Operation Damocles Page 11

  It irritated Broderick that he was nervous in Reed’s presence. Broderick had known some cold-blooded killers in his time, and wasn’t easily intimidated, but Reed was something else again. Some people killed out of rage, some out of contempt. Even experienced hitmen had to give themselves a reason, to mentally gear up for what they were about to do. With Reed, it was different.

  Something inside Reed changed when he focused in on you. He had the weird ability to turn off every trace of humanity. You could see it in his eyes. His normal look was remote, skeptical, but human. When you hit his button, he looked at you with a look of intense curiosity, then his face sort of went rigid, his eyes closed partway, the black pupils opened wide, and it suddenly felt like you were alone in the night, and you knew that something deadly was staring at you from the darkness. No, Broderick corrected himself, it was worse than that. It was like the man went away, and suddenly you were facing a merciless, fucking machine, and it was going to kill you, and that was all there was to it. In spite of himself, Broderick shivered.

  When Reed left that morning, Broderick had felt like a mouse looking into the eyes of a hungry snake. He knew that everything in the big man’s being had longed to twist his head off If he’d had to endure that look a moment longer, he would have panicked and pulled the Colt in his armpit. He wondered if he would have made it. He shook his head. God, he was beginning to make Reed sound like Superman. All the same, he was glad he hadn’t had to find out. In the end, Reed had obeyed Broderick’s orders.

  Years of training and habitual acceptance of authority had made Reed a company man. He didn’t know how to be anything else. Broderick had counted on it. In the past three years, Broderick had met dozens of people like Reed. America’s army of patriotic, secret soldiers. Take away their holy nationalistic icons, and their mantra of patriotism, and they were like a bunch of confused Boy Scouts without a leader.

  Like so many of them, Reed was adrift in a sea of uncertainty. His whole reason for being, everything he had believed all his working life, was being ripped out by the roots. His “family” was changing into something unfamiliar. Broderick laughed. He had nothing but contempt for the government agencies and their militaristic culture.

  Reed had been on foreign assignment for years, and hadn’t had the gradual induction into the global government ideology that most other federal employees had been subject to. With Reed, no matter how it was understated, it was a radical change in company culture, and even though he consciously rebelled against the notion, it was beginning to come home to him that he was being used as a subversive agent against his own nation.

  Some of the younger ones had delighted in the opportunity to disgrace their oaths; to turn on their fellow Americans; to experience a sense of power. Some of the older agents, like Reed, were ingrained patriots, with American nationalism in their bones. They were hard to turn. Many of them were granted early retirement, or reassigned to other agencies, just to avoid the problems they posed. They should’ve done that with Reed, thought Broderick.

  He walked out the open door of the motel room, out onto the shadowy balcony walkway, and flipped his cigarette toward the dark, wet parking lot below. The rain had stopped. The night air was cool, and a faint breeze stirred his sweaty hair. Broderick missed the cooler northern climate and the ethnic variety of New York. The fall was sultry and humid in Miami. He missed the womblike feeling of New York. The great city had been like a world of its own—a closed world. Leaving there had been like going outside. Long vistas of open, uninhabited country made Broderick feel exposed.

  He turned and went back inside, his thoughts turning back to his immediate assignment. He smiled. First, he would settle with Reed—make him pay for that moment of fear. Reed would find out who was really the bigger man. After that major irritation was handled, he would get on to better things.

  Broderick’s operatives almost never did their own dirty work, but he had insisted that Reed handle the Watkins affair himself. It was meant to be a lesson in humility. He had implied that Reed’s willing and efficient cooperation would atone for past ineptitude, and return him to a state of good standing. Reed had been defiant, but in the end he had caught a flight to Indianapolis.

  Three agents were still at the hotel. Two were in their rooms, sleeping off the effects of too many cigarettes and cups of coffee, and too many long hours of working into the night. The other was preparing to depart for the airport and a rendezvous with a Chicago “contractor” in Indianapolis. His assignment was to secure a hired hit on Beverly Watkins and James Reed. Broderick and his company supervisor had decided, on the strength of Broderick’s judgment, to eliminate the potential threat that Reed had become. Broderick wanted to close this chapter out cleanly, with no undependable agent left to create future problems.

  Tomorrow, Broderick and the remnants of his team would begin a new initiative. They were going to exercise the prerogatives that other government agencies couldn’t even dream about. They were going to organize a bloody crime. They were going to turn the tide of public opinion against the wielders of the weapon. In a few days, he would relocate his people to a point further up the east coast, near, but not too near, Atlanta.

  In order to turn the public against the nationalists, it would have to be made to appear that they were bent on random destruction of life, murdering innocent populations without cause, and making intolerable demands. Broderick’s bosses had decided to fight fire with fire. How could the patriots react to mass destruction of people? They couldn’t very well retaliate against those very people. Anything they did, when compounded by the damage that the government would also inflict on the masses, would just make the population blame them for everything.

  For Broderick, it was an assignment made in heaven. It was his opportunity to put together the biggest scam in history—to really exercise his talents. And, he was up to it.

  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 b
e 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.