Atlanta Extreme (10 page)

Rehfuss's temporary office had a green steel desk and a vinyl chair and couch, also green. There was a photograph of the president and an American flag behind the desk.

“Very nice,” said Hawker, not smiling. “Almost a little too plush for good taste.”

Rehfuss laughed—laughed too hard—and recovered quickly when he realized that he was forcing it. “Same old James. Same wicked sarcasm. Hey! You look pretty good. Senator Thy Estes told me you'd had a rough trip back. Said it had taken you about a week. You've lost some weight, but other than that … Hey, how'd you get that scar on your face? God, that must have taken twenty stitches—”

“Twenty-five stitches. I had a little canoeing accident.”

“Canoeing accident? Jesus, you're lucky you didn't bleed to death.”

“Some Indians found us, fixed us up. They put a splint on my friend's arm and some kind of poultice on this.” Hawker pointed to the white welt of flesh on the left side of his face.

“But they didn't stitch you up—”

“There was a pretty good American doctor in Masagua City. Runs a tiny little infirmary on the back side of the town. He did it. Said there would hardly even be a trace of a scar.”

Rehfuss was suddenly interested. “An American doctor in Masagua? We are damn short of operatives in that country. Of course, we're not supposed to be there at all, but we maintain a few connections. That doctor could be a real windfall. Why in the hell do you think he's there? Running from some kind of criminal charge, maybe? Or he could be a junkie—a lot of doctors get hooked on their own wares. He'd be a lot closer to the source down there.”

Hawker simply shook his head. “I wouldn't know.”

Rehfuss, uneasy, rubbed his hands together and assumed the friendly grin. “Well, what the hell. I'll have one of our people check into it. Geez, it's damn good to see you, James. You really do look fine, considering the shit you've just been through.”

Again Hawker did not respond. He knew he did not look fine, because he had indeed gone through some shit. Sergeant Miles's three-day escape had taken eight days. The canoe or boat he'd planned to steal turned out to be a tiny hand-hewn dugout. The “few rapids” of the Rio Espiritu turned out to be a series of roaring torrents with crosscurrent swells the size of houses, all crammed between sheer rock walls. By the time they heard the falls—and they did hear it; even above the wild roar of the river, the falls sounded like a sustained train crash—it was too late to do anything about it. They couldn't have gotten to shore if they had wanted to, and if they had, there was no way to get up the cliffs. So they had gone over the falls. Miraculously Hawker wasn't knocked unconscious. He managed to grab Miles by the collar of the shirt and steer the two of them to a little beach at the mouth of a stream that fed into the killer river. There the irony of Miles's bad planning took a brighter turn. The fierce headhunter Indians he had described were not fierce at all. They were a mild, shy people whose males did indeed belt their penises to their stomachs. But they seemed less interested in the heads of the two strange white men than they were in healing their wounds. After a day of rest Hawker selected a larger dugout—for which he traded his fighting knife—and they paddled the rest of the way to Masagua City without incident.

But the eight days had been tough ones. Both men had gotten gastroenteritis from drinking river water, and it was impossible to eat or drink anything without immediately having to squat in the bushes. The gash on Hawker's face got infected—but not until they had spent two nights in a cockroach-infested hotel in Masagua City. Both mornings he awoke, he noticed that the dressing the doctor had sent to put on his face was disappearing. He finally realized that the cockroaches were eating it off during the night.

So the vigilante knew that he did not look fine. When he stared at himself in the mirror, he saw a sun-darkened, gaunt imitation of his old self. The most disturbing thing, though, was the hollow, bleary look in his pale gray eyes. They had a troubled, haunted look, so much so that looking in the mirror was like looking into the face of some stranger who had seen the depths of hell.

Hawker had seen those bleak depths, and he continued to see them in his troubled sleep: screaming children being hacked to death as they tried to run to their mothers.

In the vigilante's mind it was his plan that had killed the children. He was the one who insisted that they stay and play while the women and old men escaped. It had been his own attempt at cleverness that had brought them face-to-face with horror, face-to-face with what the old Indian man had described as the White Evil One.

There were better plans—a hundred better plans he could have used that would have saved the entire village. Hawker had thought of them all in detail during that long, brutal trip to Masagua City.

But he had thought of them too late. Now he had to live with his own guilt, his own inner Evil One.

Hawker tapped his fingers on the steel desk and said, “Let's cut the bullshit, huh, Jerry? Yes, I look fine and it's a nice day and the weather is hot and Washington has more comfortable offices for its top CIA operatives. But I'm not here to discuss that. I'm here to talk about two of Wellington Curtis's hit men, Shawn Pendleton and Greg Warren. They have been extorting money from the people of Georgia to finance Curtis's Masaguan guerrilla forces. They are also suspected in several murders, though nothing can be proved because the people they have been hitting on are understandably scared shitless. And if they can scare the people of Georgia, they can scare anyone in this world. So the state law wants them, but they can't get proof, and they can't get anyone to testify. The federal law wants them, but they can't prove a federal case, and if they could, they'd run into the same problems with witnesses. So they've involved your people because you have a little freer rein on how you move, how you attack. But since Jimmy Carter made it illegal for you to participate in any kind of assassination plot anyplace, anytime, for any reason—there's irony for you—the good people of Georgia are stuck with these ghouls unless you bring in someone from the outside. Isn't that just about the way things stand?”

Rehfuss's face had sobered. “I was just trying to make conversation, James. I wanted you to know that I really am glad to see you.”

“Isn't that just about the way things stand?” Hawker repeated.

“Look, James, if that's the way you want it, strictly business between the two of us, then I—”

Hawker slammed his hand on the desk. “Jerry, I have spent the last year of my life running from your people. They have tried to shoot me, poison me, stab me, and burn me to death in my sleep. That really isn't a very pleasant way to live. Now, if you expect me to come in here all smiles—”

“That wasn't my doing, damn it!”

“You're saying that it wasn't your organization?”

“You broke the rules, James! You didn't play by the book! You're not a kid; you knew the risk you were taking when you went against our orders on the Iranian thing—”

“But now you want me back?”

“That's right, Hawker, we want you back. We want you back for this one job because you are the very best available at what you do. You are fast and strong and smart, and you are a coldblooded son of a bitch when you need to be. And it is those same qualities that have made this organization a viable force in world politics. When we see a threat to this nation's security, we, by God, go after it tooth and claw. And when someone on our payroll jumps out of line, we come down on them with both feet. We make it hurt, because if we didn't, every bimbo and international psycho in the world would soon hear about it, and we'd be just a little weaker. And a little weaker. And it would go on and on and on. We drew the line, Hawker. You're the one who decided to step over it!”

The two ex-friends glowered at each other for a time until Rehfuss finally settled back in his chair. “I'm sorry, James,” he said with a sigh. “I thought it could be different. I don't blame you for holding a grudge, but I swear to God that I did everything in my power to get them to leave you alone.”

“Does that mean you're no longer offering me a shot at Curtis and his men?”

Rehfuss smiled. “No, it doesn't mean that at all. This is business. We're willing to forget our … past troubles if you'll undertake and successfully complete this mission for us.”

“And what do you want me to do?”

The rangy CIA operative did not blink. “You know who the problems are. I want you to eliminate them. And, of course, if you are caught before, during, or after the completion of your mission, the corporation will disavow any knowledge of you or your assignment.”

“I'll need help.”

“Name it.”

“Weapons, for one thing.”

“Tell me exactly what you want, and I'll have them delivered anyplace you say.”

“And any information available on the whereabouts of Warren and Pendleton.”

Rehfuss slid a new leather briefcase across the desk. “You'll find everything you need in there. Money too. Ten grand in tens, twenties, and fifties.”

Hawker pulled the briefcase his way. “And when I'm done in Atlanta, I want to go back to Central America. I want to finish Curtis once and for all.”

“If you take care of Pendleton and Warren, you will have finished Curtis. No money, no army. It's as simple as that.”

“Not for me it isn't. Promise me that if I take care of this Atlanta business, you'll help me in Central America. I'll need help with fake passports, transportation, and safehouses and weaponry in Guatemala, maybe Belize.”

Rehfuss thought for a moment. “Is Curtis really as crazy as they say he is?”

“Crazier. He has worms in his brain, Jer. But he's still as shrewd as hell. I'm going to need every bit of help you can give me.”

“We have strong operations in both Guatemala and Belize. You'll get whatever you need.”

Hawker stood. He hesitated, then held out his hand. “I'm sorry I blew up at you, Jer.”

The big CIA man took his hand. “Hell, it's half my fault. Senator Estes told me yesterday on the phone that you'd changed. She didn't say how, but she told me to act just like you were the same old James Hawker, an old friend. She said you had had a very bad time in the jungle and that it would make you feel better if I pretended not to notice. I should have known better than to try to bullshit you. Christ, I was as jumpy as a cat when you came in here. I felt like someone trying to sell junk cars.” He smiled slyly. “You want the truth, James? You look like warmed-over shit. You're too skinny, and your clothes don't fit. That scar makes you look like a fucking Nazi hangman, and your eyes have a weird, glassy look—how did that football coach put it?—like the lights are on but nobody's home. There, how's that?”

Hawker grinned. “Now that's what I expect from an old friend. Sincerity.” He turned to go, then stopped at the door. “One more thing, Jer. In Belize a guy tried to execute a contract on me—”

“Sure, I remember your call.”

“Big black guy with an island accent. Chip on his shoulder but a pro. Was he one of your people? You said you'd check for sure.”

Rehfuss nodded slowly. “I checked. His name is Lorenzo Chiles. His friends call him Sweet Chiles. He has done some free-lance work for us in the past. Small stuff, stuff that doesn't take much planning or brains.”

“Why is it that I suddenly feel offended that you sent him after me?”

“I didn't send him. Someone from the Counter Intelligence staff, Western Hemisphere Division, hired him. I'm with the OO division, Office of Operations. But I imagine that they sent Chiles after you because he knew Central America and because just about everyone else had failed.”

“Oh. And is the contract still out?”

“I can almost guarantee you that it isn't. And if it is, it soon won't be.”

“Almost guarantee?”

“That's one of the problems with you freelance people. You don't have a clock to punch, so you don't check in with the office as often as you should. If Chiles has checked in, he knows the contract is off.”

“Maybe you could have the folks in Counter Intelligence send him a telegram.”

“A telegram? Hmm … gee, I never thought of that.…”

twelve

Hawker spent the afternoon in his hotel room resting, reading the material Rehfuss had given him. The carefully written reports went into the vigilante's mind in bursts of pure data:

Shawn Pendleton, 31, Caucasian male. Seven arrests: four assaults, one armed robbery, one rape, one DWI. One conviction: DWI, fined, released. 6'4”, 220 pounds, black hair, brown eyes, missing two upper incisor teeth, wears dental plate. Occupation listed variously as mechanic, motocross racer, mercenary. Dishonorable discharge U.S. Marines 6-10-69, cowardice under fire in Vietnam. Member Hell's Angels; Member Atlanta Ghost Riders. Always armed, considered extremely dangerous.

Greg Warren, 33, Caucasian male. Five arrests: four drug-trafficking, one assault, no convictions. 5'11”, 180 pounds, blond hair, blue eyes, tattoo on right arm (American flag with serpent); scar on back right hand. Occupation listed variously as chemist, mercenary,
Playboy
photographer. Dishonorable discharge U.S. Marines 6-10-69, cowardice under fire. Member Atlanta Ghost Riders. Always armed, considered extremely dangerous.

Hawker read each man's dossier carefully, storing away information. And he began to get a pretty clear picture of the two men in his mind: pseudosoldiers who couldn't make it in the real military. Motorcycle tough guys when they had a gang behind them; bullies to whom Wellington Curtis had now given a purpose, a reason to use their strong-arm methods on isolated small-business people of Georgia.

There wasn't much on their victims in the briefcase, but what there was, Hawker noted carefully. Apparently a few of the victims were banding together to try to fight back. The small group was being organized by a man named Andrew Watkins, a former U.S. senator who had returned to Atlanta and private legal practice after three terms in office. It suddenly dawned on Hawker how he had come to get involved with the Wellington Curtis case. Senator Watkins had probably somehow communicated his problem to Thy Estes, and Thy had contacted Hawker's friend, Jake Hayes.