Mad Dogs (36 page)

“Very good, Victor.” He eyes kept weighing and courting Cari. “You might not find the button mounted under the computer desk—I accidentally kneed it once and two minutes later… Let's see if we can avoid another riot blitz.”

“Let's,” I said. “What else?”

“You'd find the pendant button if I had it on, which I don't, it's on the bed table.”

“You know,” I told him, “we'll find everything else.”

He smiled. “Good luck.”

The man who'd talent spotted me for the Agency, the executive who here, in his modest home, had hosted the informal graduation ceremony that secrecy allowed when I became a deep cover spy, the bishop of the church of intelligence who fire-axed partitions and ran my de-briefing on the day of my second suicide, the man who Cari said had been “bumped up, some sort of cardinal in the new Homeland Security maze,” that gray haired, slight but strong man named John Lang stood in the living room of his cabin and raised his hands to be body searched.

Smooth, I thought. Don't wait for us to ask or tell you what to do. Volunteer. Work on winning our trust. Seduce us with your co-operation. Until.

He caught the knowing shake of my head. Knew I knew. Knew I knew he knew.

We're trapped on the circle of knowing, I thought as Zane ran his hands over the spy who was about his same age. Trapped chasing each other round that circle
until
.

I'd met Lang at a
bagua
martial arts seminar not far from this cabin. Like
T'ai Chi
or Aikido,
bagua
is an internal art, only its practitioners specialize in circles, in turning and twisting and walking around an opponent, deflecting attacks until the circled foe gets dizzy or out-of-rhythm/balance—and at that
until
, the
bagua
expert blasts his foe with a myriad of shattering techniques.

We've got to get off this circle
.

“He's clean,” said Zane.

“How are all of you feeling?” said Lang.

Trying sympathy. Empathy. Bonding.

“Still crazy?” he said.

Trying provocation. Challenge. Destabilization.

“We're still not stupid,” I said.

“No one's ever thought you were stupid,” said Lang. “That's why all this… wildness and killing doctors and nurses proves what everyone knows: you are… medically challenged.”

Russell said: “Man, you Washington warriors love to spin words.”

Zane said: “He'll spin us if we give him a chance.”

“My guess is you're all already dizzy,” said Lang. “Even if you weren't crazy, coming down off all your medications must be quite a crash.”

“As long as we're together, we're together enough,” I told him. Forced my hands to stop trembling and knew he saw my effort.

“Whatever you say,” said Lang. “You've got the guns.”

“No,” I said, lifting the Colt .45 out of Zane's belt before he could say anything, turning and holding it out to Lang butt-first. “We've all got 'em.”

The intense blue eyes of the old spy blinked. He stared at the offered pistol. Made absolutely no motion.

“Go on,” I said. “Take it.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a subtle change come over Russell as he stood in the bedroom door, knew he'd filled his hand.

“Take it,” I told Lang again.

So he did. Let it swing down to his side, barrel pointed to the floor.

“But if you use it,” I said, “have the balls not to shoot me in the back.”

Walking to the kitchen sink gave him my spine. Let me get a drink of water with a glass from the drainboard. Hid my shaking hands.

Behind me, Cari said: “Sir, you and I… They're not our opposition.”

“Really,” he said. “All evidence to the contrary.”

“Not all evidence,” I said, staring out his kitchen window to the night. “What have you got in your hand?”

“A great bluff? A madman's move? You tell me.”

“What would you believe?”

“That's always the problem. I believe I'm standing in my living room with five self-professed, violence prone, fugitive maniacs who outgun me and one supposedly outstanding agent who… well, who's also here. What do you want me to believe?”

Russell said: “Give it up. This is going nowhere.”

Outside the kitchen window, the night moved. But I saw nothing.

I said: “Ask.”

Genuine curiosity rang in Lang's answer: “Ask what?”

“Whatever,” I said, turning from the sink to face him and the faces of my fellow fugitives, of Cari. “What do you want to know?”

We saw wheels spinning in his eyes.

Lang finally said: “Why did you come here?”

Right to the heart of where he was and where this might go.

“You've got enough chairs,” I said. “Sit on the couch and we'll tell you.”

Oh what an opera we performed! A saga of sound and fury and whacko, scenes like jump cuts of a Marx Brothers movie: INTERIOR. NIGHT. CABIN. Yellow glow, audience of one trapped on the couch. We played our parts and we were great, because besides being a manipulator, every spy is an actor.

Russell sang
‘Lying On The Floor (just like Doctor Friedman
did)'
but got cut off as Zane raced behind Hailey to demonstrate how Nurse Death nailed her whack job only to have Hailey scream: “Watch out for my blood!” I said: “I know, Mr. Lang, since we busted the crime scene, forensics won't back us up, but at the time, it was a good idea to take him with us, though, I'm kind of sorry for taping him to the fence.” Russell said: “And I'm sorry for freezing up and not dropping Nurse Death alive.” Zane waved that off: “Forget about that, it was bathrooms.” I interjected: “Bathrooms and love,” then Zane continued: “If we're going to start getting sorry, I've got the burned up police car.”

Lang said: “The burned up—”

“Mirror,” blurted Eric. “Broke mirror. Bad luck. Sorry.”

“Wasn't your fault,” said Hailey. She told Lang: “Eric's triggered by any comprehensive order. Won't stop, can't stop obeying no matter what, like—
Eric
: explain the thing you made at the memorial shiva.”

Eric rocketed to his feet: “Leonardo Da Vinci created the—”

“Sit down and stop, Eric,” I said and he did. “If Hailey hadn't been careful with what she told him to do, I couldn't have ordered him to stop even if this cabin was burning down around us. It would have been like that shrink woman he grabbed onto.”

The CIA Deputy Director (covert) frowned: “A shrunken woman?”

“She doesn't matter,” said Russell, “but your blonde there—”

“Who?” said Lang.

“Me,” said Cari. “I dyed my hair as a disguise.”

“The point is,” said Russell, “I was going to get laid, but she fucking stopped it.”

Lang said: “The two of you—”

Simultaneously, Russell shouted:
“No way!”
and Cari yelled:
“Not him!”

“But we got a great car out of it!” I interrupted to quash Russell's anger. “Even if that guy was dead, it got us all the way to the hit this noon on the SAD building.”

“Why was a building sad?” asked Lang.

“No sir,” said Cari. “Our SAD. Up by the Takoma Park metro.”

“What ‘
hit'
? You killed—”

“Nobody,” I quickly said.

“Well,” said Zane. “Nurse Death bought it, but that was a combat mishap.”

“And then,” I said, “the empty office told us to
run
.”

We ran out of breath.

My watch took a sweep of ticks before out of Lang escaped: “Wow.”

And he said: “So this is all of you being all together?”

We all gave him a shrug.

“OK,” he said. “Now you're here. Now—”

“You got anything to drink?” said Russell.

“No booze!” I yelled.

“Don't worry,” said Lang. “I don't want any of you drunk. In the fridge, there might be some Cokes.”

Russell flowed into the kitchen, jerked open the door, said: “Wild! Beer.”

“No,” I said.

He gave a bottle to Zane, took one for himself, opened one for me.

Rudeness is the last thing we need, I thought as I took sip of cold golden brew. I raised the bottle in salute to our host. “Thanks.”

Cari said: “Director Lang, they've got something. Stumbled onto something.”

“But,” he said, “aren't they still… crazy?”

Zane said: “Yes. And
oh look
: we're still sitting right here in the room.”

“No offense,” said Lang. “I was just trying to get an analysis of intelligence.”

Zane took a swig of his cold beer.

Lang put his eyes on Cari. “And you're sure you… have bullets in your gun?”

“Here.” I handed him the tranquilizer gun. Took off the weapons vest with its ammo pouches, stun gun, three looped-on flash/bang grenades, and dropped it on Lang's lap. “Add all that to your .45 and you've got more bang than any one of us.”

“But don't forget,” said Russell, the beer held in his left hand, his right hand empty and calm. “Quality tops quantity.”

“My philosophy, too,” said Lang. “So… You showed up here to surrender?”

“Not hardly,” said Russell.

“Not ever,” said Zane.

“We came here so some of us could get safe,” said Hailey.

“We came here to help you help us help you,” I said.

“We came here to nail that whacker Kyle Russo,” said Russell.

Lang blinked: “Who?”

All six of us started to answer, but Lang took command: “Stop!”

He pointed his index finger at me like he didn't care that if it had been a gun, Russell would have given him a third eye.

“Victor, you and you alone talk. Debrief. No dramatics. No adventures—I'm still lost up around Asbury Park. Give me this ‘something' you've convinced Agent Rudd is real. And what or who is Kyle Russo?”

Twenty minutes later, after I'd gone from the assassin's technique to the check that paid for the dead-drop that led us to the SAD building, I was done. Cari told me: “Good job, Victor. Good briefing.”

But Lang said: “You've got
not much
of
who knows what
.”

“Well,” said Zane, “it's something.”

“Everything depends on how you add it up,” said the spymaster. “And all this
not much
is what you want me to bring in with you to the Agency?”

“Actually,” said Russell, “until we know
what's-what
, no way are we going in.”

Lang exploded. “So what are you going to do? What do you want me to do? You must have a plan! Did you think you'd come here and I'd take over your… crusade or investigation or
mad dog
run or whatever, and then you'd all end up all right?”

“Well…” said Hailey.

“What do you want me to do? Run Kyle Russo and the addresses of empty offices and public mailbox stores through my computer over there?”

“You could do that?” I said.

Zane said: “Don't forget about that cashier's check from the small town bank.”

“Tomorrow,” said Lang, “I can send a team there. It's about a three hour drive, near the Atlantic shore. When the bank opens, they can get the records. Cashiers' checks may seem anonymous, but the issuing banks keep records of where the money came from for the checks, who bought it. No way of avoiding it.”

“If you scramble a team,” I said, “then… there'll be people we don't know.”

“More people,” said Russell, “less control for us.”

“But first…” I nodded to his computer. “You're wired into the Agency?”

“For practical purposes,” said Lang, “with my access codes, I am the Agency.”

Zane said: “Eric?”

“Customized computer. Probably NSA.”

“A cast off,” said Lang. “Five generations old for them.”

“Got a special modem. Power pack. Satellite connection. Probably anti-hacking protocols way past commercial firewalls. Could tele-conference, camera unplugged.”

“If they can see you,” said Lang, “they can see you. I prefer privacy. As for the rest, all I know is that it works.”