Thai Horse

AMERICA

THE PRESENT

BIRD

In Interpol’s highly classified files known as the Holy Ghost Entry and available only to those with first- and second-level clearance, the flier — he, she or them — was known simply by the code name Bird. The reports were deeply classified because none of the authorities in Europe or America wanted the press to get wind of the moniker. In particular, they didn’t want Bird — or the press — to know they had linked the Paris and Chicago jobs.

The Bird knew it anyway. He was flying at that very moment, seven feet above the floor of the French Impressionists room of the International Salon of Art.

Outside on Sixty-fourth Street life went on. Monday night: wives or husbands hurried home to their husbands or wives — from work, from their lovers, from a movie matinee, a business meeting or a quick drink on the way home.

The custodian of the Salon had left early, so the night watchman had cheated a little and locked up at five to six. In the last hour there had been only one customer, a strange fellow with a thick red beard, who was huddled in a bright yellow slicker. Apparently he had left the museum unnoticed. At least, that’s what the watchman thought.

But the Bird had not left. He had hidden himself in a hallway broom closet and waited while the watchman followed his usual procedure: he had locked up, turned on the alarms and electric eyes, punched out the digital combination that controlled the floor sensors, checked the eight screens that monitored each of the museum’s rooms. Then he sat down to watch Dan Rather and eat one of the two sandwiches his wife always prepared for him. Tonight it was his favorite, chicken salad wi.th a slice of pineapple dressed with hot mustard. He could get lost in chicken salad, pineapple and hot mustard.

The Bird waited until the watchman was just that, totally engrossed in his sandwich and the CBS News. He left the closet, walked ten feet down the hall to the small room containing the electric terminal boxes, and jumped the trigger switches for the window alarms and electric eyes. He ignored the floor sensor. It was too complex to bother with, and besides, it wouldn’t be a problem. He never went near the floor.

The Bird’s pulse raced as he made his way up to the roof. He loved the challenge. Working the air, he called it, and the tougher the job, the faster his pulse raced. The score didn’t matter nearly as much as doing it. He had stashed his kit on the roof two days earlier, presenting his forged fire inspector credentials to the day security man and then casually checking out the whole building without being disturbed. He had hidden his operating kit — a large black nylon bag filled with what he called ‘the necessities’ — inside the air-conditioning vent. This one was a cakewalk, almost too easy. Security was not that tough and the watchman would never suspect that the museum would be hit so soon after closing.

He pulled off the beard and slicker and stuffed them in the bag, blackened his face, then picked the lock on the skylight over the French Impressionists room. Attaching a large, aluminium vise to the sill, he threaded a thousand- pound-test nylon rope through the rings in the vise and the rings in his thick harness, and rappelled down.

Now he was flying seven feet above the floor, close to the south wall so the TV monitor could not see him, his lifeline attached to his waist. Using his head as a fulcrum, spinning around, sometimes hanging head down, sometimes feet down, the Bird was a living Peter Pan surrounded by Monets and Manets, Cassatts and Signacs, Gauguins, Van Goghs, Sisleys, Cezannes and Renoirs.

51

Beautiful, thought the Bird. Who else works in such an atmosphere of creative splendor?

But as he swung in a leisurely arc, enjoying the wondrous works that covered the walls, his eyes suddenly fell on a bench in the center of the room. On the bench lay a cat.

The Bird froze. The ions in the air froze. Everything froze but the cat, who slept peacefully.

If that cat jumps, the Bird thought, the floor sensors will knock the old watchman into the middle of Canarsie. He swung on the end of his line for several seconds watching the cat, a big gray-striped feline. He had to move slowly and quietly and hope he did not wake it up.

The Bird slowly moved his head back and forth, swinging himself until he could almost touch the wall. He reached into his kit, took out two pressure clamps, then swung against the wall and quietly fixed the two suction cups to it, using them to stabilize himself.

He used a small pressure wrench to pry open each of the frames, lifted a Monet, a Cezanne and a Renoir and slid them out, carefully covered each with a sheet of tissue, rolled them tightly, and put them in the tube slung over his shoulder, which he strapped tightly to his back so it would not swing free. He released the suction cups and swung back in the air, free of the wall, his head hanging down toward the floor.

The cat rolled over on its back, stretched, opened its eyes and stared up at the biggest bird it had ever seen in its life.

The Bird stared back.

The cat’s eyes widened. It jumped to its feet. Its back arced and it spat up at him.

Don’t jump, thought the Bird, please, don’t jump.

The cat jumped on the floor.

The floor sensors set off an alarm beside the monitor screen in the office. The watchman, startled by the buzzing noise, stared at the monitor, but the cat was standing directly under it and the watchman could not see it on the screen. The room appeared empty.

‘Damn,’ the old man muttered under his breath.

Loosening his revolver in the holster, he walked down the hail and stood for a moment outside the open archway leading into the large room, then took out his gun and, holding it in both hands, jumped into the room TV style. The cat streaked past him and ran down the hall.

‘Damn you,’ the watchman yelled.

The watchman holstered his weapon, took a few steps into the room and stood for a moment with his hands on his hips.

The Bird dangled directly over his head, a foot away.

‘You little son of a bitch, gonna give me a heart attack,’ the watchman said aloud. ‘That’s the second time this week you scared the piss outa me.’

The Bird held his breath. If the watchman looked up, they would literally be eye to eye. But he didn’t. He gave the room a cursory once-over and went back down the hail, calling, ‘Kitty, kitty.’

The Bird sighed with relief. He was well named. He hated cats.

SLOAN

It was four-twenty-eight when Stenhauser left the twenty- eighth-floor offices of Everest Insurance on East Fifty- seventh Street, took the elevator to the second floor, walked down one flight and left by the west-side fire door.

Sloan was in a coffee shop on Fifty-seventh between Second and Third avenues. It was a perfect location for him. Through its glass window, he could see three sides of the Everest building. The fourth, the back side, led to a blind alley that emptied on Third Avenue. No matter what route Stenhauser took, Sloan could spot him. Sloan took out his small black book and made a notation, as he had been doing for the last three days. Then he followed the little man.

Stenhauser’s name had been filed discreetly in Sloan’s computer for two years. Until three days ago he had no idea what Fred Stenhauser looked like or anything else about him other than his profession. It wasn’t necessary before now. The names in Sloan’s file were like savings accounts, and Sloan was big on savings accounts, on keeping something for a rainy day. He was also a neurotically patient man. Sloan was never in a rush, he could wait forever. Or at least until he was ready. Now he was ready to cash in one of the accounts, the one with Fred Stenhauser’s name on it.

Stenhauser was an easy mark. He was as precise as Sloan was patient. He always left his office a little before four-thirty. He always stopped for a single martini at Bill’s Safari Bar on Fifty-sixth Street. He was always home by six and by six-ten was back on the street with his yappy little dog.

Life, to Stenhauser, was a ritual. He wore double- breasted glen plaid suits, with a sweater under the jacket, and a paisley tie. Every day. He bad his hair trimmed every Tuesday morning at eight-thirty at the St. Regis Barber Shop, ate the same breakfast at the same coffee shop on Fifty-seventh Street every morning, always read the paper, the Wall Street Journal, from the back forward, always went to Cape Cod on his vacation. Everything Stenhauser did he always did.

Even Stenhauser’s one little eccentricity was predictable, for while he followed this ritual day in and day out, he rarely left his office by the same door or took the same route to Bill’s or took the same route from Bill’s to his brownstone on Seventy-fourth Street. It was as if he were playing a game, as if someone were constantly following him and his gambit was to evade them. Sloan loved the irony of it. Now someone was following Stenhauser and he didn’t even know it.

On this day, Stenhauser, a short, slender man in his mid-thirties with heavy-lidded eyes like a frog’s, went east to Second Avenue, south to Fifty-sixth Street, then turned right and walked two blocks to Bill’s Safari Bar. He walked briskly, always looking at the ground in front of him, as if he were afraid he would step on something. Sloan had decided to brace him in Bill’s. The bar was never too crowded, which was the main reason Stenhauser took his evening-cap there. And while the decor was a little heavy on ferns and stuffed animal heads, it was small and quiet, and the bartender made a perfect martini.

When Stenhauser turned off Second Avenue onto Fifty-sixth, Sloan crossed the street and picked up his pace. He passed Stenhauser, waited until the short man neared Bill’s, and entered it a few seconds ahead of him, killing time until Stenhauser had hung up his coat and found a place at the bar. Sloan sat down next to him. Stenhauser ignored him, reading a copy of Art World while the bartender concocted a perfect martini. He put it in front of Stenhauser, then turned to Sloan. ‘What’ll it be?’

‘A light draft,’ Sloan said. He looked over at Stenhauser. ‘You prefer Bombay gin over Beefeater’s, I see,’ he said for starters.

Stenhauser, staring at him from under his heavy lids, appeared somewhat annoyed. ‘It’s the bartender’s option,’ he said in a nasal voice that was almost a whine. ‘Frankly, I doubt that I could tell the difference between the two.’

‘But you do prefer a rather wet martini.’

‘Let’s just say I don’t like straight gin,’ Stenhauser said absently while leafing through his magazine.

‘I couldn’t help noticing that you’re interested in art,’ Sloan persisted.

Stenhauser tapped the magazine cover with a nervous finger.

‘Business and pleasure,’ he said curtly.

‘No kidding,’ Sloan said. ‘What’s your line?’

‘My line, if you want to call it that, is insurance.’

‘Life insurance, corporate —‘

‘Actually I’m a claims adjuster,’ Stenhauser said, turning his attention back to the magazine

‘No kidding,’ Sloan said enthusiastically. ‘How does that tie in with the art world?’

The little man placed the magazine back on the bar and sighed. ‘I’m a specialist,’ he said. ‘I specialize in recovering stolen art works.’

‘Hey, that sounds interesting. And profitable, right?’ He winked at Stenhauser.

‘Well, I’m not ready to retire yet, if that’s what you mean.’

‘Not yet,’ Sloan said, taking a sip of beer and not looking at him.

Stenhauser’s eyes narrowed. The man was beginning to annoy him. It was almost as if he were prying. Stenhauser studied him. His face was weathered and leathery, he had a small scar under his right eye, his body was square, like a box, and muscular. His charcoal-black hair was clipped in a severe crew cut, and his sport coat seemed almost too tight. An outdoor man, Stenhauser figured. A hunter rather than a fisherman. He had the burly look of a hunter; fishermen were more aesthetic. Probably did weight- lifting every day. A big sport fan and a beer drinker. Not too bright, thought Stenhauser.

‘And what’s your business, Mr. uh . . .‘ Stenhauser began.

‘Sloan. Harry Sloan. I’m a snoop.’

‘A detective?’

‘No, just a snoop,’ Sloan said, drawing him in, slowly weaving a shimmery web for his fly.

Stenhauser chuckled. ‘That’s good. That’s very funny,’ he said. ‘That’s what gossip magazines are all about, right? I suppose we’re all a bit nosy.’

Sloan leaned over toward Stenhauser and said, very confidentially, ‘Yeah, but nothing like I am. I stop’ — he held two fingers a quarter of an inch apart — ‘about that far short of voyeurism.’

Stenhauser looked surprised. ‘Well most people wouldn’t admit it,’ he said, taking another sip of his martini.

‘I like to study people,’ said Sloan. ‘I feel I’m a very good judge of character.’

‘Is that right.’

‘Take you, for instance. I’ll bet you’re a very precise man.’

‘Precise, huh.’ Stenhauser thought about that for a few moments. ‘I suppose that’s true. It pays to be precise in my business.’

‘I’m sure it does. Can’t afford a slipup.’ Sloan leaned closer to him. ‘Do you deal with the criminal element?’ he asked, adding more sheen to the well,.

‘That’s what I do,’ the little man said proudly. ‘I realise I don’t look very imposing, but I speak their language. I can be very tough when need be.’

‘I can tell,’ Sloan said.

‘You can, huh?’

‘Absolutely. I’ll bet you’re one helluva negotiator.’ It was Sloan’s oldest trick, working the mark’s vanity. It never failed.

Stenhauser somewhat arrogantly wiggled his head back and forth a couple of times but did not comment. He’s hooked, Sloan thought.

‘I do a little writing,’ Sloan said. ‘I’d like to talk about some of your cases, the tough ones. 1kight be something in it for me.’

‘Uh, well, I, that’s very flattering but, uh, most of my work is highly confidential.’

‘I don’t mean real names. Just, you know, some inside stuff. The more you know, the more authentic the work is.’

‘I suppose so. Well, perhaps some other time. I have to leave in a few minutes.’

‘Look, why don’t we just talk on the way up to Seventy-fourth Street,’ Sloan said, smiling as he sipped his beer.

Stenhauser stared at him with surprise for a fraction of a second. ‘How did you. . . I’m not going home,’ he said quickly. ‘I’ve got tickets for the theater.’

‘That’s a shame. Your dog’s gonna bust a kidney.’ Stenhauser leaned over close to Sloan, and said between clenched teeth, ‘What the hell are you up to, anyway?’

‘Hatcher.’

‘Hatcher?’

Sloan nodded. ‘Hatcher.’

‘Is that supposed to mean something to me?’

‘Christian Hatcher, Mr. Stenhauser. I just want him, that’s all. An address, a phone number. I’ll vanish from your life like that.’ He snapped his fingers.

‘I think you oughta just’ — he snapped his fingers, too — ‘vanish like that anyway, whoever the hell you are.’

‘No matter what happens, the game’s over, Mr. Stenhauser. It’s not going to work anymore — the art scam, I mean, and I know you know what I’m referring to. Now, I just want to talk to Hatcher, that’s all. No big hassle. Hell, we’re old friends. I once helped him out of a bad scrape.’

‘Is that a fact.’

‘Yes.’

‘Listen, I don’t know any Hatcher, but if I did know a

Hatcher, I wouldn’t tell you so much as his middle name. I

wouldn’t tell you his shoe size, I wouldn’t tell you his — I

wouldn’t tell you a damn thing about him. I don’t like you. I

don’t like your style, or your crazy talk Is that clear?’

Sloan nodded earnestly. He wiggled a finger under Stenhauser’s nose.

‘You’re going to be obstinate, I can tell,’ he said as slowly, as patiently as always, still smiling. ‘And that’s too bad.’

‘Really?’

‘Really. Obstinacy will buy you about — oh, I don’t know

— at least ten years. Plus they’ll take every dime you’ve got, which I’d say is plenty at this point.’

‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Mr. . . . Sloan, was it?’

Sloan nodded. ‘Listen, why don’t we just walk up to Seventy-fourth Street together. Maybe I can clarify all this for you. Nobody will pay any attention to us, and you’ve got to go up there to let your dog whiz anyway, theater or no theater. And in case you need more convincing, we could even chat about Paris, Chicago— New York.’

They sat there, trying to stare each other down. It was Stenhauser who lowered his eyes first.

‘What the hell,’ he said in almost a whisper. ‘If you promise not to mug me on the way, maybe it’ll get you off my case.’

Outside, a brisk spring wind was blowing across town. They walked over to Madison Avenue and headed north. Stenhauser said nothing. He looked at the ground while he walked and his hands were jammed deep in his coat pockets.

‘You know, maybe I’ve been a little hard on you,’ Sloan said, his smile broadening. ‘Maybe Hatch changed his name. Maybe you know him by another name.’

Stenhauser said nothing. He walked briskly, still staring a foot or two in front of each step.

‘He used the same technique in all three jobs. I know his style. Down through the ceiling on a wire, pressure sensitizers on the walls when he lifts the paintings. He never goes near the floor, no worries about electric eyes, floor feelers, that kind of thing. And the son of a bitch always leaves a little something behind to help the police along. Old Hatch hasn’t changed a bit. He used the same technique hitting the Russian embassy for me in London.’

Stenhauser looked up sharply, staring at Sloan as they walked.

‘Also the Iranian embassy in Washington, before the hostage thing. Always leaves something. One of the sensitizers, the wire, something. It’s magician stuff — misdirection, because he always jumps the alarm system but he never leaves the jumper behind, you know why?’

Stenhauser’s pace began to quicken.

‘Because to jump the system requires inside knowledge. In both my cases, Hatcher had an inside man, but he didn’t want to blow their cover, so he leaves a little something behind. Now, here he is pulling the same old stunt. Hell, I was on to him from the first job, the thing in Paris. What a score!’ Sloan laughed appreciatively.

Stenhauser stopped. He jabbed a finger at Sloan.

‘You’re crazy, you know that? I don’t know who you are or what your game is, but you’re stuffed full of shit.’

‘I haven’t gotten to the good sniff yet. See, here’s the way I figure it works. Let’s say somebody lifts a Picasso from a museum. The museum doesn’t want a million bucks’ insurance money, they want the work. They want it before it winds up on some Arab’s yacht over in the Mediterranean. So they make a deal. The insurance company pays fifteen percent, no questions asked. It costs the insurance company a hundred fifty grand on a million- dollar policy, the museum gets its goods back, and the thief walks with a clean bill of health.’

Stenhauser was not a brave man. All he did was provide information and make deals. It had never occurred to him that he and the Bird would be caught. Now fear began to nibble at his insides.

‘There’s nothing illegal about what I do, Sloan,’ he said defensively. ‘I make deals, sure. 1ut it’s perfectly legitimate. It saves the taxpayers money because the police aren’t involved. It saves the insurance company money. The victims get their things back. Everybody ends up happy.’

Bluffing, and not very well, Sloan. thought, chuckling to himself. Still smiling, he shook his head. ‘I couldn’t care less,’ he said with a shrug. ‘But let me give you a new scenario. A thief hits the Louvre and walks off with twelve million dollars’ worth of goods. The fixer steps in, quietly gets the word around, makes a deal. The insurance company gets stiffed for one point eight mill, but saves ten point two mill in the long haul, and the museum gets its paintings back. Now, just supposing we had a real smart man working for the insurance company. And supposing he approaches this flier and says, “Look, pal, I can give you advance information on where art’s gonna be, when it’s vulnerable, the security systems, I’ll set up the buy, and we just split the pie up two ways.” Sloan paused. ‘Neat, isn’t it?’

‘I know where you’re heading with this, and I’m telling you right here and now you’re nuts,’ said Stenhauser vehemently.

Sloan kept talking, slowly, quietly, as if Stenhauser bad never uttered a word. ‘I figure the two of you have split almost four million dollars over the last two years, Stenhauser. You’re not only going to have cops all over the world crawling up your ass, you’re gonna have the IRS sitting in your lap every time you take a load off. All I have to do is tell them what you’ve been up to. Whether they can prove it or not, they’ll make life so miserable for you —,

Who is this man? Stenhauser wondered. He had never before entertained even the remotest thought of murder — of any form of bodily harm to anyone else — but now, walking up Madison Avenue, he found the blackest kind of ideas buzzing in his head.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Sloan said, as if reading Stenhauser’s mind. ‘Forget it. You don’t have the guts or talent for it.’

Stenhauser’s mouth dried up.

Sloan shook his head. ‘There’s no reason for all this anxiety,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to make life miserable for you. I want Hatcher.’

‘And I keep telling you—’

Sloan cut him off. His eyes grew cold, lost their expression, but the smile remained. Stenhauser suddenly felt a chill creep over him.

‘Get off it, little man,’ Sloan said very quietly. ‘You’re going to tell me what I want to know — now — or I’m going to come down on you so hard you’ll think it’s raining bricks. Think about it. You’re out of business anyway. Do you want to keep what you’ve got, smile all the way to the bank, or do you want a lot of grief?’

Stenhauser looked up and down the street. He hunched deeper into his coat and stared at Sloan’s feet. ‘He’ll kill me,’ Stenhauser whispered.

‘No way.’

‘You don’t—’

‘Know him?’ Sloan finished the sentence. ‘I was in business with the man when you were still taking the SATs.’

Stenhauser turned away from Sloan. He strolled to the curb and looked up at the gold lights on Trump Tower. He had dreamed of owning an apartment there, a million- dollar layout with all the trimmings, and now this stranger, whom he’d never seen until half an hour ago, was stealing the dream. Anger roiled up inside him, but Stenhauser was smart enough to know there was nothing he could do about it. Sloan had him and was squeezing.

‘I don’t know where he is,’ Stenhauser said finally. ‘I’ve never laid eyes on him. Didn’t even know his name until you brought it up. I get in touch through a dead drop, a relay phone.’

Sloan, smiling, walked over to him and patted him on the shoulder.

‘That’ll be just fine,’ he said.

‘Who the hell are you, anyway?’ Stenhauser asked bitterly. ‘What’s in this for you?’

‘That’s none of your fucking business,’ Sloan answered as slowly and methodically as ever.

GINIA

He lay on the floor with his chin resting on the backs of his hands, watching a bright yellow flame-tail tang darting in and out of the coral, its snout pecking for food. A moment later, she swam into frame, trailing bubbles from her tanks, her long black hair waving behind her.

She was as naked as the fish she ‘was chasing.

Her hard, perfectly rounded buttocks ground together as she scissor-kicked her long, muscular legs, and glided over and around the small coral cluster, chasing the tang. She had an astounding figure and the tiny white triangles, where her bikini had blocked the sun, made her tawny figure even more alluring.

An absolutely stunning creature.

He studied every rippling muscle in her body, every square inch of tanned skin, knowing she knew he was watching and was enjoying his voyeurism just as much as he was. He felt himself begin to tighten, felt his pulse tapping in his forehead.

The six-foot glass square mounted in the floor was what really had sold him on the yacht. It -was hidden beneath the plush Oriental carpet in the main cabin. With the push of a button, a panel in the hull slid back and four powerful floodlights mounted on each corner of the window switched on. The result was a spectacular undersea panorama.

She was holding a plastic tube about two feet long, which looked like a large syringe four or five inches in diameter with a plunger on one end. She was behind the tang, extending the tube slowly toward it, then she suddenly drew back the plunger and the suction pulled the tang into the tube where a mesh valve trapped it. The fish darted up and down the tube, confused by the almost invisible plastic sides that entrapped it. She turned toward the window and proudly flexed her muscles.

‘Nicely done,’ he said aloud in a harsh, rasping voice that was almost a whisper. He leaned up on one elbow and crooked a finger toward her, inviting her closer, and she swam up close to the window, rolled on her back and spread her legs, tantalizing him. He leaned down and pressed his lips against the window and she moved slowly through the water, rising up against it, pressing first her breasts, then her stomach, then her thighs, against it, and he opened his mouth slightly, flicking his tongue against the inch-thick window, and she began to slowly wiggle, taunting him as he moved his head over her breasts, down to her hard, flat stomach and then down farther, to the matted hair that was pressed on inch away from his mouth. Then she was gone.

He lay there, watching the fish darting in and out of the coral cluster, thinking about Ginia. He was lucky. She was bright, beautiful, and sensuous. They had been lovers for almost a year.

It had been Cirillo who found this island. And it was to Cirillo and his wife, Millie, that Hatcher had come after Los Boxes. He had walked away from Sloan’s rescuers, hitchhiked from Miami and arrived at Cirillo’s door in the middle of the night, a gaunt hollow-eyed replica of himself, wet to the knees from stumbling through the marsh. The Cirillos had asked no questions; they simply had nursed him back to health, providing the care and understanding necessary to heal this shattered mind and body.

The years after Los Boxes had been almost as traumatic as the experience itself. His emotions had become so armored, so distrusting and involuted, that he had spent the first months alone, wandering the bases of his past, looking for someplace to sink a root, something to hook him to reality. The closest he had come was a boat, but there were no roots in the sea. For a year he had indulged himself, cruised the Caribbean, lain in the sun, gorged on good food and wine, read constantly, and made love to women of every possible persuasion — white women, black women, red women, married women, unmarried women, smart women, dumb women, old women and young women.

Ultimately he had returned to the island. Hatcher had learned to love the place; to love the marsh that insulated the island from the rest of the world, and the island itself, so teeming with new life that it had rekindled his own spirit after Los Boxes. It had become his first real home. The isolated corner of the world was a perfect refuge for him.

There had been rumors about him, this strange, quiet man with the shattered voice and the haunted eyes, who sat night after night in Murphy’s Tavern, nursing brandy. That he was a doper on parole, that he was a doper who had never been caught, that he was a narc looking for dopers on the isolated island, that he had served twenty years for murdering a faithless wife. All fictions written with whiskied tongues by the women he ignored and the men whose women were attracted to him.

He laughed at the stories, flattered by a status that had become mysterious and legendary and gradually the islanders had accepted him, attracted by his sense of humor, his independence and a sense of loyalty to fellow islanders that was revealed slowly and without fanfare. He was one of them now and the stories had been put aside. Like many others who had escaped a checkered past and sought refuge in the small waffle of land two miles off the coast of Georgia, his past remained a mystery.

Ginia had her eye on him for a couple of months before he finally moved on her. She asked no questions, nor did he, although he knew she was a native of the island, had graduated from the Wharton School with honors, had been one of the most respected brokers on Wall Street, married a wealthy attorney and then, on her thirtieth birthday, had chucked it all and returned to the island and set up a small brokerage firm. That was all Murphy talk, and he never asked her anything about it, just as she never questioned him. It was as if they had no past, only their future.

It was two months before he asked her to dinner, a dinner he cooked and served a mile offshore, anchored over what since had become their favorite reef. They sat on the floor and ate dinner and watched the sea creatures at play through the glass bottom and drank a lot of wine, and when she finally left the boat two days later, she knew nothing more about him than she had known when she came on board — except for his taste in furniture, clothes and art, all of which were impeccable — not what he did for a living or where he came from or what he had done before he came to the island or whether he had ever married, had children, was wanted by the police r was dying of an incurable disease. Now, nine months later, she still didn’t know. And she didn’t care. He was a tender lover, an experimenter, considerate, unhurried, aware of her wants, unthreatened, funny, and she responded in the same way. Sex had remained a joy rather than a task. He never showed anger, never judged anyone, and he treated her with uncommon respect. That was good enough for her.

It was around noon when the Lear jet whistled over the island, banking sharply to the east, circling out over the Atlantic and sweeping back over the island a second time.

Sloan studied the island as the pilot circled it. It was shaped like the island of Manhattan, but there the similarity ended. Ten miles long and barely two miles wide, it was little more than a thin strip of hard land surrounded on three sides by a sprawling marsh and on the east by the Atlantic Ocean.

A tiny village squatted at the southern point of the island, its fishing pier pointing a hundred yards out into the ocean like a finger pointing toward Florida. A whitewashed old lighthouse seemed to guard the three-block- square shopping area, which was surrounded by moss- laden oak trees that hid most of the inland houses populating the south end. Weathered old homes of tabby and wood lined the ocean like sentinels, defying the unpredictable Atlantic.

On its leeward side was a shopping center and a handsome new redwood marina, where several large yachts were moored among the smaller sailboats and fishing boats. A small jetport was located just north of the village, and north of it the upper half of the island was heavily forested and uninhabited - You could walk the inhabited part of the island in an hour, thought Sloan.

A tall man slender as a reed and wearing a battered captain’s hat pulled up in the fuel truck as the Lear howled to a stop near the low-slung terminal.

‘Anyplace to get some good home cooking?’ Sloan asked, climbing out of the plane.

The man, who seemed to be on about a ten-second delay, stared at him and then said, ‘Might try Birdie’s over in the village.’

‘Can I get a cab?’

He thought about that for another ten seconds.

‘No cab out here.’

‘How can I get over there?’

‘Well,’ the man in the peaked cap said after some thought, ‘you can walk, takes ten or fifteen minutes.’ Another delay. ‘Or you can rent a car inside.’

‘Actually I’m looking for a friend of mine. Maybe you know him — Christian Hatcher?’

After half a minute: ‘Wouldn’t know.’

‘Birdie’s you say?’

‘Uh-huh.’

It was a beautiful day, the temperature in the eighties and a cool breeze hustling through the trees from the beach.

‘We’ll walk.’

The island, a quaint bit of Americana worthy of a Rockwell painting, had changed little in twenty years. Its charm lured the big cruise ships from Miami and Charleston. They came once or twice a week, tied up at the pier and spent the night. The cruisers, as its passengers were called by locals, ambled down the fishing pier and checked out Tim’s gift store, pored over Nancy’s used books, stocked up on T-shirts and stuffed animals at the Island Hop, got the latest magazines and paperbacks at Doc Bryant’s drugstore, had a drink at Murphy’s Tavern or homemade ice cream at Clifton’s and then wandered off the Main Drag — the only drag, since the village was a single street a mere three blocks long — and did some sightseeing. In that short main stretch, the cruisers could eat home cooking at Birdie’s, hamburgers at the Big T, barbecue at the Rib Shack or seafood at Mallory’s before returning to their ship for the night. By the next morning they were gone.

As Sloan stood looking over the minuscule hamlet, his smile broadened. This is it? he thought. This is what he calls home.

He would be casual and cautious in asking questions. He walked down to the city pier, where the locals were crabbing and fishing or taking in the sun, watching the shrimp boats come and go and the big brown pelicans dive-bombing for lunch.

Roland Smith, who regarded himself as the unofficial mayor of the island, appeared at the pier each morning dressed in sports jacket and tie with a fresh flower in his lapel to do his rounds. He petted dogs, babbled over babies, flirted with all females over sixteen, and slowly worked his way up to a niche of a restaurant called the Bowrider to have breakfast and trade gossip with the locals. He was never without a smile and spent his days simply being pleasant. He had come to the island ten years ago on vacation with his wife, who had dropped dead on the beach of a heart attack. Smith, a window dresser for a New York department store, had sent a letter to his boss announcing his retirement and never left.

Sloan watched Roland stroll the pier and its nearby park, smiling and chatting. Sloan. knew a talker when he saw one. He wandered to the edge of the park and sat on a bench until Smith ambled by.

‘Morning,’ Smith said with a smile. ‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’

‘Perfect,’ said Sloan, matching the smile.

‘I do love this island,’ Smith said, which was his standard greeting to tourists.

‘It’s beautiful,’ Sloan agreed.

‘You vacationing here?’ Smith asked innocently.

‘Well, kind of. Actually I’m looking for an old friend of mine. We were army buddies. But I lost his address and I can’t find him in the phone book.’

‘Maybe he moved,’ offered the putative mayor.

‘Perhaps you know him. Chris Hatcher? I just thought I’d surprise him.’

‘Maybe he doesn’t like surprises,’ Smith said pleasantly, his grin fading only slightly. he nodded, and strolled away.

Sloan wandered in and out of the shops, striking up conversations in his easy, smiling way, finally getting around to the big question. Nobody said, ‘I don’t know him’ or ‘I never heard of him’; they simply generalized the question into oblivion with answers like ‘Lots of folks on this old island’ or ‘Where did you say you were from?’

Typical small town, thought Sloan, everybody on the island was as closemouthed as they were pleasant. But Sloan was gifted with infinite patience. Hatcher was on this island somewhere. Somebody on. this island had to know Hatcher, it was just a matter of time before somebody owned up.

Sloan went into Birdie’s. It was a pleasant, unintrusive restaurant, which smelled of fresh vegetables and seafood, its fare listed on a large blackboard on the wall. He found a table next to a group of men who looked as if they belonged.

When he had first come to the island, Hatcher had chosen to become a recluse, avoiding people and living a solitary life on his boat. His only friend was Cirillo. But gradually he became close to these people. They were nonjudgmental, warm, and simply supportive of one another. Like Hatcher, they had escaped to the island, leaving behind bad memories or shattered careers or the abuses of Establishment phonies.

All the men at the adjoining table were Hatcher’s friends. One was an enormous Santa Claus of a man with white hair and a thick white beard wham the others called Bear. Then there was a slender, quiet man, his gray-white beard tickling his chest, who was reading a paperback novel as he ate, and another gentle-faced man who was jotting lines of poetry in a tattered notebook. Sloan listened to their choppy conversation, hoping for clues. He got none, although it was obvious they were islanders. The reader’s name was Bob Hill. He had been a thoroughbred horse trainer, a circus clown, a schoolteacher, and he now owned his own shrimp boat. The poet, whose name was Frank, worked as a night clerk in one of the mainland motels and spent his days on the beach, writing poetry. Bear was an architect. The fourth man at the table, trim and weathered, whom they called Judge, had fallen from the bench in disfavor, a victim of the bottle. He was now the maître d at the island’s premier hotel and had not had a drink in fourteen years.

‘Haven’t had food this good since I left home,’ Sloan said pleasantly.

‘That’s the truth,’ Bear answered. ‘And almost as cheap.’

They chatted amiably back and forth during the meal. Finally Sloan popped the question and was greeted with the same vague response.

‘Probably end up here eating sooner or later,’ said Bear. ‘Everybody does.’

Sloan was undaunted. Hatcher had no listing in the city directory or phone book. No auto registration. But since he lived on this island and he was ex-Navy and he loved the sea, it seemed reasonable that Hatcher had a boat. The process of elimination ultimately led Sloan to the marina.

By this time everybody in the village knew he was looking for Hatcher.

He tried to strike up a conversation with Cap Fendig, who operated the marina itself. Fendig’s roots were dug deep in the black soil of the island. His father and grandfather and great-grandfather were the harbor pilots who captained the big cargo vessels from the ocean through the sound to the state docks on the mainland.

‘Actually I’m looking for an old friend of mine, Chris Hatcher. We were in the Army together.’

‘That a fact.’

‘He’s big on sailing. Thought perhaps he might have a boat down here.’

‘Well, this would be the place t, keep a boat.’

Fendig moved up the pier.

‘Name’s Chris Hatcher,’ Sloan called after him.

‘Wasn’t born here. Lived here all my life, nobody by that name was born on this island.’

‘No, he would have moved here about a year and a half ago.’

‘Oh.’

End of discussion.

Sloan changed his tack. He approached a kid working the gas pumps.

‘What time’s Chris Hatcher due back?’ he asked pleasantly.

‘Never know,’ the kid answered.

Bingo.

‘Does he live on the boat?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ the kid answered and vanished into the small pumping station.

Sloan went back up to the marina, got a beer, and went back down to the pier and waited.

The sharp bleat of a boat’s horn snapped Hatcher back to reality.

‘Oh God,’ he groaned. He got up, arranging the bulge in his skimpy bathing suit as best he could and went topside; he peered cautiously over the bulkhead.

A shrimp boat called the Breeze-E was idling nearby, its engines muttering as it rocked gently in the calm sea. Its captain, a tall, leathery string-bean of a man with a neatly trimmed gray-white beard, was standing in the stern. He cupped his mouth with his hands and yelled, ‘This fella’s wandering all over the island asking after you. Been to Birdie’s, Po Stephens. Murphy’s. The marina. Even tried to pry information out of old Roland.’

‘What’d he want?’ Hatcher yelled back in the harsh voice that was part growl, part whisper.

‘Said he was an old friend of yours from the Army.’

Hatcher shook his head. ‘What’s he look like?’

‘Big guy, built like a lobster pot, real broad in the shoulder. Looks to be in his late forties. Real friendly sort.’

‘Talks real soft and smiles all the tune. Little scar on his cheek?’ He drew an imaginary line from his eye to the corner of his mouth.

‘That’s him. Friend of yours?’

‘I wouldn’t say that. What’d you tell him?’

‘Not a damn thing.’

‘Thanks, Bob.’

‘Anytime. Fishing?’

‘Kinda.’

‘See ya.’

Bob Hill waved, returned to the bridge and shoved the throttles, veering out towards the open sea. Hatcher heard a sound behind him and, turning, saw Ginia looking at him over the rail.

‘What was that all about?’ she asked.

‘Bob Hill. Says somebody’s asking about me in town. You know how islanders are, they get a little overly protective sometimes.’

‘I think that’s nice,’ she said, jumping over the rail from the Jacob’s ladder, grabbing a towel off a chair and wrapping it around her like a sarong. ‘It’s nice to know your friends care that much about you.’

‘Uh-huh. Let’s see that tang.’

She reached back over the railing, retrieved the tube and handed it to him. He held it up close, studying the fish.

‘Big guy,’ he said.

‘Just look at that tail. Do we keep him?’

‘Absolutely.’

He took the tube below to the main salon, where the six other fish they had caught that morning were still circling and exploring the hundred-gallon aquarium. He stood over the tank, turned a knob opening the valve in the tube, and the yellow fish swam out and immediately began staking out his territory amid the coral and sea grass in the floor of the tank.

‘Beautiful,’ she said from behind him. Her arms slithered around his waist. ‘Swimming makes me horny,’ she said, close to his ear.

Without turning he reached behind him and moved his hands under the towel and up the insides of her thighs. She leaned back a trifle, giving his hands more room to move, and slid her hands under the band of his skimpy swimsuit, feeling him rise to her touch. She slipped his trunks over his hips and let them drop to the floor, freeing him.

‘And everything makes you horny,’ she said.

He turned and pulled the towel loose and, sliding his hands gently down her back and over the soft mounds of her cheeks, drew her to him.

‘You got a cold rear end,’ he growled in her ear.

‘But a warm heart.’

She stood on her toes, spreading her legs a little more, and stepped into him, her thick hair surrounding him, and wrapped her lips around one of his nipples and began sucking.

‘Been a while,’ his peculiar whisper-voice answered.

‘Right,’ she chuckled. ‘At least two hours.’

She leaned over and whispered in his ear, ‘Put it on automatic pilot,’ then took his hand and drew him back toward the master stateroom.

OLD TIMES

She was a real beauty, sleek and uncommonly low in the water that looked more like a racing craft than a yacht, with her squat cockpit, the long, trim bow jutting fifty feet in front of the windscreen, the four 750 hp fuel-injected engines rumbling in the stern. The long, slender profile concealed a large main salon, a master bedroom with a king-size bed, ample quarters for two other guests and a galley fit for a cordon bleu chef.

Sloan saw only the exterior, but he could not suppress a soft whistle as the boat sliced silently through the water toward him.

The hardest emotions to control, 126 had once warned Hatcher, would be love and hate. Hatcher had loved Harry Sloan as he would have loved his own brother and hated him as he would his deadliest enemy. Now, as he approached the dock and saw Sloan for the first time in seven years, he was overwhelmed with mixed emotions.

The bond between mentor and student is as hard to break as the one between father and son; 126 had told him that, and it was true.

He wanted to get even with Sloan for betraying him, and yet part of him was glad to see the son of a bitch. Rage began to grow in him as the boat neared the dock. Rage at Sloan. Rage at himself for not hating the man more than he did. The hardest thing to forgive was not the three years in Los Boxes — it was that Sloan had betrayed him.

What the hell was he doing here?

He turned to Ginia.

‘See the big guy standing by the slip house?’ he said.

‘Uh-huh.’

‘He’s the guy who’s looking for me.’

‘Friend or foe?’ she asked breezily.

‘Jump off as soon as we tie up, okay? We’ve got some talking to do.’

‘The old screw-and-run trick, huh?’

‘Yeah.’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘I’ll call you later. Catch the bowline for me.’

‘Sure. Dinner?’

‘Maybe.’

She leaned over and kissed him. hard on the mouth. ‘Remember that, just in case you feel like playing soldier- boy with your pal.’

‘He’s no pal.’

Sloan watched Hatcher ease the big boat into its slip, watched Ginia jump on the dock and hook up the front line, then turn and blow him a kiss, watched her walk up the pier toward the setting sun, which silhouetted her long legs through a thin white cotton skirt. Sloan ambled down the pier and stood below the bridge, looking up at him.

‘Been a while, Hatch,’ Sloan sail around his perpetual smile.

He looks great, Sloan thought. Tanned, filled out, got a lot more hair than I do. Hell, he’s better-looking than he ever was.

Hatcher glared back at him and said nothing.

‘Permission to come aboard, Captain?’ Sloan asked with a laugh. When Hatcher didn’t answer, Sloan clambered on board anyway.

Pushy as ever, Hatcher thought.

Sloan held his hand out toward Hatcher, who ignored it. Instead Hatcher turned abruptly and went below. Sloan stood for a moment, made a fist and New nervously into it, then decided to follow him.

He was surprised at how large the main cabin was and how elegant. The walls were paneled with bronze mirrors and teak, the designer furniture was gray and plush, an Oriental rug covered the floor. A pedestal table large enough to seat eight divided the main cabin from the forward staterooms. Sloan could not suppress another low whistle, which Hatcher ignored as he went to the bar, poured himself a glass of red wine and sat down. He didn’t offer Sloan anything, and the burly man finally sat down facing him.

‘You look great, Chris. Never better,’ he said.

What balls, Hatcher thought, although he still said nothing.

‘You’ve got a lot of funny friends,’ Sloan said. ‘None of them’ll admit they know you.’ He chuckled. Hatcher just stared at him.

‘It’s good to see you again,’ Sloan said, trying to sound sincere.

No answer. Just get on with it, Hatcher said to himself, His face clouded up, but he still didn’t speak. Sloan sighed and watched Hatcher take a sip of ‘wine. His mouth was getting dry. Hell, thought Sloan, I may as well get straight to it.

‘Here I went to all that trouble to spring you down in Madrango and you don’t even show up in Washington to thank me.’

Be grateful I didn’t kill you, Hatcher thought, but he still didn’t speak.

Sloan made a fist and held it in front of his lips, blowing gently into it. Smiling, he said slowly, ‘I’ve got to admit I was a little nervous coming down here. I figured there was as good a chance as not you’d try to put me away. And I can understand that, Hatch, I really can. But, you know, why throw all this away just to get even, right?’

Hatcher said nothing. But the yellow flecks in his green eyes danced like charged ions.

‘You know the boys in intelligence still talk about you,’ Sloan rambled on. ‘I told them you were the best in the business, I mean any job, laddie, any job. Nobody believed me until you vanished at that refueling stop in Miami. Nothing but the clothes on your back. No money, no ID, nothing, and you’re gone. I gotta give it to you, that was beautifully done. Three years in that place, you didn’t lose your edge.’

Hatcher said nothing.

Sloan stood up and wandered around the cabin, looking at things, checking them out, still speaking in that smooth, oily voice of his.

‘Took me sixteen months to get a line on you. I didn’t have the outfit out shaking the bushes or anything like that, y’know, just keeping my eyes and ears open.’

You talk too much, Hatcher thought. You always talked too much.

Hatcher took another sip of wine, staring over the rim of the glass at Sloan.

‘You’ve really stirred them up,’ Sloan chattered on. ‘Know what Interpol calls you? The Bird. Shit, the best flier in the business, I always knew that. Of course, I never said anything to anybody. None of my business. Anyway, I gotta hand it to you, you’re a real trend setter.’

Hatcher didn’t bite. He kept staring at Sloan. Sloan put his briefcase in his lap, unlocked it and flipped it open. From where Hatcher was sitting lie could not see inside the case, but he knew exactly how it was laid out. File folders, all neatly labeled and stacked. A comprehensive airline schedule. Sloan’s little black book, the bible that kept him in business. And in the top of the case in special pockets, two handguns, a .357 Python and a 9 mm. H&K.

Speed loaders and magazines in pockets between the two pieces.

Sloan would never change. If it worked for him, it stayed in. Sloan took out a newspaper clipping.

‘Listen to this, this was in The Times last Sunday. “The international art theft market is second only to narcotics in the world market.” According to this piece, Hatch, art thefts have doubled since 1981. There were four hundred ninety-three cases last year alone. Four thousand one hundred fifty pieces of art got lifted.’

Still no comment.

‘The Paris job was what put me on to you,’ Sloan said, his smile broadening as though he was proud of it. ‘Then when you hit that gallery in Chicago and Stenhauser was the fixer in that one, too, I put it together. The New York trick put the icing on the cake.’

Still no response. Hatcher took another sip of wine and continued to stare. He was remembering what 126 had said once about vengeance. It’s depressing, is what he said, and a waste of time. One thing Hatcher had learned to respect in Los Boxes was time.

‘That Paris job was inspired, better than the thing we did in London that time,’ Sloan went on.

He paused for a moment. Hatcher said nothing.

‘Some haul, man. That one Monet was worth over three mill. Five pieces, twelve million. I didn’t know you knew that much about rare paintings, old pal.’

No answer.

‘I guess Stenhauser tipped you on what to grab, right?’

No answer.

‘Anyway, you were right up front with that Paris job, kind of set the pace for what’s been going on. I’ll give you a hand for your style, too. I figure you’ve only done the three jobs.’

He paused and shrugged. ‘And who got hurt? The insurance companies, right?’ Sloan chuckled. He held out his hands, palms up, like a magician about to perform sleight of hand. ‘Who gives a big damn, they probably screwed a lot of little people out of twenty times what you took ‘em for.’

Still no comment. Sloan sighed and looked up at the ceiling. He was getting annoyed. ‘You’ve changed, Hatcher. You were always good for an argument — about anything. You used to be quite the talker.’

Hatcher stood up suddenly, took three long steps across the room and hit Sloan with a fast, hard jab straight to the corner of the jaw. The big man flew backward out of his chair, landed on his neck and rolled over against the bulkhead.

‘God damn,’ he snapped. He wiped blood from the corner of his mouth and looked up sharply as Hatcher leaned over him.

‘I have this thing about wasting words,’ Hatcher whispered.

‘Jesus,’ Sloan cracked, ‘what happened to your voice?’

Hatcher didn’t answer. He rinsed out his wineglass, slid it into an overhead wine rack and locked it down. Then he went topside. Sloan got up slowly, massaging his jaw. He went to the refrigerator, opened it and took out a light beer. He popped the top off, took a deep drink and then held the cold can against his jaw. Then the four big engines coughed to life and the boat began to move. Sloan rushed to the top. Hatcher was backing the 48-footer away from the dock.

‘What the hell’re you doing?’ he demanded, but Hatcher didn’t answer. He swung the boat around in a tight arc and headed back out to sea, cruising slowly through the sound, and then as the boat broke out into the open sea he eased the throttles forward and the engines changed their voices, their basso tones keeping rhythm to the slap of the ocean as the small yacht picked up speed and began bounding from whitecap to whitecap.

Sloan caressed his jaw with the cold beer can. ‘You didn’t forget how to hit,’ he said. His smile slowly returned. ‘What the hell, I guess I had it coming.’

Hatcher turned around and stood nose to nose with Sloan.

‘Is this a shakedown, Harry?’ his harsh voice asked. Sloan looked shocked. ‘C’mon!’

‘Then what’re you doing here? Don’t tell me you came to apologize, I’ll deck you again.’

‘You know me, Hatch. I, uh, tuck info away for a rainy day. I always figure sooner or later . . .‘ He let the sentence dangle.

‘Yeah?’

‘So now is later.’

‘You set me up, you son of a bitch.’

Sloan shrugged. ‘You do what you have to do.’

‘To protect a drunken bum.’

‘Shit, it was all politics there. We were just trying to save the country is all.’

‘From what — rats and cockroaches?’ Hatcher rasped.

Sloan shrugged with a grin. ‘From the Commies, who else?’

‘And I happened to be expendable.’

‘The whole thing went sour,’ Sloan went on in his sincere voice. ‘You were supposed to be in the prison in Madrango. Then the country blew up before I could get back to get you. Next thing I know, they moved you to Los Boxes. So it was a bad call, I’ll give you that,’ Sloan said.

‘A bad call!’ the ruined voice whispered.

‘I brought you in when I could, laddie,’ Sloan said.

Hatcher moved the throttles forward a little more. The engines got throatier, the bow lifted a little more.

‘What happened to the little fat guy?’ Hatcher said finally.

‘Pratt? Ah, the rebels held him for a couple of months. He lost forty pounds and quit the State Department.’

‘I wonder who’s better off.’

‘He got you out, didn’t he?’

Hatcher growled between clenched teeth: ‘Our beloved ambassador, Craig, murders a woman and child with his Mercedes, I take the fall, go to Los Boxes, and two months later the government goes down the toilet and Craig is out on his ass anyway. Beautiful.’

‘Hatch, you’ve been in the business long enough to know how fast things change. What the hell, I didn’t forget you. Did I forget you?’

‘Three years?’

‘The timing wasn’t right.’

Hatcher shook his head. ‘When they passed out heart, Harry, you were in the asshole line. What the hell do you want?’ Hatcher’s voice rasped.

‘I’ve got a job to do. A job nobody can hack like you can.’

Hatcher looked astounded. ‘Fuck off,’ he snarled.

‘Listen to me —‘

‘Our slate’s clean.’

‘I don’t quite see it that way.’

‘I don’t give a damn how you see it.’

‘I got your pal, Stenhauser, by the gonies,’ Sloan said softly but with menace. ‘I squeeze him, you’re looking to do about twenty years’ hard time.’

‘You always did dream big.’

‘Look who’s talking.’

‘I don’t dream,’ Hatcher snapped, ‘I do it.’

Smiling, Sloan leaned over and said softly, ‘Chicago, Paris, New York. . . I’m not dreaming, pal. Let me play it out for you. They’ll hit you one, two, three, back to back, nothing concurrent. Three major felonies, three different cities, three different courts, and France is real touchy about its art works. I figure you’ll do at least fifteen years. And they’ll take everything you’ve got. So they won’t find the kiwash you got stashed in Panama or Grand Cayman or Switzerland’ — he smiled his most insincere smile — ‘but they’ll get your boat and everything that shows.’ He winked.

Hatcher stared at him for a moment.

‘I think I’ll just call that hand,’ Hatcher said flatly.

‘Maybe you better call Stenhauser first.’

‘What’d you do, Sloan, kneecap the poor little bastard?’

‘I just tightened his suspenders a little bit. He hasn’t got your class. He folds easy.’

‘As easy as blackmail comes to you?’

Sloan’s anger was beginning to rise, but he controlled himself. The smile stayed, the soft tone, the sincerity. ‘Okay, okay. I got off on the wrong foot. Look, you do this little thing for me, you’ll never see me again. I’m history. You’re forgetting, I taught you everything you know, Hatch. I’ll forget all about—’

Hatcher suddenly twisted the wheel sharply to the right, then spun it back the other way. The boat started to go into a tight turn, then just as quickly switched into the opposite direction. Sloan was thrown backward. He hit the bulkhead. The beer can flew out of his hand and was swept away in the wind, then the boat yawed in the other direction and he lurched forward, scrambling for his balance and falling to his knees in front of the cabin hatch. Hatcher pulled the throttles back and then jammed them forward, and the defenseless Sloan, once again caught off-balance, vaulted headfirst into the cabin and flipped halfway over, landing on the back of his neck. He scrambled to get his feet under him and started to get up, but the boat turned sharply again and he flew forward and slammed into one of the bronze wall panels. His breath burst out of him as the mirror shattered from the force of the collision. Sloan fell to the floor as shards of the shattered mirror tinkled about him.

Topside, Hatcher pulled the throttles all the way back. The boat died in the water, and he jumped off the captain’s chair and bounded the steps to the cabin. Sloan was on his knees, scrambling across the floor to his briefcase.

Hatcher moved fast, and, grabbing the briefcase, pulled out the .357. He tossed the case aside. File folders spilled out and their contents splashed all over the floor.

‘Damn it —‘ Sloan began, and then felt cold steel under his nose. Hatcher stood over him with a Magnum pistol pressed against Sloan’s upper lip.

‘You taught me everything you know, all right,’ his flinty voice snarled. ‘Trouble is, Harry, you stopped learning and I didn’t. Blackmail me, you son of a bitch.’

‘You got it all wrong!’ Sloan said, his smile finally vanishing. ‘Just hear me out.’

Hatcher shook his head — Sloan never quit. ‘Your ace in the hole is that fast mouth of yours. You could coax the devil into a cold shower. You lace it all up with your favorite words. Duty, patriotism — hell, you sell patriotism like Professor Wizard sells snake oil.’

‘What’s the matter with patriotism?’

Hatcher ignored the question. ‘The trouble with you, Harry, is you do lousy math. One time, two and two equals four. Next time, it equals seven or twelve or eighty-two or whatever you want it to equal. Damn it, do you think you can frame me twice in the same lifetime?’

‘Just listen for a —‘

‘Shut up,’ Hatcher snarled, his eyes flashing.

Sloan thought to himself, If I can get past the next minute or two, I’m okay. It had been a calculated risk, facing up to Hatcher. So Sloan shut up. He leaned back in the chair and Hatcher stepped back a couple of steps, holding the gun at arm’s length, pointed between Sloan’s eyes. Then Sloan’s smile returned. The hands went out, away from his sides again. ‘I was hoping we could have a friendly talk.’

‘Christ,’ Hatcher snorted. ‘You are something else.’

‘Will you listen to me? Give me ten minutes of your time and I’m out of here forever —‘

Hatcher cut him off. His harsh whisper took on a new edge. ‘There was a time, Harry, when the only thing that kept me going, the only thing, was fantasizing about this moment. That’s what kept me alive, imagining what it would be like to have you in the squeeze. Right now you’re a trigger finger away from eternity.’

The smile faded a little but was still there. ‘Okay, so what’s stopping you?’ Sloan said boldly.

Hatcher ignored the question. You’ll be out of here forever, all right. I can stash you in the coral, the fish’ll nibble you to bits before you have time to float up. Nobody’ll ever know what happened to you.’

‘You could do that, but you’re not going to,’ Sloan said, confidently shaking his head.

‘I’ve done worse to better than you. Hell, you ought to know, I was working for you.’

‘You think I don’t know you’re nursing a hard-on two miles long?’ Sloan said, and for a moment there was almost a touch of sadness in his voice. ‘Look around. Did I come in here with the whole brigade at my back? Did I come in waving around a lot of iron? Hell, no.’

Sloan had spent his life studying faces, learning to recognize the slightest nuances: the vague shift in a muscle, the almost imperceptible twitch of an eyelid, the slightest tightening of the mouth, the subtle shift of focus in the eyes. They were all signals to him that in an instant something had changed. Then it was like having a fish on a line. Time to reel in. Hatcher was good about concealing his emotions, but it was there, Sloan sensed it. I’ve got him, he thought. We’re past the real touchy part. He leaned toward Hatcher and his eyes glittered as he put in the fix. ‘I’m here on a mission of mercy, pal.’

And Hatcher thought, Shit, here it comes. Now he’s got that tongue of his going full speed, now he’s on the con.

‘Let’s stop horsing each other around, okay?’ Sloan said. ‘So you’re tough and I’m tough, we don’t have to prove that to each other anymore. I know you, Hatch. I know you know I’m not here to get a tan, so you’ve got to be real curious. Why don’t you put that thing down and listen to me before you do something real crazy?’

Hatcher sighed. He leaned his gun arm on his leg. The pistol dangled loosely in his hand, pointed at the deck somewhere between Sloan’s feet.

‘Okay, let’s hear the part about the mission of mercy,’ he snickered. ‘That ought to be a classic.’

CODY

Sloan gathered up his file folders from the deck and put them back in order. He dropped one in Hatcher’s lap.

‘Read this,’ he said.

It was the service record of Lieutenant Murphy Roger Cody, USN. Murph Cody. Hatcher hadn’t heard that name since Cody died in Vietnam a long time ago.

‘What’s this all about?’ Hatcher asked. ‘Cody’s been history for fifteen years.’

‘Fourteen actually.’

‘Fourteen, fifteen, what’s the difference.’

‘Read the file, then we’ll talk.’

Hatcher leafed through the 0—1 file. There was nothing out of the ordinary about the record. It began when Cody entered the U.S. Naval Academy in 1962, and ended abruptly when his twin-engine OV- 10 crashed and burned while flying a routine search-and-destroy mission near Binh Thuy in the Mekong Delta, April 13, 1972. Cody had been assigned to Light Attack Squadron 6, Naval Riverine Patrol Forces, and had gone ‘in-country’ in July 1971, nine months before he was lost. There were two commendations for outstanding service and a recommendation for the Navy Cross, which had been approved and awarded posthumously.

Supplementary reports included a tape of the debriefing interrogation of two of Cody’s wingmen and the gunner of an SAR Huey crew that had tried to rescue Cody and his radioman; a confidential report by the MIA commission dated January 1978, confirming that no trace of Cody had been found;. a tape of the review board and the official certification of death in 1979; and another commission report filed when the crash site was located in 1981, reporting that charred bones had been found on-site but were unidentifiable — they could have been the remains of either Cody or his crewman, Gunner’s Mate John Rossiter, or parts of both.

The only mention of Cody’s father was on the service form under ‘next of kin.’ It said merely, ‘William John Cody, General, U.S. Army.’ Not the Buffalo Bill Cody, commander of all the field forces in Vietnam. A typical bureaucratic understatement.

There were two photographs, a drab black-and-white that was Cody’s last official Navy photo and a five-by- seven color shot of him with his wife and two small children in front of a Christmas tree. The date on the back was Christmas, 1971, his last Christmas home. There were also some news clippings, including the announcement in the San Francisco Chronicle that Cody’s widow, Joan, had married a rear admiral two years after Cody was officially declared dead. Cold, hard facts and not too many of them.

Hatcher studied the two photographs. He remembered Cody as being tall and hard with a quick laugh, a man who loved a good time almost as much as he loved the ladies.

The photographs prodded Hatcher’s memory, but twenty years had dulled it. Hazy incidents flirted with his brain — the good times, oddly, seemed the most vague — then there were other incidents, juxtaposed visions of Murph Cody, that were crystal clear. In one, Cody was the brutish sophomore, a hulking shape in the boxing ring, pummeling his opponent relentlessly, driving a youngster into the ropes, slamming punches in a flurry to the chest and face of the kid until Hatcher and another member of the team jumped in the ring and pulled him off. In the other, Cody was the penitent, showing up at the hospital later that evening, apologizing in tears for hurting the young freshman, who had two broken ribs and a shattered cheekbone, and sitting beside him all night.

He remembered, too, his own fear as a freshman of Cody, who had a reputation among the new frogs as a mean hazer.

‘When did you meet him?’ Sloan asked.

Hatcher thought for a moment as memories bombarded him. Opaque memories like the shape of a room but not the furnishings in it and faces without voices. Then slowly the memories began to materialize as his mind sorted through fragments of his life.

‘The first day at Annapolis,’ he answered. ‘I’ll never forget it. .

August 1963. A bright, hot day. Hatcher and a half- dozen other frogs were lined up ramrod-straight, their backs flat against the wall in the dormitory hallway. It was their first day at Annapolis, and they were all confused and scared. Two upperclassmen had them braced and were giving them their first introduction to the cruelties inflicted on a frog, a new freshman at the academy.

The worse of the two was a burly midshipman with a permanent sneer named Snyder. Snyder hated all lowerclassmen. Because he had almost busted out himself, he had no tolerance for them.

The other second-year man merely watched. He was tall, muscular and handsome despite features that were triangular and hawkish and made him appear older than he was. He stood at parade rest, never taking his eyes off Hatcher.

‘Look at these maggots,’ Snyder said, stalking the line of frightened young midshipmen. ‘Look around you, maggots. By this time next year only two of you will be left.’

He stood in front of Hatcher. ‘You’re the juvenile, huh. How did a delinquent like you get into Annapolis?’

Hatcher stared straight ahead, not knowing what to answer.

Snyder’s face was an inch from Hatcher’s. ‘What’s the matter, maggot, can’t you talk?’ he yelled.

‘Yes, sir!’ the terrified Hatcher answered.

‘Are you a maggot?’

‘Yes, sir!’

‘Are you lower than dog shit?’

‘Yes, sir!’

‘I can’t hear you!’

‘Yes, sir!’

‘Awright, clear the hall!’ Snyder yelled. ‘Move it, move it, move it. On the double!’ And he laughed as they all scrambled to their rooms.

A minute later the tall cadet appeared at the door to Hatcher’s room.

‘Everybody clear out but Hatcher,’ he snapped and the room emptied. Hatcher stood as erect as a statue in his new uniform, his chin tucked against his clavicle. Cody stood very near him but did not look t him; he stared out the window at the courtyard as he spoke. ‘My name’s Murphy Cody. You call me Mister Cody.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I hear you’re a Street kid. Is that right, maggot?’

“Well, sir, I . .

‘Yes or no!’

‘Yes, sir!’

‘I hear you were a Golden Gloves champion in Boston. That correct?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Cody looked him over. ‘Middleweight?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You don’t look like you could break wind, maggot,’ Cody said and walked out of the room.

Thanksgiving, 1963. A cold, harsh-wind day. ‘Hit the wall, maggot,’ Snyder bellowed as Hatcher was leaving the mess hail and the underclassman assumed the position.

A dozen frogs had already fallen before the relentless hazing of Snyder, Cody and other midshipmen. Yet Hatcher felt that in a funny way Cody was watching out for him. Hatcher had surprised them all. While other freshmen broke under the rigorous schedule and hazing, Hatcher seemed to get stronger as the months went by. By winter he knew he would get by that crucial first year if Snyder didn’t force a confrontation.

Snyder had other plans.

‘Hatcher’s mine,’ Snyder bragged openly. ‘I’ll break him. He’ll be gone before Christmas.’

He braced Hatcher constantly, in the lower classman’s shower, in the yard, in the halls, his comments always insulting and humiliating. Eventually it started to get to Hatcher.

Now he was at it again.

‘The academy is for men, maggot,’ Snyder snarled. ‘You’re not a man, you’re what we used to call a J.D. back where I come from. You know what a J.D. is, maggot?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’m going to make it my business to run you off. You’re history. You don’t deserve to be an officer in this man’s Navy.’

Hatcher didn’t say anything.

‘You want to be an officer, maggot?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well, that’s a joke. You don’t even have a mother and a father, isn’t that a fact?’

Hatcher didn’t answer. He could feel the blood rising to his face.

‘I asked you a question, maggot.’

Still no answer.

Snyder moved so close his breath was hot against Hatcher’s face.

‘You know what they call someone who doesn’t have a mother and a father, maggot?’

Hatcher stared straight ahead. He fought to keep himself from trembling with rage.

‘Say the word,’ Snyder demanded.

‘Maybe he doesn’t know the word, Snyder,’ Cody’s voice said. Hatcher was staring straight ahead; and Snyder moved out of the way and suddenly Cody was staring at him.

‘Maybe he never got that far in school,’ Cody said. ‘Is that right, maggot?’ Snyder snapped.

‘Well, maggot, is that right?’ Cody repeated.

‘Yes, sir,’ Hatcher said.

Snyder leaned over to Cody and said softly, ‘He’s mine, Cody. He’ll be Boston dog meat by Christmas.’ He chuckled and moved on.

‘You almost lost it there, maggot,’ Cody said sharply. ‘I was watching you. Now, you listen up. Everybody figured you’d be history by now, but you fooled us all. So don’t lose it now. Snyder’s trying to provoke you, and if he does, you’re gone. You took it this long, just keep taking it. Couple more months and you’re a second-year man and nobody can mess with you anymore.’

‘What’s he got against me, sir?’

‘He’s an elitist. He doesn’t think you fit the profile.’

‘Do you, sir?’

‘It doesn’t make any damn difference what anybody thinks, it’s what you think. And we never had this talk,’ Cody snapped and walked away.

‘You and Murph Cody were pretty close for a time, weren’t you?’

Hatcher was drawn back to the present by Sloan’s question. He stared at him for several seconds and then said, ‘Yes . . . we were at Annapolis together. I didn’t see much of him after we graduated. He went in the air service and I went into intelligence. Why? Why the interest in Cody?’

‘You know how it is. The general never has gotten over his death. I guess he just wants to put it all in perspective.’

Hatcher’s eyes narrowed. Sloan was lying to him and he knew it. But it wasn’t Sloan’s tone of voice or expression that gave him away.

‘Don’t bullshit me, Harry. You didn’t track me down and then come all the way here to chat about Murph Cody. You think I got stupid since I saw you last?’

Sloan held up his hands in a gesture of apology. The smile got broader when he was in trouble. ‘Hey. Please. Stick with me for a couple of minutes more, okay?’

Hatcher relaxed. He was curious and had nothing to lose by going along with the game, whatever the game was.

‘Well, that’s a long time ago,’ Hatcher went on. ‘Annapolis was — 1963 to ‘67. I was in his wedding. That was...’

“Sixty-nine,’ Sloan said. He pointed to the records. ‘It’s in the file.’

‘Then I didn’t see him again after I joined the brigade.’

‘Why?’

Hatcher paused for a moment. ‘We had a falling-out,’ he said. ‘Anyway, Cody was tough at first. Big on hazing. It was — like paying dues to him. Cody was very big on paying dues. Maybe it had something to do with being Buffalo Bill’s son.’

‘How so?’ Sloan pressed on.

‘Well, you know, Polo had to measure up. As I remember, the general wouldn’t put up with any slack in the line.’

‘He played polo?’

‘Did I call him Polo?’ Hatcher replied, surprised. ‘Jesus. I didn’t even think about it just came out. Polo’s a nickname, short for Polaroid. Cody had a photographic memory, could remember anything — faces, names, math formulas, you name it. Everybody from the old gang at the academy called him that.’

He paused again as new images came back. ‘Look, he was a good guy, very loyal, liked to raise a little hell—’

Hatcher looked back down at the family Christmas photograph. Somehow the man in the Christmas picture seemed smaller and sadder than the Cody he remembered. And then Hatcher remembered the Christmas holidays that first year.

‘— and loved the ladies.’

Christmas, 1963. There was a light snow, just enough to call it a White Christmas and make being away from the Cirillos for the first time a painful experience. Hatcher was huddled against the wind, walking across the yard with his head down. Broke and with n place to go, he was spending the Christmas holidays at the academy along with perhaps a dozen other midshipmen. As he was crossing the chilly yard he heard yelling and what sounded like furniture being overturned.

My God, Hatcher thought, two of the guys are going at it. He ran into the sophomore dorm and up to the second floor. The furor was coming from Cody’s room.

The room was a shambles. Books, papers and clothes were strewn all over the floor. Cody was in a rage, stumbling around the room, yelling obscenities, tears in his eyes. He picked up his desk chair and, turning to the window, swung it back with both hands. Hatcher leaped into the room and grabbed the chair. Cody turned on him, his face red with drunken fury. ‘Wha’ the hell’re you doin’, maggot!’

‘Shit, sir, you’re going to be in a lot of trouble. The OD’s bound to hear you.’

‘Up the OD’s dick, maggot.’

Hatcher looked out the window. The OD was charging across the yard through the snow toward the dormitory.

‘Oh shit!’ Hatcher said.

He put the chair back and rushed around the room, straightening it up, stacking up papers and arranging them on the corner of the desk. He threw the clothes in the closet and closed the door.

‘What d’you think you’re doin’, maggot?’ Cody demanded.

‘The OD’s on his way over here,’ Hatcher said. ‘If he catches you drunk in your room, you’re gone, sir.’

‘S’be it,’ Cody replied drunkenly. ‘Teach ‘em all.’

‘All who, sir?’

‘Mm’ your own business.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Hatcher heard the front door of the dorm open and close.

‘He’s on his way up here,’ Hatcher said in a panic.

‘Who’re we talkin ‘bout?’

‘The fucking OD, sir.’

‘Up the OD’s —‘ Hatcher grabbed Cody and steered him toward the bathroom. ‘What the hell’re --‘

Hatcher shoved him in the bathroom and turned on the shower. He went back in the room and pulled the door shut. Then he went to Cody’s closet and got out a pair of shoes and a shoeshine kit. He could hear the officer of the day approaching the room. He started frantically shining the shoes as the OD pounded on the door.

‘Mr. Cody?’

Hatcher opened the door.

‘What’re you doing in here, maggot?’ the OD demanded, staring at Hatcher.

Hatcher held up a shoe and a rag.

‘Doing Mr Cody’s shoes, sir.’

‘Where’s Cody?’ the OD demanded, brushing past Hatcher and entering the room. From behind him, Hatcher looked down at the foot of the bed. A. capped bottle of vodka was sitting on the floor. Hatcher moved as cautiously as he could to the foot of the bed and dropped the shoe, waiting until it hit the floor and at the same moment kicking the bottle under the bed.

The OD whirled and Hatcher popped to attention. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he stammered. ‘I dropped the shoe.’

At that moment the door opened and Cody’s dripping head peered around its edge. He had a towel wrapped around his shoulders.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked sternly.

‘Sounded like a riot in here, Cody,’ the OD answered.

‘The radio,’ Cody said. ‘I turned it off. Get back on those shoes, maggot.’ He slammed the bathroom door shut.

‘Yes, sir!’

The OD stalked out of the room. ‘Just keep it down,’ he said as he left.

Cody came out of the bathroom. The towel was still wrapped around his shoulders and his hair was dripping wet. Water had splashed on his tunic. He walked into the room and looked around, got down on his hands and knees and reached under the bed to get the bottle of vodka. He sat on the floor, leaning on the bed, uncapped the bottle and started to laugh.

‘That was very quick thinkin’, maggot, very resourceful, indeed. Have a drink.’

‘I don’t think—’

‘S’down and have a damn drink, maggot,’ Cody said with a flourish and held the bottle toward him. Hatcher sat beside him on the floor, took a swig, and shuddered.

‘You’re a real case, maggot,’ Cody said, almost sneering. ‘I been watching you. You got a funny kinda attitude. What d’you call that, street ethics?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘You suppose so, what?’

‘Sir.’

‘Right.’ He took another swig and handed the bottle back to Hatcher. ‘M’old man’s a soldier’s soldier, maggot. E’body loves Buff’lo Bill Cody.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well, shit,’ Cody said with a vague wave of his arm. He stared down at the vodka bottle. ‘Think I’ll ever make adm’ral, maggot?’

Hatcher took another swallow of vodka and handed it back to Cody. ‘Is that what you want to be, sir?’

‘Isn’t that what this’s all about? This is the U.S. Naval Academy, maggot. We’re all suppos’ t’be admirals before we retire, didn’t y’know that. Isn’t that why you’re here? You jus’ tryin’ to get recest — respect — respectable?’ He chuckled at the tongue twister and passed back the bottle.

Hatcher took another swig of the vodka. The room was beginning to tilt a little.

‘I like the ocean,’ he said finally, handing the bottle back to Cody.

‘I like the ocean,’ Cody repeated with a snicker. ‘Jesus, he came to Annapolis because he likes the friggin’ ocean. Well, maggot, which ocean d’you like best?’

Hatcher chuckled. ‘I like ‘em all, long’s they’re wet.’

Cody laughed. ‘Tha’s very funny. But ‘s indiscriminant. You’re indiscriminant, maggot. Got t’be discriminating‘s part of what we’re doing here, becoming elit — elit-isss.’

‘Elit-isss, yessir.’

Their laughter progressed toward a laughing jag.

‘Elit-isss-t,’ Cody said through his laughter.

‘Elit-isss-t,’ Hatcher replied.

‘Why’d you do this for me, maggot. I been giving you an awful lot of shit. Was it because I gave you that advice ‘bout Snyder?’

‘Maybe.’

‘F’r the record, I wasn’t doing you any favors, Hatcher, I’m an opportunis’, prob’ly the wors’ snob of the bunch. Next year I’m capt’n of the boxing team and right now Snyder’s our only middle-weight and Snyder’s got a glass jaw. A good, hard shot and ‘s ass is planted. I want a winning team, maggot, and I need a good middleweight for that, so I gotta keep you around until spring tryouts, see what kinda stuff you got.’

‘Well,’ Hatcher said with a shrug, “s good a reason as any.’ And then after a pause he added, ‘But it’d take more than you and Snyder to get rid of me.’

Cody looked at him with surprise, and then, leaning back against the bed with the bottle perched on his knee, he nodded. ‘Y’know somp’n, I think you’re right,’ he said and passed the bottle back. ‘What the hell’re you doin’ here, maggot? Why aren’t you back in Boston?’

‘I couldn’t afford it. Besides, the only people I really want to see are out West skiing.’

‘No kidd’n. Me too, maggot, got n’place to go. M’ old man’s in the Far East somewhere and Mrs Cody’s on a Caribbean cruise. Wha’ the hell’s the diff’rence, anyway. Just ‘nother day, right?’

He took a deep swig and handed the bottle to Hatcher.

‘Mostly, though, it’s because m’ lady fair — sweet, adorable Cassie — decided to marry a lawyer. Can you believe that, she’s marrying one of those fuckin’ blood suckers. She decided she didn’ wanna be a sailor’s wife.’

‘Well, you can’t really blame her for that.’

‘Maybe you’re right,’ he said. ‘Also she didn’ wanna wait three more years to legalize her favorite sport.’ Cody giggled and held the vodka bottle up in a toast. ‘To past sport with Cassie.’

He took a swig and handed it back to Hatcher.

‘I know how it is,’ said Hatcher. ‘‘1y girl dropped me for a wrestler. Talk about humiliating. No neck and solid muscle from the balls of his feet to the top of his head.’ He held up the bottle. ‘Here’s to stupidity.’

‘What’re you gonna do New Year’s Eve, maggot?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Ever seen Times Square on New Year’s Eve?’

‘Mr. Cody, I don’t have the price of a bus ticket to the showers.’

‘Well, money is not one of my problems. It’s on me, jus’ don’t ever tell anybody that Cody and the maggot Hatcher spent the weekend together.’ He winked and laughed and took a swig. ‘We’ll stay in a fancy hotel, order up room service, maybe even fin’ a coupla friendly ladies. And at midnight, we’ll go down ‘mong the heathen hordes.’ Cody held up the bottle. ‘To the heathen hordes.’

And so Midshipman Murph Cody and maggot Christian Hatcher went off to New York for New Year’s.

From the moment they got on the bus it was Murph and Hatch, and finding lonely ladies was not a problem — selection was the problem. The bars were crowded, there were parties in the rooms that overflowed into the halls and parties in the streets. There was an epidemic of brotherly love. And occasionally when opportunity presented itself in the form of two lonely ladies, Hatcher and Cody would vote, holding the fingers of one hand behind their backs and then flashing them. If the total number of fingers for each was more than seven, they would make a move. They scored before dark.

The girls were roommates. Helen, who was with Murph, was an assistant photo editor for a news magazine. Hatcher’s date, Linda, was an usher at one of the Broadway theaters. Both were eights. And both slept in the same room, so there was the added sense of excitement that came with trying not to be too demonstrative with another couple a few feet away.

Two in the morning and the sharp, intrusive ring of the telephone. Helen took the call. ‘Hi Mom, Happy New — What?. . . Oh, no! When?. . . Oh God, Momma, I’ll be there as soon as I can. Yes, yes . .‘ She cradled the phone and sat on the edge of the bed, shaking and crying, and Cody sat up and put a blanket around her shoulders.

‘What happened?’ he asked.

‘My brother . . . was in an automobile . . . automobile . . . wreck. I’ve got to go straight to the hospital. They don’t think. . . don’t think . .

‘C’mon, get dressed. I’ll take you.’

‘It’s way out in Queens.’

‘Hey, get dressed. I don’t care where it is, you can’t go alone.’

Cody was a true gentleman. His macho bravado had vanished when they met the girls, replaced by a tenderness that astounded Hatcher. Now Cody organized the trek to the hospital quickly, and when they were gone Hatcher and Linda lay side by side in the bed, the news of the wreck somehow making sex — even touching — seem self-indulgent and frivolous. They lay there for a long time, Hatcher dozing off, then ‘waking, then dozing off again. The sky was turning gray when the doorbell rang.

Linda sat bolt upright in bed.

‘My God, who could that be?’ she whispered. Hatcher scrambled to the door and peered through the peephole.

‘It’s Murph,’ he said and opened the door.

Cody stood there with his hat under his arm.

‘Just thought you’d like to know that Fred — that’s Helen’s brother — is gonna make it.’

‘Hey, that’s great,’ Hatcher said.

‘I didn’t know the phone number, that’s why I didn’t call.’

‘Hey, right, we’re glad to get the news.’

‘Uh.. .‘

‘Yeah?’

‘I don’t feel like going back to the hotel alone,’ he said quietly.

Linda, huddled in a bathrobe, appeared in the doorway beside Hatcher.

‘C’mon,’ she said, drawing Cody into the apartment. Hatcher and Linda got back in bed and watched Cody strip to his shorts, and as he sat on the edge of the bed taking off his socks, Linda looked at Hatcher and turned back to Cody and said, ‘Hey, sailor, come on over here, this bed’s warm already.’

Cody smiled and looked at Hatcher, who motioned him over; he crossed the room and slid in beside Linda. And Hatcher and Murphy each put an arm around her and they all fell back to sleep.

Hatcher, in remembering that night, thought, My God, was life ever really that simple and innocent? Had friendship and love ever been closer together than on that night?

Then the next morning they were back on the bus, and suddenly Hatcher was ‘maggot’ again and it was as if the trip had never happened.

Spring 1964. There was still a chill in the air but fifty miles away in Washington the Japanese apple trees were in bloom and tourists were crowding the malls and parks shooting pictures, and at the academy Hatcher was double-timing across the yard thinking, Two more months, only two more months, and this shit will be over.

The now familiar voice cried, ‘Maggot!’

Hatcher stopped immediately, chin in, eyes boring straight ahead. Cody stood behind him.

‘Tryouts at the gym, three tomorrow. Be there.’

‘Yes, sir!’

Hatcher got to the gym early and ‘worked the fast bag for fifteen minutes, loosening up, enjoying the familiar arena smell of alcohol and Ben Gay. Then Snyder showed up, cocky as always.

Cody, still a few weeks from being captain of the team, was acting referee. When they called for the middleweights, Cody made sure Hatcher and Snyder were paired off against each other.

‘Three rounds,’ he said. ‘Winner makes the team, loser goes to the bone pile. Break clean when I tell you to, no rabbit punching. Shake and come outfighting.’

He checked Snyder’s gloves, patted him on the shoulder, then crossed to Hatcher’s corner and, leaning over, checking the laces, said very softly, ‘I told you he’s got a glass jaw. He also has a left uppercut like a torpedo. He’ll try to infight and tag you with the left. Box him two rounds to slow him up, move in and keep on top of the left so he can’t throw it. One good shot anywhere from the point to the ear and you’ll plant him.’

It was sound advice. Hatcher played to Snyder’s left, constantly jabbing and moving, crowding the left so Snyder couldn’t break it loose. Twice he took good solid shots and shook them off, countering quickly with combinations of his own. He was faster than Snyder and, he quickly knew, smarter. Snyder was a flat-footed fighter, a plodder, stalking his opponent while looking for a shot. Hatcher didn’t give it to him. Then Snyder made a move. He jogged in, threw the right and then brought the left up hard. Hatcher took it on his shoulder and there, right in front of his eyes and wide open, was Snyder’s flat, ugly jaw. Hatcher fired a hard, straight right cross over Snyder’s shoulder, right into the jaw just under the ear. He felt the power of the punch telescope up his arm to his shoulder, saw Snyder’s eyes roam wildly out of control, saw his legs turn to jelly. Snyder turned halfway around and fell straight to the deck.

Cody walked across the ring and stared down at Snyder’s limp form for a moment, then nodded to Hatcher. ‘Welcome to the team,’ he said with a grin.

Graduation day, 1964. Outside Hatcher’s room, there seemed to be a constant scurrying of feet as the midshipmen rushed to and fro across the yard getting ready for the dress parade. Hatcher was setting his cap when Cody appeared in the doorway, that stern hawk face glowing.

‘All right, you’re still maggots until after the parade. Everybody out but Hatcher.’

Hatcher’s roommates vaulted out of the room. Hatcher stood at sharp attention in front of Cody, but for the first time he stared straight at the upperclassman, a practice forbidden the first-year frogs.

‘Maggot, do you know what a floogie bird is?’ demanded Cody.

‘No, sir.’

‘A floogie bird is a curious bird that flies in ever- decreasing concentric circles until it disappears up its own asshole, from which vantage point it slings shit at its adversaries. That’s what a floogie bird is, maggot. Well, mister, you had a tough time, but by God nothing could bend you. You are now a floogie bird, my friend, and you can start slinging shit at your adversaries.’

‘Yes sir!’

Cody took a bottle of vodka from under his tunic. A big grin spread across the stern hawk face. He handed the bottle to Hatcher. ‘You first, Mr. Hatcher. Welcome aboard,’ he said. And for the next two years he and Hatcher would be inseparable teammates and friends.

……anyway, Cody was a year ahead of me,’ Hatcher said to Sloan. ‘He went straight into the Navy Air Corps when he graduated. I went into intelligence. We didn’t see each other after that, but we kept in touch. Then in 1969 he asked me to be an usher in his wedding.’

‘Very fancy, I hear.’

‘Very high society D.C. affair, typical Washington bash. Congressmen, senators, admirals, generals, TV big shots, they were all there.’

‘What was his wife like?’ Sloan asked.

‘The model of icy perfection, a gorgeous woman, perfectly groomed. Had all the assets — proper schooling, proper background, proper, proper, proper.’

‘And you disliked her.’

‘No,- I think she disliked us. His old school pals were too rowdy. Her father was an admiral, you know the type.’ Hatcher thought back to the day, a collage of uniforms and chatty people. ‘I think Polo was unhappy about the marriage.’

‘What makes you think so?’

‘I don’t know. Seems like he was awfully — cynical that day. More like the old Cody from hazing days at the academy. I don’t know why he should have been. At that point Cody had done everything right. Graduated from the academy, breezed through flight training, married an admiral’s daughter.’

‘Like he was filling in the blanks of an outline,’ Sloan said.

‘Exactly. I don’t know how the hell he got in the Brown River Navy.’

‘He volunteered.’

‘No kidding? Gung ho to the last.’

‘His father-in-law tried to block it, but from what I understand, Cody was insistent,’ Sloan added.

‘That was really garbage work,’ Hatcher said.

‘Whatever,’ Sloan said with a shrug. ‘And you never saw him again after the wedding?’

‘Once. At San Diego Air Base. I was there doing a security check and he was stationed on the base.’

‘Must have been just before you joined the brigade.’

‘Yeah. I had already announced I was retiring my commission. . . . We had kind of a run-in.’

‘About what?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘I never saw him again after that. And I sure as hell can’t see him now.’

‘Don’t be too sure,’ Sloan said and his grin became mischievous.

‘What do you mean?’ Hatcher’s harsh whisper asked. ‘Supposing I told you that I got information that Murph Cody is alive.’

‘Where? Is he a prisoner?’

‘He’s free as a bad cold. Bangkok.’

A little shock went through Hatcher when he heard the word. Bangkok. A place he had pa ked and put away forever. ‘What kind of information?’

‘I trust it.’

‘That doesn’t answer the question. How reliable is this source?’

‘A small-time Thai politician. He —wants a free trip to the States and a work visa. According to our information, Cody’s marked, so he’s on the run.’

‘Marked by who?’

‘The White Palms,’ Sloan said.

‘That’s a Macao outfit. What would they be doing in Bangkok?’ asked Hatcher.

‘It’s the source. And you’ve beer away a long time. The damn triads are everywhere now

‘What’s this guy’s game — opium?’

‘We’re not sure. We suspect he was a courier for the White Palms. But we haven’t really dug into it for obvious reasons.’

‘What obvious reasons?’ Hatcher whispered, although he knew the answer already.

If Murphy Cody was alive in Bangkok and had remained silent for all these years, there had to be a reason. And if military intelligence didn’t know the reason, it didn’t look good for Cody.

‘Don’t play dumb,’ Sloan said. What the hell’s he doing in Thailand? I mean if he’s alive, why hasn’t he surfaced?’

Hatcher could think of a lot of reasons, none of them good.

‘Maybe he’s got amnesia,’ he finally offered.

‘Yeah, maybe I’m Doris Day, too, Sloan answered. ‘It’s a possibility. He could have amnesia.’

There was also the possibility that Cody had been a collaborator, or a defector, or a deserter, or that he was involved in drugs, murder, white 1avery or any of a dozen other crimes Hatcher could think of.

Sloan obviously had the same things in mind. He said, ‘I can’t think of a good way for this to turn out, if it’s true. There’s desertion, to start with. If he wasn’t killed, he still belongs to the U.S. Navy, heart and soul.’

‘Question is, why did he go underground in the first place?’ Hatcher said. ‘What I mean is, if he wasn’t killed and he wasn’t in Hanoi, where the hell was he?’

‘Well, wherever it was, the Navy was convinced he was KIA.’

‘Maybe that was his out.’

‘Or his trap.’

Hatcher nodded slowly. ‘Or his trap. So what’s this got to do with me?’

‘Nobody knows Thailand like you do, Hatch. You know the good guys and the bad guys, and you’ve worked both sides of the stream. I can’t let military intelligence handle this, everybody in the Pentagon’ll know about it in an hour. It has to be unofficial. If Cody’s alive and mixed up in something — improper, there’s the old man’s reputation to consider.’

‘Improper,’ Hatcher growled -with a chuckle. ‘Very delicate, Harry.’

‘You get the point,’ Sloan continued. ‘We need somebody who knows the territory and can keep his mouth shut. And nobody I know is better at keeping quiet than you, old buddy. Besides, you were a damn good investigator in your day, if I do say so myself.’

‘My day’s not over, and don’t call me your old buddy. And who the hell’s we?’

‘Half a dozen of Buffalo Bill’s old staff. Look, this Thai, his name is Wol Pot, brought the trade-out to the embassy in Bangkok. Luckily, the IO there is one of Cody’s old exec officers, Lew Porter.’

‘Windy Porter?’

‘Yeah, you remember him?’

‘Vaguely.’

‘He interviewed Pot. Right away he sizes up the situation, puts Pot on hold and calls me. I round up a couple of the old-timers from S-town, we kick it around. Finally we had to take it to the Old Man.’

‘Why?’ Hatcher rasped.

Sloan stared hard into his eyes. ‘Because Buffalo Bill’s dying of cancer, Hatch. He won’t last the year.’

That stopped Hatcher cold. He had a hard time picturing General Buffalo Bill Cody with some insidious worm eating up his insides.

‘We all love the Old Man, okay?’ Sloan said, and his voice turned husky. He stopped for moment and swallowed hard before he went on. ‘He asked us the favor. If his kid’s alive, he’d like to see him once before he dies.’

‘What if he’s in trouble?’

‘That’s why I need you, Hatch,’ Sloan said, his voice still shaky. ‘If he’s in deep shit, Porter can’t handle it. He’s a burned-out old trooper. Point is, the general will meet Cody somewhere — anywhere — Hawaii, Tokyo, Sydney. Wherever Murphy wants t meet him. Nobody needs to know it ever happened.’

‘A trip like that would probably kill the Old Man,’ Hatcher said.

‘His quality time’s running out anyway,’ Sloan said with resignation. ‘The thing is, it has to be handled with satin and lace by somebody who knows the score, who can roll with it, no matter how it might go, convince the kid we’re not out to dump on him, we just want to give the Old Man one last gift.’

‘He’s hardly a kid,’ Hatcher said. ‘He’d be — forty-two now,’ he said, adding a year to his own age.

‘Go to Thailand and find him, if he’s there,’ said Sloan matter-of-factly. ‘Or put the old man’s mind to rest.’

‘Prove he’s dead,’ Hatcher rasped.

‘Yeah, One way or another.’

Hatcher laughed hard at that.

‘Navy’s been chasing down leads on Cody for fourteen years,’ he said, ‘and you want me to go to Bangkok, which has fifty million people, and turn him up, just like that.’

‘Nobody’s been looking for Cody. As far as the Navy’s concerned he’s dead meat. But you, hell, laddie, you’re the best I ever had.’

‘Can the shit, Harry.’

‘You got the edge, Hatch,’ said Sloan. ‘We’ll give you Wol Pot. We’ll give you Windy You know Cody. You know the territory. And you can keep your mouth shut no matter what happens. You proved that in Madrango. All I want you to do is go over there, find Cody and set up the meet. Or tell me he’s dead. Hell, you’ll even have Flitcraft at your disposal.’

‘Flitcraft’s still on the roster, huh?’

‘He’s my number one.’

Hatcher poured himself another glass of wine and fiddled with the file for a few moments.

‘You know I can’t go back there,’ he said finally.

‘C’mon, that was, what? Eight, ten years ago?’

‘Wouldn’t matter if it was fifty..’

‘You get in a bind, I’ll give you all the backup you need. I’ve still got a few heavy hitters over there.’

‘What’s the deal with this Thai, what’s his name again?’

‘Wol Pot. Look, I don’t care what you do to the little slope. If he gives you any shit, break his legs, hang him on the rack, pull out his fingernails. I don’t care.’

‘Same old Harry.’

‘It’s his story, make him prove it.’

‘That’s not what I mean. Does he get his visa?’

‘If he delivers, I suppose I can arrange something.’

‘It’s got to be straighter than that. If he turns him up, I’ve got to know what kind of deal I can give him.’

‘If he turns him up, we’ll provide protection and get him out of Thailand.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Why do you care?’

‘If I make a promise I want it kept.’

‘Done. You’ll do the job, then?’

Hatcher stared at him for several seconds. He put the .357 on a table.

‘The price will be $236,600.’

‘What!’

‘That’s two hundred dollars a day for every day I was in that rat hole.’

‘Get real, man.’

‘That’s as real as it gets, Harry.’

‘Where am I going to get that kind of money?’

‘Hey, this is Hatch, remember? You got private-sector accounts all over the world. Panama, Switzerland, the Bahamas. So maybe you’ll have to scrimp somewhere else. Tough shit.’

‘You’re a rich man, Hatch.’

‘Punitive damages. The price is $236,600, non- negotiable. Take it or leave it.’

Sloan’s grin broadened as big as it could get. His eyes began to twinkle again. ‘It’s more than that, isn’t it? I can see it in your eyes, pal. You miss the edge. You miss the old adrenaline pumping. Life’s too easy. Hell, when you’re hooked, you’re hooked forever.’

Part of what Sloan said was true. But it wasn’t that razzle-dazzle feeling one gets running the edge that was sucking Hatcher back to the old life, back to places he’d sworn never to go back to, to people he never thought he’d see again, to work again for Sloan, a man he once thought he was going to kill. It was Cody, man who had once been more of a friend than Sloan hid ever been because Cody had always been honest with him.

‘I’ll take the jaunt because of Murph Cody and the old man, period. It has nothing to do with you and me. If Cody’s there, I’ll find him. If he’s not, I’ll let you know. And if you ever come back here again, I’ll feed you to the fish.’

Sloan leaned over closer to him, the old teeth sparkling, the gray eyes twinkling.

‘You know, I think you’re serious, he said.

Hatcher smiled back without mirth.

‘Keep thinking it,’ he said. ‘Your life may depend on it.’

PREPARATIONS

It was dusk when Ginia, responding to Hatcher’s call, returned to the boat carrying a wicker picnic basket. She opened it and took out the contents while Hatcher took the boat out through the sound and into the open sea, sticking close to the shore.

‘Fettuccine with fresh vegetables from Birdie’s, homemade clam chowder, cold shrimp and hush puppies from the Crab Trap,’ she said. ‘How soon do you want to eat?’

‘Now. I’m starving.’

‘What happened to your army buddy?’

He leaned over and kissed her on the throat. ‘Gone,’ Hatcher growled and the subject was dropped. She knew better than to ask ‘Gone where?’ If he wanted her to know he would tell her. Obviously he didn’t. She was delighted that the stranger had left and Hatcher was hers for the evening.

She went below, selected a bottle of vintage red wine from the liquor cabinet and opened it to let it breathe. She heated the food in the oven and set the table. Then she turned on the radio, keeping the volume low.

‘Hey,’ she yelled up to him, ‘you want to put this thing on automatic pilot and come eat?’

‘Done,’ came the hoarse answer. She heard the engines die out and the anchor splash in the water, and a moment later he appeared in the salon.

‘I decided to anchor for a while. We’re right off Sapelo Island,’ he said, dipping his fingers into the fettuccine and tasting it.

‘Mind your manners,’ she snapped.

‘Delicious,’ he said and poured each of them a glass of the red. They clinked their glasses in a silent toast. He leaned over and kissed her very lightly, tasting the dry, musky wine on her lips.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered. Then, making small talk, she asked, ‘How long have you known Jimmy Cirillo?’

‘A long time.’

‘Where did you meet him?’

‘In an alley in Boston.’

‘An alley?’

‘Yeah. I was breaking into a store and he was a cop.’

‘Are you kidding me?’

‘Nope.’ Hatcher leaned back and realized he was about to give away some family secrets. He felt comfortable doing it.

‘My old man was an architect, and not a very good one. Blew his brains out in the shower of the Boston Men’s Club one afternoon. I was ten at the time. ‘Three years later my mother ran off with, uh, hell, I don’t even know, never saw the man. Anyway, I hit the bricks. By the time I was fifteen I was one of the best cat burglars in Boston.’

‘Why, Hatch, I had no idea,’ she said in amazement.

‘That’s just the tip of the iceberg,’ Hatcher said with a smile.

‘Well, what did Jimmy do to you when he caught you?’ Ginia probed.

‘He took off his badge and his gun belt, put them carefully on the sidewalk, and beat my ass to a bloody pulp.’

Ginia broke up — she put her hands over her mouth and giggled into them.

‘And that’s not all. He got me a job; actually he got me three jobs, and I walked out on all three. So one night he grabs me, shoves me in this alley, off comes the badge and gun belt and he gives it to me again. Then he says, “I’m gonna keep whippin’ your ass until you hold a job and stop boosting my beat.” And that was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.’

‘He made you what you are today,’ she said with mock pride.

‘Yeah,’ Hatcher said and then added rather solemnly, ‘but the guy on the dock had a hand in it too.’

‘What did he catch you doing?’

‘Going for admiral,’

‘Huh?’

‘That’s another story.’

They ate the rest of the dinner in silence. Hatcher was not one to talk and eat, but she sensed something impending. She knew he was going before he said it.

‘I have to leave for a while.’