Foreign Enemies and Traitors (96 page)

                “Hey, don’t let us stop you,” said Boone.  “You just go right ahead.  I’ll clean you up with a few buckets of ice water.”

                “You’re sadists!” Bullard wailed.  “You’re sick!  You’re monsters!”

                Ira said, “Hey, we’re not the ones who brought the YP-12D to Tennessee.  That was your pal Sidney, from Washington.  The guy who, you know, reports to the president.  And Bob, I’m still not hearing any great secrets from you.  Remember, there’s only one winner in this game.”

                “Okay, okay.  Let me think.  Just wait.  Okay.  I know about a massacre that the Kazaks did last weekend.  A big one, it was really terrible!  They were completely out of control.  They killed hundreds, even women and children!  It was worse than My Lai!”

                Boone had refilled the bucket, and on hearing this, he hurled the gallon of frigid water into Bullard’s face, causing him to lose his balance and fall off his perch.  He was hanging by his wrists from the steel pipe while he moaned and cursed and struggled to get his bound feet back onto the cinderblock.

                Carson said, “Okay, Sid, it’s your turn now.  We know about your germs, but they really haven’t killed anybody yet.  Bob just told us about a big massacre.  You have to top that.  The winner gets to live, and the loser gets a needle full of plague germs and a one-way trip out to the forest.  So if you know any good secrets, I think this would be a good time to spill the beans.”

                Bullard was still swinging around by his wrists, trying to climb back on his block, soaking wet in the cold air from his last dousing.  At least compared to him, Sidney Krantz was doing slightly better in the comfort department.  Boone went back to the washbasin and refilled the bucket.

                Carson repeated, “If you know anything interesting, Sidney, now would be the time.”  He had taken a syringe and removed the plastic protective cap from its needle.  He carefully pierced the rubber lid of the vial of liquid carrying
Yersinia pestis
germs, and drew a bit of the dark viscous fluid up the needle into the barrel of the syringe.  His blue rubber gloves emphasized the evil toxicity of the contents of the vial.  He carefully held the needle away from himself and said, “Okay, who wants to go first?”  He pointed the needle at Bullard and then at Krantz, aiming at their exposed bellies as they stared down in helpless horror.

                “I know a big secret!” shouted Krantz.  “I know a really big secret!  I know a really,
really
big secret!”

                Boone paused with his bucket of icy water, and Carson froze in place with his syringe laden with bubonic plague germs.

                Carson said, “Well, Sidney, don’t keep us waiting.”

                “I know about a videotape, a blackmail videotape.  It was made by Robert Waylen.  I know where it is—I’ve seen it!”

                Carson asked, “You mean Professor Robert Waylen, the old commie terrorist?”

                “Yes, yes, him!”

                “Who gives a shit about that sixties has-been?” said Ira.

                “No, no, it’s not
about
Robert Waylen—he just made it, for blackmail.  The video is about Jamal Tambor—
President
Jamal Tambor.  They were close friends, Waylen and Tambor, until Tambor became president.  It’s unbelievable, this tape!  Tambor is a communist—”

                “No shit, Sherlock!” said Boone.  “You think that’s a news flash?”

                “No, no, Tambor
admits
he’s a communist on the videotape.  He
brags
about it!  He says his entire political life is a lie, a false front, all so that he can push the cause of international socialism!  I swear to God!  Waylen got him high on coke, and secretly videotaped him in his house.  You won’t believe this fucking tape, it’ll blow your minds—and I know where it is!  It’s hidden in Waylen’s townhouse in Greenwich Village, and I know
exactly
where it is.  Waylen played it for me, he was so proud of it!  He said the tape was his masterpiece, and he made it just in case Tambor ‘forgets where his loyalty lies.’  Nobody knows about it except for Robert Waylen—and me.  And now you.”

                The three men stared at Krantz.  “I think we have a winner,” said Carson.  “That’s a pretty damn good secret, if it’s true.”

                “Will you let me go, then?” Krantz pleaded.  “Please?”

                Boone asked him, “What about your friend here?”

                “I don’t give a shit about him, he’s nothing!  But you
have
to let me go now, or at least after you get the videotape.  Because I know
lots
more secrets.  I meet with the president almost every week, in private!  Believe me, I’m worth more to you alive than dead.  A
lot
more!”

                Carson snickered and said, “You know, that’s exactly what Che Guevara said when the Bolivians caught him:  ‘I’m worth more to you alive than dead.’  And guess who helped the Bolivians catch that commie bastard?  We did: the Army Special Forces.  Yep, killing communists is an old hobby of ours.  But in your case, you might be right.  You might just be worth more to us alive than dead.  At least for now.  Ira, give Boone the key so he can unlock our new friend Sidney.  Take him into the other room and let him get dressed.”

                Then Phil Carson turned suddenly and jabbed the needle into Bob Bullard’s side, just above his boxer shorts.  Bullard howled and tried to move away, but only succeeded in falling off his cinderblock again.  Carson jammed the plunger home and said, “That was for Brad Fallon,” and then he jerked the needle back out.  “You probably don’t even remember him.  But I’ll bet you remember Wally Malvone’s house up the Potomac River, that night it caught fire.  I was there, you son of a bitch—I burned it down!  Now I want you to think about that night, while you’re puking up blood and watching those rotten plums bust through your skin!”

                ****

Krantz was lying in the fetal position
with a blanket thrown over him, moaning and mumbling incoherently.  They had dragged him into the nice side of the basement, and handcuffed him to the bottom of an old radiator.  The three conspirators pulled chairs together to discuss their next move.  Carson asked, “Do you think Sidney was telling the truth about the blackmail tape?”

                “No doubt about it,” replied Ira Gersham.  “That boy just played his best card, to save his miserable life.”

                “Can we get it in time?” asked Carson.  “By tomorrow?”

                “We can sure give it a shot,” Boone replied.  “He said Greenwich Village, right?  That’s Manhattan.  Isn’t Hulk Rogan’s brother a cop in New York?  What the hell, it’s worth a try.”

                Carson asked, “What are we going to do with these two now?  How are we going to keep them on ice for twenty-four hours?  If Bullard doesn’t show up at Building 1405 tomorrow, they’ll come looking for him, just like he said.”

                “I think I know how we can finesse it,” said Ira.  “Voice mail.  We can get Bullard to tell his deputy that he was called back to Washington, and he’s flying there with Krantz on his airplane.  He can make a recording, and we’ll play it onto his deputy’s voice mail.  And he’ll do it too: we’ll just tell him if he doesn’t, he won’t get the antibiotics.  Same thing with Krantz.  He can make a recording telling his pilot to take the plane back to Washington because he’ll be staying here for a few days.  That’ll get us through tomorrow before they’re missed.”

                “And tomorrow is all we need,” said Boone.

                Carson added, “Tomorrow is Camp David.”

                “And tomorrow is Raven Rock,” said Ira.  “The Big Show.”

                “But what about
after
tomorrow?” Boone asked. 

                Ira said, “Do you mean if the plan works, or if it doesn’t work?”

                “Both.” 

                Gersham said, “If the plan works, we should keep them both alive as material witnesses.  They’ll flip in a heartbeat if we pull this off.  They’re the links in the chain between the Mannville massacre and the president.  They’ll both be able to testify against Tambor.  You know, as much as I hate to admit it, Krantz was right—they’ll be worth more alive than dead.”

                “But what if the plan
doesn’t
work?” asked Boone.

                Gersham said, “Then we’ll inject Krantz with the plague too, and leave them chained somewhere.  Hopefully, somewhere without any fleas.  Maybe even in that basement room back there.  Gag them and tie them up, and hide them.  If we succeed tomorrow and we make it back, we can have them treated with antibiotics, so they can be witnesses against the president.  If we don’t succeed and we don’t make it back, then they’ll die in agony like they deserve.  And if we don’t make it back, Colonel Spencer and the rest of the working group will go the total guerrilla warfare route.  He already told me that.  They’ll put out the word about Operation Buffalo Jump and the Manville massacre the best way they can, and then they’ll take off and go guerrilla.”

                “Like you and Boone did,” said Carson.

                “Yeah, like that,” said Ira.  “But hundreds this time, not just a few.  Hell, maybe thousands.  Maybe the entire 5th Group.  Maybe it’ll spread to the whole military this time, even if we can’t initiate the EBS.” 

                “Well, let’s make it work tomorrow,” said Carson.  “I’m too old to run around the woods playing Robin Sage with real bullets.”  Robin Sage was the final guerrilla warfare exercise for Special Forces trainees in their qualification course.

                Boone smiled and said, “I think you did pretty good the last few days, old-timer.”

                “Well, I just hope I have one more good day left in me.  It’ll have to be one of my best, if we’re going to pull this off.” 

                ****

Twenty minutes later, CW4 Hugh Rogan
called his older brother Patrick at his suburban home in Queens, New York.  A year ago, Patrick Rogan had retired from the NYPD after thirty years of service, working his way up from patrolman to detective.  Now he worked as a private investigator, a security consultant and an alarm installer.  This was to supplement his pension, which was paid in almost worthless North American Dollars.

                His brother Hugh had slipped a predetermined code word into their casual after-dinner conversation, and then he sent an innocuous email.  Hidden inside a cartoon accompanying a “joke of the day” was a detailed text message.  This microtext was further encoded using PGP, Pretty Good Privacy, an open-source encryption program.  PGP had been commercially available until it was outlawed as a national security risk.  Patrick and Hugh had previously exchanged their own private algorithm keys, and could send one another messages that not even the NSA could crack, if they ever stumbled across the hidden microtexts in the first place.

                This urgent message explained the need for Patrick to search former terrorist Robert Waylen’s townhouse in Greenwich Village.  He needed to find a particular videotape and bring it to a to-be-determined location in West Virginia by eight o’clock tomorrow morning.  He needed to do all of this, even at great personal risk.  Pat Rogan knew that his younger brother was not joking, or testing him.  He immediately called Joe Vellegio, his best friend and former partner, and asked for his help.  Vellegio was still on the force. 

                Rogan picked him up in his wife’s subcompact Ford Focus.  Rogan chose to drive the Focus because it could maneuver well in the tight quarters of Greenwich Village.  Like his younger brother, Pat Rogan was several inches under six feet tall, so the small car didn’t cramp him.  It was a cold night, with an intermittent drizzle that was threatening to turn into sleet.  By 8:00 p.m., they had driven across the Williamsburg Bridge from Queens into Lower Manhattan.  A few minutes later, they were casing Waylen’s three-story brownstone on West 11th Street, just a few blocks from Union Square.  West 11th was a westbound one-way street with parking on both sides, leaving just a narrow channel for local traffic.

They got lucky turning off 7th Avenue when making another circle of the block.  Somebody was leaving a prized corner spot on 11th and they pulled right into it, parked, and killed their lights.  From this vantage point they could see the front of Waylen’s townhouse, halfway down the block.  A single lamp on a pole barely illuminated the street.  Rogan had to flick on the wipers from time to time to keep the windshield clear.  The two detectives sat in the tiny black Ford, discussing ways to get into Waylen’s home, and drinking bad instant fake coffee from a thermos.  Vellegio had brought his police radio, so that they would know if anything unusual was going on in the neighborhood.  The odds were slim to nil that a patrol car would randomly cruise down this block of West 11th Street.  Before the economic meltdown, it had been an affluent street in a trendy part of Greenwich Village, and most of the cars were fairly new Japanese or European imports.  Many of the cars still had Tambor bumper stickers.

Rogan said, “What gets me the most is that he lives in that thing alone.  You’d think he’d be assigned one, maybe two more families in a big townhouse like that.  They’re narrow, but they’re deep.  I’ll bet that thing is at least three thousand square feet, counting the cellar.  And all for one guy.  Some communist
he
is.”

Vellegio replied, “I did a little checking right after you called.  Waylen got a ‘hardship waiver,’ so he doesn’t have to pay the vacant room tax
or
take in assigned boarders.  Those waivers are hard as hell to get.  It shows what kind of political pull he’s got.  He’s living pretty well for a retired college professor.”

“A college professor, a terrorist and a cop killer,” added Rogan.