Reckoning (45 page)

"I didn't kill Milburn."

"No," Carthwright agreed. "But you were on the side that did."

Kertzman frowned. "Anyway, I thought Milburn was retired."

"No," Carthwright replied. "He wasn't retired. Nobody retires from this game, Kertzman."

The words hung in the air. Brutal face appearing mean in the gray evening light, revealing nothing. "I've truly pushed my
influence on this, Kertzman." Carthwright stuck his hands casually into the Armani overcoat. "How much longer 'til you can bring him in?"

"Forty-eight hours," said Kertzman gruffly. "Maybe three days. No more."

Carthwright shook his head. "That's too long."

Kertzman didn't move. "It ain't gonna be no quicker, I can tell you that. If he comes in at all." He paused. "But I think he will. He wants to do right, get free from this. I don't think he even cares about immunity. He'll probably come in, anyway."

Carthwright's face was tense. "Alright. Bring him in as soon as you can. But I want you to know that I can't keep the lid on this much longer. Pretty soon they'll replace me, and there's heat coming from sources that are going to hurt you and me, both. I can promise you that." He paused. "Is Acklin working out?"

"Yeah, he's working out," Kertzman replied. "Black Light was a for-profit company from the get-go. Somebody made a lot of money. And I don't mean Gage. It has somethin' to do with gold, takeovers, all that stuff."

Carthwright blinked, indifferent. "Yeah, I know the scenario," he replied. "I told Acklin that I didn't think there was anything to it."

Kertzman was studious. "Uh-huh. He told me. Do you know who delivered that package of information to Acklin?"

"No," Carthwright replied, "I don't know anything about the travel logs. I understand the fax came from the White House, but it was sent from the West Wing. Anyone has access to it. But some-body with weight obviously wanted Acklin working on the case because he's an old Special Forces buddy of Gage. I found out that much on my own." He shrugged. "I saw which way the wind was blowing. I didn't try and fight it. Once Acklin had done his homework I was justified to let him in, anyway. I figured you could use the help now that Radford and Milburn are gone." He paused. "What are you going to do about the gold angle?"

"Pursue it," Kertzman answered, without hesitation.

"I don't think you should."

Kertzman searched him. "Why?"

A heavy sigh. "Because there's nothing there, Kertzman. This is about foreign policy. I'm sure of it."

"I'll put your opinion in the report."

"Whatever," Carthwright said pensively. "But I want it on record that I think the crux of this is foreign policy."

"Alright," said Kertzman. "But I'm still going to search out the gold angle. If nothing's there we'll go back to foreign policy. But I think the money is the key." He waited. Carthwright didn't say anything. "We're going to find out what companies are behind some of these takeovers. Then we'll find something that will lead us to a name, somebody who could have run Black Light through a flunkey like Milburn. That'll be enough to justify a more specific investigation. With luck, something will shake loose and we can get some charges, an indictment, everything else. Our job will be done. Conviction will come down the road, but that won't be our
responsibility. Justice'll do it. First we have to find a name. A head honcho. The rest just comes from shaking the tree."

"Do you think Milburn did it? Could he have been the top man? Or Radford?"

"No," Kertzman said. "Nobody would ever buy that. It would be convenient to blame Milburn because he's dead and can't defend himself. But he's a lightweight. It wouldn't fly. He didn't have the weight to set it up or keep it hidden. It had to be somebody higher. Somebody with power. Radford was never a real player. He was a gofer. A bootlicker. Whoever was running him is probably the man we want. Might even be a couple of people." He hesitated. "Could be anybody."

Carthwright just stared at the Memorial.

Kertzman studied him. His voice was old, mean. "Do you know something I don't know?"

Carthwright was turned slightly away. Kertzman thought his face was focused, intent.

"No, Kertzman, I don't know anything," Carthwright said finally. "Just trace this organization back, find out who's behind it all, and get this over with."

* * *

FORTY-TWO

Manuscript wrapped in plastic and stashed deeply within the Lowe, Gage was halfway down the trail and moving fast to clear the treacherous trap created by the crevice when he saw the light.

It had been the first, farthest touch of a familiar glow that had traveled past the entrance of the graveyard in the moonlit night and then died.

He understood instantly.

Headlights!

Headlights were coming up the wide mountain road, killed as soon as the driver spotted the entrance to the tomb; the mark of someone who did not want to be seen.

With a breath Gage was in combat mode, wind delivering to him the sounds of the engine that carried in the cold and then, also, died. He bent his head a split-second, not hearing it within the icy walls but he knew the automobile was coasting now, the engine dead, closing silently on the entrance to the tomb.

Thirty seconds! You've got thirty seconds to get out of this crevice!

He ran, having turned already, back towards the tomb.

... When trapped by a larger foe, lure them into an ambush ... Move with them, not against them ... The more desperate the situation, the more you need a single decisive blow ... Fire is the quickest means of destroying a superior force.

Gage was at the crypt, down the stairs.

They would have reached the entrance to the graveyard by now. And they wouldn't take as long to come up the path as he did. No, they'd come careful, but faster, more confident.

Gage expected Sato and Carl, the German. Also, maybe, Stern and Radford. Two for certain, maybe four. At best, he had two minutes before they reached the entrance of the mausoleum.

Gage ran across the underground chamber to the tomb of the forefather of Santacroce.

Two minutes! Move!

Slinging the MP5 across his back, he reached out and grabbed the marble slab, moving it back into place. He left it barely open, jerked off the black backpack.

Stored for easy access, the grenades were in the top of the Lowe. Gage removed them all, placed them in the bottom of the
sarcophagus. Then he broke off half a pound of C-4, mashed a portion of it inside the marble lid, half at knee-level and the rest at chest-level. He left two phosphorous grenades on the floor, outside the tomb.

Quickly, he knelt, glancing furtively, nervously, over his shoulder at the entrance.

Don't look at the entrance! Concentrate on what you're doing!

Reaching up with both hands, he shut the door even more until only a few inches remained open. Then, straining, he reached through the narrow opening, seconds flying, stuck a detonator into the lower portion of the C-4, and another.

Never trust a single detonator.

Pulling out his arm, he closed the sarcophagus another two inches, moving quickly while his hair prickled at the grinding, grating sound of marble and stone. He closed it until only a thin narrow blackness was visible.

Thirty seconds gone! Do it fast!

He had to kill the flashlight immediately. He turned to
memorize the layout of the tomb, then reached, turning off the light to cast the mausoleum into total darkness.

Finish it!

Fighting a frantic impulse, he removed the pin on the phosphorous grenade, knowing he couldn't remove it, one-handed, once the device was wedged inside the tomb. Then, with infinite caution despite his panic and the sweat that drenched his face in cold, he reached inside the tomb, carefully wedging the grenade tightly between the door and the granite wall, low, near the floor.

If they did not make a thorough search, it would be difficult to see. And in the most delicate portion of the operation, he released it, feeling softly at the lever to make sure the pressure was secure.

Discipline! Discipline!

Gage blinked sweat from his eyes. It held. Lever in place.

Done! Now get clear!

Moving with a slow, disciplined but relentless efficiency, face tight in exhausting tension, he inexorably removed his strained arm from the narrow gap. In a second he was clear, rolling and instantly hoisting his pack in a smooth motion.

He moved across the room, remembering the layout, estimating that they were at least halfway up the trail, probably using night vision.

It was too late to leave the tomb.

Gage was across the tomb, having already decided the rest of his strategy. He felt until he found a sarcophagus, close to the stairway. Instantly he pulled at the sealed door, straining.

Marble in granite. Immovable. It wouldn't budge.

Mind heated, sweat stinging his face, Gage drew Dragon, finding a familiar hold on the 14-inch slab of sharpened steel. Despite its intended purpose as a pure fighting knife, it served as an effective tool for prying, hacking and cutting.

Risking everything and with no choice, Gage jammed the tip of the blade into the narrow wedge between the marble door and the granite wall and strained, pulling until the quarter-inch thick piece of stainless steel bent, and bent even more with the groaning effort.

Nothing.

Teeth clenched, Gage twisted the blade against the marble seal, prying, pulling with desperate, savage strength.

A whispering gasp escaped his grimacing face, his brow contorting with the effort. All strength in it, he placed a booted foot against the wall, straining, straining, pulling with the sustained power of his legs and back. Finally, after a long trembling tension that racked his entire body, he felt the marble seal crack, splintering. Panting and exhausted, spent by the long and unendurable strain, in a second he had broken it, opened it.

Without a moment's respite he slid inside, shoving the
backpack ahead of him, at his feet. Squeezing himself into the close confines of the narrow space, he pulled the door toward him.

Tight! Too Tight!

He couldn't get the door closed.

Gage pushed back, felt the skeletal form, ages dead, pressed against his back.

No time for emotion! Do something!

He half-turned in the sarcophagus and savagely swept a
forearm down on the skull and ribs of the skeleton, splintering and shattering the dusty bones that collapsed in a heap at his feet with an explosion of dry dust.

Gage choked on the dust, held back a cough, and turned again, pulling the door shut, sealing himself in the grave.

* * *

FORTY-THREE

Forever.

It seemed like forever.

Gage held still, his breath quiet, subdued, listening to the darkness outside the tomb. He couldn't shift because of the dry bones that embraced him, the dust of death hanging over him, inside of him.

He closed his eyes.

In his left hand, close across his chest, he clutched the MP5, switched already to a fully automatic mode, safety off. He had retained one of the phosphorous grenades in his coat. He would use it to cover his retreat. If he had the chance.

Time, silence and time; death, dust, the grave.

He shut off his mind, his emotions, becoming one with the tomb, using everything he had learned, everything he was taught when they forced him to lay for days and nights in a thin shallow hole on the desert floor, covered only by a gauze of camouflage.

Patience; that was what it required.

Patience to lie for weeks, watching, while nothing happened. Patience that could drive a man insane—to lie utterly unmoving and concealed, monitoring an occasional, random troop movement in the far distance while centipedes and ants and scorpions crawled across him.

Silence, stillness, and Gage finally perceived a sound, a presence, outside the tomb. The shallow breath in his chest hovered, unreleased, as he opened his eyes. Using all his senses, feeling what could not be seen, he tried to become one with the tomb itself.

Until
... pale light.

A fragment of light passed beneath him, a soft touch that Gage sensed as well as he saw. He released his breath carefully, his heart racing, thumping violently in his chest in the silence, the strain of his position.

It came back to him, alive, fearful; the trauma of lying so close to the enemy, the strain of lying motionless in the dark, watching the shadow silently shift, move ... so close, unaware of him, searching for him.

And, like before, he was amazed that the thunderous beating of his heart did not reveal his position. Dimly, he recognized the familiar tension in his body, tried to relax but knew he couldn't. His hand tightened on the grip of the MP5, his finger curling, even tighter, around the trigger. He blinked the sweat out of his eyes and gritted his teeth, jaw tight, a self-caused oxygen debt building in his system, prompting him to draw a single, harsh breath.

Sound carries farther in cold air.

He waited, counting to himself.

Chest hurting!

Need air!

Gage fought it, resisted with every last measure of will, holding as still as death in the arms of death. Dust, smothering him.

No more!

They'd passed the entrance by now, would be moving toward the tomb. Gage closed his eyes and slowly, quietly, drew a shallow breath. It wasn't enough, but he felt slight relief immediately.

He pictured it all in his mind, reading the primary and
secondary blasts; the phosphorous grenade would ignite three seconds after they shifted the lid of the grave. The explosion would simultaneously ignite the C-4, shattering the marble top for a secondary, shrapnel explosion, lancing the entirety of the underground chamber from one end to the other in severing white fragments of stone. It would have a killing effect, while the last two grenades, placed into the bottom of the tomb, would also detonate the C-4, also spraying the room with steel and stone.

Gage calculated...

... Wait four seconds after the explosion to move ... Phosphorous will be everywhere ... Avoid it ... Don't step in it ... It’ll get on the boots and nothing will put it out ... Five steps to the stairs, hit the ground running and get out of the crevice ... Drop the last phosphorous grenade in the path to cover retreat ...

Seconds passed.

Gage waited.

Nothing.

Too long!

They found it!

Gage listened intently, trying to search the darkness. But he heard nothing, no sound of marble creaking at the far end of the mausoleum, no calm voices discussing methods for defusal, no sounds of frustration. Nothing.

He waited longer, panic rising

And whether it was instinct or some finely tuned, unconscious survival mechanism melded to him from 1,000 combat missions, Gage would never know. But he realized that his trap had been found. The game was up and he instantly decided:
Suicide move!

He slammed against the marble slab, brought the MP5 up, firing blindly left to right, sweeping the chamber as his mind registered all the options, the dangers, and blind zones.

... Outside: there's no way to know, could be anything waiting ... Stairs: hazard, clear them fast and firing ... Inside: cover the entire chamber in a burst, moving to the door.

Sato
!

Carl and Sato stood at the open tomb, rising, drawing weapons. It didn't matter how they
had defused the booby trap. They had somehow done it.

Nothing mattered but escape.

Gage swept fast and low, the MP5 ejecting a long stream of brass in continuous fire, the suppressor and chambering action of the weapon deafening in the underground chamber.

On the far opposite end of the mausoleum granite exploded and splintered at the shattering impact and ricochet of the rounds.

Gage glimpsed Sato rolling low and away from the pattern of fire, Carl falling back awkwardly, and it was all together, happening with his steps to the exit in a single chaotic scene.

Almost before the marble slab hit the floor Gage was at the stairs and then he was on the third step, firing over his shoulder blindly as he leaped up.

A deafening roar from inside the chamber and a granite step exploded beside his leg, slicing something across his thigh.

Hit
!

Gage shouted, took another step, and pulled the pin on the phosphorous grenade, tossing it back. He didn't hear it hit the granite, didn't turn back as he leaped wildly through the entrance and into the moonlight. He hit the ground, clearing the portal, and then the explosion erupted beneath him, filling the cavern with hateful fire.

Gage rolled, dazed, his leg numb.

Don't take a break! No time!

Drenched now in sweat in the freezing wind, he shuffled a step, felt his leg coming back to him. No time for thought but he knew what had hit him: a wild shot had struck the steps and either a bullet fragment or a slice of granite had cut across his thigh.

Already, with the way the vaguely familiar numbness was holding steady, he knew it was not a serious injury.

Beneath the ground, Gage heard the cavern burning, rumbling. He had not yet heard a secondary explosion. But it would come, he was sure. The phosphorous would soon heat the chamber to an unendurable temperature, burning everything, including the C-4.

Gage turned, running under a stronger leg. He moved quickly down the trail, the machine gun at chest-level.

Tactical reload.

He ejected the two-thirds empty clip, slammed in another with a 50-round capacity. He had almost reached their vehicle when he heard the screaming.

Whirling back, Gage saw two burning figures dash up the stairs, touched by white fire of the phosphorous. Screaming in rage, one of the shapes took three lightning quick steps, jerked off his coat, leaving it burning in the snow behind him.

The other one rolled briefly on the ground, attempting futilely to put out the phosphorous when the first man ran to him, jerked off his coat as well and cast it far to the side.

Then the tomb exploded with secondary explosions, rocking the crevice and frozen ground. Gage felt the cliffs around him tremble. Snow drifted lightly from the slopes.

The second man had rolled out of sight, far from the tunnel entrance. The other had advanced toward Gage but was knocked down by the shock wave of the secondary explosions. He now struggled to his feet.

Amazed, Gage stared.

Smoking, outlined against the white burning background of the tomb, the shape slowly stood, volcanic, enraged, staring at Gage down the length of the path.

Sato.

Gage leveled the MP5, releasing a long burst. But even as he straightened his arm to fire, Sato leaped off the end of the path behind the narrow wall, avoiding the first fierce blast that
shattered snow in a wide white mist.

Frustrated, Gage lowered the weapon. He knew he'd missed. His first impulse was to finish it, to advance back down the path.

Finish it!

He debated.

Clearly, Sato was not badly injured. Carl was in worse condition but could probably still fight.

Obviously neither of them had panicked at the first explosion, had deduced that their only chance lay in vaulting the pool of burning phosphorous. And that is what they had done. But they were hurt, now, and probably had only their handguns.

Sato would have the tanto and the Desert Eagle. He didn't know what Carl would carry.

Gage measured his chances.

It was the most profound rule of combat that made him advance back into the crevice, something he had learned by experience but that was also driven into him at the general strategy course in Virginia at the National War College: Mere endurance is not fighting. You must destroy the enemy's ability to wage war. Always victory comes from this. Do your enemy harm at every opportunity. Do him damage in a general way. Always.

Sato; the enemy's most powerful force.

Gage's eyes narrowed, cold, a frown turning the corners of his mouth: He was willing to sacrifice to take down Sato. Carl would be a bonus.

He started forward.

Time to end this game!

He didn't need the
night visor or the flashlight. A soft white glow from the burning tomb illuminated the dead end of the crevice. It warmed the walls, melting some of the ice. Even from a distance of 100 feet he felt the heat.

Holding the MP5 at a shoulder firing position he moved
steadily down the crevice, close to the wall, scanning up, down, across, eyes never locking, watching for both image and movement in the flickering white light.

Stealthily, resolutely, Gage reached the end of the crevice, passing the corner carefully... carefully.

Ice smashed into his head as the granite beside him exploded at the impact of a round.

Gage rolled, knowing the impossible origin of the shot as he came up, firing the MP5 on fully auto to blast the top of the ridge in a haze of gunfire and then he leaped back, firing still.

Sweating, breathing hard, Gage tried to understand.

The top of the ridge!

How could they have gotten to the top of the ridge?

Narrowly, Gage risked another glance at the high darkness on white snow. Saw nothing.

But they were there. Watching. Gage could feel it.

...
No way to climb the ridge in this hole without coming under fire ... Retreat ... Find another way ... But it'll take some time to retreat and find another way up the cliff ... So make them think you're staying ... Keep them in position …

Gage fired another burst from around the wall.

A vengeful volley of return fire hit the granite, missing him by inches, and then Gage was running, retreating quickly down the crevice, scanning for a fast unroped climb to the top.

"There has to be a way," he whispered harshly, breathless between clenched teeth.

He reached the back of the crevice, passing their car, a dark-colored 4x4 Jeep, and moved right, scanning. He had already seen the southern side of the ridge on the way up; the wall was too steep, too covered in ice for a fast climb. But 50 feet up the northern ridge he found a chimney, icy but broken, a good climbing hole.

Mounting the
night visor, switched to luminosity only, he entered the chimney, climbing with both hands, the automatic slung across his back. In two minutes, gasping for breath in the thin air, he was at the top, 60 feet above the trail, the same height Sato commanded. He emerged from the chimney covered with freezing mud and snow, breath heaving with gloved hands black from scrambling on the rock.

Ignoring his fatigue, Gage brought the MP5 around for
shoulder fire, moved forward. Reflexively, night hunting rules requiring it, he switched the visor to dual luminosity-heat imaging.

A creeping, balanced step; careful, soft. Snow crunched under-foot. Unavoidable noise. Gage hesitated.

He moved forward as cautiously as possible, finding rocks for placement, bent low, scanning. He tried to ignore the disturbing heat that had suddenly developed, stifling him inside the mountaineering gear.

Twenty steps and he was hot now, sweating badly. He felt the impulse to hurry. He shut it down, holding back on speed, grimly maintaining a rigidly unyielding noise discipline.

Thirty more steps and he saw them; the distant, bright red-yellow glow of two human shapes poised carefully on the lip of the canyon, gazing down into the pit where the graveyard lay.

Motionless, they were both crouched.

Gage realized they had not seen him, were still looking into the pit.