Top Hook. Gordon Kent

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      “What’d I just say?”

      “Goddamit, this is important! Shreed’s spilling his guts! Move the van closer.”

      “No way. I tole you, there’s no place over there the cops won’t notice me. Here, I’m golden.”

      “I want you to move the van.” He didn’t really care about the van; what he cared about was that suddenly he feared and therefore hated this man, this on-the-cheap private detective.

      “You want me to get the goods on your boss. Well, that’s what I’m doing. Djou feed that dog?”

      Suter glanced at the cassette recorder. He had wanted a tape so that if there was something good, he could lay it on Shreed’s desk if he had to, even play it for him. Now, the tape was like a bomb. “You’re making only the one tape, right?”

      “I promised my neighbor I’d feed the dog at eight. Gimme the can-opener.”

      “I said, you’re making only one tape! Right?”

      “What’d I just say? I promised to feed the fucking dog, now gimme the can-opener. It’s right under your ass.”

      Suter had left the driver’s-side door open, and the dog was sitting on the pavement in the rain. When it heard the can-opener start to operate on the can, it wagged its tail and then vaulted into the back seat, using Suter as a platform. He took a swipe at it with a hand and disentangled his wrist from the leash.

      “Keep the fucking dog! Nobody’s out there, anyway. We never should have brought it.”

      “So whose idea was it? ‘Get me a dog for cover,’ you said. Looka her eat! She’s fucking starved.”

      “Tony, I don’t want a word of this getting out of that mouth of yours. You understand me?”

      “What’d I tell you when we joined up? ‘I hear, I don’t listen. Absolute confidentiality is my stock in trade.’ Looka that doggie eat.”

      Suter looked into the darkness at the sound of the dog’s slurping. “If any of this gets out, you’re dead.” The word boomed in Suter’s mind like a low-pitched bell: dead, dead, dead—

      “What’d I just say?” In the dark, the other man patted the dog. “What’d you do, try to drown her? She’s fucking soaked! My fucking neighbor’ll have a cow, I bring her back like this. You’re a cruel guy, you know that, Suter?”

      Suter lit a cigarette, inhaled, sighed. “Yeah, I know that. Make sure you know it, too.”

      The car was silent. The smell of wet dog and cigarette smoke joined the other smells. After several minutes, Tony said, “Your boss’s talking again.”

      “Christ!” Suter was out in the rain within seconds, pushing at his right ear and splashing away through the puddles. The bell kept tolling: dead, dead, dead—

      Trieste.

      “As soon as he drew a gun, I tackled the man in front of me and brought him down. Then I began to fire at the ones shooting into the front of the café. They returned fire and killed the man I had tackled.”

      “You had a gun, Commander?” The Italian cop smelled strongly of cologne and leaned forward across the desk every time he spoke. Alan couldn’t decide whether it was a very polite interrogation or a very thorough witness examination.

      “No, signore, I did not have a gun. I took it from the man who was standing in front of me.”

      “You are a commando? A specialist?”

      Alan was now going over this ground for the third time. “I took him by surprise.”

      “You overpowered one terrorist, took his gun, and shot a second.”

      “Yes.”

      The cop watched Alan with a kindly look of disbelief. Another investigator entered the room, a razor-thin man in a very nice suit.

      “Why were you there at all, Commander?”

      “I wanted a cup of coffee.” The name, Bonner, and all its implications hung before him. He wasn’t ready to give them the woman yet. “Signori, may I remind you that I’m an officer in the US Navy, and that under international agreements I have the right to representation by my service, and to have them informed? Am I a suspect in this?” He wanted to say as well that his foot hurt like hell, but he didn’t think they’d be sympathetic.

      “It would be easier for all of us if you would simply aid our investigation, Commander. Are you uncomfortable?”

      “I have a detachment to command.”

      “You shot two men in our city, Commander. That causes us huge concern. You understand that since the recent unfortunate incident with the US plane and the cable car, Italians are very touchy about Americans killing people in Italy.”

      Alan spread his hands in an engaging, almost Italian way, as if to say, What can I do?

      “I do understand that, but I also understand that you’re keeping me without a charge, and I would like my command to be notified. I have cooperated. And I didn’t kill both of them. I shot one. The other was shot by his own people. And they weren’t Italians, they were Serbs.”

      “Italy is not at war with the Serbs, Commander.” He put an index finger, pointed upward, beside his temple, as if he was signaling an idea. “I wonder if you did not come to Italy to execute these men.” He raised his eyebrows: Good idea? Getting no response, he looked for the fifth or tenth time at Alan’s passport. “You landed in Aviano just seven hours ago.”

      Alan was unsure whether to react with anger or to continue to respond politely. He’d tried both for two hours, and he didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. He started again.

      “I tackled the man I had noticed in front of me as soon as he drew a gun…”

      Suburban Washington.

      Shreed had been to the toilet and had splashed cold water on his face. He hated that face, most of all now—a whipped look, hangdog, drained from the effort of telling her. “Janey.” She gave no response. Maybe it was his own forgiveness he wanted, as much as hers. “So, Janey, there was this guy Chen. In Jakarta.”

      No response.

      “Jakarta. So we worked out a comm plan, all that old Cold War junk. Then I came back here for a tour and I got into computers. Bad days here, you remember—the Agency was in the doghouse, everybody pulled in like a flock of turtles. You called me ‘Captain COBOL.’ Remember?” He smiled, used both hands to pull one leg over the knee of the other.

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