Black Ghosts

CHAPTER 5

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t turn cop on me, Bob.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks.”

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

“Why?”

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

“How can I get in touch with him?”

“Where are you?”

“The Ritz,” said Edward.

“Under what name?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes?”

“Is that Edward?”

“Right.”

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

“Sure.”

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

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

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

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

“Did they find anything?” said Edward.

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

“How many launches were there?”

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

“Who do you think they were?”

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

“What about the bungee cords?”

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

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

“Any other survivors?”

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

“Didn’t Bob tell you?”

“I asked you.”

“Just a guy looking for answers.”

“Are you a fucking reporter?”

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

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

“Did he see anything?”

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

“Any idea what was in it?”

McPhee chewed his cigar and shot Edward a speculative glance.

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

“How come?”

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

“A handsaw?”

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

Back at the Ritz, Edward called Donoven’s hotel, only to be told the man was out. He left a message that he would call back at nine. Then he ordered a club sandwich from room service. It came with a huge salad made of a variety of colored lettuce, and only after taking the first bite did he realize how hungry he actually was. A few minutes after nine he called Donoven again. This time the man was in.

“Donoven here,” said a stiff, cold, very Englishsounding voice.

“Hi, I’m Edward.”

“You are a friend of Larry’s, am I right?”

“Yes.”

“I understand you have something for me.”

“I do,” said Edward. “When can we meet?”

“Tomorrow, at the bar of the Plaza Hotel, at precisely two o’clock. I expect you to be punctual.”

“Okay. Is that the one on Central Park South?”

“That’ the one.”

“How will I know you?”

“I’ll be wearing a gray raincoat. How will I identify you?”

“I’ll be wearing a cowboy hat.”

“Wouldn’t that be rather conspicuous?”

“Don’t worry about that, just be there.”

Edward hung up, chuckling to himself at the prim, stuffy voice that had insisted on punctuality. It went well with a gray raincoat. He couldn’t help himself with the part about the cowboy hat, but since he had no intention of meeting Donoven at the rendezvous, it really made no difference.

Leaning on the stone fence of Central Park across the street from the Plaza Hotel, Edward saw the nervous-looking man in the gray raincoat entering the bar at precisely two o’clock. Through the window, he could see the pink, bald head looking around at the people seated in the plush bar. Edward smiled; he knew Donoven was looking for a cowboy hat — not something you would readily find in this part of Manhattan. Edward dialed the hotel on his cellular phone and asked for the bar. He told the barman that his friend, a Mr. Donoven, had just come in wearing a gray raincoat. Could he be called to the phone? Edward watched through the window as the barman dispatched a waitress, who carried a mobile phone on a silver tray to Donoven’s table.

“Who’s this?” said Donoven, taking the phone and looking around him in suspicion. This was not what he had expected, nor what he had planned for. But Edward knew Donoven was not going to give up what Larry had promised him, surely not for a mere technicality.

“It’s your cowboy. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long.”

“I’ve only just got here. Where are you?”

“I’ll tell you where to go and we’ll meet there.”

“What’s wrong with meeting here?”

“I don’t like the service at that place. Besides, it would be better for you if I knew you were clean before we met, don’t you think?”

Donoven hesitated, then said quietly, “Where, then?”

“Walk over to Madison. You know where that is?”

“Yes, I turn right outside here.”

“Right. On Madison take a right and walk down to 53rd. Then go right on Lexington until you reach 50th. You got that?”

“Is there much more?”

“No, just turn left on 50th. There’s a hotel there called the Kimberly. Wait for me in the lobby. If I’m not there five minutes after you get there, I’m not coming and you are in deep shit.”

“Not funny, old chap.” The man sounded annoyed. “See you soon, then.” He was trying to put up a brave front, but Edward, like a good hunter, could sense the fear.

“Walk normally, don’t rush, and don’t look for a tail. I’ll handle that. If you have a tail, we don’t want to scare them off, do we?”

Edward took up position on 59th Street between Madison and Park. From there he could see Donoven’s pink face and gray raincoat approaching. He could easily have spotted a tail had there been one. When Donoven turned on Madison, Edward quickened his pace and headed down Park, arriving in plenty of time to see Donoven turn on 53rd, heading for Lexington. Edward knew that if he was clean here, everything was fine.

Edward let him enter the hotel. Then he dialed the lobby and had the desk clerk call Donoven to the phone. He told him to come across the street to a small diner next to the San Carlos Hotel.

“So we finally meet,” said Edward, extending a hand and a smile to the man standing by the door.

“Edward?” said Donoven, looking somewhat lost.

“Yes, yes. Come and sit down.”

It was clear from his expression that Donoven was not expecting such a welcome, not after all the running around he’d been made to do. “Sorry to have dragged you all over the place,” Edward said as they sat at a sticky table to the rear of the establishment.

“I must say, that was quite a walk. I’m quite out of breath.”

“So, what do you have for me?” Edward dived right into the subject matter.

“And you for me?”

“Mine is a payment for yours, so let’s have it, pal. We both have other things to do.”

For the next twenty minutes Donoven talked, leaning across the table, his voice low. Edward felt like offering the man a breath freshener, but since he had no intention of meeting him again, he decided to suffer through Donoven’s halitosis. He took notes and occasionally dropped a question. Donoven was not reluctant to give him the answers. As Edward was showing no sign of being ready to pay him, he kept talking. There were still some details missing, but Donoven, who was now sweating more than he had after his short walk, promised to get them.

“When?”

“When I get back, most of what you need should be waiting on my desk. It will, however, cost you.”

“Not me. It will be Larry who will deal with you then. I’m just helping out for the moment.” Edward took the envelope out of his coat pocket. As he was about to hand it over, he said, “One more thing. Why did they kill this General Kozov, or whatever his name was?”

“He was the commander of the Black Ghosts.”

“So why kill him?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps they didn’t like him. It would seem rather stupid, though.”

“Why is that?”

“Well you see, only he can, or rather could, activate their computer. It has a security system in place that scans the general’s iris to verify it’s him before they can get access to the system. Without that, if activated the system self-destructs.”

Edward handed Donoven the envelope. The man tore off the end and peeked inside at the bundle of one-hundred-dollar bills. His pudgy pink face beamed. Without another word Edward got up and walked out of the diner. He was starting to get the picture, and it was not a pretty one.