Extreme Denial Part 1

Extreme Denial.

David Morrell.

This book is for Richard Schoegler and Elizabeth Gutierrez, who introduced us to the City Different.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

-Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Denial is not a river in Egypt.

-b.u.mper sticker.

EXTREME.

DENIAL.

ONE.

1.

Decker told the Italian immigration official that he had come on business.

"What type?"

"Corporate real estate."

"The length of your visit?"

"Two weeks."

The official stamped Decker's pa.s.sport.

"Grazie," Decker said.

He carried his suitcase from Leonardo da Vinci Airport, and although it would have been simple to make arrangements for someone to meet him, he preferred to travel the twenty-six kilometers into Rome by bus. When the bus became mired in predictably dense midcity traffic, he asked the driver to let him off, then waited for the bus to proceed, satisfying himself that no one had gotten off after him. He went into the underground, chose a train at random, rode to the next stop, returned to the streets, and hailed a taxi. Ten minutes later, he left the taxi and went back to the underground, took a train to the next stop, and hailed another taxi, this time telling the driver to take him to the Pantheon. His actual destination was a hotel five blocks from there. The precautions were possibly needless, but Decker was convinced that he had stayed alive as long as he had by virtue of being indirect.

The trouble was that the effort was wearing him down. Staying alive wasn't the same as living, he had decided. Tomorrow, Sat.u.r.day, would be his fortieth birthday, and of late, he had become uncomfortably aware of the pa.s.sage of time. Wife, children, a home-he had none of these. He traveled a lot, but he always felt apart from wherever he was. He had few friends and seldom saw them. What his life came down to was his profession. That wasn't good enough anymore.

As soon as he checked into his hotel, which had pillars and plush carpets, he fought jet lag by showering and putting on fresh clothes. Sneakers, jeans, a denim s.h.i.+rt, and a blue blazer were appropriate for a mild June day in Rome. They were also what a lot of other American male tourists his age were wearing and would keep him from attracting attention. He left the hotel, blended with pedestrians, and walked along busy streets for half an hour, doing his best to make certain that he wasn't being followed. He reached the most congested area of Rome, the Piazza Venezia, where the main streets of the city came together. The din of a traffic jam provided background noise as he used a public telephone.

"h.e.l.lo," a male voice answered.

"Is this Anatole?" Decker asked in Italian.

"Never heard of him."

"But he told me he'd be at this number." Decker gave a number that was different from the one he had used.

"The last two digits are wrong. This is five seven." The connection was broken.

Decker replaced the phone, checked that no one was watching him, and melded with the crowd. So far no problem. By mentioning specific numbers, the voice was telling Decker to come ahead. But if the voice had told him, "You're wrong," the message would have been to stay away because everything was wrong.

2.

The apartment, near Via Salaria, was three flights up, not too fancy, not too plain.

"How was the flight?" the occupant asked. His voice, with a slight New England accent, sounded the same as the one on the phone.

Decker shrugged and glanced around at the modest furniture. "You know the old joke, The best kind is the kind you walk away from." He completed the recognition code. "I slept through most of it."

"So you don't feel jet lag."

Decker shook his head.

"You don't need a nap."

Decker inwardly came to attention. Why is this guy making an issue of jet lag? A nap? Is there a reason he doesn't want me with him for the rest of the day?

The man he was speaking to was someone with whom he had not worked before: Brian McKittrick, thirty years old, six foot one, heavyset. He had short blond hair, beefy shoulders, and the kind of square jaw that Decker a.s.sociated with college football players. Indeed, there was a lot about McKittrick that reminded Decker of college football players-the sense of pent-up energy, of eagerness to get into action.

"No nap," Decker said. "What I want is to catch up on a few things." He glanced at the lamps and the wall plugs, deciding not to take anything for granted. "How do you like staying here? Some of these old apartments have trouble with roaches."

"Not here. I check every day for bugs. I checked just before you came over."

"Good." Satisfied that the room was free of electronic surveillance, Decker continued. "Your reports indicate that you've made progress."

"Oh, I found the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, all right."

"You mean your contacts did."

"That's right. That's what I meant."

"How?" Decker asked. "The rest of our people have been searching everywhere."

"It's in my reports."

"Remind me."

"Semtex." McKittrick referred to a sophisticated plastic explosive. "My contacts spread word in the kind of hangouts these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds like to use that Semtex was available to anyone willing to pay enough."

"And how did you find your contacts?"

"A similar way. I spread the word that I'd be generous to anyone who supplied the information I needed."

"Italians."

"h.e.l.l yes. Isn't that the point? Cutouts. Plausible deniability. An American like me has to start the ball rolling, but after a while, the team has to be made up of nationals from the country where we're working. The operation can't be traced back to us."

"That's what it says in the textbooks."

"But what do you say?"

"The nationals have to be dependable."

"You're suggesting my contacts might not be?" McKittrick sounded testy.

"Let's just say the money might make them eager to please."

"For G.o.d sake, we're hunting terrorists," McKittrick said. "Do you expect me to get informants to cooperate by appealing to their civic duty?"

Decker allowed himself to smile. "No, I believe in the old-fas.h.i.+oned way-appealing to their weaknesses."

"Then there you are."

"But I'd like to meet them," Decker said.

McKittrick looked uncomfortable.

"Just to get a sense of what we're dealing with," Decker added.

"But it's all in my reports."

"Which make for fascinating reading. The thing is, I've always been a hands-on kind of guy. How soon can you arrange a meeting?"

McKittrick hesitated. "Eleven tonight."

"Where?"

"I'll have to let you know."

Decker handed McKittrick a piece of paper. "Memorize this phone number. Got it? Fine." Decker took the specially treated paper into the kitchen, poured water on it, and watched it disintegrate, dissolving down the drain. "To confirm the meeting, call that number at eight tonight, or every half hour after that, up to ten. But after ten, don't bother. I'll a.s.sume you couldn't get your contacts together. In which case, try for tomorrow night, or the night after that. Each night, the same schedule for calling. Ask for Baldwin. My response will be Edward."

"The phone's at your hotel?"

Decker a.s.sessed him. "You're beginning to worry me. No, the phone isn't at my hotel. And when you call that number, make sure you don't do it from here."

"I know the drill."

"Call from a pay phone you've never used before."

"I said I know the drill."

"All the same, it never hurts to be reminded."

"Look, I know what you're thinking," McKittrick said.

"Really?"

"This is the first time I'm running an operation. You want to make sure I'm up to the job."

"You're right, you do know what I'm thinking," Decker said.

"Well, you don't need to worry."

"Oh?" Decker asked skeptically.

"I can handle myself."

3.

Decker left the apartment building, crossed the busy street, noticed a pa.s.sing taxi, and motioned for the driver to meet him around the next corner. There, out of sight from where McKittrick might be watching from his apartment, Decker apologized to the taxi driver, saying that he had changed his mind and wanted to walk a little more. As the driver muttered and pulled away, Decker went back to the corner but didn't show himself. The cafe on the corner had windows that faced the main street and the side street. From the side street, staying out of view as much as possible, Decker could look through the side window and then the front window, providing himself with a view of McKittrick's apartment building. Sunlight reflecting off the front window would help to make Decker un.o.btrusive.

Sooner than Decker expected, McKittrick emerged from the apartment building. The stocky man drew a hand through his short blond hair, looked nervously both ways along the street, saw an empty taxi, eagerly hailed it, and got in.

While waiting, Decker had needed something to do so he wouldn't appear to be loitering. From a lamppost, he had unchained a motorbike that he had rented. He had unlocked the storage compartment, folded his navy blazer into it, taken out a brown leather jacket and a helmet with a dark visor, and put them on. With his appearance sufficiently changed that McKittrick would not recognize him if he checked for surveillance, Decker started the motorbike and followed the taxi.

He wasn't encouraged by the meeting. The problems that he had sensed in McKittrick's reports now seemed more manifest and troubling. It wasn't merely that this was the first time McKittrick had been given a position of authority. After all, if the man was going to have a career, there had to be a first time, just as there had been a first time for Decker. Instead, the source of Decker's unease was that McKittrick was too d.a.m.ned sure of himself, obviously not fully skilled at tradecraft and yet not humble enough to know his limitations. Before flying to Rome, Decker had already recommended to his superiors that McKittrick be a.s.signed to another, less sensitive operation, but the son of a legend in the profession (OSS, charter member of the CIA, former deputy director of operations) evidently couldn't be shuffled around without the legend demanding to know why his son wasn't being given opportunities for advancement.

So Decker had been sent to have a look, to make sure that everything was as it should be. To be a nursemaid, Decker thought. He followed the taxi through congested traffic, eventually stopping as McKittrick got out near the Spanish Steps. Decker quickly chained the motorbike to a lamppost and went after him. There were so many tourists that McKittrick should have been able to blend with them, but his blond hair, which ought to have been dyed a dark, nondramatic color, made him conspicuous. Another lapse in tradecraft, Decker thought.

Squinting from the bright afternoon sun, he followed McKittrick past the Church of the Trinita dei Monti, then down the Spanish Steps to Spanish Square. Once famous for its flower sellers, the area was now occupied by street merchants, with their jewelry, ceramics, and paintings spread out before them. Ignoring the distractions, Decker kept after McKittrick, turning right past Bernini's Boat Fountain, s.h.i.+fting through the crowd, pa.s.sing the house where Keats had died in 1821, and finally saw his quarry enter a cafe.

Yet another mistake in tradecraft, Decker thought. It was foolish to seek refuge in a place with so many people outside; someone watching would be difficult to notice. Choosing a spot that was partially sheltered, Decker prepared himself for a wait, but again McKittrick came out sooner than expected. He had a woman with him. She was Italian, in her early twenties, tall and slim, sensuous, with an oval face framed by short dark hair and sungla.s.ses tilted on top of her head. She wore cowboy boots, tight jeans, and a red T-s.h.i.+rt that emphasized her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Even from thirty yards away, Decker could tell she wasn't wearing a bra. McKittrick had his arm around her shoulders. She, in turn, had an arm around his hips, her thumb hooked into a back pocket of his slacks. They proceeded down Via dei Condotti, took a shadowy side street on the right, paused on the steps of a building, kissed hungrily, then entered the building.