Operation Damocles (11 page)

XVI

The nationally syndicated, late-night TV talk show,
The Midnight Show,
now hosted by a recently installed David Balcher, did a segment of man-in-the-street interviews one night outside their new Atlanta studios. The government-approved topic was the “Doomsday Weapon.”

Despite Balcher’s leading questions, the participants weren’t letting themselves be maneuvered, and Balcher was losing control. Opinions were still erratic, but there seemed to be a new, outspoken quality affecting the public mind. One Atlanta native epitomized the new attitude.

Balcher: “Sir, can I ask you your opinion on the terrorist situation? I’m David Balcher, host of
The Midnight Show,
and I would like to know how you feel about the murderers who killed millions of your fellow Americans.”

Guest: “My thoughts are that the government had better give them whatever the hell they want.”

Balcher: “What kind of dictatorial role do you think they ultimately want to play?”

Guest: “In my opinion, they’ve told us exactly what they want. They are in a position to demand anything, aren’t they? If they told you to bend over and kiss your
bleep
on television, and the alternative was that there would be a vacant lot tomorrow where your house is standing, you would do it, wouldn’t you?”

Balcher: “I see your point.”

Guest: “I don’t care what anyone says, I don’t believe they’re crazy. What they demanded sounded kind of foolish and idealistic at first, because we’ve all gotten used to hearing grand words and never seeing any results. Everyone has come to accept that politicians and businesses always lie, and that everything idealistic is impossible. They have shown us that these things aren’t impossible at all, you just have to get rid of the organized, self-interested resistance. When you think about it, the things they want done are really necessary if we’re going to save this country. The only hysterical people I’ve noticed are you lunatics on TV talk shows, and those damned, good-for-nothing politicians. If you ask me, the taxpayers ought to thank those people for putting you guys in your place. I’m sorry people had to die, but they warned everyone. They told them exactly what they were going to do, and they kept their word.”

Balcher: “Do you think you would feel the same way if they had destroyed Atlanta? What if they had destroyed the South?”

Guest: “It’s that kind of intelligent question that makes you television people so lovable. You’ll do anything to stir up hatred between people, won’t you? If the banking, insurance and political centers of the country had been in the South, it would have been the South that got destroyed. Now, you can go to hell, dirtball, and you know what you can do with that microphone, too.”

The man walked away.

Balcher: “Wow! Ha ha! Somebody is not a happy camper. A little bit gruffsky, huh? Well, even cherries have pits, don’t they? Ha ha!”

Balcher zeroed in on another passerby.

Balcher: “How about you, ma’am? I’m David Balcher with
The Midnight Show.
Could I get your reaction to the terrorist situation?”

Guest, in tears: “I think those murdering monsters ought to be shot, and those slimy politicians along with them. My sister and her children lived in Maryland. They said it couldn’t happen. Damn them! Damn you, you sensation-seeking bastard!”

She covered her streaming eyes with one hand and shoved the microphone away with the other as she hurried away.

Balcher: “Wow! We’re really hitting the sore spots today.” He brushed his fingers against his lapel, feigning insult. “Good old Uncle seems to be taking it in the shorts tonight.”

Balcher singled out a black man in a heavy overcoat who was striding past.

Balcher: “You, sir. What do you think about—?”

Guest: “You bettah get dat microphone outta my face if you don’t wants ta eat it, suckah!” The man kept walking.

Balcher: “Well, ha, ha! I’ve had enough. Everybody seems a bit testy today. I guess that’s what happens when the gun whackos and militias take over and start committing mass murder and dictating everybody’s lives. Can you believe that first guy. He actually likes ’em. Weird, huh? Well, back to the studio. We’ll be right back after these messages.”

###

On a morning show in Chicago, the hostess, Loni Bardowski, had as her first guest the Reverend Jimmy Slatney.

Bardowski: “Reverend Slatney, if I understand correctly, you believe that this doomsday weapon is the Sword of God, and is the fiery doom that is prophesied in Revelations in the Holy Bible. Is that correct?”

Rev. Slatney: “We believe it could be, Loni. All the signs and portents mentioned in Revelations can be found today. Christians the world over are preparing for the Second Coming. We think it could be near at hand.”

Bardowski: “We haven’t heard anything from the Vatican or the mainstream religious leaders, Reverend Slatney. Have you had any communications with them that would lead you to believe that they endorse your views?”

Rev. Slatney: “No Loni, but that doesn’t mean anything. They are always slow to adopt a position, and very conservative in the language that they use when they do respond. I believe that the majority of the faithful, by and large, agree with me, though.”

Bardowski: “What you’re saying, then, is that the end of the world is almost here?”

Rev. Slatney: “It’s beginning to look that way, Loni. People have been arrogant, and strayed from the teachings of the Lord. We think that the ten commandments handed down by the Lord’s Instrument are significant. They number the same as those that Moses received, and in context, they attack the same sins of greed and avarice. Destruction has been visited on the heart of the errant people, and shall likely be visited again. In the end, the almost total annihilation of mankind shall come to pass. Only the faithful shall survive.”

Bardowski: “What do you mean by ‘the Lord’s Instrument’?”

Rev. Slatney: “Why, the voice on the tape, of course. He is the Instrument of the Lord, perhaps even His Angel of Death. In the beginning, God gave us the Ten Commandments to live by. Now He gives us ten more to forestall the day of doom. He wants us to have a last opportunity to repent, and to become the honorable children He meant us to be. His Instrument is carrying out His will, and is tasking His children. His Instrument shall destroy the earth if man does not accede to His will.”

Bardowski: “When do you think this will happen?”

Rev. Slatney: “We believe that it will happen either on Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, or during Christmas.”

Bardowski: “So, you think that we have, at best, only a few months to live?”

Rev. Slatney: “Yes, Loni. We are praying for the salvation of mankind, in the eternity of the hereafter. Everyone should prepare themselves in their hearts—make peace with themselves. Ere long, His Sword shall fall again, and earthly cares shall be no more. Peace shall reign foreverafter for the faithful, and the wicked shall be punished.”

XVII

Reed sat in an unmarked car, parked at the curb of a winding, tree-shaded street, watching the front of Beverly Watkins’ house. It was an older neighborhood with wide streets, well-kept lawns, large houses set back from the street, with porches and gabled roofs—houses with character, like those from his youth. Homey, warm, family places on large lots, and big, venerable old trees and shaded backyards.

The birds were settling in for the evening, and the cares of the day were waning for the people in those houses. If not for his distasteful assignment, Reed could have enjoyed his evening vigil. It was 7:30 p.m., and the dusky daylight was fading into evening shadows. Reed was waiting for Watkins to come home. She had taken a job with an advertising agency, and he supposed her hours were irregular. It must be quite a comedown for her, he thought.

Her driveway ran alongside the house to a garage that was attached to the rear of the house. A connecting door led into the house through a mudroom off the laundry. The drive was empty, as was the garage which Reed had scouted earlier. When she arrived, if she was alone, he would walk up to her front door, ring the bell, and when she answered the door, he would shoot her with the silenced 9mm Walther in his pocket, close the door, and walk away. If she wasn’t alone, he would do it in the parking lot where she worked, when she arrived there tomorrow morning, or come back here tomorrow evening. It was only a matter of time till the opportunity came. That was the way it would be. Just another human life.

Reed had not often questioned his orders. He had done this sort of thing before, but always to other dedicated agents who would have done the same to him, and always with the conviction that what he did was necessary to protect his country and its way of life. Now he wasn’t so sure.

Hell, he knew this wasn’t right. This was a flagrant denial of everything his country stood for. He had viewed a tape of her broadcast, and the woman hadn’t done anything except question the political stance of the current administration, and ridicule the mind-wash that the government routinely used to engender blind acceptance of police wisdom. That, after all, was what America stood for, the right of the individual to question the methods of all civil servants. “Government by the people” had to mean just that, literally, or America was nothing more than a sham—a pretense at democracy.

Was this Broderick’s own agenda, Reed wondered for the hundredth time, or was it deeper than that? Reed wasn’t blind to the goings-on in Washington of late, and his instinctive alarms had been ringing off the wall for months now. It had all the earmarks of a political coup, but in the USA? And who? Not a foreign power. At least, not in the old ideological sense. Most developed nations were pretty tolerant of other peoples’ beliefs. What motive was there? They were all business buddies, these days. Business? It had to be. Did someone have the idea that he could enslave the golden goose without killing it? He had to admit that it was possible.

As for Broderick, Reed didn’t think the little ferret had the authority to do something like this on his own. Someone higher up had to approve public executions. Broderick had some degree of latitude, but Reed didn’t think it encompassed this. Someone big was sending a message, and James Reed was to be the messenger. End the life of a woman who hadn’t harmed a soul, just to cow the hesitant news dogs who were considering changing sides.

Reed thought of his sister, Emily, who had died five years earlier. She had been his last worldly connection, their parents having died when they were teenagers. What if she had offended Broderick, and a brother agent was sent to snuff out her life? Beverly Watkins even reminded him a little bit of Emmy.

The doubts and blocked-out regrets for past deeds had grown over the past several days, and Reed knew that he would never again think of himself as a “company man.” He was at the proverbial crossroads, and the question was, would he commit murder in the name of a “national security” cover that he knew was a lie, or would he take another course? And what course? If he didn’t do as he was told, he would no longer have a job, at least not in the intelligence community.

Reed noticed movement in his rear-view mirror, and glanced up as a police cruiser pulled to the curb a block behind him. He had no reason to expect interference from them. There were other cars parked along the street, two between his car and the cruiser, and he was well dressed—not a suspicious-looking character. Just an encyclopedia salesman, with a sample case to prove it. Not the most original cover, but plausible—even provable, if he elected to keep his identity from the local police.

He realized that something was wrong. The cops were just sitting there, waiting. Reed took stock. He was parked in a sort of pullout, near a culvert that crossed a drainage ditch. The spot was well shaded, even dark, and he didn’t think the cops had seen him. It looked to Reed as though they, too, were watching the Watkins place. He decided to wait and see what happened.

A pair of headlights approached from Reed’s front, and as the car turned in at the Watkins driveway, Reed could plainly see that it was Beverly Watkins driving a dark Mercedes sedan.

As usual, she didn’t use the garage, but parked halfway down the drive and entered through the front door. During the summer months, the car didn’t need the protection of the garage, and she felt safer getting to and from her car in plain view of the street. She had often wished for a dog, a faithful, backyard sentry to keep the back of the house safe, but with their busy lives, a dog was an inconvenience neither she nor Nathaniel wanted to deal with.

Reed watched as she entered and closed the door, and glancing at his side-view mirror, saw the cops get out of their car and approach the house. He now knew definitely that something wasn’t right. The cops were walking slowly, looking around in an almost furtive way, not walking directly and purposefully up to the door as if on official business. Suddenly Reed knew. They were contract killers, there for the same purpose he was. He knew it as surely as he knew his own name. Broderick didn’t know Reed’s specific plan, and he was uncertain, Reed now knew, that Reed would carry through. Broderick was making sure.

The cops walked up onto the porch, took another look up and down the street without seeing anyone, then pulled their weapons, opened the door and walked in, shutting it behind them.

Reed was undecided for a moment. He heard Beverly Watkins scream, and suddenly his resolve to carry out his orders vanished. All his pent-up doubts surfaced in a flood of regret and empathy for this woman he had never met—a woman who evoked memories of his little sister. He was running across her front lawn and up the porch steps almost before he realized what he was doing. He was responding instinctively to another human being’s need, and after years of training and methodical thinking, no one was more surprised than he. He turned the knob and slammed through the door just in time to see one of the cops shoot Nathaniel Watkins in the chest.

As Reed learned later, Nathaniel’s car was being repaired. The absence of a car in the driveway had led both Reed and the cops to think that Beverly was alone in the house. As Watkins fell, the woman tried to scream again, but it was muffled by the cop holding her. Reed shot the first cop, the one that had killed Nathaniel Watkins, in the back of the head.

The second cop released Beverly Watkins, pushing her aside and trying to bring his gun to bear on Reed. It was a fatal mistake, for as the woman fell to the floor, Reed had a clear shot, and pumped three slugs from the silenced Walther into the man. His eyes glazed over and he died as he fell to the floor.

Beverly Watkins crawled across the bloody floor to her husband, and collapsed sobbing across his chest as the last glimmer of life faded from his questioning eyes.

Reed stood still for a moment, scanning the interior of the house, gazing at the sobbing woman. Then he walked up the stairs. He walked straight to the end of the hallway, glancing in at the open doors of two small rooms as he passed them, until he reached what was obviously the master bedroom. He looked inside the closet, then searched the master bath. He found a linen cupboard there, took a sheet back to the bedroom, and spread it on the floor.

He intended to throw her clothes into it, but thought for a moment, then went back to one of the other bedrooms that he had passed in the hall. It was a guest room, and its closet served as storage. He found a nested set of luggage, and removed a clothes bag, a medium suitcase and a small travel case.

Taking them back to the master bedroom, he swept his hand along the closet rod, grabbed the hangers of a half-dozen of her dresses, and strung them through the open clothing bag. He added three of her business suits, threw in two pairs of black pumps and a black belt, and zipped the bag shut. He opened the suitcase and, pulling out the bureau drawers, used both hands to scoop her flimsy underwear into it. He found a couple of pairs of folded jeans and sweatshirts which he added, then going back to the closet, found a pair of athletic shoes which he tossed in also.

He opened the small case and, holding it next to her dressing table, swept her cosmetics and earring tray into it. He rifled the medicine chest in the bathroom and added a razor, a can of shaving cream, a bottle of peroxide and some headache tablets to the contents of the small case. He grabbed the towels off the rack and threw them in the suitcase for good measure. He looked at the contents of the open cases, glanced around the room, then closed the cases and took them and the garment bag downstairs. The whole thing had taken less than five minutes.

Beverly Watkins was sitting on the floor beside her dead husband, her shoulders shaking, tears and mucus streaming down her vacant face. Reed looked around, spotted a phone in the kitchen, dialed 911 and requested an ambulance. He went back to Watkins, and knelt down across her husband’s body from her. He raised her chin with his left hand, and gave her a short, stinging slap with his right. Her eyes focused and she recoiled slightly, looked at him, frightened and bewildered, but with comprehension.

“Mrs. Watkins, I am with the C.I.A. Your husband is dead. The men who killed him were sent here to kill you. They didn’t know your husband was at home. His being here saved your life. If you want to live, you must come with me. If you stay, you will die tomorrow or the next day. It will probably look like a suicide or an automobile accident. This would have looked like a burglary in all probability, if they had lived to complete the job.” He indicated the two dead “cops.”

“I know it’s rough, but you’ve got to pull yourself away and come with me this instant. I’ve called an ambulance, and your husband will be taken care of. I’ve packed your clothes. We must leave now, before anyone gets here.” He grasped her arms, and slowly lifted her up, still looking into her eyes.

She sighed, wiped her eyes and nose with the back of her hand, and looked down at her husband.

“I understand,” she said.

Reed picked up the cases, told her to grab her purse and open the door, and they went out together. She looked one last time at the body of her husband as she closed the door, and with a silent shaking sob, turned and followed Reed to his car.

Reed stowed the luggage in the trunk of his car, and got Beverly Watkins strapped into the front passenger seat. They drove off into the gathering darkness, heading south down Highway 65 toward Louisville, Kentucky.

Watkins sat dazed and uncommunicative, staring vacantly out the windshield at the lights of oncoming traffic. Occasionally her chin would tremble, and more tears would run silently down her cheeks. Reed was glad of her preoccupation. He needed time to think.

###

They had been driving for six hours, stopping only once for gas. Beverly Watkins had slept for two or three hours, exhausted with grief. They were a little south of Nashville, Tennessee, and heading toward Florida on Highway 75, when the radio station Reed was listening to gave the announcement.

According to the radio, the Indianapolis police had discovered that Beverly Watkins, a former newscaster and militia sympathizer, and her husband Nathaniel, were somehow involved in a domestic terrorism operation. Two police officers had been sent to stake out the Watkins home until the F.B.I. could arrive. Unfortunately, their presence was discovered by the terrorists, and they were killed. Before he died, one of the officers had identified one James Reed, a former C.I.A. operative wanted for counterespionage and terrorism, as one of the ringleaders. Nathaniel Watkins had been killed in the struggle at the Watkins home.

Apparently, Beverly Watkins, James Reed and others had fled the Watkins house, which they knew was no longer safe for them. Several hundred pounds of high explosives and numerous assault weapons had been removed from the Watkins house. The F.B.I. estimated that there were more than two dozen members in the group, and that the government had thwarted the terrorists’ plans only days—perhaps only hours—before an atrocity similar to the Oklahoma City and World Trade Center bombings was to take place. Watkins and Reed were wanted for murder, terrorism and espionage, and were considered armed and dangerous. A nationwide manhunt was under way. Descriptions followed.

What had been a moral dilemma for Reed was now a much more basic question—that of survival. He wanted to kill Broderick, and he knew now that doing it would be doing something really worthwhile for humanity. With a word, Broderick had turned him from a loyal, federal employee into a public enemy with no choice but to run or die. If Reed stayed to challenge Broderick and his bosses, he would simply disappear in the federally controlled system, and never be heard from again.

Beverly Watkins brought him from his introspection with a single word. “Why?” she asked.

Reed turned his head, found her looking into his eyes, her face expressionless, her eyes dry. He told her everything, explaining Broderick’s sanctioned, secret agenda.

She sat for some time after he had finished, watching the passing nightscape through the shadowed windows of the car, trying to absorb the idea of such a monstrous plot. It seemed absurd. This was the United States of America. Things like that didn’t happen here. Government coups and enslaved populations were things that happened in Europe, in third-world countries, not the good old rock-solid republic of the United States.