able to approach the truck free and clear. It would be parked in a secluded position where it could monitor the event planned to go down. Tilman was able to park his unmarked car well away from the location and work his way through the timbered area that lay on the blind side of the parked truck.
Tilman had chosen an unregistered 9 mm Uzi he had obtained a few years back during an operation. The weapon had been brought into the States by some illegals and had fallen into Tilman’s hands at an opportune moment. The weapon was brand-new, had never been fired, and he had kept it on an impulse. He’d brought the weapon out of mothballs, fitted it with a suppressor and used it on the night he’d shot the three agents on the surveillance stakeout. The silent kill allowed Tilman to make his retreat without interruption. He had climbed into the waiting car and had driven quietly away, long gone before the waiting assault team became aware something was wrong and the surveillance team was out of communication. The car was one he had from the department pool. It was equipped with CIA plates that were untraceable. And when Tilman returned to his block and parked in the basement garage, he took the Uzi with him to his apartment, cleaned it thoroughly and returned it to its hiding place.
He had been in the shower when the call came in about the killings. Suitably shocked he had readily accepted the order to return to the Agency and assist in the investigation that was gathering momentum. He had, with others from his section, remained on duty over the next couple of days. At the end of it there had been little solid evidence forthcoming. The investigation had been pushed to the higher echelons of the Agency.
It wasn’t until some time later that Tilman learned from inside sources of the transmission from the surveillance vehicle that the late Agent Schofield had appeared to recognize his killer. It also came as something of a shock that he learned the murder weapon had been identified as an Uzi. He had experienced brief panic, but had calmed himself with the knowledge it meant little in itself. The sound of an Uzi did nothing to pin down the actual weapon or who had fired it. The added factor—Schofield appearing to recognize his killer—concerned him a little more. He spoke about it to Townsend. The man was more annoyed than overly concerned.
“Okay, so Schofield saw you. That’s as far as it goes, Pete. He didn’t say your name. He didn’t write it in blood because he was dead when you left. He was dead, wasn’t he?”
“What do you think I am? Some amateur? Yes, they were all dead. I made sure of that.”
“So the Agency is walking around in the dark. All they have are theories. Just theories. Quit gripin’, Pete. Let’s move on. We got bigger things to deal with.”
T HE LAST TO ARRIVE WAS Joseph Riotta. He was Townsend’s negotiator, the man who handled the smooth running of deals and doing most of the financial arrangements. Riotta, a lean, balding man in his thirties, had a natural affinity for organizing money transactions. He was meticulous, sometimes too abrasive, but no one could come anywhere near to matching his skill when it came to working the clients. He came out onto the patio, wearing a neat suit and button-down shirt. His only concession to the informal occasion was that he hadn’t put on a tie.
Townsend was already seated at the table with Tilman and Ralph Chomski. They were dressed in casual, light clothing and were already into their second round of drinks.
“Joseph, fill yourself a glass and join us,” Townsend said. He turned back to the table. “So what’s the latest from our pals in the CIA?”
“Can’t put my finger on it,” Tilman said, “but the Agency has gone quiet on the killings. Hardly ever mention it anymore. It’s weird. Like they’ve decided not to chase the case any further.”
“Doesn’t sound natural to me,” Chomski said. “Like the cops shelving an investigation after one of their own gets hit. I’ve never heard of that ever happening. And I figure the spooks would be the same. You sure you haven’t been shut out, Pete? Like it’s gone to a higher level?”
“Or maybe they have a suspect and they don’t want him to know,” Riotta said as he joined them, a tall glass of iced fruit juice in his hand.
Tilman glanced across at him, a faint smile on his face. “It doesn’t work like that in the Agency, Joseph. If I was a suspect in the killing of three agents, I wouldn’t be sitting here. I would be locked away in a deep, dark place having the crap kicked out of me. Or I’d be sitting on a cloud with my harp, trying to explain to my three dead buddies why I shot them.”
Chomski gave a loud hoot of laughter. “I like that, Pete. You know that’s the first time I realized you have a sense of humor.”
“Yeah? So why don’t I nudge Joseph to see if some of it rubs off on him?”
Riotta ignored the gibe. He noticed Townsend smiling gently. It made him bristle. Riotta admitted he had no sense of humor. He took his work, as his life, seriously. It was all business with Joseph Riotta.
“Oliver, I confirmed payment for the shipment to Africa. Full settlement. The delivery should be completed in three days.”
“Fine. That should keep our principles happy. Now what about the Jack Regan order?”
“He’s still having problems with the local guy, Calvera.”
“Is that the Mexican who thinks he’s going to put the squeeze on us?” Chomski asked.
Townsend nodded.
“Damned local hood who must have seen too many episodes of The Untouchables. ” He reached across the table and plucked a thick cigar from an open box. “Let’s send Vic down to give Regan some backup. Our new recruit, Hawkins, can go with him. Let’s see how he operates when the going gets tough.”
“New man?” Tilman asked, suddenly alert. “You vetted him?”
“Relax, Pete,” Chomski said. “He’s ex-military. Served with Vic back when. Got ditched because he got a hard-on over some pussy UN officer who turned chicken and had to shoot some local warlord. I ran a computer check on him. He’s been in a few scrapes with the law. Just toughed it out with some redneck trying to run a scam. Looks okay, but don’t worry, we’ll keep an eye on him.”
Tilman picked up his glass and swallowed hard.
“If you say so.”
“Ralph, is the Kibble matter settled?” Townsend asked.
Chomski nodded. “Account closed. We won’t be hearing from him again. Neither will anyone else.”
“Joseph, I’m calling in a backup contact for this Guang Lor deal. We have to complete this order on time. Su Han will start getting impatient if we lose time. And I don’t want to upset the Chinese government.”
“I understand. Are you talking about Dupont?”
“He works the same research department Kibble was in at RossJacklin. We brought him in and kept him in the background in case anything soured the Kibble deal.”
“Did I miss something? Do we have a problem with Kibble?” Tilman asked.
“Kibble backed off. Said there were problems at the plant. Security had been tightened. He wanted out.”
“Scared people do things like caving in and talking to the wrong people,” Chomski said. “We couldn’t risk that, so Mr. Kibble has gone AWOL. For good.”
“I’ll
