Diablo

by James Kent

  Cricket will do nicely as a replacement, thank you very much. So that side of the ledger was settled, then. More or less. Of course, Cricket’s lack of a hacking network to match Eddie’s might still be a problem, but at least he had something. That was the good news. The bad news was that Eddie was now on the loose and probably fixing to disrupt the program somehow; he will probably hook into his old network and use them too. That can’t be allowed to happen. On the plus side, Diablo doubted Eddie would go to the cops and drop him in it because that would be suicide; he knew Eddie’s past would be enough to land him in the slammer himself if he did anything dumb like that. So it was safe enough to hang out here near Kingman, at least for the meantime. And then . . . well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

  *

  After Eddie had taken off into the desert darkness, and the distant rumble of his Harley could no longer be heard, Silva ordered Pedro to get some guys together and go track him down in Kingman or wherever the hell he went, ‘I want his head on a spike!’ he shouted, following Pedro and two other security guys, Tyler Randall and Clyde Decker, outside. He was still wound up and agitated, although not raging like before. He wanted action; couldn’t keep still like he had ants in his pants.

  ‘I’m on it! I’m on it!’ replied Pedro, exasperated and looking back over his shoulder as he reached into his pockets for the keys to the Jeep Cherokee. ‘Sounds like he headed into Kingman, but I reckon he’ll eventually head back east; home to his Ma and Pa in New Mexico. I know where he lives anyway,’ he added, walking out to the carpark.

  Pedro and the other two guys all had nine-millimeter Glocks either on their belts or in shoulder holsters. They clearly meant business and intended to kill the Ferret if they couldn’t bring him back without any dramas. Snatching his ass off the street is the ideal scenario, they were told, ‘but feel free to blow his damned brains out if he kicks up a fuss!’ Silva was standing there staring off into the darkness, holding his Glock and blathering on, telling them how much he wants Eddie’s head on a platter. Or a spike. ‘Either will do but spare me the details!’

  ‘I’m on it goddamit!‘ said Pedro again.

  ‘Good! Well then go get the sonofabitch!’ yelled Silva, waving his Glock around like a flag. He dropped it back into his coat pocket, then he turned and marched back inside with one of his guys, Rudolph Knox, in tow. Knox was also armed with a Glock stuck in his pants belt and an AR15 assault rifle over his shoulder. Everyone had a nine-mil Glock. Maybe Silva had gotten a good deal on them, a bulk purchase . . . buy-ten-and-get-a-free-box-of-ammo type of deal. The remaining four guys he told to stay outside and keep watch incase the Ferret circled back and tried to set fire to the joint. They had orders to shoot him on sight. ‘No questions asked, just shoot the bastard then sling his ass in a barrel or a ditch somewhere!’

  *

  ‘FUCK!’ shouted Pedro as he discovered all four tires on the Cherokee completely flat. One of them had the remains of a knife blade stuck in the side wall, the ragged stainless-steel end glinting in the light from the security flood lamps on the side of the house. Three of the tires seemed to have their valves missing. Makes sense, he thought. He walked over to the Buick pickup, Decker’s ride. Same thing, except for the absence of a busted-off knife blade. He kicked the collapsed tire in frustration. The Dodge and the Cadillac, same deal. All the tires punctured on all four vehicles. ‘Jeez what a monumental pain-in-the-ass this guy is!’ he shouted. He knew how enraged Silva would be too, once he heard what had happened to his Cadillac. But that was a problem for later. Pedro stood there with his hands on his hips, contemplating what to do about the flat tires on all the vehicles. They were, in effect, stranded. ‘Shit!’ he said to no one in particular. He was seriously pissed off.

  In exasperation, Pedro went back to lean against the Cherokee. He folded his arms and was unsure what to do. He needed to calm down a bit and think. The problem needed to be fixed before Silva found out what had happened, otherwise he would have another meltdown and probably kill someone. The other guys watched on, waiting for orders. Then Randall, the quietest one, said, ‘Get the spare tires from all four vehicles and put them on one vehicle. They’re all the same hub size. Five bolts a-piece.’

  *

  Pedro turned to him and smiled. ‘Brilliant! Do it!’ he ordered. Randall and Decker went from vehicle to vehicle, opening the trunks of each and removing the spare wheels. They rolled them one at a time over to the Cherokee, building an untidy pile, a pile of varying tire sizes, all quite different. No one seemed to notice the differences. Or, if they did, no one cared. Randall took two jacks, one from the Jeep and one from the Buick, and jacked up the rear end of the Cherokee after chocking the front wheels with two rocks to stop it rolling forward off the jacks. They removed the flat rear tires, two at a time, one each, then slipped on the spares, one from the Cherokee itself, and one from Decker’s Buick pickup. They lowered the rear end after tightening the five retaining bolts on each side, then moved the two rocks to the back wheels and repeated the process for the front. Job done.

  Randall kicked out the rocks from the rear wheels and threw them aside. The Cherokee looked a bit ridiculous with four different, mismatching wheel rims. Then Pedro looked sideways at Randall and Decker as they stood there with their hands on their hips checking out the job, looking pleased with their efforts. Pedro shook his head and pointed at the low-profile tire on the front and the fat tire on the rear. He raised his eyebrow like a question mark. What’s the bet? he wondered. Then he walked around to the other side and saw the opposite; another even fatter tire on the front and an even lower-profile tire on the rear. Opposing corners. Whose fault was that? Dickheads! he thought to himself. It’ll have to do. They didn’t have time to change them around again so that the lower-profile tires were either on the front or the rear, side-by-side. It just meant the vehicle would be very unbalanced and rock when on flat ground. But, ok, who’s looking? Fashion never was their strong suit. They’ll have to manage.

  *

  But the handling was an abomination. All over the place, like they were driving some derelict piece of crap from Mad Max. The Cherokee felt like it had a huge weight sticking out one side, pulling it across the road. It kept bouncing around and pulling hard to the left, into the middle of the road, across the center line. Then an oscillation started, a regular rocking motion, a slow bounce from side-to-side and from front-to-rear that made them all nauseous. Pedro had to keep firm pressure on the wheel just to keep it running straight ahead, towards Kingman where Eddie had gone on his Harley. Normally an hour’s drive, but in a vehicle that handled like an out-of-control tractor on high-octane fuel more like an hour and a half.

  Ninety-five minutes later they pulled up outside a church. No particular reason for it other than the fact that Pedro needed a break from fighting the steering wheel. His forearms were sore. And he needed to think. There was no one around. The streets were quiet and deserted, thankfully. No one to see the madness. Pedro drove on slowly, trying to figure out where Eddie would have gone. A motel obviously. Where else? He would have pitched up at some cheap joint and parked his bike around the back, out of sight from the road. Maybe the first motel you’d come to. Or the second. ‘How many motels are there in Kingman?’ asked Pedro. ‘Don’t ask me!’ replied Randall. ‘Anybody’s guess.’

  After two more hours driving around checking out random motels as they came to them, driving around their carparks and checking around the back of each for suspicious-looking Harley’s, they gave up. ‘A complete waste of time!’ offered Decker, stating the obvious. ‘He could be anywhere.’ Pedro agreed and decided it was time to pack it in and head back to the ranch. ‘Shit! Another hour and a half drive back home in this catastrophe of a vehicle!’ He was tired and annoyed and close to losing his temper. Randall and Decker looked at each other, but said nothing. Best not, they thought.

  11

  Wilshire Federal Building, Sawtelle, L.A.

  Lavinia Pearman dec
ided to have another crack at Simms’s secretary, Sally. A soft target, she thought, easily intimidated, easily manipulated. Pearman figured that Sally would spill the beans on the renegade vigilante if she knew who he was, and Pearman suspected that she did. She saw how Sally had reacted the first time she questioned her informally, just in passing which is often the best way to obtain an honest, unpremeditated reaction; it’s instantly there in the eyes which never lie. A fleeting reflex that you try to hide, but the effort to hide it lags the initial reflex by a few milliseconds, which is enough to spot if you know what to look for. And Pearman knew what to look for. The mouth lies, but the eyes don’t. One of the first things they teach you at the Academy is to “listen to the eyes”, and to the eyebrows and to the hands; the micro-expressions, whereas the mouth just talks crap. Ignore the mouth. Which is why Pearman had dropped the unexpected question on Sally in a friendly, off-handed manner like a buddy filling her cup at the watercooler. ‘Say, Sally,’ she’d said, ‘I gather you know that big guy who works freelance from here, you know, the big dude who everyone’s been talking about?’

  The idea is that Sally would naturally, subconsciously want to be “in” on what “everyone” is supposedly talking about. Not knowing meant you were on the outer, not included, not important. And then you’re a nobody. Who wants that? No one. You want to lie, but you can’t quite pull it off and the conflict reveals itself in the eyes and in the eyebrows and in the involuntary hand gestures. It shows in the quick shoulder-shrug and the quick look towards the left, the split-second subconscious need to avoid eye contact. Dozens of tiny signals all saying the same thing: I’m lying through my teeth, but here’s me trying to look innocent. Every decent interrogator worth his or her salt knows the signs. The question came out of the blue and clearly caught Sally off guard. At least that’s how it had appeared to Pearman because Sally’s eyes betrayed her. Sally’s mouth said ‘No, I have no idea who you mean,’ but her eyes said the opposite; she looked left and down at the same time. As she said “no” with her mouth, she said “yes” with her eyes.

  She knew.

  So it was time to turn the screws to see just how much she knew. The senior agent in charge, Sylvanus Simms was playing hard to get. He was sly and creepy and sinister all at the same time, so it was clear she wouldn’t get very far with him directly, short of subpoenaing him. Yet Simms had been strangely evasive when she’d interviewed him earlier. He gave off all the right involuntary micro-expressions that something was going on, despite his weird attempts at deflection. And that made Pearman suspicious. She suspected that the lone wolf was currently under Simms’s control. He had to be! Pearman therefore decided to start with the soft targets first and work her way up.

  Just before lunch, Pearman rang Sally and asked her, as politely as possible, if she would mind coming down into her office on the ninth floor for a chat and a few sandwiches - cucumber or ham or asparagus on white bread. Nothing fancy. Very civilized and unthreatening. Chitchat sandwiches. Funeral sandwiches. She had ordered them in from a local deli in advance, to some consternation, and had even purloined an unused teapot and China cups from the nearby cafeteria. Everyone drank coffee and ate bagels and donuts at the Bureau. No one drank tea and ate asparagus sandwiches. Too “English”. Too sophisticated. Let’s go with tea and sandwiches then! It was unusually disarming, and the subject would wonder about it. But that was the idea. Pearman believed it was all about the psychology and creating a faint sense of uncertainty in the atmosphere, throwing the subject off balance. It didn’t always work, but such subtle tactics always left an unanswered question hanging in the air.

  Thirty minutes later, Sally came in. She knocked lightly on the office door, opened it and walked briskly over to a red, upholstered chair beside the window and sat without saying anything. She clasped her hands together in her lap and waited. She adopted a stoic, expressionless demeanor which amused Pearman who thought she was trying too hard to appear unconcerned. Sally looked over at the food and frowned.

  ‘Tea and sandwiches?’ asked Pearman with a hint of a smile. She swept her hand in the direction of the small tea table as though introducing it as an exhibit. ‘Please help yourself,’ she said as she got up from her desk and walked over to the table to pour herself a cup of English breakfast tea as though she were advertising it on a television commercial. She filled a plate with perfectly cut triangular sandwiches then walked back to her desk and sat down again. Sally, still frowning, ignored the food, but her eyes followed Pearman like a painting on the wall.

  There was silence for a few moments; just the faint, earthy tones of Pearman munching on an asparagus sandwich followed by a slithery sip of tea that intruded into the space between them. She put her cup down. It clinked on its saucer. Pearman studied Sally for a few seconds more and then she said, ‘You know why I’m here.’

  Sally smiled and asked, ‘Is that a statement or a question?’

  ‘It’s a question.’ Pearman was already beginning not to like her. Bit of a smart ass! she thought as she took another sip. Better not underestimate her though! The cup clinked back onto its saucer.

  ‘Of course I know why you’re here! Do I need a lawyer?’

  ‘Why, have you got something to hide? This is an informal meeting, Sally, just to melt the ice, so to speak. Hence the tea and sandwiches.’

  Sally said nothing. She looked over at the food sitting there but made no move towards it. She didn’t want to give Pearman the satisfaction.

  ‘As you know,’ continued Pearman, ‘I’m here to investigate, and ultimately prosecute, individuals and agents in the employ of this office who are currently breaking the law either by corrupt practices or by taking the law into their own hands to solve cases. That, of course, does not include fully documented agents and officers working lawfully “undercover”, but it does include all those who are not on the books or registered as undercover.’ She finished off her tea then pushed the cup and saucer aside and picked up a pen as though to take notes, but she didn’t write anything. She started bouncing the pen up and down on the desk blotter in front of her.

  Sally still didn’t reply. She sat with her hands in her lap, and looked attentively at Pearman. She was thinking about Nick and hoping this would not result in him getting into trouble. She thought about the email message Swann had sent her, asking her to look into this Pearman woman if she could, which wouldn’t be easy, maybe even impossible for someone with her level of clearance. He was right! She’s an investigator, investigating him! So she decided to play dumb. She didn’t trust this IAD woman. She didn’t trust anyone from Internal Affairs for that matter.

  Pearman studied her for a few seconds, tapping her pen up and down on the blotter. She got up from her desk and walked over to the windows that looked out towards the veterans’ cemetery.

  ‘You see all those white stones there?’ she asked Sally without turning around. ‘Tens of thousands of young lives cut short for their country . . . and for their families and loved ones.’

  Sally continued to stay silent, but she turned at least to look out the window. It was a beautiful scene in its own right, despite what it all meant and represented.

  ‘But they died for something else too, Sally. They died for the preservation of freedom and civilization, and for law and order. And it’s the law and order part that I’m interested in right now . . .’ she paused, then added with a hint of acid, ‘But there are people out there who don’t care about the law, and there are people here, working from these offices, who also don’t care about the law.’

  ‘Is there a point to all this?’ asked Sally, looking alternately out the window and up at Pearman who still stood there. The sun was on her face and hair, and it seemed to set it on fire with its golden hues. She truly is beautiful! thought Sally. Then she continued, ‘Because I’ve got things to do, so if you don’t mind getting to the point of this little meeting, I would appreciate it.’

  Pearman was taken aback by the aggressive tone. It seemed com
pletely out of character. She stepped back to her desk and sat down again. The plate with uneaten sandwiches sat there beside the empty tea cup. For a few moments, Pearman studied Sally who still had her hands clasped in her lap, but she said nothing as she thought about how best to handle her. Then she decided to cut to the chase. ‘Fine!’ she said, ‘In that case, I would like you to provide me with copies of all personnel records, everyone working here under senior agent Simms specifically . . . from the janitor to the top levels of management, including Mr. Simms himself. I’m not interested in the other departments or branches resident here . . . yet. But I want to know what everyone, who’s under Simms’s specific direction, is employed to do, whether undercover or not, including agents and other individuals who are supposedly “off the books”,’ she said with emphasis, making inverted comas with her fingers. Especially including the “lone wolf” character who I know is operating out of this local Bureau department and whose current handler is Mister Simms!’ she lied. Pearman was reaching, but in her view, it was a safe bet. Then she added for effect, ‘And I know you know who I mean, so don’t get coy with me or I’ll slap an obstruction-of-justice rap on your record!”

  Wow! thought Sally who was stunned by the intensity. ‘That’s a bit unnecessary and heavy-handed isn’t it?’ she said, annoyed and a little worried.

  ‘Perhaps!’ replied Pearman, ‘But I’m not here to play silly games Sally! I’m here under orders from D.C. to find out who the hell this guy is, and to put a stop to his illegal activity. And so far, I’ve been getting the runaround from everyone in this department, especially your creepy boss! So, I would appreciate your cooperation,’ she finished with a fake smile.

  Sally smiled at the description of Simms. It was true; he was creepy, but he grew on you. You had to really know him to understand his foibles. Sally looked back at Pearman and said, ‘Even if what you say is true, you’re taking a huge risk! Guys like that don’t take kindly to outsiders harassing them, let alone trying to stop them. I’ve seen it happen before and it isn’t pretty. They have a unique code of ethics all their own, so they truly believe that what they’re doing is good and honorable . . . which is why they tend to get very nasty if some politically-correct “busybody” tries to interfere.’ Sally suddenly blushed red, fearing that she’d said too much and gone too far. But Pearman didn’t seem to pick up on it. She thought Pearman would take offence and ask “And how would you know that?”