“No, those are my targets,” he slurred.
“What?” She looked at the television, then at Leon. She figured it was just the drugs talking. “You just relax, handsome” she said, her hand tender on the side of his bandaged face. “We’re going to make you into a star.”
Chapter Seventy-five
Nobody heard the car pull into the driveway. But they heard the door slam shut, launching them into a fiercely choreographed dance, taking positions with guns drawn. Father Paul, being the exception, remained still and mute on the sofa, unfazed by the frenzy.
Klaus took the hall closet, giving him a clear shot at anyone coming in the front. Agent Parker, to the kitchen, covering the rear from behind the fridge. Bob defended the door from the garage. Katy had a concealed spot where the stairs turned and Mary had her back, covering the upstairs hallway in case anyone tried a second-story entrance.
When the knob of the front door began to rattle, Klaus drew a bead. If it was a killer, he thought, it wasn’t a pro. Probably some yahoo, saw them when they moved in, like the cable guy, recognized them on TV later. If he came through the door, Klaus had him cold. He adjusted his stance, and slowed his breathing. He was so focused on his aim that he didn’t notice, until it was too late, that Father Paul was on his way to open the door. “Hey, stop!”
But it was too late. Father Paul opened it and stepped calmly aside, allowing the intruder to pass. “Padre, how ya doin’?” Traci said as she breezed into the house.
Father Paul offered a weak smile, closed the door, and shuffled back to the sofa, awaiting God’s instructions.
Klaus stepped out of the closet, gun down by his hip. He called out to the others, “False alarm!”
“Hola, Juan, cómo está?” Traci walked past Klaus with a paper sack in one hand, a large manila envelope in the other.
“You may want to consider calling ahead in the future,” Klaus said, holstering his weapon.
“I take it you haven’t heard about the government’s eavesdropping programs.”
The others came into the room one at a time. Traci tossed the paper sack to Bob and said, “I figured it out.”
“Figured what out?”
“Why the bugs are attacking people.”
Bob pulled from the sack a bottle of Rapture by François. “Is this for Mary?”
“Not unless you want her dead,” Traci said.
Klaus took the jeweled bottle from Bob, admiring the satin-finished crystal. He removed the cap and gave it a cautious sniff, thinking it could be a topical poison like chloramine-T or chlordane in a solution. “What is it?”
“Insanely expensive, for one thing,” Traci said. “There was a bottle of that in each of the swag bags they gave to the celebrities.”
“Let me guess,” Klaus said. “It contains pheromones?”
“Bingo.” Traci smiled. “Eau de cockroach.” She read from the report, “Blattella germanica to be specific. All the tents had overhead aerosol dispensers, misting the crowds with the stuff.”
“Explaining why Treadwell needed Distinguished Selections for this whole thing,” Bob said.
“They assembled the swag bags,” Traci said. “Everything in the bag was a pre-existing product except for the Rapture, which, according to François, was made under contract and with specs and ingredients supplied by Distinguished Selections. When François refused to share the specs with me, I took the fragrance to a lab for analysis.”
“Beautiful,” Agent Parker said. “So that solves everything, right?” He looked at Bob. “You don’t have to bother with the traps now.”
“What traps?” Traci asked.
After explaining the sex pheromone idea, Agent Parker pointed at Traci and said, “So now you do a product recall story, get the news out that Rapture is a bait for the killer bugs. In the process, you nail Treadwell and get your Emmy. Congratulations. Meanwhile, we collect and haz-mat the stuff before finally move on to relieving Senor Riviera of his money.” He clapped his hands together and began thinking of five thousand square feet in Georgetown.
“Actually, no,” Bob said, causing Agent Parker to fix him with a stony glare. “We still have to deal with the bugs that are out there.”
“Whoa,” Agent Parker said. “If they don’t attack people without the cockroach pheromone and if we recall all the Rapture, what’s the problem? I mean, bugs don’t have much of a life span, do they? Won’t they just die in a few days or weeks?”
“We don’t know if they’re capable of breeding with existing assassin bugs,” Bob said. “And if they are, we don’t know what traits they might hand down.”
“There could be another problem,” Klaus said. “Treadwell may have released both males and females. They could be breeding already.”
Chapter Seventy-six
Resigning himself to the fact that no one was going to help plan the Riviera con until the bugs were under control, Agent Parker decided to help speed that process. He tracked down one of Professor Harmon’s former associates who was now teaching at U.C.L.A. After explaining the hows and whys of his former associate’s murder, Professor Julius Lang signed on.
Given that Bob and Klaus were wanted men and that driving around in a truck with a big bug on the roof might draw unwanted attention, Agent Parker rented a cargo van and stuck the two fugitives in the back. The three of them drove to U.C.L.A., grabbed Professor Lang, then headed for the DARPA lab. On the way, Bob and Klaus explained their idea for the sex pheromone trap.
“No reason it shouldn’t work,” Lang said. “All we have to do is isolate and sequence the pheromone-binding protein. Then, based on the pattern of the binding protein expression in the bugs, we produce a compound of one or more pheromones. Whichever ones bind to the protein can be eluted, analyzed, and chemically reproduced.”
“You’ve got the equipment for this?”
“Oh, sure.” He looked at Bob and Klaus and said, “Now based on the news reports, I assume we want the traps to kill, not just collect, the bugs.”
“Yeah,” Bob said. “And I’ve been trying to think of some way to use giant robber flies in the process, but I can’t think of a practical way to do it.”
The professor gave Bob a sideways glance. “Nearly a thousand dead and you’re thinking about using robber flies?”
Bob held up both hands. “No, forget I mentioned it.”
“I will,” Professor Lang said. “From what I’ve heard, I think you want to go with something robust from the inorganic category. A contact insecticide, probably some sort of neurotoxic, acetylcholinesterase compound.”
“I would think so,” Klaus said.
A minute later Agent Parker pulled to the curb in front of the DARPA labs. He told Bob and Klaus to sit tight. Then, with Professor Lang in tow, Parker CIA’d his way into the bug lab.
Watching as Professor Lang collected the female transgenic assassins from the breeder cages, Agent Parker said, “How do you get them to excrete the stuff in the first place? Free drinks and credit cards?”
After a moment Professor Lang said, “You might want to consider seeing a professional about your…issues.”
“Nah.” Agent Parker waved him off. “That’s a can of worms best left unopened.”
Chapter Seventy-seven
Traci figured that breaking her news to a national audience would improve her chances for a book deal and a Pulitzer. So she took her latest scoop to MSCBN, one of the cable news channels that functioned as an outlet mall for political punditry with lots of brand-name commentators selling analysis on the cheap.
The highest-rated show on the channel was HardHeads, with Matt Christopher. He was a former presidential speech writer who came from enough family money not to have to care about anything beyond his shiny forehead and whether he had spinach between the teeth. He hoste
d the show with a combination of Ivy League swagger and a sense of entitlement.
“Welcome to HardHeads,” he barked coming out of the show’s intro. “My guest today is investigative reporter Traci Taylor, who recently broke a huge story alleging a connection between an agency within the Department of Defense, a fanatical sect of Protestants, and the deadly insects responsible for nearly a thousand deaths in Hollywood.” He turned toward camera two and said, “Traci, let’s start with the recent comments from the majority leader, who suggested that your actions were traitorous and essentially threaten national security.”
“Well, first,” she said, “I think we should keep in mind that this is the same majority leader who, in his capacity as the chairman of the Senate Subcommittee on Disaster Prevention and Prediction, also recommended that the citizens of Los Angeles stock up on duct tape and plastic sheeting as a means of protecting themselves from these deadly insects.”
Matt slapped the desk top. “Oh, that’s right,” he said, breaking into a wide grin. “I’d forgotten about that already.”
“Don’t beat yourself up about it,” Traci said. “It’s impossible to keep track of all the nutty things these guys say on the Senate floor.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Matt said. “So, Traci, tell us about what you’ve uncovered on this whole bug thing, because I know one of the complaints the Senator made about your earlier story is that it insinuated connections between certain people and events without having what he called a ‘smoking gun.’” He pointed at the lab results and said, “I take it that’s what you’ve got there.”
“That’s right, Matt. In my initial report, I showed the connection between Blue Sky Capital Partners and the company called Distinguished Selections,” Traci said. She then proceeded to connect the dots between Distinguished Selections and Rapture, and finally between Rapture and the bugs.
When she finished, Matt looked like a guy who had just found out about Rock Hudson. “I never would have guessed,” he said, shaking his head. “That is wild. Cockroach pheromones, of all things, blended into a fragrance. The way these guys think! You know, it reminds me of something Jackie Kennedy said, at least I think it was Jackie who said people will wear just about anything if it’s exclusive enough.” He paused, confusion on his face. “Was that Jackie or someone else?”
Traci shrugged.
“Well, doesn’t matter,” Matt said. “Anyway, given that you made your case, and this sure seems like the so-called smoking gun, are you expecting an apology from the majority leader?”
Traci smiled and said, “No, I’ve learned to keep my expectations extremely low for the Senator and his esteemed colleagues. What I would like to see, however, is an investigation, a special prosecutor or someone looking into whether an agency of the U.S. government is testing weapons on U.S. citizens. To find out if this was an institutional failure or if there are rogue elements within the DOD who need to be singled out and prosecuted.”
“Like this Joshua Treadwell and the other guy, Browning.”
“I’d say those two are a good place to start.”
“I think that’s what the majority leader would call ‘playing the blame game,’” Matt said.
Traci shrugged and said, “He only calls it that because he can’t rhyme ‘accountability.’”
“Ha! Good point. So, anyway, now that we know this stuff is bug bait—and you gotta love that they called it Rapture, don’t you? I mean you’ve got to give them points for cuteness on that—but, anyway, what’s everybody supposed to do now—what’s the plan? Is FEMA involved in this?”
“No, the folks at FEMA are still drafting press releases blaming state and local officials for their failure to prepare for this eventuality.”
His head jerked back and he said, “Get out!”
“I’m kidding, that’s a riff on the whole New Orleans thing.”
“Oh, right.”
“Seriously,” Traci said. “I understand L.A. County Hazmat is setting up collection sites in the Beverly Hills, Hollywood, Century City areas so people can bring the stuff for safe disposal.”
“This is great,” Matt said. “Just great investigative reporting. First and, I guess most important, is that now we know how to keep from being attacked by these bugs. Second, this would seem to clear the two former DARPA employees whose names were leaked to the press and wrongly linked to terrorist groups. Oh, and you gotta love that one of them is named Bob Dillon. I mean, how bizarre is that?”
“Further proof that truth is stranger than fiction,” Traci said.
“Now, what about the arrest warrants?” Matt said. “Have they been revoked or quashed, or whatever happens in a case like this?”
“It’s my understanding that the issuing court plans to consider this evidence, but until then, they’re still wanted men.”
Chapter Seventy-eight
“Even if the warrants are withdrawn,” Klaus argued, “It does not change anything.”
“Sure it does,” Bob said. “Then we wouldn’t have to worry about being hunted by every city, county, state, and federal law enforcement agency in the country. You can’t say that doesn’t matter. You just hate to admit there’s a positive side to anything.”
“Treadwell is not trying to get us arrested,” Klaus said. “He simply wants Riviera to know we are alive and in Los Angeles.”
“He already knows that,” Agent Parker said. “I told him. Well, the part about being alive, anyway.”
Mary tried to calm them down. “I think Klaus’ point here is that Treadwell knew that making the information public forces Riviera to acknowledge he was conned six years ago, and now he’s got to pull out all the stops and open the contract to anybody who wants to try to collect.”
“I understand,” Agent Parker said. “All of which just helps underline the urgency of my point that we need to get our act together and work out how we’re going to gull him the second time.”
“I say we disappear first,” Klaus said.
Parker shook his head. “Think about it,” he said. “Anybody looking for you—professional law enforcement or professional killer—is going to put himself in your shoes and assume you’d get out of L.A. as soon as possible. So not only is this one of the last places they might look, even if they do, it’s a big town. Hard to find two people among fifteen million.”
“I vote we stay,” Bob said. “We lay low, do the traps. See if we can stop the bugs.”
“And all the while we can be trying to figure out how to fleece Riviera.”
“Haven’t we had this conversation before?”
Chapter Seventy-nine
Sergio Esparza was born near the famous Valenciana Silver Mine in Guanajuato, Mexico. The area later became one of the main pork-producing regions of the country. The local feed lots and processing plants were prime sources of employment and held the fate of many local men.
Sergio’s mother wanted him to finish school and go to college, but constant goading by friends—during which the issue of masculinity was raised—took its toll on young Sergio and he eventually took an entry level job with the Mexican Swine Confederation, the only game in town. During his orientation, he was led to believe that with his eight years of schooling, he had a bright future in pork.
But with NAFTA came cheap U.S. and Canadian pork imports, followed by a currency devaluation and increased costs of production that sent the Mexican pork industry into the tank. As the downward spiral continued, Sergio was forced to take jobs lower and lower on the industry chain, eventually ending in the slaughterhouse. His job was a gruesome education in violence, blood, and death. And although he was growing immune to the gore, he never did like it all that much, and one day, as they say, the axe just fell.
The slaughterhouse was shut down without warning, leaving Sergio and a hundred other men suddenly unemploy
ed and angry. Over shots of sugar cane liquor, there was a lot of talk about killing Mr. Garcia, the head of the Mexican Swine Confederation who ran off with the pension money. The betrayal left Sergio angrier than the rest. He sat and listened to all the macho declarations about killing Mr. Garcia but no one followed through. They were all talk. The same blowhards who had talked him into taking the goddamn job in the first place, talked him into believing he would rise in the ranks, they even talked him into buying a round for the boys.
Finally, Sergio decided he would do the talking. He stood and announced that if no one else had the cajones to kill Mr. Garcia, he would do it. He passed his hat and collected thirty-seven dollars. And for that sum, he carved the man into spare ribs and roasts and fed him to the pigs.
Since then Sergio had killed journalists and judges for drug lords. And he had killed drug lords for the Mexican government. He didn’t care who he killed as long as he got paid. So when Sergio Esparza heard there was a twenty-million-dollar contract on two gringos in Los Angeles, he packed an overnight bag and headed for the border.
Chapter Eighty
Winston Archer had not achieved his lofty ratings by sitting idly by, hoping for the best. As he liked to say when he spoke to his attorney and business manager: Hope is not a strategy.
Pragmatists that they were, Winston and his producer were enthusiastic proponents of audience research. They employed one of the nation’s most respected media research companies to do weekly testing to find out how they might reinforce the loyalty of their current audience and how they might expand to reach new listeners.
The most current research showed that Winston Archer’s audience was more interested in the events unfolding in Los Angeles than any other news story they tested. Further analysis of the data showed that taking the end-time angle offered their best chance to expand the audience.
“We already own 90 percent of the crowd that wants to hear these two guys are terrorists and traitors,” the producer said. “The data also suggests we can pick up three to five points and a few new markets if we give the bug story more of an end-time spin. What’s great is, we don’t run any risk of losing the pro-terror audience by focusing on the end of the world. Just remember to bring up 9/11 every now and then.”
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