A Stacked Deck

by S. H. Linden

part 1 of 10

A large British bank hires a mercenary to change world events in Southeast Asia.

Arlington National Cemetery, 1996

A military burial was taking place among trees shading a grave. Some men dressed in black stood next to a military honor guard, a Green Beret chaplain, and two grave diggers. Further back on a paved road was a black hearse, an executive sedan, and a woman standing on the grass near some trees. She was in her late twenties, with an aristocratic beauty that some Chinese women seem to have. She was crying softly.

The chaplain finished his speech, and the honor guards shot off the traditional number of rounds. A bugler started playing Taps and the grave diggers lowered the casket. The men in the dark suits reached down and tossed some dirt on the coffin, then slowly headed for the sedan. The lone woman cut through some trees and walked down the road leading to the main Arlington cemetery entrance. As she walked, she wiped her eyes with tissue paper.

The black sedan passed her without stopping. All three men were sitting in the back seat and silent. One man was the NSC adviser to the President of the United States, the second man was the CIA director, and the last man was the assistant to the CIA director.

The assistant turned to look out the rear window at the Chinese woman, as the big car passed her. She was still crying. He turned back to the group and sat quietly.

“Do we know her?” asked the CIA director who had not turned back to look at the woman.

“I’m not sure... She may have been Morgan’s girlfriend? He had a thing for Asian art.”

“Yes, always talking about the latest piece he’d bought for his collection. Even invited me up to his place once to show me the pieces... quite beautiful,” said the NSC adviser.

“I knew him for twenty years. And then again, I never knew him, if that makes any sense.” the CIA director replied. “Funny, it actually makes me sad.”

“I think that’s what he wanted to be: a cipher.” Now the NSC adviser looked out the back window. He saw the woman as a small figure walking down the road. He turned back to the group and pulled down the bar attached to the back of the front seat. “How about a drink? I could use one.”

The men nodded yes, and the NSC adviser reached for a bottle of Scotch and filled three glasses with ice and poured. The other two men took their drinks and sat back in silence.

“I think I was the first to hire him. He had a good service record, I seem to remember,” said the NSC adviser, taking a drink.

“Yes, it was excellent. You sent him to me, so I think I was the first to actually use him... Cambodia, wasn’t it?

“You’re right... Did some work with China Chong, I believe?”

“That Chong was a devil, wasn’t he?” said the CIA director, smiling at the thought.

“Why did Morgan take those risks? He had to be a millionaire many times over,” the CIA assistant wondered out loud to no one in particular.

“Why do men climb Everest?” the CIA director replied, as he looked sadly at some old grave markers that passed by his window.

* * *

The Caribbean Sea: Early Dawn, 1976

A rusted trawler was heading in a southwesterly direction an hour before dawn. On board, a captain and three crewmen. Below deck and sleeping was a man they called “El Brujo,” and two male companions.

The captain was the first to spot the blinking strobe light on the mast of a sailboat along the horizon. It was the international signal for “trouble, need help.” The captain reached for a pair of binoculars and focused on the sailboat, but it was too far away for him to make out any significant details.

The sun was still below the horizon, and the beautiful ketch looked dead in the water. On the ketch’s deck was a man called Faust. He was waving a white shirt overhead at the trawler. The trawler captain, a fifty-year-old Cuban, wiped grease from his hands with a dirty rag, then stepped out of the cabin into the open air. The two crew members of the trawler watched the sailboat draw closer with condescending interest.

The mate on the trawler, with a surly scowl and missing an eye, watched the foppish looking sailor with a scowl on his face. “To hell with ’im. Let the Boy Scouts help him.”

“Take it easy, amigo. Let’s see what he wants,” the captain said.

The captain turned on a powerful searchlight and swept its beam along the sailboat from bow to stem. He saw nothing unusual and steered the trawler closer to the disabled ketch. A crew member tossed Faust a line.

“You speak Spanish?” asked the captain.

“Sorry, only English,” Faust said.

“What ees your problem?”

“No wind.” Faust pointed to limp sails. “And I have no gasoline. Can you sell me some?”

“I geev you enough gasolina to make Key West. Maybe eighty mile south?”

“Thank you, captain. Thank you very much.”

The captain spoke to a crewman in Spanish. The crewman disappeared below deck and a few minutes later came back up with a ten-galIon can of gasoline. Then he and the other crewman climbed aboard the sailboat and walked toward the stern where Faust was standing.

“You’re in trouble. You realize that?” the mate said, with anger.

“You worry too much, amigo. Relax... We are Boy Scouts today.”

The two crewmen almost reached Faust when suddenly a cabin hatch slid back and a man, dressed like Faust, with an Uzi machine gun in his hands, jumped onto deck from below. The mate reached for his gun and yelled, “Goddamn! Son-of-a bitch!”

But it was too late. The man with the Uzi raked the bridge of the trawler with short accurate bursts. The trawler’s windshield exploded, showering glass across the deck. The short burst had blown away the captain’s chest, and he flew backwards through the door, landing on his back, his foot twitching before he died. Another burst ripped into the mate as he clawed under his coat for his gun. He shuddered and twisted like a sack of Ioose clothing that was dancing, then fell on what was left of his face.

The two members of the trawler’s crew turned wild-eyed toward the gunner. A switch blade knife sprung open in Faust’s hand. The blade disappeared into the chest of a crewman, who crumpled to the ketch’s decking. The Uzi came alive again, and a short burst went into the chest of the last crewman, who dropped the gas can and flipped backwards over the railing into the sea.

Quickly, Faust and the man with the Uzi leaped aboard the trawler. Below decks, El Brujo woke from a troubled sleep, a bottle of Nembutal alongside his pillow. Confused for a moment, El Brujo gathered his senses and lunged for a sawed-off shotgun. The two companions climbed out of their beds and got into each other’s way in the tight quarters, fighting over an AK-47.

The man with the Uzi had come down the steps with his gun bucking and stuttering. He raked EI Brujo from head to groin. The next burst took care of the two companions.

When the shooting had stopped, Faust quickly karate-kicked the man with the Uzi in the back. The man made a slight sound of a grunt, then fell to the cabin floor, paralyzed with a broken neck. Faust quickly reached into his pocket and pulled out a grenade, which he activated, and tossed it at the already dead bodies.

Leaping up the steps, he dove for cover onto the main deck, rolling away from the grenade blast that shot out of the cabin hatch. He lay there for a few seconds listening to the ringing in his ears, then calmly got up and brushed himself off.

Back on the ketch, Faust walked over to the trawler crewman and pulled out the knife, wiping it clean on the dead man’s pants, then casually pushed the man into the sea with his foot. Going below deck, he reappeared with another Uzi and fired a short burst at the powerful searchlight. The ketch was now surrounded by the gray dimness of early dawn.

Faust took the gasoline can that had been dropped by the crewman and stepped back on the trawler, pouring gasoline everywhere. When the can was empty he went back to the ketch and started the engine. He walked quickly to the line that held the two boats together, cut it, then watched the boats drift apart.

At the wheel again, he put the boat into reverse and backed away in a half-arc. When he had reached a safe distance from the trawler, Faust picked up the Uzi and fired a short burst at the trawler’s gas tanks. They exploded into a series of flaming gas balls and short explosions. Faust watched the trawler sink rapidly, making hissing noises as the flames hit the water.

Scattered debris rocked gently in the waves. A lone seagull landed on a fragment of wood bearing the name of the sunken trawler: “Corazon.” The sound of a boat engine receded in the background, and against a huge sun that back-lighted the sailboat, which was now along the horizon, Faust tossed the Uzi overboard and put on his white shirt.

* * *

Marathon, Florida

The desolate beach road led to a sprawling single-story building that had lots of antennas around it. A chain link fence surrounded the building, and on the fence a sign read: Radio Cuba Libre — The Voice of Free Cuba.

Inside the building, in the room of special projects, a computer printer was chattering rapidly. The following words were being printed out: Top Secret Narco: Aerial observers confirm that El Brujo canceled fishing trip. Please inform Moby Dick.

Arturo Jimenez tore off the sheet of paper and put it into a folder labeled Top Secret. He left the room and hurried down the corridor to a room labeled Operations Liaison. Jimenez knocked on the door twice, then entered. Inside the room and sitting behind his desk reading paper work, was Wingate Johnson, an Ivy league graduate. Johnson was on his twentieth year with the CIA and looking forward to retirement. He had grown soft in the belly from his stateside work.

“It looks like Faust made the hit,” said Jimenez, as he handed Johnson the top secret folder. “The fishing party was terminated and the mother ship was destroyed.”

“The cartel has dozen of ships. Losing one means nothing, but if Faust really knocked off EI Brujo, he’s done the world a big favor.” Johnson had a slight smile on his face when he handed the paper back to Jimenez. “Wasting the world’s top terrorist is not bad for a day’s work.”

“You didn’t read the whole thing. Look on the second page.”

Johnson put his glasses back on and read the second page: Intercepts of telex traffic indicate transfer of one hundred million dollars from Bank of Finance and Development, Caymans, to Bank of Finance and Development International, Hong Kong.

Jimenez lit a cigar and searched for an ashtray, which he found buried under Johnson’s papers. “Our source in Panama was right: BOFAD’s playing the China Card.”

“Smart... They do a lot of covert work for the CIA. They’re just covering their tracks.”

“Yeah, but a hundred million is a lot of tracks to cover... “

“Maybe so? Anyway, get a move on this and send it uptown.”

Jimenez took the top secret folder and left the room.

* * *

Washington, D.C., the White House

Official sedans were going through guarded gates, and men with grim faces exited the sedans and entered the White House. At the Oval Office, the assistant to the CIA director handed a dossier to the President. The assistant’s expression showed a feeling of accomplishment. The president glanced at the file.

“Twenty years and we finally get this guy.” The President had a wide grin on his face. “I want Presidential citations for our boys who did the job.”

The CIA director looked uncomfortable with the president’s remarks. “It wasn’t our boys, Mr. President. If you look at the second section of the file... “

The president looked at the second section. “Why him! What was wrong with Delta Force or the Seals? We got an image now after Desert Storm.”

“We had no choice, Mr. President.”

“What do you mean no choice?”

“If our boys blew it, Castro would’ve had a propaganda field day. Why take the chance now that he’s on shaky ground...?”

The president looked hard at his director. “I thought Faust was working for the other side? Is he or isn’t he?”

“It’s hard to put a finger on him, Mr. President,” the assistant said. “He seems to have come on the scene a few years after El Brujo. We know he was a shooter in the Phoenix Program, in Nam. Then he was sent to Cambodia on a special project. After that we kind of lost track of him.”

The CIA director, still looking worried, backed up his assistant’s story. “Later we heard rumors that he was spotted riding shotgun for China Chong, a Chinese sleazebag heroin runner that gave us useful information from time to time. Then the story goes that he was doing the same for General Thanh, another piece of crap... It looks to me, Mr. President, that Faust just goes to the highest bidder. El Brujo seemed more like a genuine revolutionary.”

“I tell you, Mr. President, we’ve got a loose cannon out there with this Faust,” the assistant said. “This guy is trained in KGB techniques. We know the Israelis have used him a few times. We’re almost sure he did the Lord Mountbatten bombing for the IRA.

“And there’s even talk that he did a couple of jobs for right-wing Texans... Remember the Russian transport that went down about a year after the Korean jetliner was shot down...? The Russians lost three key Generals on that one. We didn’t do it, the Koreans say they didn’t do it, and El Brujo certainly didn’t do it... That leaves only him.”

The president noticed the light on his red phone was flashing. “Let’s be cautious on this thing. Keep it under wraps for a while. Don’t even say a word to the Brits.” The president picked up the phone and heard the message. “Okay, send them in.” He turned to the CIA director. “It’s funny how my NSC people are always late when it’s not their show.”

The National Security Council adviser and two of his staff members entered the Oval Office. “Mr. President...”

“Hello Tom, you know everyone.” The group acknowledged each other coldly.

The NSC adviser ignored the CIA director and spoke directly to the President. “Well, Castro’s screaming bloody murder. He’s saying we killed a great patriot.” Then the NSC adviser gave the CIA director a hard look. “I’d like to know why I wasn’t informed of this operation? Am I supposed to get my information from Radio Havana these days...?”

The CIA director laughed when he heard the line.

“How much did we have to pay Faust for this one?” the NSC adviser asked. He turned to the president again. “Sir, this guy Faust is going to be richer than Fort Knox if we keep this up.”

“I sent you a memo on what we were going to do,” the CIA director said. “Try reading your mail once in a while; you might learn something.” Turning to the President, the CIA director continued. “Sir, we got the info on Brujo from one of our operatives in Havana. It came in late in the night. Our man said we would have to move fast if we wanted to get Brujo on neutral ground.”

Then turning back to the NSC adviser, the CIA director continued with his explanation. “He had the name of the boat, when it was leaving, and said Brujo was traveling light... If you think I’m going to hang around to wait for a blessing from you before I make a move, then I’d like to sell you the Brooklyn Bridge.”

The President, looking irritated, glanced at his watch. “We have to stop here. I’ve got a meeting with the Secretary of State in fifteen minutes and I need to bone up. Now I don’t want any more of this inter-agency bickering... We’re supposed to be a team here!”

* * *

Proceed to part 2...