CHAPTER EIGHTY
Doc’s jet landed at Washington’s Reagan National Airport in the late afternoon. We were met by somber men in a black SUV and driven into the Virginia countryside. We took a lane off the main highway and drove for a few minutes past big homes set back from the road. Horses were pastured in the large expanses between the houses. Finally, we came to a driveway leading off the lane. We turned in and drove across some rolling hills to a large house set well back from the street. It was a fairly new house, built in the antebellum style of the Old South. There were long porches and columns in front. The building was clapboard, or an imitation thereof, and painted white with black shutters. An imposing and isolated place.
We were shown into a living room where a tall man slouched in an upholstered chair, sipping from a tumbler of amber whiskey. He was wearing a white dress shirt, a red-and-white tie that was askew on his chest, dark pants, and wingtip cordovan shoes. His hair was gray and a lot of it was missing. He looked up and his face broke into a large grin. “Jock,” he said, and stood to embrace his visitor.
“Dave,” Jock said, “this is Matt Royal and Logan Hamilton. Gentlemen, my director, Dave.” No last name. I wasn’t surprised. Jock’s agency didn’t exist publicly. It’s funding came from some black bag dollars that were funneled through the CIA. While there was a lot of cooperation between the agencies, Dave answered only to the president of the United States.
“At last I get to meet you two. God, you’ve gotten my buddy here involved in some strange stuff the last couple of years.”
We shook hands. “Can I get you a drink?” asked the director.
“I wouldn’t mind a little Scotch if you have it,” said Logan.
“I’ll take a beer,” I said.
“O’Doul’s,” said Jock.
The director disappeared and returned with our drinks. It had been a long day that started before dawn in Marsh Harbour. It was still daylight outside, but I felt like I’d done a hard day’s work and midnight was closing in. The beer tasted good, cold and plain good.
“What have you got for us, Dave?” asked Jock.
“Nitzler gave it all up, I think. He was using the drug connection to ensure his retirement. The killings were just a sideshow. He’d always wanted to get the men who’d killed his buddy Morrissey, but he’d never had the ability to get at them. His new position in the CIA and his drug connections cleared that problem.”
“Can we talk to him?” Jock asked.
“He’s in the basement. Help yourself.”
We finished our drinks and Dave summoned another agent to take us to Nitzler. We found him sitting in a room with no furniture except the chair he sat on. He was wearing navy pinstriped suit pants, a white dress shirt, no tie, no belt, no shoes. He was shackled to a chair that was bolted to the floor. When we entered, he looked up. He was sweaty, tired, the lines of his face etched with exhaustion. “Who’re you?” he asked.
“I’m Jock Algren.”
“I know your name. Who’re these guys?”
“Matt Royal and Logan Hamilton.”
“Shit.”
Jock squatted down to eye level with Nitzler. “You want to tell us what the hell you were doing killing people you had no beef with?”
“No reason not to at this juncture,” Nitzler said. “I know the drill. I won’t be going home.”
“Then a little truth won’t hurt you,” said Jock.
“It was part of the misdirection. I figured if the kids were killed, and they were killed by Vietnamese, then if anybody got onto us, they’d think it was the survivors of Ban Touk exacting revenge by killing the children of the men who killed their children.”
“That’s kind of far out, isn’t it?” asked Logan.
“Yeah, but I also wanted those bastards who killed Nigel to feel the same kind of pain I’ve felt since his death. If they were just killed, there’d be no pain. This way, they got to suffer before I took them all out.”
“You’re a cold-blooded son of a bitch,” I said.
“You have to be to do the kind of work I’ve done for the past thirty years,” he said.
“Tell me about your efforts to kill me,” I said.
Nitzler laughed, a dry cackle that made him appear to be unbalanced. “The first time I wanted you hurt bad, scared, out of my face, but not dead. I figured you’d think it was the Laotians and you’d close up shop and forget about us. I didn’t count on you breaking my man’s arm.”
“And the second time?” I asked.
“Misdirection. I figured you’d backtrack the dummy we sent and begin to wonder what kind of fools we were. I didn’t count on you finding out who hired the idiot.”
“John Nguyen,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“How did you know we found John Nguyen?”
“Your f*cking interrogator told me. That’s how you first started to connect the dots and gave up on the Laotian connection.”
“That’s right,” I said. “You screwed up on that one.”
Nitzler looked at Jock. “The guy from your agency also told me you were Royal’s buddy and had gotten yourself involved. I’ve heard tales about the great Jock Algren for years. If I’d known you were involved we would have played this thing differently.”
“How so?” I aked.
“I don’t know. But I would have taken his contacts in the intelligence community into consideration.”
“Did you hack into Desmond’s computers?” asked Jock.
“I did. I read all your memos. Very informative. When you guys got the bright idea that Laotians were doing the killing, I thought I’d just let that be. You were going off in the wrong direction so that suited my purposes.”
“What about the drug money?” asked Jock. “Where did that go?”
“Some of it went to pay for the Viets I hired to kill those kids. The rest of it went into my bank account in Switzerland. In the name of Robert Bracewell. Dave and his boys are already on it. I’m sure that money will be in an agency account before the end of the day.”
“Pretty slick,” I said. “How did you know about Bracewell?”
“I came across the connection when I was checking out Stanley.”
“Why Stanley and the Otto Foundation?” I asked.
“Simple. Maude Lane was Nigel’s older sister. She already worked there and it didn’t take much to convince her to help us get the men who killed her brother.”
“Why try to implicate Detective Duncan in your operation?” I asked.
“Standard procedure. When she started the investigation into the murders, I set her up to take a fall if she happened to stumble over something that would implicate me or the agency.”
“Why lure Katherine Brewster to Anna Maria Island to kill her?” I asked. “Why not do that in Charlotte?”
“I had nothing to do with her going to Florida. I was getting my team in place for the Desmond boy’s wedding when that idiot Mantella set up his scheme to get her to Florida. It seemed only natural to set them up to take out the Brewster girl at the same time. I thought the chances of law enforcement tying the killings together were slim.”
“How did you find out what Mantella was doing?”
“I’d had the Brewster’s phone tapped. We got the girl telling her boyfriend about the gift certificates and her planned trip to Florida. I had EZGo Travel checked out and we tracked it back to Mantella.”
“Why kill Garrison?” I asked. “The lawyer?”
“Yes.”
“Collateral damage. He tried to save the Brewster girl.”
“How did you know Katherine would be onboard Dulcimer that evening?”
“We didn’t. I knew she had a gift certificate for a cruise. I had the team aboard every night, with one of them standing in the bow to take care of the captain when the time came.”
“Where does Llewellyn fit into this?” asked Jock.
“He’s a good man. Follows orders. Doesn’t ask questions. He was handy when I got word that Desmond’s plane was in Marsh Harbour. He and a team went straight there, figured out that you’d be in the house on the island, and went to see what was up.”
“How’d he know about the house?” Jock asked.
“He didn’t. Not until he got to Marsh Harbour. He found out that Royal had rented a boat and the dockmaster told him that he saw the three of you anchored and fishing in the area of the house. I told Llewellyn to slip up to the house after dark and make sure it was Desmond before he raided the place. I guess we didn’t count on your security measures.”
“Why?” Jock asked.
“Why what?”
“Why did you do it? Betray your country, your agency.”
“I didn’t betray my country. I just wanted a nice nest egg for retirement and when I came across the smuggling ring during another operation, I figured I could get the money and take out the bastards who killed my buddy. A little retribution.”
“What about those women and children killed at Ban Touk?” asked Logan.
“What about them?”
“You don’t think they deserved some justice, like maybe the execution of the guy who ordered them killed? Opal or Morrissey or whatever his name was?”
“F*ck ’em. A bunch of slopes. Wrong place, wrong time. We were in a war.”
“Just collateral damage,” Logan said.
Nitzler looked at Logan, a hard, defiant look. “Damn straight, bucko.”