cobra and the delinquents 11

 

Chapter 11 And the dead shall be made alive

 

Willow, Gary, and I were in for a lot of work. My initial plan had been to leave the Street Rats and their drug dealers for a while, but Craig Thomas usurped that plan by looking for his personal chew toy, which was to say, Hammond.

This made a lot more sense when I discovered that Jeff Thomas had been at school at the same time as Steven Fitzgerald, again, a couple of years older, and the likelihood that Jeff Thomas had made Steven Fitzgerald, Hammond’s dad, his bitch, one way or another. It need not necessarily have sexual connotations these days, though the ritual humiliation by sexual domination is a means of control as old as humanity. It seemed to be an initiation used at times by the Bratpack, to use a younger pupil. Not, of course, the prettiest girls; they sold for higher prices if they were virgins. A very nasty institution, going well past the old fagging system of the posher British schools [and in Europe, ‘fag’ means ‘drudge’ or ‘servant’- from a middle English word meaning tired out by labour] which is the basis for what they also call the ‘Old Boy Network,’ or in other words, a degree of feudal nepotism.

This was a system which bore only a nodding acquaintance to the supremacy of those of the oldest names and greatest wealth, as those at the top were often those making new names by the subjugation of those with old names, and the forcing of them to do favours, rather than working for the notice of those who could do favours. In other words, the culture of the bully. And there were plenty of old names.  There were also new names, drawn from those who had been useful, I thought, or who were up and coming. It was a culture of control, an insidious poisonous – and venomous – millipede lodged in the highest of society and the lowest of Shadowland. Judging by the antiquity, it had started as a form of kickback against the Yakuza and their insularity, as they took over more and more of what had been the province of home-grown, Italian and Corsican shenanigannery, a multi-tentacled Cthulu buried at every level of society but reaching out to brush tentacles in acknowledgement of a common base. And it was truly base. Had the drug dealing and trafficking started as a way to build funds? Very likely. But it had grown. And now, it was hard-wired into the whole system. And the ever-present threat to those who wanted out that their families were not immune to disappearance, to be trafficked.

We had to take them all, and as simultaneously as possible.

“We’ll need half the Black Board,” I told Tarquin.

“That’ll come expensive,” he said.

“And not doing it will be more expensive in the long run in terms of people lost, bright people who win scholarships, and in terms of becoming more and more embedded in society,” I said. “There’s an application to start a second Washington Academy.  What do you do when there are half a dozen?”

He raised his hands.

“You make your point. But we need them rooted out of the Federal Agency before I can swing that expense across my political masters.”

I nodded.

It would take careful planning.

In the meantime it took careful documentation. Of Thomas senior, of Fitzgerald senior, of the suppliers of drugs, of those who took those to be trafficked, of the staff, of the senior pupils, of former alumni, of the parents. It was too much for the three of us.

“We need to get in help,” said Gary.

“We can’t,” I said. “You’re more or less family and you know better than to shout off your mouth now. But all it would take is one gurfer being sloppy, or talking out of turn, and the whole campaign against them falls apart.”

Gary chewed hard on his caramel sweetie. He gave up smoking for Quin, which touched me no end.

“Maybe Mrs. Willow and I could build some automatic systems to leave places,” he said. “It’s a bit more indiscriminate, but if Miss Ruth and the others would listen to it to sort out the boring from the paydirt, and Mr. Hammond, too, then they wouldn’t be at risk for being connected, but they could help.”

“Run with it,” I said.

Hammond was working with us when he wasn’t dismantling cars; he could tell us more about some people.

And I had not forgotten his mother.

I had found her, in a private nursing home. I managed to get a drone inside, and into her room. She did not seem crazy, just traumatised. I got photographs of her, and her room, and how to get there.

 

We had another visitation. This one was an invasion of bikers from the Street Rats.

“I’m sorry, Hammond, I know some might be friends of yours, but I have you and others to protect,” I said. “I’m playing for keeps.”

“I understand,” he said.

Bikers don’t last long against miniguns. I had to use a sniper rifle on the clever one who cut and run the moment he heard that horrible whine of a minigun coming up to speed. I took him through the arm in case he knew more; and he kept going. I totalled his engine instead of killing him. The dogs picked him up.

He didn’t know anything; but maybe, one day, he’d be worth working on.

I patched him up and put him on ice.

The bikes vanished into the chop shop, the bodies into the furnace. I was getting pretty sickened by all this killing; but then, I reminded myself of the daily death and life-spoiling choices the backers of the gang handed out just for profit; and that these were people who had a tenuous hold on our government, and planned to increase it.

I don’t believe humans are capable of true democracy, but after a few rocky periods we had something pretty close to it, and I honour that, and would fight for it. And if they send in teens to do war – every one of them was carrying, and my prisoner told me they were supposed to kill everyone but Hammond, and rescue the prisoners – then I am afraid I will do war on the said teens.

“It isn’t you, Rick, it’s them,” said Hammond.

A fifteen-year-old boy comforting the killer for hire. There’s an irony in that.

But then, I know how easy life is to snuff, and how precious it is.

Meanwhile, Tarquin managed to pull me the list of every member of the FBI from the director down, to cross-correlate with those who had attended the Washington Academy. I left him doing that for me. It satisfied his sense of confidentiality.

Meanwhile, I had one of my contacts acquire me a Jane Doe from a city morgue who bore a superficial resemblance to Hammond’s mother. A bit of filler here and there and dye injection to look like the blackened face of strangulation, and I was ready. I took possession of the corpse, slung it under a heavy drone, and relied on Willow to make sure I did not appear on any trideo feed for the security guards.

It was surprisingly easy to get in; but then, I’m used to high security regions designed to stop infiltration, not places designed to stop casual thieves, or escaping inmates.

I had another drone which was not able to carry the weight of a man flying, but it could brace on legs to carry the weight of a man and a cherry-picker.

I went up to Susan Fitzgerald’s window, waved cheerily to her, and cut my way through the bars.

“Have you come to kill me?” she asked.

“No, I’m from Hammond,” I said.  “Excuse me, can you help me get your corpse in the window?”

She gaped, but did as she was told.

“Oh!” she said. “You’re replacing me. The bars…”

“I have welding kit,” I said. “Put on this boiler suit and give me your clothes, all the way down, for your replacement. I’m a married man, I don’t embarrass easily.”

“And I’m beyond caring,” she said, stripping. She helped me dress my dead body. “What about the camera?”

“I’ve a gurfer in it,” I said. “Nice sturdy bracket; we’ll use it to hang you from. Willow, blur it while she puts on the dressing gown, and walks under the camera, and use that to send when we’ve left.”

Susan nodded, and put on the wrap, her boiler suit legs pushed up and her feet bare. Then she got up and walked slowly under the camera.

“Perfect,” said Willow, in my ear-bud. “I’ll feed that in when you’re gone.”

And with the wrap’s tie, and the rest of it cut into strips and plaited, that gave me my rope. A piece of glass which she might have found was the supposed tool; and Susan was a pro. She cut her palm with the glass to bloody the strips when she realised what I was doing, and put into the cuts she made on the corpse’s hand.

“I read detective stories,” she said.

“Good,” I approved.

I tied a hangman’s knot, secured the end. There was already a chair in the corner.

“I sit there sometimes to annoy them,” said Susan. “Whilst I can keep up little rebellions, it makes me feel human.”

“I’m in awe of your resilience,” I said. “Now I see where Hammond’s strength comes from.”

I sent her down on the cherry-picker, called it back for me, with the remote, and welded the bars back.  Susan was shaky; they kept her somewhat drugged and without adequate exercise. I put her on the cas-evac drone I had used to bring the body in.

“Wrong way round,” she managed. “Came in dead, went out alive.”

“If you can keep a sense of humour that good, Susan, you’ll be just fine,” I said. “I need to keep you hidden for a while, but I’m relieved that you don’t need immediate therapy.”

I got her out, and to the souped up car Hammond had built for me. We drove through the night and made it back before dawn.  As we had a paint job which does not show heat signatures, we should not be visible on any man’s surveillance.  Hammond gave up his flat above the chop shop for her, and I left them having an emotional reunion. She could shower, put on the pyjamas Willow had got her, and reheat the meal waiting for her, whenever she fancied it. I explained it, and left her to settle in. She needed some time to herself. Hammond had set himself up a corner with a camp bed and went up to use the ensuite in the upstairs apartment which meant he could also check on his mother without being too obvious about it. He came in to eat, in any case; but Aunty would send food out for Susan.

 

Hammond approached me the next day.

“My mother’s good enough to be a gurfer; she asked if she could help,” he said.

“I’ll send Willow up with a rig,” I said.

We still had ‘Little Mommy’s’ rig. It was good, and if Susan was any good, well, she’d be a welcome addition to the team.

And I had a phone call from Fitzgerald senior.

“Look, you’d better break it to the boy that his mother died in the hospital where she’s been living,” he said.

“Oh no! what was wrong with her?” I asked. “Is he close to his mother?”

“Fortunately, not; she’s been in a sanatorium for some years, she was insane.”

“I see,” I said. “What did she die of?”

“Suicide, but don’t tell him that,” said Fitzgerald.  “I would rather he was not permitted to come to the funeral.”

“If you arrange a feed, I’ll let him attend virtually,” I said. “To give him closure.”

“Oh, yes, I suppose so,” he said. “How is he doing?”

“Pretty well,” I said. “He’s keeping his head down and doing as he’s told.”

“Good, good.  I am pleased to hear it. No trouble from his former gang?”

“No, were you expecting it?” I asked. “Nobody’s caused us any trouble.”

“I’m surprised,” he said. His tone was a little hollow.

Well, they had not caused us any trouble to speak of; we handled them all quickly and quietly and expeditiously.

I wondered who would come next.  Maybe Thomas senior and FitzGerald senior.

I was pondering what move to make in such a situation when Tarquin came in, paler than I’ve ever seen him, and he is a man who abhors too much sun.

“Rick, we have a problem,” he said.

“We have about two hundred and forty problems,” I said. “And then the rest.”

“The new head of the FBI is an alumnus of Washington Academy,” he said.

“Well, shit,” I said.

“That was more or less my thought,” said Tarquin, unhappily. “This is my boss. He’s been deputy director for a few years, and he’s affable, friendly, and you would not tag him as a problem.”

“How is he to servants?” I asked.

Tarquin got very quiet.

“Dismissive; doesn’t see them,” he said.

“It correlates with a discussion about the organisation winning big-time,” I said.

“We can’t move with him in charge,” said Tarquin. “I don’t want to ask this of you.”

“I’ll handle it,” I said. “I haven’t yet come to the notice of anyone that high up, have I?”

“No; I’ve kept you as a personal asset,” said Tarquin.

“Anyone else high enough to be likely to step up in his place?” I asked.

Tarquin shook his head.

“The others are operational level.”

Well, that was good.

And now I needed to turn inside out the entire life and lifestyle of Zeke Q. Gartin, and discover that something that had been buried was how he had beaten a maid to death with his bare hands for spilling red wine on an expensive silk carpet.

I was not making a mistake in my man.

And he was going to have to go.