CHAPTER 2

 

"In the midst of this chopping sea of civilized life,

such are the clouds and storms and quicksands and thousand-and-one items to be allowed for,

that a man has to live,

if he would not founder and go to the bottom

and not make his port at all, by (ded) reckoning,

and he must be a great calculator indeed who succeeds."

Henry David Thoreau

 

Showered, Hunter stands in front of his bathroom mirror, towel wrapped around his waist.  He leans over and wipes away the steam mist with a few swipes of his forearm.  He straightens, stares at his image and thinks of what Thoreau suggested as an approach to life in Walden.  He also remembers the two hard, miserable years of training he just finished at The Farm in Virginia.  Plus the eleven years in the Corps.  Some of those in combat, certainly more than enough.  Also the hours in the CIA classrooms and labs and the long lonely nights studying.  Especially the hour upon hour reviews in those labs of the language tapes in Italian, French, Spanish, German and some Farsi, God only knows why.   He spoke most of these fluently while growing up in Europe. No time was spent on his other language fluencies in Mandarin Chinese and Vietnamese. They shouldn't come into play for this assignment.  And certainly no time was spent on the little Comanche he learned from his mother although the value of this attribute would have phenomenal code value, as the native Americans "Code Talkers" did in World War Two.  And finally, all the soul-searching in the pre-dawn hours at the end brought him to accept this is his life now.  As before him the life of his father, a CIA Section Chief, killed in service.  His mother, part of that same assassination, like Samantha and her parents.  All a different storm cloud, but perhaps from the same eye.

He mutters softly, "First, my mission.  Pisces, or Robert Camack, or Bobby Camack or whatever.  It's no different now."  He drops the towel, says aloud.  "It's the same as it was before.  Seek out the enemy and destroy him, and his will to fight.  If the IRA-men get in the way during the process, they will die as well."  And as he turns to get his clothes he'd laid out on the bed, he bumps into Dee standing in the bathroom doorway.

"Damn, Mrs. Columbo.  What the hell are you doing in here?  This is my ..."

"Room.  Yes, I know.  And it's Dee, and I was going to take a look at that ... that, whoa big fella," her coy grin widens.  "Ahhh, look at that gash you have on your forehead."

"Well, it's nothing.  Stopped bleeding."  He quickly steps around her.  "Anyway, it's up on my forehead, not down there."   She shrugs her shoulders, grins, says nothing and sits on the bed.  Then shakes off her sandals with suggestive wiggles of her feet.   Standing in front of her he snatches a clean pair of jockey shorts and leaps into them, and hastily follows with a pair of slacks and a T-shirt with the phrase, "Swift, silent, and deadly" stenciled across the chest.  Then sits on the end of the bed and pulls on a pair of socks and loafers.  Dee slides next to him.

She says, "I'm sorry.  I just...never mind.  The cut is okay.   Looked worse than it is, but I was truly worried about it.  I should care for it.  Put something on it.  Iodine, a bandage."  She takes a breath.  "Oh, I'm doing it again...going on so.  It's a habit that started after my husband, Angelo, went missing, and then ..." She inhales deeply and in her raspy tone says, "I called a handyman friend.  He's on the way.  He and his buddy will clean up the mess, but they can't fix the windows today.  Those will have to wait until Monday.  They'll cover them with plastic and tarps in the meantime.  I hope that's okay?"  She pauses again and allows a coy grin to capture her lips and says, "If the window thing bothers you, you can stay at my place."

"Okay.  Thanks...No.  No, I mean the windows will be fine.  I can stay here.  Need to stay here.  Now I..."

"Whatever.  Go make your call.  I have to call my children and let them know I'm okay in case the news has managed to spread across the planet."

"Your kids.  Yeah, I should have thought to ask."  He pauses.  "Oh yeah, I knew that."  His eyebrows crinkle, "Geez.  Right. They're not home?"

"Children.  Kids are baby goats.  And no, they're not home. They are visiting their grandparents and great-grandparents in Napa Valley.  My folks own a winery there.  Nice."  She sighs.  "It's beautiful there...and great wine.  Somehow it always tastes better in that place than when I have a glass or two at home.  Oh  well, the children will be there for the summer.  I hope to be going also, at some point.  Darn, I'm doin' it again.  Sorry."

"Yeah, you are.  Okay, now then, I guess that's good.  Their being gone I mean.  Well, I gotta call.  Now."  He gets up from the bed and hustles out of the room, down the hall and carefully steps into his office.  Glass shards lay everywhere.  He closes the door behind him.  Pauses, and smiles.  Mutters, "What the hell, the windows are open.  Shoot, there are no windows."  Goes to the closet, unlocks the door and closes it behind him.  The Agency has rigged the closet into a small communication center with a phone, tape machine, recorder, and a small fold-out writing board, and a fold-down seat.  Both of the latter fold back up into the wall.  He dials the number for Joe Zachary.  Joe answers on the first ring.  He's at the office, or asylum, however one prefers to think of the CIA complex at Langley.  Ruth, Joe's vivacious wife prefers asylum, or on occasion worse.  Her pastimes, have been and still are, raising their family, looking beautiful, loving Joe, and arranging dates for Hunter at every opportunity.  She's not been successful at the latter.  She keeps choosing "nice girls."  

Hunter says, "Joe.  Hello.  Listen, let me speak.  We, I, have an event on my hands here.  Just happened."

"An event?"

"Yeah, an event.  A friggin' disaster.  Listen.  Let me finish.  Samantha is dead. A guy from the IRA just killed her.  Car bomb.  I got..."

"Sam," blurts Zachary.  For ..."

"Joe, listen.  Yeah, Sam is dead."  He adds the grim details, then, "I got to him, consequently I have some information, but he didn't survive our conversation."

"My God.  How can that be? She's hardly involved."

Hunter reminds Joe, "Well, she is, was involved.  She got all my credentials, cards, cover and stuff for me.  All set up when I arrived here."  He pauses. "As I said, it was an ugly scene.  The bomb was...it was...shit, it blew the damn car in half...and her.  Damn it was...was like a first-over A4 dropped a thousand pounder then the next one made a napalm drop."  Hunter sucks in some air, then back in his icy PRC-10 Company Commander's voice,   "Joe.  The IRA?  That's out of the loop."

Joe interrupts.  "Well, not exactly. The IRA is not in 'this' loop.  However, this is something entirely different, I suspect.  But the prime target, not your termination project, we suspect is using a rogue from PIRA.  Samantha McGee was only a trusted contact for us.  Plus she's ..." he pauses uncomfortably, "or was, family.  But not an agent.   Well," he takes another breath, then coldly asks, "Are the police there?"

"Of course.  This must be San Diego's Hiroshima.  Fortunately, one is an old buddy, friend of mine."

"You have no friends, remember.  Have you spoken to him yet?"

"Not really.  He's coming in the house, shortly."

"Well, don't speak to him, or anyone.  And hang on a minute, don't go away.  I've got to make a call or two.  Take care of business."

Hunter waits.  Opens the closet door and peeks out.  Doesn't see Dee.  Looks out the window, or what was the window, and sees the activity still going on.  The remains have been removed.  More cars and more people than before, and he notices Bradovich in a group talking and pointing.  Hunter continues to survey the scene until he hears Joe say, "I'm back." Joe informs him that he's sending an asset from the area. "The Feds will be on this like ducks on a June bug.  The FBI's SAC from the San Diego office is on the way.   Ours will be there; as a result we'll have an Agency representation.  The teamwork stuff we all talk about."  

The instructions continue. He is not to talk to anyone else other than tell the locals that this is, or will be, a federal case, and that Hunter is to talk to only the Feds.  Then they go through a question and answer format about the guy in the canyon.  During this exchange, Joe explains that years ago Sam's father was with the CIA and had worked undercover with the Brits in Ireland.  Joe adds, "He was Irish through and through; spoke the language, Gaelic, or as they say, 'The Irish.'   He looked the part and got inside.  Caused a lot of problems for the IRA.  He retired, of course.  Was out of the service.  Then two years ago, when the Provisional IRA broke away, they came looking for him.  They have a violent ideology.  Killed his wife also.  Now Sam."  He pauses, "Hell, violent is too tame a label.  They've killed about 1,100 British troops and another 600 or so that are civilians of some sort in England, mainland Europe, and some here."  Joe pauses, catches his breath and continues.  "Any-who, her folks retired and lived in England.  London.  As a matter of fact in the same general area where your folks lived while you were at Harrow-on-the-Hill going to school.  Westbourne Terrace, wasn't it?"  He pauses again.  Hunter says nothing.  Joe goes on.  "The PIRA  hate hard and carry grudges a long time.  Forever it seems.  Anyway, there you have it.  Except for the other matter."

Joe pauses again, audibly sighs.  Hunter remains silent.  Then Joe says sternly, "But this can't, cannot, interfere with our mission.  Your purpose.  This is nothing more than a casualty from long ago.  The PIRA as an organization is not involved with Pisces.  Understood?"

Hunter says he understands and gives Joe the name of Patrick Shanahan.  The credit card names.  And the damage report on Shanahan.

Joe says, "Jesus, Hunter, why didn't you just shoot the bastard?"

"I was in my jockey shorts and bare feet.  I didn't have the Puppy with me."  Hunter is referring to his weapon of choice.  It's a new prototype, the M39-WOX-13A, originally designed for Marines, with a silencer (suppressor) kit.  The weapon is to become the MK22ModO.  Informally it is appropriately called the "Hush Puppy".

Joe drones, "Hunter, always bring a gun.  Preferably, bring..."

"I know.  Two guns, and bring all my friends who have guns.  I know the rule, I was just saying goodbye to Sam after a...never mind."

"Okay, Hunter.  Okay.  Now then, as I said, your mission has not changed.  Pisces killed Hermann Mueller, our guy in Pisa, just yesterday.  And he slaughtered some restaurant owner and his entire family who knew Mueller.  And something else, I suspect. However, there is a guy named Antonio Rizzo, who worked for the restaurant and may have seen something or knows a lot about Pisces and his henchmen.  He may still be around.  Probably hiding if Pisces left him alive.  Our intel tells us that Pisces has left.  Gone.  We don't know where.  And, as we told you, his real name, at least when he was with us, is Bobby Camack.  Robert Camack.  He has used Roberto Camack on occasion.  He used Roberto Muscarella in Pisa.  We know that.  That's all we've got on names."

"Joe, do you employ any Comanche's?  Besides me."

"What?"

"They always knew where the cavalry was.  Never mind, go on with the brief."

"Oh, yeah, and he's vanished.  We believe forever.  Finished.  Kaput. However, he may get edgy when he gets wind of this other matter.  And he's got a woman somewhere.  A wife.  Find her somehow and we'll have him.  He's probably headed there."  

Hunter interrupts, "We?  Are you comin' along?"

"Don't be a wise guy.  Go find him and terminate the bastard, but get the info we need first.  And, Hunter, I just about forgot.  He's got two yahoos you'll probably have to plow under to get to Pisces, or his wife."  He pauses. Gets no comment.  Says, "Stop in to see me on the way.  Take a couple of days to get squared away and settled.  Your mind settled.  But no more than three."

"Do I keep this place?"

"Yes, and keep the Property Manager.  What's her name, Terry Columbo?"

"No, it's Dee...Mrs. Teresa DeLuca Columbo."

"Dee?  Dee?"

"Yeah, that's her nickname.  The way she introduced herself to me and Sam."

"Sam?"

There is a pause; a silence on the phone.  Hunter says, "Joe, you still there?  Joe?"

"Yeah.  Tell me you're not doin' her.  Tell me you didn't do Sam.  Tell me."

"No, of course not.  Sam was all business.  As is Ms. Columbo.  Hardly knew, or to be more precise, know them.  Just met the both of them yesterday, for Pete's sake."

"Well, that's good, I hope.  You know you thoroughly screwed up a couple of Ruth's friends.  Remember, you're an operative now, an asset.  You don't have any friends.  You don't have a private life other than your cover.  You're an author."

"Joe, I know all that."

"Yeah, well, remember the rules.  This one in particular.  'Be polite.  Be professional.  Be prepared to kill everyone you meet.'  Do you read, Hunter?  Don't forget, talk only to the agents out there.  Call me if something comes up.  Otherwise, I'll see you on Tuesday or Wednesday, Thursday the latest.  Remember, Pisces is the kill target.  And, remember the total mission."  There's a pause.  "And try to limit the collateral damage."

CLICK.

"Collateral damage?  Shanahan wasn't collateral damage.  Sam was, and when I start shootin' anything I hit is the target, not ..."

Bzzzzzzz.

Hunter hangs up, stands, and locks the closet door after stepping out.  Tiptoes around and over the broken glass and out of the office, into the hallway and to the dining room.  Sees Dee, back to him, leaning on the kitchen counter, talking on the telephone. Mutters, "Oh, man.  What a.. a...chassis."  Then louder, "Hey, Mrs. Columbo, Dee, I'm done with my call.  Have to talk to you."

She turns, nods and puts her index finger in the air signaling one more minute.  Says a few more words into the phone, then, "I love you.  Tell your sister I said the same thing.  Bye.  See you soon."  Puts the phone back on the holder on the wall and says with a smile, "Children.  What's up?"

The smile evaporates, and Hunter hears the reason for it vanishing.

Bradovich says, "Hunter, we need to talk.  That guy didn't jump or fall off the canyon.  So, don't bullshit me.  Now then..."

Steve, one of the other detectives, pops his head in the front door and shouts, "Brad, the Chief is on the radio.  Says he needs to talk to you.  Like right now.  And there are a couple of Feds here.  One is FBI. I'm guessin' the other is a Spook."

Bradovich shakes his head.  "Okay.  On my way."  Then turns back to Hunter. "Hunter, ol' friend.  I don't know what you've got yourself into but…ahhh, never mind.  I'll be right back.  If I can."  He leaves, crunching glass in the entryway as he goes.  Stops, looks around to ensure Steve is gone.  Hunter has not moved.  Brad says, "Hawk, if you need help somewhere along the line, give me a call...at home."  He turns and is out the front door.

Dee comes up to Hunter, running her index finger along the words, "Swift, Silent and Deadly" on his T-Shirt.  "What was that all about?"

"We gotta talk."

 

 

In the warmth of a mid-afternoon sun, Danny Shanahan looks at his younger brother, Sean.  Takes a sip of his pint and says, "I wonder when Paddy will be comin' home?  It's been well over a week now."

They sit quietly at a table in the corner of the pub's outdoor patio.  Actually, just the sidewalk with tables set out when the weather is grand.  The street before them has only a few men walking about since it is near the supper hour.  Later, it will be alive with activity, especially here at The Well.

"Don't know, but none too soon for me.  They be enough troubles without some of our own."

"Aye, none too soon."  They both take a long drink from their pints.  Put the glasses down and like they were twins, wipe their mouths with the sleeves of their shirts.  Sit back, and gaze out onto the roadway.

Derry to the locals and countrymen, Londonderry to the world, is broiling with troubles and has been for years.  It may well be coming to a head.  The Shanahan clan has lost three men from the family and one lass in the war.  A grandfather and a father; a son or brother; and a young lass, a sister.  What is left are the three lads, Paddy, Danny, and Sean and their Ma.  And Paddy is off on a job for the cause.

Sean takes another gulp of his draught.  Looks at Danny and asks, "Patrick will be back, won't he?"

"Aye, I hope, lad.  I hope."  He then takes a swallow, his last.  "Hell yes, he'll be back.  And soon, too.  Now, drink up, Sean.  It's supper time and we need to be puttin' a foot under us.  We have a job tonight for Muldoon.  Remember?"

 

 

Pisces opens the door to his villa.  Calls out, "Gina, I'm home."

Into the foyer, on the run, comes the house mouse, the maid, Gina Pappalardo.  She is better looking than her namesake.   Gina coos, "Buon giorno, Signore Catalano."  She continues on in her native Italian.  "So good to have you home again.  Signora Catalano went down to the beach to swim and relax."

"To shop, but that's fine," he responds in English.

"Just for some fresh fish, Signore.  The catch of the day," she responds in the same language.

"I know, and thanks, it's good to be home.  I plan on staying much longer this time.  Perhaps forever.  Could you bring me some Chianti on the veranda?  I too want to enjoy the sun.  Relax.  It's been a long trip."

"Yes, Signore, sir.  Sorry.  Was business good?"

"Ah, as the English might say, bloody good."  He laughs softly.  Nods to Gina.  "My wine, please."  Roberto Catalano strolls through the large tiled living room, onto the veranda.  From here he can see down the now shadowed mountain to the town and the sea which is reflecting the reds and oranges of evening twilight. He murmurs, "I have to paint this view.  I have the time now."   He sits in a large, well-cushioned chaise lounge, first taking off his jacket and tossing it over another chair.  Then slips off his shoes, wiggles his toes and finally stretches his arches.

Gina arrives with the Chianti and places the glass on the lounge-side table.  She pours a sip.  Stands aside while Signore Catalano picks up the glass, sniffs the bouquet, nods in satisfaction and takes a sip. He nods again.  Gina finishes her chore, then places the bottle on the table.  She pads quietly back toward the house wondering if Roberto will take advantage of this time that the Signora is gone.  They often have, but it looks as if not at this moment.

Gina lingers at the door gazing back at Roberto.  Perhaps he is losing interest.  I am not as young as I once was.  We'll see; it's only his first day, first moment back. 

Pisces watches her leave.  Smiles in satisfaction, then looks out over the veranda view and murmurs, "Pisces is dead when Pisces wants to be dead."

Then after a few moments, "And finally, Pisces is dead.  To the world. "

But not to her.

He peers at Gina as she shifts and sways her hips as she enters the villa kitchen.