by Jeff Siebold
“Would you like to start with a drink?” the server asked.
“Tracy?” asked Zeke.
“May I have unsweetened tea?” she asked the server.
“Yes, ma’am. And you, sir?”
“Water with lemon, please,” said Zeke. He remembered recently reading a quote that lemons are ‘packed like a clown car’ with a variety of vitamins and nutrients. In a quick moment, he itemized them all in his mind.
“What are you thinking about?” asked Tracy, once the server left.
“Just amusing myself,” said Zeke, and he smiled. “You’re an only child.”
“I am. How would you know that?” asked Tracy.
“It’s what I do,” said Zeke.
“As I said, I researched you before I came here, and I talked with Fitch about you,” said Tracy, looking away for a moment, then back at Zeke.
The server came back with their drinks and took their food order.
“What did you find about me?” asked Zeke, when they were alone again.
“Well, in addition to the aptitude you have for some of the martial arts, I saw that you worked as a contractor for Army Intelligence. You were in Iraq and a few other pretty volatile places. From the sound of it, I’d guess you were an operative. At least a part of the intelligence community.”
“I can’t really talk about that,” said Zeke.
“Fitch said that Clive Greene was a consultant to MICECP for a while.”
Zeke smiled at her. “I heard something like that, too,” he said.
“You said your Judo instructor adopted you?”
“Sort of. It wasn’t formal, but he took good care of me after my folks passed away. Watched out for me and kept me out of trouble.”
“Where did you live?”
“In a marina in the Keys. After our boat exploded, I moved in with a couple that lived aboard a 57-foot Chris Craft Constellation. I was pretty young, and most people down there were like family. So I was able to continue my homeschooling, and I practiced Judo with Eddie most days,” Zeke said. “They say it takes a village, but in my case, it took a marina.”
“But, honestly, Tracy,” Zeke said with a smile, “I’d rather talk about you.”
Chapter 22
“It’s all in a locker at the Student Union. Here’s the key.”
Zeke and Clive were in line in the coffee shop while waiting for the barista to finish their orders. It was Saturday afternoon, and the place was filling up with students whose hair looked like they’d slept in late. Some had, some hadn’t.
“All right,” said Clive. “I’ll have someone gather it up and be sure to get it in the Secret Service’s hands. Say we found it or something.”
“Alright, thanks, Clive. I think they’ll be glad to have it back, quite honestly. Their operation was a mess.”
“They will most likely,” said Clive, “but they probably won’t say so.”
The barista called his name, and Clive stepped forward and took the paper cup in his hand. He smelled the contents. “Ah, Earl Grey,” he said.
Zeke could smell the citrus odor wafting from the uncovered cup of tea.
“That bergamot orange is carcinogenic, you know,” said Zeke.
Clive looked at Zeke as if he’d spoken in Kiswahili. “Any word from Cruz?” asked Clive, changing the subject.
“No, I haven’t heard a word from him since I found him in my apartment last evening. We talked, and he left. Didn’t say where he was going. He said he’d be back, but he never showed up.”
“We can’t protect someone we can’t find,” said Clive. “He could be out there, exposed, or he could have taken off. But we can’t protect him if he won’t work with us, right?”
“Right.” Zeke’s name was called, and he turned and grabbed his coffee. “I think he’ll show up when he needs us again. Let’s see about finding George, the Accountant since we have a little time. If we neutralize George as a threat, Cruz should be safe for a while.”
“That’s what we’re being paid to do,” said Clive.
They moved to a small, round, blond wooden table and sat on two upholstered chairs near the front window, away from other patrons. It was September and the flowers were still colorful in the beds on the other side of the glass. Purples, yellows and light greens prevailed, low and bright against the contrasting brick in the afternoon sun.
“OK, let’s figure this out. What do we know about the Accountant?” Clive asked.
“From Cruz, we know that he was seen around the coffee shop, here, Friday mid-afternoon. I saw him on the street, just there, about 5 o’clock Friday. After that, I saw him in the campus library. He gained access pretty quickly, so he must have had a student or faculty ID of some kind. He would have had to stop and sign in if he’d had a visitor’s pass. My guess is he’s familiar with the campus and has arranged access in advance. So he’s thorough. And, based on his knowledge of the area, he’s staying nearby, maybe even on campus.”
Clive nodded. “What else do we have?” It was a game they played, thinking out loud, building on each other’s insights, following the rhythm of the words.
“Well,” Zeke continued, “when I left the library, he followed me to the Engineering Building. But I didn’t see him most of the time. Which means that he has skills.”
“Right, I’d expect no less,” said Clive.
“And, apparently, he chose the backpack over me, after I threw it in the garbage. Which means that he couldn’t take the chance that the backpack wasn’t empty. He had to check.”
“Or, he already knows how to find you, so the backpack was of a higher interest to him,” Clive thought out loud.
“He’s been on foot every time I’ve seen him,” Zeke continued. “He may not have a car here, or he may choose to leave it garaged, which means that he might be staying close by, within an easy walk.”
“Right,” Clive agreed. “Not many places to park on campus unless you have a permit. He could have arranged for one, but having a vehicle on campus can be cumbersome. And the public parking around here is very limited. There’s street parking, which you can’t count on, and the Peters Parking Deck, which stays full most weekdays.”
“And he had to be just a short walk from the coffee shop, for a quick escape once he had the bag.”
“So, the hotel option, then,” said Clive. “Again, he’d probably need to be close by the campus and the coffee shop, for the critical minutes when he leaves with the backpack.”
“Right, and it’s unlikely that he’d cross Interstate 85 on foot, even with the overpasses and sidewalks. It’s very exposed and is about a half mile away. What if it had been raining?”
“OK, so the obvious choice is the Hampton Inn, a block south of the campus. Wait,” Zeke said. He thought. “OK, so that’s not it. He’ll be at the second or third closest hotel. He’d risk the weather.”
“Why do you think that,” Clive asked.
“He’s too memorable. All we’d have to do is talk with the folks at the front desk and ask if they have any very short guests. He’d be busted.”
“That’s true, Zeke. So, walking distance?”
“Most likely the Hyatt House, the Hilton Garden Inn or the Embassy Suites, I’d say. Possibly he’s at the Omni. South of the campus, south of my apartment, and on the same side of the Interstate.”
“OK, which one?” said Clive.
“I’d bet on the Omni. It’s at CNN Center, which is a very busy place. The hotel has over a thousand rooms, so it would be easy to lose yourself in the complex. And it’s a four-star hotel. Our guy picks four-star hotels whenever he can. He thinks he deserves it,” said Zeke. “Icing?”
“OK, Icing,” said Clive.
“The Omni is less than 30 minutes from the Atlanta Airport, by MARTA transit. And the hotel is just across Centennial Park from the MARTA station for a quick exit. So he doesn’t need a car.”
Clive said, “And the Omni’s a tourist destination, good for staying invisible. Let’s go.�
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Chapter 23
Tracy was ignoring Ron’s smirk.
“This guy really played you,” said Ron.
Tracy looked over at him with a withering look and then looked back at her phone. She was reading the most recent Service e-mail discussing Cruz’s whereabouts.
“He’s got to be somewhere,” she said, mostly to herself. So far, the trail was dead. Cruz hadn’t used any credit cards or any ATM’s since he disappeared. He hadn’t used his cell phone. It was shut off, disabling the GPS chip inside. He hadn’t taken a flight, rented a car, eaten a meal or paid for a hotel room, to the best of anyone’s knowledge. His absence was disturbing.
“He could be dead,” Ron continued. “Perhaps that fellow he told us about, the Accountant, caught up with him. If so, his body will probably turn up in an abandoned car or a hotel room pretty soon.”
“Hmm,” said Tracy, thinking.
Ron and Tracy were sitting in a black Crown Vic, the Secret Service’s vehicle of choice. Ron was in the driver’s seat. They were parked in a diagonal parking slot in a retail strip center across from Cruz’s house in south Fulton County. If he twisted just right, Ron could see the top edge of the El Toro restaurant sign down at the end of the block. So far, the house had remained empty and quiet.
It was a warm day, so they had the windows up and the engine idling to keep the air conditioning active. They weren’t well disguised. An observer would have seen the white exhaust smoke and the two heads in the driver and passenger seats. But so far, there were no observers. The street was quiet just before dinnertime on Saturday. It seemed that everyone in the neighborhood was busy indoors or away, shopping or visiting family perhaps.
A large pit bull in a nearby fenced yard had greeted them with excited barks and growls when they first arrived and parked on the street. When Ron moved the car to the parking lot, the dog came as close as he could, pressing his wide body up against the chain link fence, and then he lay down watching them carefully.
“If Cruz isn’t dead,” said Ron, “then maybe he’s staying with a friend or family member.” They had considered that possibility before.
“No way to know,” said Tracy. “We don’t have enough information to tell whether he has extended family here in Atlanta, but if he does, it would be a perfect place to hole up.”
Earlier, a Secret Service agent named Enrique Diaz, on staff in Washington, DC, had researched Cruz’s immediate family in Sonora, and had called and asked some members of his family about Cruz’s friends or relatives in the United States. He drew a blank. He also contacted the Mexican Police, “Policía Federal”. There was no quick help there, either, although it came as no surprise. Most everyone in federal law enforcement knows that Mexico’s police have a reputation as one of the more corrupt forces.
“Ah, we would like to help you, senor,” said the voice from the Federales offices in Mexico City, “But in Sonora there was a tragedy last year. The police chief, Chief Manny Lopez, was murdered. He was gunned down, shot with AK-47’s maybe thirty times. He was off duty and leaving his home when they shot him.”
“Has anyone replaced Lopez?” asked Enrique.
“No, no, it is difficult to fill a position that has been vacated so dramatically,” said the officer.
“Have the men who shot him been arrested?” Enrique asked, knowing the answer as the words left his lips.
“No, senior. That is the territory of Jefe. Not many wish to be in a position opposing Jefe and his operation. It would not be wise.”
“I understand,” said Enrique. “Gracias, senior.” He hung up the phone and dialed Tracy’s cell number.
* * *
In fact, Chief Manny Lopez had been raised by his mother in Sonora Rio before he moved to the United States at age 18 to live and work with his uncle, his mother’s sister’s husband, Jorge. Jorge was a large man who owned a tow truck business, and with the help of his two sons and Manny, the business grew.
Like most men in the shadier parts of Yuma, Arizona, Manny quickly learned to avoid trouble and watch out for himself. The streets were difficult, but not as difficult as some areas of Sonora Rio. There were times to ignore what you saw, and times to take advantage. No one was going to give you anything, his cousin Tito told him over and over. No one cares about you. You have to learn to fend for yourself. Anything you need, you have to take it.
More than once, Manny’s pay was shorted.
“Uncle Jorge, this is less than I thought it would be,” said Manny, looking at his pay envelope.
“Yes, I know, but it was a slow week, and we had to pay to get the truck serviced,” Jorge responded. Always with an excuse, Manny seldom received the money he was owed.
“Besides,” Uncle Jorge would say, “what are you going to do with the money, anyhow? Just spend it on beer and poker.”
Uncle Jorge was well known in Yuma. He named the business after his boys, Pep and Tito, and arranged to handle all of the local police towing needs. Abandoned cars, illegal parking, policing parking lots for abandons and violators were all part of the business. A few years later, Jorge expanded his brand into a parallel line of business, auto repossessions. The young men would spend nights driving around looking for repos to hook up and tow back to the sales lots.
“There’s one,” Tito said, one night when he and Manny were driving the streets, not far from the Marine Corps Air Station Yuma. He had learned that many of the cars they repossessed had been purchased by soldiers who weren’t able to keep up with the payments. “That’s a beauty,” said Tito. “A yellow Camero.”
It was dark and raining steadily that night, unusual for southern Arizona. The car was parked in a detached garage with the door left open. Manny checked his list of license plate numbers with his flashlight and confirmed the tag.
“That’s one of them,” Manny told Tito.
“Let’s hook it up, then,” said Tito.
Both boys slid into their waterproof ponchos and Manny got out and directed as Tito backed the truck up to the garage. Quickly, they attached the tow bar and chains, lifted the Camero’s rear wheels from the ground, and jumped back into the cab of the truck.
As Tito started to drive away, a very large white man with close cropped blond hair jumped out in front of their truck.
“Stop right there, you damn beaners,” he screamed.
He was wearing camo pants and no shirt, and he was holding a deer rifle in his right hand and a crowbar in his left. The deer rifle was about waist high, and pointed at Tito.
“Hey, OK man, no problem,” Tito said. He stopped the truck and raised his hands. To Manny, he said, “Drunk soldier,” out of the side of his mouth.
The big man shot him through the windshield.
Tito slumped in the driver’s seat, and Manny jumped from the truck and ran behind it. He kept the vehicle between himself and the big man, who was circling to the passenger side of the truck.
Suddenly, Manny saw a light-haired man walking up the driveway from the street in the pouring rain. He couldn’t really tell, but he had the impression that this man was of Indian descent, which wasn’t uncommon in Yuma at that time. The man was tall and well proportioned, like a football player on the Mexican National Team. Eeeh puto, Manny thought to himself.
Without hesitation, the light-haired man walked up behind the big man, reached around his left side, and took the crowbar out of his hand. The big man turned and received a smart blow from the crowbar across the bridge of his nose. Reaching to protect his face, the big man dropped the rifle, as the light-haired man smashed the crowbar into the side of his knees, first left, then right, and then, as the big man was falling to the ground, he cracked the crowbar down with a two-handed, overhand blow to the man’s clavicle breaking the bone by the sound of it. Then he broke the other clavicle. Game over.
Manny rounded the car to the driver’s side and opened the door to get Tito out. The light-haired man watched as Manny checked Tito for a pulse; it was still there. The bullet had appa
rently passed through the soft tissue of Tito’s upper arm, but the shattered windshield glass gave Tito small cuts across his face and neck that looked like bad Halloween makeup.
Manny put Tito into a comfortable position on the lawn and went to the light-haired man, who was already on his cell phone with emergency services. “They’re on their way,” he said to Manny.
“Who are you?” asked Manny.
“Military Police,” said the man. “We’ve been watching PFC Johnson, sort of keeping an eye out. I saw you back into the driveway, and I figured it might turn ugly.”
“Your job is to help people?” asked Manny. “To stand up for people who are in trouble and can’t help themselves?”
“Something like that,” said the light-haired man. He smiled to himself.
“Wow,” said Manny. “I didn’t know a job like that existed.”
The next day, Manny joined the Marines.
Chapter 24
Clive yawned. He was sitting in a leather chair in the lobby of the Omni Hotel, holding a newspaper, sipping tea in a china cup and glancing at the elevators from time to time. The small teapot sat on the end table next to his chair. He was wearing a Mark 11 aviator’s watch made by IWC and designed for astronavigation after World War II. Clive was a horologist, an aficionado of fine British watches. His fine British watch told him that it was nearly ten AM and that he had been sitting in the lobby for three hours.
Across the lobby, Zeke sat at a telephone table, working the daily crossword puzzle in the Atlanta newspaper. They had rented a room in the hotel, so that their presence wouldn’t be questioned, and took up their observation points in the lobby. From those spots, they could see the lobby desk, the elevators, the gift shop and the main entry doors. The lobby was busy with tourists and business people, each of whom appeared to have an important place to go.
