“So. What is it you want, General Argus?”
Argus was a thin-faced man, lantern jawed, brown eyes that alternated between looking wicked and looking bored, but always penetrating. In his mid-fifties or so, a high forehead under immaculately tonsored hair washed at the temples with grey, Argus struck Darwin Hughes as the sort of man who still bad the proverbial hex on the dames, as they used to call it.
“Mr. Hughes. Let’s put our cards on the table, shall we? You wouldn’t have come if you hadn’t already suspected what I wanted. ”
“Put your cards on the table then,” and Hughes thumped his open palm against the little round table between them. They were two among perhaps a dozen patrons in Whiskey Hollow, Hughes insisting on the nighttime meeting in a public place, Argus acquiescing with not a great deal of reluctance. It was here that Feinberg’s arm had been slashed. Hughes wondered if what had happened here during a barroom brawl had sealed Feinberg’s doom in that plane over the desert? Or was there any sort of thing as fate at all?
The country music group was between sets, the late crowd not yet in and no rush to continue. It wasn’t the Neal James Band tonight as it had been that night, but instead a group he had never heard of and doubted he would like as much. But he hadn’t come for the music anyway.
“The mission you and your associates carried out. The surgical strike. I’m not going to apologize, Mr. Hughes, for the rather shabby treatment you and your men got. But, if you accept my proposal, I can promise you it will never happen again. Colonel Leadbetter’s superior is out of the picture now. Entirely. I have the full authorization of the President and both the House and Senate leadership. I needn’t caution you that what is said between us tonight should go no further.”
“No, you needn’t.”
“All right. Let’s be blunt, then, Hughes. You and your people did a great job. We fucked up. Maybe cost that Feinberg fellow his life because of it. What I need to know is this: Can you get together with Cross and Babcock and reassemble your team? Can you work with us again?”
“Nothing personal, General, but you’re full of shit. That’s the rather distinct advantage of being a civilian, one of many if I may say so. But when a general is full of it, you can tell him so. No. I’m not setting up Cross or Babcock or anybody else for what happened to happen again.”
“Are you aware, Mr. Hughes—well, certainly you must be. Terrorism is an on-going concern, and the problem will only get worse before it gets better. What you and your men did—”
The waitress came over and Hughes smiled at her. “Another round of beer for y’all?”
“The same as last time?” Argus asked Hughes.
“Fine, although I might not be here long enough to finish it.”
“Hmm,” Argus smiled evilly. Argus looked at the waitress. “Then two of the same please, thank you.”
She smiled back and left.
Hughes drained the last of his beer from his glass, Argus doing the same.
“I’m not getting involved again.”
“You already are involved, Hughes. Just like every free man and woman is involved. But you’re lucky. Unlike most people, you have the opportunity to do something rather than just sit and talk about—”
She was back fast with the beers, took the empties, reassured them the band would be starting another set, then left. Argus held his beer in his right hand, but didn’t sip at it.
“What you and your men did gave the enemy a severe shock. They haven’t recovered from it yet.”
“That’s nice.”
“You didn’t blanch at the word enemy, Hughes.”
“I know who you mean, General.”
“But they will recover. And sooner than anyone expects, terrorism will come home. And then we’ll really need a small, elite force like yours.”
Hughes sipped at his beer, put it down. “I don’t have such a forced, General Argus.”
“But you could get them back,” Argus said emphatically, leaning forward across the table. “What I’m offering, Hughes, is a chance to be your own man. You’d be able to reject any assignment you felt your people couldn’t or shouldn’t handle.”
Hughes let himself smile. “You can’t offer me a free hand, General. You don’t have a free hand yourself. It would work out the same. We’d step on somebody’s toes or somebody’d get cold feet and we’d be left out in the cold again. Like last time. And besides, there’s another concern which may not have occurred to you, General. But it’s occurred to me. We got away with it last time, more or less, without anyone seeing our faces, knowing our identities. That’d grow old rather quickly, wouldn’t it? Let’s say we did go to work for you, even under the conditions you suggest. It would be just a matter of time until the enemy, as you put it, discovered our identities and went after us. Then what? A man can’t live on the edge twenty-four hours a day forever and call it living.”
“Hear me out, Hughes. I’ve thought of all that. Nobody except Leadbetter knows all three of your identities except the President and myself. What if it stayed that way. For all the gripes you may have against Leadbetter, he tried to take care of you. He wouldn’t betray you. And there’s nothing the outside could learn that would link him to you as the controller for the previous mission. And your secret would be safe with the President, certainly. The President asked me to consult Leadbetter concerning your identities. Leadbetter wouldn’t even tell me. The President drove to Leadbetter’s house and asked him, personally. That’s the only reason both the President and myself have your name and the other two, the only reason I have any of the details of the last mission. You see, Leadbetter got caught in a trap. He never had the authorization he thought he had, so when his superior pulled the plug, he had nowhere to go. I’ve got the authorization. And not just the President’s, as I told you, but congressional leadership from both parties. The rug can’t be pulled out from under you. And, if it is, it’ll be pulled out from under me as well. I’d be your coordinator, not your controller. I’d take the mission requests, run them by you, and if it’s a go, get you anything you needed for mission support. And we can take care of the identity situation.”
“How?”
“All three of you die.”
Hughes knew better than to choke on his beer, but it was a touch-and-go thing for a split second. “And why would we be doing something like that, General Argus?”
“Blind identities with no link to your expertise, your background, anything. Since you and your men would be on call at all times because of the very nature of the work, we make the entire operation blind.”
Hughes put down his beer. “Spell it out.”
“We have the Justice Department Witness Relocation Program work out new identities, tailored for each of your needs, nothing in them to suggest who you once were. We could do the same thing through the CIA, but they’d smell a rat and all we’d need was some interdepartmental memo going into the wrong hands and the whole thing could be blown. So, the Justice Department. Then all record of the establishment of the new identities is destroyed. The three of you would never see one another except when you were working a job for us.”
“Us?”
“Me. The President. Yourselves, whoever. You’d come to the rendezvous separately, your identities unknown to all personnel involved, leave on the mission, return for debriefing and be returned to your false identities with no one the wiser. It’d work, Hughes. And you can make it work.”
“I’d have to talk it over with Cross and Babcock. It’s not the sort of decision I’d make on my own even if I could.”
“Then you’ll consider it, sir?”
“Yes, I’ll consider it. But I’ll need to present it to Cross and Babcock. If either of them doesn’t go with it, the idea is off. They were the best men for such a team when I picked them and that hasn’t changed. There should really be a fourth man.”
“I’m allowed the three of you. No one else. No one else can be trusted enough to be brought in. If you need a fourth man and you think I could be of some assistance, I’ll be there. I’ve got Airborne and Ranger and Special Forces behind me. My military record’ll be open to you. And obviously, if it ever came to that, regardless of my rank, you’d be the mission commander. You’ll try, then?”
Hughes sipped at his beer. The band was coming out for its next set. They looked like young kids. “Where’s Cross and where’s Babcock?”
“Abraham Cross was in Rome, playing piano at a hotel bar. I assume he’s still there. Lewis Babcock’s involved with something in Chicago. I’m not sure what, exactly. He’s taken up private practice of the law again, but went to Chicago very suddenly about three days ago. We’re trying to look into it.”
“I’ll look into it. I’ll need to talk with Lewis first in any event, because without Lewis’s help I wouldn’t have a prayer of convincing Cross. And with Lewis’s help, my chances won’t be that much better in any event. Where in Chicago?”
“I have the address locked in my office safe. I can get it to you in the morning. I have a plane waiting at Clark County Airport near Athens to take me back to Virginia. Call you at nine?”
“All right.”
“I’ll order the immediate transfer of twenty-five thousand dollars into your checking account to cover your travel expenses. It’ll be there by morning.”
“I’ll give you the number,” Hughes began.
“No need, sir. I already have it. I’ll try to dig out more information on Cross if that’d be helpful.”
“Not at this stage. But I have one question. How do we die?”
For the first time, Brigadier General Robert Argus burst out laughing.