The Second Saladin - Страница 28

“Relax, Paul. Jesus, you look half-crazy.”

“You said it was an emergency, you said to get down here, you said—”

It occurred then to Chardy that he’d misread it all. Something in Lanahan’s amused eyes, also the absence of stale, smoked-out air in the room, the absence of cigarette butts. Lanahan lounged at Yost’s desk, as though trying it on for size and finding it fit nicely.

“Things have cooled. Considerably,” Miles said, the half-smirk on his face.

“I don’t—”

“Certain realities have set in. We got some news on Bill. We’ve doped it out. We’ve also got some orders from up above, declaring Mexico off-limits. And—”

“Where is he?”

“Where is who?”

“Come on, Miles. I smell Sam Melman in here. I smell Melman all over this place. Come on, Miles, where is he?”

“This is Yost’s operation, Paul. This is Yost’s office. You’d better get that straight.”

“I smell Sam in this, Sam’s a great one for cooling down, for taking it easy and slow, for not making any mistakes, for—”

“Paul, here are facts. Fact number one: the Mexicans have raised all kinds of hell. We have an informal agreement with them and part of it is that we don’t run covert operations in their country without clearing it first with them.”

“For Christ’s sakes, this wasn’t any operation. It was some old man and a kid—”

“We know that. But try to tell it to them. Look, it’s a delicate working arrangement: they let us have all kinds of latitude in Mexico City around the Soviet Embassy, which is the hub of a lot of KGB activity. We have to protect that freedom. They’re very kind to us; we make a lot of mileage off that kindness. All right?”

Chardy looked at him sullenly, unsure suddenly of a reply.

“Fact number two: oil. Oil talks in this world, loud and clear, and the Mexicans have tons of the stuff. So over and above anything on our level is that long-term issue. What they have and we need. We have to be very careful with them these days so that we can drive our Cadillacs around. Okay? We don’t call them wetbacks or spics or greasers or zooters. We treat them politely, on all levels. So we’re not going to bust in, shooting up some place when—”

“Kid, one — maybe two — of our people got clipped. Now in the old days—”

“It’s the new days, Paul. Fact number three: we know who killed Speight.”

Chardy looked at him.

“There’s no Iron Curtain involvement, no Middle Eastern involvement. It doesn’t have anything to do with Ulu Beg. There’s no connection. It was plain, ugly, stupid luck.”

“Who?”

“Poor Speight walked into a gang war. We have it he and Trewitt were very interested in coyote outfits — that was their brief, their only brief, to see what they could dig up on whoever smuggled Ulu Beg into this country. That, and only that. But they had to go a little further, and got themselves into the middle of a big fight in the Mexican mafia. It was something over a bar, the Palace, El Palacio, really a whorehouse. Stupid Bill walked into it. Asking questions like he was some kind of crime reporter. I don’t know what got into him. It was a terrible, stupid accident.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Chardy.

“You don’t want to believe it. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Yost believes it.”

“And where the hell is he?”

“Home.”

Chardy picked up the phone.

“Give me the number.”

“No, Paul. There’s no point. He’s had a long night, just like we—”

“Give me the number!”

“You’re in no state to be talking on the phone. To anybody.”

“Give me Melman’s number, then. Goddammit, Miles—”

He made a move toward Miles, realizing he was dangerously near being out of control.

But Miles held firm.

“Just take it easy. Just settle down. Jesus, you old cowboys, you just can’t wait to stir things up.”

“He didn’t have the guts himself to face me, did he, Miles? Yost.” He thought of Yost — an unusual occurrence; he seldom thought of the man at all, but only of Sam Melman — and could not really conjure up a face. He remembered glasses and neatness and placidity and suits and that was all. “So he left you to do the dirty work. And you’ll do it. You sort of enjoy doing it.”

“Paul—”

“And now we kiss Mexican asses. Mexican! Jesus, the fucking Mexicans!”

“You better get used to the real world, Paul. You better get used to the eighties. This isn’t ‘Nam or Kurdistan or somebody’s dirty little secret war. This is America. You do things certain ways here. All right?”

Chardy looked at him with great sadness. The world according to Lanahan was a dreadful place. In the old days, Special Ops always got its people out or at least back; and if it could only get the bodies, then it made certain someone on the other side had some burying to do too.

“Sometimes I wonder how things got so screwed up, Lanahan,” Chardy said, wanting Johanna very much all of a sudden.

But Miles wasn’t interested.

“They’re bringing the body back. There’s going to be a funeral. You’ll be there, I assume.”

Chardy nodded. He hated funerals but he’d go anyway. Old Bill. Frenchy. The business had turned so cold, and it was squeezing the old ones out so fast it wasn’t funny.

He looked at Miles, an inheritor, and wondered how he could ever explain all this to him, but the kid glared at him and muttered something about how he’d better get himself cleaned up.

19

It was one of those curious events that briefly unite a dozen separate worlds, whose representatives, forced awkwardly to confront each other, stood around in stiff, silent groups. Several generations — contending generations, in fact — were there: the old warriors, ex-OSS types; and Chardy’s bunch, Cold War and Vietnam hell-raisers; and the later, ascendant Melman crowd, drones, realists, the computer brigade. Speight had known and been known to them all. And outsiders, youngsters, presumably junior members of the administration of the moment, and maybe a staffer or two from House and Senate intelligence committees; and maybe some neighbors; and family.

Chardy, standing apart from the surprisingly large crowd ranged around the grave site and across the soft slopes of Arlington — Washington, falsely bright in the spring sun, gleamed across the river, through the dogwoods — saw with surprise that the family was young. Speight had married late then; or was it a second marriage? He didn’t know. Speight had never said. At any rate, the widow in black, veiled and weeping, stood next to Yost Ver Steeg, and nearby were three little boys, Sunday-dressed, hurt or baffled.

Yost stood as though dead. The widow leaned on him, but Chardy guessed the strength was cold, not warm. This wouldn’t be a Yost Ver Steeg scene; he’d play it badly, although as Bill’s last field supervisor, protocol mandated that play it he would. His dignity was not so much serene as merely placid; he radiated no calm into the chasm of grief. Bill’s boys did not like him, Chardy could tell, and even as the ceremony demanded their attention, they shifted and fidgeted with repressed energy. Yost stood without rocking, knees locked, hands clasped dryly together. His crisp hair was short and perfect; a glare caught on the surface of those glasses again, blanking out the eyes. He looked like the lone executive at a miner’s funeral.

Blue soldiers from a famous Army unit handled the ceremony, which was built around the folding of the flag until it resembled a tricornered, starred hat. It was presented to Yost, who presented it to the woman; she in turn gave it to the oldest boy, who’d seemed to figure out what was going on. Three crisp volleys rang out, echoing in the trees. A bugler issued taps.

Bill Speight, dead in a foreign sewer alongside a whorehouse. The Agency could or would say nothing about it, except in the form of an official presence at this ceremony and, Chardy hoped, an indication to the widow that Old Bill was on an op down there and not off whoring. Or would they even say that? Perhaps only silence was offered at this stage; you never knew how they figured these things on the upper floors.

Chardy looked around as the crowd broke. Wasn’t that Miller, now a writer with two awful novels and a memoir to his credit; and that O’Brien, said to be drawing down half-a-mil on Wall Street? And he thought he recognized Schuster, the German, in this country so long now he’d almost lost his accent, recently an insurance salesman. Jesus, there were others, too: all these men, survivors of the hot ’50s and ’60s, of the Cold War in Europe and stations in sweltering deltas all across Asia. You could build a pretty good operation out of the talent just standing around here, Chardy thought. But of course nobody would.

“Poor Bill,” he heard someone say. “Poor Old Bill.” A thousand times he’d heard someone say it, two thousand. “Poor Bill,” Bill, so much promise, such a comer once, such a bright hope; now this. “Poor Margaret, you mean,” somebody else, a woman, said, “with those three boys.”

Funerals unhinged Chardy, this one more than most. Though the sky was blue and the sun bright and the grass blinding spring-green, and the markers white, row on row of them like an image from a bitter Great War poem, he shuddered. Hated funerals, always had. So hushed, creepy. So Catholic, the faith he’d flown. Must be the Irish half of him, his mother’s half: weepy at all the cheap theatrics, the tooting horns, the flappity-flap flags, the widows, the little boys. Chardy felt a black spell of brooding coming across him, enervating, ruining. Something bitter leaked into his blood; he’d be worthless for hours. A headache was due in shortly, and one of those awful sieges of self-loathing. All his sins and failures would come marching across his mind like these pretty blue soldier boys, Old Guardsmen, cadence perfect, bayonets gleaming in the sun. And just for a second the torrent of people before him parted and he saw a perfect tableau: the widow, head bent, weeping silently; beside her the three brave boys; and beside them all, holding her hand and seeming to encompass all their grief, Sam Melman.