Fatal Harbor

CHAPTER THIRTY

The next day started off with me feeling like a winner, but ended quite differently indeed.

I came down to the lobby, trying to decide if I was going to have breakfast in the Lafayette House’s fine dining room, or go get something a bit more basic at one of the local diners that are scattered along Route 1 and Route 1-A. I was tired of eating fine breakfasts that not only clogged my arteries, but also made me feel heavy and bloated for the rest of the day. Besides missing everything else about my burned-down home, I also missed just grabbing meals from there and cooking for myself.

I was thinking through what to do when the decision was made for me: Lawrence Thomas was waiting for me at the entrance to the dining room.

I went over, still using my cane, leg still aching, and he smiled and nodded at me.

“So good to see you,” he said. “Buy you breakfast?”

“A deal,” I said, and the helpful hostess gave us a corner spot that had a great view of the ocean, the Lafayette House’s parking lot, and a bit of blue that marked the tarpaulin that was still nailed and secured to the collapsed roof of my house.

We made some chit-chat about the weather, about travel, and after our respective meals were ordered, he said, “A few words of appreciation before we eat.”

“The appreciation is all mine,” I said. “If it wasn’t for you sending Suraj to tail me, I’d be a dead man.”

An appreciative nod. “You bear no ill will, then, for my having you followed?”

“Absolutely not. It worked out… he seems quite the soldier.”

Cups of coffee arrived and, as he was working his spoon in the mug, he said: “Not to mince words, but he’s a killer. A sweet, loyal, and capable man, but a killer nonetheless.”

“He said he owed you his life in Afghanistan. What happened?”

Lawrence gently tap-tapped the side of the spoon against his mug. His voice became reflective. “We were at a remote forward operating base, near the Pakistani border. Conducting cross-border surveillance. One night we were attacked. Surveillance can go both ways, you know. The night was long and bloody. I was at the wire, too, an M-4 in my hands, doing what I could. Suraj and his squad were incredible. One outpost… they ran out of rounds and one of the Gurkhas was swinging at the Taliban with a machine gun tripod. In the morning, it was a mess, but we had held on. Suraj had taken a round to the belly. He was triaged to be left behind. When a medevac flew in, I insisted they take him along. Some would say I insisted too much.”

“How much was too much?”

He took a genteel sip from his coffee cup. “I put my Colt pistol against the helicopter crew chief’s head and told him that either Suraj was going, or his brains were going to be splattered across the near bulkhead. He saw the error of his ways and found a way to take him.”

“I can see why he has such loyalty to you,” I said. “If I may… how did he get… the heads to you?”

Lawrence looked shocked. “They didn’t come to me… I mean, please, what do you think, I’m a barbarian?”

I couldn’t think of an answer, and Lawrence went on. “They went to a trusted colleague of mine at the Agency, in charge of a forensics division. Through dental records, photographs, and DNA analysis, we were able to identify the three individuals.”

I could see our waitress approaching. “You used that information later, didn’t you? To cancel the op against me.”

He smiled. “Very good analysis,” Lawrence said. “That’s exactly what I did. You know the phrase ‘walking back the cat’? That’s what I did, once I got Curt Chesak’s real name and the names of the two other men. Walked back the cat until I got to their overseers. I contacted them, told them to cease and desist any activities against you and your friends, or else their activities would be made public.”

The waitress was very close. “Thank you,” I said. “I owe you one. I owe you a lot.”

She stopped by, and the dishes were being put on the table. He said, “Would you like to know who they were?”

“No,” I said. “I wouldn’t.”

He had a cheese-and-eggwhite omelet, while I made do with buttermilk pancakes, sausage links, and real maple syrup, which was dispensed in little jars because the real stuff is so much more expensive than the cane-sugar syrup made to look brown that is dispensed at most restaurants.

When breakfast was done and the dishes were cleared away, Lawrence said: “One more piece of business to settle, if I may.”

“Go right ahead.”

He took out a cell phone — and it looked standard, not like the 007 phone he had given me before — and he dialed a number, paused, and said, “It’s time” and hung up.

Lawrence picked up his cup of coffee, and I was about to do the same, but my hand froze.

Coming across the floor of the restaurant, with a disturbed look on her face, was my former boss, Denise Pichette-Volk of Shoreline magazine.

Lawrence stood up, wiped his hands on his napkin, extended his hand. “Denise, so nice to finally make your acquaintance. Do sit down.”

She looked about the same as when I had last seen her, at the magazine’s offices in Boston, though her black hair had been trimmed some. She had on dark slacks, a black sweater, a tan cloth overcoat, and some multi-colored scarf that looked like it had been made by human hands over many, many hours.

I looked at her, she looked at me, and she said, “Can we make this quick, please?”

Lawrence sat down. “Certainly. Care for some coffee, juice, something to nibble on?”

“No.” Her voice was flat.

“Straight to business, then?”

“That’s what I said.”

I cleared my throat. “Gee, nice to see you, too, Denise. How’s things?”

Her face darkened, but she didn’t say a word. Lawrence said: “Some time ago, Anthony Seamus Holbrook was running that shop, wasn’t he? A retired admiral.”

“That’s right,” I said. “He’s out on medical leave, which is why… Denise came aboard.”

She leaned back in her chair, stuffed both manicured hands in her pockets. Lawrence said, “Oh, yes. The official story.”

This was getting interesting. “What the hell do you mean by that?”

“I mean that I know Admiral Holbrook. Our paths have crossed a few times in the past years, and a few months ago he was called back to active duty. All secret, of course, but in his years in the service, he managed to make some… contacts with officers and elected officials who are now in positions of power in a variety of governments. These officials tend to value old men, with their knowledge and experience, and that’s what the good admiral has been doing. In his place, Denise came aboard. But let me say that, in spite of her no-doubt good intentions, she exceeded her authority in the matter of you, Lewis. And once Admiral Holbrook found this out, he was not happy.”

I couldn’t help myself. I was grinning. “Let me guess. I’m getting my job back as a columnist.”

Then I stopped grinning when I heard what Lawrence said next. “Not exactly,” he said. “You’re going to have Denise’s job.”

This time it was Denise’s turn to smile, as small as it was, and I turned to Lawrence and said: “You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not. I talked this through with Admiral Holbrook, over a phone connection that sounded like it was active when Mister Bell was tromping the streets of Boston. We both agreed that you had been treated poorly, and that compensation should be arranged. Instead of giving you back your columnist job, we believed it would suit both you and the magazine for you to become its editor.”

“I don’t want the job.”

“Hear me out, Lewis. You won’t be by yourself. Denise has agreed to stay on as a consultant and help you.”

She was still smiling, and I was hoping to erase that expression. “Excuse me again, but I find it hard to be in the same state as her, never mind sharing an office or work responsibility.”

“You proved by what you did for me that you have an extraordinary range of talents and drive. Don’t sell yourself short.”

“I’m not selling anything,” I said sharply. “You are, and you’re doing a lousy job.” He started to talk again, and I interrupted him. “Wait a sec. You said the Admiral has been called back into service. Have you?”

His face was expressionless. I said, “When I first started at Shoreline, the Admiral told me that the magazine was sometimes used as a resource or cover to help out certain agencies. That’s still true, isn’t it? Damn you, you’re trying to call me back into service, aren’t you?”

Denise spoke up. “This Boy Scout chatter is really getting me excited, but if you don’t mind, I’d rather leave.”

She got out of her chair, waved bye-bye with her right hand like an eight-year-old girl, and said, “Good luck, Lewis. Welcome aboard. I hope you choke on it.”

When Denise had left, I said, “Hear me once, and that’s it. I’m not going to be an editor. I’m not working in Boston. I’m not coming back. I like my life just as it is, and nothing you say will change that.”

Lawrence smiled gently. “And what life is that? Daily visits to a comatose patient? No job? I know your monetary status right down to the penny, Lewis. Your burned-out house is across the street, open to the elements. What are you going to do when the winter storms start up in a week or two? And I know you don’t have the funds to get it repaired.”

I resisted an urge to look out the window.

I also resisted an urge to sock him one.

He said, “Appeals to your patriotism might not work. You’ve been around way too long for that. But an appeal to your realistic nature should. The job would pay well. You can keep your house here for weekend visits. Maybe set up an apartment in Boston. Widen your circle of friends.”

My voice was bitter without even trying. “I’d hate every goddamn second of it.”

Now it was his turn to get up from his chair. “Spend some time working on your résumé, Lewis. See what that might get you. Try to figure out if working at McDonald’s or as a supermarket bagger will help you get what you need.”

“I want to talk to the Admiral.”

“Sorry, no can do. He’s in a place where he can’t be reached.”

“Why in hell are you doing this?”

A slight, apologetic shrug. “You said it yourself, just a few minutes ago. You owe me one. I’m taking you at your word. And this one is it. There’s going to be a staff meeting at the magazine tomorrow in Boston at eleven. Dress the part… and don’t be late.”