The discomfort with which Hattemer shifted kept Charlie rooted, however. The case was about to move to a higher court, Charlie felt. One with a soul.
35
Hattemer descended heavily from the bay window and strode between Charlie and Fielding. Pivoting to face Fielding, Hattemer asked, “How hard is it to imagine that when Drummond was standing at the brink, lucid or otherwise, he wasn’t keen on the abyss?”
Fielding’s golden brows nearly crisscrossed. “It’s possible in the way anything is possible,” he said.
Hattemer looked at Charlie. “Nick here has never been keen on trusting sensitive matters to oversight, and I don’t fault him for that to a certain extent. You find yourself with a sinking ship, you want to do something besides twiddle your thumbs while a bunch of bureaucrats in a conference room a thousand miles away have their general counsel draft memos to all the appropriate committees so that a vote can be taken on whether to get a ‘finding.’ And meanwhile someone, or someone’s aide, may leak the story to the Washington Post. So when whoever Nick had keeping tabs on me found out that I was going home sick this afternoon, he deduced that those of us whose job it is to provide oversight were now aware of his ‘situation’ and, accordingly, the dreaded wheels of bureaucracy were about to start grinding. With no choice but to play by the official rule book, he asked for the chance to aid me in my determination of whether there were sufficient grounds for the National Security Council to consider a waiver to the Executive Orders prohibiting assassination. There are some folks on the council who’ll say that the secret takes precedence, and that this, sadly, is one of those cases where ideal ends come at the cost of morally dubious or dangerous means.” He turned back to Fielding. “I, however, believe it’s our obligation to take care of Drummond. I don’t care if it means putting a hospital bed in Fort Knox.”
Charlie wanted to leap up and applaud. The prevailing seriousness limited him to a negligible smile, and perhaps even that was too garish: Fielding seemed to take a measure of him and dismiss him as nothing, all in a glance.
“We’ve had enough trouble in the past two days,” Fielding told Hattemer. “Any more and we risk word spreading to what extent our ordinary appliance salesman is no ordinary appliance salesman. The entire operation could be blown. He made a decision in his choice of career to place the service of his country before his own life.”
“The ‘L’ is taken when in enemy hands,” Hattemer said. “I was under the impression we’re on the same side he is. On our side, when our people are in trouble, the fundamental guiding principal is We Take Care of Our Own, even if that means moving a mountain.”
“We are taking care of our own, the hundreds of our operatives and the millions of innocent citizens whose lives are in the balance as long as he keeps getting up in the morning.”
Hattemer nodded. “Some of them might die. Or they might not. Either way, we don’t set aside our ideals whenever it’s convenient.”
“Sometimes in this business, taking care of our own means taking care of them.” Fielding pantomimed shooting a gun. “We may not like it, but we do it-you know that.”
“Well, we can’t do it, under any circumstance.” Hattemer’s face reddened. It seemed Fielding had stepped on an especially sore spot. “Think about what Ryszard Kuklinski said when he fled the Soviets: ‘America is the only country in the world which does not abandon its people.’ If our people ever worry about being burned by their own, they’ll be less willing to take risks. Then we’ll be trounced, because the bad guys like risk too much, and because we’ll have ceded the high ground. The high ground isn’t just the most secure place to be, it’s what makes us the good guys.”
Again Charlie felt like clapping. Fielding did clap. It looked and sounded so. But afterward a wisp of bluish smoke rose from his hands, from an aperture in what Charlie initially had taken to be the Lincoln’s keyless remote.
Hattemer hit the floor like a felled oak, blood springing from his chest. While struggling to staunch the flow, he died.
Shock pinned Charlie to the couch.
“He left me with no choice,” Fielding said, as if seeking absolution. “The ship is indeed sinking, and he was the proverbial fifth man in the lifeboat. You’re familiar with that proverbial lifeboat, yes?”
“Don’t know that one,” Charlie could only mumble.
“If there are five men in a lifeboat that holds only four, you have to toss one man overboard. If you keep all five, you see, the boat sinks and everyone drowns.”
Charlie felt like saying, “I give that a three, on a scale of one to ten for Justifications for Playing God.” But the ideological mania-or possibly just plain mania-burning within Fielding would not be doused by any sort of reasoning. “Got it,” Charlie said instead, as if he meant it.
Fielding seemed mollified. He pushed a thin, metal-jacketed projectile into the “keyless remote,” then aimed the weapon at Charlie.
“Now, where is he?” Fielding asked.
Charlie looked away and considered his options. He watched the last log in the fireplace roll over, smothering the flame.
With resignation, he said, “Upstairs resting.”
36
With the keyless remote aimed at him, Charlie was forced to return the SIG Sauer, surrender the Walther he’d wedged into the back of his waistband, then silently precede Fielding up the stairs.
They came to a wide, dimly lit hallway lined with pastorals in oil and seven tall doors. Fielding turned with shoulders raised. Charlie pointed to the farthest door.
Fielding trod the creaky planks as gingerly as a cat. Charlie followed, just as careful to be quiet. Cooperating now was his only chance of survival.
At the door, Fielding waved Charlie ahead. Charlie gripped the crystal doorknob, twisted it without a sound, then tapped open the door. With the curtains shut, the room was nearly black, but the spill from the hallway sconces was enough to reveal, in silhouette, the man beneath the comforter on the four-poster bed, a halo of white hair against a pillow. Fielding inched past Charlie and into the room.
Charlie believed his greatest advantage was that Fielding wasn’t expecting him to try anything. Elbowing his fear aside, Charlie backed into the hall and took a silent step toward the stairs.
He heard the snap of the light switch in the wall plate back in the bedroom. No light came on. Of course. He’d yanked the fuse twenty minutes ago. Still, in a second or two, Fielding would know he had captured not Drummond but Mort.
Charlie ran for all he was worth. To the landing. Fourteen stairs in four bounds. Then into the bathroom beside the den. He jumped onto the toilet seat-he’d closed it ahead of time. He dove through the already-raised window, landing in a prickly hedge behind the house.
Bouncing to his feet, he raced to the toolshed. The open Durango sat on the structure’s far side, driver’s door open, engine idling softly, dashboard dimmed to nothing, and headlights off. Charlie flew in.
Now, conspicuous was desirable. He popped on the high beams, slammed the accelerator for maximum tire squeal, then tore into the gravel driveway.
Once the hilly driveway dipped to a point that the Durango was out of sight of the house, he swatted off the headlights and slowed to as close to a crawl as first gear would allow. He turned onto a pasture, then bobbed for about a hundred yards to a onetime hay barn, parking on the side that faced away from the house.
He opened the driver’s door, in slow motion, for fear that the sound would carry over the open fields, slipped out, then closed the door just as gingerly. With an armful of winter clothing and other provisions found in the mudroom, he stole to the barn’s side door and ducked inside.
