Black Ghosts Page 7

  “Well, to make a long story short, they had developed a sophisticated communication device.” Larry was now choosing his words carefully to get the most out of his limited energy. “It’s called the Emergency Total Band Replacement Broadcast Array, or “Barby” for short. It’s an emergency broadcast system, meant to override normal communication channels both on TV and radio. If a major emergency—hurricane, flood, earthquake, etc.—were to threaten a wide area or even the entire United States, warnings and rescue communications could be broadcast using the array. It would interrupt and block out normal broadcasts for as long as was necessary to communicate the emergency messages.”

  “Big brother never sleeps,” said Edward.

  Larry returned a faint smile. “Big brother is in deep shit. Barby is still in the experimental stages.”

  He slowly explained that a multitude of components had been built in various parts of the country, and FEMA had brought them all to Hill Air Force Base, where the array would be assembled and tested. According to Donoven, it was the array the Russians wanted.

  As far as Larry could figure, based on the communications Donoven had deciphered, the array was already in Russia or on its way there. Yet officially, all was well, and the array assembly and testing would begin shortly. They were only waiting for a final element called a Software Configuration Initializer, or SCI—the electronic key to the whole system. The SCI could only be complete after all the system configurations were known; that is, after all the other components of the system were built. That microcircuit was the key Larry needed to prevent the array from being activated.

  Larry knew from a source he had in FEMA that the final element had been ready for several days. It was to have been transferred from the labs at Kirkland Air Force Base in New Mexico to the STS center at Hill Air Force Base. Larry knew he had to get his hands on that device as soon as it came in.

  Accompanied by Natalie, Larry made his way to Salt Lake City. He had informed Bud at the NAC of his intentions and, after some protest regarding the method he was about to use to retrieve the unit, he got the man’s approval. Larry made arrangements with Bud that he send a backup team to the base, and Bud gave him a rendezvous point where he would hand over the device. He had a nonoperational replica with him which he was going to plant in place of the real device. “There was no reason to let them know we were on to them,” he said, reaching for the water. Natalie almost fell off the bed as she jumped to get the glass for him. “It’s okay,” Larry said, his voice low and hoarse. “I can get it. I guess the painkillers have finally kicked in.”

  “Should I get you another one?” she asked.

  “No, not just now. I’ll wait awhile. Really, I’m fine.”

  Natalie sat on the chair by the window, next to Edward. He could feel her almost touching him.

  “So what you’re saying is that this guy Bud is a bad apple?”

  “It looks that way. He was the one who sent the backup. I was lucky I didn’t trust him with Natalie.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “He didn’t know about her. He thought I was coming in alone. If it wasn’t for her, I’d be dead now.” Edward nodded. Natalie smiled.

  Larry described the way he got into the base and replaced the unit. Then he repeated the exact story Natalie had told Edward about what happened outside the base. He was a little fuzzy about how he finally got into the car and how she got the circuit, but that was quite understandable considering his condition.

  “Well,” Edward said, getting up, “I guess that means mission accomplished, after all. Now all you have to do is get back on your feet, get back to Washington, and straighten it all out.”

  “According to Donoven,” Larry said, repositioning himself on the bed, “the Russians were requesting that the Patriots supply them with a cache of weapons in the U.S. They’re planning a hit in the United States, and they don’t want to be caught smuggling the stuff in.”

  “That’s a smart move. If they can trust these Patriots, that is.”

  “They can and they do.”

  “Do you have any idea what they are asking for? I mean if you knew what weapons they are going to be using, you might be able to figure out what or who their target is.”

  “That I doubt. They were asking mainly for light arms: The target could be anyone, anywhere.”

  “So you have no idea who the target is? Or could be?”

  “Not a clue, except that he’s of importance to them. And the hit is supposed to go down any time now.”

  “Okay,” said Edward. “So now what?” He felt a momentary sense of relief that he was not being dragged back into the marshland of intelligence intrigue.

  “I should be back on my feet and out of your hair in a couple of days,” Larry said bravely.

  Edward had to be content with that. But he knew things were never that simple, and he had a feeling it was not over yet. Leaving Larry to rest awhile, he went downstairs. Seating himself at a table by the window, he sipped his coffee and started to prepare tomorrow’s menu. Someone had left a newspaper on the opposite seat. A big headline caught his eye: “The Queensboro Bridge Massacre.” The subhead read, “Russian envoy dead after bizarre attack in New York City.”

  He crossed the dining room in a flash on his way to the kitchen. Getting up the stairs to his flat in three giant steps, he rushed into the bedroom, almost out of breath, and handed Larry the newspaper. “Here it is,” he said. “Read this.”

  Larry’s eyes flicked rapidly across the page. Soon he was nodding his head. “Yep, sure looks like it.” He read the article a second time, a frown creasing his pale forehead. “We need to know more about this.”

  Edward gave him a steady look. “We, paleface? I don’t even want to know. I—not we. I am me and you are you, and that’s the way it’s going to stay.”

  Larry was silent for a moment. “What do you want me to say? Come on, Edward, what would you do in my place?”

  “That’s just it, I don’t want to be in your place.”

  “Well, you should have turned me away when you had the chance.” His voice took on a pleading tone. “Edward, we need to bring these guys down.”

  Edward knew what Larry was asking. “What does this have to do with me? I’m a restaurateur. I bake croissants.”

  For the first time since his collision with the bullet, Larry betrayed some real fire. “Come on, Edward! So you’ve been out of the game for a while. But you’ve got the contacts, the know-how. Look at me, man. I’m not going anywhere. I need you to help me. As a friend. More than that, your country needs you.”

  Edward didn’t say a word. He turned and went looking for Kelly in the bistro. He found her at his desk, in the little office, doing some accounting.

  “Listen, Kel, I’m going to New York for a couple of days.”

  She smiled, her dimples deepened. “Is Natalie going with you?”

  “No, she’ll stay here. You’ll be okay minding the store?”

  “Sure, no problem.” Kelly clipped some receipts together, filing them away as they spoke. Something was still bothering Edward.

  Larry had Natalie bring him the phone, then she disappeared into the bathroom to take a shower. Soon the sound of running water could be heard. Larry dialed a number, then listened for several seconds. He heard a series of beeps. He punched in a second number, then waited again until someone came on the line. Larry spoke urgently, then listened. As Edward returned, he was just hanging up.

  “Who was that?” Edward asked. The fact that Larry was on the phone surprised him.

  “I talked to Donoven.”

  “From here?” Edward looked alarmed.

  “Don’t worry. I rerouted the call.”

  “Okay. So what did he say?”

  “We were right. That was the hit.”

  “Does he have anything else?”

  “He said he has, but he wants to be paid before he says what.”

  “Did you ever screw him?”

  “No, but that�
��s the kind of guy he is. He’s coming to New York; the Foundation is sending him to check for loose ends after the hit. I set up a meeting for you with him.”

  “You did what?” Edward almost went through the roof. “How could you do that without asking me? What kind of security arrangements did you make? What the hell do you think you’re doing, waltzing in and rearranging my life?”

  “Calm down, Edward. He was on his way to the airport. I was lucky to get ahold of him. He gave me a phone number where you can reach him in New York. You set up your own security, damn it. What the hell do you take me for? And one more thing, and I will say it only once. If I had any choice it wouldn’t be you, okay? However, I don’t, and neither do you.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Ritz Hotel, New York City

  February 20

  14:00 hours

  New York no longer tempted Edward; now it bothered him at best. He remembered when the heartbeat of the big city vibrated through him as he walked its marble canyons, blending into the endless streams of mentally cocooned individuals. In no other city or culture had he run into so many people struggling to manifest their individuality, so often compromised by sheer numbers. In those days, he was able to marvel at it all, but now it was just a big apathetic city with an attitude.

  He called Robert from his room at the Ritz. Robert King was an old comrade-in-arms from military intelligence. After leaving Alpha 27 he joined the NYPD and rather quickly made detective.

  “Look, Edward,” the man said, drawling out the words in his Boston accent, which had brought him more than one strange glance in his work. “I wish I could help, but I’m not involved in that investigation.”

  “I understand.” Edward paused for a second. “I don’t really care much about the investigation and who did it. I need to find out more about what actually took place, and I don’t mean the garbage you guys feed the media.”

  “Edward, is there something I should know about this thing? Is there something here we should be looking into?”

  “Don’t turn cop on me, Bob.”

  “That’s what I am, man. If you know something, tell me. We lost some good men on that bridge and I sure would like to nail whoever did that.” There was a slight hesitation, then he said, “Edward, I want us to nail the bastards even if they’re somehow related to us, do you understand?”

  “If I find out something you’ll be the first to know,” Edward lied. “At the moment I’m still looking. So what can you tell me?”

  “Not much, although I heard people talking around the precinct. They say it was gruesome, as you said, much more than was let on to the media. If you want, I can put you in touch with the duty captain, fellow named McPhee. He was on the bridge when it all happened.”

  “I thought everybody who was on the bridge died.”

  “Well, everybody except him, and he was running the operation.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me. You haven’t met the guy.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s a brute. Lives on raw meat and whiskey. The man thinks G. Gordon Liddy is an intellectual. He never had a good disposition, and since the attack he’s practically intolerable. Was in country around the same time you were, Marine. Maybe you guys can swap war stories.” Robert chuckled.

  “How can I get in touch with him?”

  “Where are you?”

  “The Ritz,” said Edward.

  “Under what name?”

  “Real name. I told you, this is a favor for a friend. I’m not part of that game anymore.”

  “Right.” Robert sounded doubtful. “I’ll have McPhee call you there. Shouldn’t be more than a couple hours. You take care now. We should get together before you leave. Call me, you hear?”

  “Will do.” They both knew it would never happen; it was only lip service. They each had a life, at least Robert did, and reminiscing about the time he was part of a heap of disposable flesh was not tempting.

  Edward was disheartened that he had to wait for someone else to dictate a timetable, but there was nothing he could do about that. He counted himself lucky to have found the sole survivor of the attack. He would have to wait until after he’d set up a meeting with the captain before he could move on to the next item on the agenda, which was to try to contact Donoven.

  He intended to call Donoven from the Ritz and make all the arrangements by phone from there. At the end of the day, however, after verifying he was not under surveillance, he would take himself to some small, out-of-the-way motel, allowing whoever might be looking for him to wait around an empty room at the Ritz.

  After his fourth cup of coffee he was tempted to buy a packet of cigarettes, something he hadn’t done for a long time. Now more than ever, he was reminded of the old days, of how it felt to be on an operation. It was the waiting that got to him—hurry up and wait, as the saying went—waiting on the edge of your nerves, ready for anything, doing nothing.

  At last, at three minutes past five, the phone rang.

  “Yes?”

  “Is that Edward?”

  “Right.”

  “McPhee here,” said a voice like gravel. “Anthony’s Bar and Grill, 28th and 4th. Think you can find it?”

  “Sure.”

  “Six thirty. Tell the girls at the door you’re looking for me. They’ll bring you over.” Then a click. Things were starting to move.

  18:28 hours

  Anthony’s Bar and Grill was in a seedy part of town, sandwiched between a peep show and a massage parlor. Several large loudspeakers were blasting deafening rock music that seemed to entertain no one except the greasy-haired man in the small glass booth in the corner of the cavernous room, seemingly empty at first glance. In another corner Edward saw a naked woman dancing on a small stool in front of two grinning fat men who kept leaning closer and closer to her. A few more men were seated around a long, narrow stage protruding from a curtained doorway in the back wall. A ring of tiny white lights, several of which were defective, edged the stage, making it look like a gaping mouth with missing teeth.

  As McPhee had said, once Edward mentioned his name he was ushered to a small booth across from the rhythmless naked lady.

  “Goddamnedest thing I ever saw,” said McPhee, stubbing out his cigar on the remains of a very rare steak on the plate in front of him. “Twenty guys, jumping off into thin air. Then I saw the bungee cords and I figured it out. Before I could do a thing they were off the bridge and out of my jurisdiction. My radio was all shot up, the helicopters were blown out of the sky. And where is the fucking Coast Guard when you need them?”

  “Did they find anything?” said Edward.

  “They found the launches the next day, abandoned in different parts of the harbor.”

  “How many launches were there?”

  “Five. One on the Queens side, four in Manhattan. Not a mark on them. We found their gear, too, all of it—well, whatever they didn’t leave up on the bridge. Gas masks, bulletproof vests, waterproof coveralls. We figure the bastards just unzipped their coveralls, climbed out in street clothes, and melted into the crowds. They could be anywhere now.” He gave Edward a look that mingled boredom and disgust. “You could be one of them, for all the fuck I know.”

  “Who do you think they were?”

  McPhee shrugged, glancing over Edward’s shoulder at the dancer now bending over her two patrons. “Search me. I’ll tell you one thing, though: These guys were pros. No mistake about that. I tell you, that bridge was a mess, fire everywhere, reminded me when Charlie would target a firebase back in country. They had guns, they had Stingers, they had fucking antitank missiles, for God’s sake. They left everything up there—weapons, casings, rocket launchers, everything. The best stuff too. And you know what? Not a mark on it, any of it. Not a serial number, not a fingerprint, not a hair. Forensically spotless. Untraceable. Fuckin’ incredible.”

  “What about the bungee cords?”

  “Good thinking. The FBI traced them to Australia. The outfit th
ere said they were stolen just a few days ago.” McPhee lit another cigar. He was a one-man smoking section.

  “Twenty-eight goddamn corpses up on that bridge. Twenty-eight! I was lucky not to be one of them.”

  “Any other survivors?”

  McPhee’s mood seemed to shift from surly to belligerent. “Who are you, anyway?”

  “Didn’t Bob tell you?”

  “I asked you.”

  “Just a guy looking for answers.”

  “Are you a fucking reporter?”

  “No, this is a favor for a friend, that’s all.”

  McPhee shrugged apathetically. “Who cares, anyway? There was one more survivor, a guy from the motorcycle detail. He was laying on the ground, dead still, but he had his eyes open. He died at the hospital a couple of hours ago.”

  “Did he see anything?”

  “Matter of fact he did. He said that after they’d trashed everything, the general’s limo was still standing there, like they were keeping the best for last, you know? He saw a bunch of them blow their way into the limo, shooting everything that moved. Then there was nothing for about three minutes. He couldn’t see what they were doing in there, but whatever it was, it was keeping them pretty busy. Then he hears somebody yelling something, the bugger thinks it was in Russian, but who knows what you hear when you’re half-fried and your backbone is in pieces. Then they get out of the limo, blood trailing everywhere. And two of them were carrying a metal container, like a big aluminum camera case.”

  “Any idea what was in it?”

  McPhee chewed his cigar and shot Edward a speculative glance.

  “I wouldn’t like to say,” he said. “But you can figure it out for yourself.”

  “How come?”

  “Later, when the forensic boys went into the limo, underneath the blood they found four corpses, a lotta bullets, and a wire handsaw.”

  “A handsaw?”

  “That’s right. Oh, and one other thing I forgot to mention. They found the general, sitting there with his stars and braids and medals. Only his head was missing.”