The Chameleon       The Chameleon 

 By Randy Govey
 rango@juno.com  Drama, Rating: R for language & some violence	 Author's
Note: 

 This story -- my first -- would never have been written without the
encouragement of Karin Ransdell, who has been there for me from the
beginning. She has become my mentor, my sounding board, my best critic,
and a finer friend is not to be found on this earth.	Dedication: 
  To my best friend, Karin, with love.	      The Chameleon 

 1.    "Cold as the northern winds
 In December mornings,
 Cold is the cry that rings
 From this far distant shore.
 I'll wait the signs to come
 I'll find a way.
 I will wait the time to come.
 I'll find a way home..."
 
  "Exile"
 Enya	 

 "Tell me again, Benny, why paperwork is such an essential part of police
work and not a royal pain in the ass. Try to make it funny this time - I
could use a good laugh," said Ray Vecchio, taking a bite from a fresh
jelly donut.  

 "It's essential to get the facts on paper while they're still fresh in
your mind, Ray," explained Ben Fraser. "You may have to refer back to them
in future in the event, let's say, that you have to appear in court as a
witness, and if the trial isn't for a year or two, facts might slip your
mind."	

 "Mmlszett...." said Vecchio, spraying sugar from the donut onto the desk.
 

 "As your mother would tell you Ray, it's impolite to speak with your
mouth full. When you finish, would you repeat what you said?"  

 Ray took a sip of coffee to wash down the mouthful of donut.  

 "Bullshit, was what I said - and leave my mother out of this. Nothing
slips my mind. My mind's like a steel trap."  

 "Is that the same steel trap that forgot Frannie's birthday last month?" 


 "All right - I wrote it in the wrong block on the calendar - sue me.
Aren't I entitled to a little slack once in a while?" he asked, spreading
his arms out to either side as if appealing to Fraser for forgiveness.
Suddenly, the donut was no longer in his hand.	

 "What the hell...Dief! Goddamn you, bring that back!" Ray shouted as he
saw the white plume of the wolf's tail sticking up from behind another
desk.  

 "I wish you wouldn't feed him donuts, Ray," said Ben, trying not to smile
and not quite succeeding. "You're going to spoil him."	

 "I didn't feed it to him - he scarfed it right out of my hand. Fur
bearing thief! Bring that donut back here!"  

 "He can't hear you, Ray. Besides, do you really want it back now?" Ben
asked. He was watching a stranger in a brown leather bomber jacket walking
into the precinct room and heading in their direction.	

 "Ugh - guess not. Shit, it was the only strawberry filled one in the box,
too, damnit!"  

 "Detective Vecchio?"  

 Both men looked up at the stranger Ben had seen entering the precinct
room. Ben estimated the man to be about six feet tall, maybe an inch or so
taller, about 175 pounds, medium build, brown hair and eyes, and what Ben
would have to describe as a good-looking, "friendly" sort of face - the
kind of face you'd look for in a crowd if you were lost and needed
directions or help. Besides the brown leather bomber jacket, he wore a
navy blue turtleneck, black jeans and brown leather chukka boots.  

 "Who are you, slick?" Ray asked.  

 "Shepherd, James D.," the stranger said, flipping open his leather ID
wallet for their inspection. "Captain, U.S. Army Intelligence
Investigator." He extended his hand.  

 "I'm Detective Vecchio," Ray said, shaking the officer's hand, "and this
is Constable Benton Fraser, Deputy Liaison Officer, RCMP."  

 "A pleasure, Constable," Shepherd said, "I've never met a Mountie
before."  

 "The pleasure is mine, Captain. And I've never met an Army investigator
before, either."  

 "Then we're even," Shepherd said, grinning. Turning to Ray, he continued.
"Our office talked to a Lt. Welsh about your department assisting us in an
investigation in the area, and he said he was assigning you to give us a
hand. Desk sergeant told me where to find you. Guess I'm a couple of
minutes early. Did I get the time wrong? I thought the lieutenant said
10:00 AM."  

 Ray glanced at the clock showing 9:55 and muttered, "He may have, hang on
- this is the first I've heard of it. I have to check this with the
lieutenant. Excuse me a minute, Captain." He got up from the chair and
muttered to Ben, "Shit, this is all I need - now I have to bother the old
man."  

 Ben just smiled and said, "Ray, you're the one that said his bark is
worse than his bite."  

 "Benny, that's only when somebody else is in there." He walked up to Lt.
Welsh's office door and knocked. He heard Welsh's, "Yeah, it's open," and
opened the door just enough to stick his head in - looking like a turtle
ready to pull his head back just as fast as possible if the old man was in
a bad mood - which was most of the time.  

 "Uh, sir? You got a minute?"  

 "What is it, Vecchio? Make it fast."  

 "Yes sir. There's some Army spook out here that says his office talked to
you about our helping in an investigation and that he was given my name to
see. If it's true, it's the first I've heard of it."  

 "Vecchio, don't you ever look in the inbox on your desk, or is that only
to use as a donut box holder? If you people would read your frigging
memos," he said, raising his voice so that the whole room could hear him,
"we could get a hell of a lot more done around here. It's in your inbox,
Vecchio, go find it!"  

 "Yes sir," Ray said. "Thanks." He softly closed the door and quickly
turned away, hoping the old man wouldn't think of something else to yell
about. He walked back to the desk.  

 "I suppose you heard that?" He asked, looking at Ben.	

 "I think people across the street could have heard it, Ray," Fraser
admitted.  

 "Figures," Ray grumbled, picking up the box of donuts and looking in the
inbox for the assignment sheet.  

 At the sight of the box held in the air, Diefenbaker bounded over with an
expectant look.  

 "Forget it, you thief," said Ray, "you had more of that damned donut than
I did."  

 The army captain laughed. "What a beautiful animal - whose is it?"  

 "You could say he's mine," said Ben. "I suppose, technically, that I'm
more like his. He thinks he's the Alpha leader. He saved my life years ago
and now he thinks he owns me."	

 "Where the Christ is that damned...oh, here it is. Shit, it's got jelly
on it." Ray dropped the donut box back in the inbox and looked over the
sheet. "You're right," he said to Shepherd, "Ten o'clock. How can I help
you, Captain?"	

 "Please, gentlemen, let's drop the rank. I'm Jim or Shep to my friends
and if we're going to be in such close quarters for a while, we might as
well be on a first name basis - if that's okay with you Benton, and...
Ray, is it, Detective?"  

 "Fine by me," said Fraser, "and it's Ben."  

 "Ray is fine with me, Jim - or do you prefer Shep? And why would you, if
you don't mind my asking?"  

 "Jim is fine around you guys. My father is also James, and I also have
two friends named Jim, so when we were all growing up and hanging around
together, especially at my house, too many Jim's got confusing, so they
started calling me Shep, and it stuck."  

 "All right, I'll start again. How can I help you...Jim?"  

 "This is going to take a while - is the coffee here any good?"  

 "That's like asking the Borgia family for a glass of wine," Ray admitted.
"Either one will probably kill you. I wouldn't put the stuff they make
here in my crankcase. Engine would seize up. Coffee shop around the corner
- who's buying?"  

 "I am," said Jim. "Now?"  

 "Sooner the better. Coming, Benny? Or do you have to be at the
Consulate?"  

 "Not until 12:30. They blend their own Earl Grey tea at that shop -
sound's good. Let's go, Dief."	

 The wolf pushed his way past the three men and was the first one out the
door.	   2. 

 While Ben, Ray and Shepherd waited for their orders, Ben watched the
faces of the customers sitting near the windows by looking at the
reflections in the glass panel behind the stainless steel serving counter.
He liked the oddities of different perceptions. If he had been facing the
windows and the neon sign hanging near the top of the glass, he would have
had to read the sign backwards, but by looking at the reflection in front
of him he could read the name Carmen's Creative Coffees as easily as if he
was outside looking in.  

 As usual, Ray - the perfectionist when it came to anything with Italian
origins - was trying to tell the poor girl behind the counter the precise
way to make a proper cappuccino. The girl was getting flustered and Ben
figured any minute now she'd reach for the nearest stainless carafe and
let it fly at Ray. Shepherd must have noticed it as well, as he said,
"C'mon Ray, some time before the date on my watch changes."  

 "Oh, all right," said Vecchio, "I guess it'll have to do. Thank you,
sweetheart," he said to the girl - who just glared at him. He moved down
to the other end of the counter to the donut and pastry rack, leaving Ben
and Shepherd to place their orders.  

 "A cup of Earl Grey, please, Miss," Ben said to the girl - who smiled,
seeing the handsome Mountie. "Thank God," she said, "someone with manners.
Earl Grey - and you sir?" She asked, looking at Shepherd.  

 "A cup of the special dark espresso, please."	

 "Yes, sir. We grind that to order, and the tea will take a few minutes to
steep, so if you gentlemen would like to take a seat, I'll bring them out
to your table."  

 "Thank you," said Ben and Jim in unison. They looked at each other and
smiled - then moved down to the donut and pastry rack. Ben picked up an
apricot danish, and Shepherd grabbed a chocolate-iced donut with jimmies.
Ray was already sitting at the table nearest the counter.  

 "What took you guys so long?" Ray asked.  

 "We would have been here sooner if certain people didn't try to reinvent
the wheel," said Shepherd, smiling. "Could you possibly have given that
poor girl any more grief?"  

 "Who, Betty? She knows I'm kidding around - the girl loves me."  

 "I'll say - about as much as a cobra loves a mongoose," said Ben - making
Shepherd stifle a laugh.  

 "See? Here comes my girl, now," Ray said, motioning towards the
approaching waitress.  

 Betty set Ben's tea and Shepherd's espresso in their respective places,
and said, "There you go, guys. Need anything else, let me know."  

 Ray said, "We will, sweetheart."  

 "Hmmph!" Betty said and walked back behind the counter.  

 Shepherd grinned, pretended to turn up his jacket collar and said, "Did
it suddenly get chilly in here?"  

 "Very," said Ben. He sipped at his tea. "Mmm. This is very good. It has
more Oil of Bergamot than the commercial variety. Legend has it that this
specific blend has been popular for over 150 years since the time of the
second Earl Grey."  

 "Fascinating," said Vecchio. "What the hell's that you're drinking, Jim?"
 

 "Dark espresso."  

 "Jesus. You pulling an all-nighter? Why don't you just swallow a box of
No Doze?"  

 "It's not as bad as you'd think. Just don't drink any after 5:00 PM if
you want to sleep that night. The stuff the Army makes on bivouac is worse
- a pot of that coffee contains almost an entire pound of grounds."  

 "Christ," Ray said. "Transaxle fluid."  

 "Looks like it when it's cold," Jim laughed. Suddenly he stopped smiling.
"What the hell is this...?"  

 The door burst open and an obviously terrified youth ran in. "Back door!"
He screamed. "Where's the fucking back door?"  

 Before the waitress could answer, the door burst open again and three
other youths sauntered in. Ben noticed that the three had maroon bandannas
around their necks, while the terrified youth had a yellow bandanna around
his right upper arm. Gang colors.  

 The first of the three toughs - obviously the leader - carried a hardwood
staff of about five feet in length and about one and a half inches in
diameter. It was carved with symbols of some sort - some mystical-looking
runes to supposedly make the owner feel powerful, perhaps. The second gang
member had brass knuckles on each hand - the right hand sporting those
particularly nasty ones with the protruding spikes. The third, and
obviously the youngest member's hands were empty - but Ben was willing to
bet he was carrying, at the least, some kind of knife. You also could
never be sure if any of them were carrying guns.  

 "We warned you before, Larry, to keep offa our fuckin' turf. You don't
have your big brother and his friends around to save your ass now, do ya,
you little shit?"  

 Ray slid his chair back and stood up. "Well if it isn't King Shit
Belowski and the South Side Morons".  

 "That's Maroons. And fuck you, Vecchio. Our business is with Petrucci,
not you," spat the gang leader, watching Ben and Shepherd also get to
their feet. "We're just gonna deal with this piece of shit and we'll be on
our way."  

 "This piece of shit as you call him is a paisan. Petrucci, is it? You
from 10th Avenue?"  

 "Yeah. Wish I was there now," Larry said.  

 "I'll bet. Boys, I'll tell you what. You three go your merry way right
now and go back to your own neighborhood and I'll forget about enforcing a
couple of blatant weapon's charges I can see from here - deal?"  

 "After I break this punk's head open I'll be glad to leave. How's that
for a deal?" He laughed, then looked towards the end of the counter and
yelled, "Hey, bitch, what the fuck are you doin'? You call 911? Now I'm
gonna have to fix your ass, too. Might be fun. Whatcha think, boys?" He
asked, grinning. As he started towards the counter, Shepherd started
moving to the side - bringing himself between the gang leader and the
waitress.  

 "Bad move, man," Belowski said. Now we're gonna have to mess you up,
too." He moved towards Shepherd.  

 "Don't!" Ray yelled. "Shit," he hissed to Ben. "I can't draw and fire
quick enough and I might hit Shepherd."  

 What happened next, happened so fast that it seemed to be over before it
began.	

 The leader thrust the staff toward Shepherd, who parried with his left
forearm and drove the heel of his right palm straight into the leader's
chin, snapping his head back. The stunned leader grunted and this time
tried to thrust from his left. Shepherd stopped the staff with a two-hand
block, grabbed the staff and the leader's wrist and swept the staff around
and over - executing a perfect Aikido wrist throw, leaving the staff in
Shepherd's hands and sending the leader onto his back - hard. As he
attempted to get up, Shepherd struck him straight in the jaw with one heel
of the staff, knocking him out.  

 Brass Knuckles was trying to move in now. Shepherd started spinning the
staff like a thing possessed - twirling it in front, then slipping it
behind his back and reversing the spin until it was like a blur. Suddenly
moving a step forward, Shepherd released the spin and snapped one end out
in an arc, catching Brass Knuckles in the right side of the head. Moving
to his right, Shepherd now used the staff to sweep the dazed tough's legs
out from under him. The tough went down hard, striking the back of his
head on the hardwood floor.  

 Looking for the third tough, he saw the youth just standing there
staring, in shocked amazement, at his two friends on the floor. "You want
any of this, kid?" Shepherd asked.  

 "No way, man. I mean, no, sir."  

 "Good," said Vecchio, who now had a pair of cuffs on the leader. "Then
sit down right there and stay there." Ben had snapped a pair of cuffs on
Brass Knuckles, and relieved him of the weapon on each hand.  

 "Betty, did you get through to 911?" Ray asked, checking the tough for
any other weapons.  

 "They said right away," she stammered.  

 "Figures - the closer to the station, the longer it takes. Should have
told them the donuts were free, they'd have been here already. You. What's
your name? Larry," Ray said to the still terrified youth, "stay put and
we'll have a unit drive you home. I hope you learned something. Dump this
gang horseshit, and don't go looking for trouble. Sometimes you go looking
for it and it finds you instead. You read me, paisan?"	

 "Yes, sir. Thank you."  

 "Don't thank me, there's the guy you should thank," he said, pointing to
Shepherd. He walked over to Ben. "Damnedest thing I ever saw, Benny. How
about you?"  

 "I haven't seen anything quite like it before. Except in the movies and
then it looked staged. Here comes the wagon."  

 "About time." As the uniformed officers came in, Ray said, "Take these
two pieces of shit and this kid in and book them on assault charges. These
two also get aggravated and deadly weapons charges. This one is the
Belowski kid from Polish Square - Paul is his first name I think. The
other one's name is Kajenski, I believe. Start the report and leave the
form on my desk and I'll take care of the details. Do me a favor - get
this other kid a ride home to 10th Avenue?"  

 "Sure, Ray."  

 "Thanks." He looked at Shepherd approaching. "Christ, Jim, I've never
seen anyone move so fast. Is that what that dark espresso does to you?
Maybe I should start drinking it on a regular basis. Makes cappuccino look
like a sissy drink."  

 "Seriously, Jim," Ben said, "where did you learn those skills?"  

 "I've been studying martial arts since I was a kid. The Army arranged
some advanced training. Can we sit down? The adrenaline rush is over and
sometimes you feel zonked out afterwards. I never did finish that
espresso."  

 "That's a good idea. Betty, can we reheat these?"  

 "No, I'll give you fresh ones. No charge."  

 "Thanks. You're a peach."  

 "Yes, thank you," Shepherd said to the girl. She gave him a big smile.  

 "I think I'm jealous," Ray said.  

 "Has anyone seen Diefenbaker?" Ben asked.  

 "I haven't seen him since before those assholes interrupted our coffee,"
Ray said.  

 "If you're looking for your dog," Betty said, "he's in the back room. He
looked so cute begging for a donut, I figured you wouldn't mind. He took
it back there."  

 "Of course," Ray muttered, "the action's out here, so he's back there
where it's safe. He's got the knack."  

 Betty brought out the fresh coffees and Ben's tea.  

 "Thank you," said the three men in perfect sync. "What the hell was
that?" Ray asked. "We couldn't do that again if we tried." Fraser and
Shepherd shook their heads in agreement, grinning.  

 "Now can we get back to the reason you're in our nice, peaceful city?"
Ray inquired.  

 "Military personnel are disappearing."  

 "Big shit," Ray said. "Sounds like the usual liberty turning into the
lost weekend. What else is new?"  

 "Really disappearing, Ray. For good, it seems. Not AWOL - gone. No trace.
No turning up elsewhere."  

 "Here in Chicago?" Ben asked.	

 "The latest one. It's been the East Coast, so far. In Georgia, North
Carolina, Virginia, D.C., Massachusetts, and New York. All over the last
eight or nine months."	

 "All Army?" Ray asked.  

 "No. Air Force in Georgia, Massachusetts and D.C. -- Marines in North
Carolina and Virginia -- Army in New York. That's when I got the call. Now
a Naval officer here is missing."  

 "You'd think another base would have spotted one of the ID's by now."	

 "That's the weird part, Ray. The ID's and other required papers are
always left behind in the quarters."  

 "Who's the Navy guy?"	

 "A Lt. Commander Cunningham. He was staying at the Training Center until
some military finance conference next week."  

 "Hmmm," mumbled Ben.  

 "What is it, Benny?"  

 "Something I read at the Consulate some weeks ago. I think it was
something about this conference. Canada's military people are attending,
too. I better go back through the records this afternoon. Maybe something
will trigger my memory."  

 "If the Dragon Lady doesn't find something else for you to do - rescue
some Minister's wayward kitty cat from a tree, maybe."	

 "Jim, how come the Army seems to be the ones investigating when only one
of the missing persons was Army?" Asked Ben.  

 "The other branches did local inquiries at first, but when it started to
get more widespread and weird, they called us. The Army is the only branch
that has a group like us to look into the odd stuff. The troubleshooters,
they call us. The specialists. We have a lot of special skills. We used to
be the anti-terrorist group until Delta took that over. The base commander
here at the Training Center is a friend of mine, so they asked me to come.
I met Doug Sherman when I was here doing some specialized dive training
with the SEALs - he's now a full Commander and in charge over there.
Anyway, that's about it. It's your town, Ray, what's the procedure you
start with?"  

 "He missing for over forty-eight hours?"  

 "Yeah. The military usually waits at least three days before getting
paranoid. The lost weekend thing you mentioned. Cunningham's been missing
for going on six days."  

 "APB is the first thing. We'll need a full description."  

 Shepherd reached in his jacket and pulled out an envelope. "Everything
you need is right here. Description, military photo, ID number, the
works."  

 "Then it's back to the station we go. What time you got, Benny?"  

 "Just after noon, I better get over to the Consulate. I'll see what I can
dig up on that piece I read about the upcoming conference. I'll let you
know when I find something." He turned as he heard a whine behind him.
"Well, there you are, Dief. Time to go, boy. Off to work. Gentlemen," he
said, "until later. Come on, Dief." He headed for the door.  

 "See you later, Ben," said Jim.  

 "Yeah, see you, Benny." He looked at Shepherd and said, "Now you can get
a look at how Chicago's finest earn their pay. After you," he said,
holding the door open for Shepherd.  

 "Thank you kindly," said Shepherd, stepping out the door.  

 Vecchio was startled for a second. Then he just rolled his eyes
heavenward, and muttered to himself, "Oh, no," and stepped out on the
sidewalk, the door slowly closing behind him.	   3. 

 Benton Fraser was perusing the computer screen when he felt more than saw
the presence of someone enter the room. He looked up and, realizing it was
Inspector Margaret Thatcher, started to get to his feet.  

 "As you were, Constable," said the Inspector, giving Ben one of those
piercing looks that he remembered Constable Turnbull saying that he
thought could cut through stone. "I saw on my computer that someone was
accessing the archives and I wondered who and why. What are you looking
for, and why aren't you finishing the report on arrangements for the
upcoming military finance conference?"	

 "The report is almost finished, sir," Ben said, trying not to catch the
full effect of the woman's glare. "What I'm looking for here is something
I read a couple of month's ago having something to do with this
conference. Something I heard while having tea with Ray and a Captain
Shepherd...."  

 "Vecchio," she interrupted, "I should have known. Surely the man hasn't
become that civilized as to be drinking tea now."  

 "No, sir...cappuccino. As I was saying, sir - Ray's been assigned to help
Captain Shepherd from U.S. Army Intelligence find a missing military
officer. The officer was supposed to be attending the conference next
week, and it made me recall something similar I read about someone from
the conference."  

 "Well, what was it?" She asked, leaning over Fraser's shoulder to look at
the screen, her brunette hair brushing his cheek.  

 "I'm still looking for it, sir," he said, a little uncomfortable at her
proximity to him. "It doesn't seem to be in the archives and I've already
looked in the file cabinets for the originals."  

 "Then that means that Turnbull must have it," she said, straightening up.
"He's been assigned to enter the data into the database. Therefore,
assuming this information exists and isn't a figment of your imagination -
if the information is not in the database and not in the cabinet where
originals go after they have been entered into the database, then that
must mean he has yet to enter it - meaning said information is still in
his possession. True?"	

 "A logical assumption, sir."  

 "Then I suggest you find Turnbull and obtain this information from him." 


 "Yes, Inspector."  

 "Oh, and when you see him - tell him I wish to know why this archiving
job isn't already finished. Finding him at times is like searching for the
Holy Grail. I swear the man hides from me. Carry on, Fraser." Not waiting
for his reply, she pivoted around and left the room.  

 "Yes, sir," he replied to the empty doorway she had just passed through.
The thought of Constable Turnbull hiding from Thatcher made Ben grin in
spite of himself.  * * * 

 He found Renfield Turnbull in the copy room - drinking a coffee and
waiting for the machine to finish its run. Ben noticed that he was
standing well away from the door so as to be unnoticeable to someone
passing the open door.	

 "Have a minute, Ren?" Ben asked.  

 Turnbull jumped. "Jesus, Fraser - don't ever sneak up on somebody like
that. I thought you were somebody else."  

 "I can guess who. She's looking for you, by the way. Something about why
the database archiving isn't finished yet. She also said she thinks you've
been hiding from her."	

 Turnbull snorted a laugh, and said, "What sane man wouldn't? What did you
need?"	

 Ben said, "If you've got a few minutes, I need to look through what
you're archiving for a piece of information I read a couple of month's
back about one of the attendees of next week's conference. It may be
pertinent to a case to which Ray's been assigned - but may also have
significance for us as well."  

 The copy machine picked that moment to cease its labors. Turnbull
retrieved the copies and originals and said, "I'm done here. Let's go to
my office and find what you need."  

 The two Mounties left the copy room and headed for Turnbull's office.	  
 4. 

 Elaine Besbriss saw Ray coming in the door of the precinct room and
yelled, "Hey, Ray, there's a call for you or for someone named Shepherd.
Line three."  

 "Thanks Elaine," Ray said. He reached the desk, grabbed the phone and
stabbed button three. "Vecchio -- who's this?"	

 "This is Sgt. Davis, U.S. Army. Is Captain Shepherd with you?"  

 "Yeah, he's right here. Wait a second." He extended the phone receiver
and said to Jim, "It's some army guy named Davis."  

 "That's one of my people." He took the receiver and said, "Yeah, Bob."  

 "Shep, we got a call from the Marines at Quantico. Somebody found the
body of a guy with a Marine tattoo in Chesapeake Bay. The body was taken
to a local morgue - I'm there now."  

 "Shit," said Shepherd. He motioned to Ray. "Get on another phone. They
found a body in Maryland."  

 Ray grabbed the phone off the next desk and punched the third button. He
waved an okay to Shepherd.  

 "Okay, Bob. Detective Vecchio's listening in. Continue."  

 "Right. Anyway, dental records in Washington show the body to be a
Colonel Harrison Maxwell, USMC."  

 "That's one of the missing officers, all right."  

 "Yeah, Shep, but get this -- according to Quantico, this can't be
Maxwell. The ID and description don't fit."  

 "What? How can that...okay, let's think a second. He's been missing for
about what - three months? A body in the water that long wouldn't resemble
much more than a bloated sack of dough. Are they sure about this?"  

 "They say it isn't him - not unless he grew four inches since he
disappeared," Davis said. "What do you want to do, Shep?"  

 "Get the date off of the dental records. For the moment, I'm going to
assume that the dental records are correct and that this is our missing
guy. What was the cause of death? Does it look like an accident?"  

 "Not unless he was trying to swim the bay with a forty pound concrete
block tied around his foot, it doesn't. Dumped there, obviously. The M.E.
found a bullet in the chest - the local cops here sent the bullet to
Washington and it turns out to be from a .44 Russian Makarov."	

 "Jesus," Ray said.  

 "What was that, Shep?" Asked Davis.  

 "Nothing, Bob. Follow up on those dental records and get back to me. Get
hold of Bill Edwards and Woody. Tell them to bring the standard equipment
up here right away - along with my auxiliary case. And Bob?"  

 "Yeah, Shep."	

 "Bring me my XR-9."  

 "Shit. Are you sure?"	

 "No, but I want it here just in case - the whole thing. I've got one of
those feelings."  

 "Man, this day just gets fuckin' better and better. Okay, Shep. You've
got it as soon as we can get it there."  

 "Tell the old man that this is no longer a code blue, it's now yellow - I
repeat - yellow. Send Maxwell's ID and papers to Washington - I want to
know if they're legit or not. I sent Cunningham's already. Check 'em all.
After that, get Tony to step up the searches - I don't care what leverage
they have to use - I want some of those others found. And you get your ass
up here with Bill and Woody. You can bunk over at the Training Center. It
won't be the first time you've been there. Tell Commander Sherman you're
in my group Let me know when you've arrived."  

 "Gotcha. Take a day or so to get everyone and everything there."  

 "No later than thirty-six hours, old son."  

 "Okay, Shep. See ya."	

 "See you soon." He hung up the phone.	

 Vecchio just looked at him. "Who's the old man?"  

 "Colonel Fitzsimmons -- our boss. We do the legwork and he takes the
credit."  

 "Christ. Sounds like Welsh." He looked at Shepherd with a worried
expression. "Jim?" He asked.  

 "Yeah?"  

 "Russians?"  

 "Ray, my friend," said Shepherd, "things have definitely gotten more
interesting."  

 "Shit," Ray said. "This kind of interesting I need like another hole in
my ass."  

 Shepherd grinned and said, "I don't even want to know. What now, oh
wiseass detective?"  

 "I think we'd better go over to the Consulate and see Benny."	    5.	
"Some times I don't know you,
 You're like someone else.
 But that's all right,
 I'm a stranger here myself."
 
  Joe Cocker's
 "Out of the Blue"
 Robbie Robertson    

 In one of Chicago's historical districts stands an almost one hundred
year old, scaled-down replica of an English castle. This now historical
relic had been built around the turn of the century for a wealthy shipping
magnate. It was authentic in the use of cut granite stones in its
construction and in its detail such as towers in all four corners of the
structure - complete with stone crenelations - and a genuine iron
portcullis at the castle entrance. The only thing missing was a moat, but
without the availability of a running stream to keep the water in a moat
clean, moats are basically stagnant water which, due to algae growth, tend
to turn a disgusting green color in hot weather and give off a horrendous
odor. Due to this and the fact that said moats are also natural breeding
grounds for mosquitoes, a moat had never been considered.  

 On October 29, 1929, a date now remembered as Black Tuesday, the shipping
magnate happened to be in New York visiting the Wall Street brokerage firm
that handled his investments. Two things plummeted that day in history.
The first was the Stock Market. When the magnate realized he was now
penniless, the second thing to plummet that day was the magnate - from a
tenth floor window - his hands around his broker's throat according to
witnesses.  

 The magnate left no heirs, so the property was eventually seized by the
city of Chicago for nonpayment of taxes. In 1938, the Roman Catholic
Diocese, for the amount of the tax owed plus interest, purchased the
castle from the city -- their plan being to renovate and use the structure
as a church for their newly established parish honoring St. Francis of
Assisi.  

 The current pastor of St. Francis Church was Monsignor Thomas O'Reilly.
The pastor smiled as he took his daily constitutional around the
neighborhood. He truly loved this parish and his parishioners. He had been
worried when the letter arrived from the diocese two weeks before -
transferring his assistant pastor, Father Harris, to a new parish in
Springfield, the state capital. He was, of course, happy for Jack Harris,
and had wished him well when he had left a week earlier, but as he himself
was now sixty-four years of age, and St. Francis being a large parish,
Father O'Reilly needed another assistant in a hurry. His prayers had been
seemingly answered when another letter had arrived three days earlier
announcing the arrival of Father Russell Smythe to be the new assistant
pastor.  

 The Lord works in mysterious ways, Father O'Reilly quoted to himself. He
wondered how Father Smythe was settling in as he'd only arrived early that
morning. Tom O'Reilly knew a major transfer like this was a big shock, so
figured he'd give the much younger man time to unpack and unwind before
they sat down to discuss the new assistant's duties. He walked on....  * *
* 

 The object of Tom O'Reilly's thoughts had unpacked his large case, but
was anything but relaxed.  

 "Idiot!" Father Smythe screamed into the phone, "I told you not to call
me here, that I'd call you from a public phone. Have you forgotten
everything your instructors taught you?"  

 "No, Misha, no - but this is important."  

 "Don't call me that, Peter, you must refer to me as Father Smythe. Now
what is so damned important."  

 "Father, one of the bodies has been recovered."  

 "Shit!" exclaimed Smythe. "Which one?"  

 "The Marine from Virginia. Maxwell."  

 "That one was over three months ago - not good, but not yet an
emergency."  

 "Yes, Father, but there is an Army Captain in Chicago looking for the
Navy man, Cunningham. This cannot be good news, comrade."  

 "No, it's not. And don't say comrade over the phone, idiot. Are you sure
the line is not tapped?"  

 "It scanned clean...Father."  

 "All right. You disposed of the body of the priest?"  

 "There was a slight....hitch I think the word is, but..."  

 "What kind of hitch, you fool?"  

 "One of our men was driving the priest's auto to the site we selected to
dispose of both the auto and the body. It was foggy, and a semi driving
the opposite way was partly in our man's lane. The car went off the road
through a bridge guardrail, crashed on the road below and burned. Our man
is dead and both bodies burned beyond recognition. How will they identify
the body as the priest? I believe you will be safe enough for long enough,
don't you?"  

 "I don't like this, Peter. Loose ends I do not like. They have a tendency
to fray at the wrong time. Do you not remember Tehran?"  

 "That was not our fault, Misha! That was the Americans' fault. The hated
Americans and their allies the Canadians. They will pay.... You will make
them."	

 "Yes, Peter. I will pay them back -- but not for Tehran. To Hell with
Tehran and the Ayatollah. The Americans and their allies will pay for what
they took from me in Baghdad. Find out for me where this Army man is
staying. I may have to buy myself time."  

 "Yes, Mish...I mean Father. As soon as possible."  

 "Goodbye, Peter. I will call you tonight at the scheduled time." He hung
up the phone without waiting for a reply.  

 He heard the creak of the door at the bottom of the landing. "Monsignor,"
he called, "Is that you? Did you have a nice walk?" He walked out to the
top of the stairs and looked down at the upcoming Monsignor.  

 "Yes, my son, a nice walk," said Father O'Reilly. "Good for the blood
pressure at my age. Settling in all right, then, are you?"  

 "Yes, Father. Almost finished. I feel at home already."  

 "Good. And it's Tom when no one else is about, Russell. I'm going to my
office now. Relax. Continue to settle in. We'll start discussing your
duties after dinner. I'll see you later, Russell."  

 "Thanks, Fath...I mean Tom. See you later."  

 When he was sure the older man had gone to his office in the other end of
the wing, Smythe opened a small case and lifted a false divider. He first
took out a small metal kit, then reached again into the case and retrieved
his .44 Makarov pistol. He then opened the metal cleaning kit and
proceeded to methodically clean the weapon as he did every day.      6. 

 "Here's something, Ben," said Turnbull, looking over at Ben, who was
sitting with a pile of papers and news clippings in his lap. The pile Ben
sorted through was almost as large as the pile Turnbull was going through.
 

 "What is it?" Asked Ben.  

 "It's a news clip about the upcoming conference. It's dated almost five
months ago and has the probable list of attendees."  

 "That's not the piece I'm looking for, but leave it out." Fraser thought
for a second. "Look down the names and read me the Canadians."	

 "General McIntire, Air Force; Harold Knutton, Deputy Defense Secretary;
Colonel Ferguson, Army..."  

 "Wait," Ben said. "Ferguson...what's the first name?"	

 "Ambrose."  

 "That sounds so familiar...." Ben thought for a moment. "Do you have a
current list of the attendees as now scheduled?"  

 "Sure." Turnbull opened his lower desk drawer where his current files
were. "Right here."  

 "Is Ferguson still on it?"  

 Turnbull scanned down the list. "No, his name's not here. Perhaps he's
ill and can't attend."	

 "Ill, or...." It suddenly hit him. "An obituary!" Exclaimed Ben. "That's
what I saw. There was a write-up attached to it mentioning the conference.
Let's find that obituary, quick!"  * * * 

 It took the two men another ten minutes to find the papers.  

 "Here, I've got it. Let's see -- he was from Hamilton, Ontario. That's
not that far from Niagara, which is right opposite Buffalo, New York. One
of Shepherd's missing men - the army officer - was from New York. I
wonder...."  

 "One of whose men?"  

 "Captain Shepherd, U.S. Army. A case Ray was just assigned to assist in.
Do me a favor? There's no cause of death listed. Can you find out the
details on Ferguson's death? Specifically the actual cause. If you have
to, get the Inspector to pull some strings."  

 Turnbull blanched at the mention of Thatcher. "But, Ben...."  

 "Tell her the request is from me. I don't have time to explain - tell her
I believe this involves the security of the conference and those
attending. Can I take that current list of names?"  

 "Sure - it's a copy."	

 "Thank you kindly. I have to go see Ray and Shepherd. Get on that fast,
will you?"  

 "All right."  

 "See you later, Ren," Ben said as he hurried out the door.	 7. 

 Dr. Jacob Steiner had never seen a body burned to such a degree. The skin
had a blackened, crispy texture like a piece of chicken that had been
barbecued too close to a cookfire. This body was burned to a higher degree
than that of the car's driver, which the doctor had worked on first.
According to the report, the car had swerved to avoid a truck that was
partly on the wrong side of the road as foggy conditions had reduced
visibility to almost nil. The driver of the car had undoubtedly been
driving too fast under the circumstances. After swerving, the driver had
been unable to regain control of the vehicle, which had ripped through an
overpass guardrail and had plunged twenty feet downward, impacting nose
first into the road beneath. The doctor's best guess was that the impact
had ruptured the fuel tank and the gasoline had poured into the car's
interior - eventually reaching the hot engine through the also ruptured
floor panels, igniting the cars interior and the victims inside. Not a
pleasant way to die, thought the fifty-five year old medical examiner.	

 The doctor opened the body cavity and took sections of various organs for
the required tests. He stopped for a minute after taking a section of
lung. The interior did not resemble a lung that had inhaled hot gasses, as
did the lung section removed from the driver. Curious, the doctor checked
the bronchial tubes. They too, looked like normal tissue - without the
damage the doctor would expect to find in a man who had burned to death in
a vehicle fire. To the doctor's eyes, this man had not burned to death.
Perhaps the man had died of a heart seizure incurred as a result of the
crash. He would check the heart next.  

 This was curious as well, thought the doctor. The heart was quite
flaccid, not firm, as the muscle normally would be. Feeling it very
carefully, Steiner found a large puncture wound. Strange, as there had
been no ribs broken. Checking further, he found another large puncture in
the rear of the heart. Something had gone all the way through. He pulled
his hands from the body cavity for a moment, then began to examine the
chest and diaphragm area. There! A hole in the chest wall. Taking his
time, the diligent examiner eventually found a bullet lodged near the
spine. It was a steel-jacketed bullet of a very large caliber. He'd have
to send it off to the police lab for analysis.	

 A gold wristwatch, blackened from the fire, had been found on the left
wrist and removed from the body. An inscription was discovered on the back
plate, which one of the women in forensics managed to clean up enough to
read. It was inscribed:    To Rev. John M. Harris on
 Receiving his Holy Orders.
 July 7, 1974
 Love, Mother & Dad.	   8. 

 Benton Fraser walked at a fast pace along the sidewalk as he headed to
the CPD station to find Ray and Shepherd. He was turning a corner, when he
saw a green blur go by. Suddenly, with a horrendous squeal of tires and
brakes, the green, 1971 Riviera pivoted on its front wheels and swung
around in a 180-degree turn and onto the other side of the street like a
scythe cutting wheat in a field.  

 Ray started yelling out of the driver's window, "Benny! Get in the car,
quick. We've got some news for you."  

 Jim Shepherd started to get out of the front passenger seat. Ben said,
"Stay put, Jim. I'll get in back."  

 As soon as Ben was in, and the door was closed, Ray hit the accelerator
and took off like a rocket.  

 "Jesus, Ray," said Shepherd; "you must have taken five thousand miles off
of those tires when you did that one-eighty. Where the hell did you learn
to drive?"  

 "Go-cart track down at the old waterfront park in the summer. I think I
was about eight years old. Hey, Benny, guess what? Like things weren't bad
enough, now we got Ruskies."  

 "I beg your pardon? You've got what?" Ben asked.  

 "We...we, Benny. The three of us. The Russians are coming. Wasn't that a
movie?"  

 "Yeah, Ray, but the movie was a comedy," said Jim. He turned to Ben and
said," A body was recovered in Maryland that was shot in the chest with a
.44 Russian Makarov pistol. The body had been in the water for over three
months, but from dental records, it's a ninety-nine percent certainty that
the body is that of Marine Colonel Harrison Maxwell, from Quantico,
Virginia."  

 Ben pulled the copy of Turnbull's list out of his pocket along with the
news clipping with the original set of names. He scanned down the
clipping, then the revised list and said to the two men in front, "He was,
and still is scheduled to be at the conference next week. How can this be
when he's been missing for this length of time? The list has been revised
in the last two weeks and yet Maxwell is still on it. How?"  

 "Only one thing to explain it, old son," said Shepherd. "Someone else has
been standing in for Maxwell. It's the only thing I can come up with to
explain the ID's left behind at the scenes. The Maxwell found in
Chesapeake Bay, whom we believe to be the real Maxwell, is not the Maxwell
known to the Marine base at Quantico. Roughly figuring the time the body
is estimated to have been in the water, Maxwell would have been killed
just a couple of days before he was scheduled to show up at Quantico. No
one at Quantico ever knew Maxwell or had ever seen him before, so as long
as someone had an ID showing he was Col. Harrison Maxwell, who'd question
it? Add to that the fact that Maxwell was a high-ranking officer, and you
cut down to a scant few the number of persons who would actually have to
interact with him. Maxwell was a widower at a young age and never
remarried, and his parents were both deceased, so there was no family to
complicate the impersonation. On the way over here I was thinking about
what these missing officers all have in common. One thing is that they are
all loners. No immediate families to complicate a really good
impersonator."	

 Ray touched the brakes and swerved around a kid running across the road.
"Goddamn jaywalkers," he said.	

 Ben shook his head. Turning back to Shepherd, he said, "That may not be
the only thing they have in common. They're all loners and they're all or
were all scheduled for this conference. That's two commonalities already.
We need to find out if there's another common denominator. That reminds me
of why I was coming to see you. We had a Canadian Army officer scheduled
to attend the conference, but the thing I was trying to remember earlier
today was an obituary about ten weeks ago for this same Colonel Ambrose
Ferguson. The cause of death wasn't listed, so I've asked Constable
Turnbull to track that information down for me. I believe that there may
be a link to your missing people. Ferguson was from Hamilton, Ontario,
which is not far from Niagara, Ontario -- right across the falls from
Buffalo, New York."  

 "Shit!" Exclaimed Jim. "Frank Collins, the Army's missing Major, is from
Buffalo. I'll give you odds that your Canadian Colonel was murdered. The
question is -- why didn't that make the headlines? Unless the death was
made to look accidental in such a way that no one bothered to look for
another cause of death. I'm also willing to bet money that we find a .44
Makarov slug in each one of these guys."  

 "Do you have any way of correlating the records of all the former and the
current attendees and see if there's anything else they have in common, if
anything?"  

 "Bill Edwards could handle it, but those guys won't be here much before
late tomorrow or the next morning. Ray, is there anyone at CPD that's real
good with computers? I mean a real hacker type. Someone who can tie into
networks that they don't belong in?"  

 "Sharon down in Records might be able to do it. She's sort of the
resident nerd."  

 "Gee, Ray," said Ben. "I know who Sharon is. Isn't she kind of sweet on
you?"  

 "Oh Jesus, Benny, don't even think that," Ray said. "I've got enough
troubles, and girls with glasses an inch thick don't do anything for me,
if you know what I mean".  

 "Well, Ray, you might have to sweet talk her for what we need," said
Shepherd.  

 "You guys don't mean it!"  

 "Seriously, Ray," said Shepherd, "if she can get into the networks, I can
get her the rest of the way through. I've got the codes to get in - I just
don't have access from here until Edwards gets here. Sounds like it's
worth a shot. And who knows, Ray? You might get lucky."  

 "Please, Lord," said Ray, pulling up in front of the station. "Take me
now?"	   9. 

 "Constable Fraser asked you to do this?" Asked Inspector Thatcher, giving
Constable Renfield Turnbull the piercing look a cat gives a mouse before
swatting it with a clawed paw.	

 "Yes, sir," said the Constable, trying not to flinch. "He believes the
dead officer, Ferguson, is connected in some way to the case that the
local police are assisting the U.S. Army with. He seemed to feel this
could affect the security of next week's conference. He asked me to ask
for your help if necessary - and to tell you that this was his request,
sir."  

 "So what seems to be the problem?"  

 "There's some sort of security lock on this man's file. The police in
Hamilton say that any inquiries are supposed to go through the Canadian
Army or the Defense Ministry."	

 "Really," said Thatcher with a tone that seemed to chill the room. She
thought for a moment, and said, "Obviously we're not talking death by
natural causes. Perhaps Fraser is on to something here. Give me everything
you have, Turnbull. I know a deputy minister or two. I'm going to make
some phone calls. We are just as much an important entity as the Army or
Defense Ministry. We are also responsible for security for the conference
that Canadian military and government officials are attending. This is
information we may very well need, and damn it, we will have it. That will
be all for now, Constable."  

 Turnbull handed over the paperwork and said, "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
He started to leave Thatcher's office, getting as far as the door.  

 "Just one more thing, Turnbull," said the Inspector.  

 "Sir?"  

 "Is Fraser returning here to the Consulate today?"  

 "I assume so, sir. Why?"  

 "Because he left that four-legged beast here, and it's eating anything
edible that isn't nailed down. If you have any influence with the animal,
put it in Fraser's office or in one of the unused conference rooms."  

 "Yes, sir," he said, turning and hurrying out the door before she could
say anything more. He figured he'd better find Diefenbaker fast, before
the wolf got under Thatcher's skin any further. Now if I were the wolf, he
thought, where would I be? He decided to check the cafeteria first.	
10. 

 "This is an excellent Irish stew, Agnes," said Father Smythe.	

 "Thank you, sir," said Agnes Dolan. She pronounced the sir as 'sor' in
that wonderful brogue that Father O'Reilly had always loved. The same
accent his mother had. She set a loaf of fresh bread on the table and
said, "I'm glad you enjoy it."	

 "Agnes has been with me for almost ten years," said O'Reilly. "She was a
good friend to my mother, and when Mother passed on, Agnes started working
for me. She comes in to cook and clean every day except Sunday. She keeps
the Sabbath holy as the Lord's commandment says. She cooks an extra dinner
and puts it in the freezer. All we have to do on Sunday is heat it up.
She's a wonder, is our Agnes."	

 "She is that," said Smythe, enjoying the food.  

 Agnes had gone back into the kitchen. Father O'Reilly paused in his
eating for a moment and said, "What are your after dinner plans, Russell?"
 

 "Well, Tom, I thought I'd take a drive and pick up some essentials I need
that got left behind in my moving here. You know - men's toiletries and
the like. At the same time I'll have a chance to take a look at the
parish. Get a feel for the area."  

 "Good. Tomorrow you can start doing afternoon confessions. That's from
4:00 PM to 5:00 PM. We run four masses on weekends. You can do the 5:00 PM
Saturday and Sunday masses this weekend, and I will take the 9:00 AM and
the 11:00 AM Sunday masses. We can work the rest of the routine out as we
go."  

 "That's fine, Tom. I'll look forward to it."  

 "Good," said Father O'Reilly. "Now let us get back to enjoying this fine
stew."	* * * 

 An hour later, Smythe pulled up to a phone booth in a drug store parking
lot. The number was answered on the third ring.  

 "Yes?" Asked the voice.  

 "Is this the Smithsonian?" Smythe asked.  

 "No, it isn't. You're the fourth person to ask today," the voice said,
giving the correct response.  

 "Peter, what did you find out?"  

 "The army man, Shepherd, is staying at the Vista Hotel on Elm -- about
four streets away from the Chicago Police Department. His room number is
202."  

 "Excellent, Peter. I will call you again tomorrow. Goodnight."  

 "Goodnight, Father."  

 Smythe returned to his car and drove off.	11. 

 "What the hell do you want, Vecchio?" Asked Sharon Cerullo in the CPD
records department.  

 "Jeez," said Ray, "all I do is walk over to your desk and...."  

 "And you want something as always," said Sharon, looking at him over the
top of her glasses. "I've got plenty to do without you giving me more to
do. You want something special, get the Lieutenant to send down a
request."  

 "Oh, c'mon, Sharon. Cut me some slack. It isn't just for me, it's for
Captain Shepherd, here, from Army Intelligence."  

 She looked at Ray for a second. Then seeing Ben, she gave him a smile and
turned to Shepherd. "What is it you need, Captain?"  

 "How often do you get to hack into the military databases, Officer
Cerullo?"  

 "Sharon. Why do you need to hack in, Captain? Why don't you just get the
info you need from your own people?"  

 "Because the closer you are to secured information, the more red tape you
have to cut through to get access," said Shepherd, shaking his head. "I've
got a guy in my group that normally does this, but he won't be here until
sometime tomorrow. If you can hack your way into MilNet, I have codes to
get us into the secure military records and combat assignments. What I
want to do is pull that information for everyone on this list of names,
and then correlate the data. What we're looking for is what these people
have in common. Then we run that information against this other list of
people attending the conference next week and see how many matches we get.
Can you help us?"  

 "How important is this, Captain?"  

 "Very. We've got military people being killed and this information may
give us a jump on stopping more killings. I'm sure Lt. Welsh would give
your efforts his blessing, it's just that we don't have time to go through
channels."  

 "My Dad was in the army. I'd hate to think of someone like him being
killed for some unknown reason. Okay, I'll help you guys. I have an
analysis program I can modify to correlate the data. Once we get in, it
won't take long to pull the data you want. It's going to take a lot longer
to run the analysis. Maybe all night, which means I'll have to stay late.
You guys are going to owe me for this. Especially you, Vecchio."  

 "Okay, Sharon, okay," said Ray. "We owe you. I owe you. How can we repay
you, Goddess of Data?"	

 "I'll think of something. Dinner and dancing might be a possibility." She
smiled up at Ray and gave him a very penetrating stare. "I can think of a
few possibilities."  

 "I'll bet she can," Ben muttered to Shepherd. They both smiled as they
watched the suddenly nervous Ray.      12. 

 Bishop Alexander Lowe was working on his weekly sermon when he heard a
knock on the door.  

 "Who is it?" He asked.  

 "Father Cabral, your Excellency."  

 "Come in, Louis," said the Bishop.  

 Father Cabral entered the office and said, "There's a police officer on
the phone, Alex. He asked to speak to the head of the diocese. It's on
line two."  

 "Thank you, Louis. I'd be glad to take the call. Would you mind?" He
asked, motioning for the priest to go about his business. Father Cabral
nodded and said, "Of course not, Alex. Thank you." He turned and left the
office, closing the door behind him. The Bishop pushed the button for the
second line and picked up the receiver.  

 "This is Bishop Lowe," he said into the phone. "How can I help you?"  

 "Bishop, this is Officer Gant at the Aurora Police Department. There was
an automobile accident here the day before yesterday. Two dead bodies were
recovered from the burned wreck. The bodies in the car were burned very
badly, but we believe one of them to be that of Father John M. Harris. We
found an inscribed wristwatch on the body with that name and mentioning
Holy Orders and a date of July 7, 1974. I figured Holy Orders being a
sacrament meant Roman Catholic, so I figured I'd try this diocese first to
see if he's a local priest and not an out-of-stater. We'd like to contact
any family for arrangements and so forth. Can you help us?"  

 "Yes, I'd be glad to be of help. I think he is with our diocese, the name
does sound familiar, but if not, I'll have the other dioceses contacted.
As soon as I have any information for you, I will call you."  

 "Thank you, Bishop Lowe, I appreciate the help, and if he is one of
yours, please accept our condolences from the department."  

 "Thank you, my son. That is appreciated. I will be in touch. Goodbye."  

 "Goodbye, Bishop, and thanks again," said the officer who then hung up.  

 The Bishop hung up the telephone, got up from behind his solid cherry
desk, and went across the hall to Father Cabral's office. The door was
open, so he knocked on the frame.  

 Father Cabral started to get to his feet, but the Bishop waved him back
into his chair, then sat in the other office chair. "Louis, I've got
something very important for you to look up...."      13. 

 Jim Shepherd was attempting to stir a cup of coffee in the CPD lounge,
but from what Ray Vecchio could see, not having much luck.  

 "Good coffee, huh, Jim?" Asked Ray.  

 "Are you sure this is coffee, Ray?" Shepherd asked. "I've stirred thinner
gasket compound than this stuff."  

 "Yeah, it's great stuff. Helps keep our arteries clogged. Probably why
Welsh is always ready to explode. Whatcha reading in the paper, Benny?"  

 "There's an article about a man admitted to the local mental hospital who
was found running down the street naked, screaming about seeing dragons
everywhere and saying 'they' were after him."  

 "Jesus," said Ray, "is that the local paper or the National Inquirer? You
know, 'Inquiring mindless want to know.'"  

 "No, it's the Tribune," Ben said.  

 Ray started laughing. "Hey, maybe it's Turnbull. Didn't you say
Thatcher's been on his case lately? Maybe the Dragon Lady got to him so
bad he finally snapped!"  

 Ben just gave him a sardonic look and said, "I wish you wouldn't call the
Inspector that, Ray. She isn't that bad, and she's got a tough job to do.
Sometimes she just seems to be very demanding, that's all."  

 "Okay, Benny, whatever you say. You know me."	

 A muffled trilling was heard in the room.  

 "Hey, that's my phone, isn't it?" Asked Ray. He went over to the coat
rack where he had hung up his jacket, removed the phone from the inside
pocket, and flipped it open. "Vecchio," he said into it.  

 "This is Margaret Thatcher," said the voice, "Is Fraser with you?"  

 "Uh, yeah, Inspector, he's right here. Hang on." He handed the phone to
Ben, and said, "The devil has big ears."  

 Fraser looked at him and shook his head. "Yes, Inspector," he said into
the phone.  

 "Fraser, I've got some information for you about that Colonel Ferguson
from Hamilton. They didn't want to give us the information, but I found a
sympathetic ear at the Ministry who got us the information. Ferguson was
found in his game room shot through the heart. The recovered bullet was a
.44 Russian Makarov. Is that what you were expecting to find?"	

 "At this point, sir, we were - or at least we're not surprised."  

 "Constable, I don't like the fact that a Russian weapon is involved. In
your opinion, is this going to affect next week's conference?"	

 "It's quite possible, sir. We're hoping that some computer analysis the
CPD is doing will shed some light on this."  

 "Keep me informed, Fraser. I don't want to be last one in the Consulate
to know."  

 "No, sir -- I mean yes, sir. When we know, you'll know."  

 "Carry on, Fraser." She hung up.  

 "Yes, sir," he said into the now disconnected phone. He passed on the
information to Ray and Shepherd.  

 "Well, I guess we shouldn't be surprised," said Shepherd. "Now I'm really
willing to bet we find Collins from Buffalo with one of those Russian
slugs in him. I guess we can't do much until we get that analysis. Maybe
we should call it a day until we hear."  

 "That's probably a good idea," said Ray. "We probably should get what
sleep we can. Sharon will call when she's got something for us."  

 "I think she's already got something for you, Ray," said Jim.	

 "Please. I'm going to owe her a favor the size of Lake Michigan, don't
get me thinking about it."  

 "Okay, okay," said Shepherd. "Just kidding, Ray, don't have a stroke."  

 "Too late for that, drinking this rear axle grease," said Ray.  

 Ben interrupted, and said, "I think we could all use some sleep. Who
knows when we'll get another chance for a while?"  

 "I agree, Ben," said Shepherd. "I have the feeling tomorrow's going to be
a long day."	  14. 

 The black car was on the opposite side of the street from the station and
about a half-block away. Smythe watched the three men come out.  

 A Mountie, he thought to himself, impressing Ben's features in his mind.
Interesting. The Canadians are obviously involved now. He looked at the
other two. The expensive suit certainly wasn't army, so that left the man
wearing the leather jacket. That must be Shepherd from Army Intelligence. 


 "Need a ride, Benny?" He heard the suit ask the Mountie. Now he had a
first name.  

 "No thank you, Ray," said Ben, "I'll walk." Now Smythe had a second name.
 

 "Okay, 'night then, Benny," said Ray.	

 "Yes, goodnight, Ben," said the army officer.	

 "Goodnight, Ray...goodnight, Jim," said the Mountie. Now Smythe had the
third name -- Jim. Then it would be Captain James Shepherd, U.S. Army
Intelligence.  

 The Mountie was walking up the street, while the other two were getting
in a green Buick facing down the street. Smythe decided to follow the car,
as it was easier to follow a car without being obvious than to try to
follow someone walking.  

 The Buick pulled away from the curb. Smythe waited until it was past his
position before starting the Dodge. He slowly did a U-turn without lights
and proceeded to follow the other car.	    15. 

 Ben entered the Consulate and went directly to his office. Opening the
door, he heard Dief whining and then saw the wolf. Dief sat there giving
Fraser an indignant look.  

 "Don't give me that look, Dief," Ben said, "I didn't lock you in here."
He wondered who had.  

 The wolf just looked at him, tongue hanging out, panting.  

 "C'mon, boy. We'll get you home, get you some food and water, and then
we'll get some shut-eye. Let's go."  

 They walked down the hall towards the exit, Dief leading the way.     16.
  "Your mother cried
 Said she told you so,
 But you touched the devil
 And couldn't let go.
 No one controls the Outlaw."
 
  "The Outlaw Blues"
 N. Geraldo / M. Grombacher    

 Smythe slowed the car to a stop, as the Buick slowed down on Elm until it
was in front of a fairly nondescript hotel. He could just read the word
"Vist" on the sign out front. An unkempt looking shrub was blocking the
rest of the sign. This would be the Vista Hotel where Shepherd was
staying.  

 The army man exited the car, and waved to the driver as the car pulled
away. He then entered the building.  

 Smythe waited a few minutes then saw a light go on in a room on the
second floor facing the street. That would be 202, thought Smythe. Smart
man to take a room on the street side. He noticed no fire escape, so there
would be no accessing the window from outside. Very smart man, this Army
Captain.  

 He smiled to himself and slowly drove off down the street, thinking,
Soon.	  17. 

 Monsignor O'Reilly picked up the ringing phone. "Hello," he said.  

 "Tom, this is Alex Lowe."  

 "Your Excellency...Alex. It's been too long. How are you?"  

 "I'm well, Tom -- thank you. I wanted to call to offer my condolences. I
understand Father Harris was your Assistant Pastor. When is the service?" 


 "Condolences? Service? Father Harris? What are you talking about, Alex?" 


 "My God, man," said the Bishop, "haven't you heard? You weren't
notified?"  

 "Heard what, Alex? Spit it out, man!"	

 "Father Harris was found dead in an auto accident in Aurora two days
ago."  

 "Dear God in Heaven, no! This is the first I've heard of it."	

 "I would have thought you'd have called us when you hadn't heard from him
for a few days," said the Bishop, "or was he taking time off?"	

 "You'd know that better than I, Alex," said O'Reilly. "After all, you
transferred him. When was he supposed to start at St. Benedict's?"  

 "I transferred him? Nonsense. I did no such thing - especially to St.
Benedict's - they have four priests now and the Assistant Pastor has only
been there four months."  

 "So you never sent him a letter transferring him to Springfield?"  

 "No," said Lowe.  

 "And what about the letter I received informing me that Father Smythe was
being transferred here as Jack's replacement?" Asked O'Reilly.	

 "Who? Smythe? Never heard of anyone by that name. I transferred no one
into or out of your parish."  

 "Mary, mother of Christ. What the hell is going on here? Alex, this is a
great shock. I need some time to think. Let me call you back tomorrow. We
can talk about a service then."  

 "Of course, Tom. Had I but known you weren't notified, I never would have
dropped it on you like that. Call me when you're up to it. If I can do
anything, don't hesitate."  

 "Thank you, Alex. Goodnight."	

 "Goodnight, Tom," said Lowe, and hung up.  

 Tom O'Reilly slowly hung up the phone. Father Russell Smythe, or whoever
the hell he was, had a lot of explaining to do.     18. 

 Corporal Sherry Michaels of the Army's Central Intelligence Division was
finishing up a report, when the telephone started its two-tone beeping.
Thinking that sometimes the beeping was just as irritating as the old bell
ringers were, Sherry picked up the phone. "CID," she said.  

 "Corporal Michaels, I have an FBI agent on the line. He says it's an
intelligence matter. Should I transfer him?"  

 "Yes, go ahead," she said. She heard a momentary click as the transfer
was made. "This is Corporal Michaels, CID. How can I help you?"  

 "Corporal, this is Agent Nichols of the FBI. We wanted to let you people
know that another .44 Makarov bullet has turned up. It was taken from the
body of a Father John M. Harris, a Roman Catholic priest. According to the
diocese, he's the Assistant Pastor of St. Francis Church in Chicago.
Granted, he's not military, but it could be connected."  

 "I'll pass that on to our operatives, Agent Nichols. Thank you for
calling, and for the information."  

 "You're welcome," said Nichols. "If we get anything else, we'll let you
know. Goodbye."  

 "Thanks. Goodbye." Sherry hung up. She looked up Bob Davis' cell phone
number and picked up the blue phone that was tied into the cell system.
She dialed the number and waited.  

 "Davis," she heard on the other end.  

 "Bob, this is Sherry. I have some info for you, but we should go through
the scrambler. I'm going to scramble mode now." She punched the code for
that day, 2975, into the keypad, and waited for the shrill, feedback-type
noise to subside, then asked, "Are you there, Bob?"  

 "Right here, Sher, go ahead."	

 Sherry proceeded to relay the information she had received from Agent
Nichols to Davis, feeling secure that the scrambled information was
unreadable.  

 The truth of the matter was that the information would indeed have been
secure if another line hadn't been patched into Sherry's line under the
raised floor allowing the information to be obtained before it entered the
state-of-the-art scrambler system. From Sherry's communications area, this
line ran under the floor of two other offices, and then down one floor to
the office of Lt. Victor Zelasko, the CID junior security officer, where
the intercepted communications were recorded.  

 The tap on Sherry's line would never be discovered as long as Zelasko was
in charge of sweeping the room for phone taps. The army had never
discovered Victor's phony military background. The KGB provided such a
good one - complete with perfect documents.  

 Zelasko was Russian in his heart, even if he had been born in the United
States. His parents were Russian deep cover agents placed in the U.S. back
in the 1950's in the event that Russia and the U.S. ever went to war.
Victor had been born a year later. Ed and Sylvia Zelasko had lived in the
U.S. for so long and loved the country, that they now considered
themselves to be Americans, but Victor had gone to Mother Russia for a
student trip and had been recruited by the KGB. He was put in touch with a
communist faction in North Dakota and learned how to be a good agent and
was discovered to have a keen mind.  

 When an opening in Army Intelligence became available, Victor, with his
perfect, completely fabricated military background got the job. Once he
had worked his way into a position where he could be of use to his
masters, the new KGB agent was officially activated and given the code
name - Peter.	  19.	"The pockets of our greatcoats full of barley---
 No kitchens on the run, no striking camp---
 We moved quick and sudden in our own country.
 The priest lay behind ditches with the tramp.
 A people, hardly marching---on the hike---
 We found new tactics happening each day:
 We'd cut through reins and rider with the pike
 And stampede cattle into infantry,
 Then retreat through hedges where cavalry must be thrown.
 Until on Vinegar Hill, the fatal conclave.
 Terraced thousands died, shaking scythes at cannon.
 The hillside blushed, soaked in our broken wave.
 They buried us without shroud or coffin
 And in August the barley grew up out of the grave."
 
  "Requiem For The Croppies"
 Seamus Heaney b. 1939	  

 Smythe entered the foyer, closing the door behind him. He threw the
lockbolts and before he could turn around, heard a voice say, "Who are
you?"  

 Startled for a moment, he slowly turned to see Father O'Reilly standing
on the stairs, three steps up from the landing. He smiled up at the old
priest and said, "It's me, Monsignor. Russell Smythe. Don't you recognize
me?"  

 "Yes, I recognize you," said O'Reilly. "I recognize you as a man claiming
to be a Father Russell Smythe who was supposedly assigned here as
Assistant Pastor by the Roman Catholic Diocese. Russell Smythe may very
well be your name. You may even be a priest, though I doubt it. The one
thing that I am very sure of, however, is that the diocese did not send
you here. I've spoken to them and they've never heard of you."	

 "You know very well that can't be, Father," said Smythe. "You received a
letter from the diocese informing you of my coming." He was trying to
think fast.  

 "The diocese never sent any such letter. You did. They also said that
they never transferred Father Harris. Jack Harris is dead. His body was
found burned in an automobile crash and the diocese was notified. Knowing
nothing about any transfer, they called me to offer their condolences and
to ask me to offer a special mass for him."  

 Shit, thought Smythe. The body of the priest should not have been
identified this soon. The idiot who was to dispose of the body obviously
missed something. Of course, the man had already paid the price for his
carelessness, losing his life in the same crash. What was done, was done.
Smythe now had a new problem to deal with -- and there was no time like
the present. Reaching inside his jacket, he pulled out his pistol.  

 "You're absolutely right, Father," admitted Smythe, pointing the Makarov
in O'Reilly's general direction. "I'm not a priest. I'm also not Russell
Smythe. My name is Petrovsky. My coming here served two purposes. I needed
a cover -- a place to hide, if you will, outside of the mainstream of
Chicago. I also owed a debt to the Harris family. Father Harris' death was
unfortunate in one respect. I held no animosity toward Jack Harris. His
father, Col. Michael Harris, was the man to whom my debt was to be paid.
However, Col. Harris died as the result of a fatal heart attack two years
ago, so I paid my debt to the son, in his father's stead. This presented
me the opportunity to establish a cover in a place where no one would look
for me. Who would suspect a priest? Like hiding a book in a library, I can
hide in plain sight of all. So far, this has worked out very well."  

 "What is this debt to which you keep referring?" Demanded the Monsignor. 


 "Let us go into the study, Father, where we can discuss this in more
comfort. After you," he said, waving the barrel of the pistol in the
direction of the study.  

 Entering the study, Petrovsky waved the gun towards a plush chair near a
bookcase. "Sit there, Father, please." Once the old priest was seated,
Petrovsky walked over to the small, oaken liquor cabinet on the opposite
side of the room and turned two glasses right side up. He then snapped the
seal on an old bottle of Irish whiskey, opened the bottle and poured three
fingers' worth into each glass. He took one glass over and set it on the
small end table next to the priest's chair. "I haven't had this particular
brand in years, Father, but I remember it well. Do you?"  

 "Should I?" Asked O'Reilly.  

 "Yes, you should," said Petrovsky, taking a slow sip and letting the fine
whiskey lay on his tongue for a moment before letting it slide grandly
down his throat. "As would your father, and his father. You're Thomas
Patrick O'Reilly. Your father was Patrick Sean O'Reilly and his father was
Sean Thomas O'Reilly. Patrick and Sean -- ex patriots -- eventually
expatriates. Ha! I love the plays-on-words in the English language.
Russian does not provide such. Where was I? Oh, yes -- Patrick and Sean.
Between the two, enough British blood was spilled to fill the vats at any
distillery. There were more Crown Warrants offered for those two men than
any dozen others in the district. The IRA was in their blood -- as it is
in yours. Cowards they were not, but eventually still had to flee the
country for America. Settling in Boston, they eventually sent for your
mother, and you and your sister, Deirdre. You didn't want to leave at
first, Tom. You had become a lieutenant in the IRA. Then the records of
you get a little sloppy. You eventually turn up here, in America, and you
become a priest. That rings very loud to me, Thomas. Guilt, rings the
bell. Or should I say peals the bell. Yes, I think peal is more
appropriate. A funereal pealing, or in another play-on-words, should I
say, a funeral pealing. Pealing, but not appealing, eh?"  

 He took another sip. "What happened, Thomas? What turned you from the
cause? What suddenly made you lay down your patriotism and your gun, and
come to America and take up the Bible and cassock?"  

 Monsignor O'Reilly looked up at him in horror. "Have you ever killed a
child, Smythe, or Petrovsky, or whatever your name is? I believe you've
killed many people, but a child? A fifteen year old boy. Not an infant,
granted, but still a child. A child who would not live to become an adult.
Taken from this world before the good Lord intended it. A Protestant youth
that had seen his brother die and took up the brother's cause. He came at
me with a knife, and I reacted before I could think. I had a shotgun
loaded with buckshot in my hands. The boy caught the blast in the face and
neck -- it literally tore his head from his body. To this day I can't look
in the mirror without seeing the face of this young man whose life I
destroyed. I couldn't live with myself. I tried to commit suicide, but
something stopped me. Call it my conscience, call it the voice of God -
you may call it whatever you wish - but something stopped me. I believe I
was chosen for a greater calling. A calling where I could atone, where I
could make a difference. Where I could help alleviate a different sort of
suffering instead of inflicting it.  

 "My own father and grandfather didn't understand. They were disgusted
when I took my Holy Orders. They owned a tavern in Boston, and the last
time I was there, I saw their damned mercenary jar on the bar and
something inside me snapped. I picked up the jar and smashed it against
the wall. I said that if putting as little as a penny in that jar would
help raise enough money to kill one Brit, the price was too high. The only
things it would buy, I told them, would be two tickets to Hell. They told
me to get out and never spoke to me again, and I've never since set foot
in that tavern." He reached for the glass of whiskey, and downed more than
half.  

 Petrovsky looked at the man for a moment, then took another sip of his
own drink.  

 "Father, I believe you do understand. You pay a debt for what you took
away. I pay a debt for what was taken from me. Your IRA had a motto. The
same motto is printed on the label of this brand of Irish dew. Just as
with your riddle that inquires as to which came first, the chicken or the
egg, I have no idea whether the IRA took the motto from the distiller or
if the distiller took it from them. It really doesn't matter. I feel it is
an appropriate motto. 'Let each man be paid in full.' The IRA believes it.
So do I.  

 "They destroyed my life, Father. Harris' father and those like him took
my life away from me and they must pay the price. I must pay each of them
what I owe them -- in full!"  

 "I don't understand," said O'Reilly, "what did these people do?"  

 "My wife, Father -- my beloved Sharra. Her father was the Russian
ambassador to Baghdad; her mother was Iraqi. I was part of the Russian
contingent in Iraq -- in charge of security for the ambassador. That's
where I met Sharra. We were around each other everywhere that the family
went. Propinquity had its way with us, and we fell in love. With the
blessings of the ambassador and his wife, we were married. She gave
herself freely, Father -- a rare thing for a communist such as myself to
experience. I worshipped this woman with all my heart. Three years we were
married -- the happiest three years of my life. And they took her from me,
damn them to Hell!"  

 "Who did, my son?"  

 "The devils of Desert Storm. Yes, it was a stupid conflict. Senseless.
Saddam Hussein is completely insane. He thinks he is Mohammed's chosen
champion. When the ambassador realized this we began making preparations
to go back to Russia. He had agreed to take Sharra's widowed half-sister
and her daughter, Sharra's niece, with us, as Sharra and her mother were
concerned for their safety. I sent two of my best men with Sharra and her
mother to her mother's village in Baghdad to fetch the women, as well as
gather their essential possessions. I could not go as my immediate duties
were to the safety of the ambassador and the final arrangements for the
flight out late that night.  

 "The stealth bombers and their smart bombs came that night. The other
planes had other high-explosives and rockets. There are always civilian
casualties in war. Bombs and rockets go astray. The smart bombs hit their
intended targets. Some of the other weapons did not. Sharra's village took
a direct hit. One of my men survived long enough to relate how they and
Sharra tried to get her sister and mother to a shelter. They were driving
past an Iraqi tank when a fighter launched an air-to-ground rocket, which
missed the tank and struck the armor-plated staff car. The resulting
explosion ripped the car apart and flung the occupants into the air like
rag dolls. Sergei's arm and part of his left leg were blown off. Sharra
and the others were killed instantly.  

 "While Saddam Hussein is responsible for that idiotic war, the people I
hold liable for Sharra's death are the military group leaders responsible
for ordering the attack. And as God is my witness, they will be paid
back."	

 O'Reilly had seen enough killing. He would see no more. Give me strength,
Lord, to do what must be done, he prayed. He leapt from the chair and
hurled himself towards the Russian. Almost taken by surprise by the speed
of the older man, he fired point-blank and O'Reilly went down.	

 "Why, you old fool?" Asked Petrovsky. "I would not have killed you. I had
planned to lock you up downstairs until my work here was done. Why?"  

 "Had to...stop...you," O'Reilly choked, blood pouring from his mouth in
bright red spurts, "before...more...deaths." He coughed out more blood.
"Price...too...high," he choked out. He suffered another paroxysm --
coughed out a great spurt of blood...and died.	

 "That it is, my friend," said Petrovsky, "that it is. I hope you atoned
enough. May you go to your Lord with a clean soul."  

 He poured another large measure of whiskey. He looked at the bottle's
label.	

  Let each man be paid in full.  

 If he was to do so, he must do something about Shepherd. The man could be
trouble. He read the label again.  

  Let each man be paid in full.  

 Petrovsky stared at it for a moment. Remembering a line from the movie,
'The Ten Commandments', he said, "So let it be written, so let it be
done."	   20.	 "Burning both ends of the candle,
 Can't worry 'bout the things that we don't know,
 Goin' just as fast as we can go,
 Any way the wind blows.
 And we don't know what lies in store,
 But still we walk through that open door,
 We just go any way the wind blows."
 
  "Any Way The Wind Blows"
 J. McFee / A. Pessis	 

 "Dief! Get off me, goddamn it," Ray said to the wolf, who had gotten up
from his favorite place in front of the refrigerator to greet Ray by
jumping up on him.  

 The wolf whined at Ray's tone and slunk back over to his spot and laid
back down.  

 Ray walked over to the bed and said, "Benny, wake up." Getting no
response, he repeated his entreaty, but louder, "Benny. Wake up!"  

 Ben opened his eyes and squinted up at Ray. "Ray? What time is it?"  

 "A few minutes after three. C'mon, get up! Sharon's got some results for
us."  

 "Now? It's the middle of the night."  

 "You know the CPD motto. We never sleep."  

 "Actually, Ray, I believe that's the motto of Roto Rooter. With the money
plumber's charge, I can understand their willingness to get up at any
hour. Myself, on the other hand...."  

 "Aw, c'mon. You're as curious about this as I am. Hurry up and get
dressed, Jim's gonna meet us at the station in twenty minutes."  

 "All right, Ray," said Ben. "Let's go see what's what."  * * * 

 They pulled up in front of the station just in time to see Shepherd
getting out of a cab and paying the driver.  

 "Hey Jim," Ray called. "Think Sharon's solved our case for us?"  

 "Wouldn't it be nice, Ray?" Asked the Army Captain. "Unfortunately,
life's not that simple. In any case, you'll still owe her that favor." The
three men headed into the station.  

 "Don't remind me. When she said dancing, I figured a nice dinner at some
posh place and then a few fox trots. Nope. She's into that Texas Two Step
shit. There's some western joint over on the boulevard where she wants to
go to...how the hell did she put it? Oh, yeah. Strut our stuff. That's
what she said."  

 "Jesus, Ray. Won't you look like a real shit-kickin' dude in an Armani
suit, wearing cowboy boots and a Stetson, dancing the Two Step," Shepherd
laughed.  

 "No kiddin'," Ray said. "Now I've got to get some western clothes to look
the part. I don't know a damned thing about this crap."  

 "I do. I'd be glad to help you. Especially to help you pick out a hat.
Hats are designed for certain shape faces. A lot of guys buy the first hat
that fits, and look like hell in it because it's the wrong style for them.
You want to look good, not like a rodeo clown."  

 "Thanks. I'd appreciate it." He looked back at Fraser. "You okay, Benny?"
 

 Ben was caught in mid-yawn. "Fine, Ray, just tired. I just have a
two-legged alarm clock that always seems to wake me too early."  

 "Hey," said Jim. "I don't see my buddy, Dief. Where is the big furball?" 


 "I left him in my apartment," Ben said. "No reason why one of us
shouldn't get some sleep."  

 They turned into the Records department, and Sharon spotted Ray.  

 "It's about time, Vecchio," she said.	

 "What, am I on the clock now?" Ray asked.  

 "If I'd sat in that chair much longer, I thought I was gonna grow roots."
 

 Shepherd spoke up. "What were you able to find out, Sharon?"  

 "That this is an interesting group you've got here. All different
branches and military backgrounds. Basically nothing in common, except one
thing. Desert Storm."  

 "All of them?" Ben asked.  

 "All the guys on the Captain's list. That includes your Canadian, Ben.
Not everyone on the conference list, but some."  

 "What did they do in Desert Storm?" Asked Shepherd.  

 "They were all part of the same command group. Specifically, they were in
charge of directing the attacks on Baghdad, itself. They were the ones
trying to get Saddam Hussein's underground command post. It's amazing the
parallels between that man and Hitler. Plant your weapons emplacements and
command posts around a civilian area and dare the opposition to bomb it.
Later you can scream about human atrocities and civilian deaths. It's
okay, though, that meanwhile you can launch your own weapons at civilian
targets in the enemy area. That's okay with Saddam. After all, as far as
he's concerned, Mohammed told him to do it. That makes it all right."  

 "Christ," said Ray, "what a piece of work that guy is. Iraq's version of
Son of Sam. Maybe his camel told him to do it."  

 "Divinely inspired."  

 "What was that, Benny?"  

 "I said, Ray, that I believe the man thinks he's divinely inspired. The
same way Hirohito, the Emperor of Japan, thought he was divinely inspired
when the Japanese tried to capture the whole Pacific. To the Japanese
people, their Emperor is a divinity. Adolf Hitler relied, instead, on
astrology, augury, prognostication, and other means of foretelling the
future. He believed he could arrange events to make Germany the thousand
year kingdom foretold in the Bible."  

 "Jesus," said Ray, "And here I thought all the loons were out on the
lake."	

 Shepherd decided to change the subject. "Thanks a lot, Sharon. For
staying and for the data analysis," he said.  

 "Anytime, Captain. Especially if Ray offers to take me dancing."  

 Ray just looked at the floor, groaning....	 21. 

 Lt. Victor Zelasko, while enjoying a cup of cappuccino, played his latest
tape, which included the intercepted conversation between Sherry Michaels
and Bob Davis. It was relatively quiet at that hour of the morning, making
it a good time to listen to the tapes, and giving him a chance to relax.
When he heard Sherry pass the information about Father Harris on to Davis,
he began choking on his coffee and spilled it all over a report on his
desk. Realizing the consequences of the information that Davis now
possessed, Zelasko immediately grabbed the phone and dialed Petrovsky's
number at St. Francis Church.  

 He muttered to himself as he listened to the rings. "Misha, answer the
phone, goddamn it. Answer the goddamn phone." He lost count of the number
of rings, but knew it had to be more than thirty, which is approximately
three minutes of letting the phone ring. He then tried the office number
at the church, but got the answering machine, so hung up. If no one
answered either phone, then Petrovsky obviously wasn't there.  

 The question was...if he wasn't at the church at this hour of the
morning, then where the hell was he?	  22.	"Love and pain,
 Only for the foolish.
 Once again,
 Try to hide what's there inside.
 I'm the same Temporary Hero,
 Who's to blame."
 
  "Temporary Heroes"
 N. Trevesick / J. Clee    

 "You know Ray, I think I'm starting to picture you in a pair of lizard
hide cowboy boots and some sort of black western clothes," Shepherd was
saying, as the three men exited the CPD station. "Rhinestones! Yeah,
that's it, Ray. A black shirt with lots of rhinestones."  

 "Oh, knock it off, Jim," said Ray. He looked at the Army Captain for a
second. "Really? You're not just goofing around?"  

 "Seriously, Ray. What do you think, Ben?"  

 "It definitely would be a change for you, Ray," said Fraser.  

 None of the men had taken any notice of the black Dodge parked in the
shadows just down the street. Petrovsky - Makarov in hand - watched the
three men -- waiting for a clear shot at the army officer. The Mountie was
currently standing in the way. Patience, Petrovsky told himself. The
Mountie will move and the shot will present itself.  

 Ray looked across the street and said, "Hey, guys, that all-night
convenience joint has coffee. It ain't Carmen's, but it's better stuff
than the shit the precinct has. Why don't I run over and get us some?"	

 "Sure, Ray. Why not? I could use a cup," said Jim.  

 "Fine, Ray," Ben agreed.  

 Ray ran across the street and into the store.	

 "Well, that information Sharon got us is definitely interesting,"
Shepherd said to Fraser.  

 "Very. I see where if we don't count the missing people - who we have to
assume at this point are probably dead - that leaves us three conference
attendees who were part of that command group."  

 "Looks that way," said Jim. "Hey, as you guys are doing security for this
thing, you'd have the info on where the attendees are staying, right?"	

 "Certainly. Do you need it?"  

 "Could I have it for the ones on our hit list?"  

 "I'll have to okay it with the Inspector, but I don't think that will be
a problem."  

 "Great." Shepherd saw the door open across the street. "Here comes Ray."
He stepped forward and yelled, "C'mon, Ray. It's chilly out here."  

 "Keep your shirt on, I'm coming," Ray yelled back.  

 Petrovsky saw the officer step into the clear and brought the Makarov up
and took aim.  

 As Ray Vecchio stepped off the curb and started to cross the street, the
breeze brought him the sickly smell of a car's exhaust. It was an
automatic response for a longtime cop like Ray, to look for the idling
car. He spotted the car and the barrel of the pistol sticking out of the
window at the same moment. "Gun, Benny!" he shouted, dropping the coffees
and reaching for his gun.  

 The well-trained Mountie didn't hesitate by looking for the weapon -- he
shoved Shepherd forward and to the left, then attempted to throw himself
the opposite way just as Petrovsky fired. Ben felt the bullet hit his left
upper arm near the shoulder and the impact spun him over onto his back.  

 Petrovsky dropped the gun on the seat and hit the accelerator. Seeing
Ray, and enraged that the cop had spoiled his ambush, he aimed the Dodge
directly for the still-drawing detective.  

 "Look out, Ray!" Shepherd yelled -- reaching under the back of his jacket
and drawing one of the largest pistols Ben had ever seen. Ben watched
Shepherd snap the gun up into a modified Weaver two-handed stance and fire
off three shots almost in one motion. The cracks of the gun sounded like
rifle shots.  

 Ray tried to dive up onto the sidewalk to avoid the black car, the
foremost thought suddenly in his mind that this was it. This was the end.
It might very well have been if Shepherd's second shot hadn't ripped
through the car's door and imbedded itself into Petrovsky's back, just
below the shoulder. Screaming in agony, the Russian lost his grip on the
steering wheel long enough that the speeding car missed Ray Vecchio by a
cat's whisker.	

 The Dodge caromed off a parked car -- the impact ripping the right front
fender up and out so as to resemble a mutated wing -- before the Russian
could regain some control over it. Shepherd was now in the middle of the
street, firing the remainder of the clip after the fleeing car until the
slide locked back, signifying that the weapon was empty. The bullets
ripped into the car, one blowing out the rear windshield and missing
Petrovsky's head by a hair before passing through the front windshield.
Another took out the rearview mirror. The Russian drove for his life.  

 Shepherd holstered the pistol, and ran to Ben, still watching him from
his prone position on the sidewalk, holding his right hand over his wound.
 

 "You're hurt, Ben. Let's have a look." He took a folding knife from his
pocket. "I'm going to have to cut the coat, Ben, " he smiled at the
Mountie.  

 "It's all right, Jim. I'd have to get another one anyway. The Inspector
frowns on us wearing uniforms with bullet holes in them."  

 "Damned quick reflexes, my friend," said the officer. "You saved my ass,
and got hit in the bargain. All I can say is thank you, Ben. You have my
undying gratitude." He slit the coat sleeve and ripped the cloth back. He
then cut the shirt to see the damage.  

 Sharon Cerullo and a few others from the night watch had come out to see
what happened. "What happened?" Sharon asked. "Can I do something?"  

 "Yeah, Sharon," said Jim. "You can get an ambulance here, like yesterday.
And bring out a first aid kit."  

 "Sure, right away." She ran inside.  

 Shepherd took out a handkerchief folded it loosely and placed it over the
wound. "You're lucky, Ben. It's a deep graze, but no arterial bleeding.
Press on that with the other hand."  

 Sharon returned with the kit, and said, "Ambulance is on its way."  

 "Thanks Sharon." He dug some large gauze pads and a bandage roll out of
the kit. Placing the pads over the handkerchief, he made a pressure
bandage and secured it with the roll of bandage. "That's already starting
to clot. This will hold until a doctor can look at it."  

 "Thanks, Jim," said Ben.  

 "Least I can do for somebody who caught a bullet that was meant for me."
He looked toward the street. "Well, the prodigal son returns. Thank you,
Ray, for the quick warning."  

 "Huh?" Asked Ray, wiping coffee off of his suit. "Oh, you're welcome." He
saw Ben's bloody coat. "Are you hurt bad, Benny?"  

 "I'll live, Ray. But thank you for asking."  

 "Sure, Ben." He looked at Shepherd and said, "what the hell was that
about a son?"  

 "Prodigal son." Seeing it wasn't registering, he said, "never mind, Ray."
He smiled and turned back to Ben. "He must be okay, Ben. He's worried
about his suit."  

 "So I see. Thank you, Ray. Your warning helped save our lives, and we've
thanked you. Now don't you want to thank the nice army officer?"  

 "For what?"  

 "For saving yours? If he hadn't fired into the car, you might not be with
us right now."	

 "Jesus, I wondered how that car missed me. I thought I'd bought it for
sure. Thanks, Jim."  

 "Don't mention it," said Shepherd, "and I refuse to take all the credit.
You might want to say an extra thank you at your local church."  

 "Yeah, that might be a good idea," said Ray. "My mother will insist on
it, anyway."  

 Ben looked at Shepherd. "By the way, Jim, what is that cannon you're
carrying around?"  

 Shepherd pulled the weapon from its rear holster, and handed it to the
Mountie. "Israeli Arms Desert Eagle semi-automatic, imported by Magnum
Research. .357 Magnum. Winchester silvertip ammo custom loads."  

 "Heavy action," said Ben. "Sounds like a rifle."  

 "Hits like a truck. It can put a hole in a car's engine block. That
reminds me. The damage to that car isn't going to be fixed in a hurry.
This may be a break of sorts for us." He holstered the weapon and looked
at Ben. "I don't like the price we paid for that break, though."  

 "I'll live," said Ben, smiling.  

 The ambulance finally arrived. Ben was put on board, and Shepherd rode in
the ambulance with him to the hospital. Ray followed in the Riviera.	
23.   "Where you gonna go.
 Where you gonna hide.
 It's cold and lonely
 For the Outlaw."
 
  "The Outlaw Blues"	

 The black Dodge started to sputter and finally died near a small shopping
plaza. Petrovsky looked at the gauges and seeing the fuel gauge below the
E, he realized that a bullet must have ripped a hole in the fuel tank. In
such extreme pain that he thought he might pass out at any moment, he
abandoned the car, removing the license plates and throwing them into a
storm drain. Seeing a few cars in the plaza parking lot, even at this
early hour, he decided to steal one.  

 When he thought he was far enough from the plaza where he had stolen a
Ford Escort, he stopped at a public phone and called Peter.  

 "Hello?"  

 "Peter, it's me," Petrovsky croaked in agony. "I've been shot - I need
help."	

 "Misha, where are you?"  

 "Near the Crossroads Mall. I need a doctor, Peter."  

 "Can you drive?"  

 "Hurts like shit, but I'll manage. To where?"	

 "390 Commonwealth. Ask for Doctor Baxter. Not cheap, but a man of
discretion, if you follow me."	

 "I understand. Thank you. Hopefully, I'll be in touch soon."  

 "Good luck, Misha."  

 "Thank you, Peter. Goodbye."	  24. 

 "Jesus, what a morning this has been," said Ray Vecchio. "Benny gets
shot. I almost get run over. Welsh chews my ass for not keeping him better
informed. My suit looks like shit. What the hell else can happen?"  

 "Cheer up, Ray," said Shepherd. "Your suit could look worse."	

 "How? Tell me how."  

 "It could have tire tread marks on it."  

 Ray looked at Shepherd for a moment. He slowly nodded. "You're right. I
could have been under that damned car. I owe you, friend."  

 "No you don't, Ray. If you hadn't yelled when you did, Ben wouldn't have
pushed me forward, and I might have taken that bullet -- possibly in the
chest. We're pretty even, but who's keeping score?"  

 "You're right, Jim, but all I can think of is Benny getting hit."  

 "He's okay, Ray. You saw him. They cleaned the area, cauterized a couple
of small blood vessels, took some stitches, bandaged him up, gave him some
nice pain killers, and now he's home sleeping from the relaxant they gave
him to make him rest. He'll be good as new in a few days."  

 "Good. Now he can stop bitching about my waking him up early. He'll catch
up on some Z's now. Hey, did I tell you they found the bullet that grazed
him?"  

 "No," said Shepherd, "where was it?"  

 "They pried it out of a piece of trimming from around one of the windows.
It's a big, steel-jacketed bullet. I'll give ya odds it's another .44
Makarov."  

 "No bet from me. When they put it under the scope, they'll probably find
my name on it."  

 Neither man said anything for a few minutes - then the telephone rang.  

 Ray grabbed it. "Vecchio." He listened for a minute, then asked, "Where?"
Again he listened, and then said, "As soon as you have the lab results, I
want to know the scoop. Thanks. See ya." He hung up.  

 He turned to Shepherd and grinned. "They found the car abandoned in front
of the Staples Plaza. Man, that cannon of yours did a hell of a job on it.
Besides taking out the rear windshield and part of the front, you tore a
chunk out of the gas tank. That's why he had to dump it, and guess what?
That shot you put through the door tore a chunk out of him, too. That must
have been the one that saved my ass. They found a shitload of blood all
over the seat and the door panel. That was no graze, baby. They figure
he's lost a few pints. He's gonna need a doctor, so the word's already
been spread to all local hospitals and emergency rooms. 'Course that won't
stop him if he knows a doctor that'll treat him for big bucks and looks
the other way. There's always a few of those around, but we can hope.
Anyway, they found prints in the car, and they're running them. They
haven't traced the car yet, but they will."  

 "Well, that's a break. I think I'll check the hotel and see if any
messages came in for me. I don't want to tie this phone up, though."  

 "Use Huey's phone over there - he's away. Line four isn't used as much -
try that one."	

 "Thanks," said Jim. He went over to the other desk and dialed out.  

 Ray leaned back, munching on a strawberry-filled donut. He sipped at a
cup of the liquefied sludge that the station canteen had the nerve to call
coffee. "Christ," he said. "We should get combat pay for drinking this
shit." The phone rang and he grabbed it.  

 "Yeah. Vecchio." He listened, and then grabbed a pen and paper. "What was
the name again? Yeah....Spell it....And the other name? Yeah, got it,
thanks. Bye." He hung up.  

 Jim walked back over from Detective Huey's desk and sat down. "I've got
some interesting news from Bob Davis."	

 Ray smiled and said, "I've got some interesting news, too. They made the
prints. We know who our gunman is."  

 "Shit," said Shepherd, "that's better news than mine. You first."  

 "Okay. Our gunman is definitely a Russian. Name of Petrovsky."  

 "Petrovsky? Why does that ring a bell? What's his first name?"  

 "Mikhail. Russian for Michael, I guess."  

 "Holy shit! I know why that name sounds familiar. Misha Petrovsky. If
it's the same guy I'm thinking of, he's a crack pistol shot. When he was
sixteen, he was on the Russian Olympic Pistol Team. He was one of the best
Free Pistol shooters they ever had."  

 "Sound's like our boy," Ray said. "What happened to him?"  

 "I'm not sure. Last I heard he was a security specialist. You know, the
guys that protect the dignitaries with the armored limo's."  

 "What's your news?" Asked Ray.  

 "A body was recovered from an auto accident in some town called Aurora.
Burned badly but identified as a Father John Harris. He's an assistant
pastor at a St. Francis Church here in Chicago. During the autopsy, the
M.E. found the cause of death to be a bullet through the heart.
Specifically, a .44 Makarov."  

 Ray looked at his notes and asked, "What was that name?"  

 "Harris. John M. Harris."  

 "Shit, look at this. The car was a rental. The rental contract was made
out to a John M. Harris."  

 "Oh, Ray," said Jim, looking at the notes, "this is even more interesting
than you know. The car that burned with Father John Harris in it was
registered to Father Harris. And the rental car was rented two days after
Harris was found dead? We have a rental car rented by a dead man. You
don't see that every day."  

 "Jesus H.," said Ray.	

 "Let me use your phone again," said Shepherd.	

 He dialed long distance.  

 "Colonel Fitzsimmons' office," answered a woman's voice.  

 "Donna. This is Jim Shepherd. Is the old man in?"  

 "Sorry, Shep. General staff meeting. You know how those are."	

 "Christ, do I. All right. Here's the scoop. I need Fitz's leverage. I
need information on a Russian gunman who's raising hell here in Chicago.
Here's the information...."  

 While Shepherd related what information he had and what he needed to the
woman on the phone, Ray looked over the papers on his desk.  

 This, Ray thought, was turning out to be one hell of a case.	   25. 

 Petrovsky pulled into a driveway of a yellow bungalow with white trim. He
couldn't see a number on the place, but figured it had to be 390
Commonwealth, as it was between a brown cottage numbered 382, and a green
tenement at 398. He went to the side door and rang the bell. He was
beginning to get dizzy - probably from blood loss. He rang the bell again.
After another half-minute he started pounding on the door.  

 "All right, I'm coming - keep your ass on," shouted a voice from inside. 


 The door opened on a security chain. A man's face peered through the
space.	

 "Who the hell are you and what do you want?" Asked the man.  

 "A mutual friend named Peter told me to ask for Dr. Baxter," said
Petrovsky.  

 The man's voice lowered to just above a whisper. "Go around to the back.
There's a bulkhead door. Go down the stairs to the basement." He closed
and relocked the door.	

 Petrovsky found the bulkhead and went down the stairs to another locked
door. He heard a bolt draw back and the door opened. The same man from
upstairs waved him in and hurriedly closed and bolted the door. Waving him
over to a metal-clad door, the man unlocked it and flipped on a wall
switch. When the lights came up, Petrovsky saw a well-equipped medical
dispensary.  

 "Let's get that jacket and shirt off and let me see what the damage is,"
said the man.  

 "I take it, you're Dr. Baxter," said Petrovsky, as the medical man helped
him off with the jacket and then took a pair of scissors and cut away the
shirt.	

 "You take it wrong, but you can call me that if you want. It's as good a
name as any. It's the name Peter and others know. My real name I give to
no one as what I'm doing is against the law. Understand?"  

 "Of course, Doctor."  

 "Good. Now lie down on your stomach and let me get a look at the wound,"
said Baxter.  

 Petrovsky did as he was directed. The doctor filled a syringe and said,
"I'm going to give you a local anesthetic. I have to probe the area, and I
don't want you screaming bloody murder so that the neighbors hear you." He
injected the solution in a pattern around the wound. "That'll take a few
minutes to set in. I hope you're worth some money, son. This is going to
cost you."  

 "You'll get paid," said the Russian, "don't worry."  

 The doctor took an x-ray while waiting for the anesthetic to work. He
then inserted an IV shunt into Petrovsky's right arm and plugged in a
plasma unit. By the time he started the drip, the x-ray was developed. He
looked at the film and said, "You're very lucky the bullet didn't hit the
lung. There's blood loss, but it's venous, not arterial. I can cauterize
those vessels and disinfect and close the area. The muscle damage will
heal eventually. The bullet is another matter. It's taken a bounce off a
rib and it's lodged near the aorta. It's too dangerous for me to try to
remove here. That's major surgery."  

 "Is it dangerous to leave there?"  

 "Not as dangerous as me trying to fish for it. It will have to come out
eventually."  

 "Can you give me something for the pain?"  

 "Yes. I'll fix what I can, then we'll tape your ribs up tight. I'll give
you a shot of a morphine-based pain med. I have some pills you can take
after that."  

 "All right, Doctor. Do what you have to do."  

 Dr. Baxter got down to work.	   26. 

 "Good morning, sir," Benton Fraser said.  

 Margaret Thatcher looked at him in shock. "What are you doing here,
Fraser? It was my understanding that due to the nature of your injury that
we wouldn't see you today."  

 "Well, sir, I may not stay long, but I felt it was only right to fill you
in as much as possible on what information we've come up with in assisting
in Captain Shepherd's case."  

 "That's very good of you, Constable," said the Inspector.  

 "By the way, sir," said Ben. "The information you obtained for us on Col.
Ferguson was extremely helpful."  

 "I'm glad. Sit down then and bring me up to date. Can I have someone get
you something? Coffee?"  

 "Well, sir, a cup of Earl Grey would be nice."  

 She picked up the phone and dialed. "Turnbull, would you have a cup of
black coffee and a cup of Earl Grey tea brought to my office? Thank you,
Constable."  

 She hung up the phone. "Now, Fraser, you may proceed."      27. 

 The telephone on Ray Vecchio's desk was on the sixth ring by the time Ray
managed to wash down the mouthful of donut. Then he grabbed the receiver. 


 "Vecchio." He listened for a few seconds, and said, "Hey Jim, it's Bob
Davis for you."  

 "Thanks, Ray," said Shepherd, taking the phone. "Yeah, Bob."  

 "We've arrived, Shep. We're at the Training Center. Commander Sherman
says, and I quote, 'Tell that son-of-a-bitch that he's still the ugliest
thing that Uncle Sam ever put in a uniform', and he wants to know if
there's a reply?"  

 "Yeah. Tell him that's only because his sister never joined the service."
 

 He heard Davis repeat his reply, then heard a roar of laughter in the
background.  

 "Shep, he said you haven't changed a bit."  

 "Such is life," said Jim. "Everything's here?"  

 "Yep, we brought it all," said Davis. "Hey Jim, is Doug's sister really
that bad-looking?"  

 "Well, let me put it this way. When Doug's dad was stationed at
Annapolis, and they lived off base, the old joke was that they had to keep
Tracy inside every morning or the sun wouldn't come up. No, she's actually
turned into a cute kid. She's pretty good at judo, I hear. Rumor has it
that she managed to throw her big brother onto the mat."  

 "No shit. I'll have to mention that. So, when are you coming by?"  

 "Probably in a couple of hours. I want to put the XR-9 together, just in
case I need it. This case is starting to get wild."  

 "Okay, Shep. We'll see you then."  

 "See you, Bob." He hung up.  

 "What are you going to do now, Jim," said Ray.  

 "Nothing -- until I hear from the old man."  

 "Don't say that too loud, will ya? That's what we call Lt. Welsh."  

 "I hope they're not too much alike," Shepherd said. "There won't be
enough room on the planet for the both of them."  

 "We can only hope. Here," said Ray, holding out a box. "Have another
donut."  

 They sat back to wait.      28.   "It's high noon
 Everywhere you go,
 And the guilt you feel
 Is the weary soul
 Of the Outlaw."
 
  "The Outlaw Blues"	

 Mikhail Petrovsky sat in the study - his still sore rib cage taped so
tightly he could barely breathe - and downed three fingers worth of the
Irish whiskey. To his mind the whiskey made a much better painkiller than
the doctor's pills. Looking around the study, he realized that there was
still blood on the floor from where Father O'Reilly had fallen. Petrovsky
had carried the body down to the basement dungeon wrapped in the hooked
rug from the study floor, but had neglected the wooden floor, being in a
hurry to take care of the army Captain. Now the blood had dried and
darkened on the inlaid floor - possibly staining it permanently.  

 After ditching the stolen Escort, he'd flagged down a taxi to drive him
back to the church. He had remembered to call and give the Dolan woman a
few days off. He'd made up an excuse that O'Reilly was going to be away on
business, and that he, himself, would be out and about and would fend for
himself - giving Agnes a few well-deserved days off. She wasn't sure at
first, but had warmed to the idea soon enough. The last thing he needed
was to have the woman coming in and finding no rug in the study, and blood
on the floor.  

 He poured another two fingers of the whiskey. Damn that Shepherd. The man
had nine lives. Who knew the man could shoot like that? Shoot
like...shoot...like what? A marksman? An expert marksman? A U.S. Champion
marksman? He suddenly dropped the glass in horror. Jim Shepherd? It
couldn't be the same one...or could it?  

 "Oh my God," he said aloud. "What have I done? My brother would never
forgive me. Josef," he cried, looking upwards, "I'm sorry...I didn't know!
Forgive me, my brother!"  

 He lowered his face into his hands and wept.	   29. 

 Ray Vecchio walked into the precinct room carrying a distinctive box
labeled Carmen's in fancy script. Setting the box on his desk, he looked
around for Shepherd, and saw the army officer at Huey's desk with the
phone jammed to his ear, and scribbling furiously on a notepad.  

 Ray opened the box, and took out two large containers of coffee. He set
one on the far side of the desk for Shepherd, and popped the lid off of
the other. Taking a sip, he sighed, "Man, this is heaven." He then set a
chocolate frosted, jimmy-encrusted donut next to Shepherd's coffee and
took out a strawberry jelly for himself. He looked for the two fresh
apricot danish he had bought for Ben - figuring on dropping them by the
Mountie's apartment later. That's if Welsh didn't steal them.  

 As much as the gruff Lieutenant complained about his weight, and that he
wouldn't be caught dead eating anything sweet, donuts and danish always
seemed to disappear from Ray's desk like magic. Ray was relatively sure
that the other denizens of the department weren't taking the pastry, as
the majority brought in their own. That only left Welsh - the Great White
Shark of the department - as the one scavenging anything unguarded.  

 The evidence seemed pretty clear. The man was on a diet, yet didn't lose
a pound. In fact, Ray would almost bet that the man looked ten pounds
heavier than when he started his diet. He was probably scarfing everything
he could during the day because his wife was feeding him strictly by his
dietitian's guidelines. Ray could almost imagine the burly detective
sitting down at home to a meal of a couple of ounces of chicken, a
vegetable, maybe a couple of stalks of celery, and a small salad with a
blob of cottage cheese on top. Yech.  

 Ray did the only thing he could think of -- he took the two danish from
the box and hid them in the bottom drawer of his desk.	

 Seeing a shadow cross the desk, he looked up to see Shepherd smiling at
him. "What?" Ray asked.  

 Jim pointed to the coffee cup with Carmen's printed on it. "I take it
you've had enough of the 10W-50 they serve here?"  

 "Jesus, you ain't kiddin'," Ray said. "I needed a cappuccino fix in the
worst way. I got you that dark espresso like you had the other day."  

 "Thanks." Shepherd looked at the jimmy-covered donut. "You remembered."  

 "Yeah. I even got two apricot danish to drop by Benny's later." He looked
over his shoulder for a second, then turned back towards Shepherd. "That
is if that walking stomach that passes for Lt. Welsh doesn't sniff them
out first." He gulped down more of the cappuccino. "Ah, what a difference.
Hey, you looked pretty intense on the phone, what was that all about?"	

 Shepherd washed down some of the donut with the espresso. "Mmm, that is 
good. Carmen should sell franchises. Anyway, that was the old man. He got
the lowdown on Petrovsky from the Russian ambassador in D.C. It seems Fitz
and the ambassador and some of the state department people all like to get
together occasionally for high-stakes poker games, so they all know each
other pretty well." He took another bite of the donut.	

 "Anyhow," he said, through the mouthful of donut, "it is the same
Petrovsky I thought it was. Misha - that's a nickname he's had since he
was a kid - was working as head of security for the Russian ambassador to
Iraq at the time Desert Storm took place. Petrovsky was married to the
ambassador's daughter.	

 "With attacks getting closer to Baghdad and the embassy, the ambassador
decided to head back to Russia with his whole entourage, including his
widowed stepdaughter, who lived in a village in Baghdad with her daughter,
the ambassador's step-granddaughter. The ambassador's wife and Sharra,
Misha's wife, accompanied by two of Misha's best men, took an armored limo
to pick up the two women and their valuables. Before they could return,
one of the night attacks on Baghdad began. Evidently they tried to drive
to the closest shelter.  

 "While the stealth bombers were taking out the major targets with the
smart bombs, the escort fighters with their night vision gear were hitting
gun emplacements and tanks. The danger was great to civilians because
Saddam would place his tanks right in civilian areas. One of the escorting
F-18's picked up a tank on their sensors and launched an air-to-ground
rocket at it. The damned rocket missed the tank and hit the fleeing
armored limo and blew it to shit - killing the women and one of the
security men instantly. The other security man, who eventually died, lived
long enough to get word to Misha and the ambassador.  

 "Misha went nuts, according to the ambassador. Sharra had become Misha's
whole reason for being. The other security people had to sedate Misha to
get him back to Russia. He didn't blame the attacking pilots for the
disaster. They were just following orders. In Misha's mind, the blame
belonged to the group who had given the orders to attack the area that
night. Through the intelligence network, he was able to find out the names
of the officers in that particular attack group. He vowed to get each and
every one of them for Sharra. The Russians weren't too keen on vendettas,
so they started keeping a close eye on Misha. Unfortunately, Misha had
established his own contacts over the years. He was also quite skilled at
impersonation. Before he joined the security service, he was one of the
government's best field men. He could blend into a community for months at
a time. He became known in certain circles as The Chameleon. There were
many people afraid of complaining about conditions in Russia, fearing that
the sympathetic man with whom they spoke might really be Misha in
disguise.  

 "He disappeared from their surveillance and nobody knew where the hell he
was. Of course, we do now. They deny any affiliation with him. He wouldn't
even be welcome back in Russia now. They wouldn't trust him again - they'd
kill him first. He's become a wild card - a freelancer of sorts with his
own agenda. He'll carry out that agenda or die trying."  

 "Shit!" said Ray. "I actually feel kind of sorry for the poor bastard."  

 "So do I," said Shepherd. "Misha was a good egg years ago. Now he's come
to this. If we get the chance we'll have to take him out. He knows he
can't go home again. He'll give everything he's got to finish his
vendetta. If I thought he'd listen, I'd try to talk to him, but it
wouldn't do any good."	

 "Christ. Russian vendettas," said Ray. "And here I thought those stories
from Sicily were bad."	

 The two men finished their coffees in silence.      30. 

 Major Jorge Juarez, USMC, had just checked into the hotel and was setting
out his shaving gear in the ample bathroom when there was a knock on the
door. "Who is it?" Shouted the Major from the bathroom.  

 "Room service, sir."  

 Juarez walked over and opened the door. "I didn't call room service."	

 "No sir, you didn't," said the waiter. "This has been sent up for you,
compliments of the management." He wheeled in a cart with flowers and a
magnum of champagne chilling in an ice bucket, pushing the door closed
with a flick of his foot in the practiced style of the professional wait
staff. He handed the check board and room check to the officer and said,
"If you wouldn't mind signing this, sir, I'll open your champagne for
you."  

 "Thank you," said Juarez. He signed the check and wrote an okay for a
twenty percent gratuity for the waiter, all the while anticipating the pop
of the cork. Instead, the Major heard a soft, thutt, an instant before the
impact of the heavy .44 slug smashed him in the chest and cut through his
heart. The marine officer was dead before his body hit the floor.  

 Petrovsky stuck the silenced Makarov in the waistband of his trousers,
near his spine, making sure the waiter's jacket covered it, then finished
opening the bottle of champagne with a towel muffling the pop in
professional style. He poured a generous measure in one of the beautiful
crystal glasses, and, holding it up as in a toast, said, "This is for you,
Sharra. Only for you, beloved."  

 He then exited the room, saying loudly over his shoulder for the benefit
of anyone in the hallway, "Thank you, sir. If there's anything else you
require, please call us. We aim to please."  

 He smiled, thinking of the play-on-words, as he walked quickly down the
hall to the stairway.	  31. 

 Jim Shepherd walked into the Great Lakes Training Center and went
straight to the office of Commander Doug Sherman, USN.	

 The inner door to the Commander's office was open, so before he could
announce himself to the yeoman in the outer office, Doug had spotted him,
roared a "Hello," and dragged him into the inner office.  

 "Well how the hell are you, you army mule?"  

 "Fine, you old navy goat. Where have you got my guys stashed, or have
they been clapped in irons already?"  

 "Not yet, but it's still early," said Doug. "Plenty of time to qualify
for our fabulous brig. You look thin, you bastard. Don't they feed you in
that damned army?"  

 "Of course, but can I help it if the navy steals all the steaks and
roasts before we poor GI's can get them? They compensate us by letting us
have all the Spam we can eat."	

 Doug grimaced. "Don't even kid about that stuff. Christ. MRE's suck, but
even they're better than that shit. You can feel your arteries hardening
while you're eating Spam. They say it's only pork shoulder and pork.
Personally, I believe it's the part of the pig they found sitting on the
fence."  

 Shepherd laughed. "The Chicago PD has a coffee that'll go with it
perfectly. The stuff is all-purpose. You can drink it and fill your
crankcase with what's left over."  

 "Ugh," Doug shuddered. "And here I thought Cookie's coffee was bad. Live
and learn, I guess. C'mon, let's go find your boys." Doug led the way down
the hall.  

 Bob Davis saw them coming. "Quick, guys," he shouted, "knock off the crap
game, it's the boss!" He, Bill Edwards, and Woody Woodford jumped to their
feet.  

 "Yeah, right," said Shepherd, entering the room, "you guys couldn't be
that stupid. Doug's just dying to have this whole building swabbed. Aren't
you Doug?"  

 "Anytime, Shep. Just say the word. We can always use volunteers."  

 Shepherd lowered his voice so only the five of them could hear. "Doug,
has there been any sign of Cunningham?"  

 "No, Shep. Not a sign."  

 "Have you had any thoughts about letting some of the SEAL trainees check
parts of the lake for him?"  

 "Jesus, Jim, are you serious?"  

 "Very. They found Maxwell, from Quantico, in Chesapeake Bay."	

 "Shit. It's something I may have to do. Even if he's there, they may not
find him. Even with halogen floods, sometimes a diver can't see twenty
feet in front of him with all the silt and shit that the storms churn up
from the bottom. They could swim right past him and not see him."  

 "Either way, it'll be good training for them."  

 "True," said Sherman. "Hey, next time you can stay longer, you've got to
try one of the new drysuits. They're even thinner and lighter than the old
ones."	

 "Figures," Jim said. "We can't even get the old ones. We're still
patching the wetsuits."  

 "Ha. That's the army for ya'. Don't worry, I'll send you some of the old
ones we don't need. Hey, where's this toy of yours?"  

 "It's over there, Shep," said Davis, pointing towards an empty bunk.  

 Doug followed Shepherd over to the bunk. "Douglas, my friend," said Jim,
"you're about to see perfection assembled." He opened the molded case.	

 "Jesus Christ," Doug exclaimed.  

 "This, Doug, is the XR-9. An engineering marvel. Rifle marksmen around
the world were asked what features they'd like to see in a rifle. This
encompasses them all. NASA came up with the plastic the stock is made
from." He held up the two sections of stock. "Two piece stock. Light as a
feather and stronger than steel. You can customize the balance for an
individual shooter by inserting or removing weights from the butt of the
stock. Here's how to assemble the beast. The breechlock assembly goes in
first." Jim slipped the assembly into its molded seat. "Then, the
forepiece of the stock fits like so..." He slid it into place. "Then we
take and tighten these lugs with the torx driver. They used to use allen
lugs, but torx are less prone to getting chewed and easier to use in the
dark. Now we screw on the main barrel...tighten this lug...then the second
section of the barrel screws in. If you look here, you can't even see the
seam where the sections of the barrel fit together...and the third section
is optional, though it increases the range - I usually use it. It has a
built in flash suppresser. There's an additional silencer piece for real
quiet work if needed, though I don't like to use it unless it's an
emergency because the back pressure of any silencer can throw a bullet off
over distance. If you can't be sure you'll get a second shot, you may not
want to use the silencer. Then we have a choice of scopes. For daylight
use, a custom scope by Leopold. For night work, the crowning touch -- a
customized starlight scope. Both scopes have bullet compensation
adjustments for crosswinds. With this rifle, Doug, and perfect conditions,
a certain kind of marksman can hit a target in the dead of night from over
a mile, with a deviation from point-of-aim of less than a sixteenth of an
inch. As there's no such thing as absolutely perfect conditions, I
calculate it to be accurate at that distance from a quarter to a half
inch."	

 "Christ, Jim, I'm glad you're on our side. What sort of ammo does this
thing use?"  

 "Depends on the distance and type of situation. Relatively short or
medium shots can call for an expanding round. For long shots, a
steel-jacketed bullet is the most accurate. Sometimes though, the jacketed
slug doesn't instantly finish the job. It depends on where you have to hit
the target. A hostage situation is dangerous, because you have to worry
about the target still being able to kill the hostage with his last ounce
of strength. In that instance you want to maximize the damage in order to
give the hostage the greatest chance of survival. For those instances we
sometimes have to use these exploding tip bullets. Scramble the brain's
ability to control the rest of the body and that body will go down without
being able to hurt the hostage. I hope we don't have to use the XR-9, but
with this guy, I have a bad feeling - so I wanted to assemble it in case."
 

 "Shit," said Doug, "you and your bad feelings. Every time you get one of
those, I want to run for cover. The last time I remember was that British
oil rig in the North Sea that had the explosion and fire. That Royal Navy
lieutenant and the oil company's underwater rigger would have gone down at
least six hundred feet to their death if you hadn't cut them loose on the
way down. We thought we'd lost the three of you. Thank God there was a
hyperbaric chamber available. You spent almost two days in the thing, as I
recall."  

 "Yeah," said Shepherd. "They were great guys, though, and we got great
food. All the steaks we could eat. What the hell were the names of those
guys? The Royal Navy guy was Jack something. Dees?"  

 "Dawes, I think," said Sherman.  

 "Yeah, that's it. Jack Dawes. And the rigger's name was Joe
something-or-other, but everybody called him Tito, 'cause he looked
something like Tito, the head of Yugoslavia. Two great guys. Remember when
we were shooting skeet from the deck of the ship? Joe was fascinated by
it, and said his brother was a good shot, too, but not as good as I was. A
good kid. I hope those guys are well."	

 "Yeah, me too," Doug said.  

 "Doug, do you mind if Bill sets up here in case we need the computer
network?"  

 "Shit, no. He's better than anybody we've got, anyway."  

 "You heard the man, Bill. And Woody? Give me one of the portable
scrambled cell phones. You can do the communication liaison between our
people here and Washington. How many of those do you have?"  

 "Four," said Woodford.  

 "Good. I'll give one to the CPD in case Ray Vecchio has to contact me or
you guys here."  

 A voice called from the hall, "Commander Sherman?"  

 "Right here. That you, Nelson?"  

 "Yes, sir. There's a Detective Vecchio on the line for Captain Shepherd."
 

 "Thanks, Yeoman, we'll take it in my office."	

 "Very good, sir".  

 "Let's shake a leg, James."  

 They ran to Sherman's office. Doug punched the flashing button and handed
the phone to Shepherd.	

 "Yeah, Ray," said Jim.  

 "Our boy has struck again."  

 "Son of a bitch. Who got it?"	

 "He got two marines on two different floors in the same hotel by posing
as a waiter. A Major Juarez and a Lt. Colonel Thompson."  

 "Damn, he's efficient. Two more down. How many left?"	

 "Only one that I can see. But this one's a big fish -- General Alan
MacDougall from the Canadian army. He's supposed to be a good friend of
the Canadian Consul General."  

 "You better let Inspector Thatcher know - that's her area."  

 "I was afraid of that. Maybe I'll pick Benny up. She won't bite my head
off if he's there with me."  

 "Offer her some officers as guards. Maybe that'll put you on her good
side. Anything on St. Francis Church?"	

 "Just an answering machine. The trouble is, it's a different precinct, so
it's kind of political."  

 "Oh, Christ," Shepherd said. "Just what we need. I can just hear it. The
old, 'You don't tell me what to do in my own precinct,' bullshit."  

 "You got it," said Ray. "We have to go through the Commissioner's office
and have the order come down from there."  

 "I'll tell you what. Give me a chance to come by and give you one of our
scrambled cell phones. It'll give you a direct scrambled line to us. I'll
drop one with you, and you take it with you. Then go get Ben and go talk
to the Canadians. I'm going to go and check out St. Francis Church. It
would be nice to see some cops there, too."  

 "Looks like I'll have to ask Welsh to bitch to the Commissioner."  

 "Good luck, Ray. Bob and I will borrow a vehicle and see you in about
twenty minutes."  

 "See you, Jim." They both hung up. Shepherd walked back to his men's
quarters.  

 "Gentlemen," said Shepherd. "We've got work to do."	  32. 

 "Thank you for using Thrifty Rent-A-Car, Mr. O'Reilly," said the pretty
blonde woman at the rental counter.  

 "You're welcome, darlin' - and thank you!" Petrovsky said, in his best
Irish brogue.  

 He walked out to the red Nissan Maxima and started the engine. While
adjusting the seats and mirrors, he remembered reading a recent statistic
stating that red cars accounted for almost half the cars on American
roads, and that the majority of these were from Japanese manufacturers. He
figured the red Nissan would blend in quite nicely.  

 In the event that the police started looking for it, Petrovsky had left
O'Reilly's black Chrysler New Yorker parked in a long-term garage. He
couldn't take the chance of someone recognizing the Monsignor's car, and
seeing someone else behind the wheel.  

 He drove back towards the church via the back streets. He came to a power
company right-of-way and turned up it. About a half mile in, he saw the
oak tree with the freshly painted silver streak he'd recently applied to
the bark. He slowed the car and turned in past the tree and slowly drove
over grass, weeds and roots until he was out of sight of the right-of-way.
He got out of the car and locked it.  

 Petrovsky was now on St. Francis' land. With the exception of the area
occupied by the former castle, the entire parcel was approximately thirty
acres of woods and fields, bordered in the rear by the right-of-way.  

 The Russian continued to walk for another 200 yards or so, until he came
to a small clearing - in the middle of which was a large well. He walked
up to the well and gripping the wall with both hands, put his right leg
over until his foot found the top rung of the set-in ladder. He climbed
down the fifteen rungs to the granite sill of the steel-clad door that was
set into the rock wall of the old well. He turned the handle and swung the
door inwards. Good, he thought. The lubricant had loosened the action of
the hinges quite nicely. When he first had discovered and opened the door,
he'd had to strain to open it enough to squeeze through; not doing his
stitched wound any good.  

 Petrovsky took a mini-flashlight from his pocket, turned it on, and
proceeded through the dank, musty passage until he came to a huge granite
block. Locating the control lever, he turned it to the right, and pulled
it outward until he felt a click. The granite block pivoted in the center
and the Russian pushed it open enough to walk through into the dungeon of
the former castle. He then turned around and pushed the nicely balanced
door closed until it clicked into place. A nice piece of work, that. It
had taken the Russian two hours to find the hidden doorway, though he had
suspected such a thing in the construction. The castle, although scaled
down, was definitely authentic in detail.  

 He walked upstairs, thinking about the last of the allied group. It was
time to prepare. Tonight would be the final act of retribution. One way or
another, tonight was the final act in this play.      33. 

 Ray was just coming out of the CPD station when Shepherd and Davis pulled
up in a Navy car.  

 "What's wrong with this picture?" Ray asked.  

 "Don't knock it," said Shepherd, "the Army would've given us an open
jeep. Did you have any luck with Welsh?"  

 "Yeah, if I'm not deaf in my left ear for the next six months from Welsh
screaming in it. He bitched so much to the Commissioner's office, that
they ordered Captain Johnstone in the Uniform Division to send people over
to the church to check on it."	

 "Good. What about the Mounties?"  

 "Yeah, I even got up enough backbone to talk to Thatcher. Jesus, I didn't
believe it. She actually thanked me for my concern and said she was
sending Mounties over to the Hyatt for guard duty, so she wouldn't be
needing our people as guards."	

 "So what are you going to do now?" Asked Jim.	

 "I figured I'd go see how Benny was doing."  

 "Good. You can fill him in on what's going on. Give you a chance to take
over those danish."  

 "Are you kidding? Welsh must have a nose like an Aardvark. Those poor
danish never had a chance. I didn't even find the waxed paper. For all I
know, Welsh may have eaten that, too. I pity the poor dentist that has to
work in his mouth any time soon. They'll be calling the poor guy 'Lefty'."
 

 Shepherd laughed. "Bob and I are going over to the church, so we'll see
your uniformed people there. Here's the cell phone to contact us with.
Just hit 1 for me, or 2 for Bill and Woody at the Training Center."  

 "What's the matter, the Army can't spring for the new flip jobs that fit
in your pocket?"  

 "The scrambler circuitry isn't small enough to fit one yet, so we still
use these."  

 "I suppose you have your toy with you that you were telling me about?"
Ray asked.  

 "The XR-9? It's in the trunk. I hope we don't need it, Ray, but I don't
intend to fool with this guy. He's as dangerous as a wounded and cornered
tiger. He's got nowhere to go and nothing to lose. If it comes down to it,
and I see a shot, I'll take it. Stay in touch, will ya?"  

 "You got it, Jim. Good luck."	

 "You, too. Give my regards to Ben. See you later." He motioned to Davis,
and they drove off.  

 "Damn," Ray said. "Why do I get the feeling that the shit is about to hit
the world's biggest fan and I'm standing downwind from it?"  

 He shook his head and headed for his car.	34. 

 Margaret Thatcher looked at her watch. It was time for her to go and
check on the men she'd sent over to the Hyatt to stand guard on General
MacDougall. If something happened to the man while her people were
responsible for his safety, she'd face the wrath of the Consul General.
She was afraid he'd hold her solely responsible. God knows where she'd end
up posted. Perhaps she'd end up counting the white wolves on Ellesmere
Island or be posted to some equally distant wilderness. Compared to that,
even a long afternoon spent with Constable Renfield Turnbull, listening to
him expound his theory of why the paper clip should be named the greatest
invention of the 20th century, would be a relief.  

 She shuddered at the thought, as she slipped on her coat, and left the
building.      35. 

 Shepherd and Davis pulled up near the driveway of St. Francis Church to
see two police cars from CPD already on the scene.  

 Three officers were watching a fourth play a portable spotlight around
the windows and the towers of the former castle.  

 "Who's in charge here, gentlemen?" Shepherd asked.  

 "Who the fuck are you, Mack?" Asked a tall, skinny, shifty-looking
officer.  

 "Shepherd. Captain, U.S. Army."  

 "Big shit. Is that supposed to impress us?"  

 "Shut up, Jackson," said another officer, this one of medium height,
stocky-build, but at least a modicum of intelligence. "This guy could take
you apart without breaking a sweat."  

 Jackson started to say, "I don't think...."  

 "That's right, Jackson," interrupted the stocky officer, "you don't
think, which is a great relief to the population at large. Sir," he said
to Shepherd, "I'm Officer Medeiros. These others are Hemphill and
Bosworth, and you've also met Jackson. I have the seniority, so I guess
I'm in charge until they send a higher-ranking officer. I heard you were
coming, sir. What can you tell us?"  

 "We're looking for a Russian assassin who's on a vendetta mission against
certain military officers. We think he may be here in this church.
Possibly posing as a priest. There's supposed to be a Monsignor O'Reilly
here as well. He's the Pastor. Any sign of anyone?"  

 "Not so far, Captain. No sign of any cars, either."  

 "Our boy had to ditch one, but the Pastor's car is unaccounted for. A
black New Yorker according to records. Have you been around the grounds?" 


 "We can't get in there, Captain. There's some big sort of iron gate thing
that's been lowered and we can see through it, but we can't move it."  

 "A portcullis. Designed to keep medieval invaders out, but the castle
archers could shoot through the openings while other defenders on the wall
above could drop boiling oil on those trying to storm the castle. You'll
never lift it. A winch inside the walls controls it. It could be cut by a
good torch man, but it would take awhile."  

 "Unless someone is here, Captain, then I can't see much point in staying.
Not unless..."	

 "Hey," Officer Bosworth called, "I think I saw somebody in that
right-most window. Put the light on it, Gary."	

 Officer Gary Hemphill shone the spot on the window. "Somebody's moving in
there, Mark," he said to Medeiros.  

 Jackson stepped forward and yelled up at the window. "Hey, you up there.
This is the police. We want to talk to you, so get your ass down here!"  

 "He has such a personable way about him, doesn't he?" Shepherd asked
Medeiros.  

 "Yeah. Personally, I think his parents are brother and sister. If he
wasn't the watch commander's nephew, he wouldn't even be here. Howdy Doody
never had as many strings pulled for him as this kid has."  

 "Did you hear me up there, asshole?" Jackson screamed up at the window.  

 "Jackson, for Christ's sake," said Hemphill. "Take it easy."  

 "Fuck you, Gary. I'll get this guy down here. Watch." He drew his
revolver and waved it at the window. "Last chance, shithead. Come down
now, or we'll open fire!"  

 "Jackson! Put that weapon away!" Shouted Medeiros.  

 The tragedy was of Jackson's own making. "Okay, mother fucker. I warned
you." Completely forgetting he was standing in the backwash of the
spotlight, he fired a shot at the shadow in the window.  

 "Jackson! Goddamn it! Turn off that fucking light, Gary!" Screamed
Medeiros, too late.  

 The shadow shot back.	

 Shepherd heard the same heavy roar of the Makarov that he'd heard when
Ben had taken the bullet. Jackson dropped like a stone.  

 With the light now off, Shepherd approached Jackson's body. One look was
enough. The bullet had smashed into Jackson's forehead, just above the
left eye, and had exited through the back of the head, just to the left of
Jackson's right ear. The man had died instantly.  

 Shepherd shook his head. Petrovsky was here. It was going to be a long
night.	

 Mikhail Petrovsky looked at himself in the mirror, shaking his head.
Idiots, some of these police. The one who had fired the shot was insane.
Petrovsky had put him out of his misery as one would a mad dog. The
incident was good fortune in a way. They would send more police here,
assuming he was holed up in the castle, diverting attention from where he
was going. Perhaps the news would lull the guards around the Canadian into
relaxing their vigilance to some extent.  

 He finished dressing and looked at his final disguise in the mirror.
Excellent. The Chameleon shall once again blend into the background. He
turned and started down the stairs - heading for the subterranean
passageway and the night.      36. 

 Ray Vecchio parked the 1971 Riviera in front of Fraser's apartment
building. He was just getting out of the car, when Fraser walked out of
the building. He spotted Ray and said, "Ray. I was just coming to find
you."  

 "Benny, what the hell are you doing up? I thought the doctor told you to
get plenty of bed rest and not overdo it?"  

 "Yes, he did, Ray, but I feel much better. Besides, I have the feeling
that something may happen tonight and I'd be shirking my duty if I didn't
at least see if I was needed."	

 "Shit. Plenty's already happened." He told Ben about the two marines
killed earlier in the day.  

 "I just found that out," said Ben. "I called to see if the Inspector
needed anything, and Constable Turnbull gave me that news. That leaves
General MacDougall as the last target, and Inspector Thatcher has gone
over to his hotel to personally oversee security. I think she's afraid for
her job, Ray."	

 "Ain't we all?" Asked Ray. "She doesn't have any right to be any more
paranoid than the rest of us about it."  

 "Nevertheless, Ray, I think I should go to the Hyatt and offer my
assistance in some way."  

 "Okay, Benny. Think of me as the genie in the lamp. Your wish is my
command. Let's go. Shit, it's the Hyatt, isn't it? Traffic over there's
gonna be a bitch. We better go the long way around -- at this time of
night, it'll actually get us there sooner."  

 The two men got into Ray's car and headed for the hotel.      37. 

 The hotel manager was reprimanding the desk clerk for eating food on
duty, when a shadow fell across the counter. He turned to the man in
uniform and said, "May I help you, sir?"  

 "Yes. I've been called in to relieve one of the security men around
General MacDougall. I was told you could direct me?"  

 "Certainly, Officer...."  

 "Gray. And it's Constable."  

 "Certainly, Constable Gray. We've put them on the 16th floor. Room 1601.
Take the elevator around the corner and turn left when you get out. It's
the last room on the left, near the stairs."  

 "Thank you." He turned and headed for the elevators.  

 "Nice looking man," said the desk clerk.  

 "We're not discussing him, Susan," said the manager, "we were discussing
the rule of no eating food - including candy bars - on duty."  * * * 

 Petrovsky got off the elevator on the 15th floor, and proceeded to the
stairway. He slowly looked up and down the staircase as he stepped out on
the 15th floor landing. He then slowly walked up the stairs to the 16th
floor landing, smiling at the guard standing next to the access door.  

 "How's it been going? Quiet?"	

 "So far," said the guard. "I haven't seen you before, have I?"  

 "No," said Petrovsky, still climbing to the landing. "Gray. I just got in
from Ottawa, and they thought one of you guys could use a relief for
awhile, so they sent me over." He stepped onto the landing.  

 "Which one of us?" Asked the guard.  

 "Doesn't much matter, I guess. One now, and one later, I figure. Hey, is
that paint on your jacket? You know how the Inspector is." He reached to
point towards the man's left shoulder.	

 "Shit, that's all I need tonight. Where...?"  

 Petrovsky fired a burst of mace into the guard's face from the small
sprayer concealed in his left hand. The man clutched at his face as the
burning liquid hit his eyes. Petrovsky then doubled the man over by
hitting him in the stomach, and slugged him at the base of the skull with
the butt of the Makarov. The guard went down like a felled tree.  

 The Russian hoped that taking the guard outside the door of Room 1601
would be as easy. He'd just as soon leave the man alive if possible. The
only killings he could justify were those called for by his vendetta and
those in self-defense if absolutely necessary. Unnecessary deaths were
unprofessional. He hoped the same ploy would work with the other guard.  

 He opened the door and stepped into the hall, pretended to wave to the
unconscious guard on the stairs, and said, "Okay, I'll relieve this guy
first and you later, if that's the way you want it. See you later."
Letting the door close, he turned toward the guard near the room door and
said, "He's a generous guy, huh? I'm here to relieve one or the other of
you guys so you can have a break, and he says for you to go first. Pretty
nice of him, isn't it?"  

 "Yeah, it is, Constable...?"  

 "Gray. So if you want, go ahead and take an hour, then come back and then
I can relieve him for an hour," the Russian said, motioning his head
toward the stairs. He frowned and reached toward the guard's shoulder.
"What the hell's this on your jacket? Looks like a stain."  

 "Damn. Where...?"  

 Another blast of the sprayer and the man groaned in agony, reaching for
his eyes. Petrovsky put him down the same way, but the scuffle had been
heard in the room. Inspector Margaret Thatcher swung open the door. When
she saw the strange Mountie standing over the guard, she started to draw
her sidearm.  

 "Don't!" Shouted Petrovsky, bringing the Makarov to bear.  

 Thatcher took no heed of the warning and cleared the weapon from her
holster.  

 The Russian aimed and fired, the bullet hitting Thatcher's forearm -- the
impact sending her gun flying from her hand, and spinning her around in
agony. Petrovsky placed his left arm around her neck, with his left thumb
in the hollow of her throat and the muzzle of the Makarov pressed into her
right side. "I didn't want to do that, woman, but you forced me. The fault
is yours if you bleed to death." He hadn't wanted gunplay in the hall.
When the guards had been disposed of, he had intended to attach the
silencer before shooting MacDougall. The damned gunshot had echoed through
the hall, and now one of these people was bound to call the desk for the
police.  

 "General MacDougall," he called. "Please do us the honor of coming out
where I can see you. Have the dignity not to hide behind the skirts of
this courageous, but foolish woman."  

 The General stepped out into view. "Why are you doing this?"  

 Petrovsky turned the pistol towards the older man. "General, you and the
others all received communiqués about my grievances with each one of you.
You all chose to dismiss me as a crackpot. Now you know I am deadly
serious. Each one of you is responsible for taking the life of my beloved
wife. I now repay you by taking yours. Goodbye, General." The Makarov's
blast was deafening in the confined space. The impact of the bullet
knocked the General straight back and onto the floor.  * * * 

 The elevator carrying Benton Fraser and Ray Vecchio was just settling
into place at the 16th floor when they heard the sound of a gunshot. As
the doors opened, Fraser jumped out into the hall, reaching for his
sidearm.  

 "Benny," Ray cried, "don't...." But it was too late to stop the Mountie. 


 Petrovsky stepped into the hall, still holding Thatcher in front of him.
His gun was already pointing at Fraser. "Don't do it, Constable," said the
Russian. "I'll kill you this time, if you force me to. Just drop the
weapon and step this way, please."  

 Fraser did as he was told. "Are you all right, sir?" He asked the
Inspector.  

 "I'm shot and I'm bleeding. Does that sound like I'm all right, Fraser?" 


 "You're still talking, sir. It could be worse."  

 "Yes, you're right," admitted Thatcher. "Thank you for your concern. Our
friend here could have killed me, but hasn't...yet."  

 "That's enough talk for now, you two. Now, move with me. We're going to
the roof. I have no intention of being trapped in this room. Carefully
now."  

 He backed up with Thatcher towards the stairway door, motioning Fraser
past him. "Up, Constable. To the roof."      38. 

 Ray had heard the Russian mention the roof. He pulled Shepherd's cell
phone from his jacket pocket, hit the 1 and put the phone to his ear.
Shit. Nothing but buzzing. Damned elevator shaft. Between the metal walls
of the elevator, the concrete block walls of the shaft and all the
electrical conduits running up and down all the elevator shafts, the
signal probably wasn't getting out. He'd have to wait until he hit the
lobby.	

 Christ, one of these days Fraser is going to wind up dead. Ray had heard
the old expression, Look before you leap, since he was a small child.
Either Ben had never heard the expression, or else had just learned to
ignore it.  

 It seemed like an eternity, but the car finally reached the lobby and the
doors opened. Ray hit the 1 on the cell phone again, as he ran through the
lobby to the street.  

 "Shepherd," he heard at the other end.  

 "Jim, it's Ray. Your rambling Russian is here in the hotel."  

 "What! He can't be. The cops have him bottled up in the church. He killed
a cop here."  

 "Well, I'm telling you he's here. He's shot that General MacWhatshisface,
and he's taken Benny and Thatcher to the roof."  

 "Shit," said Shepherd. "What's the matter with me? This is an authentic
castle. I'll bet there's a secret way out of there we know nothing about.
He's been counting on us to waste time here." He beckoned to Davis.  

 "So what do we do?" Asked Ray. "The SWAT team can't do much in this
instance. It would take a human fly to climb the outside of this hotel,
and the police chopper can't get near it either. It's too damned windy."  

 "I guess that drops the hot potato in my lap, then. Listen, I need you to
go up the roof stairs and keep him talking if possible. Don't let him see
you, just let him know you're there and that you're not going anyplace."
Davis joined him and they headed for the car. "Ray, what's the closest
building to you that's higher than the hotel roof?"  

 "The Carstairs Office Tower on Lexington. It's thirty floors."  

 Davis started the car and headed out.	

 "How tall is the hotel?" Jim asked.  

 "The 16th floor, where the General was, is the top floor."  

 "Okay, that means there's a utility floor above that with the air
conditioning system and the water tanks that keep the building water
pressure at a normal level, and then the roof above that. Eighteen
stories. How far from there is the office tower?"  

 "About five city blocks or so. I'd say a good half mile."  

 "It'll have to do," said Shepherd. "Do me a favor. Get a hold of the head
of Carstairs' security. I'm going to need someone with keys to everything.
Let them know we're coming. I don't want to have to recite the Gettysburg
Address to get in."  

 "You got it. Good luck, Jim."	

 "You, too, Ray. You, too."  * * * 

 It took ten minutes of Davis' maniacal driving to get to the office
building. The two men jumped out and popped the trunk. Shepherd grabbed
the XR-9 and Davis grabbed the heavy molded case. A large man in a uniform
met them at the front door.  

 "One of you guys Shepherd?"  

 "I am."  

 "I'm Ron Forbes, the Security Chief. CPD said you were coming. Something
about a gunman?"  

 "An assassin, Chief. On the roof of the Hyatt. I'm going to take a crack
at him from here. I wish there was a better way."  

 "Call me Ron. So you need roof access, then?"	

 "No. This roof is too high for a shot at a target on an eighteen-story
roof. I need something on the Hyatt side of the building, somewhere on the
20th or 21st floors with a opening or removable window, if possible."  

 "There's a suite being renovated on the 21st floor. A new tenant is
moving in about ten days from now."  

 "Sounds like what we need. Let's see it. Hopefully the angle will be
right." The security chief led them towards the elevator. "That looks like
some gun," he said.  

 "It is, but you never saw it," said Shepherd. "What about the windows?"  

 "I won't know until we go in. What if they don't open?"  

 "I need a hole to shoot through. We can cut a hole if necessary."  

 "Gee, I don't know...."  

 "Look, Ron," said Jim, "we don't have time to get the okay's from the
world on this. If anything gets damaged, it'll be paid for. Trust me."	

 "Okay, it's your call," said Ron.  

 The three men entered the elevator and headed for the 21st floor.     
39. 

 Ray moved slowly up the utility stairs past the locked utility room
doorway, then looked up the roof access stairway. The door was ajar; it
looked like the lock had been shot out, so now it wouldn't close. He
waited a few minutes until his eyes became accustomed to the dim light in
the stairway. He drew the 9mm out of its holster, and moved up a couple of
steps very slowly. He suddenly heard distant voices.  

 "Ow! Damn it, Fraser, that hurt!"  

 Ray smiled. How bad could her majesty be hurt if she was bitching in her
usual fashion?	

 "We have to make the bandage as tight as possible, sir. Otherwise, it
won't do much to staunch the bleeding. It should work. There's no bright
blood, so I don't believe the artery was affected."  

 Good old Benny.  

 "Ow! Goddamn it!"  

 Some things never change.  

 "Strange, isn't it?" Asked a voice Ray didn't know. It continued, "How
healing seems to require pain, and yet healing wouldn't be necessary if
one wasn't hurt in the first place?"  

 Obviously the voice belonged to the Russian, and he didn't sound anywhere
close to the roof door. Ray moved slowly up two more stairs. Now he could
see a faint light through the gap where the door was sprung open. Ray
decided to stay where he was, as he was still slightly below the doorsill.
If the Russian shot through the door, the chances of Ray getting hit were
relatively low. Now what the hell was this guy's name? Peter something?
Petravich? Petrovsky! That was it. He called loudly, "Petrovsky. Can you
hear me?"  

 "I hear you," said the Russian. "Who are you?"  

 "This is Detective Ray Vecchio of the Chicago Police Department."  

 "Ah. Welcome aboard. The second of the three musketeers arrives. Aramis,
first, in the person of Constable Fraser, and now Porthos arrives. That
just leaves our Athos, who would be personified by Captain Shepherd. He is
not with you? A shame. I wonder where he could be?"  

 "So do I," muttered Ray.      40.   "There's a bridge over the water.
 I can see it like a rainbow.
 If you love me I'll be waiting.
 Take me home to the other side."
 
  Joe Cocker's
 "Take Me Home"
 S. Kipner / J. Capek / M. Jordan    

 Bob Davis finished cutting the large circle in the glass while Shepherd
made his preparations for the shot. The angle of fire was better than
expected.  

 "Almost done, Bob? We need to check the wind velocity."  

 "It's just about through, Shep. Ron, tap that side, will you?"  

 The security chief lightly tapped the plate glass with a soft rubber
mallet. Davis had his left hand on the suction cup handle and moved it
just enough for the men to hear the scritch as the circular piece pulled
away from the main plate, leaving a nice circular hole, two feet in
diameter.  

 "Good," Shepherd said. "Now get me the wind reading."	

 Davis took a glass tube wind gauge out of the case and held it in the
wind to get a reading. "It's varying between twenty-five and thirty-five
mph, Shep. Gusts are higher. I'd say over fifty." He put the wind
instrument away and picked up the night-vision binoculars.  

 "This damned building's design causes a strange airflow around it," said
Jim. "I'm surprised the windows stay put."  

 "They don't always," said Ron. "Once in a while one of them gets sucked
out of the frame and shatters on the street. The insurance company hates
this building."  

 "The old John Hancock building in Boston was worse than this." He reset
the starlight scope to compensate for the wind. He checked the
calculations again with the calculator. Gusty conditions were tricky --
you had to average too many variables.	

 He made his ammo decision. The shot had to be effective the first time.
He took one of the exploding tip cartridges, inserted it into the rifle,
and slid the bolt closed and locked it. He got down into a prone position
and made some minor shifts in that position until he felt locked in, but
comfortable. He slowly moved the rifle and tried to center the scope on
Petrovsky. The man was currently walking about that section of the roof.
The Thatcher woman and Ben were along the edge of the roof nearest
Shepherd and as Petrovsky moved back and forth, it occasionally put one of
the hostages between the Russian and Shepherd's rifle.	

 "Shit. Move back over to the right, Misha," said Jim.	

 "His mouth's moving, Shep," said Davis. "Who's he talking to?"  

 "I'll bet I can guess," said Shepherd. "The CPD's resident wiseass."  * *
* 

 "You're wasting your time, Detective," Petrovsky called out. "I'm not
going to give myself up and spend the rest of my life rotting in an
asylum. The military would probably give me the death penalty. However, I
have no desire to be choked to death by cyanide gas, or electrocuted.
Their laws no longer allow the single shot through the back of the head. A
shame. It was quick."  

 "Maybe," yelled Ray, "but all the branches will be fighting over you. You
could be a permanent guest in Leavenworth for years. Think about it,
Petrovsky. Shepherd says you can't go home again."  

 "What does he know for certain?"  

 "His boss in Washington talked to the Russian ambassador. The Russians
aren't happy with your vendetta. They don't think they can trust you any
more, and you know what that means."  

 The Russian was silent for a minute. "Yes," he finally said. "I know too
well."	

 He looked past the woman and the tall Mountie. If I were Shepherd, where
would I be? He smiled, and slid the action of the pistol open and cleared
the chamber of the loaded cartridge. He suddenly snarled and ran over and
jammed the gun into the Mountie's chest.  * * * 

 "Shit, Shep. His mind must have snapped," said Davis, watching through
the night-vision binoculars. "He's acting crazy."  

 Shepherd was able to line up a shot as the Russian was standing still. He
took a breath and let half of it out as the instructors always emphasized.
He put his finger on the trigger, and put a slight pressure on it. The
damned shot was going to be closer to the Mountie than he hoped. All he
could do was hope that Ben didn't move.  * * * 

 Ben was surprised at the change in the Russian's behavior. He didn't dare
move as the gun was right against his chest. He also knew that there was a
better than average chance that Shepherd was looking through a sight at
them and didn't want to risk getting hit by the shot.  

 "They'll kill me if I go home, Ben, and I'll be imprisoned or executed if
I'm apprehended here. I've done what I came to do. It's time to join my
Sharra, but I can't do it myself. Someone must do it for me. Another
professional." He looked over Ben's right shoulder and whispered, "Take
your shot, James."  * * * 

 Shepherd squeezed the trigger slowly, until the weapon fired.	* * * 

 Ben heard the bullet zip past his right ear like the buzz of an angry
hornet. It took Petrovsky through the right eye and the explosive tip
killed him instantly as the bullet fragments ripped through the brain
tissue. His head snapped back from the impact and his body collapsed on
the rooftop.  

 "Ray!" Ben called. "It's over, you can come up. If you have your phone,
could you call an ambulance?"  

 Ray bounded up the steps. He saw the body slumped on the tar, then looked
toward the Carstairs building and waved.  

 As he was flipping open his phone to make the call, Ben said, "Ray?"  

 "Yeah, Benny?"  

 "Petrovsky knew."  

 "Knew what?"  

 "He knew Jim was up there. He set himself up for the shot."  

 Ray stared at him. "Jesus," he said, shaking his head. Then he dialed
911.  * * * 

 Shepherd sat up after making his shot and looked at Bob Davis. "He knew,
Bob. Petrovsky knew."  

 "You mean he let it happen? How can you be sure?"  

 "He looked almost directly at me as I was pulling the trigger. I think I
saw his mouth form the word, 'James'."	

 "Holy Christ, why?"  

 "His vendetta was ended, but he couldn't go home, and he couldn't stay
here. What choice did he have? Where the hell could he go? The killing was
out of his system. I don't think he had it in him to kill anyone else,
including taking his own life. He wanted to go where he could be with his
wife. In a way, he set up this shot as much as I did."	

 "How the hell could he know it would be you? There's no way he could get
that information. Hell, only the people in our group know what you can do.
Even the rest of the army doesn't."  

 "I don't know, Bob. I just don't know."  

 They packed up their equipment in silence.	 41. 

 The inquiry went on for more than a week - eventually turning into a
multi-national conclave. As the Canadian government was involved, they
offered the Consulate as a meeting place. Attending were the Canadian
Consul General; the Canadian Deputy Defense Minister; the Regional
Director of the FBI; a member of the U.S. state department; the Assistant
Commissioner of Police for the City of Chicago; Lt. Harding Welsh of the
Detective Division, CPD; Col. Joseph Fitzsimmons, U.S. Army CID; Captain
James Shepherd, U.S. Army CID; Inspector Margaret Thatcher, RCMP;
Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP; Detective Raymond Vecchio, CPD; and in an
announcement that had originally shocked all but Thatcher, General Alan
MacDougall, Canadian Army.  

 It was revealed that the Inspector had brought one of the new lightweight
kevlar vests and insisted over the protests of MacDougall that he wear it
under his uniform shirt. The bullet had still almost penetrated the vest,
cracking the General's sternum and severely bruising the chest area. He
had also suffered a minor concussion from the impact of his head on the
hotel floor when the shot knocked him down. He sat next to his good friend
the Consul General and continually lavished praise on Inspector Thatcher
for her incredible foresight. It reached a point where Ray started getting
nauseous listening to it.  

 Shepherd, Ben, Ray, and Thatcher gave major testimony.  

 Additional testimony was heard from Lt. Welsh, and Officer Sharon
Cerullo, CPD; Commander Douglas Sherman, USN; Bishop Alexander Lowe, Roman
Catholic Diocese of Chicago; General MacDougall; and Col. Fitzsimmons
along with Sgt. Robert Davis, Cpl. William Edwards, Cpl. Arnold Woodford,
and Cpl. Sherry Michaels - all of the U.S. Army CID.  

 Some interesting information had been revealed in the course of the
inquiry. A random sweep by order of Col. Fitzsimmons had discovered the
tap in Sherry Michaels phone line and was traced to the office of Lt.
Victor Zelasko. Under intense interrogation, it was discovered that
Zelasko was in fact a KGB mole that had been passing CID information on to
not only Petrovsky, but also the KGB for months. Zelasko was currently
incarcerated in Leavenworth, Kansas. He would remain there until such time
as he could be exchanged for any U.S. or Canadian prisoner that might be
discovered to be in Russian hands.  

 On the final day of the conclave, one more testimony was heard. The
Russian ambassador from Washington, D.C. made a surprise appearance. He
wanted to reiterate that Russia had no affiliation with Petrovsky, and
that this vendetta was of a personal nature. He also wanted to apologize
to the two nations for the deaths of their people and hoped that this
would not affect the peace that the nations now enjoyed with each other.  

 Russia had recently created a new medal called the Medal of Peace. It was
given to those who had given their all to keep the peace and the freedom
that the Russian people now enjoyed a reality. He thought it fitting that
the Russian government had approved the awarding of four of these medals
to the four individuals who had put themselves in the line of fire to end
this catastrophe.  

 He was proud to award the medals to Captain James Shepherd, Constable
Benton Fraser, Detective Raymond Vecchio, and Inspector Margaret Thatcher.
     42.   "I beseech of Mary and Jesus
 That the great come home again
 With long dances danced in the garden,
 Fiddle music and mirth among men,
 That Kilcash the home of our fathers
 Be lifted on high again,
 And from that to the deluge of waters
 In bounty and peace remain."
 
  "Kilcash"
 Version: Frank O'Connor    

 His excellency, Bishop Alexander Lowe, conducted the 11:00 AM funeral
service at the Church of St. Francis of Assisi for Monsignor Thomas
O'Reilly. Many parishioners remarked afterwards that they had never known
the normally reserved Bishop to show any emotion, yet there had been
Bishop Lowe, voice shaking, and tears streaming down his face, reciting
the ritual mass for his old friend.  

 The highlight of the service was the Bishop's tale of O'Reilly's past in
Ireland, and his decision to enter the priesthood in order to help
alleviate the sufferings of others, hoping for expiation of his own sins.
He told the parishioners of how O'Reilly had died, valiantly trying to
prevent the deaths of others. His quoting from the book of John, "Greater
love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends,"
filled their hearts with pride for their Pastor.  

 St. Francis Cemetery was on the opposite side of the parish. The
procession reached the burial plot at approximately 12:15 PM., and about
200 people gathered for the committal service.	

 Attending the service, though standing slightly apart from the
parishioners, was a foursome consisting of a gentleman in an Armani suit,
another in the dress uniform of a U.S. Army Captain, a third in the dress
uniform of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and next to the Mountie, a
large white wolf.     43. 

 "All right, where the hell is he?" Sharon Cerullo asked Shepherd. "You
said he'd be here."  

 "He will be, Sharon," said Shepherd. "Trust me. Hey, this is quite the
place."  

 "Yeah. It's early yet. This place will really wind up in about an hour or
so."  

 In just a month-and-a-half, The Best Of The West had become the most
popular club in the area. Whether it was just the novelty of
country/western dancing, the audio/video system playing Country Music
Television in surround sound, the real Texas atmosphere, the mechanical
bull, or just a chance to kick up one's heels in jeans and cowboy boots -
no one was sure.  

 Sharon looked at Shepherd. "Are you sure he's coming?"  

 "I'm sure. I helped him pick out an outfit. After spending that amount of
money, he'll be here."	

 "Hi, Jim."  

 "Elaine...hi," said Shepherd. "I didn't know you'd be here."  

 "It's the first chance I've had to check it out. Anyway, are you kidding?
I wouldn't miss the chance to see Ray dressed like a good ol' boy. You
look pretty authentic. Is Ray gonna look half as good?"  

 "Yeah. That's why I helped him pick out his stuff. I was afraid if I
didn't, he'd end up dressed like the rodeo clowns."  

 She laughed. "Hey, when do you ship out?"  

 "That's a naval expression, dear girl. I fly out tomorrow night."  

 "We're gonna miss you around here. You make sure you come back and see
us, y'hear?"  

 "I will," he laughed. "Are you picking up a Texas drawl?"  

 "Just in here. Hey! There's Ray...Omigod, look at him! Yeeehaa! Get in
here, cowboy!"	

 Ray walked in dressed in black and silver jeans, a black shirt with
silver buttons and red and white rhinestones on the shoulder and back
yokes, a black rodeo-creased Stetson with a silver concho hat band, a
silver and coral bolo tie, black leather belt with silver buckle and tip,
and silver-gray lizard hide cowboy boots.  

 "Wow!" Elaine yelled. "Look at you. You look great. How do you like it?" 


 "Okay," Ray said, "but I haven't gotten used to the boots. I feel like a
sailor just ashore, trying to get his land legs back. Hey, Jim. Thanks
again for helping me pick this stuff out."  

 "Glad to do it," he said. "Sharon wasn't sure you were coming. Where the
heck did she go? There she is. Hey, Sharon! Get over here!"  

 "Oh, my God," said Sharon. "Ray. You look fabulous! C'mon. They're just
starting an intro line dancing class over there. Let's go. It'll be fun." 


 "Uh...okay, I guess." He looked at Shepherd and Elaine.  

 "Go on, Ray. You owe the girl - remember?" Asked Shepherd.  

 "Yeah. I have the feeling it's gonna take a long time to pay off that
debt." He walked off with Sharon.  

 "Jesus," said Elaine, watching the couple walk away. "He looks like a
steer going to the slaughterhouse."  

 "He'll warm up," said Jim. "Hey, look who's here."  

 They both turned to see Ben Fraser and Margaret Thatcher come in.  

 "Hi," said Elaine.  

 "Good evening, Ben, and good evening to you, Inspector," said Shepherd.  

 "Hello, Jim...Elaine," said Fraser.  

 "Good evening," said Thatcher. "Captain, I understand that you're leaving
us tomorrow."  

 "That's right, Inspector, I fly out tomorrow night."  

 "Well," she said, "I realized with everything that's happened this past
week with the inquiry and all, that I never thanked you for what you did
when Fraser and I were on that rooftop. I want to apologize for that.
Please accept my thanks."  

 "Gladly. And I'm glad there was no permanent damage to the arm. Are you
staying? Can we get you something?"  

 "I'll stay for awhile. When Fraser told me that Detective Vecchio was
going to be coming here, I had to see it for myself. I always assumed the
man even slept in those Armani suits."	

 "You might not recognize him, Inspector."  

 "We'll see. Fraser, I'll get a table."  

 "Fine, sir," said Ben. Thatcher moved off to find a table. Elaine made a
face.  

 Shepherd had to laugh. "She seems in a pretty good mood," he said.  

 "She is. We both just received meritorious awards from the government for
heroism. It will look good in the Inspector's record."	

 "Good for you both. God, you two look like bookends wearing those slings
on opposite arms. Aren't you a little over dressed for this place?"  

 "Well, I am wearing a Stetson, though not the correct style for in here,
I expect."  

 "True, but I mean the dress reds. Aren't you off duty?"  

 "Yes, but I always dress up when I go out for an evening."  

 "Ben, in here you could wear your flannel shirts and those hunting twills
with suspenders and nobody would care."  

 "Really. I'll remember that. I better go see to the Inspector."  

 "Okay, we'll see you in a few minutes."  

 Ben smiled and went over to where Thatcher was seated.  

 "How about it, Elaine?" Shepherd asked. "Shall we try out the line?"  

 "Let's," she said, smiling.  

 They headed for the dance floor.     44.   "Who can say what might have
been.
 We gotta play out the hand we're given.
 Take a ride to the place we're driven.
 Any way the wind blows.
 And we can't see around the bend,
 We never know where the road might end.
 We just go any way the wind blows."
 
  "Any Way The Wind Blows"    

 "Did you enjoy your stay, Captain? And were your accommodations
satisfactory?"	

 "Everything was fine, Mr. Cavanaugh. You have a nice hotel here. Not the
glitz of the big boys, but I'm not into that anyway. Your place is
comfortable. Next time I'm going to be in town, I'll call you first."  

 "Thank you, Captain. And call me Charles. We're all like a family in this
hotel."  

 "That you are, Charles," said Shepherd.  

 "I have something that was left for you some days ago, Captain. I was
asked to give you this only when you checked out." He set a box on the
counter, and an envelope addressed to Shepherd. The box looked like it
contained a quart bottle of some sort of liquor.  

 "Thank you, Charles. I'll wait over here for my ride."  

 "Very good, sir. Please come again."  

 "You can bet on it. Thank you." Shepherd sat down in a chair in the large
foyer.	

 He opened the envelope and removed a letter written in a fine hand. By
the time he'd finished reading the letter, he was shaking his head.  

 "Well, I'll be damned," he said.  * * * 

 Ray pulled up into an airport parking space labeled Authorized Vehicles
Only and tossed his Official Police Vehicle sign on the dashboard. He got
out of the car along with Ben, Dief, Shepherd, and Elaine.  

 Jim checked his larger bag in and picked up his boarding pass. He carried
the smaller flight bag. They flashed their ID's at the security guards and
passed the security checkpoints. At the gate boarding area, he checked in
with the boarding clerk. She gave him his seat assignment, and told him
that the flight would begin boarding in about five minutes.  

 He walked back over to his four friends. "Boarding in about five
minutes."  

 "If you ever want to leave that stupid army for a real job," said Ray,
shaking hands, "let me know. I think even Welsh would welcome you."  

 "Thanks, Ray. I appreciate it." He turned to Ben. "Watch this guy, Ben." 


 "I try," said the Mountie. "Take care and keep in touch." They shook
hands.	

 "I will," said Jim. He squatted down in front of Dief and ruffled the fur
on the wolf's head. "You keep an eye on both these guys, Dief." The wolf
gave Shepherd his paw. Jim shook it and stood up and turned towards
Elaine.  

 "Next time you're in town...." said Elaine. She threw her arms around his
neck and kissed him.  

 "You'll all hear from me when that happens," he said.	

 Ray grinned at Ben. "They danced almost non-stop until they threw us all
out last night. You should have stayed longer, Benny."	

 "The Inspector's arm started to bother her."  

 "I figured it was something like that."  

 Shepherd set his flight bag on a chair and unzipped one panel. He
motioned them all over.  

 "This was left for me days ago and was only to be given to me when I
checked out." He took the bottle and the letter out of the bag. "It's
quite a letter. Explains a couple of things. We've all realized by now
that Petrovsky wasn't a madman, just a determined one. We also know that
he knew what I was going to do. He let it happen. He even took the bullet
out of the chamber of his gun so that he wouldn't accidentally shoot Ben
when I hit him. I only wish I could have spoken to him sooner or helped
him. Here. Read it for yourselves."  

 Ben took the letter and held it so he, Ray, and Elaine could read it.	

  Dear James,  

  If you have received this note and the gift that accompanies it, then I
am probably dead.  

  I beg your forgiveness, James, for my recent attempt on your life. My
memory never associated Captain James Shepherd, USA, with the Jim Shepherd
who saved my half-brother Josef Krasteva from drowning in that diving
accident in the North Sea. Josef had spoken to me of your shooting prowess
and that you were at least my equal or better. I thought that perhaps such
admiration was out of gratitude. It was only when you demonstrated your
shooting abilities to me personally a few nights ago that I realized whom
you must be. I always did have to learn a lesson the hard way. I regret to
inform you that Josef died of complications due to pneumonia a year and a
half ago.  

  Please express my remorse to the authorities for the death of Monsignor
O'Reilly. I never intended to kill him - I liked the man. He had turned
from taking lives to saving them. The warring factions on this earth
should adopt such ideals. Father O'Reilly must have been a formidable man
in his IRA days. He caught me by surprise and I was forced to shoot him.
If he had gotten the gun, he would have killed me - I could see what must
have been the old anger in his face.  

  My vendetta was against only those who ordered the attack that took the
life of my wife, Sharra. I wish you could have known her, James. As your
American expression says - she was one in a million. If you had only known
her, you'd understand what I felt I had to do. I do not apologize for my
vendetta. Given the same circumstances, I would have done the same. Only
the innocents who were hurt do I apologize for.  

  I heard your friend Ben Fraser of the RCMP was not permanently damaged.
Please express my apologies to him for causing his injury. He is a good
man. Also, please give my apologies to Ray Vecchio, the detective whom I
attempted to run down. That was due to my anger and frustration. We
hot-blooded Russians as you Americans call us.	

  I had adopted an IRA motto when I started this vendetta. For them it
signifies what they feel they owe the British for their oppression. For me
it signified the debt I owed the people who I felt were responsible for
Sharra's death. There is a third way of looking at the motto -- that of
settling a long unpaid debt of gratitude for a friend's selfless act of
heroism.  

  The motto is on the label of the bottle you have received with this
note. Please believe that it is a motto I truly follow in your case. Thank
you for my brother's life. We have never forgotten. I humbly repay my debt
to you.  

  Goodbye my friend, and thank you.   

  Misha   
 

 "Jesus," said Ray.  

 "That was written and delivered to my hotel before that final night,"
said Shepherd.	

 "Can we see the bottle, Jim?" Asked Ben.  

 Shepherd unwrapped the bottle and held it so they could all read the
label.	

 Ray said, "Hey, that's good whiskey. Where's this motto?"  

 Jim turned the bottle around until the motto was in view.  

 Each of them read the motto in silence.  

  Let each man be paid in full.      End
 The Chameleon
 Randy Govey
 February 15, 1997  
      The Chameleon 

  -Randy Govey	 Statement of Disclaimer  and Copyright © Notice     

 This work of fiction is based on characters of the television series Due
South, whose copyright is held by the creators thereof in the care of
Alliance Communications.  

 All lyrical references are the property of the artists cited and their
various publishing houses.    

 The author of "The Chameleon" recognized no material profit from the
production and/or distribution of this work, which is intended for the
purpose of entertainment only in all good faith against infringement of
existing copyrights. The events and ideas herein, other than those of the
aforementioned creators, remain the sole ownership and copyright of this
author. Any reproduction of this work, either in part or in its entirety,
is governed only by the following conditions:	   Reproduction in part
must contain credit to the appropriate creators (including Alliance and
this author).	   Reproduction in its entirety must contain this
Statement of Disclaimer and Copyright Notice.	  Thank you kindly, 

 -Randy   February 15, 1997  Randy Govey  rango@juno.com   

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