Part 15 (1/2)

'It's need to know and a day player like me doesn't need to,' Cadaret said. He was oddly chipper.

Drummond took a running step and kicked him in the jaw. The killer's head snapped back. His mouth went slack and reddish vomit spilled out.

'Again, who hired you?' Drummond said.

'How about I tell you what I do do know?' Cadaret said, his congeniality intact. know?' Cadaret said, his congeniality intact.

Either he'd learned to disregard pain, Charlie thought, or he liked it.

'Fine, fine,' said Drummond.

'They call my office voice mail. The caller poses as a buddy wondering what I'm up to over the weekend. If he mentions the Jersey Sh.o.r.e, I check my Hotmail for instructions*the details of the op will be imbedded in a piece of spam hawking diet pills. If he says Hamptons, I service a dead drop.'

'And?'

'And I do the job, my bank balance goes up, I fly down to my vacation house on St. Bart's, and spend all my time hunting for carpenters and roofers and painters to undo whatever the h.e.l.l the latest hurricane's done.'

'That's it?'

'That's all I know.'

'That's nothing.' Drummond toed the dirt, preparing for another field goal attempt with Cadaret's head.

Cadaret appeared no more alarmed than if Drummond were preparing dessert. Probably he would act the same way before a firing squad, Charlie thought. But whether or not another blow to the head bothered him, it could leave him unconscious. Or worse.

'Dad, don't!' Charlie called out. He tried to stand. Pain grabbed every part of him that flexed. The ground seesawed.

Keeping the gun fixed on Cadaret, Drummond stomped over. His look of annoyance was that of someone interrupted during study. He declared, 'This is war, and only one thoroughly acquainted with the evils of war can understand the profitable way of carrying it on.'

Charlie recognized this as a ragged version of the wisdom of Sun Tzu, the centuries-dead general whose wisdom Drummond used to recite impeccably, apropos of everything from current events to why a boy needed to make his bed every morning.

'I'm not thoroughly acquainted with the evils of war,' Charlie allowed, 'but he's useful only if he can speak, so how profitable can it be to knock him senseless?'

'Good point,' Drummond said. 'Thank you.'

He trotted back to Cadaret with a benevolent air. Then swung the gun by the barrel. The heavy grip cracked the bridge of Cadaret's nose, creating a spring of scarlet and leaving his head bobbing.

'Great,' Charlie said, putting it at fifty to one that Cadaret clung to consciousness.

But there he was, sitting upright and vigorous as ever. Wipe the blood and the pine sap off, comb his hair, tighten his tie, and he could be delivering a sales presentation.

Drummond pointed the gun's muzzle at the inside of Cadaret's knee. 'Who hired you?' he asked again.

There was every reason to believe that Drummond would pull the trigger. Still, no trace of panic in Cadaret. Maybe he thought of losing the kneecap as a cost of doing business; he could get a replacement, maybe a bonus along with it. He said, 'Sir, basic as that information is, I do not have it, the reason probably being that I might fall into a situation exactly like this one.'

Drummond nodded. 'Fine, fine. Who hired you?' He seemed entirely unaware that he'd just posed the question.

Cadaret's eyes widened with*of all things*trepidation.

Charlie followed Cadaret's stare to Drummond's trembling gun hand. Drummond added his left hand to steady the gun. He could have used another hand still. No wonder Cadaret was afraid: Normally Drummond could shoot the head off a pin at this distance. Now, it was three to one that he would miss the kneecap and hit something irreparable. And even money that he would create a wound that didn't conform to Spook Interrogation Standards*and one from which the flow of blood couldn't be staunched in time to preserve Cadaret's life.

'Dad, please, put the gun down, just for a second?'

'Why would I do that?'

'I think your subject just remembered some more.'

'Yes, that's right,' Cadaret exclaimed.

Drummond lowered the gun.

Cadaret looked to Charlie with unmistakable grat.i.tude. 'I was in Atlantic City last night, I got a text message with an encrypted number, and I called it from a secure line,' he said. 'A middle-aged woman with a Midwestern accent told me to fly immediately to the Red Hook Heliport in Brooklyn, where I'd be met by a young guy called Mortimer. He would ask me if I was with Morgan Stanley and I was supposed to reply, Regrettably, yes,' and then we'd grumble about the stock market. So I flew, we met, we grumbled, then we headed for a precinct house near Prospect Park. On the way, we got word to intercept a Daily News Daily News truck. You know the rest.' truck. You know the rest.'

'Do you know who the woman with the Midwestern accent works for?' Charlie asked.

'Nope. Probably she doesn't either; probably she's just a cutout. But an educated guess would be a government*or someone able to buy into a government. Pitman and Dewart*the kids who tried to take you out on your block*used Echelon to track you here.' Cadaret stressed 'Echelon' as if it proved his case.

'Does Echelon mean anything to you?' Charlie asked Drummond.

'Just tell me what I want to know,' Drummond told Cadaret, punctuating the demand with a wave of his gun.

'You got it, sir,' Cadaret said. 'It's a bunch of drab office complexes around the world that everyone takes for call centers or whatnot. Really it's a network of listening posts code-named Project Echelon, sponsored by the United States and some allies.'

'Oh, that, right, right,' Drummond said, though clearly he had little idea, if any, what Cadaret was talking about.

Charlie gestured for Cadaret to continue.

'It records billions of domestic and international phone calls from homes, offices, pay phones, cells, sometimes even walkie-talkies,' Cadaret said. 'Once sound is captured, a word like uranium uranium or or Osama Osama raises a red flag. Voiceprints can raise flags too. Somehow Pitman got your voiceprints added to Echelon's. .h.i.t list early this morning. A few hours later, when you called Aqueduct Racetrack from a pay phone, he tapped into your conversation real-time, so of course he knew where you were. He texted Mortimer saying you were probably on your way to do some hunting and fis.h.i.+ng.'' raises a red flag. Voiceprints can raise flags too. Somehow Pitman got your voiceprints added to Echelon's. .h.i.t list early this morning. A few hours later, when you called Aqueduct Racetrack from a pay phone, he tapped into your conversation real-time, so of course he knew where you were. He texted Mortimer saying you were probably on your way to do some hunting and fis.h.i.+ng.''

'And since the average joe can't just surf on over to the Echelon Web site, you think these guys are government?' Charlie asked.

'Exactly.'

'Foreign?'

Cadaret spat a piece of hardened blood as if it were a sunflower seed. 'Or American and, for the usual reasons, keeping it black.'

'Black for the usual reasons.' Charlie looked off, pretending to chew this over. He was reluctant to expose his ignorance. f.u.c.k it, he thought, that toothpaste was out of the tube. 'Let me just clarify two things: What are the usual reasons,' and what do you mean by keeping it black'?'

'Whether you're the Mafia or the CIA, killing people is illegal,' Cadaret said. 'And if you're the CIA, your problem is it's easier than ever to get caught. So you go black'*you leave nothing to link what's being done to the organization doing it. And if Mr. Clark here's outfit stands to get wind of it and take you to task, you go blacker still. You make it look like an accident, if you can.'

'His outfit?' Charlie said.

'The Cavalry,' said Drummond. Remembering, it seemed.

'Actually, I think they disbanded,' Charlie said.

'It's just a nickname.'

'Okay?' Charlie waited for more.