Thriller (49 page)

Henry had little trouble envisioning the MgB’s report to Stalin:

Once inside the Soviet sector, British agent Caulder was fol-

lowed to Magdeburg, where he serviced three dead drops near

the headquarters of the Third Shock Combined Arms Red Ban-

ner Army, after which he was photographed passing a message

to Colonel General Vasily Sergeyevich Belikov
.
Upon Belikov’s

arrest, a false coat button was found on his person. Inside the

button was a microdot containing a two-word message: PRO-

CEED MARIGOLD.

In Furstenberg, Agent Caulder was seen talking with Gen-

eral Yuri Pavlovich Kondrash, commander of the Second Tank

Guards Army and the Twentieth Guards Spetsnaz Diversion-

ary Brigade. Witnesses state the word
marigold
was passed be-

tween them.

In East Berlin, Agent Caulder was photographed near the

limousine of General Georgy Ivanovich Preminin, commander

of the Group of Soviet Forces Germany. Upon Preminin’s ar-

rest, his limousine was searched, and found was a small tube

containing a message: PROCEED MARIGOLD.

During questioning, Agent Caulder offered a signed confes-

sion disclosing the details of Operation Marigold and the com-

376

plicity of Belikov, Kondrash and Preminin in a plot to foment

an uprising in the Red Army and topple the Soviet government.

For his part, Henry had selectively and carefully broken every

tradecraft rule in the book: He walked undisguised into a CIA

station where he was photographed by
Stasi
watchers; he entered

East Berlin from the French sector with a poorly backstopped

cover letter; he was stopped by the VoPo, who noted his license

plate and destination, which allowed the
Stasi
to intercept him

in Magdeburg; he destroyed a tracking transmitter, a sure sign

he was about to run; finally, he was arrested with espionage paraphernalia, including a cipher book and a partially encoded message containing the word
marigold,
false travel documents and

a burst transmitter found hidden behind a wall.

From the start, Henry had been the right man for the job, but

he knew if it were to succeed, the plan required a sacrifice—a

man willing to punch a one-way ticket.

The cancer had made his decision easy.

He heard the scrape of the colonel’s pistol sliding from its

leather holster, followed by the clicking of heels on concrete. He

imagined the pistol drawing level with his skull, the cold muzzle hovering over his skin.
No regrets, Henry
.
You made a differ-

ence
.
You went down like a lion
.

“Colonel,” Henry said without turning. “A favor? One professional to another?”

A pause. Then, “What is it?”

“I’d like to see the sun one more time.”

Silence.

Henry squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath.

“Very well, Henry,” the colonel said. “Stand up, I’ll take you.”

In the months following Henry Caulder’s arrest, hundreds of of-

ficers from units across the GSFG were tried and either executed or

imprisoned for treason to the motherland. The purge spread quickly,

377

first to associated commands, then to the civilian political ranks, and

finally to GRU military intelligence. By the end of February thou-

sands had disappeared into Lubyanka’s basement.

On March 5, 1953, Joseph Stalin died in his sleep.

F. Paul Wilson’s urban mercenary Repairman Jack first appeared in his
New York Times
bestselling novel
The Tomb
.

Here are some Jack facts:

The “Repairman” moniker was
not
his idea.

Jack is a denizen of Manhattan who dwells in the interstices

of modern society. He has no official identity, no social security number, pays no taxes. When you lose faith in the system,

or the system lets you down, you go to a guy who’s outside the

system. That’s Jack. But he’s not a do-gooder. He’s a career

criminal and works strictly fee-for-service.

Jack considers himself a small businessman and tries not

to get emotionally involved, though he almost always gets

emotionally involved. He has a violent streak that worries

him at times. A firm believer in Murphy’s Law, he thoroughly

preplans his fix-its. But things rarely go as planned, and that

makes him irritable.

He’s low-tech—not a Luddite, but he believes technology

is especially vulnerable to Murphy’s Law. He believes that

men
are
from Mars, women
are
from Venus, and government

is
from Uranus.

Wilson left Jack dying at the end of
The Tomb
, but resur-
380

rected him fourteen years later in
Legacies
. Since then he has

written seven more Repairman Jack novels. Born and raised

in New Jersey, Paul misspent his youth playing with matches

and reading DC comics. He’s the author of thirty-two novels and one hundred short stories ranging from horror to

science fiction to contemporary thrillers, and virtually everything in between. He lives at the Jersey Shore, and when not

haunting eBay for strange clocks and Daddy Warbucks memorabilia, he dreams up another Repairman Jack tale, like

Interlude at Duane’s.

INTERLUDE AT DUANE’S

“Lemme tell you, Jack,” Loretta said as they chugged along West

Fifty-eighth, “these changes gots me in a baaaad mood. Real

bad. My feets killin me, too. Nobody better hassle me afore I’m

home and on the outside of a big ol glass of Jimmy.”

Jack nodded, paying just enough attention to be polite. He was

more interested in the passersby and was thinking how a day

without your carry was like a day without clothes.

He felt naked. He’d had to leave his trusty Glock and backup

home today because of his annual trip to the Empire State Building. He’d designated April 19th King Kong Day. Every year he

made a pilgrimage to the observation deck to leave a little wreath

in memory of the Big Guy. The major drawback to the outing was

the metal detector everyone had to pass through before heading

upstairs. That meant no heat.

Jack didn’t think he was being paranoid. Okay, maybe a little,

but he’d pissed off his share of people in this city and didn’t care

to run into them naked.

After the wreath-laying ceremony, he decided to walk back to

his place on the West Side and ran into Loretta along the way.

382

They went back a dozen or so years to when both waited tables at a long-extinct trattoria on West Fourth. She’d been fresh

up from Mississippi then, and he only a few years out of Jersey.

Agewise, Loretta had a good decade on Jack, maybe more—

might even be knocking on the door to fifty. Had a good hundred pounds on him as well. She’d dyed her Chia Pet hair orange

and sheathed herself in some shapeless, green-and-yellow thing

that made her look like a brown manatee in a muumuu.

She stopped and stared at a black cocktail dress in a boutique

window.

“Ain’t that pretty. ’Course I’ll have to wait till I’m cremated

afore I fits into it.”

They continued to Sixth Avenue. As they stopped on the corner and waited for the walking green, two Asian women came

up to her.

The taller one said, “You know where Saks Fifth Avenue is?”

Loretta scowled. “On Fifth Avenue, fool.” Then she took a

breath and jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “That way.”

Jack looked at her. “You weren’t kidding about the bad mood.”

“You ever know me to kid, Jack?” She glanced around. “Sweet

Jesus, I need me some comfort food. Like some chocolatepeanut-butter-swirl ice cream.” She pointed to the Duane Reade

on the opposite corner. “There.”

“That’s a drugstore.”

“Honey, you know better’n that. Duane’s got everything. Shoot,

if mine had a butcher section I wouldn’t have to shop nowheres

else. Come on.”

Before he could opt out, she grabbed his arm and started hauling him across the street.

“I specially like their makeup. Some places just carry Cover

Girl, y’know, which is fine if you a Wonder bread blonde. Don’t

know if you noticed, but white ain’t zackly a big color in these

parts. Everybody’s darker. Cept you, a course. I know you don’t

like attention, Jack, but if you had a smidge of coffee in your

cream you’d be
really
invisible.”

383

Jack expended a lot of effort on being invisible. He’d inherited a good start with his average height, average build, average

brown hair and nondescript face. Today he’d accessorized with

a Mets cap, flannel shirt, worn Levi’s and battered work boots.

Just another guy, maybe a construction worker, ambling along

the streets of Zoo York.

Jack slowed as they approached the door.

“I think I’ll take a rain check, Lo.”

She tightened her grip on his arm. “Hell you will. I need some

company. I’ll even buy you a Dew. Caffeine still your drug of

choice?”

“Yeah. Until it’s time for a beer.” He eased his arm free. “Okay, I’ll

spring for five minutes, but after that, I’m gone. Got things to do.”

“Five minutes ain’t nuthin, but okay.”

“You go ahead. I’ll be right with you.”

He slowed in her wake so he could check out the entrance.

He spotted a camera just inside the door, trained on the comers

and goers.

He tugged down the brim of his hat and lowered his head. He

was catching up to Loretta when he heard a loud, heavily accented voice.

“
Mira! Mira! Mira!
Look at the fine ass on you!”

Jack hoped that wasn’t meant for him. He raised his head far

enough to see a grinning, mustachioed Latino leaning on the

building wall outside the doorway. A maroon gym bag sat at his

feet. He had glossy, slicked-back hair and prison tats on the

backs of his hands.

Loretta stopped and stared at him. “You better not be talkin a

me!”

His grin widened. “But
señorita,
in my country it is a privilege

for a woman to be praised by someone like me.”

“And just where is this country of yours?”

“Ecuador.”

“Well, you in New York now, honey, and I’m a bitch from the

Bronx. Talk to me like that again and I’m gonna Bruce Lee yo ass.”

384

“But I know you would like to sit on my face.”

“Why? Yo nose bigger’n yo dick?”

This cracked up a couple of teenage girls leaving the store. Mr.

Ecuador’s face darkened. He didn’t seem to appreciate the joke.

Head down, Jack crowded close behind Loretta as she entered

the store.

She said, “Told you I was in a bad mood.”

“That you did, that you did. Five minutes, Loretta, okay?”

“I hear you.”

He glanced over his shoulder and saw Mr. Ecuador pick up

his gym bag and follow them inside.

Jack paused as Loretta veered off toward one of the cosmetic

aisles. He watched to see if Ecuador was going to hassle her, but

he kept on going, heading toward the rear.

Duane Reade drugstores are a staple of New York life. The city

has hundreds of them. Only the hoity-toitiest Upper East Siders

hadn’t been in one dozens if not hundreds of times. Their most

consistent feature was their lack of consistency. No two were the

same size or laid out alike. Okay, they all kept the cosmetics near

the front, but after that it became anyone’s guess where something might be hiding. Jack could see the method to that madness: The more time people had to spend looking for what they’d

come for, the greater their chances of picking up things they

hadn’t.

This one seemed fairly empty and Jack assigned himself the

task of finding the ice cream to speed their departure. He set off

through the aisles and quickly became disoriented. The overall

space was L-shaped, but instead of running in parallel paths to

the rear, the aisles zigged and zagged. Whoever laid out this

place was either a devotee of chaos theory or a crop-circle designer.

He was wandering among the six-foot-high shelves and passing the hemorrhoid treatments when he heard a harsh voice behind him.

“Keep movin, yo. Alla way to the back.”

385

Jack looked and saw a big, steroidal black guy in a red tank

top. The overhead fluorescents gleamed off his shaven scalp. He

had a fat scar running through his left eyebrow, glassy eyes and

held a snub-nose .38-caliber revolver—the classic Saturday night

special.

Jack kept his cool and held his ground. “What’s up?”

The guy raised the gun, holding it sideways like in the movies,

the way no one who knew squat about pistols would hold it.

“Ay yo, get yo ass in gear fore I bust one in yo face.”

Jack waited a couple more seconds to see if the guy would

move closer and put the pistol within reach. But he didn’t. Too

experienced maybe.

Not good. The big question was whether this was personal or

not. When he saw the gaggle of frightened-looking people—the

white-coated ones obviously pharmacists—kneeling before the

pharmacy counter with their hands behind their necks, he figured it wasn’t.