Thai Horse (12 page)

‘Don’t play dumb,’ Sloan said. What the hell’s he doing in Thailand? I mean if he’s
al
ive, why hasn’t he surfaced?’

Hatcher could think of a lot of r
ea
son
s
, none of them good.

‘Maybe he’s got amnesia,’ he finall
y
offered.

‘Yeah, maybe I’m Doris Day, too, Sloan answered. ‘It’s a possibility. He could have a
m
nesia.’

There was also the possibility
that
Cody had been a collaborator, or a defector, or a des
e
rter, or that he was involved in drugs, murder, white 1avery or any of a dozen other crimes Hatcher could think of.

Sloan obviously had the same thin
g
s in mind. He said, ‘I can’t think of a good way for thi
s
to turn out, if it’s true. There’s desertion, to start with. If he wasn’t killed, he still belongs to the U.S. Navy, heart and soul.’

‘Question is, why did he go underground in the first place?’ Hatcher said. ‘What I mean is, if he wasn’t killed and he wasn’t in Hanoi, where the hell was he?’

‘Well, wherever it was, the Navy was convinced he was KIA.’

‘Maybe that was his out.’

‘Or his trap.’

Hatcher nodded slowly. ‘Or his trap. So what’s this got to do with me?’

‘Nobody knows Thailand like you do, Hatch. You know the good guys
and
t
he bad guys, and you’ve worked both sides of the stream. I can’t let military intelligence handle this, everybody in the Pentagon’ll know about it in an hour. It has to be unofficial. If Cody’s alive and mixed up in something
—
improper, there’s the old man’s reputation
to consider.’

‘Improper,’ Hatcher growled -with a chuckle. ‘Very delicate, Harry.’

‘You get the point,’ Sloan continued. ‘We need somebody who knows the territory and can keep his mouth shut. And nobody I know is better at keeping quiet than you, old buddy. Besides, you were a damn good investigator in your day, if I do say so myself.’

‘My day’s not over, and don’t call me your old buddy. And who the hell’s we?’

‘Half a dozen of Buffalo Bill’s old staff. Look, this Thai, his name is Wol Pot, brought the trade-out to the embassy in Bangkok. Luckily, the
IO
there is one of Cody’s old exec officers, Lew Porter.’

‘Windy Porter?’

‘Yeah, you remember him?’

‘Vaguely.’

‘He interviewed Pot. Right away he sizes up the situation, puts Pot on hold and calls me. I round up a couple of the old-timers from S-town, we kick it around. Finally we had to take it
to the Old Man.’

‘Why?’ Hatcher rasped.

Sloan stared hard into his eyes. ‘Because Buffalo Bill’s dying of cancer, Hatch. He won’t last the year.’

That stopped Hatcher cold. He had a hard time picturing General Buffalo Bill Cody with s
o
me insidious worm eating up his insides.

‘We all love the Old Man, okay?’ Sloan said, and his voice turned husky. He stopped for moment and swallowed hard before he went on. ‘He asked us the favor. If his kid’s alive, he’d like to see him once before he dies.’

‘What if he’s in trouble?’

‘That’s why I need you, Hatch,’ Sloan said, his voice still shaky. ‘If he’s in deep shit, P
o
rter can’t handle it. He’s a burned-out old trooper. Point is, the general will meet Cody somewhere
—
anywhere
—
Hawaii, Tokyo, Sydney. Wherever Murphy wants
t
meet him. Nobody needs to know it ever happened.’

‘A trip like that would probably kill the Old Man,’ Hatcher said.

‘His quality time’s running out anyway,’ Sloan said with resignation. ‘The thing is, it has to
b
e handled with satin and lace by somebody who knows the score, who can roll with it, no matter how it might go, c
o
nvince the kid we’re not out to dump on him, we just want to give the Old Man one last gift.’

‘He’s hardly a kid,’ Hatcher said. ‘He’d be
—
forty-two now,’ he said, adding a year to his own age.

‘Go to Thailand and find him, if he’s there,’ said Sloan matter-of-factly. ‘Or put the old man’s mind to rest.’

‘Prove he’s dead,’ Hatcher rasped.

‘Yeah, One way or another.’

Hatcher laughed hard at that.

‘Navy’s been chasing down leads
o
n Cody for fourteen years,’ he said, ‘and you want me to go to Bangkok, which has fifty million people, and turn him up, just like that.’

‘Nobody’s been looking for Cody. As far as the Navy’s concerned he’s dead meat. But you, hell, laddie, you’re the best I ever had.’

‘Can the shit, Harry.’

‘You got the edge, Hatch,’ said Sloan. ‘We’ll give you Wol Pot. We’ll give you Windy You know Cody. You know the territory. And you can keep your mouth shut no matter what happens. You proved that in Madrango. All I want you to do is go over there, find Cody and set up the meet. Or tell me he’s dead. Hell, you’ll even have Flitcraft at your disposal.’

‘Flitcraft’s still on the roster, huh?’

‘He’s my number one.’

Hatcher poured himself another glass of wine and fiddled with the file for a few moments.

‘You know I can’t go back there,’ he said finally.

‘C’mon, that was, what? Eight, ten years ago?’

‘Wouldn’t matter if it was fifty..’

‘You get in a bind, I’ll give you all the backup you need. I’ve still got a few heavy hitters over there.’

‘What’s the deal with this
T
hai, what’s his name again?’

‘Wol Pot. Look, I don’t care
w
hat you do to the little slope. If he gives you any shit, break his legs, hang him on the rack, pull out his fingernails. I don’t care.’

‘Same old Harry.’

‘It’s his story, make him prove it.’

‘That’s not what I mean. Does he get his visa?’

‘If he delivers, I suppose I can arrange something.’

‘It’s got to be straighter than that. If he turns him up, I’ve got to know what kind of deal I can give him.’

‘If he turns him up, we’ll provide protection and get him out of Thailand.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Why do you care?’

‘If I make a promise I want it kept.’

‘Done. You’ll do the job, then?’

Hatcher stared at him for several seconds. He put the
.357
on a table.

‘The price will be $236,600.’

‘What!’

‘That’s two hundred dollars a day for every day I was in that rat hole.’

‘Get real, man.’

‘That’s as real as it gets, Harry.’

‘Where am I going to get that kind
o
f money?’

‘Hey, this is Hatch, remember? You got private-sector accounts all over the world. Pana
m
a, Switzerland, the Bahamas. So maybe you’ll have to scrimp somewhere else. Tough shit.’

‘You’re a rich man, Hatch.’

‘Punitive damages. The price is $236,600, non- negotiable. Take it or leave it.’

Sloan’s grin broadened as big as it could get. His eyes began to twinkle again. ‘It’s more th
a
n that, isn’t it? I can see it in your eyes, pal. You miss th
e
edge. You miss the old adrenaline pumping. Life’s to
o
easy. Hell, when you’re hooked, you’re hooked forever.’

Part of what Sloan said was true. But it wasn’t that razzle-dazzle feeling one gets running the edge that was sucking Hatcher back to the old life, back to places he’d sworn never to go back to, to people he never thought he’d see again, to work again for Sloan, a man he once thought he was going to kill. It was Cody, man who had once been more of a friend than Sloan hid ever been because Cody had always been honest with him.

‘I’ll take the jaunt because of
Murph
Cody and the old man, period. It has nothing to do with you and me. If Cody’s there, I’ll find him. If he’s not, I’ll let you know. And if you ever come back here again, I’ll feed y
o
u to the fish.’

Sloan leaned over closer to him, t
h
e old teeth sparkling, the gray eyes twinkling.

‘You know, I think you’re serious, he said.

Hatcher smiled back without mirth.

‘Keep thinking it,’ he said. ‘Your life may depend on it.’

PREPARATIONS

It was dusk when Ginia,
responding
to Hatcher’s call, returned to the boat carrying a wicker picnic basket. She opened it and took out the contents while Hatcher took the boat out through the sound and into the open sea, sticking close to the shore.

‘Fettuccine with fresh vegetables from Birdie’s, homemade clam chowder, cold shrimp and hush puppies from the Crab Trap,’ she said. ‘How soon do you want to eat?’

‘Now. I’m starving.’

‘What happened to your army buddy?’

He leaned over and kissed her on the throat. ‘Gone,’ Hatcher growled and the subject was dropped. She knew better than to ask ‘Gone where?’ If he wanted her to know he would tell her. Obviously he didn’t. She was delighted that the stranger had left and Hatcher was hers for the evening.

She went below, selected a bottle of vintage red wine from the liquor cabinet and opened it to let it breathe. She heated the food in the oven and set the table. Then she turned on the radio, keeping the volume low.

‘Hey,’ she yelled up to him, ‘you want to put this thing on automatic pilot and come eat?’

‘Done,’ came the hoarse answer. She heard the engines die out and the anchor splash in the water, and a moment later he appeared in the salon.

‘I decided to anchor for a while. We’re right off Sapelo Island,’ he said, dipping his fingers into the fettuccine and tasting
it.

‘Mind your manners,’ she snapped.

‘Delicious,’ he said and poured each of them a glass of the red. They clinked their glasses in a silent toast. He leaned over and kissed her very lightly, tasting the dry, musky wine on her lips.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered. Then, making small talk, she asked, ‘How long have you known Jimmy Cirillo?’

‘A long time.’

‘Where did you meet him?’

‘In an alley in Boston.’

‘An alley?’

‘Yeah. I was breaking into a store and he was a cop.’

‘Are you kidding me?’

‘Nope.’ Hatcher leaned back and realized he was about to give away some family secrets. He felt comfortable doing it.

‘My old man was an architect, and not a very good one. Blew his brains out in the shower of the Boston Men’s Club one afternoon. I was ten at the time. ‘Three years later my mother ran off with, uh, hell, I don’t even know, never saw the man. Anyway, I hit the bricks. By the time I was fifteen I was one of the best cat burglars in Boston.’

‘Why, Hatch, I had no idea,’ she said in amazement.

‘That’s just the tip of the iceberg,’ Hatcher said with a smile.

‘Well, what did Jimmy do to you when he caught you?’ Ginia probed.

‘He took off his badge and his gun belt, put them carefully on the sidewalk, and beat my ass to a bloody pulp.’

Ginia broke up
—
she put her hands over her mouth and giggled into them.

‘And that’s not all. He got me a job; actually he got me three jobs, and I walked out on all three. So one night he grabs me, shoves me in this alley, off comes the badge and gun belt and he gives it to me again. Then he says, “I’m gonna keep whippin’ your ass until y
o
u hold a job and stop boosting my beat.” And that was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.’

‘He made you what you are today,’ she said with mock pride.

‘Yeah,’ Hatcher said and then added rather solemnly, ‘but the guy on the dock had a hand in
it
too.’

‘What did he catch you doing?’

‘Going for admiral,’

‘Huh?’

‘That’s another story.’

They ate the rest of the dinner in silence. Hatcher was not one to talk and eat, but she sensed something impending. She knew he was going before he said
it.

‘I have to leave for a while.’

‘Uh-huh, and just what does that mean, Hatcher, “a while”? A week, a month, ten years?’ She asked it lightheartedly.

He smiled and reached over and laid the palm of his hand softly on her cheek. ‘Longer than a week, hopefully less than a month,’ he answered.

‘Can I do anything for you?’

‘Call John Rogers at the bank and tell him I had to leave in a hurry. I’ve prepared a power of attorney for you so you can handle my market and bank accounts. If I should need money for any reason, shift funds at the bank into my drawing account.’

‘You trust me that much?’ she asked, surprised.

He smiled at her.
‘
Implicitly,’ he answered.

‘When are you leaving?’

‘In the morning.’

She smiled at him, but she was already beginning to feel the longing that went with his absences. ‘Then let’s not waste time,’ she said. ‘You can sleep on the plane.’

H
e took her hand as she stood up and drew her close to him. He slowly unbuttoned her white button-down shirt, let it fall open, slipped his hands
around
her hips and drew her closer, kissing her hard stomach. Then loosening her belt and zipping down the fly, he slid her jeans
off.
He wrapped his arms tighter around her, his hands slipping under her buttocks, lifting her up slightly so that his thumbs slid under the edge of
h
er panties, and began caressing her lightly with both thumbs, felt her tighten, felt her wetness as he gently probed while he moved his head lower, felt the hair under her panties, began to nibble very lightly while his hot breath caressed her. He spread his fingers up and drew down her panties and buried his face in her hair, smelling her sex, tasting her, felt her hands pressing his head harder into her. She stood on her toes, her head fell back and she sat on the edge of the table and put one leg over his shoulder. Her breath came faster, her muscles tightened, she began to move in tight little circles.

She had this wonderfully erotic habit that drove Hatcher crazy. As she neared her climax she
b
egan to count, low, almost under her breath, gasping between the numbers:

‘One
. . .
two
. . .
three
. . .
f-fo-ur
. .
uh, oh-oh, m’God.
. .
five, six, seven.
. .
uh-huh.
. .
uh-huh.

eight-nine-t-ten
. . .
my God
,
oh!’

Her back arched and she jammed herself against his mouth and held herself taut for ten o r twelve seconds and then, gasping, she relaxed, collapse
d
forward and, wrapping both hands around his head, drew him up to her, searching for his mouth and, finding it, began kissing him ravenously.

He picked her up and carried her back to the king-size bed in the sleeping cabin, laid her g
e
ntly on the bed and stripped while he kissed her. Then h
e
slid into bed beside her, drawing her tightly to him, a
n
d she felt him hard against her. She slipped one leg over
h
is hip and pulled him to her, moving up until he entere
d
her smoothly and without effort.

‘Oh God,’ he whispered as she
surrounded
him, tightening her muscles, sucking him in
deeper
and deeper and deeper.

Still out of breath, she whispered, ‘A month, huh?’ and he whispered back, equally out of breath, ‘Maybe
.

just
. . .
a
couple
of
weeks
. .

She lay on her side, dozing. Hatcher moved easily off the bed, pulled a down quilt over her and began to pack. There had been a time when Hatcher’s G
u
rkha bag was always packed and ready to go
—
two suits, a casual jacket and slacks, half a dozen shirts, a couple of ties, an extra pair of shoes and his underwear and toilet articles. Basics. No frills. And he quickly fell back into th
e
routine of preparing for the trip.

The mental checklist was still in his head: Check out his credentials, review his finances, select the right equipment, and pack everything into two pieces of luggage, his suit bag and an aluminum case, which he always hand-carried,

While Ginia slept he slid back a panel in the bulkhead over the head of the bed, opened a safe built into the wall and took out a small strongbox. He carried it back to the main cabin and checked the contents. He took out a $50,000 letter of credit from his bank, $20,000 in traveler’s checks and $10,000 in cash. He never used credit cards, too easy to trace. He also took out two passports, one his valid U.S. passport, the other a forged French passport. Both identified him as a free-lance television journalist and cameraman. Then he returned the box to its hiding place.

On the way back to the main salon, he got a medium- size aluminum Halliburton case from the closet and carried it forward. Then he got down on his hands and knees and crawled through a hatch under the stairs leading to the cockpit and into a tight compartment below the afterdeck. A waterproof chest was built into the hull. When Hatcher opened it, a light turned on automatically. Inside was a small arsenal: two .357 pistols, an H&K 9 mm. pistol, an M-16, a 9 mm. Uzi submachine gun. There were several loaded magazines for each weapon. There were also four ten-foot reels of extension cord, which was actually C-4 plastique. One weapon was wrapped in a green Hefty bag. Hatcher took the bag, two reels of C-4, closed and locked the compartment, and went back to the main cabin.

He spread a blanket on the dining room table, took the weapon out of the Hefty bag and laid it on the blanket. It was an Aug, an Austrian automatic assault rifle that broke down into three simple components: the barrel, which was sixteen inches long; the tubular sight, which was capable of instant target acquisition; and the stock and trigger mechanism, which were high-impact plastic and rustproof. The weapon was totally waterproof. All other weapons, with which Hatcher was familiar
—
the M-16, Uzi and Mac 10
—
were vulnerable to moisture in the barrel and would explode if water got in them. But not the Aug. It literally could be fired while co
m
ing out of the water.

His memory began to stir again, a common ailment since Los Boxes. He called it an ailment because he had learned early from Sloan that memory had value for one thing only
—
reference. But now, staring down at the Aug, he remembered the first time he ever used the g
u
n.

Sloan had sent a slick upriver to the Boston drop, a hook in the Chu River near a small village. The chopper picked up Hatcher and flew him back to a forward base in the Mekong Delta. Sloan was waiting for him in a hooch he had commandeered for the night.

‘I’ve got a problem,’ Sloan said over a glass of gin. ‘We have a Southern papa-san working for us, name of Di Tran. He’s a good slope. Charlie killed his wife, mother, two small kids. So he’s got plenty to get even far. He’s been working behind the lines for us, six, seven
m
onths. Very reliable information.’

He paused for a moment, flattening his hands on the desk. ‘He knew the odds, it wasn’t like he didn’t know the odds,’ Sloan said, his fingers splayed out. He stared at them for several seconds before he went n. ‘He contacted the Swing Man about a week ago and
asked
for a drop. We met him and he passed us this tape.’

He put the tape in the cassette deck and pushed the play button. The man’s voice was high
a
nd tinny, laced with fear: ‘I have just this yesterday
receive
information that an American is sell information to the A.RV. He has given up the names of three Vietnamese agents working in the North for Shadow Brigade. One of the names is mine. I am feared it will take them very shortly to break through my real name. I must warn my two friends of their danger before I run. Please arrange meeting for us at t
h
e Boston drop in two days. Wednesday. Sunset. If two hours passed, you may think we have been taken. This American was paid ten thousand dollars for each name. He promise to sell them more. His name is Norgling.
Joi gin,
m
y
friends.’

Hatcher looked up sharply wher
e
he heard the name Norgling. ‘Do you know who this Norgling is?’

Sloan nodded. ‘He’s talking
a
bout Chick Norgling!’ Sloan said. ‘He’s in the brigade, like you. Working with crossovers.’

‘So he’d have access to that information?’

‘Also codes, maps, general info bulletins
—
and the basic information on the brigade itself,’ said Sloan. ‘Now you know why we maintain
individual
integrity in this outfit. Norgling’s just like the rest of you, he only knows his direct contacts.’

‘Which means you,’ Hatcher said.

Sloan nodded slowly.

‘Get him off the street before he sells them anything else,’ Hatcher said.

‘I can’t bust him on the basis of that,’ said Sloan, nodding toward the cassette deck. ‘It’s his word against the voice on the tape. Without corroboration the provost marshal’ll laugh at me.’

‘How about this Di Tran?’

‘We sent a slick in for him b
u
t he didn’t show at the drop. We have to assume he’s dead.’

‘Then this Norgling’s gonna blow your whole show.’

Sloan stared back at his hands for a few more seconds, then nodded to himself and looked up at Hatcher.

‘We’ll set him up. I’ll arrange for him to meet you someplace. Tell him it’s an operation requiring two men. When he shows up, drop him. Upriver maybe.’

‘No. Too many ears on the river. We’ll do it in Saigon. The Princess Hotel. I’ll dust him, you dump him.’

‘Fair enough.’

Seven
P.M.
Fourth floor of the Princess. If Norgling was paranoid, if he suspected anything, he’d show up early to throw Hatcher off-balance. Hatcher knew the game well.

Norgling arrived at a quarter t
o
seven to find Hatcher’s door open just a crack. He loosened his coat, reached under his arm and felt his pistol grip, then stepped cautiously inside.

The bedroom was empty. He heard music coming from the bathroom.

‘Hello?’ he called out.

‘In here,’ he heard Hatcher’s voice answer. ‘Close the door, will you?’

Norgling closed the door and app
r
oached the bathroom slowly. Hatcher was in the tub, his had resting against the back of it, taking a bubble bath. There was a bottle of red wine on the floor beside the tub a
n
d a half-empty glass. There was another glass on the sink.

Hatcher looked up and smiled. ‘N
o
rg1ing?’

‘Right.’

‘Jesse Caruthers,’ Hatcher said. ‘Pardon me for not standing. Grab a glass and pull up a chair.’

He could see Norgling’s face rela
x
. The muscles around his mouth loosened, his smile came .easily, his whole body was at ease.

A real amateur, thought Hatcher.

As Norgling was pouring a glass
of
wine, Hatcher said, ‘What the hell kind of man sells cut three buddies for thirty thousand dollars?’

Norgling reacted immediately.
H
e dropped the bottle and glass and reached for his gun
.
As he did, Hatcher swung his right arm out of the tub. The Aug was in his hand, firing as it came out of the wa
t
er, soap suds twirling off the barrel as bullets stitched a line from Norgling’s belly to his chest and then made a tight little spiral. Nine shots in less than a second
—
nine hits, four in the heart. Norgling’s body slapped against the tile wall and the air wheezed out of his lungs. His
knees
collapsed. He fell straight down, landing in a squat
and
the shattered wine bottle, and toppled to his side.