One day the gate opened for Moses.
Over a period of six months, he’d allowed himself to dissolve, to become one oflos espectros. In the end, he whimpered when he was taken to the Devil’s Bed. He’d wet his pants before he got there. He no longer cursed La Cucaracha after the violations. He never looked another man in the eye. He lost weight because the other prisoners stole his food. Then they, too, began to abuse and to beat him.
Eventually, he was gathered up with severallos espectros, chained on the flatbed, and driven out the gate. A jeep containing four guards armed with old Soviet SKS semiautomatic rifles accompanied them. They drove five miles until they came to a stream where the road had been washed away. Big mounds of rock and gravel for repair had been dumped beside the road. Each man was given a shovel.
As soon as the shovel was in his hand, Moses sank the sharp metal edge into the face of the guard nearest him, and he grabbed the man’s SKS. He dropped another guard with a heart shot before anyone had a chance to react. The third guard got off a hurried round that sizzled past Moses’s head, then Moses clustered three shots dead center in his chest. The last guard made for the jungle. Moses dropped him before he was forty yards out.
The driver of the truck had plopped himself down on the running board. He held a pack of cigarettes in one hand, and he sat paralyzed in the middle of pulling out a smoke. He eyed Moses from under the brim of a ratty cap withYANKEESsewn in silver across the crown.
Moses put the barrel of the rifle against the driver’s forehead.
He considered letting the driver go. The man was a local who worked for the prison. He wasn’t one of thepolicia. He looked like the kind of man who might have a wife and children. But to spare him would have required compassion, an emotion that had become even more rare to Moses than fear.
The bullet made only a small entry wound between the man’s eyes, but it splattered the back of his head across the side of the truck. Moses dug the keys out of the dead man’s khakis, shoved the body aside, and climbed into the cab. The other prisoners had watched the whole scene placidly, and none made a move to join him.
Within a day, he’d reached the embassy in Bogota and the Company had been notified.
Returning to the United States, Moses had three missions. To kill Coates. To kill Tom Jorgenson. And to kill Kathleen Jorgenson Dixon. Attempting any one of those assassinations was probably suicide, but David Moses was a man with nothing left to lose. His life had already been taken from him. What remained was little more than vengeance breathing.
The Company had given him a hero’s welcome. Even Coates shook his hand warmly. Two days later, Coates was found dead in his home. He was naked and bound to his kitchen table. A car battery had been set on the kitchen counter. Two wires ran from the battery terminals and were connected to the man’s genitals, which, when he was found, were charred to a black the color of cockroaches.
• • •
Kingman said, “A lot of us knew what kind of man Coates was. We all figured it was only a matter of time before you moved ahead of him and were the one giving the orders. Coates must have figured it, too. I was with him when he got the news that you were alive and on your way home. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a man quite as frightened. But when you returned to the Company, you didn’t say a word.”
“I came back to kill him. You think I should have announced that?”
“You might have saved yourself a lot of trouble if you’d just gone through channels.”
“Channels.” He nearly spit.
“After you killed Coates, why did you come back to Minnesota?”
“Business,” Moses said.
“You killed a homeless man here, David. What kind of business was that?”
“An accident. I thought he was Company. One of you, undercover. I was, I admit, a little delusional by then. He’d been eyeing me. Later, I realized he probably just wanted to steal my watch.” Moses shifted, and Kingman’s right hand shot under his coat, to the shoulder holster there. “Let me ask you a question, Walter. Why didn’t the Company sanction me while I was in the Minnesota Security Hospital? It would have been easy.”
“My doing. I wanted you alive.”
“Why?”
Kingman knocked on the door. The other came in, gun drawn. Kingman approached Moses. “Your hands,” he said. He cuffed Moses to the bed and took the tray. As he turned to the door, he said, “You’re not the only one who’s ever been betrayed by the people he trusted.”
The next day Kingman opened the door and came in. He carried a rifle in one hand, a small cardboard box in the other. On his hands, he wore black leather gloves. Another man hung back at the door. Kingman set the rifle and the cardboard box on the metal table. He unlocked the cuffs that shackled Moses’s hands to the frame of the cot. He turned to the table, picked up the rifle in his gloved hands, and held it toward Moses.
“Take it, David,” he said.
The man at the door had what looked like a P-series Ruger, probably a nine millimeter, trained on Moses’s heart. Moses took the rifle. It was an M40A1, a sniper rifle, forty-four inches in length with a twenty-four-inch barrel. Weight 14.5 pounds. Muzzle velocity 2,550 feet per second. Maximum effective range 1,000 yards.
“Not the latest technology, but it was always your favorite,” Kingman said. “Grip it hard.”
Moses tightened his fingers around the stock.
“Now pull the trigger.”
Moses did. Kingman reached out and took the rifle. He laid it back on the table, opened the cardboard box, pulled out a rifle scope, and handed it to Moses. It was a Trijicon ACOG military scope, excellent for night shots over a long distance.
“Good,” Kingman said after Moses had put his prints on it.
He took the scope from Moses and set it back in the box. Next he extracted five cartridges and held them out for Moses to take. They were. 308 Winchester loads, a good precision caliber. Moses handled each round and gave them back to Kingman. Kingman cuffed him to the cot frame again, then nodded to the man at the door. The man, who also wore gloves, holstered his Ruger, picked up the rifle and the cardboard box, and left the room.
As Kingman slowly shed his gloves, Moses was thinking. He’d believed it was the Company who’d tracked him down and taken him after Wildwood. He figured their stake in him was the embarrassment factor. If it became known that a former operative of the United States government had attempted to assassinate the First Lady and her father, the Company would suffer tremendous public embarrassment, one more in a long line. Taking him quietly and disposing of him in secret was a much preferable scenario.
But he hadn’t been disposed of. Not yet. The reprieve was Kingman’s doing. Moses was beginning to wonder how much the Company really knew about what Kingman was up to. “This isn’t Company business,” Moses said. “Who are you working for?”
Kingman sat down beside the cot. He smiled. “Remember Budapest?”
“I remember everything.”
“I’ll bet you do. A long and troubled recollection. But Budapest is a good memory. For me, anyway. A time when I still trusted the Company.”
Moses just stared at him.
“We believe in our country,” Kingman began. “We believe in the ideals it was founded on. But the ideal and the reality are worlds apart. You know it, too. Look at you. Consider all you risked and all you gave up, and in the end, those you trusted betrayed you. We’ve all been betrayed, all of us who are now brothers and sisters.”
“You? Betrayed?”
“I had a daughter.”
“Lucy.”
“Lucy.” Kingman nodded. “For her high school graduation I gave her a trip to Europe. Her and her best friend, three weeks on the Continent. She was so excited. I saw her off at Dulles. It was the last time I saw her alive. She was in a cafe in Marseilles ten days later. A car bomb went off in the street outside. The flying glass tore her apart.”