‘Glad to hear that.’ Tony smiled and refilled both glasses.
‘What about Eddie?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Is he ever going to get “made”?’ Tucker looked down, swirling the wine around the glass. One thing about Tony, he always set the right kind of atmosphere for a business discussion. It was one of the reasons they’d been drawn together. Tony was quiet, thoughtful, always polite, even when you asked a sensitive question.
‘That’s kind of touchy, Henry, and I really shouldn’t talk that over with you. You can never be “made.” You know that.’
‘No equal-opportunity in the outfit, eh? Well, that’s okay. I know I’d never fit in real good. Just so’s we can do business, Anthony.’ Tucker took the occasion to grin, breaking the tension somewhat and, he hoped, making it easier for Tony to answer the question. He got his wish.
‘No,’ Piaggi said after a moment’s contemplation. ‘Nobody thinks Eddie’s got what it takes.’
‘Maybe he’s lookin’ for a way to prove diffr’nt.’
Piaggi shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Eddie’s going to make a good living off this. He knows that.’
‘Who, then?’ Tucker asked. ‘Who else knows enough? Who else would do a bunch of killings to cover up a move like this? Who else would make it look like a pro job?’
Eddie’s not smart enough. Piaggi knew that; or thought he did.
‘Henry, taking Eddie out would cause major problems.’ He paused. ‘But I’ll check around.’
‘Thank you,’ Tucker said. He stood and left Tony alone with his wine.
Piaggi stayed at his table. Why did things have to be so complicated? Was Henry being truthful? Probably, he thought. He was Henry’s only connection to the outfit, and severing that tie would be very bad for everyone. Tucker could become highly important but would never be an insider. On the other hand he was smart and he delivered. The outfit had lots of such people, inside-outsiders, associate members, whatever you might call them, whose value and status were proportional to their utility. Many of them actually wielded more power than some ‘made’ members, but there was always a difference. In a real dispute, being made counted for much – in most cases, counted for everything.
That could explain matters. Was Eddie jealous of Henry’s status? Did he crave becoming a real member so much that he might be willing to forfeit the benefits of the current business arrangement? It didn’t make sense, Piaggi told himself. But what did?
‘Ahoy the Springer!’ a voice called. The Marine corporal was surprised to see the cabin door open immediately. He’d expected having to jolt this… civilian… from his cushy bed. Instead he saw a man come out in jungle boots and bush fatigues. They weren’t Marine ‘utilities,’ but close enough to show the man was serious. He could see where some badges had been removed, where a name and something else would have gone, and that somehow made Mr Clark look more serious still.
“This way, sir.’ The corporal gestured. Kelly followed without a word.
Sir didn’t mean anything, Kelly knew. When in doubt, a Marine would call a lightpole ‘Sir.’ He followed the youngster to a car and they drove off, crossing the railroad tracks and climbing uphill while he wished for another few hours of sleep.
‘You the General’s driver?’
‘Yes, sir.’ And that was the extent of their conversation.
There were about twenty-five of them, standing in the morning mist, stretching and chatting among themselves as the squad NCOs walked up and down the line, looking for bleary eyes or slack expressions. Heads turned when the General’s car stopped and a man got out. They saw he wore the wrong sort of fatigues and wondered who the hell he was, especially since he had no rank insignia at all. He walked right up to the senior NCO.
‘You Gunny Irvin?’ Kelly asked.
Master Gunnery Sergeant Paul Irvin nodded politely as he sized the visitor up. ‘Correct, sir. Are you Mr Clark?’
Kelly nodded. ‘Well, I’m trying to be, this early.’
Both men traded a look. Paul Irvin was dark and serious-looking. Not as overtly threatening as Kelly had expected, he had the eyes of a careful, thoughtful man, which was to be expected for someone of his age and experience.
‘What kinda shape you in?’ Irvin asked.
‘Only one way to find that out,’ ‘Clark’ answered.
Irvin smiled broadly. ‘Good. I’ll let you lead the run, sir. Our captain’s away somewhere jerking off.’
Oh, shit!
‘Now let’s get loosened up.’ Irvin walked back to the formation, calling it to attention. Kelly took a place on the right side of the second rank.
‘Good morning, Marines!’
‘Reconl’ they bellowed back.
The daily dozen wasn’t exactly fun, but Kelly didn’t have to show off. He did watch Irvin, who was becoming more serious by the minute, doing his exercises like some sort of robot. Half an hour later they were indeed all loosened up, and Irvin brought them back to attention in preparation for the run.
‘Gentlemen, I want to introduce a new member of our team. This is Mr Clark. He’ll be leading the run with me.’
Kelly took his place, whispering, ‘I don’t know where the hell we’re going.’
Irvin smiled in a nasty way. ‘No problem, sir. You can follow us in after you fall out.’
‘Lead off, jarhead,’ Kelly replied, one pro to another.
Forty minutes later, Kelly was still in the lead. Being there allowed him to set the pace, and that was the only good news. Not staggering was his other main concern, and that was becoming difficult, since when the body tires the fine-tuning controls go first.
‘Left,’ Irvin said, pointing. Kelly couldn’t know that he’d needed ten seconds to assemble the surplus air to speak. He’d also had the burden of singing the cadence, however. The new path, just a dirt trail, took them into the piney woods.
Buildings, oh Jesus. I hope that’s the stopping place. Even his thoughts were gasps now. The path wound around a little, but there were cars there, and that had to be – what? He almost stopped in surprise, and on his own called, ‘Quick-time, march’ to slow the formation down.
Mannequins?
‘Detail,’ Irvin called out, ‘halt! Stand at ease,’ he added.
Kelly coughed a few times, bending down slightly, blessing his runs in the park and around his island for allowing him to survive this morning.
‘Slow,’ was all Irvin had to say at the moment.
‘Good morning, Mr Clark.’ It turned out that one of the cars was real, Kelly saw. James Greer and Marty Young waved him over.
‘Good morning. I hope y’all slept well,’ Kelly told them. .
‘You volunteered, John,’ Greer pointed out.
‘They’re four minutes slow this morning,’ Young observed. ‘Not bad for a spook, though.’
Kelly turned away in semidisgust. It took a minute or so for him to realize what this place was.
‘Damn!’
‘There’s your hill.’ Young pointed.
‘Trees are taller here,’ Kelly said, evaluating the distance.
‘So’s the hill. It’s a wash.’
‘Tonight?’ Kelly asked. It wasn’t hard to catch the meaning of the General’s words.
‘Think you’re up to it?’
‘I suppose we need to know that. When’s the mission going to go?’
Greer took that one. ‘You don’t need to know that yet.’
‘How much warning will I have?’
The CIA official weighed that one before answering. ‘Three days before we move out. We’ll be going over mission parameters in a few hours. For now, watch how these men are setting up.’ Greer and Young headed off to their car.
‘Aye aye,’ Kelly replied to their backs. The Marines had coffee going. He got a cup and started blending in with the assault team.
‘Not bad,’ Irvin said.
‘Thanks. I always figured it’s one of the most important things you need to know in this business.’
‘What’s that?’ Irvin asked.
‘How to run away as far and fast as you can.’
Irvin laughed and then came the first work detail of the day, something that let the men cool down and have a laugh of their own. They started moving the mannequins around. It had become a ritual, which woman went with which kids. They’d discovered that the models could be posed, and the Marines made great fun of that. Two had brought new outfits, both rather skimpy bikinis, which they ostentatiously put on two lounging lady-figures. Kelly watched with incredulous amazement, then realized that the swimsuit models had had their bodies – painted, in the interests of realism, Jesus, he thought, and they say sailors are screwy!
USS Ogden was a new ship, or nearly so, having emerged from the New York Naval Shipyard’s building ways in 1964. Rather a strange-looking ship, she was 570 feet long, and her forward half had a fairly normal superstructure and eight guns to annoy attacking aircraft. The odd part was the after half, which was flat on top and hollow underneath. The flat part was good for landing helicopters, and directly under that was a well deck designed to be filled with water from which landing craft could operate. She and her eleven sister ships had been designed to support landing operations, to put Marines on the beach for the amphibious-assault missions that The Corps had invented in the 1920s and perfected in the 1940s. But the Pacific Fleet amphibious ships were without a mission now – the Marines were on the beach, generally brought in by chartered jetliners to conventional airports – and so some of the ‘phibs were being outfitted for other missions. As Ogden was.