‘Well, I’ll say one thing, your attitude is a hell of a lot more positive than it was in Georgia — or even Hong Kong.’
‘Let’s just say we’ve elevated a wild-goose story to a premise.’
‘That’s bullshit. I know you. I can tell when that nose of yours starts working. You’re on to something.’
‘That’s accurate,’ Hatcher said with a nod.
‘You think Cody’s alive?’
‘Let’s just say I think it more than I did in Hong Kong.’
‘Why?’
‘Little things. Intuition.’
‘But nothing you could take to court.’
‘Nope.’
‘Uh-huh. Okay.’
Hatcher had left out several important pieces of the puzzle. That the commandant who had escaped to Bangkok was Wol Pot. That the Dutchman thought the man who could be Cody was on drugs. He didn’t tell Sloan about the hoochgirl, Pai, and he still had not mentioned Thai Horse. Why? he asked himself. Because he didn’t trust Sloan was the answer.
‘The issue is, Is Murphy Cody alive, and if so, what’s he into?’ Sloan said. ‘That’s the issue.’
‘Back in Georgia, you told me if I found Cody there would be no questions asked,’ Hatcher said. ‘The old man just wanted to say good- bye, you said. That was the only issue.’
Sloan lit a cigar, tapped ash off it and watched the wind break it up and twirl it away. He stared out over the river.
Both men were thinking about other times, times when they trusted and relied on each other, when there was an unwritten, unspoken bond between them that went beyond duty and orders and was an almost psychic link between thought and action. Los Boxes had struck that bond and shattered it.
Now they were skirting the issue, neither of them willing to lay it out to deal head-on with the problem. Sloan didn’t want to make a verbal commitment, he never did. In the past, he had always left the dirty words unsaid.
‘What this is really about is protecting the general’s reputation, keeping the old man from being embarrassed,’ Hatcher repeated.
Sloan’s eyebrows made little half-circles. ‘There could be more to it than that.’
‘Like what’s Cody been up to for the past fifteen years?’ said Hatcher.
‘That enters into it.’
‘That wasn’t part of the deal.’
‘Christ, Hatch, you’ve been doing this kind of thing for almost twenty years. Do I have to draw pictures for you?’
‘Yeah, draw me some pictures,’ Hatcher whispered. ‘Seems pretty simple to me,’ Sloan said.
‘You’re asking me to make a very heavy judgment call here,’ Hatcher said.
‘You’ve made them before. What’s the problem? Seems to me you’re leaning over backwards to give your old school chum the benefit of the doubt.’
‘We’re not just talking about an old school chum, we’re talking about Buffalo Bill’s son.’
‘That’s the whole point,’ said Sloan.
‘Why don’t you just come right on out with it,’ Hatcher’s tortured voice asked. ‘You want me to dust Cody, don’t you?’
He’s done it again, thought Hatcher, that slick- talking bastard has done it again.
‘I want you to find out if he’s alive, and if he is, why he hasn’t turned up,’ Sloan said slowly and distinctly. ‘And if he’s mixed up in something — unsavory . .
He let the sentence fade out.
‘Unsavory? Unsavory? Aren’t we getting a little cute here,’ Hatcher snapped.
‘We never had to talk about this kind of thing before,’ said Sloan, his eyes narrowing.
The tickling sensation in Sloan’s gut turned sour. What had happened to Hatcher? he wondered.
‘Why 4on’t you just lay it out for me,’ Hatcher said. Sloan still wouldn’t commit. He stared into space, puffing on his cigar.
‘You’re telling me you want Cody hit,’ Hatcher said, and there was genuine surprise in his voice.
‘I’m telling you, you have options, like you always did.’
‘Well,’ growled Hatcher, ‘I don’t want the option. I didn’t come over here to kill anybody. I came to find out whether Murphy Cody is dead or alive, period. Now you’re throwing a lot of new rules at me.’
‘No rules—’ Sloan said.
‘I’m not going to make that kind of decision,’ Hatcher whispered.
‘Then call me,’ Sloan said flatly. ‘I’ll make it for you.’
‘This guy was a war hero, Harry.’
‘So was Benedict Arnold.’
‘What do you know that I don’t?’ Hatcher demanded.
‘Not one fucking thing,’ Sloan snapped back.
‘Then it seems to me you’re drawing some pretty harsh conclusions.’
‘Well, what the hell conclusion would you draw?’ Sloan appealed. ‘You sized it up yourself a minute ago. The guy is missing for fifteen years. Then he apparently turns up alive in Bangkok and doesn’t want anybody to know it, and now Windy Porter’s dead and this Wol Pot is on the run. Supposing the two Chins who wasted Porter were running interference for Wol Pot. Suppose he and Cody are in something together.’
‘Suppose, suppose, suppose,’ Hatcher said angrily. ‘Hell, we’re not even sure Cody’s alive. This Wol Pot could be pulling some kind of a scam on all of us.’
‘Hey, I buy that, okay,’ Sloan agreed. Then he said, almost offhandedly, ‘If that’s the way it is, dust the little bastard off, too.’
‘Is it really that easy for you, Harry?’ Hatcher asked. ‘Dust off Cody, dust off the Thai.’
Sloan sighed. His shoulders drooped and he suddenly seemed ten years older.
‘We’ve been fighting these shadow wars for too many years to change now,’ Sloan said wearily.
‘And if Murph’s clean?’
‘Then set up the meeting with Buffalo Bill. Look,’ he sighed, ‘you do what you have to do, I do what I have to do. You start looking for answers to a lot of questions, you’re gonna be dead, Hatch. That’s basic and you know it. You don’t have time for that. All we got is clicks and reflexes. You got two choices on any given day — do it or don’t do it. If you don’t know the options going in, if you haven’t made the decision, they’ll get you. Have I ever told you any different? Has there ever been any question in your mind about that?’
‘Not before now,’ Hatcher said without looking at Sloan.
‘Then maybe I’ve got the wrong man.’
‘Maybe so.’
‘You want out?’
Hatcher thought about it. He had mixed emotions about Murph Cody. One man thought he was a hero, another thought he was a maniac. Now the mission had taken on new complexities. It was no longer a question of is he alive or isn’t he, but whether he should stay alive or not. Hatcher knew if he bowed out, Sloan would bring in someone else, someone who would do the job without thinking, some expedient butcher.
And what are you, Hatcher, he thought to himself, an inexpedient butcher?
In Hatcher’s mind he was the only one in a position to make that judgment call. Much as he hated it, Sloan had done it again. He had put Hatcher in the middle. To Hatcher there was only one alternative.
He nodded slowly. ‘I’m still in,’ he said. ‘If he’s alive, I’ll find him.’
‘Then what?’
‘Then I play it by ear.’
Sloan stared across the table at him for several moments, then said, ‘Fair enough.’ He slid a manila envelope across the table to Hatcher.
‘What’s this?’ Hatcher asked.
‘It’s everything the embassy had on Windy Porter, for what it’s worth. His diary has a few locations that might help you.’
‘How about police reports?’
Sloan chuckled again, as if he were enjoying heaping bad news on Hatcher. He finished his coffee and dabbed his lips with his napkin.
‘Well, uh, that’s the other bit of bad news. We’ve had a little trouble with the local cops.’
‘What kind of trouble?’
‘They’re playing hard to get. They stiffed a runny- nosed embassy errand boy, told him they’re holding all of Windy’s stuff until they complete their investigation and they won’t talk about it.’