From the pocket of his sport coat, he removed an expensive-looking ballpoint pen and held it up. “This thing’s digital; records up to six hours. Probably ruined now ‘cause of the water.” He handed it to me. “How’d you know?”
“Oh… just a wild guess. I’ve worked with Harrington a long time. By the way, he set you up. He knew how I’d react if you pulled some boot camp takedown routine.”
Jones showed surprised. “Why? Like it was a test for both of us, maybe?”
I slid the digital recorder into my pocket. “It’s exactly the sort of thing he’d do, suggesting you take a shot at me.”
“Gezzus,” Jones said, “if that’s the truth, I feel kinda stupid.”
I told him, “When I deal with Hal Harrington, that’s the way I usually feel, too.”
13
Still outside, Parker handed me an envelope made of heavy white paper. The thing had gone into the water with him. Soaked.
I told him, “You stay out here and drip-dry. I’ll take a look at this and be right back.”
The envelope was sealed, as our orders were always sealed, with melted wax stamped with a crest. I’d studied the elements of the crest on more than one occasion. The seal consists of a familiar Freemasons’ symbol seen on the back of every U.S. dollar bilclass="underline" a pyramid capped with an all-seeing eye. There’s also a sword-a crusader’s sword, I was once told. At the base of the pyramid are three words in Latin that, translated, read: Forever conceal, never reveal.
I went into the lab, used a scalpel to open the envelope, and removed a single page on which were typed three words: “Call me immediately.”
Unsigned. A typical Harrington finesse.
I crumpled the letter and used a Bunsen burner to set it ablaze. The damp paper popped, sputtered. I watched until it was reduced to gray ash before carrying it to the toilet and flushing.
I couldn’t use the lab phone to call him. No. I had to use a special phone.
I went out the screen door toward the house. Jones was waiting at the railing, looking over a dark bay that was encircled by a darker, elevated ridge of mangroves.
“You dry yet?” “No. How you expect me to get dry so quick, man? Even the air on this island is wet.”
“Welcome to Sanibel. Where do they have you based?”
“I can’t tell you. I’m not supposed to.”
“Near Langley, huh?”
“Yeah. Near there. It was snowing a little when I left.” He’d been fussing with his jaw again, but stopped to slap at something on his neck, then his forearm. “Hey, the mosquitoes are bad out here. What kinda place has mosquitoes at Christmas? Getting bit in December, man, this just isn’t right.”
I said, “Deal with it. It’s what you get for swimming with your clothes on. By the way, I’ve decided your boss is a jerk.”
“Maybe so, man. I’m not gonna argue. I think my damn jaw’s busted.” He slapped himself on the cheek. “Ouch. Hey-you got any bug spray?”
I said, “Sure. Lots of it,” as I opened the door and stepped into my house.
The three ceiling fans were revolving at their slowest speed, stirring the balmy winter air. The floor light between the reading chair and my old Zenith Transoceanic shortwave radio was on, and so was the light over the galley sink. I’ve learned to use yellow bulbs for exactly the reason Jones was outside whining. Mosquitoes have complicated eyes, but they are not sufficiently complex to recognize the color yellow. They aren’t attracted to light they cannot see. Fewer bugs.
I pushed the beaded curtain aside, stepped into my bedroom, and rummaged through the desk until I found two silver keys on a ring. I got down on hands and knees, and pulled the fireproof ship’s locker from beneath my bed, and opened it.
One key fits the door. The second key fits a lock to the drawer’s false bottom. I opened the first door and removed a small box that contains gold coins I’ve collected around the world, a small sack of raw emeralds, several folders filled with documents considered important. Insurance policies, titles, stuff like that.
Once the main compartment was empty, I opened the second lock, and removed the false bottom. Beneath it were more folders, a neat stack of notebooks, five counterfeit passports, and other detritus from a covert life.
I was momentarily nonplussed when I saw that two manila envelopes were missing. Over the years, I’d grown used to seeing them when I opened the compartment. Both had been labeled in red ink. One was OPERATION PHOENIX. The other read: DIRECCION: BLANCA MANAGUA.
I’d kept the documents for years because they were my leverage against people who might try to leverage me, and a guard against potential legal problems from which no statute of limitations would ever protect me.
But not so long ago, I’d destroyed both folders. Had tossed them into a driftwood fire. At the time, it’d seemed a safe thing to do.
Now I wasn’t so sure.
I still had all of my old notebooks, though. I removed them, pausing to linger over names that I’d written on the covers in precise block print. Each notebook catalyzed visual memories, some good, some bad.
A few of those memories were as unpleasant as seeing parasites spilling larvae into water. A couple, worse.
I restacked the notebooks on my bed, pausing over the familiar titles:
CAMBODIA/KHMER ROUGE NICARAGUA/POLITICS/BASEBALL HAVANA I. HAVANA II SINGAPORE TO KOTA BAHARU (WITH 3RD GURKHAS) THE HANNAH SMITH STORY
There were others.
I set the notebooks aside. Then a letter I hadn’t read in a long time. I was tempted to open it, but didn’t. It was from a colleague I’d once dated, Dr. Kathleen Rhodes, a beautiful woman who’d ended the relationship with this note.
I placed it with the notebooks.
There was a second envelope that contained a letter. It was addressed:
Tomlinson In the event of my death
I set it aside, also.
Lying atop a black Navy watch sweater was a 9 mm SIG-Sauer P-226 semiautomatic pistol, a dense black weight. Folded and tucked into the finger guard was a card that Harrington had given me not so long ago.
A name was on the card preceded by a single word: ETERNALIZE.
When “Executive action” became part of the public record, another euphemism became requisite. “Eternalize” was a good choice. Spoken or written, it could be INTERNALIZE, a typo, or something misheard.
Always give yourself an out.
Next to the pistol was a SATCOM telephone, government-issue. SATCOM is a satellite-based wireless communications network with a sophisticated scrambler system. You can speak freely.
I’d kept the thing locked in my lab, but finally stored it here because I found its distinctive bonging chime irritating. The chime was suggestive of a clock in a British drawing room at high tea-very civilized.
The stuff I’d discussed on this phone was anything but civilized.
When I touched the power button, I was relieved that it had some juice. I punched four more buttons, and, a moment later, heard Harrington say, “I knew you’d come crawling back. I hope Parker didn’t have to slap you around too hard.”
“A sweet guy like him? I was just telling your gorilla-sized delivery boy what a fine man you are. But he seems to think you’re an asshole. Which he’ll tell you himself… if his jaw doesn’t have to be wired shut.”
Harrington snorted, but was already done with small talk. “I have a couple of interesting jobs. Or have you decided to go ahead and pop your buddy?”
My buddy. The name on the card.
A great many years ago, when Tomlinson was a very different man, he’d supposedly been involved in something that had caused the death of some good people. Tomlinson had regretted it ever since-in fact, it had done a lot to make him the man he is today-but certain people had never forgotten. Harrington, for one. Who better to even the score than Tomlinson’s best friend? But I had delayed-delayed, hoping that it would all blow over. With Harrington though, nothing ever blew over.