Operation Damocles Page 12

  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 w
ould 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.

  The agony of her last look at Nathaniel welled up in her again, her throat constricting. She fought it down, and breathed deeply. Nathaniel was dead and she was a fugitive. She and the man who had originally been assigned to kill her. She shivered inside, glancing sidelong at Reed. He had helped her. She had no doubt that he had saved her life. Her reason told her that she had no immediate cause to fear him, or to disbelieve him. He could certainly have made up a better story, if what he said was a lie. What would he gain by lying? Besides, the radio had confirmed it. Terrorists? The lying bastards! They were still around. They still had power. The weapon hadn’t destroyed them, only driven them underground. They could still hurt people, still destroy lives to insure obedience in the media boardrooms. What would they do now? Where was Reed taking her?

  XVIII

  In Cocoa Beach, Reed took the car to a small wrecking yard and garage off Clearlake Road. Beverly sat in the car and watched as Reed had a few words with a rough, bearded man in dirty work clothes. The bearded man yelled to someone inside the garage. Reed returned to the car, collected Beverly and their luggage, and led her away down the rutted dirt and grass road toward the paved street. As they walked away, three young Hispanic men ran to the car, dragging hoses, jacks and air wrenches. By the time Reed and Watkins reached the street, the car was fast becoming used car parts.

  They took a taxi to a Cocoa Beach marina, where Reed paid cash for an eighteen-foot open boat with a small outboard engine. They started down the Banana River, following the intercoastal waterway until it ended near Port Salerno. After leaving the mouth of the river for the open sea, they paralleled the coastline, keeping about a quarter-mile offshore, taking their time, running along the outermost perimeter of light surf at trolling speed, putting in occasionally to buy gas and use a restroom.

  Reed scanned the sea and shore constantly, expecting any minute to see a four-wheel-drive Bronco or minivan appear over the dunes, black-garbed agents with assault rifles swarming out of it, or a Coast Guard cutter growing out of the ocean horizon with klaxons blaring. If it happened, he knew the Walther in his pocket wouldn’t be much defense in their exposed situation.

  Throughout the long days that followed, Beverly remained distant and incommunicative, answering when spoken to, doing whatever he asked, never volunteering a thought or observation. Reed could see that she was withdrawing further into herself with each passing hour, but he couldn’t think of anything to do about it. She spent most of the time lying in the bow of the boat, her head resting on the gunwale, a seat cushion for a pillow, staring out to sea with glazed eyes.

  Their arms and legs were red and burned by noon of the second day, and they felt like they were growing maggots in their clothes. They took turns bathing in the sea, which turned out to be a mistake. The seawater dried, leaving crusted salt in their hair and under their clothes, causing them to itch and burn and chafe.

  Reed finally bought a five-gallon can of fresh water, blankets, bathing suits, deck shoes for himself, and a bottle of suntan lotion at a marina. They changed out of their clothes in the restrooms. Reed used the freshwater hose at the back of the baithouse to hose the salt and sweat off their bodies, then rinsed out their wet clothing and wrung it damp-dry. There were no public showers. They applied the suntan lotion liberally, to comfort their raw and tender skin, and put on loose shirts over their bathing suits. They were feeling better by the time they returned to their boat and left the harbor.

  They camped on the beach the second night, sleeping fitfully in the cold and damp. When they arose in the early hours of the third day, a cold, wet mist was settling about them, and a fog lay over the sea. Beverly barely responded to Reed’s quiet “Good morning,” and didn’t respond at all to his further attempts at conversation. Reed had to prompt her to get her up and moving. They ate a silent meal of lunchmeat and bread, and climbed back into the little open boat. Beverly had barely touched her food. They set out again, her face downcast and morose.

  She sat awhile, a freshening wind from the sea blowing her hair and misting her face with airborne dew. Rivulets of condensate ran down her back as she stared out to sea. After a while, she resumed her reclining position of the previous day.

  Reed was stiff and tired, and in a disinterested frame of mind, but even so, he abstractly admired her lush figure. She was a beautiful woman. Even now, with her hair stringy and pasted to her head and face by the wet mist, her long legs and soft curves aroused him. She was overflowing the bikini top of her bathing suit. He thought that she was far more desirable this way, than with her hair carefully coifed and in the professional business suit that until now, had been his only vision of her. The blankets were almost saturated with dew, but he spread one over her anyway, hoping to conserve her body heat and prevent her from catching a chill. They didn’t have time to be sick. She didn’t seem to notice his attentiveness.

  Reed managed to pull a pair of fiberglass oars from beneath the seats and, cutting the sputtering outboard engine, he moved to the center of the boat, his back to Beverly, and began to row, trying to work out the kinks in his muscles. After a while, he felt better, and his mind began to function again. He rested occasionally, then resumed rowing, not expecting to get anywhere fast, just doing it for the rhythmic, calming activity.

  As the sun began to climb, the heat made Reed’s damp clothes itch and chafe, and the stagnant sea smell was the worse for his discomfort. Finally he removed the shirt he was wearing, and used it to blot his underarms and face of the sweat he had worked up.

  He stopped rowing, and turning around, rummaged in the suitcase for the undershirt he had worn under his suit. He looked at Beverly, noting that she still hadn’t changed position. Aware that she had to be as uncomfortable as he was, he decided to try to do something to bring her out of her vacant stupor and get her mind working again. He was beginning to fear she might withdraw from shock to the point that she would sink into a catatonic state and never awaken.

  “Mrs. Watkins,” he ventured, and got no response.

  “We’re surrounded by . . .” Sharks, he had started to say, then thought better of it. Don’t be a childish ass, he thought to himself. I don’t want to risk inciting her to panic. It might do her even more harm. He thought for a minute, then said, “Mrs. Watkins, tell me about your husband. What was he like?” Reed watched her face. She gave no indication that she had heard him. Her staring eyes hadn’t flickered; her expression remained unaltered. What was his name, Reed wondered, Daniel? No, Nathan. No, Nathaniel. That was it, Nathaniel.

  “Mrs. Watkins, tell me about Nathaniel,” he shouted. “Where is Nathaniel?” Her eyes flickered briefly. Reed was beginning to worry, thinking he might already be too late. He nudged the sole of her foot with his toe, shouting, “Where is Nathaniel, Mrs. Watkins. Where is he?”

  Finally, he shipped the oars and moved forward, crouching over her, shaking her arms, chafing her hands and legs vigorously between his palms. He raised her up until she sat limply upright in his arms, leaning into his chest. He rubbed her back and
pinched her shoulders, working her muscles hard. He held her in the crook of his arm and splashed seawater in her face with his right hand, and slapped her cheeks lightly. “Who are you?” he repeated, over and over. “Where is Nathaniel?”

  Finally, her brow furrowed, and her eyes blinked. She looked at him, searched his face, registered puzzlement.

  “Who are you?” he asked again.

  “Bev . . .” her dry mouth worked. She swallowed, trying to moisten her throat. “Beverly Watkins,” she finally managed hoarsely.

  “What do you do for a living?” he asked.

  She stared at him quizzically, her throat working.

  He reached around with his free hand and retrieved the thermos bottle of cold coffee he had bought the day before. He poured the cap half-full, and holding her in one arm and the cup to her lips, gave her a drink of the bitter liquid. She swallowed, choked a little, then took some more, and the color began returning to her cheeks.

  “Do you know where you are?” he asked.

  She looked at him, her face worried, then her eyes widened, and she glanced from side to side, toward the beach arid the sea, panic rising in her face.

  “Where is Nathaniel?” he asked relentlessly.

  Her face froze, and she stared intently into his eyes. Suddenly, her eyes went wide, as comprehension flooded through her. Tears welled up, and her face contorted in anguish and rage. She began clawing and pushing to get away from him, and screaming, “He’s dead! He’s dead! They killed him! Oh, God, Nathaniel!”

  She rolled out of Reed’s arms, facedown across the seat, deep, racking sobs shaking her back.

  Reed moved back to his seat, taking long breaths, shuddering with cold, emotionally spent. After a time her sobbing diminished, then began again, more quietly. Reed sat motionless for a while, staring unseeingly out to sea, his mouth a grim line. Finally, he took up the oars and began rowing again. After a while, he started the engine and picked up speed.