Combat

by Stephen Coonts

  “Pliers,” I said, and she grunted assent. “Somebody wanted something out of him. But how could pulling out fingernails be lethal,” I asked, shuddering by reflex as I tried to imagine the agony of my close friend, a friend who had originally hired me for physical backup. Fat lot of good I had done him … .

  The tech didn’t answer until she glanced at Dana, who nodded without a word. “Barring a coronary, it couldn’t. But repeated zaps of a hundred thousand volts will give you that coronary. Zappers that powerful are illegal, but I believe Indonesian riot control used them for a while. The fingernails told me to look for something else. Nipples, privates, lips, other sites densely packed with nerve endings.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” I said. She was implying torture by people who were good at it, and I lacked the objectivity to view the evidence.

  “But that’s not where I found the trauma,” said the tech. “It showed up as electrical burn marks in a half dozen places where a pair of contact points had been pressed at the base of the skull, under the hair. Not too hard to locate if you know what you’re looking for. The brain stem handles your most basic life support; breathing, that sort of thing. Electrocute it hard, several times, and it’s all over.”

  “It’s not over,” I growled.

  “It is for him,” the woman said, then looked into my eyes and blinked at whatever she saw. “Got it,” she mumbled, going back to her work.

  “Under the circumstances,” Dana said, not unkindly, “you may want to break this one off without prejudice. Even though there may be no connection between this and the particular case you’re working. Quentin had other active cases, and we know he’s not above working two at once, don’t we?”

  “I resent that word ‘above.’ We also know how we’d bet, if we were betting,” I said.

  “You are betting, Rackham. And stakes don’t go much higher than this.”

  Neither of us could have dreamed how wrong she was, but I could dream about avenging my pal. I said, “I’m feeling lucky. Where’s that Loc-8 with the analyzer? I’ll learn to use it by tomorrow. Maybe Norm Goldman can divert some people’s attention. He’ll be with me.”

  She said she’d be glad to, if she knew where it was. “It might be in Quentin’s Volvo; the Richmond force is on it, too. It could turn up at any time,” she said.

  She led me out of the van again and into its nightshadow. “There’s not much point in going aboard that ship until we find you an analyzer. Preferably the one Quent had. Don’t contact Goldman’s people again until we do.”

  “He might call me. We hit it off pretty well, and he could be an asset,” I said.

  “He may be, at that,” she said as if to herself, then sighed and shifted her mental gears with an almost audible clash. “You may as well go home, there’s nothing you can do here. I called you in only because I knew you two were close.” A pause. “You’d have told me if Quentin had called you tonight. Wouldn’t you?”

  “About what?”

  “About anything. Answer my question,” she demanded.

  Before that tart riposte was fully out of her mouth I said, “Of course I’d tell you! What is this, anyway?” When she only shook her head, I went on, “I kept my phone on me at all times because I kept hoping he’d call. I was getting uncomfortable because, normally, he’d have called just for routine’s sake. I called him a couple of times, that’s easy enough for you to check. I’d like to know where you’re going with this.”

  “So you don’t feel just a touch of, well, like you’d let him down, left him waiting? A little guilty?”

  Her tone was gentle. In another woman I might’ve called it wheedling. And that told me a lot. “Goddamned right I feel guilty! I did let him down, but not because I put him off when he called. He never called, Martin. Why don’t you just say ‘dereliction of duty’ and be done with it? And be glad you’re half my size when you say it.”

  I turned and stalked off before she could make me any madder, wondering how I was going to get any sleep, wishing Quent had called in so I’d know where he’d gone. Wishing I had that Loc-8 so I’d have a reason to go aboard the Ras Ormara. And suddenly I realized how important it was that I find the gadget for its everyday use. Hadn’t Dana said she’d be glad to lend me the damn thing if she knew where it was?

  I was pretty sure where it would be: in the breakaway panel of the driver’s side door in the Volvo. Quent had padded the pocket so he could keep a sidearm or special evidence of a case literally at hand.

  But the Volvo was missing. If it were downtown, it should already have been spotted. If it was a Fed priority, the Highway Patrol would have picked it up five minutes after it hit a freeway. Very likely someone had hidden it, maybe after using it to dump poor Quent along Used Car Row. Maybe it was in the bay. Maybe parked in a quiet neighborhood, where it might not be noticed for a day or so. Maybe in a chop shop someplace, already being dismantled for parts for other used cars … .

  Used Car Row! What better place to dump an upscale used car? I fired up my Toyota and drove slowly past the nearest lot, noting that a steel cable stretched at thigh height from light pole to light pole, with cars parked so that no one could cruise through the lot or hot-wire a heap and cruise out with it. Or dump a stolen car there.

  Several long blocks later I lucked out, not in a car lot but at the end of a row of cars outside a body-and-fender shop. I hadn’t remembered the license; it was that inside rearview of Quent’s that stretched halfway across the windshield just like mine did, one of those aftermarket gimmicks every P.I. needs during a stakeout or traffic surveillance.

  Pulling on gloves, I parked the pickup out of sight and flicked my pocket flash against the Volvo’s steering column. The keys were in the ignition. Knowing Quent as I did, I avoided touching the door plate. In fact, though the racket should have brought every cop in town, I didn’t touch the car until, on my fourth try, the old bent wheel rim I’d scrounged managed to cave in the driver’s side window, scattering little cubes of glass everywhere.

  By that time the alarm’s threep, threep, whooeeeet, wheeeoot parodied a mockingbird from hell and for about thirty seconds I expected to see gentlemen of the public safety persuasion descending on the scene. Only after I got the keys out and unlocked the driver’s side door did the alarm run out of birdseed and blessed silence overtook the place once more.

  Fed forensics are better than most folks think, so while I intended to tell Dana what I’d done, I wanted it to be at a time of my choosing. That’s why I didn’t climb inside the car. I just opened the driver’s door and checked the spring-loaded door panel.

  And good old Quent, following his procedures as always, had squirreled away the Feds’ tricky little Loc-8 right where it would be handy, and whoever had left the Volvo there hadn’t suspected the breakaway panel. I pocketed the gadget, left the keys in the ignition again, and drove like a sober citizen back to the freeway and home. I could hardly wait to check out the Loc-8’s memory. Every centimeter of its movements through the whole evening would have been recorded-unless Quent or someone else had erased it.

  The normal functions of the Loc-8’s little screen hadn’t been compromised, so I was able to scroll through its travels beginning with Quent’s departure from the Sunnyvale lab early in the evening. I brewed strong java and sipped as I made longhand notes with pen on paper at my kitchen table. Say what you will about old-fashioned methods, nothing helps me assemble thoughts like notes on paper.

  Quent had driven back via the Bay Bridge to Richmond at his ordinary sedate pace, and the Volvo had stopped for two minutes or so halfway down a block in the neighborhood where he had spoken earlier in the day with the so-called machinist. If he hadn’t found a parking slot, I guessed he had double-parked.

  Next he had driven half a mile, and here the Loc-8 had stayed for over an hour. At max magnification it showed he must have used a parking lot because the Volvo had been well off the street. I noted the location so I could interview the parking atten
dant, if any. From the locale, I figured Quent had been cruising the ethnic bars and game palaces, maybe looking for our missing engineer or, still more likely, the machinist’s roomie. Then the car had left its spot, found the freeway, and headed south through Oakland to the Alameda, not in any special hurry.

  But when the Volvo’s trail traversed a long block for the second time, I checked the intersections. There was no mistake: Quent had circled the Sonmiani offices a couple of times, then parked in an adjacent alleyway, the same one Norm used for his Porsche as access to the garage entrance of the first-floor offices. As well as I could recall, I hadn’t been gone from there long when Quent arrived to do his usual careful survey of the whole layout before committing himself. That would fit if he’d intended to meet someone like Mike Kaplan or the other guy I hadn’t met—Meltzer. Someone whose phone number he didn’t have. Maybe he had been confident I was still there.

  But if he had been trying to contact me, why hadn’t he just grabbed his phone? Obviously he hadn’t thought it was necessary. That meant he wasn’t worried about his safety, because Quent had told me up front that he’d rented me, as it were, by the pound of gristle. And, like most P.I.s, Quent worked on the premise that discretion was the better part, et cetera. The P.I. species is often bred from insurance investigators, a few lawyers, ex-military types, and ex-cops. Guess which ones are most willing to throw discretion in the dumper … .

  Despite the lateness of the hour, my first impulse was to call Norm and ask him a few questions about what, or whom, Quent might have met there. But what would he know? He’d been tailgating me out past Mt. Diablo at that time. Another thing: Nearing my place I had called Quent to no avail. Had he gone inside by then? Or he could have met someone in another car. Illegal entry wasn’t Quent’s style. I decided that if he had been looking for me, he’d have called before parking there. The car had stayed there for about five minutes and then its location cursor virtually disappeared, but not quite. With its signal greatly diminished, it said the Volvo had been driven into Norm’s garage. There it had stayed for about an hour.

  Then when the cursor suddenly appeared with a strong satellite signal, the Volvo went squirting through the Alameda as if someone were chasing it. It would’ve been dark by then as the cursor traced its way up the Nimitz Freeway to the Eastshore route, taking a turnoff near Richmond. I was feeling prickly heat as I keyed the screen back and forth between real time and fast-forward, because in real time Quent never drove with that kind of vigor.

  I concluded he hadn’t been driving by then. The Volvo had gone some distance up Wildcat Canyon near Richmond’s outskirts, now driving more slowly, at times too slowly, then picking up the pace as it turned back toward the commercial district. There was no doubt in my mind where this jaunt would end, and for once I nailed it. The Volvo sizzled past the spot where a chalk outline now climbed a boulevard curb, turned off the main drag, and doubled back and forth on a service road before it stopped. The site was approximately where I had found the Volvo.

  The screen said more than two hours passed before the cursor headed toward my place, duly recording the moment when I stole the gadget—recovered it, I mean; Dana had clearly said she wished she could lend it to me. Had she been lying? Probably, but it didn’t matter. I had the gimmicked Loc-8 and I had time to fiddle with its hidden functions, having watched while Dana showed another one off while sitting on a park bench between me and Quent.

  And I had something else: a cold hard knot of certainty that someone working for my new friend Norm Goldman was no friend of Quent’s. Or of mine.

  Four

  I did sleep, after all. Worry keeps me awake but firm resolve has a way of grinding worry underfoot. I woke up mad as hell before I even remembered why, and then I sat on the edge of my bed and shed the tears I never let anyone see.

  Then I dressed for a tour of the Ras Ormara. I’m told that the Cheyennes used to gather before a war party and ritually purge their bellies. They believed it sharpened their hunting instincts, and I know for a fact that if you expect a reasonable likelihood of serious injury, your chances of surviving surgery are better on an empty stomach. For breakfast I brewed tea, and nothing else, in memory of my friend.

  Around nine, I called Norm Goldman and asked if my visit was on. He said yes, and asked if my Korean boss would be coming, too. I told him I hadn’t been able to raise Quent, before I realized the grisly double entendre of my reply. We agreed to meet at the slip at ten-thirty. I went downstairs and made a weapons check. Assuming the guys who took Quent down were connected with the ship—and I did assume it—somehow it just seemed a natural progression for them to make a run on me on what was their turf. Especially if Quent, in his agony, had admitted who was running the two of us.

  I ignored my phone’s bleat because its readout didn’t identify the caller and there was no message, and I figured it might be my Feebie boss with new orders I didn’t want to follow.

  With my StudyChick in one jacket pocket, the Loc-8 in the other, my Glock auto in its breakaway Bianchi against my left armpit and the ex-Bobby Rooney derringer taped into the hollow of my right armpit, I felt like the six-million-gadget man. My phone chortled at me as I drove into town. Still no ident for the caller, and I didn’t reply, but this time there was a message and it was clearly Dana’s voice on the messager.

  She was careful with her phrasing. “The car’s been found, but not our property. Whoever has it is asking for a grand theft indictment. But the real news is, someone with political pull back East has complained at ministerial level about the, and I quote, unconscionable interference with Pacific Rim commerce. We’re now obeying a new directive. Absent some solid evidence of illegal activity by the maritime entity—and nothing ironclad is present—we’re terminating the operation. Of course last night’s felony will be pursued by the metro force.

  “I want you to report to me immediately. After what’s happened, it makes me nervous not to know whether you’re still pursuing the operation. If I knew, it would probably make me even more nervous. Just ask yourself how much your license is worth.” No cheery good-byes, no nothing else.

  I wanted to answer that last one, though not enough to call her back. While my license was worth a lot to me, it wasn’t worth Quentin Kim’s life. She might not know it, but I could make a decent living as a temp working under someone else’s license. If Dana Martin’s people dropped out, whatever the Richmond homicide detail found they’d almost certainly discover that their suspects had sailed on the Ras Ormara. Good luck, Sergeant, here’s a ticket to Pusan and the damnedest bilingual dictionary you ever saw …

  I played the recording back again, trying to listen between the lines. If Dana had been thinking how her message would sound when replayed for her local SAC, she’d have said just about what she did say. Did she suspect the Volvo’s window had been busted by clumsy ol’ Harve, who had the Loc-8 and was now en route to the docks? If so, she evidently wasn’t going to share that suspicion with her office.

  She had also made it plain that I’d have bupkis for backup, leaving an implication that until I got her message, I was still on the case. Or I could just be reading into it what I wanted to read.

  What I wanted to read at the moment were my notes, not an easy task in what had now become city traffic.

  With twenty minutes to burn, I pulled over beside a warehouse near the wharf and scrolled over my notes hoping to identify the next cargo. The stuff Sonmiani wanted to load was something called paraglycidyl ether, a resin thinner. Quent had checked a hazmat book on the off chance that it might be really hazardous material.

  The classic historic screwup along that line had been the burning shipload of ammonium nitrate in 1947 that was identified only by its actual intended use as fertilizer. However, Quent had found that this cargo wasn’t a very mean puppy though it was flammable; certainly not like the old ethyl ether that puts your lights out after a few sniffs.

  When I checked the manufacturing location I found that the
liquid was synthesized right there, not merely there in Richmond but in one of the fenced-off chemical plants with an address off the boulevard facing me. I drove on and found a maze of chemical processing towers, reactor tanks, pipes, and catwalks a half mile past the Ras Ormara. A gate was open to accept a whopping big diesel Freightliner rig that was backing in among the storage tanks, carrying smaller tanks of its own like grain hoppers. For a moment I thought the driver would bend a yellow guide barrier of welded pipe and wipe out the prefab plastic shed that stood within inches of the pipe. Near the shed stood a vertically aligned bank of bright red tanks the size of torpedoes. I recognized the color coding, and I didn’t want to be anywhere near if that shed got graunched.

  The driver stopped in time, though. He was no expert, concentrating on operating his rearview video instead of using a stooge to damned well direct him, and I thought he looked straight at me when he was only concentrating on an external mirror directly in front of him. He didn’t see me any more than he would’ve seen a gull in the far background.

  It was Mike Kaplan.

  I couldn’t be wrong about that. Same caricature of a beak, same severe brush cut and intense features. And why shouldn’t it be him? Okay, using a desk jockey to drive a rig might be unusual, and I had thought Kaplan was slated to take the ship tour with me. But if the Federected barriers to Pacific Rim commerce had come tumbling down during the morning as Dana claimed, an aggressive bunch of local reps might be pitching in to make up for lost time.

  I wondered what, if anything, Kaplan might be able to tell me about what had happened in that office building early on the previous night. He had left before Norm and I did, but how did I know when he had come back? The third guy—Seltzer? Meltzer!—was one I hadn’t met, but without any positive evidence I had already made a tentative reservation for him on my shit list.