Teeth of the Tiger

there in front of you, it sets you off, man. It lights a fire in the gut.'

'Hey, been there, done that, got the T-shirt, okay? I whacked five men all by myself. But it was business, not personal. They tried to ambush us, but they didn't read the manual right, and I used fire and maneuver to fake 'em out and roll 'em up, just like they taught me to do. It's not my fault they were inept. They could have surrendered, but they preferred to shoot it out. That was a bad call on their part, but 'a man should do what he thinks is best.'' His all-time favorite movie was John Wayne's Hondo.

'Hey, Aldo, I'm not saying you're a wuss.'

'I know what you're saying, but, look, I don't want to turn into one of them, okay?'

'That's not the mission here, bro. I got my doubts, too, but I'm going to stay around and see how it plays out. We can always kiss it off whenever we want.'

'I suppose.'

Then Derek Jeter doubled up the middle. Pitchers probably thought of him as a terrorist, didn't they?

* * *

On the other side of the building, Pete Alexander was on a secure phone to Columbia, Maryland.

'So, how are they doing?' he heard Sam Granger ask.

Pete sipped at his glass of sherry. 'They're good kids. They both have doubts. The Marine talks openly about it, and the FBI guy keeps his mouth shut about it, but the wheels are turning over slowly.'

'How serious is it?'

'Hard to say. Hey, Sam, we always knew that training would be the hard part. Few Americans want to grow up to be professional killers — at least not the ones we need for this.'

'There was a guy at the Agency who would have fit right in—'

'But he's too damned old, and you know it,' Alexander countered at once. 'Besides, he has his sunset job over across the pond in Wales, and he seems to be comfortable in it.'

'If only…'

'If only your aunt had balls, she'd be your uncle,' Pete pointed out. 'Selecting candidates is your job. Getting them trained up is mine. These two have the brains and they have the skills. The hard part is temperament. I'm working on that. Be patient.'

'In the movies, it's a lot easier.'

'In the movies, everybody is borderline psychopath. Is that who we want on the payroll?'

'I guess not.' There were plenty of psychopaths to be found. Every large police department knew of several. And they'd kill people for modest monetary considerations, or a small quantity of drugs. The problem with such people was that they didn't take orders well, and they were not very smart. Except in the movies. Where was that little Nikita girl when you really needed her?

'So, we have to deal with good, reliable people who have brains. Such people think, and they do not always think predictably, do they? A guy with a conscience is nice to have, but every so often he's going to wonder if he's doing the right thing. Why did you have to send two Catholics? Jews are bad enough. They're born with guilt — but Catholics learn it all in school.'

'Thank you, Your Holiness,' Granger responded, dead-pan.

'Sam, we knew going in that this was not going to be easy. Jesus, you send me a Marine and an FBI agent. Why not a couple of Eagle Scouts, y'know?'

'Okay, Pete. It's your job. Any idea on timing? There's some work piling up on us,' Granger observed.

'Maybe a month and I'll know if they'll play or not. They will need to know the why in addition to the who, but I always told you that,' Alexander reminded his boss.

'True,' Granger admitted. It really was a lot easier in the movies, wasn't it? Just let your fingers do the walking to 'Assassins R Us' in the Yellow Pages. They had thought about hiring former KGB officers at first. They all had expert training, and all wanted money — the going rate was less than twenty-five thousand dollars per kill, a pittance — but such people would probably report back to Moscow Centre in the hope of being rehired, and The Campus would then become known within the global 'black' community. They couldn't have that.

'What about the new toys?' Pete asked. Sooner or later, he'd have to train the twins with the new tools of the trade.

'Two weeks, they tell me.'

'That long? Hell, Sam, I proposed them nine months ago.'

'It's not something you get at the local Western Auto. They have to be manufactured from scratch. You know, highly skilled machinists in out-of-the-way places, people who don't ask questions.'

'I told you, get the guys who do this sort of thing for the Air Force. They're always making up clever little gadgets.' Like tape recorders that fit in cigarette lighters. Now, that was probably inspired by the movies. And for the really good things, the government almost never had the right people in-house, which was why they employed civilian contractors, who took the money, did the job, and kept their mouths shut because they wanted more such contracts.

'They're all being worked on, Pete. Two weeks,' he emphasized.

'Roger that. Until then, I have all the suppressed pistols I need. They're both doing nicely with the tracking and tailing drills. Helps that they're so ordinary-looking.'

'So, bottom line, things are going well?' Granger asked.

'Except for the conscience thing, yeah.'

'Okay, keep me posted.'

'Will do.'

'See ya.'

Alexander set the receiver back down. Goddamned consciences, he thought. It would be nice to have robots, but somebody might notice Robby striding down the street. And they couldn't have that. Or maybe the Invisible Man, but in the H. G. Wells story, the drug that made him transparent also made him mad, and this gig was already crazy enough, wasn't it? He tossed off the last of his sherry, and then on reflection, went off to refill his glass.

CHAPTER 8 CONVICTION

Mustafa and Abdullah arose at dawn, said their morning prayers, and ate, and then hooked up their computers and checked their e-mail. Sure enough, Mustafa had an e-mail from Mohammed, forwarding a message from someone else, supposedly named Diego, with instructions for a meeting at…10:30 A.M. local time. He sorted through the rest of his electronic mail, most of it something the Americans called 'spam.' He'd learned that this was a canned pig product, which seemed entirely appropriate. Both of them walked outside — but separately — just after 9:00, mainly to get the blood moving and examine the neighborhood. They checked carefully but furtively for tails and found none. They got to the planned rendezvous point at 10:25.

Diego was already there, reading a paper, wearing a white shirt with blue stripes.

'Diego?' Mustafa asked pleasantly.

'You must be Miguel,' the contact replied with a smile, rising to shake hands. 'Please be seated.' Pablo scanned around. Yes, there was 'Miguel's' backup, sitting alone and ordering coffee, doing overwatch like a professional. 'So, how do you like Mexico City?'

'I did not know it was so large and bustling.' Mustafa waved around. The sidewalks were crowded with people heading in all directions. 'And the air is so foul.'

'That is a problem here. The mountains hold in the pollution. It takes strong winds to clear the air. So, coffee?'

Mustafa nodded. Pablo waved to the waiter and held up the coffeepot. The sidewalk cafe was European in character, but not overly crowded. The tables were about half occupied, in knots of people meeting for business or socially, doing their talking and minding their own business. The new coffeepot arrived. Mustafa poured and waited for the other to speak.