Salamanders

by Pete Murphy

Chapter 13

The Fox Arrives

"I'll need these files when I get back, these others later in the day. Just check my appointments." Bilkes put the notes on her desk, adjusted his glasses, got up close for a better look. "New blouse, Angele?"

"Yes, Mr. Bilkes. Bought it yesterday at Wanamaker's. On my lunch hour." She smiled at him, tilted her husky black body at him.

"Very nice. And you clipped your hair," he said.

"Yes. Too bushy for an office."

"Looks good. Yes. Well, just take any messages and tell them I'll be a little late from lunch, that I'll get back to them as soon as I return."

"Yes, Mr. Bilkes. I'll do that."

He smiled at her and walked into the busy outer office. The heavy glass door closed quietly behind him, shutting out the noise. The walls were glass. She heard nothing. He made his way through the rows of desks and disappeared into the main hall, headed to the elevators. She sighed.

She used to be out there, fourth row, second from the aisle, playing with the keyboard, hunched over, face to the computer screen, punching buttons, feeding data, letting the machine do the thinking part. Looking at graphs and charts. Thinking someday she'd disappear into the machine, become one of the numbers.

Then she met Philip Henry and everything changed. Not just the freedom to get away from the black guys she knew - God knows they were going nowhere - but she saw a future at last, something to grab hold of, take and go silently. She'd be her own person, get to be part of what was happening in the world.

And quietly is best, not so fast. That's why she liked Philip. He knew you had to do it a step at a time. He was nice, not all macho and shu-ckkk! Jiiveee, (spraying him a little, her face so close to his, lovingly), like some of the black guys she knew. He was cool. Intelligent. Watch for your moment, he'd say. Well, this was hers.

"You've got to quit being so damn..." (He rarely swore, usually very calm, until he'd get exasperated with her) "...so damn Black! White! Purple! That's not who you are! You are Angele. And he guided her into becoming the Angele she never was up front, made her see the Angele inside the body, beyond the nose in the computer screen, underneath the wrist bangles and the bushy hair.

She became Angele who no longer belonged out there with the noise. Bilkes saw her transformation and brought her inside.

Inside now, out of the clatter, she waited to be out of the silence.

As Bilkes drove out of the parking garage, he saw a man he knew standing at the edge of the ramp, near the sidewalk. He pulled out into the traffic, stopped, and bent his body over as the window rolled down. Horns honked angrily behind him. He paid no attention.

"Hi!" he called. "Going to lunch. How about it?"

Philip smiled. "No thanks. Just finalizing some business down the street."

Bilkes waved at him and drove off. He was three blocks down the street before his car blew up.

"No," Angele was saying into the phone. "He'll be a little late from lunch."

#

"Well, why don't we do it?" Angele asked.

"Because it's against the law. We're agents, not vigilantes."

"We did Bilkes."

"That was necessary. We'd have tipped our hand to arrest him and he was yelling too much about feds in his rearview, feds in his closet, feds in his underwear. He had to be shut up."

"So we lose the trail."

Philip shook his head. "We haven't lost the trail. We're too close to it. The man's killing off everybody around him. We'd have lost it all if we let Bilkes go on screaming like that. It's a wonder he didn't know you were a fed."

"Why? I did my cover good. Staring at that goddamn screen till my eyes felt like burnt holes in an army blanket. Three months. Shit. Down the tubes."

"Yes, you were good. Very good. That's what I mean. It's just a damn fluke the guy got so paranoid. Too long dealing dope, I guess. Must get to you after a while." Philip looked at her. "Besides, you liked blowing Bilkes' ass all over Broad Street. You were tired sitting on your ass up there on the tenth floor all day. True?"

"Yes. I was sick of it. Fucking chauvinistic idea. Yours?"

"It had to be done. Now we're back on track."

After a while she said "Wish I'd have seen it. That creep."

They drove for a little while in silence. It was pitch black outside, and very few highway lights back there in the south Jersey sticks. She could see only a few feet on either side of the road and the broken white line down the center. She watched for roadkill on the shoulder just to stay awake.

"Why don't we just go get Bags? Get him to roll over?" she asked after a while.

"If we pick him up we've got nothing. Only him. If he rolls over it's his word against his control's. And if he doesn't roll we lose it all. The man's already covering his trail. He's been giving orders to kill anybody who's ever heard of him. We've got bodies all over the eastern seaboard he's probably responsible for and we don't have a clue. We lose Bags, we lose his control forever. He'll disappear, run like a rabbit. After all this time, we don't need a rabbit."

"So why this meeting?"

"Brody says he hired somebody. Hired a fox, he says."

#

The Fox

Reynard's plane landed in Atlanta with the sun. He did not know what his contact would look like, knew nothing of his assignment except that he was to proceed after the briefing to Philadelphia. He was aware of one other thing: His contact knew nothing of Reynard.

He was proud of that. More than a few knew his name, but only a handful knew his face. He carried his image in the cracked leather suitcase at his side. He strode directly to one of the terminal men's rooms in his dungaree shorts and sandals. Two men stood at the mirrors, one in a brown suit, another in blue shirtsleeves and beard. Three in the booths: Black shoes, sneakers, black shoes again.

He rarely worried about being followed. He was too easy to lose that way. Those who could follow from the front - watch and predict his movements - sometimes it took two, trying to second-guess him - they bothered him. But he generally knew where they were.

He slipped into the last booth.

#

It was a domestic affair, Babbitt had said earlier, "To be regarded in no less rigor. Insecure and severe."

Reynard leaned into the open phone stall, laughing.

"Reynard, please."

"Sorry, Babbitt. You just sound so ...English."

"I am English."

"I know but...it sounded like a woman I knew for a while in...Newark, I think. Her husband was a tuba player. He apparently had lips that could..."

"Reynard. I'm not on a scrambler. Also, I'm having lunch."

"Sorry, old chap."

Silence.

"Truly I am, Babbitt. Old boy."

"I think you've been on the beach too long, Reynard. The sun has sapped your objectivity. If it were anyone else, I'd be concerned. They have asked for you specifically. Apparently there is a personal component here. Three-seventeen to Atlanta. Contact. Then to Philadelphia. Good-bye, Reynard."

He hung up before Reynard could say "ta-ta".

Reynard took one last plunge into the Florida surf, stretched on the sand, felt the sun squeeze one final hardening into his muscles and then, alone on the beach, knowing his short retreat was over, began to exercise intensely. After a steady and severe pounding - two hours - he dove into the waves and let the cold salt beat the re-hardened armor of his body.

He'd been trained and worked as case officer and treated royally as one of the truly elite career employees of the agency: finding, recruiting and training people to be its agents. After eight years he'd learned to despise it. And himself.

He'd perfected the tools of deceit, trickery and manipulation in Uruguay, Mexico and Bolivia. And Greece. God he hated the Greeks. They'd tried to blow him away in bed with a girl; but she was alone, waiting for him. That experience was too painful, almost killed his self-respect.

He'd been disciplined to find susceptible people, men and women, give them the pitch, befriend them, convince them to betray their political beliefs. After a while all elements of his personal decency became destroyed. He'd grown to hate the people he'd taught, and hated himself for the deception his whole life had become. While he was the American Vice Consul in Bolivia his agents started to get killed. He'd killed one himself, a man he'd worked with for over a year, manipulating him, lying, shaping him.

He'd felt lousy about that, pulling the man into his web, showing him a world that had no truth, making him believe, then killing him because he believed.

Reynard learned easily, after that: Eventually, there is no personal life. Everything is a lie. Some case officers commit suicide.

Sometimes the agents are ex-cons, murderers, sometimes bankers, sometimes hookers. You play on the emotions of the targets. Forge letters. Lie about dead parents. Draw them in. Hook them. Depend on false friendships. Never grow to like them. Hate them. Use them.

Constantly look behind you. Watch for the assassin.

Self-destruct.

He'd gotten out. No more twisting people's lives. He didn't even have to hate them anymore.

All he had to do was kill.

It was easier.

Reynard entered the smallest Atlanta terminal bar in a Mickey Mouse tee shirt, horn-rimmed glasses, long hair, mustache, dungarees and sneakers. He sat at the bar close to the main door. A few stood at the bar, drinking hurriedly, glancing at the clock. Others, obviously having time to kill, read their magazines or worried into their drinks. A young man in charcoal-gray sat in the far booth, facing the main door. A middle-aged black woman: Close-cropped hair, pretty, glasses, green pin-striped shirt, button-down collar, beer, sat alone in another booth closer to the bathrooms. She checked her watch often and watched the doors. Two other booths had more than one person. Traffic in and out was slow but steady. Many preferred to wait outside the doors. A middle-aged bearded man with a cane and a derby, well tanned, stood in the doorway for a moment, looked around, then entered, ordered a gin swizzle, and took a booth by himself. He looked like he'd slept in the suit. His shoes were black. New.

After ten minutes, nothing much more became obvious. Most checked their watches occasionally. Rumpled suit turned, stared at charcoal gray, who stared back. Green pinstripe checked the doors often. Rumpled suit smiled at Reynard - Mickey Mouse. Mickey smiled back. A couple in the center booth got up and greeted a small boy at the door. They hugged a lot and went off into the crowd.

Reynard went over to Charcoal Gray, sat in his booth, across from him, asked casually: "Do you think he'll come?"

Charcoal Gray managed a low "What're you talking about?"

Pissed off. Charcoal Gray, flustering. Angry.

Reynard said, "I don't think he'll be here. I think you fucked up."

Charcoal Gray turning white now, looking at Green pin-striped Afro, then at the side door, then back at Reynard's EYES.

Reynard knew how strong his EYES could be.

"You are Reynard?"

"Yes," Reynard grinned.

Charcoal Gray smirking a little now: Composure regain. Safety, numbers. Containment. A noticeable resurge of blood. Brain. Offense. Part of a sneer: Uncertain, weak, young.

"I've heard your name," he said. "I know you. Troubleshooter for the world. Pardon the pun."

The EYES at his eyes.

"You know nothing."

A little shiver under the suit. "Sorry. Quite right. It's just...we're sometimes helpless. All we can do is...investigate, as you know. We don't always do what we'd like to do."

Reynard said, "I don't always do what I like to do."

"Yes. Sorry."

"Stop saying that. It won't ever help you. Follow me. Alone. Or I go back to my castle on the moors." A little grin beneath the EYES.

Reynard walked calmly through the terminal, weaving easily into the crowd. He sauntered to the row of exit doors and out toward the line of taxis. Charcoal Gray walked steadily behind him.

"What's your name?" Reynard asked.

"Agent Henry."

"OK. Listen, Hank."

"Henry's my last name." Coldly.

Reynard stopped. "OK. Listen Hank."

The EYES. Henry reddened.

"Alright," Reynard said, "John, then?" A grin. "John Henry?"

"Philip, mister Reynard. Philip Henry." Bravado.

They proceeded.

"Right, then, Phil. Get rid of those people." Reynard pointed sharply over the crowd, two different directions.

Philip gestured feebly. An unnecessary signal. The tags already knew Reynard had made them. Another Charcoal Gray threw up his arms, exasperated, and Rumpled Suit shook his head, disappeared back into the building.

Reynard opened a taxi, invited Philip. They drove off.

"I need to be back shortly, driver," Reynard said. "Once around the airport. Lose us and park." He handed the driver a twenty dollar bill.

They drove on, getting lost quickly in the maze. In half a minute they were parked outside the mechanics' hanger.

The EYES in the rearview. "I'll get lost for a while, too," the driver said, and left them. Reynard and Philip stayed inside the cab.

"Now, Phil. Why am I here?"

The eyes were quiet now.

"A lot of people have been killed in the last week. Thirty-two so far. California. Florida. Miami. Philadelphia. Jersey. All of them big drug dealers. All connected somehow. We think it's an epidemic."

"Good for you."

"It's not us. We believe it's all under the control of one man."

"And?'

"And there were others. Some who weren't directly involved."

"Innocent bystanders. Slept with dogs. Caught in the crossfire."

"Not entirely innocent. Let's say bystanders. They didn't know what they were messing with." Philip watched Reynard's eyes.

"Go on."

"We believe a man named Wilson Harte is responsible. Nickname Bags."

"You believe?"

"We know. We have people in our custody who will testify."

"Arrest him."

"If we do that our investigation will lock up, freeze. Bags doesn't control it. Somebody else pulls his strings. The roots all lead to a Panamanian cultural Attaché and from there to Noriega's team in Panama. We can't get to them. But we can get to a control here in America, if we can find him. To do that we need more time."

"And?"

"We believe...We know he needs to kill Bags now. He cannot allow him to live. We're too close. The main guy's mopping up behind himself now, getting close to Bags. We don't want to lose Bags, as close as we are."

"How do you know that?"

He shrugged. "We just know it."

"Why am I here?"

"His assassins are set. We need you to use your powers to..."

"Talk to them?"

"Yes."

"Why can't you do that?"

"We don't...we try not to do things that way. We can't control these things the way your department can."

"Have you spoken to anyone in my...department?"

"You know. Just a...Mr. Smith. I believe he made...arranged this meeting."

"Why are you so nervous, Mr. Henry?"

"This is all new to me." Straining a smile now.

"I see. Take your clothes off Mr. Henry."

"...what?..."

"Take your goddamned clothes off and cut the shit." Reynard looked into him. Deeply.

Philip shivered. The EYES.

"Who am I talking to?" Reynard asked.

Philip stared back, trying to hang on. His head jerked as he spoke into the spring air: "Destroy the tape. I'm pulling the wire." He yanked the wire from his waist. Tore it out. "I needed to protect myself," he said to Reynard. He seemed a little calmer now.

"Well, that's no way to do it Phil, believe me. You're much better off not making me angry. I'll just tell Mr. Smith somebody screwed up at the meeting, make it easy on you. Your superiors will understand, I'm sure. Maybe just ask Mr. Smith for someone else."

"No. Wait, mister Reynard. They won't. They said it should be you. They knew you'd accept. They sent me here to...persuade you."

"How? You haven't done it."

"Two days ago a young man, a man my age, was hung in the woods outside Philadelphia. He was one of the innocent bystanders. His name was Billy Presser."

The EYES didn't blink.

"You see, Mr. Reynard, we investigate. That's what we do. The file says you knew him."

"Yes."

Reynard pulled himself out of the cab, walked slowly out onto the tarmac among the broken planes. Philip followed him. The floodlights' glow bounced at them from all directions.

"Who did this? Bags?"

"We believe Bags was there. But, as I've said, we don't know who gives him his orders."

Reynard turned, wearily, looked at him. "Why don't you know?"

The EYES.

"We're still investigating."

"I see. What do you know, Phil?"

The EYES.

"Call her over."

Phil hesitated. Reynard shot a quick, almost undetectable jab with the tips of his fingers to a spot on Philip's neck. He folded, collapsed instantly onto the tarmac.

"Call her over."

Philip motioned, clutching his neck with the other hand.

Green Pin-Striped came toward them from the fence near the highway. She sauntered. Reynard was silent. He stared at the ground as he waited. Philip got to his feet.

She spoke to Reynard coldly. Her coldness helps, he thought.

"Can I help?"

Reynard's eyes stayed at the tarmac.

"Phil here doesn't seem to have brought much background with him. It will be my decision alone whether or not to get involved."

"Billy Presser and a man named Freddie Pebbles arranged a pass with another man, Christopher Duncan, nickname Finn. They tried to rip Bags off for a hundred thousand. Bags got mad. They got caught. Bags was at the hanging, maybe four or five others. Bags' control may or may not have been there, we don't know, but it was his money. No doubt he was pissed."

Reynard liked her coolness. "And Finn?"

"He got away. Three men were subsequently killed. We believe Finn did that."

Reynard smiled a little at the tarmac.

"We thought you'd like that part."

Silence.

"Harte - you'll learn to call him Bags - is not the control," she repeated. "There is no need, there'll be no answer, in killing him. You do see that?"

He looked at her, knowing he had no eyes now. They were far away...

"You're a professional, Mr. Reynard, a businessman, and, according to what we've been told, an easily angered man. If you wish, we'll tell Mr. Babbitt to send us someone else. We were told to ask for you. We only thought your..."

"Who told you to ask for me?"

"Our superior, agent Brody."

"This...Brody. He also told you Bags' control wants him dead?"

"Yes."

"How does he know that?"

"We don't question him. He has contacts we don't have."

Reynard was silent.

"We were told that, because of Billy Presser and Finn, you'd..."

"Tell me what to do."

No eyes. He knew: Sometimes you grit your teeth, know what the mission is, hire an assassin to kill an assassin and watch an assassin to find an assassin...

He wondered if it were really true assassination never changed the history of the world.

#

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