Thai Horse

kicked out of there and you know it. We learned how to beat our enemies from our enemies. A soldier doesn’t need a uniform or a fancy title, all he needs is the will to get it done. I repeat, if you don’t do it, it gets done to you. That’s the law according to Harry Sloan and it’s kept me alive for a bloody long time and it did all right by you, too. You’re just thinking too much, Hatch. How many times’ve I told you, consideration gets a man killed.’

‘Harry, you’re living proof that it’s possible for a man to talk faster than he can think.’

‘Well, laddie, when your ass is in the sling, you better do it before you think about it or you’re history.’

But it was obvious that Hatcher’s reevaluation of the brigade worried Sloan, for he slipped back to the subject. ‘You do a thing and it’s over,’ Sloan said with a shrug. ‘Why agonize over all that. You never made any moral decisions, they were made for you.’

‘Maybe that’s the point. Maybe I should’ve. Maybe this is about drawing the line.’

‘Hah!’ Sloan said. ‘This is old Harry you’re talking to, remember. You giving me ideology? Before lunch! Let me tell you something, we never did a job wasn’t worth the doing. You want to get bug-eyed about methods, procedures, whatever, that’s your problem. But don’t belabor a beautiful morning with ideology, don’t give me slogans and posters. My ideology is reality, and the reality is, it’s us against them. You and me, we don’t lose, pal, it’s not in our vocabulary.’

‘You made moral decisions, so did I. Spur-of-the- moment moves . .

‘Exactly. Exactly!’ Sloan said, interrupting him, his eyes twinkling again and the enthusiasm back in his tone. ‘Spur of the moment. There aren’t any moral decisions in warfare, Hatch, there’s winning and losing. God and country. Beyond that, it’s all superfluous.’

‘We got rules, Harry.’

‘Yeah, right.’

Hatcher said, ‘Anyway, this isn’t about God and country, as you put it. It’s about you and me. Just don’t ever back-stab me again. You do and I’ll . .

‘I know.’ Sloan leaned over closer to him, the smile getting broader, the gray eyes still twinkling. ‘You’ll put me where the fish can’t find me.’

There was no percentage in belaboring that subject any further. Hatcher knew he was blowing smoke at the moon. Sloan was a man impervious to insult or hurt, a man who believed what he did was right and necessary and morally justified.

‘Forget it,’ Hatcher said flatly, ‘I didn’t come here to do you any favors, anyway. I came to find Cody.’

Sloan nodded, his smile reduced to a wry grin. ‘Fair enough. So what have you got so far?’ he asked. ‘You sure been leading my boys a merry chase.’

Before Hatcher could answer, the phone rang. Sloan glared at it.

‘Now what?’ he said. He crossed, the room and picked it up. He talked with his back to Hatcher. His hair was still damp from the shower and beads of water twinkled on his undried back. The phone was plugged into a small black scrambler, its red light aglow.

‘Sloan,’ he said in his soft voice. ‘S12424. Jack be nimble, Jack be . . . Okay, we’re clear, I’m on the scrambler, what’s the problem? What? What! My God, when? Damn it, Spears, he had ten people guarding him! . . . I know what I said . . . No, don’t do that. I assume the media has this . . . I understand that. Uh-huh. . . uh-huh. . . No, you stic1 with the original story. Let the FBI handle it. . . . No, not the CIA, keep them out of it. . . . Hold on, let me think. . .

He turned toward Hatcher and rolled his eyes and shook his head. His face seemed to be getting redder, although he kept his voice under control.

‘No pictures of Cosomil,’ he said into the phone. ‘Keep him under wraps right where he is. I ‘want you to leak a story to the media that he’s hiding cut in . . . uh .

Hawaii . . . No, the Big Island, Kauai’s too small, yeah. . . . Right, let ‘em run around there for a week or two looking for him. . . . That’s fine. Thanks, Spears. If I’m temporarily out of pocket, check in with Flitcraft, he can always find me.’ He slowly cradled the phone.

‘Well, laddie, I got a new problem. Major, major. You want to hear the headline in tomorrow morning’s New York Times? “Mandrango Iron Man Campon Assassinated in Atlanta Disco.”

Hatcher’s mouth dropped open. It had been Campon’s coup in Madrango that had enabled Sloan to spring Hatcher from Los Boxes. Then six months later the Communist guerrillas had retaken the capital. The revolt had been seesawing for several years.

Sloan gave Hatcher a quick account of the murder of the deposed Central American dictator. ‘Our people are speculating that the assassin was disguised as a stork.’

‘A stork!’ said Hatcher.

‘It was a costume ball. Three other people, including an innocent woman bystander, were killed. We got two more, her date and a waiter, in serious condition in the hospital.’

‘Your outfit was guarding him?’

‘Uh-huh. Plus half a dozen of his own men.’

‘Who was in charge over there?’ Hatcher asked incredulously.

Sloan hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘Spears and Hedritch.’

‘Spears and Hedritch!’

Hatcher thought to himself, What the hell was Joe Spears doing body guarding Hector Campon? He remembered Spears as a burned-out California surfer with rice for brains.