Mortal Allies (57 page)

The kid had probably never met Choi. He probably never even knew he was working for the North Koreans. Most likely he was recruited by someone in the campus movement, was told what to do, was provided with the hand grenade, and his hatred drove him on from there. On the outside chance he survived to be interrogated, the world still would’ve been convinced the Secretary of State was murdered by an angry South Korean. And it would’ve been true.

And Lord knows what would have happened to the already egregiously wounded alliance after that.

As for Choi, he never made his getaway. He choked to death right where Allie chopped him. You think about life and its many coincidences. Allie’s being at the Blue House, and her having the presence of mind to rush to the point of confrontation, knock the gun away, and kill Choi, was simply amazing. It was what you might call an act of God, to let Allie be his hand of retribution. They found Choi there when they were cleaning up the bodies, his eyes bulging out of their sockets, blood still dribbling out of his throat onto the cement. I had no regrets about that.

What I had regrets about was the South Korean cop who saw me pick up a pistol and shoot someone. That was that first popping sound I told you about. That was the bullet that entered my back next to my lower spine and pinned me to the concrete like a grounded fish.

That was the one that turned out the lights inside my head.

S
ee if you can guess the first face I saw when I came to?

It was déjà vu all over again, as they say. Doc Bridges and I were right back where we were the last time I saw him. I was flat on my back in a hospital bed, inside the same room even, and he was standing beside the bed taking my pulse and making some notes on a clipboard. I’ll bet it was even the same clipboard.

I said something like, “Oh Christ,” and he chuckled.

Then he said, “Hey, you’re a hero again.”

He held a newspaper in front of my face. It was the
Herald Tribune
. The boldface title line was “The Unlucky Hero.”

Some cynical reporter had gotten a real gas out of the fact that the guy who saved the life of the Secretary of State, and maybe the whole alliance, was shot by a Korean cop for his troubles.

Where was the outrage?, I asked myself.

Doc Bridges took the newspaper away, then held a finger in front of my eyes and we did the “follow this with your pupils” routine again.

In a very clinical tone, he said, “The bullet passed within millimeters of your spine. You’re lucky.”

“How lucky?”

He was reading something off a chart. “It missed your spine, didn’t it?”

“I guess.”

“I could see you’ve been shot before, so you know the drill. You’ll be in a wheelchair for a while, then you’ll use a cane. But after some physical therapy, you’ll be almost normal.”

I suppose I should’ve been relieved, but if you’ve ever spent any time in physical therapy, you know that’s not something you eagerly anticipate. And Army hospitals are to physical therapy what Nazi death camps were to racial harmony in Europe.

I groaned. “
Almost
normal? What’s that mean?”

He chuckled to himself. “You weren’t exactly normal in the first place. I’m not a miracle worker. Don’t expect me to turn out improved products.”

This is another of those old jokes doctors find funny. No wonder the hospital staff kept this guy hidden at the rear of the hospital, as far from humanity as they could get him.

He put the clipboard on its hook and said, “There’s another lady who’s been waiting outside for you. In fact, she’s the one who made me come in here and wake you up. I tried telling her you need your rest, and she said she knew what you needed better than I do.”

“What’s she look like?” I asked.

He shrugged.

“What’s that mean?” I asked.

“She’s been giving me hell since you got here. She told me if I lost you, she’d break my neck. She meant it, too. Very frightening.”

He spun around and walked out. A moment later the door slammed back open and in stomped the living typhoon herself: the one and only Imelda Pepperfield.

She looked at me, then huffed and puffed a couple of times.

I said, “You know you’re not supposed to be here?”

“ ’Course I know that.”

I tried to frown, but I smiled.

“It hurt?” she asked.

“Not a bit,” I candidly admitted. “I think I’ve got enough drugs pumping through my veins, you could reach over and rip off one of my arms and I wouldn’t feel a thing.”

She nodded a few times, then she said, “You done damned good, Major.”

Now, if you know anything about Imelda Pepperfield, you know praise coming from her lips is like water pouring from a rock. In other words, it don’t happen often. And when it does, don’t act shy or aw-shucksy. Relish the moment.

I was beaming like a little idiot, and she actually reached over and patted me on the head. I was like a cat getting its back stroked by a proud master.

She scooched her butt onto the side of my bed. “You been recused,” she said, confirming what I already knew.

“There were some conflicts,” I replied, obviously unable to explain what had really happened, even to Imelda. She, unlike me, was still a member of Katherine’s staff, so I couldn’t risk compromising her.

“Trial starts tomorrow,” she told me.

“You mean today’s Monday already?”

“Uh-huh. You were so drugged up, you slept through Saturday and Sunday.”

I stared at the far wall, and whatever satisfaction I felt about being a hero and all that suddenly evaporated.

She said, “I went and visited with Cap’n Whitehall.”

“Really?”

“Seems somebody got him addicted to hamburgers and beer, so he was havin’ withdrawal.”

Katherine had told her about that, I figured. I could just imagine Imelda with Whitehall’s goonish keeper. She probably didn’t even have to bribe him with a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue. She probably told him that as long as he let her through with her contraband, she’d promise not to rip his ears off.

Anyway, I said, “So what’d you think?”

She sucked in her lips and seemed to chew on them a moment. “That boy’s got his mind set. He gets convicted, he’s gonna find a way to kill hisself. He had that look in his eye. That’s what I think.”

“Yeah,” I replied, since I’d already reached the same conclusion. One thing I’d learned about Whitehall was he was one of those 444 people who, if they told you they were going to do something, they’d do it. I doubted he’d even wait for an appeals process.

I said, “So what do you think his chances are?”

“I wouldn’t wanna be in his shoes. That Eddie Golden, he’s ruthless.”

“You know Fast Eddie?” I asked, surprised.

“Hadda work for him once or twice.”

“You did? You’ve never mentioned it.”

The Army has a small pool of senior legal specialists, and they rotate around depending on trial needs. It shouldn’t come as any surprise that Imelda ended up on Eddie’s team once or twice. No wonder she’d withdrawn into the corner when we questioned Jackson and Moran about whether they were beaten.

Her face got this distasteful look, which on Imelda, frankly, looked like somebody had poured acid down her throat.

“Wasn’t anything I was proud of. He don’t have scruples. Truth don’t mean nothin’ to him, just winnin’.”

“Well, he’s up against Katherine, and they don’t get any better than her. Trust me. She’s going to give Eddie a run for his money.”

Imelda didn’t respond to that.

So I said, “Did you get my substitute yet?”

“Cap’n Kip Goins. Got here yesterday mornin’. The judge arranged it.”

“Kip’s a good man. He’s also done two murder trials, so he’ll know what he’s doing.”

She didn’t respond to that, either.

I thought I knew what might be going on. Imelda and I had been together a long time. After years of trying cases together, we’d developed a special bond. But there’s more. Imelda was like a talisman to me. She was that rabbit’s foot a paratrooper kisses just before he goes out the door.

I might be kidding myself here, but maybe Imelda was thinking of me the same way.

“Look, you’ll get ’em through this. Don’t let Golden pull any fast ones on Katherine. Keep her on her toes.”

Imelda nodded, but I didn’t get the impression she felt good about this.

Then Bridges stuck his head in and said I needed to get my beauty rest. Imelda jumped off the bed and made her way slowly and reluctantly toward the door. As soon as she was gone, I pushed the buzzer beside my bed, and a nurse who looked like she could bench five hundred pounds came rushing in.

I said, “I need a phone.”

She started to argue, but I gave her a look that would sizzle steaks and reminded her I was a major in the United States Army. I told her I better see the back of her muscle-bound ass going out the door for a phone.

The second she got it hooked up, I dialed Buzz Mercer’s number. For once he actually sounded happy to hear it was me. He’d better sound happy — damned happy. I’d saved his bacon.

I said, “I need you to come over here right away.”

Well, what could he say to that? Gee, Drummond, old buddy, I know you nearly gave your life and saved the alliance and all, and you saved my career, but I’ve got some paperwork I’m behind on.

If he said anything but yes, I’d find some way to get out of that bed and go kill him.

Twenty minutes later there was a light knock, then his little butch-cutted head peeked inside.

I said, “Come in, please.”

He wasn’t alone. Carol was with him. They found two chairs over in the corner and pulled them up against my bed. Then Buzz reached over and shook my hand. Gently, of course, because there were several IVs sticking in my arm.

I said, “I’ll bet your bosses back in Washington are tickled pink with you two.”

Buzz grinned from ear to ear. “Let’s just say I’m pretty sure I’ll make it to retirement. And Carol here has been submitted for the Gold Medal.”

That Gold Medal thing is the secret award they give to spooks when they do real good. Nobody in the public knows about it, which if you think about it, doesn’t make it much of an award. But hey, spooks are a little different from the rest of us.

Also, although Buzz didn’t mention it, it was a reasonable assumption that if his subordinate was getting a Gold Medal, well then, he probably was, too. He was too much the fifties kind of guy to mention it.

With gushing insincerity, I said, “Congratulations to you both. You deserve whatever honors a proud nation can bestow upon you.”

Which was my backhanded way of reminding them they owed me the world. They get the Gold Medal and I get a bullet in the back.

Carol, the poor girl, was taking my phony praise seriously. She was blushing and looking down at the ground with embarrassment. Not Buzz. Like I’ve already mentioned, he doesn’t miss much.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, cutting through the bull.

Well, I always like a man who comes straight to the point. “I’ve got a former client rotting in a Korean prison. He’s innocent, only there’s no way on earth his lawyers are able to prove that.”

Buzz ran a hand across those little bristles of hair on his head. “Drummond, I already told you, I can’t let any of this out.”

“Why not? It’s over, isn’t it?”

“Over? We picked up four more traitors this morning.”

“Four more?” I asked.

“That’s right. And of the first eight, we’ve confirmed that six were working for the North Koreans. Christ, we can’t let this out of the bag. Not now. It would be a disaster.”

“Why? It’ll have to get out eventually. It always does, Buzz. Why not get it out in time to help an innocent man?”

He was stubbornly shaking his head. “First we’ve got to do a damage assessment. That’ll take weeks, maybe months. This was serious shit here, Drummond. These guys may have given away the whole store. The command needs time to make changes to its war plan, write a new aircraft targeting plan, shift some units around, improve port and airfield security. You don’t tell the bad guys you know how much they know until you’ve made the right preparations. That’s counterespionage 101.”

I tried to rise up and lean toward him, but I suddenly discovered my overdrugged body was ignoring my central nervous system. Huffing and puffing with frustration, I said, “Look, damn it, can’t we come to a reasonable accommodation here?”

“I’m willing to listen.”

“What if we can handle this in a closed, classified hearing?”

“Can you do that?”

“It’s up to the judge. Of course I’ll have to tell him what it’s about.”

He stroked his chin. “Can he be trusted?”

“Of course.”

“Would it make a difference?”

“I hope so. He can make rulings based on what we present. Of course, the prosecutor has to be present as well. It’s unorthodox, I guess, but judges pull lawyers into chambers all the time to make off-line rulings on critical issues. And they’re always privy to evidence the jury never sees.”

I wasn’t sure how Mercer was going to come down. He wasn’t committing. He wasn’t saying no. He was pondering.

I said, “So I’ll bet you two end up going to the White House and getting a pat on the back from the man himself. Doesn’t the CIA give monetary awards, too? I’ll bet you get enough that you don’t have to worry about making your rent payments for a few years. You probably have a house in McLean, right, Buzz? I mean, all you Agency guys like to build nests next to the big building, right? I’ll bet it’s killing you having to handle that mortgage while you’re over—”

“God damn it, Drummond, all right. Enough already. We’ll try it.”

“One other thing?”

“What’s that?”

“We’re going to want to hear what Bales’s wife told you when she broke. A videotaped testimony would be fine. Just make sure you’ve got a chain of evidence on it.”

He looked at me from under his eyebrows. “Who said she broke?”

“Buzz, no offense to your professional competence, but how else did you find out there were four more traitors?”

He rolled his eyes. For a minute I could swear he actually liked me. But probably I was only kidding myself. Spooks don’t have feelings.