Resurrection Day

Prologue

The BOAC jet aircraft banked as it approached Boston. He was glad he had a window seat, for he wanted to get a good look at the city. As the aircraft closed in on the buildings and spires, he felt an illicit thrill.

Ten years, he thought.

A decade since he had last set foot in this country. If it hadn’t been for that opportune visit out to that American SAC airfield that October, he would have remained in this country. Forever. Cooked, crisped, the fused remains of his atoms mixing in eternally with the Washington Embassy building and the dozens of people on that doomed staff. He shivered and looked again at the old brick buildings and the narrow streets of Boston below him. Almost two hundred years ago a revolution began here. If everything went right on this brief trip, he would be helping a second revolution get underway.

If. A pretty big word for two small letters. The aircraft made a smooth enough landing. As he grabbed his overnight grip from the overhead compartment he was embarrassed at the quickening of his heart. He knew everything would be fine. The chaps back home were the best in the world, and besides, the passport he was carrying was accurate enough. It said JOHN SHEFFIELD, which was true. If it didn’t say GENERAL SIR JOHN SHEFFIELD (Ret.), OBE, CB, well, then, whose bloody business was it anyway?

He stood in queue for Customs. The room was crowded, the tile floor scuffed and dirty. Only a handful of passengers moved over to the line for American citizens re-entering the country. Few could afford to go overseas and there were even fewer countries where Americans felt welcome. The queue was moving now.

He handed over his passport to a paunchy-looking fellow, wearing the U.S. Customs uniform of black trousers, white shirt, necktie, and billed cap. As the Customs man gazed over his passport, again, that quickening of the heart. It would be all right, he knew, it would fine.

He wished he could forget that last conversation he had with that disturbing man in the Foreign Office. His contact seemed innocuous at first, gently puffing on a Dunhill: You do realize, General, that if anything goes bollocks up, we can’t possibly assist you? I do hate to say this, but you’re on your own. We’re eternally grateful for your assistance, of course, but we can’t be linked to your mission. Either officially or unofficially.

It had been a jolt, of course. No back up, even for a general. The Foreign Office man smiled slightly, patronizingly.

Fine enough, he had said, speaking quickly, before he changed his mind about going back to that awful place.

The Customs agent was eyeing him. His beard was day-old and his stubby fingers were ink-stained. His hat looked to be about one size too large.

Purpose of your trip?

Business, he said. He had practiced saying the word in front of a mirror.

What kind of business?

Textile, he said. The lie came easily to his lips. I’m here to visit your mill cities, up north. Lowell and Lawrence. I represent a concern that’s interested in purchasing some textile mills, put them back into business.

The Customs agent glared at him as he stamped the passport. He knew the look. Ambivalence, that was it. The Yanks had such odd attitudes about their cousins across the ocean -- gratitude for the help and aid they had received this past decade, from food to medicines to seeds, and hatred for everything attached to that aid: the scholarships, raiding the American schools for their very best students and sending them to Britain; the medical programs, helping just a fortunate few each year for the best in burn and cancer treatments back home; and the businessmen, like the one he was trying to portray. Coming in, year after year, to buy up the shattered industries and fallow earth of this wide and wounded nation, to make a tidy profit, of course, but to also slowly bind this former colony back to its former mother country.

The passport slid back across the greasy metal counter. Welcome to the United States, The agent’s voice was as cheerful as a gravedigger’s. He picked up the passport, noticed that the man’s uniform shirt was mended in three places.

Thanks, awfully, he said.

After being cooped up in the tiny aircraft seat, the brief walk through the crowded terminal was pleasurable. Outside the air was smoky with car and bus exhaust. He was fortunate, only having to wait two minutes or so for a white and orange taxicab at one of the stands outside of the terminal. He carried his hand luggage into the rear seat and said, The Sheraton, and the taxi driver -- a black man about his own age -- grunted and off they went.

The driver spoke not one word as they joined the other traffic out of the airport, and then went through a tunnel into Boston. That suited him fine. No prying eyes. When they emerged from the tunnel he looked out the grimy windows of the cab as the driver maneuvered along the narrow and twisting streets of Boston. He had expected the place to look old and tired, like Manchester back home, but what surprised him was the dreariness of it all, like everyone had just given up. Most of the cars were old and rusted out, the buses belched great clouds of diesel smoke, and many buildings looked like they had gone by for years without paint or repairs.

At the Sheraton he paid the fare and carefully added a ten percent tip, and made the brief walk into the hotel, and fifteen minutes later, he was in room, lying down on the bed with his clothes still on and his shoes off, fighting off exhaustion and jet lag. He thought he was going to fall right asleep but he wanted to do something first. He got up and went into the washroom, putting a cold compress at the back of his neck.

He looked up at the bathroom mirror, seeing the tired blue eyes, the collection of wrinkles from squinting into the sun for years and years while in the Army, the freckled and often sunburned top of his head, fringed by a faint crown of short white hair. He knew he looked his age but he was also proud that he was only a half stone over his enlistment weight, when he was just seventeen years old and entered the service of the King.

And such years of service, from the muddy fields of France to occupation duty in Germany, and then climbing up the long ladder, becoming more and more involved with the diplomatic side of things. Now, he was in service to a Queen, meeting an American he had not seen in a decade, an American who claimed to have a match that would light a fuse that would set off a new revolution in this shadow of a nation.

He washed out the compress, went back into the room, stood near the bed. Of course, the poor bastard was probably as crazy as a loon. He sat down on the faded bedspread for a moment, looking at the phone. Wendy. He could pick up the phone and get an overseas line, and in a matter of minutes, he could be talking to Wendy. The time difference was six hours. She’d be in bed -- no doubt with the telly in the corner droning on as she dozed -- but he knew his girl. She’d be happy to hear from him, despite her anger at him being in Boston.

He reached to the phone, stopped. No, it wouldn’t be smart. He had no idea who might be listening in from the hotel’s switchboard. He got up and put his coat back on. He’d get a quick meal in the hotel dining room before going to sleep. Besides, he had to concentrate on what was ahead of him. He couldn’t afford to be distracted by Wendy, as much as he dearly wanted to hear that voice one more time.

And the last time... They had been in the sunroom of their pleasant home in Harpenden when he had told her he was going overseas. She had to put her tea cup down her hand was shaking so hard. She had glared at him, her face a mixture of fear and dismay. Do tell me that you’re joking, John. Please.

I’m afraid not, love, he said, sitting down in the cushioned wicker chair. I’m told that it’s something quite important, something that only I can do.

You haven’t been on the active roll for three years! Surely they can send someone else.

He spoke firmly. He hadn’t used this steely tone since his retirement. They can’t. There’s... an American. Someone I knew when we were stationed in Washington. He will only talk to me, and me alone. That’s why I’m going.

Tears were slowly trembling down her cheeks. Her voice was now begging. I’ve been with you many a year, John Sheffield, with nary a complaint. You’ve been to Malaysia and Cyprus and Aden. I’ve been with you in Germany and Belgium and Washington and Melbourne. Not once have I ever said a word.

I know, Wendy. It’s meant everything to me. But he wouldn’t back down.

And you’re a silly old man, riding off again for Queen and Country, she said, raising her voice. You’ve done your duty, more than any man I know! And now they want to send you, a man on pension who has to get up to use the loo three times a night. They’re sending you on some silly James Bond mission to a country where they shoot college students and people still starve in the countryside. I forbid it.

Wendy, I’ve already told them I’ll go.

She folded her arms, stared out at her garden, her most favorite place in the world, and whispered the words again. I forbid it.

That morning she silently packed his overnight bag. The car to pick him up had been late and he went out to the garden, to her bent over form digging at something with a spade in the soil. He wanted to say so much but didn’t know where to begin. So he had left without a word.

Now he gave one last glance at the silent phone and left his room.

An hour later, he knew he had made a terrible mistake. He had a solitary and quite awful meal in the hotel’s dining room, some baked cod dish that was dried and tasteless, and an American beer that was flat and without any body. He remembered a joke he had heard once, from a subaltern. What do American beer and making love in a bloody canoe have in common? They’re both frigging close to water!

A good joke, but he wasn’t in a joking mood. After dinner he decided to take a quick walk outside to clear his head, and instead, he saw things that made him wish he had listened to Wendy and stayed home. He stepped out onto Boylston Street and joined some of the night crowd. There seemed to be a Boston cop or an Army MP on almost every street corner, and he tried to blend in with the crowd, though he knew it wouldn’t work, based on the way he was dressed.

The American men, he noted, for the most part wore dark and baggy clothes, and when they walked, their heads swiveled constantly, as if searching out hidden dangers among the shops and stores. The American women -- again, for the most part -- had thick legs and their clothes seemed hand-sewn or second-hand, and hardly anyone wore make-up.

At Exeter and Newbury Street, he turned left and stopped. A group of Boston police officers and Army MP’s were swarming out of a storefront door that had a FOR LEASE sign posted in its window. They had clipboards and wooden sawhorse barriers in their hands. He wasn’t sure was going on, but he knew he had seen enough. It was time to get back to his room. He turned and faced a man with a tired face in a suit, better cut than others he had seen, who had his palm up, holding a police badge. He glanced around and saw other men in suits, doing the same thing to about a half-dozen people who were walking away from the quickly erected barriers.

Not so fast, mister, he said. You got someplace you gotta go so quickly?

That I do, he said. I’m heading back to my hotel.

The man cocked his head. You’re a Brit, ain’t you?

I most certainly am, he said, reaching into his coat pocket. Here’s my passport.

The policeman quickly glanced through the small book and handed it back. So it is. Go right ahead to your hotel.

He put the passport back and said, What on earth is going on here?

The tired man shrugged. Residency check, that’s all. Make sure these citizens have permission to live in this fine city. You need permission to live and work in Boston and every other city in this country, and if you don’t, it’s back to the suburbs and countryside for you.

But they’re just trying to survive, aren’t they?

Yeah, but if everyone moved into a city, who’d be out there to grow crops and raise cattle and -- hey! You there! Hold on!

The policeman started running after a scared young man who was racing down an alleyway. Sheffield quickly made his way back to the Sheraton. He should have stayed home. This was an awful place. The only work here was for the young and fearless, and he was neither.

He leaned against the wall of the hotel’s lift, exhausted. Just twelve more hours, that’s all, he thought. Twelve more hours. A good night’s sleep and a bracing shower in the morning. Then there would be a quick meeting at some little pub in this city with that bloody American. After a quick pop over to the consulate, he’d be on an afternoon flight back home. If some young guttersnipe from the Foreign Office ever darkened his door again, he’d toss the bloke out on his arse.

Wait. Could this be his room? He stood there blinking in confusion as he went in. What the hell! There, in his bed, blanket and sheets just above her breasts, was an attractive young woman.

Johnny, she said. It’s about time you got back.

He went forward. He’d have this straightened out in a few minutes and then he’d get some sleep. It wasn’t a woman at all, but a young girl. Barely eighteen. Her hair was blonde and pulled back.

I’m sorry, young lady, but you have the wrong room.

She shook her head. Nope. You’re Johnny Sheffield, and you bought me for the night.

There was a noise behind him and he turned. Three men stepped out from the bathroom, wearing dark suits, white shirts and black ties, their faces utterly expressionless. The one in front, the one with a thick neck, was carrying a revolver. The other two were unsuccessfully hiding syringes and short pieces of rope behind them. He took a deep shuddering breath, felt his hands relax. So. This was where it was going to end. He looked back down at the girl, saw that her hands holding the blankets were trembling. Sitting gently down on the bed, he grasped one of her hands and said, M’dear, would you care to join me in a prayer?

She nodded frantically, and as he looked up at the three approaching men, he noted the phone by the bedside.

Damn it, he wished he had made that call.

Chapter One

The dead man lay on his face in his bed, the sheets and blankets pooled around his feet. The back of his head was a bloody mush. He had on a pair of baggy white shorts and his skinny legs were quite hairy. The apartment smelled of old clothes and dusty air and something else. Carl Landry finally recognized that third smell. It was the odor of a body, brutally violated, giving up its life. It was a smell that had intrigued him once. Then it had saddened him. Now, it was just something he was used to. Just part of the job.

Carl was a reporter with the Boston Globe and he stood at the dead man’s bedroom door, notebook in hand, carefully recording everything he could see, writing in a cramped style that had seen him through high school and the U.S. Army and four years of newspaper work.

Detective Paul Malone caught his eye and separated himself from the chattering group of cops. They were friends, sort of. As much as a cop and reporter can be. Malone was in his late forties, overweight and his tan coat flapping. There was a faint patch of gray stubble on his chin where he had missed shaving that morning, and his thick gray-black hair was combed to one side with some wet-looking goop.

C’mon, Carl, get out, will ya? he said, shooing him backward. "I let you see the stiff and that’s fine. Any more and when the Herald shows up, they’ll expect the same treatment, and we can’t have none of that. Turn this freakin’ place into a freakin’ circus, you will."

Carl smiled his best buddy smile and said, Come along, Paul. Chat with me for a second or two, will you? Deadline’s coming up and I want to phone this in. Make the morning edition.

"And beat the pants off the Herald, right?"

You got it.

Two steps and they were in the kitchen. A younger detective was dusting the countertops for fingerprints. There was a flash of light from the bedroom from the police photographer. The apartment was small and cluttered. To Carl’s practiced eyes, it had been tossed. Drawers were open, closet doors were ajar, and clothes and dishes were scattered across the floors and on top of the furniture. A bedroom, a kitchen, a small sitting room and bathroom made up the apartment. The kitchen floor was linoleum and an empty metal bowl was on the floor, jammed up in the corner. The breakfast dishes were still in the sink. One cereal bowl, one coffee cup.

A tiny pre-war TV set and a bunch of newspapers and magazines were in the living room. A jet screamed overhead, going towards the landing strips at Logan Airport. The carpet was light brown and threadbare along the edges, and there was a faint pattern of flowers that had been trampled away by years of foot traffic.

The door had three locks, a sensible precaution, especially during the winter when supermarket shelves emptied by 10 a.m. every morning and the prostitutes in the Combat Zone bartered their wares for cans of beef stew. But none of the locks appeared broken. During the past couple of years at the Globe, Carl had run into the older detective on a fairly routine basis. Carl’s job was general assignment reporter. Because of his military experience, his editors thought he’d be used to seeing dead bodies, so more often than not, he was sent out on crime stories. He and Malone had a cautious but respectful relationship. Malone was relatively straight when it came to news, and Carl was equally polite when it came to asking the questions.

What we have here is one Merl Sawson. Age sixty. Apparent gunshot wounds to the back of the head. Malone’s accent was pure Boston.

Carl scribbled away. Looks pretty apparent to me.

Sure it does, young fella, but I ain’t putting my name to it until he’s at the morgue. Would look pretty funny if we turned him over and found a knife to his heart, now, won’t it?

Yeah. A laugh and a half. You wondering who might have done the shooting?

Malone grunted with what might have been amusement. Now, there’s somethin’ they must’ve forgot to teach us in detective school. Wondering who done the shooting and all.

You know what I mean, Paul. The poor old guy was shot. Who’s got guns and ammunition nowadays? Only the Army and the mob. Not civilians. So what do you think?

I think you’re crossing the line from being a reporter to being a pain in the ass, and that’s a mighty short line.

Thanks for the geography lesson, Carl said. How did the call come in?

He’s got a pal downstairs. He heard some shouts last night. Thought it might have been the television. Then Merl didn’t show up for their usual lunch. When nobody answered the door, he called us.

Suspects?

The detective looked pained. C’mon, we’ve been here all of a half hour.

Burglary, though, that’s what it looks like.

Look, Carl, get the hell out, will ya? I got work to do.

Just a sec. No pictures. That was funny. You’d think a guy this old would have pictures of family and people on the walls. No, nothing. And there were piles of newspapers and magazines on the floor. Time, with a picture of Nelson Rockefeller on the cover; American Legion, with a picture of Nelson Rockefeller on the cover, and Sports Illustrated, with a picture of Joe Namath and Nelson Rockefeller on the cover. A veteran and a sports fan.

Carl...

I’m outta here.

By the door, he finally figure out what was bothering him.

It was the boots. Old workboots, their soles held together by gray duct tape. They stood standing neatly by the door on old sheets of newspaper. Just like... Carl glanced back into the open bedroom door, seeing the legs of the dead man. Sweet Jesus. Sure was the right size. And the guy had claimed to have been a veteran. And he remembered.

It happened a month ago, the first really cold day of September. It had been a truly awful day. For the past six hours he’d been standing on a pier by Boston Harbor, waiting for the police to dredge up a stolen car. A couple of Roxbury kids had driven straight off the pier during a police chase the night before. Their stunned parents were huddled by the end of the pier, ready to claim the drowned remains. When his relief came before the car was recovered, he almost cheered. Thank God he wouldn’t have to talk to the families to get the usual how do you feel crap for the next day’s story. Now, he could go home and have a beer or three and try to forget the drawn faces of the parents, waiting for their dead children.

Then he felt a touch at his elbow, and heard the old man’s voice. Excuse me, are you a reporter?

Carl turned around. The man stood on the cracked sidewalk, dead leaves and discarded newspapers swirling about his feet from the harbor wind. A few people walked by, looking at Carl sympathetically, like they were saying Sorry he grabbed you, fella, but better you than us. The old man was tall, wearing a long Army overcoat devoid of insignia or even buttons. His workboots were scuffed and cracked, held together by gray, grimy duct tape. His hands were quivering, and when he saw Carl noticing them, he quickly shoved them into the coat’s pockets. His face was red and pockmarked, nose dripping, and there were dark bags under his eyes, like he had gotten one night’s sleep a week for the past decade. His thin gray hair was tangled and unwashed.

Yes, I am, and I’m sorry, but I’ve got an appointment and...

You’re a vet, right? See you’re wearing the old field jacket. Right?

Carl nodded wearily. Yep, U.S. Army. Just like you, right? He reached into his own pocket for a quarter.

The old man shook his head violently. No, no, put your money away. That’s not what this is about. I’m a veteran, too, but I’ve never begged. Not once.

Oh. All right then, what can I do for you?

He looked around and stepped forward, his breath smelling of beer. Got something for you. A hell of a story. But only if you have the balls to print it.

That’s for my editor to decide. What’s it about?

The old man lowered his voice. Something awful. But something you’ll want to know about. It’s just about the biggest story ever, just you see. You know, even ten years later, some people still enjoy killin’, and that’s gotta be stopped.

Carl nodded seriously. That word ever sounded like it was said by a nine-year-old boy. But there was a faded look in the old man’s eyes, and his thin shoulders shivered pathetically under the coat. Damn it, the man was a veteran. Just like him.

I tell you what, Mister...

He shook his head again. Oh no, no names, not yet. But tell me, will you do the story?

No promises, but I’ll look at what you’ve got. Carl said it seriously, respectfully. The old man was owed that.

The man smiled in relief, showing brown and misshapen teeth. Good, that’ll be good. Look, I’ve got some important documents, something important to show you. Here’s just a taste. He handed over a much-folded piece of lined notebook paper.

Right there, that’s where the story should start. In that piece of paper. I’ll be here tomorrow afternoon, right at this spot. We’ll go over the other papers together. Okay? But I won’t come if I don’t think I can trust you. I’ll go somewhere else. These are bad times, you know.

Carl knew what he was in store for. He had seen it before, with other reporters and other sources that had latched onto them. But despite that, tomorrow he’d take the old guy to a nice diner, buy him probably the best meal he had in ages, and listen to his tales of dark conspiracies involving no doubt the Rockefellers, space aliens, the Romanovs, and whatever. Carl would nod politely in all the right places, slip him five bucks, and then go home and get drunk at all the old memories the man had disturbed. So be it.

Fine, Carl said. Tomorrow, right here.

Good. He looked like he was about to say something, but then he swung around and walked down the sidewalk, with a more confident step. That was the last Carl had ever seen of him. The fellow veteran had not come back the next day, nor the next. After a week, Carl had given up on him.

The piece of paper had a list of five names on it. Carl had spent a few minutes looking them in up a phone book and city directory. When not a name was found, he put the paper aside.