Wet Work: The Definitive Edition (11 page)

“
Don’t…ask,” he said.

Nick’s face had lost all color now, the shooting and the old woman’s corpse erasing the lines from his features, reducing his appearance to that of a young, bewildered boy.

Re-holstering his gun, Santos made his way to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face.

Feeling helpless, Nick shuffled into the kitchen, checking the rest of the apartment.

A half-eaten bowl of strawberry Jell-O lay melting on the table, dirty pots and pans stacked high in the overflowing sink. A pile of empty Bud and Thunderbird bottles sat haphazardly in the far corner. Above the slag heap of cans hung a small, red shelving unit containing items of drug paraphernalia. A bong, a clay pipe filled with marijuana ashes, several empty Crack vials, a screwed-up wad of tinfoil and a lighter.

He walked to the farthest room, the living room, as he heard Santos turn off the faucet in the bathroom. What he’d just seen didn’t prepare him for the atrocity draped over the worn, vinyl couch.

A young black woman lay twisted over the right arm, her legs dragging on the floor as if she had been kneeling before being pulled up, her torso turned to face him. Her eyes and mouth were stretched wide in silent agony, her tube-top torn open displaying vicious slash marks that angled down from her neck, over her breasts, and down to her abdomen from which a slick coil of small intestine protruded like a bolus of bubble gum. Nick’s stomach churned and he gagged. Then he saw the broken neck of a beer bottle jutting from her ruptured rectum. He doubled over, the obscenity of the violation hitting him like a heavyweight punch to his guts.

His gun slipped from his fingers. Nick threw up.

CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA.

7:03 P.M.

Del Valle poured himself a glass of cognac and sat back at his desk, returning his attention to Corvino’s file. He knew everything about his friend’s career as a soldier, mercenary, assassin, and more about Dominic, the man, than anyone else in the Company. At least as much as Corvino wanted him to know, which when you sat down and thought about it in detail—as he’d been doing for most of the day—wasn’t really a whole lot. He could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he’d visited Corvino’s apartment; when they met outside the office, it was usually at a restaurant or on a golf course. And now, in light of the affair with Mitra and Corvino’s desire to quit, Del Valle wondered whether he knew him at all. Corvino’s confession seemed so out of character.

Spiral had been established as the cream of Covert Operations; a crack team made up of the best operatives, men whose lives no longer officially existed and could act as true shadow warriors—unseen, untraceable, anonymous, autonomous. Corvino had been ideal material.

He turned over the dossier and went back to the beginning.

NAME: Corvino, Dominic Anthony

D.O.B.: 07/09/48

PLACE OF BIRTH: Watchung, New Jersey.

PARENTS: Corvino, Michael (deceased); Molicone, Florence (deceased)

LIVING RELATIVES: None.

EDUCATION: Brandywine High School, Tarrytown, New York.

MILITARY CAREER: Enlisted New York City, 1966. Marines. Selected for Special Forces, 1971. Trained at Fort Bragg. A-Team detachment. Operations Sergeant.

ACTIVE SERVICE: Vietnam. Four tours of duty.

Del Valle skipped over the Nam details. He’d been on three of the four tours, and knew all the pertinent facts by rote.

Honorable Discharge, 1975.

FREELANCE ACTIVITY: Mercenary.

Angola 1975-1977. CIA-supported.

Mozambique 1978-79. Rhodesian CIO-financed.

Retired: 1980. Recruited, Covert Operations, 1982. Field Team Leader, SPIRAL, 1983-present.

BIOGRAPHICAL: Son of Army Corporal Michael Corvino. Died, Korea, 1952. Mother, grade school teacher, died in automobile accident, 1953. Subject raised by paternal grandmother, Sophia Corvino, Nyack, New York, until 1954 when last remaining relative died of a stroke. Subject was left alone with the undiscovered body for three days due to heavy snowfall.

Age 6. Ward of the state, St. Paul’s Orphanage, Tarrytown, New York.

Age 11. Deaths of two other wards of state: Billy Katz, Steven Richardson. Implication subject involved with deaths, though never proven.

Age 13. Subject began learning karate under the tutorship of Bernard Huston, former Captain, U.S. Army, stationed in Japan, 1948-1956.

Age 16. Awarded Black Belt.

Age 18. Enlists in Marines, encouraged by Huston. Passes all examinations within top 5 percent. Recommended for Special Forces (see Military Training).

PSYCHOLOGICAL EVALUATION: Corvino is, and has proved himself to be, perfect killing material. Due to lack of parental contact and a relationship with grandmother the subject describes as “cold,” range of primary emotional responses narrow, bordering on sociopathic with highly motivated survival instincts. Inhibiting factors of guilt, nonexistent.

Del Valle paused, taking a sip of Cognac. He tried to imagine what it must have been like for Corvino during the three days the child had been snowed in the house with the old woman’s body. He’d brought up the subject only once in conversation during their second tour of duty in Nam on a plane ride back from Saigon, saying very little but implying a secret world of childhood nightmares and buried fears. Terrors Del Valle couldn’t conceive of, although he remembered what it had felt like the first time his parents had gone away for a week without him—a week he’d spent in a gloomy old ranch outside Dallas, with an old aunt he’d met only once before and never saw again. It must have been terrifying for Dominic, trapped alone and confused in a house with only a dead woman for company. The thought tapped a primal nerve. He shuddered, returning to more pressing concerns.

Like the two million dollars missing from the house in Panama. Had Corvino killed the other Spiral members for the money? Del Valle didn’t believe it, but then two million dollars would come in handy if he wanted to disappear. That kind of money could buy you a new identity, a new life, and if he was ready to retire…

If that was the case, then it would have made more sense just to disappear in Panama, fleeing to some other South American country where he could arrange plastic surgery and a new set of papers.

No, it didn’t hold water as far as Del Valle was concerned. Even if Dominic had killed Lang and disposed of the body to make it look like the Englishman had run, there were too many loose ends. Corvino was too methodical to set up a situation with so many holes in it. But unless they located Lang, all they had to go on was Dominic’s report and the basic information from the Panamanian police.

He checked his watch—7:30 P.M. His day had started at 5 A.M. He should go home and eat dinner with Jeannie, relax, watch some television, try to make it an early night. Tomorrow was going to be long and complicated. Harris’ and Skolomowski’s bodies, released by the Panamanian police, were being flown in and were due to arrive at Bolling round nine. There’d be autopsy reports to go over, more data to be compiled, and a meeting with top DEA officials who weren’t happy with the fact that the two million dollars was still missing.

Del Valle replaced Corvino’s file in his safe and switched off the lights.

WASHINGTON HARBOR COMPLEX.

GEORGETOWN.

7:43 P.M.

You are the wind moving over rock.

Flow…

Dressed in black sweat pants and a white silk
gi
, Corvino stood in the center of an empty room. White walls, a plain wooden floor, it was his
Dojo
and was sacred. He alone trained there, four hours a day minimum between assignments. He stood perfectly straight, feet together, heel to heel, big toe to big toe, and exhaled. He swept his hands down gracefully from his chest, spreading his arms out into a reverse V pattern, bending his knees out as he lowered his torso, his back remaining rigidly straight.

Left foot out, knee bent at a right angle.

Inhale.

Right arm sweeping up in a smooth motion, the hand as straight as a razor; left arm raising simultaneously, the forearm positioned horizontally.

Right foot forward. Right hand into a fist. Strike as the left arm chopped down.

Exhale.

Flow as the wind…

He continued to move, following the pattern of Sennin
kata.

His mind clear of distractions, he stretched muscle, sinew. Punch, kick, turn, sidestep…

He completed the
kata
in five minutes, then started afresh, repeating the form six times until he was satisfied his right leg was strengthening.

Afterwards, he showered, taking his time under the hot needle points of water, washing away not just sweat but also trying to get rid of the negativity he’d been carrying with him since his meeting with Del Valle.

He wanted answers to questions that didn’t make sense, but most of all he wanted to be finished with Covert Ops. He’d invested enough money to be able to live comfortably for the rest of his life, and the thought of learning to paint with oils, reading, and pursuing his other interests was appealing. He was on the wrong side of forty and a lifetime of killing had become a heavy burden.

He stepped out of the shower and stood in front of the bathroom mirror, wiping away the condensation. The face that stared back at him seemed to have aged ten years in the last week. Although he was in far better shape than most men his age, the strain was beginning to show.

There was another retirement option though, one he didn’t relish because it would mean he’d spend the rest of his days looking over his shoulder. He could fake his own suicide, adopt a new identity and disappear. It wasn’t that difficult if you knew how, but Del Valle would never believe he’d taken his own life, especially in light of his admission. Neither would Hershman—and he would want Corvino found. Knowing him, Hershman would issue a sanction and have him executed as a security risk. A fake suicide would be perceived as indication of guilt.

Toweling himself dry, he headed for the bedroom where he slipped into a black silk robe. The cool fabric caressed his warm skin, gently resting against him like a lover’s tender embrace.

Mitra…

He sat on the futon bed, legs crossed.

Panama had been a set-up, he was sure But by whom? His gut feeling was that Skolomowski and Lang were involved. Had they taken out the targets before he and Harris had arrived? It was more logical than the rival Colombians theory. He didn’t believe in coincidences, and if the men connected with the Escobar clan had hit the Cali contingent, they couldn’t have got in without Lang seeing them. This meant the Englishman had lied one way or another. But what was their motive—to steal the two million dollars? Then what, disappear? Or were they going to kill him and Harris and make it look like the dead men had stolen the money and had gone on the run? That was possible. And the Pole had probably killed Mitra for the hell of it.

Skolomowski was dead. Maybe there was a God after all.

But even if he accepted that theory, there were still other factors which didn’t make sense. If Skolomowski and Lang had killed the Colombians, they would’ve done a thorough job. So who was the man who shot the Pole and where had he come from? And then there was the man who had attacked him—a man reason dictated should’ve been dead. The whole situation was a giant Chinese puzzle box that threatened to drive him crazy.

Mentally exhausted, Corvino lay down. Within minutes he was asleep.

ALEXANDRIA.

10:05 P.M.

Nick eased the Bronco into the driveway, shut off the engine, and cut Bob Seger’s voice in mid-wail as he and The Silver Bullet Band sang about going to Kathmandu. He rubbed his hands over his face and sighed. He wanted a cigarette. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t smoked for nearly three years; there were times when the desire just rolled back in and he would automatically reach for a pack of Winstons that wasn’t there.
Once an oral compulsive,
always an oral compulsive
, Sandy had said at times like these, and he would laugh. Then she’d kiss him and add,
isn’t that nicer than a stinking butt?
She’d accent the last two words so she sounded like Larry Storch playing a Mexican bandito in some B-Movie western. He would laugh again and hold her.

Sandy.

That was what he wanted to do right now. Hold her. Hold her and feel her soft kisses on his brow as she wrapped him in her arms.

He looked at the darkened red brick house. It was as empty as he felt. He wanted her. Wanted the lights to be on and his wife to be sitting in front of the TV. He would enter and she would get up off the couch and switch off the TV set. She’d cross the room, open her arms and hug him, kissing him longingly.

The gunman hits the sidewalk as his gun bucks in his hands.

He didn’t want to go inside. Coming home to a vacant house late at night always felt strange. You could call a house a home, but it was never a
real
home unless people lived there. How did people who lived alone feel when they walked in the door? Maybe they were content, relieved at having a space all to themselves. Isn’t that why people lived alone, because they wanted space? Somehow he doubted it. People talked about living alone a lot, at least the few single guys he knew. But beneath the claims they were happy doing their own thing, that they had no desire to marry, the jokes about so many women and so little time, his instincts told him it was a crock. No one really wanted to live alone. Everyone wanted somebody. Everybody wanted someplace to call home. Marriage, or at least a good relationship, made a house a home. No, that wasn’t true. His parents’ marriage hadn’t made a home. His mother had made the two-story house on Van Buren Avenue a home though, and when she’d died, he’d felt displaced until he’d moved in with Sandy and her family. Now, as he sat staring at his own house, he realized Sandy was his home; it didn’t matter where they lived. It wasn’t the house; it was her. And he resented the fact she wasn’t there.