“I can’t work for you full-time,” Stiletto said.
“Why not?”
“I’ve decided to go free-lance.”
“I wasn’t expecting that at all.”
“I’ll be available if and when you need me,” Stiletto said, “but there are things nobody else will do that I need to give attention to.”
“Well, then this chat will be cut short. However, I’m glad you’ll be available, and we will need you, so we’ll provide the retainer we spoke of. That will help you get started on your own, at least.”
“Much appreciated.”
“By the way, General Ike wants to see you. He’s waiting on a bench near the Lincoln Memorial gift shop.”
STILETTO FOUND the General munching popcorn.
Fleming sat beside the Lincoln Retail Refreshment and Gift Shop, a stone’s throw from the memorial itself, the side of the structure visible from the shop’s outdoor seating area. A cluster of trees ahead stood between the shop and the reflecting pool. Tourists strolled but none made a lot of noise.
Stiletto sat next to his former boss.
“Nice day for a visit,” the General said.
“I’m not sure what to call you anymore.”
“’Ike’ will be fine, Scott.”
“Yes, sir.”
The General laughed and offered Stiletto some popcorn. Scott took a handful.
“Your dismissal is not what I wanted,” the General said.
“Couldn’t be avoided. Webb was right. If I’m the talk of the Agency, everybody’s was going to be watching to see what he did.”
“What’s your plan?”
Stiletto explained.
General Ike nodded. “Fair enough. Just make sure you charge the numerical equivalent of a shit ton if we ever come looking to hire you. It’s only right you get something out of this organization.”
“I appreciate what you did for me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course, sir.”
“There is one thing you can do.” The General placed the popcorn bag between them and pulled an envelope from his inside jacket pocket. “Open it.”
Stiletto slit open the envelope and drew the paper out halfway. Name and address of a woman named Susan LaRochelle.
“Who is she?”
“My niece,” the General said. “She’s an F.B.I. agent in New York who was covering the U.S. end of the Zubarev shooting. State Department got involved and pulled the plug, but not before she got some information you might like.”
“You want me to fly to New York?”
“Yes.”
“Is that an order, sir?”
“Consider it the last one I’ll ever give you.”
Chapter Thirteen
THE FLIGHT to New York was a long one. Stiletto stared blankly out the window, unaware of much that was going on around him. A screaming baby didn’t break his reverie.
He might have sounded confident about striking off on his own to take on the battles nobody else would, but he also wondered who he was kidding. That was no way to live. But he had to at least try. Maybe just a few months, a year. If it didn’t work, he’d call Ali in San Francisco.
And he’d miss the C.I.A. With all of its faults, the Agency had been home for a long time, and he had friends there who, presumably, were wondering about him after seeing a stranger clean out his desk. The gossip would be huge, but his phone hadn’t rung with anybody asking how he was doing.
The only thing to do right now was stay the course.
He landed at JFK and used his cell to call Susan LaRochelle, who agreed to meet him at her apartment that night. Stiletto checked into a hotel and took a long walk to try and clear his head. When that didn’t work, he found a bar and nursed a beer.
Susan met him on time and had Chinese food waiting. Over dinner they talked about General Ike, her work on the Zubarev case, and the file she’d been presented with before the State Department pulled the plug on her investigation. He listened with rapt attention to her story about the woman, Siyana Antonova, whom she believed pulled the trigger on the Zubarevs.
The information in the file confirmed a lot of the information Ravkin’s file had contained, except for the names of the local mob players. Stiletto wanted to know where they were. Susan said the top dog was Shishkin Pavlovitch. And she knew where they hung out.
Scott spent two days tracking the local bosses and presently settled on a plan. Pavlovitch and his buddies liked to play poker in the basement of one of their bars. Finding a back way in was easy. Stiletto contacted Number One and asked for some equipment.
It was time to get even, if only a little.
HE HEARD them laughing as he moved down the hall.
Stiletto gripped the submachine gun a little too tightly. He’d probably over-oiled it from the residue dripping onto his gloves, but the weapon would not fail. He’d trained and planned too hard for anything to fail now. But deep down he knew he might not survive the night, even if he did succeed. If he saw the sunrise, he might just live to be an old man.
The dark hallway seemed to close in, the only illumination coming from the crack underneath the door ahead of him. He pushed the jitters away. The walls were not going to crush him. He had to stay focused. The laughter from behind the door continued. Stiletto adjusted his grip and stepped closer. Sweat coated his skin, his clothes clinging to his body. A trickle down the back of his neck irritated him and he almost wanted to stop and swipe, but he kept his eyes focused on the door.
The laughter stopped. Four voices reached his ears.
“I’ll take three.”
“One for me.”
“I’m good.”
“How about we start over?”
More laughing.
Stiletto counted down. Three. Two…
He lifted his booted right foot and slammed it into the wood. The loud thud shook the walls, but the door did not open. He kicked again. Another loud thud and the doorframe started to splinter. Stiletto put everything he had behind the third kick and that’s when the door swung open with enough force to slam the opposite wall, the collision sounding more like a gunshot than those that followed from the mouth of the submachine gun.
Stiletto stepped into the room, swinging left. The lone guard was reaching for the light switch; Scott blasted him in the chest and belly, cutting him almost in half, the guard leaving a smear of red on the wall as he fell. His hand still hit the light switch and plunged the room into darkness but it was too late. Stiletto’s combat senses had already pinpointed the remaining targets.
The SMG spat flame in measured bursts, Stiletto shifting his aim, the flash from the muzzle creating a mild strobe effect that highlighted the twitching bodies of the four men around the poker table. The chips and cards, splashed with blood and bits of flesh, were no longer the center of attention and the four men saw their lives flashing before them in the strobe. They screamed, cursed, arms flailing, their overweight bodies falling onto the floor with squishy finality. When the SMG clicked empty, Stiletto reached for the light switch. One man still lived, his cries of pain filling the room as the echo of the shots faded from Scott’s ears.
Stiletto pulled the magazine from the submachine gun and inserted a spare. He stepped into the carnage, doing his best to avoid the puddles of blood, but some of it still attached to the heels of his shoes. He walked around the table to the far side, where the survivor lay on his back, legs and belly torn open by the nine-millimeter flesh-shredders, his bloody fingers clawing for the holstered revolver under his left arm. The tips of those fingers, wet with what was leaking from the man’s body, could not wrap around the butt.
Scott aimed the SMG at the Pavlovitch’s face. It was a round and jowly face with a scarred chin. The eyes, still defiant, remained blank.