a secondary peak he’d identified on the map, an ideal place from which to surveil the area of exposed knobs, locate the ambusher—and then ambush him.

Five minutes later, halfway up the slope, a maintenance hut for the ski lift, shuttered for the summer, came into view. Dajkovic churned up the slope, detouring around it. As he moved past the hut he heard a tremendous
boom!
and suddenly felt a violent blow to his upper back—which, with his upward momentum, pitched him forward onto the slope and knocked the wind from him.

As he struggled for his .45, fighting the pain in his back and gasping for breath, he felt a boot press down on his neck and the warm snout of a weapon touch his head.

“Hands spread-eagled, please.”

He stopped, his mind racing, trying to think through the pain. Slowly he spread his hands.

“I knocked you down with a load of rubber,” came the voice, “but the rest are double-ought buck.”

The barrel remained on the back of his head while the person—he had no doubt it was Crew—searched him, removing the .45 and the .22 and the knife in his belt. He did not find the knife in Dajkovic’s boot.

“Roll over, keeping your hands in sight.”

With a wince, Dajkovic rolled over onto the dirt of the trail. He found himself facing a tall, lanky man in his mid-thirties, with straight black hair, a long nose, and intense, brilliant blue eyes. He was gripping a Remington 12-gauge with a practiced hand.

“Fine afternoon for a walk, isn’t it, Sergeant? Name’s Gideon Crew.”

Dajkovic stared.

“That’s right. I know a fair amount about you, Dajkovic. What sort of story did Tucker tell you to get you out here, looking for me?”

Dajkovic said nothing, his mind still working furiously. He was mortified the man had gotten the drop on him. But all was not lost—he still had the knife. And though Crew was a good fifteen years younger than he was, the fellow looked thin, weak—not a good physical specimen.

Crew gave him a smile. “Actually, I can probably guess what the good general told you.”

Dajkovic didn’t answer.

“It must have been quite a story, to turn you into a hired assassin like this. You’re not normally the kind of person to shoot someone in the back. He probably told you I was a traitor. In league with al-Qaeda, maybe—that would be the treason du jour, I guess. No doubt I’m abusing my position at Los Alamos, betraying my country. That would push all your buttons.”

Dajkovic stared at him. How the hell did he know that?

“He probably told you about my traitor father, what he did getting those agents killed.” He laughed mirthlessly. “Maybe he said traitorousness was a family tradition.”

Dajkovic’s mind was clearing. He had fucked up, but all he had to do was get his hands—one hand—on that knife in his boot and Crew was a dead man, even if he did manage to get off a shotgun blast.

“May I sit up?” Dajkovic asked.

“Slow and easy.”

Dajkovic sat up. The pain was mostly gone. Broken ribs were like that. Stopped hurting for a while and then the pain came back, twice as bad. He flushed at the thought of this weenie knocking him down with a load of rubber.

“I’ve got a question for you,” Crew said. “How do you know old man Tucker told you the truth?”

Dajkovic didn’t answer. He noticed for the first time that Crew’s right hand was missing the last joint of the ring finger.

“I was pretty sure Tucker would send an underling after me, because he’s not the kind to put himself on the front lines. I knew it would be someone he trusted, who’d served under him. I looked over his employees and figured you’d be the one. You led a marine SOF team in the Grenada invasion, securing the American medical school in advance of the main landing. Did a good job, too—not one student was hurt.”

Dajkovic remained poker-faced, waiting his opportunity.

“So: is your mind made up about me? Or are you willing to open your ears to a few facts that might not quite jibe with what General Tucker told you?”

He didn’t respond. He wasn’t going to give the scumbag an inch of satisfaction.

“Since I’m the one with the loaded shotgun, I guess you’re going to have to listen anyway. You like fairy tales, Sergeant? Here’s one for you, only nobody lives happily ever after. Once upon a time, back in August of 1988, there was a twelve-year-old boy…”

Dajkovic listened to the story. He knew it was bullshit, but he paid attention because a good soldier knew the value of information—even false information.

It only took five minutes. It was a pretty good story, well told. These types of people were always amazing liars.

When he was done, Crew pulled an envelope out of his pocket and tossed it at Dajkovic’s feet. “There’s the memo my father wrote Tucker. The reason why he was murdered.”

Dajkovic didn’t bother to pick it up. For a moment, the two just remained where they were, staring at each other.

“Well,” said Crew at last, shaking his head. “I guess I was naive to think I could convince an old soldier like you that his beloved commanding officer is a liar, coward, and murderer.” He thought for a moment. “I want you to bring Tucker a message. From me.”

Dajkovic remained grim-jawed.

“Tell him I’m going to destroy him like he destroyed my father. It’s going to be nice and slow. The memo I’ve released to the press will trigger an investigation. No doubt a news organization will put in a FOIA request to confirm the document is genuine. As the truth comes out, bit by bit, Tucker’s integrity will be impeached. In his line of work, even though everyone is corrupt, the
appearance
of integrity is pure gold. He’ll see his business dry up. Poor Tucker: did you know he’s leveraged up the wazoo? The mortgage on his McLean McMansion is swimming with the fishes. He owes a shitload on that tacky Pocono golf-club condo, the apartment in New York, and the yacht on the Jersey Shore.” Crew shook his head sadly. “Know what he calls that yacht?
Urgent Fury.
Funny, isn’t it? Tucker’s one weak-ass moment of glory. The Poconos, McLean, the Jersey Shore…the general can’t be accused of good taste, can he? Of course, the Upper East Side girlfriend was a step in the right direction, but she’s a hungry little bird, her beak open day and night. He hasn’t saved his money like a good boy should. But bankruptcy will only be the beginning, because the investigation will eventually show everything I just told you: that he framed my father and was himself responsible for the death of those twenty-six agents. He’s going to end up in prison.”

Dajkovic found Crew staring at him. Again, he said nothing. He could see Crew was getting frustrated at his lack of reaction.

“Let me ask you another question,” Crew said finally.

Dajkovic waited. His chance was coming—he felt it in his bones.

“Did you actually see Tucker under fire? What do you know of the guy as a soldier? I’ll bet Tucker didn’t set foot on land until the beachhead was totally secure.”

Dajkovic couldn’t help but remember how disappointed he’d been that Tucker seemed to be the very last soldier onto Grenada. But he was a general, one of the top commanders, and that was army protocol.

“Fuck it,” said Crew, taking a step backward. “It was a mistake to expect you might actually be capable of
thinking
. You got the message: go deliver it.”

“May I get up?”

“By all means, get your sorry ass up and out of here.”

The moment had arrived. Dajkovic placed his hands on the ground and began to rise to his feet; as his hands passed his boots he slipped out the knife and in one smooth motion threw it, aiming at Crew’s heart.

10

G
ideon Crew saw the quick movement, the flash of steel; he threw himself sideways but it was too late. The knife slammed into his shoulder, burying itself almost to the hilt. As he fell back, trying to bring the shotgun up, Dajkovic leapt for him, ramming him backward with immense power and wrenching the shotgun from his hands. He heard a crack as his own head caromed off a stone.

For a moment, all went black. Then the world came back to him. Gideon was sprawled on the ground, staring into the barrel of his own shotgun. He could feel the knife in his shoulder, searing hot, the blood seeping out. He reached to pull it out.

“No.” Dajkovic stepped back. “Keep your hands away from your body. And say your prayers.”

“Don’t do this,” Gideon said.

Dajkovic racked a shell into the chamber.

He fought to think straight, to clear the fogginess from his head. “What do you know about me besides what Tucker said? Christ, can’t you think for yourself?”