first met during Hobart’s tour as a Baltimore DEA agent in the early eighties. Manion’s intelligence, connections, and paranoia had made him an ideal resource for the young John Hobart. While he never actually informed on individuals, Manion had been a fount of information on the manufacture of designer drugs and the refinement of biological intoxicants.
Hobart hadn’t seen him in almost ten years, but hadn’t had any difficulty in finding the addict. He lived only three blocks from the house that he’d occupied the last time they’d met, and his phone number had been in the book. Drug dealers could only afford so much anonymity.
At six-thirty Hobart heard the unmistakable sound of a key turning in the lock on the front door. He pulled his .45 automatic from its place under his left arm and quietly stood. By the time the door finally swung open, he had flattened himself against the wall about a foot away from the doorjamb.
The man who entered was taller than Hobart, but his body seemed to sag from some unseen weight, bringing his head to eye level. Hobart recognized him immediately, though the years of inactivity and drug use had taken their toll. He maneuvered himself behind the manand pressed the barrel of his gun snugly into the back of his neck.
Peter Manion froze. “Darren, is that you? I told you I’d get you your money next week, man. I got some stuff cooking. I swear you’ll get every dime.” His voice was thin and Hobart had to strain to hear despite the fact that he was right behind him.
“Have you not been paying your bills, Petey?”
Manion’s body snapped straight, forcing Hobart to adjust the barrel of his pistol. Manion obviously recognized his voice.
Hobart slowly circled around to face him, drawing the gun along the slack skin of his neck.
Manion looked straight into Hobart’s eyes, ignoring his elaborate disguise. He began unconsciously rubbing the wrist that Hobart had broken so many years before.
“How you doing, Peter? Long time no see.” Hobart grabbed the front of Manion’s filthy sweater and pushed him onto the La-Z-Boy that had been his home for the last hour.
He sat down on an old army footlocker that passed for a coffee table. “You look like you’ve lost weight—been working out?” The haggard face across from him continued to stare blankly. Finally it spoke. “I heard they drummed you out of the DEA.”
Hobart shook his head at the feeble attempt at bravado. “That’s what everybody thinks. Fact is, I just switched organizations.”
“Who you working for now? FBI?”
Hobart shook his head.
Manion’s eyes widened. “CIA?”
Hobart smiled and nodded almost imperceptibly.Peter Manion had always been a borderline paranoid schizophrenic. Hobart still remembered his fantasies involving the CIA and how they were behind everything from Kennedy’s assassination to the closing of the local Seven-Eleven. Manion saw the CIA as a faceless, all-powerful organization with operatives behind every corner. Hobart intended to put that paranoia to good use.
Manion pulled his knees up against his chest and cradled them in his bony arms.
“What do you want, man?”
“Just a little information. Should be right up your alley.”
Manion remained silent. He looked like he needed a fix.
“We’re getting a little operation together and I need your expertise in chemistry.” Manion perked up a bit at the word “chemistry.”
“The Company’s getting fed up with all this narcotics money that’s running around. It’s keeping some governments afloat that we’d prefer to see sink. You understand what I mean?”
Manion was looking desperately around the room as Hobart spoke. He seemed to not be paying attention.
“We need to cut off their money—so we’re going to poison the U.S. narcotics supply.”
Manion’s hands popped open and his feet fell to the carpet with a thud. “You’re crazy!” His eyes continued to dart around the room. Hobart wasn’t sure if he
Hobart hadn’t seen him in almost ten years, but hadn’t had any difficulty in finding the addict. He lived only three blocks from the house that he’d occupied the last time they’d met, and his phone number had been in the book. Drug dealers could only afford so much anonymity.
At six-thirty Hobart heard the unmistakable sound of a key turning in the lock on the front door. He pulled his .45 automatic from its place under his left arm and quietly stood. By the time the door finally swung open, he had flattened himself against the wall about a foot away from the doorjamb.
The man who entered was taller than Hobart, but his body seemed to sag from some unseen weight, bringing his head to eye level. Hobart recognized him immediately, though the years of inactivity and drug use had taken their toll. He maneuvered himself behind the manand pressed the barrel of his gun snugly into the back of his neck.
Peter Manion froze. “Darren, is that you? I told you I’d get you your money next week, man. I got some stuff cooking. I swear you’ll get every dime.” His voice was thin and Hobart had to strain to hear despite the fact that he was right behind him.
“Have you not been paying your bills, Petey?”
Manion’s body snapped straight, forcing Hobart to adjust the barrel of his pistol. Manion obviously recognized his voice.
Hobart slowly circled around to face him, drawing the gun along the slack skin of his neck.
Manion looked straight into Hobart’s eyes, ignoring his elaborate disguise. He began unconsciously rubbing the wrist that Hobart had broken so many years before.
“How you doing, Peter? Long time no see.” Hobart grabbed the front of Manion’s filthy sweater and pushed him onto the La-Z-Boy that had been his home for the last hour.
He sat down on an old army footlocker that passed for a coffee table. “You look like you’ve lost weight—been working out?” The haggard face across from him continued to stare blankly. Finally it spoke. “I heard they drummed you out of the DEA.”
Hobart shook his head at the feeble attempt at bravado. “That’s what everybody thinks. Fact is, I just switched organizations.”
“Who you working for now? FBI?”
Hobart shook his head.
Manion’s eyes widened. “CIA?”
Hobart smiled and nodded almost imperceptibly.Peter Manion had always been a borderline paranoid schizophrenic. Hobart still remembered his fantasies involving the CIA and how they were behind everything from Kennedy’s assassination to the closing of the local Seven-Eleven. Manion saw the CIA as a faceless, all-powerful organization with operatives behind every corner. Hobart intended to put that paranoia to good use.
Manion pulled his knees up against his chest and cradled them in his bony arms.
“What do you want, man?”
“Just a little information. Should be right up your alley.”
Manion remained silent. He looked like he needed a fix.
“We’re getting a little operation together and I need your expertise in chemistry.” Manion perked up a bit at the word “chemistry.”
“The Company’s getting fed up with all this narcotics money that’s running around. It’s keeping some governments afloat that we’d prefer to see sink. You understand what I mean?”
Manion was looking desperately around the room as Hobart spoke. He seemed to not be paying attention.
“We need to cut off their money—so we’re going to poison the U.S. narcotics supply.”
Manion’s hands popped open and his feet fell to the carpet with a thud. “You’re crazy!” His eyes continued to dart around the room. Hobart wasn’t sure if he
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