Reckoning (25 page)

Stephenson remained impassive. "And do you want the Russians to also participate in this investigation?"

"Forget 'em," said Kertzman. "I don't have time to deal with the Russians. I got too many people in this now that I don't trust – including
you
! But I need somebody to tell me somethin', and it might just as well be you. I'll figure it out if you're lying. But if you're honest, and you actually tell me somethin' I need, I might be able to finish this for you real quiet."

Sir Stephenson's silence was balanced on a cliff's edge.

Kertzman's stone gaze and resolute posture never relaxed.

Finally the Englishman spoke
; "Did you discover the name of the Russian?"

Kertzman nodded
, "Yeah. Arkady Torkarev. But the State Department hasn't released anything on him, yet. They just told me he doesn't work for the KGB anymore. At least, officially."

Stephenson spoke quietly, calmly, perfectly at home with secrets and with sharing secrets in strange places. "Correct, Mr.
Kertzman. His name was, indeed, Arkady Torkarev. In 1971 he graduated from the Advanced Intelligence School in Moscow and was subsequently assigned to Covert Operations of the KGB, where, in time, he distinguished himself."

"What did he do for the KGB?"

Stephenson's tone was so casual that he might have been discussing trade relations, but Kertzman was chilled by what he heard.

"He supposedly masterminded the assassination of Pope John Paul I and the Warsaw killing of Yuri Demonivich in 1982 of the West German Intelligence Service. And, also, in 1981 he sanctioned Ludmila Zhivkova of Bulgaria with a traffic accident."

Kertzman scowled. "Why did he kill a woman?"

Stephenson continued steadily, "Ludmila Zhivkova was the daughter of Bulgarian leader Todor Zhivkova. She was also a summa cum laude graduate of political science from Oxford University. When she returned to her country in 1981 she petitioned for Bulgaria's independence from Moscow. The Soviet Union demanded her silence. She would not comply. Torkarev was sent to dispatch her. We believe she actually died by poisoning. That was Torkarev's
preferred method of sanctioning. However, her body was mangled by the accident and was never autopsied, so the exact cause of death was never determined. Then Torkarev orchestrated the unfortunate death of Georgi Markov by heart attack at Waterloo Station in London on December 21, 1988. And he was without question responsible for the sanctioning of Vladimir Simeonov, who perished in London in 1989 under mysterious circumstances."

Kertzman gazed into the distant shadows of the cathedral, trying to put it all together. "So Torkarev was an assassin," he said, almost to himself.

"No," said Stephenson, lifting his chin slightly. "Not an assassin, Mr. Kertzman. Men who point guns and pull triggers are assassins. Men like Oswald are assassins. They are also fools." He paused. "You see, Mr. Kertzman, guns and rifles and bombs are the tools of idiots and incompetents. Torkarev was more than that. Much more. He was not an assassin. He was an artist – a magician. He was the man who came and went and someone died while he was here. But there was no unusual cause of death. There was no violence, no crime, no reason for international protests or retributions. Someone merely died. Strangely and sadly."

"Meaning what?" growled Kertzman.

"Meaning that Torkarev stood at the highest level of the food chain, Mr. Kertzman. A superior breed of soldier, and a genius at what he did. He was one of the best soldiers in the world. The rest were fools by comparison."

Kertzman stepped closer. "And Maitland?"

Stephenson removed a cigarette from a silver case. Slowly he lit it with a polished silver lighter. Then he exhaled a long steady stream of smoke.

Kertzman thought that he looked eerily composed.

"That is something else altogether," the Englishman answered quietly. "The information about Torkarev is available to you in your country's files if your government chooses to release them to you. So I have, in reality, told you nothing that you did not already know. But I am reluctant to tell you specifically about Maitland's activities for my government."

Kertzman said nothing. He didn't know what he'd do if Stephenson stopped talking.

"I can say, however, that any presumptions you might have would probably be correct," Stephenson continued carefully. "As I said, Sergeant Maitland was a legend in the Special Air Service. He was quite exceptional."

Kertzman focused. "So why did the SAS terminate
employment of an elite assassin?"

Stephenson blew out a long stream of smoke. "I don't know."

"Sure you do."

Stephenson's short laugh echoed in the church. "No, Mr. Kertzman, I do not know."

Kertzman weighed what he had heard. "There's something you might want to consider, Stephenson. You said Torkarev was the best. Real quiet. And Maitland was the same."

"Yes."

"But they made a mess of this. Guns. Attention. A car crash on the interstate. They're supposed to be slick. Clever. Quiet. The kind of people who don't leave tracks."

Stephenson nodded. "That is their preferred method."

"Which means," Kertzman added, "that they must have wanted something from this church real bad. Something that just might have been behind that wall. Something important enough to even make a scene over, if they had to."

For a moment Stephenson said nothing, then a thought seemed to settle on him. "Yes," he added with a purposeful solemnity. "I have considered that. And these five men who died earlier, before Sergeant Maitland and Comrade Torkarev, were they also, as you say,
elite assassins?"

"No," Kertzman responded. "Sims and Myrick were good. But they weren't in the same league as these guys."

"And they were the first to meet this man who apparently dispatched Sergeant Maitland?"

"Jonathan Gage."

"Yes, this Jonathan Gage. And he is yours? Is that not correct?"

"Yeah. Delta. Then CIA."

"He is quite capable."

"Looks like it."

Stephenson took a minute, staring into the shadows. Kertzman saw the hesitation, also saw that the Englishman was about to say something that might actually make a difference.

"There is no harm in a simple discussion," Stephenson began. "Especially between two dedicated and honest public servants." He exhaled a long thin ribbon of white smoke. "I would like to offer a
n hypothesis."

"Go ahead."

Stephenson moved his leg absently, shuffling a step, drew again on the cigarette. "These first five men who were finished by Gage. Obviously, they failed in their mission. Then Torkarev and Maitland arrived and they also failed. But as you said, they are men who operated in quite a different league."

Kertzman had already seen it.

"Yeah," he said slowly.

"So," Stephenson remarked, "I wonder, do you perceive that it might be considered an escalation of force?" He paused, smiling slightly but openly. "Mobilize the regular infantry. But if that is insufficient, then use specialized, very elite
assassins to do what no one else can do?"

"Maybe," Kertzman said. "But why? What are they fighting over? Who are they working for?" A thought came to him. "Do you think this might have anything to do with American foreign policy? Maybe a renegade military unit out of the CIA? Something like that?"

Stephenson seemed to consider smiling again. He didn't.

"Oh, no, Mr. Kertzman," he said respectful
ly. "But I would anticipate that someone would suggest that to you. Yes, that is exactly what I would anticipate." He paused. "A red herring, so to speak."

"You seem to know an awful lot, Sir Henry," Kertzman growled. "Do you know who Maitland and T
orkarev worked for?"

Stephenson shook his head. "No. I wish I could, but I cannot. Nor can I tell you what these men are fighting for. But for the purposes of discussion, let us ask this question: What do Sergeant Maitland and Torkarev have in common?"

"They were elite assassins – the best at what they did."

"Yes."

"And these other men, Sims and Myrick?"

"Were good. But regular troops."

"Yes, regular troops," said the Englishman, fixing a subtle but strange gaze upon Kertzman. "Not superior beings."

An odd phrase.

"No," Kertzman said slowly. "No ... not ‘superior beings.’"

"And, surely," Stephenson continu
ed without hesitation, "if Sergeant Maitland and Torkarev were the vassals of someone who wanted to create a private army of these 'superior beings,' it would be suitable to conjecture that he had properly begun."

The cathedral was deathly silent.

After a moment Stephenson laughed lightly. "Strange that I should be reminded, Mr. Kertzman, but it occurs to me oddly that Hitler was obsessed with very elite squads of his own, so-called superior beings. In fact, the Third Reich was founded on the principle of a generation of supermen who could execute seemingly impossible missions. It was the heart of Hitler's concept of a ruling elite. The perfect soldier, born to rule and to decide the fate of all those less perfect than the blond, blue-eyed master race. And the truth was, with their fantastic dedication to duty and their absolute devotion to skills, Hitler's elite squads were, indeed, quite superior. And dangerous."

Kertzman listened steadily. He knew it wasn't a history lesson.

"In fact, Operation Iron Eagle, the secret SS plot to assassinate Churchill, would have succeeded brilliantly but for a single, seemingly innocuous radio transmission intercepted in Enigma coding and deciphered by Ultra. Even today it must be admitted that the plan was fiendishly well-designed; a small team of six elite SS men, all in British uniforms speaking perfect English who had already penetrated the security of Whitehall and Parliament before they were discovered. They had waited patiently for an opportunity to sanction the Prime Minister when we luckily closed the net on them. A devilish close thing, I tell you, and a cunning operation. Almost changed the course of the war."

Stephenson exuded the air of a man prone to rambling.

Kertzman waited for what was important.

"You have to admit, Mr. Kertzman, Hitler was a genius and quite committed to the superiority of a master race. Even if he was also quite mad. But that was a plague of the Third Reich
– genius and madness. By genius they conquered all of Europe." He paused. "Except England, of course. And by madness, and the combined military might of the New and Old Worlds, they lost it. But that doesn't diminish their genius, their brilliant accomplishment at building the mightiest war machine that man had ever seen."

Stephenson shoved a hand into the pocket of his tweed over-coat, bunching against the cold settling over the church. Kertzman
felt strangely cold, too. But it wasn't the church. It was the eerie, purposeful direction of the Englishman's words. Stephenson was hesitating but seemed to be homing in on a certain and unalterable course. Kertzman was certain that Stephenson was confiding things he shouldn't. And he knew that he should feel a sense of gratitude towards Stephenson, but the tone of the Englishman's words had darkened his soul.

"How often these brilliant military monarchies are ruled by madness, Mr. Kertzman," Stephenson pondered quietly, gazing away. Then he turned suddenly, fixed Kertzman with an innocent stare. "Did you know that Hitler was zealously religious? It seems appropriate that we should mention it in a cathedral, doesn't it? But not religious in the sense of the Christian faith, or Judaism."

He released a faint sigh. "No, on the contrary, it was black magic that Hitler cherished so dearly. Astrology. Archeology. He believed that certain archeological treasures long lost to the world held secrets of power. He believed, in his dementia, that certain archeological treasures could reveal sources of ancient power. He believed that these sources of lost power might help to establish a new kingdom on earth, a kingdom ruled by his Aryan Supermen." He smiled. "Madness, wasn't it? All that devotion to black magic and Satanic rites with the dream of a ruling race of superior beings?"

Kertzman was suddenly aware of how dark and isolated it felt to be standing in the open cathedral.

"In fact," Stephenson continued casually, "before he was assassinated by Czech resistance fighters, Field March Reinhard Heydrich, the Butcher of Prague, was infamous for his obsession with occult rituals. He believed that the Third Reich was the incarnate kingdom of dark spiritual forces long banished from the Earth by the hated Christian God." Stephenson laughed. "Quite extraordinary. A type of madness rare in war, or even in the intelligence field. Although many of us in... public service... do have strong beliefs in God." He focused on Kertzman, smiling slightly. "Do you believe in God, Mr. Kertzman?"

Kertzman frowned. "I ain't never met a real man who didn't
."

"Yes," Stephenson nodded. "Quite true. But few are so unbalanced as to believe in the nonsense of ancient powers, sorcery, that sort of thing. Don't you agree?"

Kertzman said nothing and the Englishman continued, "Yes, most people are far too well-balanced for such nonsense. But, as history demonstrates, it does happen. After the war it was discovered that Hitler must have launched a hundred of his elite teams on bizarre missions to discover lost artifacts or to assassinate his enemies. In retrospect, we can see that he was constantly obsessed with using small, elite squads of his master race. Strange, isn't it, how so many of history's madmen have fallen foolishly victim to this idea of small armies of supermen who will force reality from the fires of their nonsensical dreams. Mind you, these madmen do not value the pedestrian concept of a simple, highly skilled soldier. No, history demonstrates that they are more often obsessed with the concept of armies of superior beings – beings
born
to conquer, to rule, to decide fate for the rest of us."