Vertical Run (7 page)

Safe behind the telephone room’s locked door, Dave talked things over with his cynical guardian angel.

Let’s tally up the facts in the case of the likely to be late David Elliot, shall we, pal? Maybe there’s some sort of sense you can make of this mess. Maybe you’ll even find a clue as to how to save your butt
.

Probably not.

True, but it’s not like you’ve got anything better to do with your time. So, first question: Who is Ransome and who are his pals?

Dave answered silently: All I really know is who he was and where he came from. Special Operations. Covert warfare. Just like me—in Army uniform, but not entirely under Army command. Not merely raw muscle either. They never recruited muscle just for muscle’s sake.

And what else?

A survivor. No kamikaze pilots need apply. We don’t do heroes and we don’t do Custer’s last stand. That’s what Mamba Jack kept telling us.

Brains, brawn, and an instinct to survive. Your basic sine qua non for the biz. So now what do you know?

Not much. After the war ended most of us in that line of business simply came back home, hung up our spurs, and tried to get on with our lives. Those who didn’t—well, some of them stayed in, or so I heard. Not necessarily in the Army, but still on active duty.

So maybe Ransome is a Fed?

No way. Why would someone from the government want to kill me? I don’t have anything to do with politics. I don’t sign petitions. I don’t join causes. Hell, I don’t even vote.

Still, the Feds have been known to …

Nuts! I doubt if I have so much as spoken to a government employee in twenty-five years.

What about year twenty-six?

Not possible. If they had wanted to shut me up, they would have shut me up then. Not now. It would be crazy to wait all this time. Besides, those days are ancient history. Nobody cares anymore.

Maybe. Maybe not. And if Ransome isn’t one of Los
Federales,
then what is he?

Who knows? A mere maybe. After the war some people took their skills elsewhere. Became mercenaries—trusted advisors to the local dictator in Singapore, Iraq,
Ecuador, or wherever. One year I’d see them mentioned in some story about Chile or South Africa, and the next year I’d hear they were in Ethiopia or Guatemala. Colonel Kreuter, good old Mamba Jack himself, started his own company. War Dog, Inc., he called it.

You think Ransome comes from Kreuter? That after all these years Mamba Jack is settling his bill?

No. If Jack ever decides to pay off old debts, he’ll do it personally. Not that that’s any consolation.

So?

So, I’m still in the dark.

What about the mob?

Not possible. Businessmen don’t do deals with gangsters except in the movies. Least of all does Bernie Levy deal with them. He wouldn’t touch anything the mob was involved in. He’s the most ethical businessman I’ve ever met—the original Straight Arrow.

Straight Arrow just tried to shorten your life span with a Browning
.

I’m aware of that.

What about Harry? He defended that guy, Joey whatshisname, the Mafia kingpin from New Jersey
.

Harry Halliwell might defend a gangster, but he’d never go into business with one.

Not the Feds, not the mob. Maybe it’s Con Ed, mad because you forgot to pay the light bill
.

Oh, give me a break! I don’t have enough information to even guess what’s going on.

You have
some
information. Like for instance, Ransome saying that he read your 201 file
.

My military personnel jacket. That crack he made about my service being honorable until the end means he knows what’s in it. But no one is supposed to know that. They sealed the records. They’re stamped “Top Secret,” and buried in the vaults of the Army Judge Advocate General. Nobody could read my 201 file unless he carried a high-level security clearance. Or knew someone with a clearance.

Another puzzle: It was Bernie rather than Ransome who came to pull the trigger. What do you make of that?

Ransome is a pro. My guess is that he’s been in the business—whatever his business is—all his life. He’s good at it, and killing people doesn’t bother him one little bit. So, why did he send Bernie to do it? If the contract was on me, and Ransome was there, why did he let a civilian like Bernie Levy try to do the job?

Think about the mise-en-scene, pal
.

Right. Right you are. I’d almost missed that. They tried to do it in the office. Why there? Why didn’t they just take me out from a moving car while I was jogging, or put one behind my ear while I was walking home at night? There’s only one answer to that. The answer is that early in the morning on the forty-fifth floor of a Park Avenue high-rise, there aren’t very many people around. Nobody to watch. Nobody to ask questions. It would have been very quiet, and no one ever would have known. Remember Ransome said, “This is supposed to be a private party. Let’s keep it that way.”

And, therefore …

Colonel John James Kreuter is slouched behind a field table in a candlelit hooch. No one calls him Colonel Kreuter. They call him Mamba Jack. The nickname pays tribute to the Black Mamba, a snake whose venom is a neurotoxin, the most swiftly acting and lethal poison in the world—one bite and ten seconds later, you’re history.

Mamba Jack is proud of his nickname.

A three-quarters-full bottle of Jack Daniel’s Black Label sits before the colonel. The stub of an unfiltered Lucky Strike dangles from his lips. He takes one last, deep drag, and flicks the butt to the dirt floor. He smiles at Dave. His teeth are phenomenally white, and he has the longest set of canines that Dave has ever seen.

“Well now, here’s our young Lew-tenant Elliot lookin’ all bright-eyed an’ bushy-tailed.” Mamba Jack speaks with a long East Texas drawl, the accent of a redneck born and bred. Unless you had been told, as Dave has been by the company clerk, that Colonel Kreuter had graduated
third in his class at West Point, you would think him to be an ignorant hick.

“I think the time done come for yew to loose yer virginity, Lew-tenant.”

“Sir?”

Kreuter leers. It makes him look like Disney’s Big Bad Wolf, and he knows it. “I got a li’l job for yew. Seems like Charlie’s got hisself this ol’ Roosian KGB major up there north of the Dee Em Zee. Now this here Roosian he’s become a bit of a botheration. Seems like he’s a-passin’ out guns an’ he’s a-passin’ out supplies an’ he’s a-passin’ out advice. Now, I don’t much mind the guns, an’ I don’t much mind the supplies, but that advice—why, son, that just irks the living hell out of me. Become a real burr beneath my saddle, as it were. So what I want yew to do, Lew-tenant, is yew take some men up ’cross the Dee Em Zee an’ communicate to this aforementioned Roosky Mamba Jack Kreuter’s sincerest displeasure with the sit-e-achyun.”

“Sir. You want me to bring him back?”

“Naw. What for? Hellfire, what would I want with a smelly ol’ Roosian? Can’t speak to him. Don’t know the language. ’Sides which, nobody don’t need no live, palpitatin’ Rooskies lyin’ around. Got enough po-lick-tickle trouble as it is.”

“Termination, sir?”

“Yessir, Lew-tenant Elliot, that is the accepted terminology. But y’ain’t a-gonna do it messy. No bodies, an’ no evidence. What we want, Lew-tenant Elliot, is for that ol’ KGB major’s boss to worry some. Want him to worry that his boy done cut an’ run. Worry that he’s down our way a-talkin’ an’ a-gabbin’ an’ a-singin’ his li’l heart out. Want him to have nightmares ’bout that there major showin’ up on teevee a-talkin’ to Mike Wallace an’ good ol’ Walter Cronkite. Yew got that, Lew-tenant, yew know what we want yew to do?”

“Yes, sir.”

“An’ that is, what, Lew-tenant?”
You remember what you answered, of course?
Dave’s sarcastic angel asked.

David Elliot, slumped on the linoleum floor of the Senterex telephone room, smiled ambivalently at the memory of his answer: “Yes, sir,” he’d said. “You want the major to get disappeared.”

Right. And now somebody wants
you
to get disappeared
.

In the early 1970s, when Dave was beginning his business career, telephone equipment rooms were large, noisy places. All the equipment was electromechanical—endless banks of chattering relays and clicking switches. It took work to maintain the PBX systems in those days, and a team of telephone company men usually would show up to tinker with the hardware once or twice a week. Dave, whose first position was in the administration department of what was then called the First National City Corporation, remembered them. They always seemed to be big guys, a little overweight, with cigar butts clinched between their teeth. They all wore heavy grey work pants and answered to Irish or Italian names.

Most important, they kept lockers in the telephone rooms. Spare clothes, overalls, jackets, sometimes work-boots. Dave had hoped to find something similar in the room containing Senterex’s switching equipment. No such luck. The days of the electromechanical PBX had gone. Modern telephone systems are small, compact, and computerized. The only sound they make is the whir of their cooling fans.

Yes, there was a locker in the room. But all it contained, apart from shelves of miniature electronic parts and spools of colored wire, was two back issues of
Hustler
magazine, a tool belt, and a pair of gloves. Only the belt and gloves would be useful for what Dave had in mind.

The one other useful thing in the room was a wall-mounted beige telephone. After more than an hour of hard thought, Dave had decided to use it. He’d call his brother. Not Helen. Helen didn’t handle crises well, and was swift to assign him blame for anything that went wrong. Dave had long since decided that if his second marriage was going to work (and he badly wanted it to), he and he alone would have to handle the rough spots.

Rough spot? A category into which the present moment fits nicely, don’t you think?

Better to call his brother than to deal with Helen. Frank would be flabbergasted, but at least he could be relied upon to act. All Helen would do was … 
“bitch” is the word you’re looking for
 … complain. That and ask accusatory questions he didn’t have the time to answer—didn’t have answers to anyway.

Dave eyed the phone, checked his watch, and was ready to make the call when Ransome’s Appalachian drawl crackled over the radio. “This is Robin.”

“You okay, Robin?” Dave recognized the voice—the man called Partridge. His accents were crisp and military. Perhaps he, like Ransome, was a former officer.

“More damage to my pride than anything else, Partridge.” Dave nodded approvingly. Ransome’s answer was just right. Exhibiting a little chagrin (but
never
apologizing) is the smartest thing a commander can do after screwing up a mission.

“All right,” Ransome continued, “I want a full status, but before you give it to me, I want you to get on the horn to homebase and order up taps and traces. I want the subject’s little black book of phone numbers locked up and locked down. His wife, his ex-wife, his kid, his brother, his doctor, his dentist, his broker, and the guy who shines his shoes. His neighbors and his friends. Everyone he knows. Bug them all, and bug them now. If the subject calls anyone, pull the plug. I do not, repeat, do not, want the subject uttering one single word to anyone. Copy that, Partridge?”

“Affirmative. I’m on it.”

“Sir?” Another voice. Not Partridge, and not as professional.

“Yes, Bluejay,” Ransome answered.

“Sir … uh … given the situation, the subject escaping and so forth, do you think we could be given some background on the … uh …”

“Negative. You know what you need to know.”

“But, sir, I mean … like, why are we after this guy? Wouldn’t it help if we knew the reasons for …”

“NFW on that, Bluejay. Don’t ask questions. Trust me on this, you’re better off not knowing.”

“Sir …”

“Robin out.” The radio went silent.

Dave chewed his lip, drew his hand back from the phone, and changed his plans. But later he used the phone anyway. He called 411—information.

His watch read 9:37. It was almost time to go.

He sipped the dregs of his now tepid coffee and grimaced. There is little art and less expense involved in making a halfway decent cup of coffee. He wondered why the distributors of coin-operated dispensing machines couldn’t master the job.

Dave rose, hitching the tool belt around his hips. It was made of wide, tan leather, and was hung with screwdrivers, pliers, a pair of wire strippers, a soldering iron, a holstered blue telephone test set with dangling leads, and one or two odd-looking implements whose functions he could not fathom. The belt had been a nice find; it would help alter his appearance. He stuffed a pair of thick work gloves over the front of the tool belt, hiding the distinctive buckle of the Gucci belt that held up his tan trousers.

Nobody looks at the telephone man. He’s part of the furniture
.

Dave had changed the part in his hair, sluffed off his tie, removed his collar stays, untaped the bandage on his left hand, and rolled up his cuffs. His watch and wedding
ring were in his trouser pocket. Thick wedges of dirt were caked beneath his well-manicured nails. He planned to walk with lips slightly parted, breathing through his mouth. Just another blue-collar worker trying to do his job.

His shoes were his biggest problem. They were far more expensive than a telephone repairman could afford, and looked it. He prayed that no one would notice them, and cursed himself for not having the sense to retrieve his Nikes from his office closet.

Another problem: he needed to use the bathroom. He thought momentarily about leaving his bolt hole and trotting down the hall to the men’s room, but decided it wasn’t worth the risk. The pressure on his bladder was sufficiently uncomfortable that he did not wish to wait the fifteen minutes or so before he intended to leave the telephone room, the fortieth floor, and the Senterex building itself. The planned circumstances of his impending departure left little leeway for a trip to the head. And, once out on the street—well, there aren’t very many public toilets on the island of Manhattan, nor do prudent people use them.