Cetus Wedge: The Charlemagne Files, #3

PROLOGUE

Disaster hung like a bottomland mist over the rented two-bedroom townhouse at the end of a city cul-de-sac. It hung down; it rose from the ground; it inhabited each room. It dripped from the mauve and teal Christmas wreath on the front door, making Merry Christmas a mournful greeting.

Mick and Stain sat in an old Buick across the street.

What are you gonna do with your share, Mick?

I ain't fuckin' earned it yet so shut up about it. Just get ready. Mick tightened his ponytail by dividing it behind his head and pulling the two halves in opposite directions.

Don't wave your arms around like that, Mick. Somebody'll notice. I'm gonna have a real blowout with my share. Party time! Stain opened and spun the cylinder of the .357 revolver in his lap.

There ain't nobody here to notice us. The targets ain't here neither, so don't go countin' all them chickens before they're even laid, man. And quit playin' with that piece before you blow your nuts off and then I gotta drive.

Here comes somebody. Stain closed the cylinder.

A blue and silver minivan pulled up in front of the townhouse. A woman got out, opened the side door, and unlatched a toddler from a child seat. The child was in a bad mood. He whined and kicked her once, then settled into a whimper as she carried him inside.

Now? asked Stain. The townhouse front door was open.

Wait, said Mick.

I don't know if I can shoot no baby, Mick.

I'll worry about that. You take care of her.

I don't know.

You don't gotta know. You just gotta do. That's the job. Think about the money and just do it.

The woman came back outside. She had brown hair, curly, shoulder-length, blowing wild in the cold wind. She pushed it out of her face, took some grocery bags out of the car, and went into the house. The front door was still open.

Let's go, said Stain.

Not yet.

The woman came back to her car a second time. She wore faded blue jeans and white walking shoes that absorbed the better part of a mud puddle as she stepped off the curb. She shook her foot like a kitten. One, two, mud is distasteful. She took the last of the groceries out of the car and slammed the car door. The heavy bags made her waddle a bit as she walked to the house.

Okay. Come on. Let's do it. Mick opened his car door and stood in the street.

Stain pulled back the hammer on his revolver. He held it in his right hand and reached for his door handle with the left.

Shit. Mick sat down again and closed his door, hunching down in his seat, trying to be inconspicuous.

Stain turned around. A black car pulled into the cul-de-sac. It was a Mercedes. Fan-cee. It parked behind the minivan. Three men got out, real dudes, suits and all, two blonds, one with dark hair. They all looked at Stain and Mick, then two of them followed the woman into her house. The one that was left stood on the curb to stare at them.

I don't like this, Mick. That guy gives me the creeps. He ain't natural. He ain't real.

He is too natural, Stain. He's a real, natural killer. I seen that look before, man. He's way out there, and we're gettin' the fuck outta here. Drive, man.

Stain started the car and reversed it all the way back out of the cul-de-sac. The man watched them go, then turned and walked into the woman's house.

ONE

My lawyer said I would be acquitted, and I was. That left resigning as the only honorable course, and I took it.

By accident, I met a gunship driver who had been in my pilot training class. He was still flying. I talked to him at a motel coffee shop and pretended I was in town on business like he was. I said I was looking for something better than I was in, not saying that what I was in was a load of the deepest kimchee, what with my unemployment run out, a new baby at home, and a wife who wouldn't even let me back in for my toothbrush last night.

He asked was I current. No. Was I the guy who…? Yes. He took a step backward. I might be contagious. What else had I flown? How long? How many hours? Told him all that. Could I get checked out again? Sure.

He said he knew some people and he'd put a word in for me. I wondered what kind of people he knew. Drop in the night special ops types, the kinds that fly unsafe airplanes into unsafe airspace under unsafe conditions. I got a real estate license while I waited. Didn't make a dime at it.

When the call came and there was no flying in it, I took it anyway because I'm not stupid. I know I'm not likely to fly again and, in the meantime, I've become attached to eating. It's my favorite hobby next to martial arts, and both joys cost money. Besides, Sally said something along the lines of Don't come back till you have a job, and even then, I went through training without her. After graduation, they put me behind a desk like some fucking shoe clerk.

My apologies to any ladies who may read this someday. But then, if you're cleared for WEDGE material, you've seen a lot worse so what the hell.

I kicked and screamed and they sent me upstairs to The Section. I was happy, apprenticed to number fifty-nine of a sixty-man unit. I saw some action at the lowest levels. Sally came to live with me and brought the baby.

I had just come back from a great success in Honduras, not even a reprimand for a change, and things were noisy in the ops room, with congratulations and explanations flying—within strict limits of need to know, of course. It was a Saturday night three days before Christmas. There was some cheer being passed around. I had some, and then some more, and developed a need for peace and coffee. These were in the hall, which was usually deserted because a lot of guys were convinced the coffee machine was just a home for bugs, the kinds that listen, that is, but I'm pretty sure it harbored a few of the other kind, too.

I was surprised to see a round, bald man pressing buttons randomly until the machine relented, dropped a cup, filled it halfway, then spat the rest out at him. He swore at it, took the cup, and looked at me.

Merry Christmas, Bear.

I winced at the nickname. Merry Christmas. I resisted the urge to say sir. I'm a civilian now.

You don't like the name, eh? The Woman says she dubbed you that because your eyes are like a teddy bear's. Your record's more like a grizzly's, though.

The Woman was the only one in The Section. She wouldn't take a nickname, silly tradition she said, nor did she have a special ops coin. Too macho she said, but she gave nicknames to everybody else and never refused a drink when somebody forgot his coin and had to buy the bar. We called her The Woman behind her back. And if you believe that, you don't know us at all. This guy was a higher-up. It was good to know they called her that, too.

Why don't you get yourself a cup of this… He took a sip and scowled. This is vile. They told me you drink this stuff, but I thought it must have been improved. It's still awful. Get some if you must and come to my office.

I fought the machine and won, stepping aside right before it spat at me, so it missed. Then I followed Buddy to his office. Long ago when he was a young hotshot agent there must have been meaning in the name, but now it was hard to think of the number two man in the organization and the number one man in everybody's estimation (everybody with any sense, that is), as a Buddy.

What do you think of Jello? he asked when we were in his office.

I….

He's an idiot.

I kept my mouth shut. Jello was Chief of Section, Buddy's boss.

How do you think he got his name? he asked.

He….

He melts in any degree of heat, said Buddy. I know you heard it's because his face twitches like a bowl of gelatin or some similar nonsense that he's been putting out, but I know better. I was there when he got the name. He was an idiot then, too. He had WEDGE before me and got a lot of the wrong people killed, nearly including his own team. Fred Dolnikov was our boss at the time. He said to me, 'Buddy, I'm gonna save Jello's life. Hope it doesn't cost you yours. See if you can get a handle on these guys. If they live, they're going to be the best.' Sit down, Bear. Oh. Sorry! I won't use that name.

He waddled behind his desk and was silent for a minute as he sifted through piles of paper looking for something. Sit down, he said again without looking up.

I obeyed. I sat in a worn easy chair in front of the desk, facing sideways toward the door. I looked around quickly. The man was the equivalent of a general and I was in his office. Even in the Air Force I never had this kind of attention without being in trouble, and here I was, the lowest, newest covert ops officer, in the same room with the man at the top, the man who handled WEDGE operations. I did not even know what WEDGE was, though I was getting an inkling. I knew that at some altitude far above my pay grade, we stopped using in-country operatives and began paying mercenaries and assassins. I also knew that way up in the ionosphere these mercenaries and assassins gave way to what were called specialists.

Buddy's was a pretty typical high-ranker's office, mahogany desk, stuffed chairs, credenzas, bookshelves, and all that. The picture behind his desk was unusual, though, not just because any pictures drove the counterintelligence sweepers crazy—one more place to hide things—but also because it was a picture of a window. No kidding. There was a sash, panes, sill and all, with a view of a park beyond it, complete with joggers and children, and even a mugging going on beneath the trees in the distance. There was a real curtain rod above it, and real curtains hung on either side. CI must have hated it.

You like my picture? asked Buddy.

It's….

It's my snorkel, my ventilation, a lifeline to the surface world. I gotta have a window.

Strange statement from what amounted to a senior citizen in a world completely devoid of windows. The Section occupies an inner rectangle of corridors and offices, with a walk-in vault at its center for documents. It is surrounded by an outer rectangle of more offices, themselves without windows. The only windows in the entire building are on either side of the glass doors at the entrance to the lobby downstairs.

No, really, he insisted, what do you think about it?

I think I would be uncomfortable with my back to it.

He narrowed his eyes at me, which was not easy to do with eyes that bulge like that. How long have you been here? he asked.

Six months.

There was an awkward pause as he stared at me and I stared back. So soon, he muttered, then looked down at the paper he had in his hand. Here's your game name. Stephen Donovan. Good Irish name. It has an honorable history in this business.

I ain't Irish. I'm from Texas.

Too bad. The computer calls the shots. You're Steve Donovan. This operation is designator NT, operation name CETUS, account WEDGE. I'm Frank Cardova, by the way. Call me Frank. Here's your legend. He handed me the computer-generated history of Steve Donovan.

I only glanced at it. I was trying to figure out how to explain this to Sally. Everything was classified, even the parts I understood, which were few. Honey, I can't be here for Christmas because I'm needed for something important. They'll probably paint circles on my chest and call me Bull's Eye. Maybe I'm the test dummy for a new weapon.

Relax, Steve, said Buddy. This is a promotion.

Was I that transparent or was Buddy's mind-reading the result of experience?

He started talking. No doubt you know that WEDGE is our computer designation for the specialist team known to the rest of the covert world as Charlemagne. Have you heard of them?

I shook my head.

He whistled. You do know what a specialist is?

Not really.

A babysitter?

I shook my head.

He whistled again and closed the curtains over his picture. The room seemed darker. He came around his desk and sat in the easy chair across from me, his back to the door. He put one pudgy hand on each knee and took a full minute to think before he began.

Steve, you are just now making the transition from a bubble cockpit to these concrete hallways. You're learning fast. After twenty-five years, I still have not adjusted to my room without windows. But there are men so immersed in the muck of our world—and you will learn how deep that is—they are so sucked down into it that they inhabit rooms that not only don't have windows but there are no doors, either. They're not just locked in, they're walled in. These are specialists, my boy. They take incredible risks and they do the impossible.

Why? I asked. Do they do it for money?

They do it for buckets of money. Fantastic sums. But money is only another tool. Survival is their constant business.

How, exactly are they different from regular mercenaries?

Besides the difference in price, they are far more effective. With a good babysitter, everything a specialist does is neat and tidy. There are NO repercussions.

Babysitter?

He bit his lower lip and thrust out his top chin. You know that when you have to handle toxic chemicals, you're always careful to put on gloves, right? Well, a babysitter is like a pair of good heavy-duty gloves that the hierarchy puts on when national security requires them to use a specialist.

And if there's a slip?

The glove takes the burn. He smiled. I am about to be promoted. As Charlemagne's babysitter, I claim the right to choose my successor, and I have chosen you. Congratulations.

What if I screw up?

You won't.

What if I do? I insisted.

The smile went away. Oh, there's no doubt you'll burn, but I understand you're used to that.

TWO

I had a few questions. Closest to my heart: Why Me?

Frank got up, picked up the paper coffee cup on his desk, took a sip, and gagged. I had not touched mine, and now it was too cold anyway. Frank threw his, full, into a trashcan. It spattered across the wall on its way down.

What is the first rule of deception, Steve?

Lead, don't feed.

Very good. The best deceptions are thought of by the deceived. Now tell me the first rule of intelligence.

Verify.

Why?

Because of the first rule of deception.

I find, said Frank with a sigh, "that I become