‘So he’d have access to that information?’
‘Also codes, maps, general info bulletins — and the basic information on the brigade itself,’ said Sloan. ‘Now you know why we maintain individual integrity in this outfit. Norgling’s just like the rest of you, he only knows his direct contacts.’
‘Which means you,’ Hatcher said.
Sloan nodded slowly.
‘Get him off the street before he sells them anything else,’ Hatcher said.
‘I can’t bust him on the basis of that,’ said Sloan, nodding toward the cassette deck. ‘It’s his word against the voice on the tape. Without corroboration the provost marshal’ll laugh at me.’
‘How about this Di Tran?’
‘We sent a slick in for him but he didn’t show at the drop. We have to assume he’s dead.’
‘Then this Norgling’s gonna blow your whole show.’
Sloan stared back at his hands for a few more seconds, then nodded to himself and looked up at Hatcher.
‘We’ll set him up. I’ll arrange for him to meet you someplace. Tell him it’s an operation requiring two men. When he shows up, drop him. Upriver maybe.’
‘No. Too many ears on the river. We’ll do it in Saigon. The Princess Hotel. I’ll dust him, you dump him.’
‘Fair enough.’
Seven P.M. Fourth floor of the Princess. If Norgling was paranoid, if he suspected anything, he’d show up early to throw Hatcher off-balance. Hatcher knew the game well.
Norgling arrived at a quarter to seven to find Hatcher’s door open just a crack. He loosened his coat, reached under his arm and felt his pistol grip, then stepped cautiously inside.
The bedroom was empty. He heard music coming from the bathroom.
‘Hello?’ he called out.
‘In here,’ he heard Hatcher’s voice answer. ‘Close the door, will you?’
Norgling closed the door and approached the bathroom slowly. Hatcher was in the tub, his had resting against the back of it, taking a bubble bath. There was a bottle of red wine on the floor beside the tub and a half-empty glass. There was another glass on the sink.
Hatcher looked up and smiled. ‘Norg1ing?’
‘Right.’
‘Jesse Caruthers,’ Hatcher said. ‘Pardon me for not standing. Grab a glass and pull up a chair.’
He could see Norgling’s face relax. The muscles around his mouth loosened, his smile came .easily, his whole body was at ease.
A real amateur, thought Hatcher.
As Norgling was pouring a glass of wine, Hatcher said, ‘What the hell kind of man sells cut three buddies for thirty thousand dollars?’
Norgling reacted immediately. He dropped the bottle and glass and reached for his gun . As he did, Hatcher swung his right arm out of the tub. The Aug was in his hand, firing as it came out of the water, soap suds twirling off the barrel as bullets stitched a line from Norgling’s belly to his chest and then made a tight little spiral. Nine shots in less than a second — nine hits, four in the heart. Norgling’s body slapped against the tile wall and the air wheezed out of his lungs. His knees collapsed. He fell straight down, landing in a squat and the shattered wine bottle, and toppled to his side.
Hatcher was out of the tub before Norgling was all the way down. He opened the towel closet and pulled out the green body bag he had stashed there earlier, grabbed Norgling by the hair, lifted his b.ody back to a sitting position and slid the bag over his head. He then let him fall backward, pulled the bag down the rest of the way and zipped it up. He slid it to the corner of the bathroom, put on his slippers, cleaned up the broken glass and mopped up the wine with a towel, which he washed off in the tub. Then he went to the phone and punched out a number.
When the voice on the other end answered, Hatcher said, ‘Come get him!’ and hung up.
That was one of the few times Hatcher knew who his victim was and why he was executing him. Usually it was blind obedience. ‘Do it,’ Sloan would say and Hatcher did it. Not only did it, accepted it, believed in it. But now, looking back, Hatcher realized he could have been used. Perhaps Norgling was just a fugazi, a screw-up, and they needed to get rid of him, and they could have dummied up the tape, and
And perhaps it was 126, whispering in his ear, stirring thoughts that Hatcher had never stirred, never wanted to stir, before.
He flipped the dials of the combination lock on the Halliburton case and opened it. Inside was a thick sheet of Styrofoam cut to fit snugly into the case. Fitted into that were a half-inch video camera, two battery packs, a 400 mm. and a 200 mm. telephoto lens, a shoulder mount for the camera, four blank VHS tapes and several extension cords, carefully coiled and tied with plastic ties.
All were dummies.
Hatcher cleaned the gun thoroughly, then quickly broke it down into its three sections. He slid the barrel into the specially designed tubular hinge of the case and twisted a small screw cap on the end of the hinge. He popped open the dummy video camera, placed the trigger housing inside it and snapped it shut. Then he unscrewed the lens from the 400 mm. telephoto and slid the gun inside it. The two plastic magazines, each capable of holding thirty rounds, fit inside the two hollow batteries for the dummy video camera. He also had a short barrel, four inches long, which converted the weapon into a pistol. He secreted the short barrel in the 200 mm. lens. All the equipment fit easily into the case, which weighed less than twenty pounds.
