Created, the Destroyer

CHAPTER NINE

For five years, the routine was the same until two a.m. one spring morning when MacCleary was trying to put himself to sleep with his second pint of rye, and Smith rapped on the door to his Folcroft suite.

«Stay out,» MacCleary yelled. «Whoever you are.»

The door opened slowly and a hand snaked its way to the light switch. MacCleary sat in his shorts on a large purple pillow, cradling the bottle between his legs.

«Oh, it's you,» he said to Smith who was dressed as though it were noon, in white shirt, striped tie and the eternal gray suit.

«How many gray suits you got, Smitty?»

«Seven. Sober up. It's important.»

«Everything's important to you. Paper clips, carbon paper, dinner scraps.» He watched Smith glance around the room at the assorted pornography in oils, photographs and sketches, the 8-foot high cabinet stacked with bottles of rye, the pillows scattered on the floor and finally to MacCleary's pink shorts.

«As you know, we've had problems in the New York City area. We have lost seven men without recovering even one body. As you know, we have a problem with a man named Maxwell whom we don't even have a line on.»

«Really? That's interesting. I wondered what happened to all those people. Funny we didn't see them around.»

«We're going to low profile in New York until we have our new unit ready.»

«More fodder.»

«Not this time.» Smith shut the door behind him. «We've been given permission, highly selective but permission nevertheless, to use force. A license to kill.»

MacCleary sat upright. He put down the bottle. «It's about time. Just five men. That's all I need. First, we'll get your Maxwell. And then the whole country.»

«There will be one man. You will recruit him this week and set up his training program in thirty days.»

«You're out of your bloody mind.» MacCleary jumped from the pillows and paced the room. «You're out of your goddam mind,» he shouted. «One man?»

«Yes.»

«How did you get us roped into that deal?»

«You know why we never had this type of personnel before. Upstairs was afraid. They're still afraid. But they figure one man can't do much harm and if he does, he's easily removable.»

«They're damned right he won't do much harm. He won't do much good either. He won't make enough of a splash to wipe up. And when he gets it?»

«You recruit another.»

«You mean we don't even have one on standby? We assume our man's indestructible?»

«We assume nothing.»

«You don't need a man for that job,» MacCleary snarled. «You need Captain Marvel. Dammit, Smitty.» MacCleary picked up the bottle and then threw it against the wall. It hit something and did not break, only increasing his anger. «Dammit, Smitty. Do you know anything about killing? Do you?»

«I've been associated with these projects before.»

«Do you know that out of fifty men, you might get one halfway competent agent for this type of work? One out of fifty. And I've got to get one out of one.»

«Make sure you get a good one,» was Smith's calm reply.

«Good? Oh, he'll have to be good. He'll have to be a gem.»

«You'll have the finest training facilities for him. Your personnel budget is unlimited. You can have five… six instructors.»

MacCleary propped himself on the couch, right on Smith's jacket. «Couldn't do it with less than twenty.»

«Eight,» Smith said.

«Fifteen.»

«Nine.»

«Eleven.»

«Ten.»

«Eleven,» MacCleary insisted. «Body contact, motions, locks, armaments, conditions, codes, language, psychology. Couldn't do it with less than eleven instructors. All full time and then it would take at least six months.»

«Eleven instructors and three months.»

«Five months.»

«All right, eleven men and five months,» Smith said. «Do you know of any agent who would be suited for this? Anybody in the CIA?»

«Not the superman you want.»

«How long to find one?»

«May never find one,» MacCleary said, rummaging in the liquor cabinet. «Killers aren't made, they're born.»

«Rubbish. Lots of men, clerks, shopkeepers, anybody turn into killers in war.»

«They don't turn into killers, Smitty. They find out that they were killers. They were born that way. And what makes this damned thing so tough is that you don't always find them wearing guns. Sometimes, the really good ones have an aversion to violence. They avoid it. They know in their hearts, what they are, like the alky who takes one drink. They know what that drink means. It's the same with killing.»

MacCleary stretched out on the couch and began opening a new bottle. He waved at Smith as if to dismiss him. «I'll try to find one.»

The next morning, Smith was in his office drinking his fourth alka seltzer to wash down his third aspirin, when MacCleary entered with a bounce. He walked to the picture window and stared at the sound.

«What do you want?» Smith growled.

«I think I know our man.»

«Who is he? What does he do?»

«I don't know. I saw him once in Vietnam.»

«Get him,» Smith said. «And you get out of here,» he added as he popped another aspirin into his mouth. He called casually after MacCleary's back as he headed for the door: «Oh, there's a new wrinkle. One more little thing upstairs wants from your man.» He spun toward the window. «The man we get cannot exist,» he said.

MacCleary's grin evaporated into astonishment.

«He cannot exist,» Smith repeated. «No one anyone can trace. He has to be a man who doesn't exist, for a job that doesn't exist, in an organization that doesn't exist.»

He finally looked up. «Any questions?»

MacCleary started to say something, changed his mind, turned around and walked out.

It had taken four months. And now CURE had its man who didn't exist. He had died the night before in an electric chair.