In the Crosshairs

3

Swanson canceled the hotel booking and directed the driver to go to the Four Seasons hotel in the Paseo de la Reforma. He was glad that his cover job didn’t require him to be poor. Money had advantages. He used his cell phone to check into the posh hotel, and put the charge on the Excalibur Industries credit card, an American Express Centurion.

Once in the suite, he stripped down, showered, and pulled on a soft robe, then called room service to get his clothes cleaned and pressed and back to him by six o’clock the next morning. Looking over the menu, he ordered a steak, rare, with potatoes and vegetables. “Add a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and bring up a bucket of ice, too,” he said. That should take care of his overnight stay. Now, for the hard part. He dialed Coastie.

Her voice was strained. Yes, she said, she understood that he couldn’t make the round trip in a single day, only to then turn around and fly to Washington. Some places, such as San Luis de la Paz, are just hard to reach. No, Mama wasn’t improving. The blow to her head was serious and the doctor wanted to get her to a hospital. Yes, they were safe. The ranch looked like an armed camp.

“How about you? Are you all right?”

“No, I am most certainly not all right,” she snapped, her temper rising. “My husband is dead and his grave has been desecrated. Mama is in a bad way, and I feel helpless and crushed. Why aren’t you here with me, Kyle? You’re supposed to be my friend.” The voice rose louder, then she broke off into sobs.

He looked through the big window out toward the purple mountains as he listened to her weep. “I am your friend, Beth. You know that. You need some time to deal with your grief and take care of Mama Castillo. And I haven’t forgotten what you said.”

“I want back in.”

“I’ll be straight with you, Coastie. Keep in mind that this is an unsecure connection. You’re way out of shape after three years of marriage and a life of ease. There’s no way you could go into the field yet, so if you’re serious you have to start a hard PT program and knock off some weight.”

“Are you saying I’m fat? I run a mile and work out every day!”

“Not nearly good enough, and you know it. Then get your shooting eye back.”

“I can outshoot you right now,” she said, fighting.

“This is not a contest between the two of us, Coastie. If everything comes together, and you clear the physical conditioning and a round of psychiatric exams, and if the organization decides it even wants you, then maybe you can come back. Big maybe, girl.”

There was silence, and a deep inhalation of breath. “How long would it take, Kyle?”

“At least a year.” He hated doing this. This wasn’t the sort of support that a knight in shining armor gave a maiden in distress. This also was no fairy tale, and life wasn’t fair. “That would be the official deal, so don’t say you haven’t been warned.”

“It sucks.” Her growing anger was palpable before she caught what he had said. “The official deal? Are you thinking of something else?”

Ever since his briefing that afternoon, Swanson had been unable to shake the feeling of how alone he really was within the CIA. All special operators were the same in that respect, close to no one and far from God. Unknown bureaucrats would turn on them without a second thought if it was deemed convenient. Their loyalty was to the country and the company, not the individual. He often thought of the old Jabberwock poem about a beast with jaws that bite and claws that catch. He would sound paranoid if he tried to explain it, but facing unknown terrors all by himself had always been a hard, twisting road. He trusted Coastie to remain alongside him if the Jabberwock, the Jubjub bird, or even the frumious Bandersnatch came lurking.

Kyle kept his voice even. “How about this? You stay down here with Mama as long as you need. Then you come up and work directly for me at Excalibur. I think we can have you ready in three months. You interested?”

Beth soaked up the surprise and replied, “Yes, of course.”

“Okay, then. Give Mama my best, and we’ll stay in close touch. A final question, Coastie. Was Mickey on the payroll of that other outfit that I work for? Careful how you answer.”

She thought about it. “He worked with a lot of similar organizations, mostly coordinating efforts, but with your company he actually did some specific tasks now and again. He never gave me details.”

Damn. So Mickey was a spook, too. “Keep your head down and your marines close until you leave. Stay strong on the emotional front, too. Time will help.”

“It’s hard, Kyle. I miss Mickey so much. I can’t just sleep and cry all the time.”

“I know. We’ll talk later.” He ended the call, satisfied at having bought another three months before he had to make a final decision.

The memorial to America’s third president, Thomas Jefferson, was waterfront property on the National Mall, and a favorite meeting spot for the director of intelligence, the number two man of the Central Intelligence Agency. The Mall was anchored by the needle obelisk of the Washington Monument at one end and the domed Capitol building at the other, with a brooding, iconic Abraham Lincoln dominating the panorama. People by the thousands strolled the Mall daily from one end to the other, but few broke away to trek the mile from the White House to visit Mr. Jefferson’s five-ton statue in the neoclassical memorial on the southern bank of the Tidal Basin that was fed by the waters of the Potomac River.

Martin Atkins was on a stadium seat cushion for comfort on the stone steps. Swanson approached, nodded to the security detail, and was allowed through the protective perimeter. At a bit over sixty, Atkins was still a handsome man, but Swanson could see that the job weighed heavily on him. The hair was still thick and full, but it was graying fast. Atkins was an old-time iron pumper, and while his chest remained thick, the shoulders were slumping owing to age, the law of gravity, and the woes of the world. Swanson didn’t have a cushion, but sat beside Atkins anyway. The chill of the shaded stone was immediately felt through his jeans. “Hello, boss,” he said.

The director folded his Washington Post in half, and then in half again. “Dirty business down in Mexico,” he said, and blew out a breath.

“Yeah,” Swanson replied. It had been an observation, not a question to elicit details. Atkins probably knew more about it than Swanson did.

“We’re at war,” Atkins declared as he gazed out over the rippling Tidal Basin. “We have the biggest and best intelligence service on the planet, and can barely keep our heads above water.”

Swanson remained quiet. The boss would get to the real message in his own time, in his own way.

“The Russians, these ragtag terrorists, the rebellions, the North Koreans, the Los Angeles Dodgers, and those petty African tyrants — and did I mention the damned terrorists?”

“Yes, you did.”

“Add in the Congress and the current administration and our budget rivals and the mud-headed media talking heads.”

“Sounds like you’ve had a full day.”

“Yes.” Atkins stuck the newspaper under his arm. “Which brings me to you, Young Skywalker. I have to deal with all this other shit from morning till night, and I damned well don’t need another problem like the one you’ve handed me.”

“Wait a minute, Marty. I didn’t do anything but go to a friend’s funeral.”

“Bullshit, Kyle. Somehow you’re involved in this thing, and that places the agency in jeopardy from an unexpected quarter. I’ve ordered an internal investigation to see what they can figure out.”

“You want me to talk to them?”

“Of course. Private and confidential. Moreover, I’m assigning you to personally resolve this matter, whatever it is. Clear it up, try not to leave too many stains on the carpet, and turn this problem into a solution. I have enough problems of my own.”

Swanson shook his head slowly. “I was told you would give me a file on that guy down in Mexico.”

Marty Atkins stood and turned to look at the statue of the man who wrote the Declaration of Independence. “That Tom Jefferson was one smart fellow,” he observed. “JFK once told a group of Nobel Prize laureates having dinner at the White House that the place had never seen such brilliance except for when Jefferson dined alone.”

“The file, sir?”

“Tommy J. also warned that our nation must continually change to keep pace with the times. He had no idea what he was forecasting.” Atkins looked down at Swanson. “Change is happening at light-speed all around us, and we’re struggling to stay in front of it or risk getting run over. I really don’t need this Mexico thing on my plate, Kyle. Take care of it. Read this newspaper.” The director leaned over and picked up his cushion and walked away, drawing the three-man security detail with him.

He left the folded newspaper on the steps.

Inside, Swanson found a plain manila folder sealed with tape.

Nicky Marks was one sick puppy. Just reading the CIA dossier was hard work. Swanson had gone to a pub before delving into the information, and was glad to have a strong drink at hand as he leafed through the documents.

Nikola Markovitch had emerged from the Soviet Union as it fell apart. He leveraged his knowledge of several languages and his military training to become a hired gun for one of the Russian mobs for several years. Apparently pretty good at doing dirty work for the new-blood billionaires, Markovitch saw that job as having a limited future because there was a very high mortality rate among the enforcers. At that point, he found a job in which he might not be murdered in his sleep by a friend, and became a mercenary about the time the invasion of Iraq opened respectable horizons for homeless and stateless soldiers. Markovitch was soon wearing desert-class sunglasses, a big mustache and camouflage uniforms, and being paid well by a private security company based in the United States. He didn’t shy away from the occasionally messy work.

It was in Iraq that he first popped up on the CIA’s radar. Leafing through a few pages of photographs, Swanson saw a man who clearly enjoyed his work. The guy loved a good battle, was merciless toward his enemies, and extraordinarily efficient. Swanson also saw another picture developing: that of a man with absolutely no loyalty, not even to his own name.

Ten years ago, Marks stepped completely into the shadows and became a special contract operator for the Central Intelligence Agency. Here was a man who would do anything, and without a second thought. No clandestine operator could be asked to do more than that. The agency rewarded him with full American citizenship and a personal history that included a Social Security number and a bank account into which deposits were made directly, discreetly, and legally. He threw away the old name and became Nicky Marks because it was easier for his paymasters to write and pronounce, and to convince themselves that he was a true-blue, faithful U.S. citizen.

Swanson was halfway through a fresh bourbon and ice when it dawned on him that Nicky Marks was no longer a spring chicken. The years had passed in a hurry, and the enthusiasm that had stamped his early career seemed to have abandoned him, as had his two wives and three estranged children. According to the assessment of his profile, the personal troubles didn’t interfere with his work. He still got his jobs done with a minimum of fanfare. His handlers kept him around because he suited their requirements like a domesticated cat with sharp claws. He did what he was told. No more, no less.

Swanson closed the file. If that was so, then why was Nicky Marks with that tractor in Mexico? The simple answer was that he was there because someone paid him to be there. Maybe some event had changed his style and he needed money, and the cartels were calling. Maybe he missed the old days. Maybe he wasn’t tame at all.

Swanson concluded that the guy was a killer who had fallen in love with the power and the money, a double whammy that possessed him as tightly as religion grasps a fanatic. That was all there was in his world, he was good at it, and nothing else gave the same buzz and satisfied him as much as being a paid assassin. Swanson ticked off some indicators: the total disregard for laws or the rights of other people, no feelings of guilt or remorse, and a tendency toward violence — all apparently masked by a charming personality. It was all there in the paperwork. Bottom line was that Nicky Marks was just a garden-variety, run-of-the-mill psychopath.

Alongside a tractor.