Aw, fuck me! Max realized he’d read the situation totally—and perhaps catastrophically—wrong. He’d complained about corrupt and ruthless government officials since before he’d joined the CIA—now the only honest man in the entire system sat cowering before him, and he couldn’t stomach the sight of the guy. Sleazy government fucksticks were a lot like cops, he supposed. Never around when you need one.
Max stepped back from the desk, taking his money with him. “I apologize. Look, I had a very stressful trip coming down here. I thought we could work something out. I guess I got a bit carried away.”
Weems nodded. He looked like a young soldier in the throes of shellshock. “It’s—it’s all right. I forgive you. These things happen sometimes.” Max could tell such things had never happened to Weems. But the guy was a trooper of sorts, for the dopey smile came immediately back to his face.
“I should get going, Mr. Weems. I’m sorry to have, um, bothered you.”
Weems rose from his chair. “It’s not a problem, Mike. We all get a little testy from time to time. No hard feelings.” He offered his hand across the desk.
So this is what good government looks like, Max thought as they shook hands. Though diametrically opposed in the graft aspect, they were equally worthless when it came to getting things done.
“Thanks... and again, my apologies.”
“Don’t sweat it, Mike. Let me walk you to the door.”
Weems seemed totally recovered from his scare moments before. He bid Max farewell at the office door. Then, as Max was walking down the hall, Weems called, “Wait a second, Mike.” He caught up to Max, leaned in conspiratorially and said, “You know, I just remembered something. I met a man a while back who might be able to help you.”
“Do tell?”
“He’s an American named Scott Cleghorn, just came to town a few weeks ago. I’d forgotten all about him.”
“What’s he do?”
Weems leaned closer and whispered, “Better not to ask. Just tell him I sent you. I helped him out with something, and he promised me a favor. He might be able to come up with some maps.”
Better not to ask meant CIA to Max. Weems hadn’t said it since he thought Max a civilian. He pulled a business card from his wallet and handed it to Max. Scott Cleghorn, Head of South American Sales, Amalgamated Fruit Corporation. A local address and phone number followed.
Yeah, CIA all the way. “Thank you, Mr. Weems.”
“Don’t mention it, buddy.” He slapped Max on the shoulder. “Catch the big one out there.”
“Yep, that’s the plan.”
***
Max handed Cleghorn’s business card to the cab driver, a young man with dreadlocks who glanced at it and nodded. The guy didn’t speak a word of English, but Max had used the doorman at the hotel as a translator, so he knew to wait for Max at every stop. He kept the meter running, naturally. Goldbrick all you want, kid. You’re being paid by a senator.
Though only about a dozen blocks separated the residences of Weems and Cleghorn, the men lived in radically different accommodations. When the driver stopped at a small, run-down apartment block, Max thought they’d arrived at the wrong address. The driver nodded and smiled as he pointed at the apartments, so Max took his word for it and got out.
The dingy stucco building featured three floors of apartments, two above ground and one below. Cleghorn lived in the basement. Max descended stairs and entered a long, dimly lit hallway that smelled vaguely of cigar smoke. He rapped on the door of apartment 1D.
“Who is it?” a deep voice asked through the door.
“Mr. Cleghorn, my name’s Michael Adams. Chester Weems sent me.”
Max heard a chuckle, then the sound of locks opening. The door swung open to reveal a man almost Max’s height and several years older, perhaps in his early fifties. Cleghorn’s eyebrows arched for just a fraction of a second when he laid his gray eyes on Max, then he assumed a neutral facial expression.
What the fuck’s that about? It seemed to Max like a look of recognition, though he was certain he’d never met Cleghorn during his time at the Agency. I’m sure I would remember this guy. A mere glance told him Cleghorn represented the ugly face of the CIA—a cutthroat field operative recruited from an elite military unit, a fact Max hoped would work to his advantage. At least this time he wouldn’t be dealing with a pencil-pushing patrician.
“What can I do for you?” Cleghorn asked. An unknotted tie ran through the collar of his white shirt, and he wore a pistol in a shoulder holster. No shoes, just socks. Max had either caught him preparing to leave or just getting home.
“I need some information. According to Weems you’re the only one who can help me.”
Cleghorn chuckled. “I suppose that’s true. He sure as hell can’t help anybody. Come on in.”
Max entered the small studio apartment. Cleghorn lived a spartan existence: nothing decorating the walls, no pictures of family, a bed made tight enough to bounce quarters on. He led Max to the tiny kitchen near the rear of the apartment. They sat across from each other at a table built for two.
“Sorry about the gun, if that sort of thing freaks you out,” Cleghorn said. “This area is pretty safe usually, but I like to be prepared.”
Max couldn’t get over Cleghorn’s look of recognition. “Don’t sweat it. Used to work for The Company myself.”
“That so?”
“Seven years. Have we met before? You look kind of familiar.”
He shook his head slowly. “I don’t believe so.”
“Eh, I suppose we former-military types all look the same after a while.”
Cleghorn laughed, obviously forced. “Yeah, we know our own. I sure as hell didn’t go to Harvard.”
“You ever work for Peter Banner out of Quantico?”
“No, but I’ve heard the name. I worked mostly in the Middle East for about fifteen years.”
“How the hell did you wind up here?”
“Getting old. I’ve got enough years to retire, but I don’t want to leave, so they’ve got me down here sewing up a few odds and ends.”
Funny that Ruddick didn’t mention you. Max would have liked to know why the CIA needed a man in French Guiana but decided not to press it further. Cleghorn had certainly spiced his history with lies, and he would lie some more if Max asked about his work down here. Better to just let it go and stick to business.
“I’m in the market for maps of the coastal regions and offshore. Apparently, the French don’t like people poking around out there.”
“I haven’t worked here that long, but I’ve heard that’s the case. Devil’s Island and all that happy horseshit. Whitewash history and it goes away eventually. I guess that’s their thinking, anyway.”
“Seems to be. Can you help me out?”
He shrugged and looked up at the tiny window near the ceiling. “I might know somebody who could get you accurate maps.”
Max pulled out the deposit bag and tossed it onto the table. “It pays to stay acquainted with those people.”
After forcing another laugh, Cleghorn took the bag and opened it, ruffled the stack of bills with his thumb. “Yeah... There’s a guy who works in records for the French government who can help.” He slipped the stack of hundreds into his trouser pocket. “This is yours.” He slid the empty deposit bag back to Max.
“When do you think I can meet him?”
“Not sure. I’ll coordinate with him today and get back to you. Your name’s Adams, right? What’s your number?”
Max watched Cleghorn closely as he entered Mike Adams into his contacts. I wonder who his other contacts are... Cleghorn continued to bug the shit out of him. Something’s up with this guy. If I didn’t need him right now I’d put him in the chair... not that it would do much good. Cleghorn didn’t seem the type to crack under any circumstances. He didn’t offer his cell n
umber and Max didn’t ask. It may or may not have been the one on his phony business card.
“I’ll be waiting for your call.”
“Roger that. Later today or tomorrow at the latest. I haven’t helped anyone with this before, but from what I gather it’s not an uncommon request. Personally, I think the French are fucking stupid—this colony would be a tourism goldmine if they promoted it better.”
“I agree.” Max stood.
“So what are you looking for out there, Mike? You could tell an old peer that much at least.”
“Big fish.”
“Yeah? What species?”
“As I said, I’ll be waiting for your call.” He turned and departed.
Cleghorn snorted out another chortle as Max left the apartment.
Keep chuckling, jack. Fuck me over and you’ll be wearing duct tape the next time we meet. Count on it.
6
“Hello, honey, how was your day?” Heat said when she showed up at Max’s room a little after 1730 to compare notes. Max couldn’t help but laugh; she’d pulled off one hell of an Edith Bunker impersonation.
“Shitty on the whole, but I might have gotten somewhere. How about you? You look pretty pleased with yourself.”
“I am indeed!” She took a seat at the table and opened her laptop.
“So what happened?”
Heat explained her ordeal at the library. “Other than the atlas pages I photographed it looked like a complete bust. Then I met a certain someone who made my day—an inspector with the local police.”
“A cop? Where did you find him?”
“He found me. I’m thinking the librarian must have called him. His name is Inspector Jean Antoine Baptiste, and he’s set up a meeting for me tonight at eight with one of his in-laws who works at the hall of records. He claims the guy can get us some accurate maps.”
“Where’s the meeting?”
“At a marine supply warehouse down by the docks.”
“Odd place to meet a map curator.”
“Not really. I’ve met more prominent people in shittier places. And from what I understand this guy could wind up in some serious shit over leaking those maps. Apparently, the French don’t want anyone going out there. They’ve had problems with—”
“Relic and treasure hunters?”
“Ah, I see you learned something today.”
“A little but continue. How much did your police inspector charge to hook you up with this guy?”
“Nothing—I’m the one who’s being paid. Dinner with Inspector Baptiste, at my earliest convenience.”
“Seriously? You’re not down here to schmooze, especially after you’ve gotten what you asked for.” Max didn’t care for her look of dreamy fascination—obsession?—as she spoke of this Baptiste character. She’s got goo-goo eyes. This surprised him. Heat didn’t seem the sort to fall hard for anyone, especially while on business.
“Oh, is that a bit of jealousy I sense?”
“No, more like prudent caution. I haven’t even met this guy, and he already smells like the last fish left in the market.”
Heat huffed in offense. “Oh, he’s a far cry from that. But tell me your reasons for believing he stinks.”
“Where to begin? You think the librarian called him in, yet he sat ten feet from you for fifteen minutes and didn’t say a damn thing. Cops don’t operate like that when they’re called to investigate an alleged crime.”
“Yeah, duh. He never had any intention of investigating. He’s looking to hook up his contact and no doubt take a share of whatever we pay for the maps. Graft makes the world go round, don’tcha know.”
Chester Weems came to mind. Most of the world, anyway. “Possibly. Then again, maybe it’s a setup. You don’t look very threatening, so why would the librarian call the city police? Are there no campus police at that university? And an inspector? I think the cops would have sent a couple of uniforms to check out something so minor.”
“Apparently it’s not a minor offense around here, but rather something the library is quite wary of.”
“Could be. But I’m not sold. How can you be certain this guy Baptiste is even legit?”
“I examined his credentials, of course. They looked authentic to me, and I’ve had many a badge shoved in my face over the years.”
“I’ll take your word for it. For now.”
“Okay... So what did you come up with?” she asked, annoyed.
“Funny thing about that—it sounds like we both dug up the same contact from the hall of records.” He gave her the rundown of his day. “I haven’t heard back from Cleghorn yet.”
“Doesn’t matter.” She looked elated. “If we’re meeting the same map guy through different channels then he must be legit.”
“Or it could be a setup.”
Max’s phone vibrated. The word UNKNOWN appeared on screen, just as he’d expected. He answered the call. “Yeah?”
Cleghorn’s voice: “You’re on for tonight at twenty-two hundred, back of Picard Marine Supply down at the docks. Bring lots of cash. You know the deal.” He terminated the call.
“That your guy?”
“Yeah, my meeting is at ten o’clock, same place as yours.”
“Well don’t look so dubious about it! I’m telling you, two different sources pointing toward the same contact is a good sign. Trust me, I’ve been at this a while.”
“As you say. And since we’re scheduled with the same guy, I see no reason for two meetings, two sets of maps, and two separate payoffs. I’m going with you at eight.”
“Sounds like the logical thing to do.”
“And it would certainly help if we had other maps to compare with what we’re buying. How many pages did you miss at the library?”
“Not sure... Ten? Twelve? But I got most of them.”
“How about Paws? Any word on those satellite photos?”
“Yeah.” Crestfallen doubt cut through her optimistic façade for an instant. “He hasn’t been able to hack anything yet, but he’s hitting it hard as we speak. The satellites over this area change security codes so often, he hasn’t had time to hijack one. But I know he’ll come through.”
“Not good, and it seems to fit with all the other cloak-and-dagger bullshit going on down here.”
“I don’t like it either. But have faith in the guy, he’s bailed me out of a lot of shit.”
“I have faith enough in his abilities, but there are other aspects to consider. He doesn’t look like the sort who’ll put up much of a fight if a couple of goons break in and decide to toss his place. Or worse.”
She sighed. “Okay, point given.”
“Hear anything back on the owl tattoo?”
“Nada, but I’ve got about a dozen artists looking into it, along with some other reporters who have researched the Illuminati.”
“Hopefully they come up with something. I’d like to know just who we’re up against. But for now we concentrate on our meeting. These guys are either legit, or they’re mixed up in Josh’s disappearance. I want to know which one.”
“And if they’re with the guys who broke into Josh’s house?” Heat asked softly.
“Then it sucks to be them. Let’s grab dinner and look over the maps you found.”
***
Max decided to recon Picard Marine Supply before their meeting with Baptiste and his contact. He and Heat showed up an hour early after being dropped several blocks from the place. The neighborhood was sketchy, as he’d suspected: an industrial waterfront largely deserted at this hour but for the raucous patrons at a couple of dockside dive bars. Stray cats outnumbered people, their eyes flashing yellow as they went about their nightly rodent patrol, darting into alleys and storm sewers as Max and Heat approached.
A chain-link fence, ten feet high and topped with razor wire, enclosed the back lot
of Picard Marine Supply. A line of crated jet skis stacked three high stood in the middle of the asphalt lot, and several boats ranging from twelve to about thirty feet long sat on blocks at various places along the fence perimeter. An orange forklift, crates of supplies, and several stacks of forklift pallets further cluttered the lot. A lone lightbulb burned above a steel door in the side of the corrugated steel building, next to a lowered garage door. Outside the fence, a commercial fishing boat floated in the river at the back dock.
Max checked the rolling gates in the chain-link fence and found them secured with a stout padlock and heavy chain. The lot provided a myriad of hiding spots, but they would have to settle for crouching behind a dumpster in the lot next door.
Neither said anything as they waited for Baptiste. A pair of headlights lit the alley between Picard’s and the next building at roughly 1945. Max had counted on them showing early. He and Heat crouched motionless in the shadows behind the dumpster as a car of French make cruised past them and pulled to the gate.
A tall, bald man clad in an expensive suit alighted from the driver’s side to unlock the gate. That must be Baptiste. Impressive-looking son of a bitch. Even when performing such a simple task, Baptiste moved with the grace and fluidity of a stalking panther. No wonder she’s obsessed with him. He stood slightly taller than Max and was a good fifteen years younger. If it came down to a fight, Max knew he’d have his hands full putting down the alleged cop.
Don’t get ahead of yourself. There’s a chance this guy is for real. Only a slight chance in his mind, but a chance nonetheless.
Baptiste drove into the lot. The last rays of daylight winked off the rear bumper as the overhead door rose and admitted the car into the building. The overhead door dropped, and a couple of minutes later the smaller steel door opened a crack, emitting an intense beam of light.
“Looks like they’re ready,” Max said.
“Let’s not keep them waiting.”
“Remember what I said. If shit goes down you get the hell out or at least find something solid to hide behind.”
Apex Page 8
