Without Remorse

CHAPTER 35

Rite of Passage

Mark Charon found himself in rather a difficult position. That he was a corrupted cop did not make him a stupid one. In fact, his was a careful and thoroughly analytical mind, and while he made mistakes, he was not blind to them. That was precisely the case as he lay alone in bed, hanging up the phone after his conversation with the Coast Guard. The first order of business was that Henry would not be pleased to learn that his lab was gone, and three of his people with it. Worse still, it sounded as though a vast quantity of drugs had been lost, and even Henry's supply was finite. Worst of all, the person or persons who had accomplished that feat was unknown, at large, and doing - what?

He knew who Kelly was. He'd even reconstructed matters to the rather stunning coincidence that Kelly had been the one who'd picked Pam Madden off the street quite by accident the day Angelo Vorano had been eliminated, and that she'd actually been aboard his boat, not twenty feet from the Coast Guard cutter after that stormy and vomitous night. Now Em Ryan and Tom Douglas wanted to know about him, and had taken the extraordinary step of having the Coast Guard check up on him. Why? A follow-up interview with an out-of-town witness was something for the telephone more often than not. Em and Tom were working the Fountain Case, along with all the other ones that had started a few weeks later. 'Rich beach bum' was what he'd told Henry, but the department's number-one homicide team was interested in him, and he'd been directly involved with one of the detectors from Henry's organization, and he had a boat, and he lived not too far from the processing lab that Henry was still foolish enough to use. That was a singularly long and unlikely string of coincidences made all the more troubling by the realization that Charon was no longer a policeman investigating a crime, but rather a criminal himself who was part of the crimes being checked out.

That realization struck surprisingly hard at the Lieutenant lying in his bed. Somehow he didn't think of himself in those terms. Charon actually had believed himself above it all, watching, taking an occasional part, but not being part of what unfolded below him. After all, he had the longest string of successes in the history of the narcotics unit, capped off with his personal elimination of Eddie Morello, perhaps the most artful action of his professional life - doubly so in that he had eliminated a genuine dealer by premeditated murder in front of no less than six other officers, then had it pronounced a clean shooting on the spot, which had given him a paid vacation in addition to what Henry had paid him for the event. Somehow it had seemed like a particularly entertaining game, and one not too far distanced from the job the citizens of his city paid him to do. Men live by their illusions, and Charon was no different from the rest. It wasn't so much that he'd told himself what he'd been doing was all right as that he'd simply allowed himself to concentrate on the breaks that Henry had been feeding him, thus taking off the street every supplier who'd threatened the man's market standing. Able to control which of his detectives investigated what, he'd actually, been able to give the entire local market to the one supplier about whom he had no real information in his files. That had enabled Henry to expand his own operation, attracting the attention of Tony Piaggi and his own East Coast connections. Soon, and he'd told Henry this, he would be forced to allow his people to nibble at the edges of the operation. Henry had understood, doubtless after counseling from Piaggi, who was sophisticated enough to grasp the finer points of the game.

But someone had tossed a match into this highly volatile mixture. The information he had led only in one direction, but not far enough. So he had to get more, didn't he? Charon thought for a moment and lifted his phone. He needed three calls to get the right number.

'State Police.'

'Trying to get Captain Joy. This is Lieutenant Charon, Baltimore City Police.'

'You're in luck, sir. He just got back in. Please hold.' The next voice that came on was a tired one.

'Captain Joy.'

'Hello, this is Lieutenant Charon, Mark Charon, City Police. I work narcotics. I hear you just took down something big.'

'You might say that.' Charon could hear the man settling into his chair with a combination of satisfaction and fatigue.

'Could you give me a quick sketch? I may have some information on this one myself.'

'Who told you about this anyway?'

'That Coast Guard sailor who drove you around - Oreza. I've worked with him on a couple cases. Remember the big marijuana bust, the Talbot County farm?'

'Was that you? I thought the Coasties took credit for that.'

'I had to let them, to protect my informant. Look, you can call them if you want to confirm that. I'll give you the phone number, the boss of the station is Paul English.'

'Okay, Charon, you sold me.'

'Back in May I spent a day and a night out with them looking for a guy who just disappeared on us. We never found him, never found his boat. Oreza says -'

'The crab-man,' Joy breathed. 'Somebody got dumped in the water, looks like he's been there a while. Anything you can tell me about him?'

'His name is probably Angelo Vorano. Lived here in town, small-time dealer who was looking to make it into the bigs.' Charon gave a description.

'Height's about right. We'll have to check dental records for a positive ID, though. Okay, that ought to help, Lieutenant. What do you need from me?'

'What can you tell me?' Charon took several minutes of notes. 'What are you doing with Xantha?'

'Holding her as a material witness, with her lawyer's approval by the way. We want to take care of this girl. Looks like we're dealing with some pretty nasty folks here.'

'I believe it,' Charon replied. 'Okay, let me see what I can shake loose for you at this end.'

'Thanks for the assist.'

'Jesus,' Charon said after hanging up. White boy... big white boat. Burt and the two people Tony had evidently seconded to the operation, back of the head,.45s. Execution-style killings were not yet the vogue in the drug business, and the sheer coldness of it gave Charon a chill. But it wasn't so much coldness as efficiency, was it? Like the pushers. Like the case Tom and Em were working, and they wanted to see about this Kelly guy, and he was a white guy with a big white boat who lived not far from the lab. That was too much of a coincidence.

About the only good news was that he could call Henry in safety. He knew every drug-related wiretap in the area, and not one was targeted on Tucker's operation.

'Yeah?'

'Burt and his friends are dead,' Charon announced.

'What's that?' said a voice that was fully waking up.

'You heard me. The State Police in Somerset have them bagged. Angelo, too, what's left of him. The lab is gone, Henry. The drugs are gone, and they have Xantha in custody.' There was actually some satisfaction in this. Charon was still enough of a cop that the demise of a criminal operation was not yet a matter of grief for him.

'What the fuck is going on?' a shrill voice inquired.

'I think I can tell you that, too. We need to meet.'

Kelly took another look at his perch, just driving by in his rented Beetle, before beading hack to his apartment. He was tired, though sated from the fine dinner. His afternoon nap had been enough to keep him going after a long day, but mainly the reason was to work off the anger, which driving often did for him. He'd seen the man now. The one who had finished the process of killing Pamela, with a shoestring. It would have been so easy to take care of him there. Kelly had never killed anyone barehanded, but he knew how. A lot of skilled people had spent a lot of time at Coronado, California, teaching him the finer points until whenever he looked at any person his mind applied something like a sheet of graph paper, this place for this move, that place for that one - and seeing he'd known that, yes, it was all worth it. It was worth the danger, and it was worth the consequences... but that didn't mean that he had to embrace them, as risk of life didn't mean throwing it away. That was the other side of it.

But he could see the end now, and he had to start planning beyond the end. He had to be even more careful. Okay, so the cops knew who he was, but he was certain that they had nothing. Even if the girl, Xantha, someday decided to talk to the cops, she'd never seen his face - the camouflage paint took care of that. About the only danger was that she'd seen the registration number on his boat as he'd backed away from that dock, but that didn't seem to be much of a worry. Without physical evidence they had nothing they could use in front of a court of law. So thiey knew he disliked some people - fine. So they might even know what his training was - fine. The game he played was in accordance with one set of rules. The game they played had another. On balance, the rules worked in his favor, not theirs.

He looked out the car window, measuring angle and distance, making a preliminary plan and working in several variations. They'd picked a spot where there were few police patrols and lots of open ground. No one could approach them easily without being seen... probably so that they could destroy whatever they had in there if it became necessary. It was a logical approach to their tactical problem, except for one thing. They hadn't considered a different set of tactical rules.

Notmy problem, Kelly thought, beading back to his apartment.

'God almighty...' Roger MacKenzie was pale and suddenly nauseous. They were standing on the breakfast porch of his house in northwest Washington. His wife and daughter were shopping in New York for the fall season. Ritter had arrived unannounced at six-fifteen, fully dressed and grim, a discordant note for the cool, pleasant morning breezes. 'I've known his father for thirty years.'

Ritter sipped his orange juice, though the acid in it didn't exactly do his stomach any good either. This was treason of the worst sort. Hicks had known what he did would hurt fellow citizens, one of whom he knew by name. Ritter had already made his mind up on the matter, but Roger had to have his time to rattle on.

'We went through Randolph together, we were in the same Bomb Group,' MacKenzie was saying. Ritter decided to let him get it all out, even though it would take a little time. 'We've done deals together...' the man finished, looking down at his untouched breakfast.

'I can't fault you for taking him into your office, Roger, but the boy's guilty of espionage.'

'What do you want to do?'

'It's a criminal offense, Roger,' Ritter pointed out.

'I'm going to be leaving soon. They want me on the reelection team, running the whole Northeast.'

'This early?'

'Jeff Hicks will be running the campaign in Massachusetts, Bob. I'll be working directly with him.' MacKenzie looked across the table, speaking in barely connected bursts. 'Bob, an espionage investigation in our office - it could ruin things. If what we did - if your operation became public -I mean, the way it happened and what went wrong -'

'I'm sorry about that, Roger, but this little bastard betrayed his country.'

'I could pull his security clearance, kick him out -'

'Not good enough,' Ritter said coldly. 'People may die because of him. He is not going to walk away from it.'

'We could order you to -'

'To obstruct justice, Roger?' Ritter observed. 'Because that's what it is. That's a felony.'

'Your tap was illegal.'

'National-security investigation - there's a war going on, remember? - slightly different rules, and besides, all that has to happen is let him hear it and he'll split open.' Ritter was sure of that.

'And run the risk of bringing down the President? Now? At this time? Do you think that'll do the country any good? What about our relations with the Russians? This is a crucial time, Bob.' Butthen, it always is, isn't It? Ritter wanted to add, but didn't.

'Well, I'm coming to you for guidance,' Ritter said, and then he got it, after a fashion.

'We can't afford an investigation that leads to a public trial. That is politically unacceptable.' MacKenzie hoped that would be enough.

Ritter nodded and stood. The drive back to his office at Langley was not all that comfortable. Though it was satisfying to have a free hand, Ritter was now faced with something that, however desirable, he did not want to become a habit. The first order of business was to pull the wiretap. In one big hurry.

After everything that had happened, it was the newspaper that broke things loose. The four-column head, below the fold, announced a drug-related triple murder in sleepy Somerset County. Ryan devoured the story, never getting to the sports page that usually occupied fifteen minutes of his morning routine.

It'sgot to be him, the lieutenant thought. Who else wouldleave 'a large quantity' of drugs behind, along with three bodies? He left the house forty minutes early that morning, surprising his wife.

'Mrs O''Toole?' Sandy had just finished her first set of morning rounds, and was checking off some forms when the phone rang.

'Yes?'

'This is James Greer. You've spoken to my secretary, Barbara, I believe.'

'Yes, I have. Can I help you?'

'I hate to bother you, but we're trying to track John down. He's not at home.'

'Yes, I think he's in town, but I don't know where exactly.'

'If you hear from him, could you please ask him to call me? He has my number. Please forgive me for asking this,' the man said politely.

'I'll be glad to.' And what's that about? she wondered.

It was getting to her. The police were after John, and she'd told him, and he hadn't seemed to care. Now somebody else was trying to get hold of him. Why? Then she saw a copy of the morning paper sitting on the table in the lounge area. The brother of one of her patients was reading something or other, but right there on the lower-right side of the front page was the headline: drug MURDER IN SOMERSET.

'Everybody's interested in that guy,' Frank Allen observed.

'What do you mean?' Charon had come into Western District on the pretense of checking up on the administrative investigation of the Morello shooting. He'd talked Allen into allowing him to review the statements of the other officers and three civilian witnesses. Since he'd graciously waived his right to counsel, and since the shooting looked squeaky clean. Allen hadn't seen any harm in the matter, so long as it was done in front of him.

'I mean, right after the call from Pittsburgh, that Brown girl who got whacked, Em called here about him. Now you. How come?'

'His name came up. We're not sure why, and it's just a quick check. What can you tell me about him?'

'Hey, Mark, you're on vacation, remember?' Allen pointed out.

'You're telling me I won't be back to work soon? I'm supposed to turn my brain off, Frank? Did I miss the article in the paper that says the crooks are taking a few weeks off?'

Allen had to concede the point. 'All this attention, now I'm starting to think there might be something wrong with the guy. I suppose I have some information on him - yeah, that's right, I forgot. Wait a minute.' Allen walked away from his desk toward the file room, and Charon pretended to read the statements for several minutes until he came back. A thin manila folder landed in his lap. 'Here.'

It was part of Kelly's service record, but not very much, Charon saw as he paged through it. It included his dive-qualification records, his instructor's rating, and a photograph, along with some other gingerbread stuff.

Charon looked up. 'Lives on an island? That's what I heard.'

'Yeah, I asked him about that. Funny story. Anyway, why are you interested?'

'Just a name that came up, probably nothing, but I wanted to check it out. I keep hearing rumbles of a bunch that works out on the water.'

'I really ought to send that down to Em and Tom. I forgot I had it.'

Better yet. 'I'm heading that way. Want me to drop it off?'

'Would you?'

'Sure.' Charon tucked it under his arm. His first stop was a branch of the Pratt Library, where be made photocopies of the documents for ten cents each. Then he hit a photo shop. His badge enabled him to have five blowups of the small ID photo made in less than ten minutes. Those he left in the car when he parked at headquarters, but he only went inside long enough to have an officer run the file up to homicide. He could have just kept the information to himself, but on reflection it seemed the more intelligent choice to act like a normal cop doing a normal task.

'So what happened?' Greer asked behind the closed door of his office.

'Roger says an investigation would have adverse political consequences,' Ritter answered.

'Well, isn't that just too goddamned bad?'

'Then he said to handle it,' Ritter added. Not in so many words, but that's what he meant. There was no sense in confusing the issue.

'Meaning what?'

'What do you think, James?'

'Where did this come from?' Ryan asked when the file landed on his desk..

'Detective handed it to me downstairs, sir,' the young officer answered. 'I don't know the guy, but he said it was for your desk.'

'Okay.' Ryan waved him off and flipped it open, for the first time seeing a photograph of John Terrence Kelly. He'd joined the Navy two weeks after his eighteenth birthday, and stayed in... six years, honorably discharged as a chief petty officer. It was immediately apparent that the file had been heavily edited. That was to be expected, as the Department had mainly been interested in his qualifications as a diver. There was his graduation date from UDT School, and his later qualification as an instructor that the Department had been interested in. The three rating sheets in the folder were all 4.0, the highest Navy grade, and there was a flowery letter of recommendation from a three-star admiral which the Department had taken at face value. The Admiral had thoughtfully tucked in a list of his decorations, the more to impress the Baltimore City Police: Navy Cross, Silver Star, Bronze Star with Combat 'V' and two clusters in lieu of repeat awards of the same decoration. Purple Heart with two clusters in lieu of -

Jesus, this guy's everything I thought, isn't he?

Ryan set the folder down, seeing that it was part of the Gooding Murder file. That meant Frank Allen - again. He called him.

'Thanks for the info on Kelly. What brought it up?'

'Mark Charon was over,' Allen told him. 'I'm doing the follow-up on his shoot, and he brought the name up, says it came up in one of his cases. Sorry, pal, I forgot I had this. He said he'd drop it off. He's not the sort of guy I'd figure for being drugged up, y'know, but...' His voice went on past the point of Ryan's current interest.

This is going too fast now, too damned fast.

Charon.He keeps appearing, doesn't he?

'Frank, I got a tough one for you. When that Sergeant Meyer called in from Pittsburgh, anybody else you mention that to?'

'What do you mean, Em?' Allen asked, annoyance beginning to form in his mind at the suggestion.

'I'm not saying you called the papers, Frank.'

'That was the day Charon popped the dealer wasn't it?' Allen thought back. 'I might have said something to him... only other person I talked with that day, come to think of it.'

'Okay, thanks, Frank.' Ryan looked up the number of Barracks 'V' of the State Police.

'Captain Joy,' said a very weary voice. The barracks commander would have taken a bed in his own jail if he'd had to, but by tradition a State Police barracks was just that, and he'd found a comfortable bed for his four and a half hours of sleep. Joy was already wishing that Somerset County would go back to normal, though he well might make major's rank from this episode.

'Lieutenant Ryan, City Police homicide.'

'You big- city boys sure are interested in us now,' Joy commented wryly. 'What do you want to know?'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean I was on my way to bed last night when another one of your people called down here, Lieutenant Chair - something like that, I didn't write it down. Said he could ID one of the bodies... I did write that down somewhere. Sorry, I'm turning into a zombie.'

'Could you fill me in? I'll take the short version.' It turned out that the short version was plenty. 'The woman is in custody?'

'You bet she is.'

'Captain, you keep her that way until I say different, okay? Excuse me, please keep her that way. She may be a material witness in a multiple homicide.'

'Yeah, I know that, remember?'

'I mean up here, too, sir. Two bad ones. I have nine months invested in this.'

'She isn't going anywhere for a while,' Joy promised. 'We have a lot of talking to do with her ourselves, and her lawyer's playing ball.'

'Nothing more on the shooter?'

'Just what I said: male Caucasian, six foot or so, and he painted himself green, the girl says.' Joy hadn't included that in his initial recounting.

'What?'

'She said his face and hands were green, like camouflage stuff, I suppose. There is one more thing,' Joy added. 'He's a right good shot. The three people he whacked, one shot each, all in the X-ring - like, perfect.'

Ryan flipped the folder back open. At the bottom of Kelly's list of awards: Distinguished Rifleman, Master Pistol.

'I'll be back to you, Captain. Sounds like you've handled this one awfully well for a guy who doesn't get many homicides.'

'I'd just as soon stick to speeders,' Joy confirmed, hanging up.

'You're in early,' Douglas observed, coming in late. 'See the paper?'

'Our friend's back, and he got on the scoreboard again.' Ryan handed the photo across.

'He looks older now,' the sergeant said.

'Three Purple Hearts'll do that.' Ryan filled Douglas in. 'Want to drive down to Somerset and interview this girl?'

'You think...?'

'Yes, I think we have our witness. I think we have our leaker, too.' Ryan explained that one quietly.

He had just called to hear the sound of her voice. So close to his goal, he was allowing himself to look beyond it. It wasn't terribly professional, but for all his professionalism, Kelly remained human.

'John, where are you?' The urgency in her voice was even greater than the day before.

'I have a place,' was all he was willing to say.

'I have a message for you. James Greer, he said you should call him.'

'Okay.'Kelly grimaced - he was supposed to have done that the day before.

'Was that you in the paper?'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean,' she whispered, 'three dead people on the Eastern Shore.'

'I'll get back to you,' he said almost as fast as the chill hit him.

??ll? didn't have the paper delivered to his apartment for the obvious reason, but now he needed one. There was a dispenser at the corner, he remembered. He only needed one look.

Whatdoes she know about me?

It was too late for recrimination. He'd faced the same problem with her as with Doris. She'd been asleep when he'd done the job, and the pistol shots had awakened her. He'd blindfolded her, dumped her, explained to her that Burt had planned to kill her, given her enough cash to catch a Greyhound to somewhere. Even with the drugs, she'd been shocked and scared. But the cops had her already. How the hell had that happened?

Screw the how,son, they have her.

Just that fast the world had changed for him.

Okay, so now what do you do? It was that thought which occupied his mind for the walk back to his apartment.

For starters, he had to get rid of the.45, but he'd already decided to do that. Even if he had left no evidence at all behind, it was a link. When this mission was over, it wasover. But now he needed help, and where else to get it but from the people for whom he had killed?

'Admiral Greer, please? This is Mr Clark.'

'Hold, please,' Kelly heard, then: 'You were supposed to call in yesterday, remember?'

'I can be there in two hours, sir'

'I'll be waiting.'

'Where's Cas?' Maxwell asked, annoyed enough to use his nickname. The chief who ran his office understood.

'I already called his home, sir. No answer.'

'That's funny.' Which it wasn't, but the chief understood that, too.

'Want me to have somebody at Bolling check it out, Admiral?'

'Good idea.' Maxwell nodded and returned to his office.

Ten minutes later a sergeant of the Air Force's Security Police drove from his guard shack to the collection of semidetached dwellings used by senior officers on Pentagon duty. The sign on the yard said Rear Admiral C. P. Podulski, USN, and showed a pair of aviator wings. The sergeant was only twenty-three and didn't interact with flag officers any more than he had to, but he had orders to see if there was any trouble here. The morning paper was sitting on the step; There were two automobiles in the carport, one of which had a Pentagon pass on the windshield, and he knew that the Admiral and his wife lived alone. Summoning his courage, the sergeant knocked on the door, firmly but not too noisily. No luck. Next he tried the bell. No luck. Now what? the young NCO wondered. The whole base was government property, and he had the right under regulations to enter any house on the post, and he had orders, and his lieutenant would probably back him up. He opened the door. There was no sound. He looked around the first floor, finding nothing that hadn't been there since the previous evening. He called a few times with no result, and then decided that he had to go upstairs. This he did, with one hand on his white leather holster...

Admiral Maxwell was there twenty minutes later.

'Heart attack,' the Air Force doctor said. 'Probably in his sleep.'

That wasn't true of his wife, who lay next to him. She had been such a pretty woman, Dutch Maxwell remembered, and devastated by the loss of their son. The half-filled glass of water sat on a handkerchief so as not to harm the wooden night table. She'd even replaced the top of the pill container before she'd lain back down beside her husband. Dutch looked over to the wooden valet. His undress white shirt was there, ready for another day's service to his adopted country, the Wings of Gold over the collection of ribbons, the topmost of which was pale blue, with five white stars. They'd had a meeting planned to talk about retirement. Somehow Dutch wasn't surprised.

'God have mercy,' Dutch said, seeing the only friendly casualties of Operation boxwood green.

What do I say? Kelly asked himself, driving through the gate. The guard eyeballcd him pretty hard despite his pass, perhaps wondering how badly the Agency paid its field personnel. He did get to park his wreck in the visitors' lot, better placement than people on the payroll, which seemed slightly odd. Walking into the lobby, Kelly was met by a security officer and led upstairs. It seemed more ominous now, walking the drab and ordinary corridors peopled with anonymous people, but only because this building was about to become a confessional of sorts for a soul who had not quite decided if he were a sinner or not. He hadn't visited Ritter's office before. It was on the fourth floor and surprisingly small. Kelly had thought the man important - and though he actually was, his office as yet was not.

'Hello, John,' Admiral Greer said, still reeling from the news he'd received a half hour before from Dutch Maxwell. Greer pointed him to a seat, and the door was closed. Ritter was smoking, to Kelly's annoyance.

'Glad to be back home, Mr Clark?' the field officer asked. There was a copy of the Washington Post on his desk, and Kelly was surprised to see that the Somerset County story had made the first page there, too.

'Yes, sir, I guess you can say that.' Both of the older men caught the ambivalence. 'Why did you want me to come in?'

'I told you on the airplane. It may turn out that your action bringing that Russian out might save our people yet. We need people who can think on their ieet. You can. I'm offering you a job in my part of the house.'

'Doing what?'

'Whatever we fell you to do,' Ritter answered. He already had something in mind.

'I don't even have a college degree.'

Ritter pulled a thick folder from his desk. 'I had this brought in from St Louis.' Kelly recognized the forms. It was his complete Navy personnel-records package. 'You really should have taken the college scholarship. Your intelligence scores are even higher than I thought, and it shows you have language skills that are better than mine. James and I can waive the degree requirements.'

'A Navy Cross goes a long way, John,' Greer explained. 'What you did, helping to plan boxwood green and then later in the field, that sort of thing goes a long way, too.'

Kelly's instinct battled against his reason. The problem was, he wasn't sure which part of him was in favor of what. Then he decided that he had to tell the truth to somebody.

'There's a problem, gentlemen.'

'What's that?' Ritter asked.

Kelly reached across the desk and tapped the article on the front page of the paper. 'You might want to read that.'

'I did. So? Somebody did the world a favor,' the officer said lightly. Then he caught the took in Kelly's eyes, and his voice became instantly wary. 'Keep talking, Mr Clark.'

"That's me, sir.'

'What are you talking about, John?' Greer asked.

"The file's out, sir,' the records clerk said over the phone.

'What do you mean?' Ryan objected. 'I have some copies from it right here.'

'Could you hold for a minute? I'll put my supervisor on.' The phone went on hold, something that the detective cordially hated.

Ryan looked out his window with a grimace. He'd called the military's central records-storage facility, located in St Louis. Every piece of paper relating to every man or woman who had ever served in uniform was there, in a secure and carefully guarded complex, the nature of which was a curiosity, but a useful one, to the detective, who'd more than once gotten data from the facility.

'This is Irma Rohrerbach,' a voice said after some electronic chirping. The detective had the instant mental image of an overweight Caucasian female sitting at a desk cluttered with work that could have been done a week earlier.

'I'm Lieutenant Emmet Ryan, Baltimore City Police. I need information from a personnel file you have -'

'Sir, it's not here. My clerk just showed me the notes.'

'What do you mean? You're not allowed to check files out that way. I know.'

'Sir, that is not true. There are certain cases. This is one of them. The file was taken out and will be returned, but I do not know when.'

'Who has it?'

'I'm not allowed to say, sir.' The tone of the bureaucrat's voice showed her intensity of interest, too. The file was gone, and until it came back it was no longer part of the known universe as far as she was concerned.

'I can get a court order, you know.' That usually worked on people, few of whom enjoyed the attention of a note from somebody's bench.

'Yes, you can. Is there any other way I can help you, sir?' She was also used to being blustered at. The call was from Baltimore, after all, and a letter from some judge eight hundred miles away seemed a distant and trivial thing. 'Do you have our mailing address, sir?'

Actually, he couldn't. He still didn't quite have enough to take to a judge. Matters like this were handled more as a matter of courtesy than as actual orders.

'Thank you, I'll get back'

'Have a good day.' The well-wish was in fact the bland dismissal of one more forgettable irrelevance in the day of a file clerk.

Outof the country. Why? For whom? What the hell's so different aboutthis case? Ryan knew that it had many differences. He wondered if he'd ever have them all figured out.

'That's what they did to her,' Kelly told them. It was the first time he'd actually said it all out loud, and in recounting the details of the pathology report it was as though he were listening to the voice of another person. 'Because of her background the cops never really assigned much of a priority to the case. I got two more girls out. One they killed. The other one, well...' He waved at the newspaper.

'Why did you just turn her loose?'

'Was I supposed to murder her, Mr Ritter? That's what they were planning to do,' Kelly said, still looking down. 'She was more or less sober when I let her go. I didn't have the time to do anything else. I miscalculated.'

'How many?'

'Twelve, sir,' he answered, knowing that Ritter wanted the total number of kills.

'Good Lord,' Ritter observed. He actually wanted to smile. There was talk, actually, of getting CIA involved in antidrug operations. He opposed that policy - it wasn't important enough to divert the time of people who should be protecting their country against genuine national-security threats. But he couldn't smile. This was far too serious for that. 'The article says twenty kilograms of the stuff. Is that true?'

'Probably.' Kelly shrugged. 'I didn't weigh it. There's one other thing. I think I know how the drugs come in. The bags smell like - embalming fluid. It's Asian heroin.'

'Yes?' Ritter asked.

'Don't you see? Asian stuff. Embalming fluid. Comes in somewhere on the East Coast. Isn't it obvious? They're using the bodies of out KIAs to bring the fucking stuff in.

All this, and analytical ability too?

Ritter's phone rang. It was the intercom line.

'I said no calls,' the field spook growled.

'It's "Bill," sir. He says it's important.'

The timing was just perfect, the Captain thought. The prisoners were brought out in the darkness. There was no electricity, again, and the only illumination came from battery-powered flashlights and a few torches that his senior sergeant had cobbled together. Every prisoner had his feet hobbled; in each case the hands and elbows were bound behind their backs. They all walked slightly bent forward. It wasn't just to control them. Humiliation was important, too, and every man had in close attendance a conscript to chivvy him along, right to the center of the compound. His men were entitled to this, the Captain thought. They'd trained hard, were about to begin their long march south to complete the business of liberating and reuniting their country. The Americans were disoriented, clearly frightened at this break in their daily routine. Things had gone easy for them in the past week. Perhaps his earlier assembly of the group had been a mistake. It might have fostered some semblance of solidarity among them, but the object lesson to his troops was more than worth that. His men would soon be killing Americans in larger groups than this, the Captain was sure, but they had to start somewhere. He shouted a command.

As one man, the twenty selected soldiers took their rifles and butt-stroked their individual charges in the abdomen. One American managed to remain standing after the first blow, but not after the second.

Zacharias was surprised. It was the first direct attack on his person since Kolya had stopped that one, months before. The impact drove the air from him. His back already hurt from the lingering effect of his ejection and the deliberately awkward way they'd made him walk, and the impact of the steel buttplate of the AK-47 had taken control of his weakened and abused body away from him at once. He fell to his side, his body touching that of another prisoner, trying to draw his legs in and cover up. Then the kicks started. He couldn't even protect his face with his arms bound painfully behind him, and his eyes saw the face of the enemy. Just a boy, maybe seventeen, almost girlish in appearance, and the look on his face was that of a doll, the same empty eyes, the same absence of expression. No fury, not even baring his teeth, just kicking him as a child might kick at a ball, because it was something to do. He couldn't hate the boy, but he could despise him for his cruelty, and even after the first kick broke his nose he kept watching. Robin Zacharias had seen the depths of despair, had faced the, fact that he'd broken on the inside and given up things that he knew. But he'd also had the time to understand it. He wasn't a coward any more than he was a hero, Robin told himself through the pain, just a man. He'd bear the pain as the physical penalty for his earlier mistake, and he would continue to ask his God for strength. Colonel Zacharias kept his now-blackened eyes on the face of the child tormenting him. I will survive this.I've survived worse, and even if I die I'm still a better man than you will ever be, his face told the diminutive soldier. I've survived loneliness, and that's worse than this, kid. He didn't pray for deliverance now. It had come from within, after all, and if death came, then he could face it as he had faced his weakness and his failings.

Another shouted command from their officer and they backed off. In Robin's case there was one last, final kick. He was bleeding, one eye almost shut, and his chest was racked with pain and coughs, but he was still alive, still an American, and he had survived one more trial. He looked over at the Captain commanding the detail. There was fury in his face, unlike that of the soldier who'd taken a few steps back. Robin wondered why.

'Stand them up!' the Captain screamed. Two of the Americans were unconscious, it turned out, and required two men each to lift them. It was the best he could do for his men. Better to kill them, but the order in his pocket prohibited that, and his army didn't tolerate the violation of orders.

Robin was now looking in the eyes of the boy who'd attacked him. Close, not six inches away. There was no emotion there, but he kept staring, and there was no emotion in his eyes either. It was a small and very private test of wills. Not a word was spoken, though both men were breathing irregularly, one from exertion, the other from pain.

Care to try it again someday? Man to man. Think you can hack that, sonny? Do you feel shame for what you did? Was it worth it? Are you more of a man now, kid? I don't think so, and you might cover it up as best you can, but we both know who won this round, don't we? The soldier stepped to Robin's side, his eyes having revealed nothing, but the grip on the American's arm was very tight, the better to keep him under control, and Robin took that as his victory. The kid was still afraid of him, despite everything. He was one of those who roamed the sky - hated, perhaps, but feared too. Abuse was the weapon of the coward, after all, and those who applied it knew the fact as well as those who had to accept it.

Zacharias almost stumbled. His posture made it hard to look up, and he didn't see the truck until he was only a few feet away. It was a beat-up Russian vehicle, with fence wire over the top, both to prevent escape and to let people see the cargo. They were going somewhere. Robin had no real idea where he was and could hardly speculate on where he might go. Nothing could be worse than this place had been - and yet he'd survived it somehow, Robin told himself as the truck rumbled away. The camp faded into the darkness, and with it the worst trial of his life. The Colonel bowed his head and whispered a prayer of thanksgiving, and then, for the first time in months, a prayer for deliverance, whatever form it might take.

'That was your doing, Mr Clark,' Ritter said after a long, deliberate look at the phone he'd just replaced.

'I didn't exactly plan it that way, sir.'

'No, you didn't, but instead of killing that Russian officer you brought him back.' Ritter looked over at Admiral Greer. Kelly didn't see the nod that announced the change in his life.

'I wish Cas could have known.'

'So what do they know?'

'They have Xantha, alive, in Somerset County jail. How much does she know?' Charon asked. Tony Piaggi was here, too. It was the first time the two had met. They were using the about-to-be-activated lab in east Baltimore. It would be safe for Charon to come here just one time, the narcotics officer thought.

'This is trouble,' Piaggi observed. It seemed facile to the others until he went on. 'But we can handle it. First order of business, though, is to worry about making our delivery to my friends.'

'We've lost twenty kees, man,' Tucker pointed out bleakly. He knew fear now. It was clear that there was something out there worthy of his fear.

'You have more?'

'Yeah, I have ten at my place.'

'You keep it at home?' Piaggi asked. 'Jesus, Henry!'

'The bitch doesn't know where I live.'

'She knows your name, Henry. We can do a lot with just a name,' Charon told him. 'Why the hell do you think I've kept my people away from your people?'

'We've got to rebuild the whole organization,' Piaggi said calmly. 'We can do that, okay? We have to move, but moving's easy. Henry, your stuff comes in somewhere else, right? You move it in to here, and we move it out of here. So moving your operation is not a big deal.'

'I lose my local -'

'Fuck local, Henry! I'm going to take over distribution for the whole East Coast. Will you think, for Christ's sake? You lose maybe twenty-five percent of what you figured you were going to take in. We can make that up in two weeks. Stop thinking small-time.'

'Then it's a matter of covering your tracks,' Charon went on, interested by Piaggi's vision of the future. 'Xantha is just one person, an addict. When they picked her up she was wasted on pills. Not much of a witness unless they have something else to use, and if you move to another area, you ought to be okay.'

'The other ones have to go. Fast,' Piaggi urged.

'With Burt gone, I'm out of muscle. I can get some people I know -'

'No way, Henry! You want to bring new people in now? Let me call Philly. We have two people on retainer, remember?' Piaggi got a nod, settling that issue. 'Next, we have to keep my friends happy. We need twenty kees' worth of stuff, processed and ready to go, and we need it right fast.'

'I only have ten,' Tucker noted.

'I know where there's some more, and so do you. Isn't that right, Lieutenant Charon?' That question shook the cop badly enough that he forgot to tell them something else that concerned him.