Free Tool of the Trade by Joe Haldeman Page A

identified Foley as being my section’s responsibility, somebody ran back the tapes of the phone tap and their apartment bugs. Silence for the past day and a half. The afternoon of the sixteenth, though, we could hear the apartmentbeing broken into. The “burglars” said nothing; just waited in place until Mrs. Foley came home. There was a brief struggle; they evidently tied her up and gagged her. That night, Foley called, and one of them answered the phone with “We have your wife,” in Russian. Foley hung up and has not called since. The two agents evidently kidnapped Mrs. Foley.
    Which is remarkable. The KGB rarely indulges in serious crime outside of Communist countries. They must be as scared as we are over Foley. But more efficient: From the time the videotape was turned over to the Soviet embassy in Paris to the apartment break-in, slightly more than four hours elapsed.
    My obvious first move was to pay a visit to Vladimir Borachev, Foley’s ultimate superior here, and ask whether he had committed any capital crimes lately. I was on my way out the door when I literally ran into David Jefferson.
    He was a formidable-looking man, a black Charles Atlas. Handsome features modified by a webbed scar that ran from cheekbone to ear. He asked if I was John Jacob Bailey and handed me an envelope.
    The letter inside informed me that Jefferson had been “attached” to my section for an indefinite period. The verb was to become too literally true.
    “You’re a Marine sergeant major?”
    “That is correct, sir.” He had a voice like a bass buzz saw.
    “And this one hundred ninety-ninth Brigade is…”
    “Special antiterrorism unit, sir.”
    “Please don’t call me ‘sir.’ We aren’t being hijacked or held hostage. Why were you attached to us?”
    “The kidnapping, Mr. Bailey. The murders in France.”
    “You’ve been well briefed, then.”
    “Not that well, actually. The fact of the crimes; the KGB connection.”
    “Well, have George get you the folder, George Simpson. When he gets back from lunch. I have a shuttle to catch.”
    “I’m coming with you.”
    “Not necessary. In fact, you’d be in the way. Unless you speak Russian.”
    “—I’m reasonably fluent,” he said in Russian, with an odd accent that might have been Vietnamese. “Also Spanish and a bit of a few other languages. But that’s immaterial at the moment. I’m to accompany you everywhere, regardless.”
    “Bodyguard?”
    “Yes, but more than that. A plain bodyguard wouldn’t be enough. What they say about this Foley, he might be the most dangerous man alive, and you’re his most logical next victim.”
    “Nonsense. If he wanted to do me in, he could have done it in Paris.”
    “That may be so. Nevertheless, I have my orders. As have you.” The letter was from Langley.
    “Oh, all right. Let’s go.” I barely had time to worry about how to handle the red tape—how to bill the Marines for his shuttle flight—when Jefferson solved the problem by suggesting that we “manifest ourselves on a special flight,” i.e., commandeer a military aircraft. I could see that he might sometimes be handy to have around.
    Sitting by ourselves in the back of a twenty-passenger turboprop, we got to know each other a little. Jefferson was a few years younger than I; started at West Point but dropped out to join the Marines, so he could make it to Vietnam before the war was over. He served fourteen months’ duty there and was nothappy when we pulled out. Later he was an “adviser” in El Salvador and, temporarily out of the Marines, did some wet work in Nicaragua. Wounded eleven times; the scar on his face was from a bayonet (he had taken the weapon away and “fed it” to its owner). He was obviously on amiable terms with mayhem, but was matter-of-fact about it. Unnervingly so.
    When he unbuttoned his Harris Tweed tent of a jacket, you could see he was actually a fraction smaller than he appeared, bulked out on the right by an Ingram