The Asian Mantrap

Two

Mid-morning traffic crossing Arlington Memorial Bridge into the District was light and not much heavier going north on 23rd Street. I branched off onto New Hampshire Avenue at Washington Circle. Street repairs on Connecticut Avenue near the underpass reduced traffic around DuPont Circle to one lane.

I tucked my car into the reserved space kept for me in the basement garage of the DuPont Plaza Hotel. Using the emergency fire door to reach the alley, I walked clockwise halfway around the Circle and passed the Iraqi and Nigerian embassies. It was a quiet morning.

The first alphabetical listing on the directory in the lobby of the Hatterman Building is Alliance for Peace located in Suite 514. I always suspected that was a front for something else. The second listing is Amalgamated Press and Wire Service. That looks legit, but it isn’t. It’s the cover name for AXE which occupies most of the third floor.

The reception room was empty. It normally is. Very little AXE activity is carried on out in the open. Right after I entered, a familiar voice boomed out over a concealed loudspeaker. “Come right in, Nick. My door’s open.”

My presence had been detected by a body-heat sensitive electronic device hidden in the door frame. Visual identification had been made from the video picture picked up by an unseen TV camera and transmitted to a number of monitor screens strategically placed in several offices.

Hawk reclined in his high-back executive chair, his feet resting on an open bottom desk drawer. For once he wasn’t smoking or chewing on an unlit stub of one of his cheap cigars. The carcasses of four teeth-mangled butts lay soggy-ended in his hubcap-size ashtray. I can always judge Hawk’s mood by the rate his cigar butts accumulate. This wasn’t one of his better days.

“Sit down, Nick,” he invited, awarding me with a slight twist of his lips. That’s the closest hу ever came to generating a smile. He held out a humidor containing cigars. I shook my head. It takes a strong-stomached man to tolerate Hawk’s cheroots, let alone smoke them. I drew out my own pack of private-formula cigarettes.

After we lit up, he let me relax for a minute. That in itself was out of character. Hawk is a restless, dynamic man who seems to need to be constantly in motion. His chronological age, which I guessed to be around sixty, and how he was allowed to carry on his unique operations, are two of the many well-kept AXE secrets. That he exercises tremendous influence at the top levels of government is not. He worked as hard to keep AXE unknown and its select staff invisible as he did to carry out successfully the secret missions assigned to it.

“How’ve you been feeling, Nick, my boy?” Hawk asked finally.

If ever there was an indication that I wasn’t going to feel so good after Hawk told me what he had in mind, that solicitous approach telegraphed the bad news. His friendly, unexpected concern and use of a chummy salutation set off a warning signal within me. Animals and insects get the same intuitive feeling just before a disastrous earthquake takes place. When Hawk lays on the fatherly approach, the job usually turns out to be political and extremely delicate.

“Just fine, sir,” I replied to his question and left it at that. I wondered what was causing Hawk’s reticence. He wasn’t the kind to shy away from a distasteful subject.

“I’ve got something I want you to see,” he said.

A compact film viewer that resembled a portable TV set rested on the credenza opposite Hawk’s broad-topped desk. “Pull your chair around here next to mine,” he instructed. He activated the remote control that switched on the motion picture projector.

The film had no titles. The initial frames showed nothing but roiling, dark gray clouds. The sound, thunderous and constant, enabled me to identify the setting even before the smoke cleared away to reveal a battlefield scene. At first I thought I was watching a training film. A tank in front of the camera was moving down a village street under fire. Burning, shattered buildings lined the road. When the tank shuddered to a halt under the impact of the shaped charge that plowed into its side, I changed my mind. The violent orange explosion ripped off the heavy caterpillar tread. The turret hatch cover and a limp body were blown into the air. These were not special effects; I was seeing an uncensored combat film.

“There’s no commentary on the sound track!” Hawk shouted over the din. “This was taken at the height of the battle of Hue during the first Tet offensive in Vietnam. Now watch for movement on the right side of the screen.”

The cameraman swung his lens to catch a ragged line of hunched soldiers moving forward through the rubble in the street. They were trailing a man who constantly waved an arm to encourage those behind to keep up. “That’s Major Keith Martin out there in front,” Hawk told me.

Martin broke into a scrambling run toward the motionless tank. Puffs of dust caused by aimed automatic fire peppered the ground around his legs. He faltered once, but kept going. “Caught one in the fleshy part of his thigh right there,” Hawk explained. The determined major forged ahead. He reached the lee side of the smoking tank and paused just long enough to give another impatient arm wave to the lagging GIs in his wake. As Martin shelved his weapon on the treads and climbed up the tank’s side, four men in jungle fatigues surged forward. Two fell almost at once. The surviving pair made it to the protection of the tank’s hulk and huddled there.

Above them Martin had disappeared inside the disabled vehicle. Moments later an uncoordinated figure was hoisted up through the hatch. It half-slid, half-fell into the waiting arms of the two men on the ground. The camera lens zoomed in to get a close shot of the bloody, wounded crewman and the grim faces of the two soldiers reaching up with helping hands.

An ear-splitting explosion from the sound track which filled Hawk’s office was followed by complete silence. The camera jiggled just before its lens swept the sky then came to rest. The screen was filled with a blob of unfocused brown color. “Another shell!” Hawk’s voice was a hoarse whisper. “Took out the sound man and all of his equipment. The cameraman was slightly wounded. Watch!”

The still-running camera was picked up and trained upon Martin. He was backing down the side of the tank, an unconscious man draped over his shoulder. He deposited the still figure on the ground gently. He then snatched up the M-16 he’d laid on the tank’s useless treads and moved to the nose of the tank. Going down on one knee, he looked ahead. From the way he jerked back as small geysers of dust marked the impact of bullets in front of him, it was clear that the rescue operation was pinned down by an unseen Viet Cong machine gun. Its task was obviously to protect an observation post directing the deadly accurate enemy artillery fire. The next incoming round was due in seconds.

Martin moved. Alone and exposed, he dashed forward. After six long strides, his right arm looped over. A hand grenade sailed out of sight. Hunched over, Martin ran another three steps, then went down. He rolled over twice and lay still. “That one went clean through his lung,” explained Hawk. “But he’s not through yet.” I wouldn’t have known that Martin had been hit a second time because he heaved himself up on his elbows and began firing the M-16 like he was in the prone position on a practice range.

The picture on the screen shook. Another shell had impacted. From the smoke and dust that enveloped Martin lying in the street, I figured he had been blown to bits. But out of the yellowish black cloud Martin plodded — moving slowly, deliberately — driven by something stronger than the pain he must be suffering. He stumbled once more, down onto his knees. Before he dropped completely, another grenade left his hand. Debris from that one showered over Martin now laying flat and unmoving in the street.

A Russian T-47 tank smashed through the one remaining wall of a corner building. It was framed just long enough for me to recognize what it was before the projector screen went blank. “The cameraman cleared out right there, but he had a record of Martin’s heroic act,” explained Hawk. “That’s when he was captured. That bit of film, plus the account given by the men who were with him, earned him the DSC. Both tank crew members recovered, though one’s in a VA hospital to this day. The platoon that Martin commandeered couldn’t give him enough praise. You only saw a half dozen GIs in that action. There were a dozen more back of the camera who were eyewitnesses, too. They helped make Martin the legend he is today.”

“He sure had guts,” I commented.

“There’s another piece of film you should see,” Hawk continued. “After that action in Hue, no one knew what happened to Martin. He was wounded three times and a Russian tank was bearing down on him, firing and smashing everything in sight. He could have been run over and ground into the dirt. There was no way to tell. So Martin was declared missing in action and presumed dead. Then we saw this film clip.”

It was short. The staged propaganda film showed captured American prisoners being paraded down a Hanoi street lined with jeering North Vietnamese. The prisoners were a sorry lot, barefoot, emaciated-looking, with gaunt faces and their shaven heads bowed. Their ankles and wrists were shackled with heavy, dragging chains. The intentional humiliation was base and degrading. The vacant-eyed prisoners looked more like drugged automatons than freeborn American servicemen.

For a brief moment, the photographer concentrated on one slouching, dejected individual. “Good Lord!” the words escaped me. “You can barely recognize him, but that’s Martin,” I said. “He’s dragging one foot. I thought you said he was only nicked in the leg.”

“He was, but he received almost no treatment for such a relatively minor wound. That’s just another way our captured troops were abused. It went sour, as you can see. Of course, it was properly cared for after he came home.”

I fired up another cigarette. My adrenalin flows easily. Just watching someone in a tight spot stirs up my juices. Hawk says my ability to gear up to a situation so quickly is one of the reasons he holds me in reserve for the more tricky assignments. From experience I knew that the longer Hawk took to brief me on background, the nastier the job would be. He was taking a long time to get to the point.

Hawk got to his feet. To me that was a sign that he was getting close to revealing what there was about Keith Martin’s unexplained absence that was agitating everyone. He took a deep breath. “After the POWs were brought home, there seems to be a period during which no entries were made in Martin’s service record. We know he was hospitalized for some time. During that stay for physical rehabilitation, I suspect he also underwent psychiatric treatment as did many POWs. If he did, it wasn’t recorded, or has been stricken from his personnel file. The outstanding entries are the two emotional promotions given him during and just after his confinement in Hanoi. The first, from major to lieutenant colonel, followed the propaganda film confirmation that Martin was alive. The second, to full colonel, came when he was being flown back home.”

“The gap in the record could be because of leave. He must have had a lot of it accumulated,” I reasoned.

“He had it and he took it. You were out of the country on a job at the time, but you may recall the splash he made here. He really cut a wide swath, showing up in places like Las Vegas and New York with Hollywood starlets, titled divorcées, and a couple of Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders. He was a big spender and his family has it. He came close to precipitating a scandal more than once. Then he suddenly cooled it. His uncle, Senator Steadier, had something to do with curbing Martin’s excesses. I mention that name because he has quite a bit to do with you being here right now.”

Hawk was only partly right about that.

It was Ginger Bateman, a picturesque redhead from Atlanta who is Hawk’s proficient girl Friday and whom I always thought would be an especially capable bedroom gal on Saturday nights, that had gotten me moving this morning.

I had been sitting naked on the turned-down toilet seat cover with a towel across my lap when the phone rang. Before that interruption, I’d been applying antiseptic to a red welt running across the fading AXE tattoo on the inner side of my right elbow and debating whether the deep fingernail scratch warranted the use of a Band-Aid.

While padding across the thick pile carpeting of my bachelor apartment in Alexandria’s Landmark Towers, I began concocting a story why I couldn’t give an encore performance for the ardent young socialite whom I’d left dreamy-eyed and languid in my bed. She didn’t want me to leave her, but I had to have a breather. Besides, another session with her might leave me slashed to ribbons, not to mention acquiring more bruises in intimate, sensitive areas. Her surprising endurance and insatiable demands disproved the rumors circulated by her ex-husband. He claimed she was frigid. I knew better. My personal research confirms that there are no frigid women — only inept men. Or drained-out men. Following an especially active night, I was one of the latter.

As I reached for the phone, I vowed that tonight I would sleep long, solidly — and alone.

“Carter, here,” I said into the mouthpiece.

“Hi, Nick. This is Ginger. The Man says you’re to get over to the Pentagon. On the double.” She gave me no chance to protest. She needed none. Both of us knew that orders from David Hawk required an automatic response. Her unscrambled call over my open telephone line verified the message’s urgency. The sketchy details Ginger passed to me included only the time and location of the meeting I was to attend.

I hurried as directed. Getting away before my honey-voiced society chick was awake enough to realize I was running out on her was an extra incentive to waste no time.

Hawk seemed to be in no hurry now. He blew a cloud of bluish smoke toward the ceiling. I’d never seen him look so pensive. For a full twenty seconds the room was so quiet we could hear the whisper of cool, air-conditioned air coming through the ceiling-mounted vents. He sat down again and swiveled his chair to face me. “This is going to be strictly off the record,” he confided.

I can be candid, too, when I think it necessary. “I’ve never seen you take so long to get around to the real issue, chief. Are you somehow involved personally?”

My question seemed to give the lean, intelligent man the opening he was seeking. He thanked me silently with one of his wry smiles. “I wish it were as simple as that. Still, you’re right in a way. A personal appeal has come from a consortium of the highest-placed officials in the administration. The White House is gravely concerned over the unavailability of General Martin. The presidential press secretary fears some reporter will notice Martin’s extended absence and speculate about it, so a ‘leak’ to the media is planned. It will suggest that Martin is off on a binge somewhere and would like to keep it under wraps.”

“Is that the best they could come up with?”

“It’s the least likely to be considered prime news. That story about Martin was run before. If it is printed, minimal reaction is expected. The general public has no idea of Martin’s favored status. Only insiders know how close to the president he is.”

“It was news to me when I heard it this morning,” I confessed.

“Well, there you are,” Hawk remarked. “And the misdirection being issued by the White House is designed to keep it that way. Although no one has come right out and said so, some kind of urgency makes the time element important. And speaking of time, how long did it take Hal Jarrett to get action out of the board this morning?”

I started to make a mental calculation, then realized that Hawk already knew the answer. A conspiratorial glint in his eye gave him away. I smiled back. “So it was rigged. That tirade by old General Bromley was planned, if not rehearsed, wasn’t it? Don’t bother to answer, chief. I recognize a Hawk twister when I’m told to look for one.”

“I wanted you there to analyze how it went. If you didn’t pinpoint the ruse, I doubt if any others present saw through the sham. It wasn’t entirely my idea; General Jarrett was cooperating so that the Strategic Options Board can convene to minimize the impact of Martin’s absence.”

“I can’t believe that any one-star general could be so indispensible as to stir up so much concern.”

“You always did have a way of putting things to make a person uncomfortable, Nick.” Hawk’s remark struck me as being a non sequitur. He was staring down at his ash-sprinkled desk blotter.

I waited through a long period of silence. It’s not often that I risk needling Hawk, but his out-of-character hesitancy made me bold. “You mentioned being contacted by someone on a strictly personal basis.”

Hawk took a long drag on his vile-smelling cigar. “Yes, that’s right. And it’s got to be kept that way. I’m sending you out to locate Keith Martin. Not just to determine where he might be, but to find him and remain with him until you turn him over to a proper escort. Though I don’t expect you to run into any unusual... ah, complications, I’m giving you an open-end Killmaster authorization.”

That seemed a little drastic to me. A Killmaster project provides unlimited and unquestioned funding to carry out an assignment. That was fine with me, but it also has a built-in aspect which allows the use of extreme measures to assure success of the mission. That seemed superfluous, especially when the missing person was a general. The army had enormous resources of its own. If Martin was truly a concern of the White House, the president could turn loose a dozen federal agencies that would make short work of turning up a person in hiding. The whole thing didn’t track right for me. My mouth was partly open to ask Hawk one of the hundred questions that came to mind when he spoke. This time his voice was precise and confident.

“This will be a full-scale trace effort, Nick. No restrictions apply other than carrying it out in such a way that no one suspects an issue is being made of Keith Martin’s absence. I want this absolutely low key, nothing flamboyant. And wrap it up fast. Any questions?”

I bit back the ones on the tip of my tongue. When Hawk got to this point, I knew he’d told me everything he knew. It was clear that I was already on the job. I needed to know if there were any local leads. I braved Hawk’s acerbity. “Where do you suggest I begin, sir?”

Surprisingly, Hawk accepted the question as being quite rational. “Martin was last seen at the Fairmont Hotel in San Francisco.”