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