«Please do.»
«All we were told was that there were seven of you, three military, and that second fact was to sweeten the job. No circumstances, no description of potential enemies, not a shred of politics—politics in the broader sense, like in the legality or illegality of a cause—in essence, nothing except numbers which could be meaningless. Does that tell you anything?»
«The obvious,» replied Sam. «The circumstances surrounding this assignment, as you call it, must remain secret.»
«That’s acceptable government-speak, not merc-speak.»
«Merc?»
«Mercenary language. We accept high risk for high dollars, but we’re not duty bound to operate in the dark on a, let’s say, need-to-know basis. That’s for career intelligence junkies who go deep cover into Cambodia or Tanganyika and are lucky if their families get their full pensions when they don’t come home. Do you begin to see the difference?»
«So far it’s not very difficult to grasp, but I don’t know what you’re driving at.»
«I’ll spell it out for you. The absent pages of this scenario have one of two possibilities. The first is unsanctioned government intervention, which means nobody can know anything because anybody who does, official and otherwise, could end up in Leavenworth or in a lye pit… and the second possibility is even less promising.»
«Do tell?» said Devereaux, his anxious eyes studying the impassive face of Cyrus M.
«A sting operation, Counselor.»
«A sting …?»
«Yes, but not the lovable sort that trips up a crook who’s mounting a con, or even one that catches nasty people taking bribes when they shouldn’t, but a far more lethal one… There’s a term for it; it’s called a ‘permanent sting’.»
«Permanent?»
«As in no recovery.»
«You mean—?»
«Dum-dum-tee-dum, dum-tee-dum-tee-dum-tee-dum,» hummed the huge mercenary.
«What?» yelled Sam.
«Keep your voice down!… I’m trying to explain the second possibility. A wall of protection is built to disguise the real intent. Execution.»
«Jesus Christ!… Why are you telling me this?»
«Because I may pull Roman Z and me out.»
«Why?»
«I didn’t like the third merc they sent, and beyond that, now knowing who Commander H is, somebody’s really after your general’s ass, probably all of your asses since you’re all in his sandbox. You may be lunatics, but from what I can see, you don’t deserve this, especially the girl, and I don’t want to be a part of it… I’ll set up the lithium trips—if they ever get here—and then we’ll think about it.»
«My God, Cyrus…!»
«I thought I heard voices, also a few shrieks,» said Jennifer Redwing, walking through the kitchen door carrying a cup of tea. «Sam Devereaux!» she roared, staring at the attorney’s trousers. «You did it again!»
The six men ranged in age from twenty-six to thirty-five, some with more hair rather than less and several taller or shorter than the others, but there were three constants that applied to all. Each face had a distinctive «look,» whether sharp- or broad-featured, with piercing or neutral eyes, the face itself had a quality of immediacy, of … let’s face it, theatricality. And each body was a trained body: the years studying acrobatics, swordsmanship, dance (modern and chorus), martial arts (stunt pay, according to the Screen Actors Guild), double takes and pratfalls (indigenous to low comedy and farce), costume movement (very big in Shakespeare and those Greek playwrights)—these were necessary. Lastly, each pair of vocal cords was capable of the widest range of octaval pitch, along with an even wider range of dialects (mandatory for voice-over commercials). All of the above were essential to their craft—nay, their art!—and naturally to their résumés, which had fallen with staccato regularity on the desks of unappreciative agents and producers. They were actors, the most bled and most misunderstood human beings on the face of the earth—especially when unemployed. In a word, they were unique.
Their unit, too, was unique in the annals of covert operations. It was initially formed by an elderly G-Two colonel in Fort Benning who was an addict where films, television, and the stage were concerned. He was known to call off whole night training sessions if they interfered with a movie he wanted to see in Pittsfield, Phoenix, or Columbus; he also reputedly cadged air force transportation to see certain plays in New York and Atlanta. But because of its accessibility, television was his personal narcotic. It was confirmed by his fourth wife in their divorce proceedings that he incessantly stayed up all night in front of the TV set watching, at times, two or three late films by switching the channels on his remote control. So, naturally, when six actors, real, honest-to-Equity actors, showed up at Fort Benning, his imagination went into high gear—some fellow officers claimed the old boy let it fly right out of the gearbox.
He monitored each man throughout basic training, marveling at their individual physical capabilities as well as their collective proclivity for calling attention to themselves in a crowd, but always in a positive way. He stood in awe at the way each instinctively mixed so naturally with his immediate and changing surroundings, one minute using the vernacular of the streets with urban recruits, the next employing the down-home language of the country boys.
Colonel Ethelred Brokemichael—former Brigadier General Brokemichael, until that lousy Harvard lawyer in the Inspector General’s office had wrongfully accused him of drug dealing in Southeast Asia! Drugs? He didn’t know a coke from a cola! He had facilitated the transport of medical supplies, and when offered money, gave most of it to the orphanages, saving a minor amount for future theater tickets. But with these actors, he knew he had found his way back to the rank he so richly deserved. (He often wondered why his cousin Heseltine had opted for resignation when he was the one who had been severely reprimanded and reduced in rank, not Heseltine, that whining debutant who always wanted the fanciest uniforms this side of some goddamned operetta.) Nevertheless, he had found it! A totally original concept for clandestine operations: a unit of trained, professional actors, like chameleons capable of altering appearances and attitudes commensurate with whatever targets they were to penetrate. A living, breathing, repertory acting company of agents provocateurs! A winner!
So the demoted Colonel Ethelred Brokemichael, using a few well-placed Pentagon connections, had his small group of performers assigned solely to him, to upgrade as he wished, and to send into the field as covert projects required. He had thought of calling them «The Z Team,» but the actors, in concert, rejected the name. They refused to accept the last letter of the alphabet, and since the first letter was undoubtedly copyrighted, they insisted on some other appellation, because if there was ever a television series, they wanted control of casting, scripts, residuals, and subsidiary rights, in that order.
The name came with their third infiltration within a nine-month period, when they penetrated a notorious band of the Brigate Rosse in Colonna, Italy, and freed an American diplomat who was being held hostage. They had done so by taking an ad out in the newspapers claiming they were the finest communist caterers in the city, which no one had ever done, and were subsequently hired by the Brigate to cater a birthday party for its vicious terrorist chief at their hidden headquarters. The rest, as the bromide says, was zuppa dianitra, duck soup. However, within covert operations, the legend was born. The Suicidal Six was a force to be reckoned with.