Heirs of Cain (21 page)

I can’t envision a route that eases my fears. Another stumbling block is accuracy of the targets’ whereabouts. Our people in intelligence tell us the North Vietnamese leaders have several command centers. Which one would you attack? Then we get to the matter of getting out once the task has been completed. For me, that’s the greatest cause for concern. I could hope for nothing more than the success of this mission, but not if it means sacrificing you and your men, which is precisely what I foresee as the ultimate end.

To be sure, the plan has much merit.

As you have suggested, the extermination of Giap, Dung, and the rest of the top echelon would most certainly cause great chaos among the North Vietnamese. However, my boy, I fear we are facing an enemy that relies less on upper-echelon leadership and more on an inner resolve that appears to be unbreakable. I offer as evidence the recent death of Ho. If anything, his loss has only served to further galvanize the will of the North Vietnamese people. It is a many-headed monster we face. To cut off one, two, even three heads will not diminish their strength. You disagree, of course, and you can take comfort in the knowledge that yours is not the lone voice of protest. Many here in the Pentagon are in agreement with your assessment that a successful mission to Hanoi would bring a quick end to the conflict. You are a warrior; it is only natural for you to see resolution in military terms. I’ve become somewhat more cynical over the years. Military machinery is easier to defeat than a nation’s collective will. It has become clear to me that we have stumbled blindly into a pit of quicksand and that we must begin to extricate ourselves before we are completely swallowed up. Our nation is tearing itself apart because of the futility of what is happening over there. We cannot allow this situation to drag on much longer.

I’m sure my words are like poison to you. As one who also considers himself a warrior, I feel a certain contempt for my reluctance to OK the mission. I yearn for the old days, when things weren’t so complicated, when matters such as these were viewed in black and white. I wish I could tell you to go for it, but the truth is, we are in a no-win situation in Southeast Asia. We can eliminate Giap, we can eliminate his successor and his successor’s successor, but nothing would change. We would still be left to face a nation’s resolve. The French couldn’t defeat it, and neither can we.

Therefore, given my personal feelings for you and your men, given my gut-level feeling that even a successful mission would be for naught, Operation Fallen Angels is off. It is my judgment that the mission would ultimately prove to be futile. Just the way the Vietnam War is destined to be futile. This conflict will be decided not on the battlefield but in dark rooms by diplomats wearing expensive three-piece suits. That’s the reality.

Take care.

Lucas

Hands shaking, heart racing with excitement, Kate finished reading the last letter, put it down, and looked out the office window. Darkness had descended. Her plans for the night were shot. She didn’t care. What she had planned seemed terribly insignificant now. But this … this was intriguing, interesting.

She had stumbled into the past, a past involving the man she probably loved, and she wasn’t going to leave until she found out all she could.

Kate looked at the twelve photos, hoping she’d overlooked one of Collins. She desperately wanted to find one, to match the Collins who knew presidents with the Collins who taught Melville and Eliot and Conrad with such passion and force. A photo of him as a young man would help unlock the many secrets he kept hidden from everyone, including her. She needed something—anything—that would give her the key to his past.

But there was no picture, and that only added to the intrigue. So did the last letter, written by someone named Cain, which had a list of strange names. How did it fit into this fragment of history? And why was it marked
EYES ONLY?
She laid the pictures down, picked up the undated letter, and began reading.

Lucas:

As per your request, here are the names, code names, and hometowns of the six men I have chosen for our operation:

CAPT. Anthony Leon Taylor (Cardinal)-St. Louis

SSG. Dwight David Rainwater (Seneca)-Tulsa

SFC. Charles Grady Wilson (Snake)-Terre Haute

SFC. Raphael Diego Martinez (Rafe)-The Bronx

SFC. Derek Louis Jefferson (Deke)-Chicago

ENS. Douglas Martin Walker (Moon)-Oakland

   There will be a seventh member, a young second lieutenant who possesses a remarkable talent for procuring and scrounging. His name is Andrew Tyler Waltz (code name: Houdini), from New York City.

I leave in your capable hands the task of pulling records and cutting orders. Hopefully, it can be done expeditiously. We need to get on our merry way. The jungle cries out for us.

Cain

Kate studied the faces of the six men in the photographs, trying to match them to the names in the letter. The Hispanic, the one with the dark hair and low forehead—surely that was Martinez. And the one with jet black hair and midnight eyes—he had the look of a Native American. That had to be Seneca. But the three Caucasians and the one black man—she couldn’t begin to make an accurate pairing of face to name. What about Cain? Who was he? Where did Collins fit into all this? What role did he play?

Kate leaned back and sighed. History as mystery. She hated it.

Derek Jefferson entered Butterfield’s through the back door, stopped briefly to say a few words to one of the singers waiting to perform, then climbed the stairs leading to a private room overlooking the bar area and dance floor. Leaning against the glass, he scanned the crowd, studying each face with deadly seriousness. Back and forth, his eyes moved slowly for a full five minutes, straining, searching for that one particular face.

His
face.

The face of death.

As his eyes zeroed in on each male patron, his right hand came up and caressed the scar on his cheek. It was an involuntary action, perhaps even an unconscious one, something he did when he felt scared or threatened.

The scar. He was three years old when his drunken father plowed the car into an oncoming truck on the icy Dan Ryan Expressway. The old man died instantly, crushed behind the steering wheel. Jefferson’s older brother, Rudy, suffered massive head injuries resulting in permanent brain damage. Jefferson, alone in the back seat, was thrown through the windshield, a jagged piece of glass tearing a chunk of flesh from his cheek. The wound required seventy-six stitches and left him with a deep L-shaped scar.

“Has anyone been askin’ for me?” he asked one of the waitresses.

“No one’s interested in your sorry black ass,” she said, smiling.

“I’m serious. Has a white guy been in here askin’ about me?”

“You need to clean those big ears of yours, honey. Like I said, no one’s been inquiring about you—white, black, or pink.”

“You’re positive no one named Cain has been looking for me?”

“Not Cain, not Abel, not Moses, not sweet Jesus himself. No one has been asking about you.”

Jefferson began reviewing his options. To start with, he needed to keep a low profile, stay out of sight, go into hiding. That was imperative.

Okay, so maybe he was overreacting, making too much of nothing. After all, it had been dark; maybe it wasn’t him. Could as easily have been any one of a dozen guys with grudges.

But … if it was, or even if the slightest chance existed that it might have been him, there was only one prudent course to follow—get lost. He could stay with Trish; she was always good in times of trouble. But there was a down side to that. It was too obvious. That would be the first place anyone would think to check out. His best bet was to hide out in The Projects, maybe hang out with Ramon or Louis. He’d be safe there. No one would come looking for him in The Projects, least of all a white dude.

But this wasn’t just any white dude. This was …

He refused to think it, refused to let the name roll off his tongue. If he didn’t pronounce it, didn’t give it life, then maybe the man didn’t exist. Maybe silence would keep the man from being real. Maybe the man would disappear.

His hand pressed hard against the scar.

He had to piss.

The bathroom door in the private office was locked; that damn Giselle. She stayed in there forever, snortin’ that white powder up her nose, gettin’ high, gettin’ crazy. That’s one black bitch who had to go. Trouble all the way.

He walked down the stairs and into the hallway. Before opening the restroom door, he glanced over his shoulder, saw no one following him, then went inside.

There were four men in the restroom: two standing at urinals, one washing his hands, another sitting in one of the stalls. Although the need to relieve himself had reached the painful stage, he stayed by the door until the three men he could see walked out.

Only the man in the stall remained.

Jefferson couldn’t hold off any longer. The pain was becoming too great. He had to take care of business. To hell with the man in the stall.

He rushed to the urinal, unzipped, and with eyes closed, began relieving himself.

It was his first mistake of the night.

When he heard the restroom door open behind him, heard that first sound of movement, he should have reacted instinctively. He should have sensed trouble, felt the danger closing in, been ready.

Most of all, though, he should never have put himself in such a defenseless and vulnerable position. Any amateur knew better.

Almost instantly he felt the heavy weight of a man’s body pressing hard against his, felt the man’s forearm against the back of his neck, pushing forward with relentless force. Jefferson’s face smashed against the white porcelain wall, his body arched inward, bent freakishly at the lower back, his penis touching the wet, cold tile. He could feel his attacker’s right hand inside his jacket, feel the fingers extracting his .45 with the skill and expertise of a pickpocket.

In his panic, Jefferson sprayed urine everywhere.

“Zip it up, Deke, and come with me. Quietly. Don’t make me end it here. There’s no dignity in dying with your dick hanging out.”