Debt Of Honor by Clancy, Tom

‘ ‘Not right now.”

“Jack, thanks for the heads-up,” Durling said to conclude the meeting on

a positive note.

Ryan left the office by the west door, walking past the (Teddy) Roosevelt

Room and heading toward his office. Ed Kealty was in again, he saw, work-

ing in his office. He wondered when that one would break, realizing that the

President, however pleased with the events of this day, still had that scandal

hanging over him. That sword again, Jack thought. He had gone a little close

to the edge this time, and it was his mission to make the President’s job

easier, not harder. There was more to it, after all, than foreign entangle-

ments-and politics, something he had tried to keep at arm’s length for

years, was as real as anything else.

Fowler? Damn.

It would be a safe time to do it, they knew. Goto was giving a speech on TV

tonight, his maiden broadcast as Prime Minister, and whatever he said, it

guaranteed that he wouldn’t be with his young mistress that evening. Per-

haps the night’s mission would be an interesting and useful counterpoint to

what the politician had to say, a reply, of sorts, from America. They both

liked that idea.

John Clark and Ding Chavez were walking along the block at the proper

time, looking across the crowded street at the nondescript building. They

always seemed that way, John thought. Maybe someone would tumble to the

idea that a garish facade or an office tower was actually better camouflage,

or maybe not. More likely it was boredom talking again. A man came out

and removed his sunglasses with his left hand. He smoothed his hair, strok-

ing the back of his head twice with his left hand, then moved off. Nomuri

had never ascertained the location of Kim Norton’s room. Moving in that

close was a risk, but the orders had come to take that risk, and now, having

given the signal, he walked off toward where he’d left his car. Ten seconds

later Nomuri was lost in the crowded sidewalk, Clark saw. He could do that.

He had the right height and looks. So did Ding. With his size, glossy black

hair, and complexion, Chavez at a distance could almost blend in here. The

haircut he’d imposed on his partner helped even more. From behind he was

just another person on the sidewalk. That was useful, Clark told himself,

feeling ever more conspicuous, especially at a moment like this.

“Showtime,” Ding breathed. Both men crossed the street as unobtru-

sively as possible.

Clark was dressed as a businessman, but rarely had he felt more naked.

Neither he nor Ding had so much as a folding pocket knife. Though both

men were well skilled in unarmed combat, both had enough experience to

prefer arms-the better to keep one’s enemies at a distance.

Luck smiled on them. There was no one in the tiny lobby of the building

to note their presence. The two men took the stairs up. Second floor, all the

way back, left side.

Nomuri had done his job well. The corridor was empty. Clark had the

lead, and headed quickly down the dimly lit passage. The lock was a simple

one. With Ding standing guard, he took out his burglar tools and defeated it,

then opened the door quickly. They were already inside before they realized

that the mission was a bust.

Kimberly Norton was dead. She lay on a futon, wearing a medium-expen-

sive silk kimono that was bunched just below the knees, exposing her lower

legs. Postmortem lividity was beginning to color the underside of her body

as gravity drew her blood downward. Soon the top of the body would be the

color of ash, and the lower regions would be maroon. Death was so cruel,

John thought. It wasn’t enough that it stole life. It also stole whatever beauty

the victim had once possessed. She’d been pretty-well, that was the point,

wasn’t it? John checked the body against the photograph, a passing resem-

blance to his younger daughter, Patsy. He handed the picture to Ding. He

wondered if the lad would make the same connection.

“It’s her.”

“Concur, John,” Chavez observed huskily. “It’s her.” Pause. “Shit,” he

concluded quietly, examining the face for a long moment that made his face

twist with anger. So, Clark thought, he sees it too.

“Got a camera?”

“Yeah.” Ding pulled a compact 35mm out of his pants pocket. “Play

cop?”

“That’s right.”

Clark stooped down to examine the body. It was frustrating. He wasn’t a

pathologist, and though he had much knowledge of death, more knowledge

still was needed to do this right. There … in the vein on the top of her foot,

a single indentation. Not much more than that. So she’d been on drugs? If

so, she’d been a careful user, John thought. She’d always cleaned the needle

and … He looked around the room. There. A bottle of alcohol and a plastic

bag of cotton swabs, and a bag of plastic syringes.

“I don’t see any other needle marks.”

“They don’t always show, man,” Chavez observed.

Clark sighed and untied the kimono, opening it. She’d been wearing noth-

ing under it.

“Fuck!” Chavez rasped. There was fluid inside her thighs.

“That’s a singularly unsuitable thing to say,” Clark whispered back. It

was as close as he’d come to losing his temper in many years. “Take your

pictures.”

Ding didn’t answer. The camera flashed and whirred away. He recorded

the scene as a forensic photographer might have done. Clark then started to

rearrange the kimono, uselessly giving the girl back whatever dignity that

death and men had failed to rob from her.

“Wait a minute . .. left hand.”

Clark examined it. One nail was broken. All the others were medium-

long, evenly coated with a neutral polish. He examined the others. There was

something under them.

“Scratched somebody?” Clark asked.

“See anyplace she scratched herself, Mr. C?” Ding asked.

“No.”

“Then she wasn’t alone when it happened, man. Check her ankles

again,” Chavez said urgently.

On the left one, the foot with the puncture, the underside of the ankle re-

vealed bruises almost concealed by the building lividity. Chavez shot his last

frame.

“I thought so.”

“Tell me why later. We’re out of here,” John said, standing.

Within less than a minute they were out the back door, down the meander-

ing alley, and back on a main thoroughfare to wait for their car.

“That was close,” Chavez observed as the police car pulled up to Num-

ber 18. There was a TV crew fifteen seconds behind.

“Don’t you just love it? They’re going to tie up everything real nice and

neat. .. What is it, Ding?”

“Ain’t right, Mr. C. Supposed to look like an OD, right?”

“Yeah, why?”

“You OD on smack, man, it just stops. Boom, bye-bye. I seen a guy go

out like that back in the old days, never got the sticker out of his arm, okay?

Heart stops, lungs stop, gone. You don’t get up and set the needle down and

then lay back down, okay? Bruises on the leg. Somebody stuck her. She was

murdered, John. And probably she was raped, too.”

“I saw the paraphernalia. All U.S.-made. Nice setup. They close the case,

blame the girl and her family, give their own people an object lesson.” Clark

looked over as the car pulled around the corner. “Good eye, Ding.”

“Thanks, boss.” Chavez fell silent again, his anger building now that he

had nothing to do but think it over. “You know, I’d really like to meet that

guy.”

“We won’t.”

Time for a little perverse fantasy: “I know, but I used to be a Ninja, re-

member? It might be real fun, especially barehanded.”

“That just breaks bones, pretty often your own bones.”

“I’d like to see his eyes when it happens.”

“So put a good scope on the rifle,” Clark advised.

“True,” Chavez conceded. “What kind of person gets off on that,

Mr. C?”

“One sick motherfucker, Domingo. I met a few, once.”

Just before they got into the car, Ding’s black eyes locked on Clark.

“Maybe I will meet this one personally, John. El fado can play tricks.

Funny ones.”

“Where is she?” Nomuri asked from behind the wheel.

“Drive,” Clark told him.

‘ ‘You should have heard the speech,” Chet said, moving up the street and

wondering what had gone wrong.

‘ ‘The girl’s dead,” Ryan told the President barely two hours later, i :oo P.M.,

Washington time.

“Natural causes?” Durling asked.

“Drug overdose, probably not self-administered. They have photos. We

ought to have them in thirty-six hours. Our guys just got clear in time. The

Japanese police showed up pretty fast.”

“Wait a minute. Back up. You’re saying murder?”

“That’s what our people think, yes, Mr. President.”

“Do they know enough to make that evaluation?”

Ryan took his seat and decided that he had to explain a little bit. “Sir, our