“Yeah, you’re probably right, and that’s what I was going to say. He didn’t have a criminal record, and guys who get killed over narcotics usually do. Which made me wonder if he was a witness involved in some sort of federal case.”
“Well, if he was, I wouldn’t know,” DeMarco said. Glazer started to say something else, but DeMarco interrupted him. “Detective, if this isn’t your case, why do you care why Paul was killed or why the FBI’s involved?”
Glazer rubbed a hand over his face as if trying to scrub away the fatigue. Finally he said, “Because he was killed on my turf, DeMarco. And because there’s something strange going on here. If your cousin was just some ordinary schmuck who had the bad luck to get shot, the feds wouldn’t have wanted anything to do with him and would have insisted I take the case. But that’s not what happened and it bugs me. I was hoping you could help me figure out what the hell’s going on.”
It sounded to DeMarco like this was some sort of pissing contest between the local cops and the Bureau, and he had absolutely no interest in it. “Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t help you,” he said. “Unless there’s something else, I need to get his body and make arrangements for a funeral.”
“You’ll have to talk to the FBI about that,” Glazer said. “And they won’t release the body until an autopsy is done. The agent in charge is a guy named Hopper.”
5
Charles Bradford didn’t like the expression shit happens because too often fate was blamed for poor preparation and execution. But sometimes, shit did happen. Sometimes, the best-planned operations went awry for reasons the planners could have never imagined. The attempt to rescue the hostages in Iran in 1980 was one of the best examples he could think of.
In 1979, the American Embassy in Tehran was taken over by an Iranian mob, fifty-three Americans were held hostage and, after almost a year of attempting to negotiate their release, the president finally authorized a military mission to free them. The mission was planned for months, all possible intelligence was collected, the best personnel were selected-and then everything went to hell. One helicopter had an avionics system failure, another had a hydraulic system failure, and an unexpected sandstorm occurred. The mission finally ended in total disaster when a refueling plane crashed into a third helicopter, killing eight U.S. servicemen.
Shit happens.
Bradford knew something similar had happened with Levy’s operation. John Levy was a careful man, a man who thought things through. He had worked for Bradford for a long time and had always performed admirably under the most difficult conditions. So even before Levy gave him the details, Bradford was sure that whatever had gone wrong had been totally out of Levy’s control-an act of God, if you will. As it turned out, he was right.
“A drunk hit the ambulance I had staged for moving the bodies,” Levy said. “It was a… a total fluke.”
“Why didn’t you have the ambulance right at the scene?” Bradford said.
“I thought it might stand out and somebody might remember it. And it was only two blocks away, less than a minute away. But this drunk? He takes a corner going about sixty and hits the ambulance head on. The drunk was killed, a woman with him is in critical condition, and my man was injured.”
“What sort of injuries?”
“Internal injuries and major head trauma. He’s in a coma. I have someone inside the hospital, and if he comes out of the coma I’ll be called immediately. I’ll make sure he doesn’t talk to anyone, but it may take a few days to get him out of the hospital because-”
Bradford interrupted him. “John, you know what’s at stake here. This man poses a significant risk. He may talk and not even realize he’s talking. I know he’s a good man, but-”
Bradford stopped speaking and just stared at Levy. Finally, Levy said, “Yes, sir. I–I understand.”
Bradford could see the fate of the driver bothered Levy-and this was understandable. Levy wasn’t a demonstrative man, but neither was he without compassion. Nor was Charles Bradford. Nonetheless, and as Bradford had said, Levy knew that the life of a single man couldn’t be allowed to compromise everything they were doing.
John Levy was tall and broad-shouldered and had a marathon runner’s physique: no excess fat, long ropy muscles. His hands were huge and his wrists were the size of two by fours. Levy had the most powerful-looking wrists Bradford had ever seen. He wore his dark hair short and his face was long and somber with sunken cheeks and dark circles under deep-set, morose brown eyes. He looked like a man who rarely slept and never smiled; Bradford sometimes visualized him in a Franciscan monk’s brown cowl, the hood covering his head, shadowing his face. But Levy wasn’t religious, at least not in the conventional sense. What he was, above all else, was a patriot.
“Does the driver have a family?” Bradford asked.
Levy shook his head. “No wife or children. His mother and father are in Kansas. Farm people.”
Salt of the earth, Bradford thought.
“Have him die somewhere overseas, in combat,” Bradford said. “I don’t want his parents to think their son was wasted in a senseless traffic accident.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the rest of your team?” Bradford asked.
“They’re already on their way out of the country.”
“Good. And the two men who stumbled upon the scene?”
A second act of God, those two men showing up near the Iwo Jima Memorial at that time of night.
“I had Hopper interview them,” Levy said. “They didn’t see anything. They don’t know anything. They’re not a problem.”
“Good,” Bradford said. He said nothing more for a moment as he analyzed everything Levy had told him. “I think the only thing I’m concerned about was bringing in Hopper too fast. Taking the case away from Arlington and giving it to Hopper was the right thing to do, but it might have been better if you had delayed that a bit.”
“I didn’t know what those two men had seen at the time,” Levy said. “And since I had to leave Russo’s body, I didn’t want to give the Arlington cops time to study the wound or do an autopsy and figure out what type of ordinance was used.”
“I understand,” Bradford said. “It was a judgment call. And you certainly made the right choice regarding which body to leave.”
“I think so,” Levy said. “Russo didn’t have a lover, and his parents are dead. Nobody will really push for a solution. I’ve told Hopper to say he was most likely dealing drugs and, with Russo being a nurse, the people who matter will buy the story.”
Bradford nodded. It appeared as if Levy had thought of everything. There were some risks-in any military operation there were always risks-but not large ones.
“All right, John,” Bradford said. “Keep me posted.”
“Yes, sir,” Levy said.
Bradford noticed Levy started to raise his right hand to salute but then stopped himself. Old habits die hard- and it was good they did. John Levy would always be a soldier, with or without a uniform.
Bradford stood, hands clasped behind his back, looking out a window. In the distance he could see a portion of Arlington National Cemetery: a rolling green hill and row after row of white headstones. He loved the view from his office and took pride in the fact that one day his body would be interred at Arlington, his grave marked only by a simple white stone marker. That was all he wanted-no grand tomb, just the same stone that marked the graves of his fallen comrades.
He could also see Levy standing on the sidewalk talking to someone on his cell phone. He was most likely checking on the young man in the coma. He was probably wishing the driver would simply die, and then he wouldn’t have to execute the order he’d been given. But Bradford had no doubt that Levy would follow the order.
He was so lucky to have a man like John. The people of this country, blissful in their ignorance, had no idea how much their survival depended on men like him.
And Martin.
