Chapter 10
The Pan Am Boeing 707 jet landed at 9:43 P.M. at National Airport, Washington, D.C.—almost half an hour late. Woodrow Justine was used to planes being late. He flew a lot in his business. Still, it didn’t mean that, after a while, cooped up in the pressurized cabin with dozens of other cramped, sweaty people, the inevitable bawling baby, and the snot-nosed kids, he didn’t feel extremely claustrophobic and twitchy and in the exact kind of mood to kill somebody.
Tonight, maybe he’d be able to release his tensions in the course of duty.
Carrying only a flight bag, he didn’t have to go and collect any baggage. Justine, relieved to be on the ground, fled the main concourse, past the filed taxicabs and the milling people and into the fine spring Washington, D.C., night. He walked past the specially designated parking lot for VIPs such as senators, congressmen, and diplomats, then past the short-term lot. Across from this stood the station for the elevated Metro-line. Beside a concrete stanchion, across from the Metro, in the long-term parking lot, exactly where it was promised to be, waited a black Williams Motors stretch-limo.
Justine smiled to himself. In most other cities, that auto would stick out like a sore thumb. But here, in National Airport in the country’s capital, where power cruised in splendor, it was just another set of wheels. The sound of a jet taking off over the Potomac River sheared through the air as Justine stepped past the barriers and up to the back door, which opened for him immediately.
“Get in,” a terse voice said.
Justine gently put his bag in first onto the plush floor. The smell of upholstery polish, a French cigarette, and English cologne, the faint touch of air-conditioning, and the gentle squeak of a radio surrounded him as he stepped gracefully in and settled into the leather cushions. The barrier between front and back seat was opaque; Justine could not see the driver, or determine if there was an agent riding shotgun. This made him faintly uneasy. Even on friendly territory, he liked to know the gun emplacements.
“Flight okay?” asked Brian Richards, the man Justine knew as Editor-in-Chief. This polite inquiry surprised Justine. He supposed it was Richards’s way of saying, “Sorry to pry you out of L.A. on such short notice.”
“Made me antsy,” said Justine, grinning.
“Tired?”
“Got some sleep on the plane. Slept like a baby last night. I feel good.”
“Excellent. Then you feel as though you can operate tonight.”
“Shit, Chief, if it’s fucking Everett Scarborough you want snuffed, I can do it last night!” The very thought made Woodrow Justine tingle with anticipation.
Richards’s voice grew an edge. “I told you, Woodrow, never call me Chief. It makes me feel like Perry White of the Metropolis Daily Planet, speaking to cub reporter Jimmy Olsen.”
“Yes, okay, sorry,” said Justine.
“You want some soda? I stocked some A & W for you, and there’s ice. I know you don’t drink alcohol, which is just as well,” Richards’s voice softened to its usual mellifluous tenor. “And you must have misheard me. Everett Scarborough is not on the ticket tonight. You’re going to have to muzzle that for a while ... Scarborough’s a delicate situation, but the Top still need him.”
Justine could not hide his disappointment. “Damn.” He leaned forward and picked out a glass, which he filled with ice and root beer.
“I realize your reasons for hating the man, Woodrow. Maybe you’ll get your wish someday. But that’s not a wish I can grant,” Richards leaned forward, smoke from his Gauloise rippling up and cascading past his serious and thoughtful face. “If you’d have listened properly, you’d have realized this is a Code Four that involves Scarborough—to protect him, not eliminate him.” A gentle smile of derision touched the corners of Richards’s pale and naked mouth. Justine realized that the chief had been toying with him. A slight jab of emotional sadism—just the kind of thing that Richards enjoyed so much. But Justine said nothing, choosing to suppress his anger, if not his disappointment. Richards was the man responsible for everything in Woodrow Justine’s satisfying and rewarding life of money, happiness, and legal murder. Editor Richards had been the man who’d tapped him, trained him, and kept tabs on him. When Brian Richards said “Kill,” Justine killed, and when Brian Richards said “Heel,” Justine heeled.
“Protect him, huh? What man of good taste wants the bastard gone?” Justine took an ice cube in his mouth and began to suck on it.
“Last night, at one of Scarborough’s lectures, a man took out a handgun and tried to shoot him. From the balcony of Tawes Auditorium, University of Maryland. Another man was killed, Scarborough only suffered minor wounds. The assailant escaped.” Richards puffed thoughtfully. “However, due to the sensitive nature of Scarborough’s place in the Editorial Panorama, a few subagents were in the audience. It was the debut of Scarborough’s new presentation. Much more showbizzy ... Sleight of hand, magic to prove various points. Lasers, music, slides—quite entertaining, apparently, and a hit with the audience. At any rate, the subagents pieced together a composite on the assassin—and our associates in the FBI have successfully tracked down the identity of the man, and his place of domicile. We in turn requested that there be no records of this exchange of information. This morning, after careful consideration of the facts on hand, I decided that it would be best to simply erase this particular threat to Scarborough.”
“Aha. And that’s where I come in,” said Justine.
“Yes. An extreme measure ... but I studied the man’s records carefully. No previous criminal record, no ties to subversive or potentially harmful groups. Not a professional, certainly.”
“Sir, I need more concrete information if I’m to perform my function properly.” Justine crunched the ice between his teeth.
Richards raised his thin eyebrows and winced a little at the sound. “Yes. Sorry, Wood, I’m just still musing over the matter. Strange chap, this guy. We’ve got no character description or psychological profile, but from what we can piece together, he’s a sociopath.
“His name is Arnold Klinghoffer. Age: forty-one. He works as a night janitor at Catholic University.” A paper crinkled. Justine realized his boss was reading from a crib sheet he had taken from the jacket pocket of his suit. “Lives in Takoma Park, Maryland. Address is right here. It’s an old house, which his mother left him when she died two years ago. He’s apparently lived there all his life, and he’s unmarried. High school dropout—Northwestern High. Hmm ... what else. Subscribes to a lot of outré magazines, including every UFO periodical available. Neighbors report he keeps to himself, but causes no problems; sort of the neighborhood hermit.”
“Why should this bozo take a shot at Scarborough?”
“As you know, the good doctor gets a number of death threats. He upsets the saucer aficionados a great deal.” Richards smiled ruefully. “He certainly upsets you, Woodrow.”
“What, you mean this asshole Scarborough is so important in the Panorama that you’re going to waste my talents, taking out every saucernik who looks cross-eyed at the great man?”
“No. I considered merely having Mr. Klinghoffer put away for a while. But still, I like to keep things simple—and utilizing your excellent talents is quick and immediate. This way, we won’t have to worry about Klinghoffer trying to blow a hole in Scarborough at the wrong time, ever again.”
“I thought you said that Scarborough’s gonna have to go sometime!”
“Sometime, Woodrow, may be tomorrow—but it may be next century as well. What we must have, however, is control over the situation. We are the Editors, man. We exercise our ability to keep the script trimmed, properly plotted and paced. Absolutely no extraneous detail. And most important, it must be kept in absolute control.” The smoke hovering about the man thickened as he became more excited and sucked harder on his cigarette. “We are the Fates, Woodrow, spinning our web—and snipping it where it gets too tangled. That is our job—but remember, we merely interpret directions dictated from other quarters. And as much as you hate Scarborough, those ‘other quarters’ find Scarborough and his activities much to their liking.”
“The fucking Publishers,” Justine said, shaking his head and chuckling to himself. “One of these days, maybe they’ll come down from on high and explain to me the real reason they’re doing all this shit.” He shrugged.
“Yours is not to reason why, Junior Editor. The Panorama is for the best interests of our country, and make no mistake about that!” Deep wrinkles etched into the man’s face as he spoke, as though reciting a deeply felt creed. “There are forces that would have the greatest nation on earth destroyed. It is our sacred trust to use whatever methods necessary to protect the United States of America!”
“Sure, I guess I shouldn’t complain much. I like my job.”
Well, he was going to get his kill tonight, anyway, even if it wasn’t Scarborough like he’d hoped.
“Yes, I know you do. I trust you’ve been taking your medicine Ms. Cunningham has been giving you, like a good boy?”
“Sure.” Justine pulled out the pale brown prescription bottle from his coat pocket and rattled the loose pills. His thinking tablets, he called them. A light dosage of thorazine, laced with a soupcon of other psycho-actives, all delicately formulated to specifically adjust his biochemistry. “Matter of fact, I’m due to take one tonight. I’ll wash it down with my root beer.”
Richards laid his hand on Justine’s forearm, and shook his head. “There’s more. We have no indication that this Klinghoffer nerd is associated with other parties. But we can’t be too careful, Wood. Find out. No sodium pentathol. Old-fashioned methods.”
“Ah. I take it you want me raw tonight.”
“Let’s just say you can take your medicine afterwards.” Richards gestured outside the window. “We’ve provided a nondescript Chevrolet station wagon, registered, but essentially untraceable. On the passenger seat you’ll find the usual suitcase of goodies. Included are bags of marijuana, crack, and PCP. Plant these on the site of your operation. Prince George’s County is just a stone’s throw away. Hundreds of people are getting blown away every year. Drug-related feuds, bad deals, what have you. The Montgomery County Police won’t know much about Mr. Klinghoffer. We want them to assume this was a drug-related death. Once someone actually finds the body, that is. Keep the noise down to an absolute minimum.”
“Sure. Then what?”
“You’ve got a room booked at the Crystal City Marriott. Courtesy of the Editorial expense account. You sleep late tomorrow, leave the car in the hotel parking lot, and take the Metro down here for a five o’clock afternoon flight back to L.A. Take it easy for a few days!”
Justine held out his hand. “Keys?”
“In the ignition.”
“What’s on tap after my days off? More Panorama Abduction Project work?” Contempt filled his voice.
“You don’t much prefer this sort of thing, do you, Justine?”
“I guess I’m a pretty straight shooter, man. I’d much rather kill enemies and obstructions than mess with regular people’s heads.”
“Justine,” said Richards solemnly. “Our names will probably appear in no history books, but be assured—we are wrapped up in a program designed not only to preserve and protect our country, but to carry its people to a glorious destiny, a shining future. The Project is vital to our goals, and is working splendidly already. Consider yourself a privileged individual, a Soldier of American Integrity.”
Justine reached over and took the sheet of information from his boss, noting that a grainy photograph was clipped to its bottom. “Yeah. Better go get on my horse and ride.”
“You’re a good man, Justine. You can expect your usual bonus.”
Justine opened the door, and softly smiled back at the man in the back seat of the limo. “Hiyo, Silver.”