Chapter 18
Six Days, Ten Hours, Five Minutes
Sipping his coffee, Richard DeMarco glanced casually across the headlines of the Washington Times, searching for anything of interest to read. The 'Stars-N-Stripes' Coffee Shop was bustling with morning commuters stopping in briefly, and, occasionally, he studied their hurried expressions. Their faces only confirmed what he had already long suspected about America: no one cared. People went about their business, oblivious to the fact that there was an entire world going about its business outside. They rushed in. They bought their coffee and their danishes. All the while, the clerks smiled, took the money, plunked keys on an outdated cash register, and repeated the cycle of commerce over and over and over again. The customers left, leaping into their cars and speeding off toward the nation's capital ... all the while ignorant of that life was passing them by faster than they raced past roadside mile markers.
"Americans," he muttered, losing himself once more in the newspaper's headlines. "They are all alike."
Thirty minutes later, DeMarco finished with the newspaper. He closed it in time to see the silver-haired gentleman walk in the café, saunter up to the counter, place an order for a cup of coffee – "In a ceramic cup, if you please, not your Styrofoam bucket" – and glance over his shoulder. Comfortably, he strode over to where DeMarco sat, and the two nodded.
"It's been a long time, Richard," the man finally broke the silence.
DeMarco slowly spun the closed newspaper around and around on the tabletop. "Great things require great preparation, Arthur."
Arthur Pendley smiled. "Yes," he agreed, gripping the back of a chair and sliding it away from the table. "I suppose you're right."
The silver-haired man sat. Casually, he sniffed before he asked, "And how was your flight?"
"Uneventful," DeMarco replied.
"Really?"
He nodded. "I travel light, Arthur, when I'm on business."
Pendley tilted his head back, smiling broadly as a young man delivered his cup of coffee to the table. He thanked the young man, taking the hook tightly in one finger and raising the beverage to his mouth. He sipped easily, careful not to imbibe a hot swallow, and then he placed his cup back on the tabletop.
"You may travel light, Richard," he remarked, "but it has been my experience in our, say, fifteen year association that you tend to pick up baggage along the way." Again, he sniffed. "You have elaborate tastes, my dear young man, and, as I seem to recall, those tastes have caused you some trouble in the past."
DeMarco remained expressionless. "I already told you, Arthur." Leaning forward, he emphasized each word: "I travel light."
Pendley's eyes glinted with humor. "What? Do you honestly expect me to believe that there were no pretty young ladies on the Trans-Atlantic flight? Come now. You take me for a fool." He heaved a leaden sigh. "Given the present state of our affairs, I can only hope that you've remembered past lessons learned. I hate to think that an unnecessary slip of your libido has jeopardized everything that you and I have agreed to accomplish in so short a time." He relaxed his shoulders, fingered the hook on the cup of his coffee. "Why don't you defer to the better part of valor and be perfectly honest with me, Richard. With whom did you speak with on that flight?"
DeMarco shrugged. "There was a woman."
"Isn't there always?"
"She sat next to me."
"I hope that's all she did."
Wincing at the older man, DeMarco leaned his elbows on the table. "Arthur, I will ask you one time – and I will only ask you one time – that you change this topic of conversation to something less volatile. Otherwise, if you want to continue this pointless banter, I have better things to do to occupy the time ... and, yes, that includes making a personal visit to a very pretty woman I shared nothing but simple conversation with on the Trans-Atlantic flight."
The two men stared at one another, neither willing to say anything, to plot and execute the next move. Theirs was a game of chess, and a most dangerous one – there could be only a single victor, but how soon would triumph arrive? At what cost?
Finally, Pendley shrugged. "Might I assume that you'll take care of it?"
"Take care of what, Arthur?"
The older man gestured cavalierly. "This personal business of yours?"
DeMarco smiled. "I'll deal with it. I give you my word."
At that, the older man lowered his eyes. "Never give another man your word, Richard, not when you mean to give him your best effort."
"I will give you my best effort, Arthur."
Pleased with himself, the man smirked. "Very well." He took a pause in order to enjoy another sip of the warm coffee. "Shall we talk about the merchandise?"
Shaking his head, DeMarco relaxed in his chair. "I'd rather not."
"What's the point of the meeting then?"
Feeling he had somehow managed to take the lead in their contest of wills, DeMarco glanced through the window at the mid-morning sky. "I wanted to say hello."
"That could've been done with the telephone, Richard."
"I know it could have, Arthur," the younger man agreed, running a hand through his thick hair. "But I never like to share news of a death in my family over the telephone. I consider it ... impolite."
"A death?" Pendley asked.
"Emile," DeMarco said. "My cousin."
"Really?"
"Yes. He died last night."
"So sudden?"
"He had exhausted his usefulness to me," DeMarco said flatly. Turning back to the table, he locked eyes with the senior. "From this point forward, anyone who exhausts his usefulness to me will suffer the same fate. Family or not. I hope, for your sake, that you are understanding what I'm saying, Arthur. If you are not, then let me speak plainly. I'm making it perfectly clear that, as of this moment, I will not tolerate the slightest provocation, the slightest interrogation, or the slightest insult from you or anyone like you." He leaned forwarded, drumming his fingers softly along the edge of the table. "I am here – in America – on my enemy's soil – to risk my life for a cause of my choosing. Not yours. Not Emile's. And certainly cause belonging to the Faction." He pulled his fingers away from the table's edge, and he placed his hand flat on the surface. "I am here to finish some terrible business. Personal business. Should anyone try to subvert what I must accomplish, I will kill them without a moment's hesitation." He widened his eyes when he added, "Should you try to stop me, I will see to it that your remains are never found."
The older man slowly nodded, his lower lip twitching. Eventually, he said, "You have served the Faction well, Richard, for a very long time. These are desperate times, and, as you well know, America is on high alert when it comes to nefarious deeds. I have to warn you that the Faction – driven as they are – do not support missions of any personal nature, so you will not have any friends there, should you require them." He paused, studying the young man's face. "But ... while you may not have their support, I give you my word that, in your time of need, you will have mine."
Purposefully, the man said, "Thank you, old friend."
"Tell me what you need."
"I will, Arthur," DeMarco replied, "when the time is right."
End of Chapter 18
Six Days, Ten Hours, Five Minutes
Sipping his coffee, Richard DeMarco glanced casually across the headlines of the Washington Times, searching for anything of interest to read. The 'Stars-N-Stripes' Coffee Shop was bustling with morning commuters stopping in briefly, and, occasionally, he studied their hurried expressions. Their faces only confirmed what he had already long suspected about America: no one cared. People went about their business, oblivious to the fact that there was an entire world going about its business outside. They rushed in. They bought their coffee and their danishes. All the while, the clerks smiled, took the money, plunked keys on an outdated cash register, and repeated the cycle of commerce over and over and over again. The customers left, leaping into their cars and speeding off toward the nation's capital ... all the while ignorant of that life was passing them by faster than they raced past roadside mile markers.
"Americans," he muttered, losing himself once more in the newspaper's headlines. "They are all alike."
Thirty minutes later, DeMarco finished with the newspaper. He closed it in time to see the silver-haired gentleman walk in the café, saunter up to the counter, place an order for a cup of coffee – "In a ceramic cup, if you please, not your Styrofoam bucket" – and glance over his shoulder. Comfortably, he strode over to where DeMarco sat, and the two nodded.
"It's been a long time, Richard," the man finally broke the silence.
DeMarco slowly spun the closed newspaper around and around on the tabletop. "Great things require great preparation, Arthur."
Arthur Pendley smiled. "Yes," he agreed, gripping the back of a chair and sliding it away from the table. "I suppose you're right."
The silver-haired man sat. Casually, he sniffed before he asked, "And how was your flight?"
"Uneventful," DeMarco replied.
"Really?"
He nodded. "I travel light, Arthur, when I'm on business."
Pendley tilted his head back, smiling broadly as a young man delivered his cup of coffee to the table. He thanked the young man, taking the hook tightly in one finger and raising the beverage to his mouth. He sipped easily, careful not to imbibe a hot swallow, and then he placed his cup back on the tabletop.
"You may travel light, Richard," he remarked, "but it has been my experience in our, say, fifteen year association that you tend to pick up baggage along the way." Again, he sniffed. "You have elaborate tastes, my dear young man, and, as I seem to recall, those tastes have caused you some trouble in the past."
DeMarco remained expressionless. "I already told you, Arthur." Leaning forward, he emphasized each word: "I travel light."
Pendley's eyes glinted with humor. "What? Do you honestly expect me to believe that there were no pretty young ladies on the Trans-Atlantic flight? Come now. You take me for a fool." He heaved a leaden sigh. "Given the present state of our affairs, I can only hope that you've remembered past lessons learned. I hate to think that an unnecessary slip of your libido has jeopardized everything that you and I have agreed to accomplish in so short a time." He relaxed his shoulders, fingered the hook on the cup of his coffee. "Why don't you defer to the better part of valor and be perfectly honest with me, Richard. With whom did you speak with on that flight?"
DeMarco shrugged. "There was a woman."
"Isn't there always?"
"She sat next to me."
"I hope that's all she did."
Wincing at the older man, DeMarco leaned his elbows on the table. "Arthur, I will ask you one time – and I will only ask you one time – that you change this topic of conversation to something less volatile. Otherwise, if you want to continue this pointless banter, I have better things to do to occupy the time ... and, yes, that includes making a personal visit to a very pretty woman I shared nothing but simple conversation with on the Trans-Atlantic flight."
The two men stared at one another, neither willing to say anything, to plot and execute the next move. Theirs was a game of chess, and a most dangerous one – there could be only a single victor, but how soon would triumph arrive? At what cost?
Finally, Pendley shrugged. "Might I assume that you'll take care of it?"
"Take care of what, Arthur?"
The older man gestured cavalierly. "This personal business of yours?"
DeMarco smiled. "I'll deal with it. I give you my word."
At that, the older man lowered his eyes. "Never give another man your word, Richard, not when you mean to give him your best effort."
"I will give you my best effort, Arthur."
Pleased with himself, the man smirked. "Very well." He took a pause in order to enjoy another sip of the warm coffee. "Shall we talk about the merchandise?"
Shaking his head, DeMarco relaxed in his chair. "I'd rather not."
"What's the point of the meeting then?"
Feeling he had somehow managed to take the lead in their contest of wills, DeMarco glanced through the window at the mid-morning sky. "I wanted to say hello."
"That could've been done with the telephone, Richard."
"I know it could have, Arthur," the younger man agreed, running a hand through his thick hair. "But I never like to share news of a death in my family over the telephone. I consider it ... impolite."
"A death?" Pendley asked.
"Emile," DeMarco said. "My cousin."
"Really?"
"Yes. He died last night."
"So sudden?"
"He had exhausted his usefulness to me," DeMarco said flatly. Turning back to the table, he locked eyes with the senior. "From this point forward, anyone who exhausts his usefulness to me will suffer the same fate. Family or not. I hope, for your sake, that you are understanding what I'm saying, Arthur. If you are not, then let me speak plainly. I'm making it perfectly clear that, as of this moment, I will not tolerate the slightest provocation, the slightest interrogation, or the slightest insult from you or anyone like you." He leaned forwarded, drumming his fingers softly along the edge of the table. "I am here – in America – on my enemy's soil – to risk my life for a cause of my choosing. Not yours. Not Emile's. And certainly cause belonging to the Faction." He pulled his fingers away from the table's edge, and he placed his hand flat on the surface. "I am here to finish some terrible business. Personal business. Should anyone try to subvert what I must accomplish, I will kill them without a moment's hesitation." He widened his eyes when he added, "Should you try to stop me, I will see to it that your remains are never found."
The older man slowly nodded, his lower lip twitching. Eventually, he said, "You have served the Faction well, Richard, for a very long time. These are desperate times, and, as you well know, America is on high alert when it comes to nefarious deeds. I have to warn you that the Faction – driven as they are – do not support missions of any personal nature, so you will not have any friends there, should you require them." He paused, studying the young man's face. "But ... while you may not have their support, I give you my word that, in your time of need, you will have mine."
Purposefully, the man said, "Thank you, old friend."
"Tell me what you need."
"I will, Arthur," DeMarco replied, "when the time is right."
End of Chapter 18