Nature of the Game (48 page)

A civic plaza was catercorner from his hotel. Rising through the night mist from the plaza's marble square was an iron rusted black monster, a looming Picasso beast of poles and wings and eyes.

Jud staggered, his blurry vision full of the beast. His calves hit a chain, and he turned: an orange flame flickered from a burner in the earth. The brass plaque dedicated an eternal flame to the war dead of Korea and Vietnam.

And Jud howled, his anguish and anger echoing through the civic plaza.

The beast was silent.

Until that night, in Jud's dreams, it roared in fire and woke him shaking, trembling, sweating, and filthy, and he knew he couldn't stay still any longer, knew he had to run.

Realized where he had to go. Whom he had to see.

Before dawn, he stole a car parked on State Street, found his way to the freeways of America.

THE BURNING VILLAGE

T
he morning after Nora died, Wes charged into Noah Hall's office at CIA headquarters. Noah and Denton's secretary, Mary, looked up from a file-covered desk.

“Where's the Director?” yelled Wes.

Noah hurried around the desk. Mary glided toward a door.

“Where are you going?” Wes called to her. “I want—”

Noah grabbed his arm. Wes knocked Noah's hand away, cocked his fist, and barely checked his swing. Noah didn't flinch.

“
In the hall!
” he whispered, touching his ear, nodding to the walls.

It was 7:47
A.M.
Outside, a steady stream of cars checked through the main gate as America's shadow warriors reported for another Tuesday of work. The carpeted seventh-floor corridor was silent. Empty. Except for Wes and Noah, standing toe to toe.

“I need to see the Director,” said Wes. “Now!”

“Who the fuck are you?” snapped Noah. “Middle of the night, a Deputy Director at the FBI calls me up, says that
our man
has been abusing Bureau personnel through an NIS loan-out.”

“Noah—”

“They picked you up at a diner in East Jesus Nowhere right after some civilians get shot to shit. Bureau said you didn't even stick around to inform the local—”

“
I covered your fuckin' ass!
” yelled Wes, ramming his forefinger into Noah's chest. “I almost had him! This close! They lost him at the Vegas airport.”

“What is this?” said Noah. “Post-Vietnam traumatic stress
batshit?
You burning the village to save it? We give you a low-profile, fully legal task, and you lay waste to California!”

“I'm doing my job,” said Wes.

“Must be,” answered Noah, “'cause you ain't doing ours.”

A cold chill seemed to sweep down the secret hallway, envelop Wes. Suddenly he felt alone. Naked.

“I'm going to see Denton—
now
,”

“He's at a classified location.”

Wes took a deep breath, closed his burning eyes. He hadn't slept on the night flight from Vegas. “What do you want?”

“
We
want this shit
over
. We wanted to know if there was a problem, and brother, you created one. You're done.”

“You don't have that authority,” said Wes.

Noah blinked.

“Denton hired me, he fires me. Full responsibility, coming and going. You aren't going to buffer him.”

Down the hall, a door opened. General Cochran stepped into the hall to peer at them through his thick-lensed glasses.

Noah showed bulldog teeth as he whispered, “Whether you believe it or not, your ass is through. Whether you come out of this
at all
depends on whether we come out of it
clean
.”

“If I don't keep going,
nobody
will come out of this clean,” threatened Wes.

Billy Cochran settled his glasses on his nose.

Noah leaned as close as he could to Wes. “You want a stake through your heart, you open your mouth—to
anybody!
”

The carpet muffled Billy's steps as he came toward them.

“Gentlemen”–he nodded—“is there some problem?”

“Don't worry about it,” said Noah, his eyes on Wes. “We got everything under control—right, Major?”

Then he smiled and went back into his office.

“You're here early,” Billy told Wes.

“Yes sir.” Wes saw his bruised, haggard reflection distorted in Billy's thick glasses.

“Come to my office,” said the number two official of the CIA. “The galley provides me with fine coffee.”

Billy turned to walk away; saw Wes hesitate.

“It's an invitation, Major,” said the general, “not an order. What do you have to lose?”

They sat at the small table in the corner of Billy's office, Wes on the edge of the couch, Billy in the chair, a silver pot and china cups between them. Coffee sweetened the air.

“Peculiar weather,” said Billy.

“Yes sir,” said Wes.
What do you want?

“‘Sir'? Rank has been rendered moot between us. You're out of uniform and not plugged into this command structure.”

“Sir, those are the requirements of my assignment.”

“This isn't the time to dissect your assignment's requirements. I'm concerned with its consequences.”

Billy leaned forward, arms on his legs, frankness on his face. “Just because you were hired by Mr. Denton and Mr. Hall—”

“I don't work for Noah Hall,” Wes insisted quickly.

Billy's words were soft: “Something happened near Las Vegas.”

“I'm not disposed to talk about that—sir. But I'd appreciate it if you could tell me where I can find Mr. Denton.”

“He's finishing up a working dinner in West Germany.”

“Shit.”

“The menu is more creative than that,” said Billy. “German reunification, the fate of NATO, rumblings in Lithuania.

“But here and now,” said Billy, “I'm concerned about you.

“This isn't like Vietnam,” said Billy, and Wes remembered the general's sometimes-limp, the medals in his drawer. “This business often lacks clarity.”

“The jungle was thick there.”

“Not as thick as in Washington. That's why there are procedures. Especially since these last few years when men like us got so far out on assignment that unfortunate incidents occurred. We are about national security. What's ultimately crucial to the national security is that the system is maintained.”

“What do you want from me?” asked Wes.

“It's not a question of what I want,” said Billy. “Being out of the loop is not a blank license or a pardon. If things happened, if there's an ongoing crisis, the best thing would be for you to unburden yourself—through the system.”

“Mea culpa,” said Wes.

“If a confession is called for.” Billy shrugged. “Though I doubt all guilt is yours.”

“Have you ever unburdened yourself like that?” said Wes.

“I've never felt the need.” Billy shook his head. “Look at you. Battered. Exhausted. That tells me two things:

“First, you're doing something too important to be off the books. Second, your judgment has been stressed—perhaps bent beyond its limits and capabilities.”

“Unless you use our communications system, you are unable to securely report to Mr. Denton. I'm second-in-command of American intelligence. Very little is outside my purview. Let me help you. We can bring in the General Counsel. Our security people. You are a part of a good team, Major, trust that.”

After a minute, Wes quietly asked, “Sir, in all your operations, did you ever use current or ex–Special Forces men?”

“Major, your job is not to inquire after my history.”

“You've been a part of American intelligence a long time, sir. Like you said, very little is outside your purview.”

“Apparently you choose to be.” Billy nodded toward the door.

The car was parked at Wes's corner, a gray sedan with antennae on its trunk. Three men in suits were sitting in the car.

Wes saw them as he drove up his street; slowed down as he ran the options. Then gunned his engine and parked in the white-striped loading zone. He ran to the building's front doors, ignored a man shouting, “
Chandler!
”

Up the stairs, three at a time. When she was nursing him, Beth had given Wes a key to her apartment. He'd kept it, been proud she hadn't asked for it back. Now it was his luck.

Not knocking, unlocking her door, yelling her name and getting
no answer
as he unclipped the Sig's holster from his belt, put the gun on the table by the door, dropped his briefcase with its money and documents on the floor, and stepped back into the hall, turning the key and locking her apartment.

Downstairs, the building doors opened.

Ammunition clips
. They weighed down his suit jacket as he hurried inside his apartment.
Prove nothing. Are legal
.

He had time to register the bare facts of
home
.

Pounding on his door. “Major Chandler! Open up! NIS.”

He opened it. Credentials out, they stepped inside without being invited. Wes didn't know these agents.

“You didn't stop when we hollered,” said Agent One.

“Nobody yelled, ‘Halt, police,'” said Wes.

“Where you been, Major?” said Agent Two.

“The CIA—you want to call them?”

They looked at each other.
Bad form
, thought Wes.
Now I know you're not sure
.

Agent Three drifted toward Wes's bedroom.

“Do you have a warrant?” said Wes, halting him.

“What kind of warrant?”

“Any kind,” said Wes. “Otherwise, you're invited only into the living room.”

“I thought we were all on the same team,” said Agent Two.

“I'm on detached duty to a project classified above you.”

“Gosh,” said Agent Three flatly.

“Where you been, Major?” said Agent One. “Las Vegas?”

“I told you who to call.”

“Where's your gun?”

“What gun?”

“The one you brought to the range. The one you got the commander to authorize you to carry.”

“That's none of your business.”

“Mind if we help you look for it?”

“Got a warrant?”

Agents One and Two laughed.

“Ask him about the money,” said Agent One, but Agent Three just shook his head.

“We could help each other here,” he said.

“How's that?” answered Wes.

“You're our boy—don't matter about ‘detached duty' to anywhere, you're NIS. Hell, you're a Marine: that's Navy. That's us. You fuck up, we clean up. You need help …”

He shrugged. “Here we are.”

“I need you, I'll call you. You need something from me, run it through Greco, he'll let me know.”

“Greco sent us,” said Agent Two.

The four men watched each other for a long count.

“You tell Frank to ask his own questions,” said Wes.

“Why don't you tell him?” said Agent One. “He's waiting to see you.”

“Did he send you three musketeers to bring me in?”

“He knew you were feeling poorly,” said Agent One.

“You look like shit,” said Agent Two.

Agent One shrugged. “He figured you might need a ride.”

“I'll call you if I do,” said Wes. “Now your invitation is withdrawn. Get out of here. I need some sleep.”

The NIS agents exchanged a look. Agent Two shrugged.

“Sweet dreams,” he said, leading the others to the door.

Agent Three was the last one out. Before he left, he looked back. “I'd go see Frank soon. Real soon.”

They closed the door behind them.

How long do I have?
thought Wes. Denton and Noah were waffling, afraid of scandal and anxious for a scapegoat, but if Wes brought Jud in,
justified
the desert fiasco …

From his window, he saw that the gray car hadn't left.

Think!

But his mind was full of Beth and bullets slamming into Dean, the woman in the blood-soaked blouse sprawled behind the café, the Mexican woman he'd left sobbing in that kitchen, standing in the Las Vegas airport, feeling stupid and hollow, shabby FBI foot soldiers shuffling nervously by his side, and Beth,
God
, how he wanted to hear her voice.

That he knew for sure, Wes had killed six men:

A grenade tossed into a foxhole where two VC were unjamming their machine gun. One man screamed for thirty-four minutes.

Two NVA regulars who'd materialized out of the bush, just as stunned as he'd been by the sight of
the enemy
but slower to swing their rifles up; to fire.

A long, lucky shot across a rice paddy,
bang dead
into an NVA officer picking up a radio phone to report the lost Marine patrol Captain Wes had gone into the bush to find.

Dean.

No more
. Head aching, sour stomach.
Please, no more
.