Vertical Run (30 page)

On the other hand, Nick Lee’s wallet was useless. All he carried in it were his credit cards. However, there was an 18 karat Tiffany money clip in his pants pocket. It held a sheaf of twenties, fifties, and hundreds. Best of all, there were some $500 bills. Rather a lot of them, as it turned out.

First you feed him a poisoned stock market tip, then you swipe all his pocket change. I like your style
.

Dave tucked a pillow under Lee’s head. It was the least he could do.

The radio in his pocket stuttered. Ransome’s voice came on. “Okay, people, it’s time to rock and roll.”

A combat unit is at its most vulnerable when moving into position. For the next few moments, Ransome’s men would be off guard and distracted as they climbed stairs, opened doors, and took cover. Dave would have the advantage.

“Myna, I’ve sent some more bodies down to the lobby.”

“They’re here.”

A few brief minutes of confusion—he couldn’t let the opportunity slip away. He had to get to the forty-fifth floor—to Bernie’s credenza and Marge Cohen—ahead of them.

“Good enough. I want them out of sight, and I want them on full alert.”

“We’re locked and loaded, Robin.”

The elevators were out of the question. There were two separate banks, one serving the lower twenty-five floors, and one serving the top twenty-five. He couldn’t take an elevator to Senterex without first returning to the lobby. The man called Myna was monitoring the elevator control panel. He’d know the moment Dave pushed the button for 45.

“Alpha team. Partridge, you’ve got the con. Don’t disappoint me.”

“Affirmative, Robin.”

The only thing to do was to run for it. Run up thirty-four flights of stairs.

“Parrot, you’re in charge of baker team. It’s reserve duty for you. Forty-third floor outside the south stairwell.”

“Aye, aye, Robin. We’ll be on post in three minutes.”

But he hadn’t called Kreuter yet. He looked at Lee’s private telephone. He took a step toward it.

“Pigeon, you’ve got delta. Kingfisher, you and charlie team are with me.”

“Aw, boss, I’s regurgitated. Sapphire’s mama done …”

“One more Amos and Andy joke, Kingfisher, and your next tour of duty is Antarctica.”

Dave stopped and shook his head. Kreuter wouldn’t talk to him. Trying to call him would be a waste of time.

“Now all of you, listen up. Keep away from the entry points. I want no one visible near the stairs or elevators. The only way this thing will work is for the subject to have a very easy time getting in.”

“A roach motel?”

“You’ve got it, Pigeon. He checks in, but he doesn’t check out.”

Dave turned toward the door. He stopped, and looked toward the telephone. He didn’t know what to do.

“One last thing. It is my strong preference that the subject not be killed. I would consider it a personal favor if you aimed for the legs. Stop him. Feel free to mess him up. But do not kill him unless you have no alternative.”

Dave frowned. Ransome’s order was puzzling. Had the situation changed, or …

The man called Kingfisher spoke again. “What have you got in mind, chief?”

“Revisions to this afternoon’s orders have come in. We’re instructed to put the subject in an acid bath when we’re finished. However, I find in these orders no requirement that he be dead when we do it.”

“Gotchya, chief.”

Dave grimaced. Got you, Ransome.

“Head ’em up and move ’em out.”

Dave looked at the door. He looked at the phone. He had to make a decision.

“Bitte?”

Dave wanted to rip the telephone out of its socket. The goddamned woman didn’t speak English. “Kreuter,” he hissed. “I want to speak to Mr. Jack Kreuter. Kreuter. Please.”

For the third time she answered,
“Nien, nein, ich verstehe nicht.”

It was infuriating. The seconds were ticking away, and the damned woman refused to understand him. How could she not understand Kreuter’s name? Goddamn her to hell!

The Swiss are supposed to be bilingual. Dave tried some sophomore French,
“Mademoiselle, je désire à parler avec monsieur Kreuter, votre président.”

“Bitte?”

Dave went pink with fury. “Kreuter. Kreu-ter. You dumb kraut, don’t you know your own boss’s name?”

The woman replied politely,
“Eins augenblick, bitte,”
and put him on hold.

A few seconds later another woman’s voice came over the line. She spoke with that lilting singsong accent so common among English-speaking German women. “Yes. This is Solvig. May I help you, please?”

Thank God! “I’m calling for Colonel Kreuter.”

“Ah.” Dave could tell that she had covered her phone’s mouthpiece with her hand. He heard her rattle off a stream of German. Then she spoke to him again. “Sorry for the confusion. We say ‘crew-TER’ and you say ‘CROY-ter.’ Sorry.”

Dave ground his teeth. She continued, “Herr Kreuter is
not in the
büro
, how do you say, the office yet. I expect him any time. May I take a message so that he can return your call?”

“I’m not reachable. I’ll call back. Tell him that Dave Elliot called, and that I’ll call back …”

The phone clicked. Dave’s heart fell. “Hello!” he shouted. “Hello! Are you still there?”

After a moment’s silence, a slow, sly drawl: “Well, I’ll be switched. Jest tie me up an’ tickle my fanny with a feather.”

“Uh, is this …” He stumbled. He knew who it was.

“Son, it sure as hell has taken yew the longest damn time to get around to callin’ me. I’d kinda given up hope on the subject.” The connection between New York and Basel was clear and perfect. It sounded like a local call.

Jack seemed ready enough to speak to him. It wasn’t quite the reaction Dave had expected. He wasn’t quite sure how to handle it. “Well … you know … uh …”

“Sure. Yup, sure do. Suppose I mighta called yew, but I figured the time an’ place of it was more for yer choosin’ than mine.”

He wasn’t sure how to interpret Jack’s words. He stuttered lamely, “So, er … Jack, how are you?”

“Largely unchanged, son. The good Lord seen fit to let me keep my hair an’ keep my health. Can’t ask more than that. An’ whut about yew? Yew doin’ well and feelin’ fit?”

“After a fashion.”

“An’ yer family? How’s that li’l blonde honey whose picture yew was always a-moonin’ after?”

“Annie. Fine, but we … Well, I’ve got another wife now.”

“Yeah, well don’t we all. Speakin’ personal, I done burned through pretty near a six-pack of ’em. Like the man sez, shit happens. So whut about yer career? Yew doin’ well—bein’ a big time lawyer an’ makin’ lots of money?”

“I didn’t go to law school. I’m just another New York
businessman. But, yes, I guess I’m doing okay. Or at least I was. I sort of … well … you could say I’ve lost my job.”

“Sorry to hear that, son. Truly sorry. Now me, I’m a-rollin’ in it. Ol’ company I got me here, she jest mints money. Damnedest thing yew ever seen. Gonna get me one of them great big vaults like ol’ Scrooge McDuck. Yew wouldn’t think that the ancient an’ honorable callin’ of combat warrior could be run at a profit, but she surely is. Son, I tell yew, mercenaries an’ arms tradin’ is the growth business of the nineties.”

“I’m pleased for you, Jack.”

“So yew says you’ve lost yer job, does yew?”

“Well …”

“Hell, son, then why don’t yew put yer butt on the great silver bird, an’ fly on over here. We’ll sit an’ jaw some. Meybe I got a job openin’ lyin’ loose somewheres.”

“Uh …”

“Come on, son. Yew was always my favorite, yew know that. Never met none better than yew.”

“Jack, I … oh hell, Jack …” No, this wasn’t what he expected. It wasn’t even close.

“Aw, come on, boy. Whut is it? Is yew still all knotted up over whut happened back in ’Nam?”

“It’s not that.” For some odd reason, Dave felt his eyes tingle. “Or it is. But, Christ, Jack, I turned you in!”

“Yeah, so whut?” Wrong answer. It wasn’t what Dave wanted to hear.

“You were court-martialed.”

“So whut again?”

Speechless, Dave worked his jaw back and forth.

“Bein’ court-martialed weren’t such a bad price to pay. Them were evil men and needed killin’, and when they was gone, the earth was a somewhut better place.”

Dave could barely manage the words: “Jack, I blew the whistle on you.”

“Aw, shee-it, that’s why yew ain’t bothered to call me all these years. Yew figured I was still p.o.’d or somethin’. Dumb, son, that was purebred dumb. Ain’t never been
mad at yew ’cept meybe for a little bit. After all, yew only did whut was right. Now, son, yew ever see me once complain ’bout a man doin’ the right thing? Nope, it ain’t in me. Sure, I was a mite worried ’bout the proceedin’s. But not all that much. Figured they wouldn’t have the nerve to put me in the brig whut with everythin’ I knew an’ all. An’ they didn’t. So whut the hell, they booted my buns out of the Army. Now I got me a fat ol’ Swiss bank account, an’ I tool my bony behind around in a great big Mercedes car, an’ when I drive up they send their flunkies runnin’ out to open up the door for me. Heh! So yew tell me, son, yew tell me, jest whut the holy hell have I got to be pissed at yew about?”

David Elliot had spent twenty-five years punishing himself for what he had thought to be a sin. However, the victim didn’t blame him. The victim thanked him. It was worse than forgiveness.

He drove a fist into a wall.

“Yew there, son?”

“I’m here.” Dave glanced at his hand. Blood was beading on his knuckles.

“Well, now. Must be—whut?—’round ’bout 0300 hours over there. I gotta figure yew ain’t callin’ jest to be sociable.”

“Right.” He shook the pain out of his fingers. The pain was not a bad thing.

“Okay, then yew wanna tell me whut’s on yer mind?”

Dave started to say something. He bit his tongue, took a deep breath, and started over. “Jack, do you know … have you ever heard of a guy named John Ransome?”

Kreuter’s voice lit up. “Johnny Ransome? Sure I do. He wuz a master sergeant in the unit oh, lemme see, meybe eight, meybe nine months ’fore yew showed up.”

Dave’s heart pounded. Ransome
had
been one of Kreuter’s men. Maybe the two still kept in contact. “Where is he now?”

“Ain’t nowhere ’cept that his name’s on that big black wall they got down Washington way.”

“Dead?” Dave gnawed his lip.

“Sure ’nuff. Walked into a bouncin’ betty. I’m the one who tagged and bagged him. Why yew askin’?”

“There’s somebody who’s using his name. He says he served with you.”

“Lots of folks did. Whut’s he look like?”

“Big, blocky, lots of muscle. Sandy grey hair. Square face. Five-ten or five-eleven. Has an Appalachian accent, sounds like … someone we both knew.”

“Could be any one of a dozen different men. Whut else can yew tell me ’bout him?”

“Not much. Except … maybe, just maybe his real name’s Donald. I overheard …”

“Well, hell. There wuz two Donalds in the unit same time as Sergeant Johnny, one a buck lieutenant, other a captain. The men called the second looey ‘Iceman,’ the other wuz ‘Captain Cold’—the both of ’em bad asses same as yew.”

“I was
not
a bad ass.”

Jack drew the word out:
“
Bulllll
-sheeeet!
Only difference ’tween yew and them two dudes is yew had yerself a sense of humor.”

Uh-uh, Dave thought. No. Not true. I’m not, I wasn’t, I’m not …

“So, son, whut else can yew tell me ’bout yer very own personal Donald-damn-Donald?”

“He carries a lot of ID. One says he’s with the Veteran’s Department. Another says he works for something called The Specialist Consulting Group.”

Dave heard Jack inhale sharply. “Whut yew got to do with that crowd?”

Dave ignored his question. “Who are they, Jack?”

Kreuter’s voice had an edge of disapproval. “Contractors. Per diem boys. Does the kind of work people like me won’t touch with a manure fork.”

“What …”

Kreuter snorted. “Guess I sounds a mite sanctimonious. Like that joke ’bout the lawyer man and the Tijuana donkey lady. Professional standards and all. But,
no, they’s some kind of jobs I just won’t do. Specialist Consultin’, howsomever, don’t seem to have no moral qualms at all. Leastways, none as yew’d notice.”

“Who do they work for?”

“Anybody with the cash. Anybody who wants someone to do their dirty work for them, and is willin’ to pay the price.”

“The government?”

“Not these days, and that’s fer shure. Specialist Consultin’s been long time eighty-sixed from U.S. gov’mint work. Twenty years or more. No one in Washington would touch ’em. Which ain’t to say that meybe somewhere, somehow, they still don’t got theirselves a relationship or two. Not a direct relationship, yew know, not as a prime contractor and not as a subcontractor. Meybe sub-subcontractor or somethin’ like that. They’s an outfit as been around a coon’s age, way back since my daddy came home from his war. Stands to reason they got friends. Now, yew wanna tell me why yew askin’ about those there boys, which ain’t exactly questions whut a prudent kinda citizen would ask?”

“I have my reasons. Tell me about them, Jack. Who are they and what do they do?”

“Aw, hell, I don’t know a one of ’em. Don’t want to neither. An’ as for what they do, well, generally speakin’ outfits like Specialist, they’s just into all sorts of businesses. You know, fundamental intelligence and analysis, a li’l light bribery and subornin’ of foreign officials, subcontractin’ merc operations, dirty work R&D, arms sales, plus yer basic breakin’ and enterin’ and buggin’ an’ burglin’ an’ other miscellaneous dirty tricks.”

“Dirty work R&D?”

“Yeah, you know, the kinda devil’s work that only yer genuine lowlifes even think ’bout. Yer Sad-damnable Husseins and yer Colonel Ka-Daffy-Ducks.”

“You mean …”

“Son, I don’t ’specially cotton to the drift of this here conversation.”

Dave took a deep breath.
“Jack
, I have to know.
Have to!”