by Mark Russell
She scrunched the silver foil into a ball and pegged it into the waste bin beside the vanity unit. She opened the bathroom door and rubbed her itching nose. She wanted action. More than anything she wanted to dance, drink and laugh in a loud nightclub that bathed its patrons in swirling lights. Bring it on, and then some. It was, after all, Friday night.
General Turner looked on impassively as Curtis Armstrong and his offsider climbed into the back of the van. Both men were in their thirties, heavyset, and wore long, front-belted trench coats. Armstrong's face was pale and taut like the skin of a weathered drum, and the thin knife-scar lining one of his cheeks did little to improve his rough and ready appearance.
Turner met Ex-Navy SEAL Armstrong in Vietnam after the Tet Offensive in '68. Both men were part of a joint CIA/DIA operation training Meo tribesmen to fight the Pathet Lao in Laos. Since that time the two had maintained a working relationship. Turner had last used Armstrong to eliminate a UNY physics student who'd constructed a primitive nuclear device from reprocessed uranium. The extremist Syrian student was prepared to sacrifice his life in order to detonate the bomb in Washington DC. Armstrong had willingly put a bullet in the back of the student's head.
'You were lucky to catch me at home, general. I was about to hit the town with Flip.' He gestured toward his fair-haired colleague. 'His brother-in-law's just opened a new Inner Harbor nightclub.'
'Well, you know me, Curtis. I'm always lucky.' Turner knew the mercenary didn't mind being called on short notice as he was always paid handsomely for his services. Each man loosened his trench coat and pulled out a submachine gun before hunkering down in the back of the van.
'So, who've you got for backup?' Armstrong de-shouldered a Lufthansa carry-on bag and dropped it at his feet. 'Not Guttierez and his mad-dog bunch of Cubans? What a bunch of spic losers.'
'Never mind, Curtis,' Turner said sharply. Actually he did have Guttierez's men as backup. The silver-haired general had known Pelayo Guttierez since the early sixties. Back then Turner and Guttierez (along with countless others) had wanted to bring down Fidel Castro at any cost. During that time Turner had used Guttierez's men to kill Miami-based agents informing Castro's intelligence service about JM/WAVE invasion schedules. Turner now used Guttierez's DC-based men for illegal operations like the one on hand.
'So what's your plan, general?' Armstrong asked, suddenly business-like.
Turner looked at the mercenary, noted his glassy eyes and shaking leg. Was Armstrong on drugs? But more importantly had he lost his edge? He'd never failed Turner before. But there was always a first time. It better not be tonight, Turner thought with a savage glint in his eye.
Goldman pushed the cassette-tape across the table. 'There you go, Rod. I'll get a player so you can listen to it.'
Haslow toyed despondently with his empty glass and gave the tape scant attention. 'Don't bother, Scott, I believe you. Jeez, I can see you're upset, you don't have to prove anything. God, it's one helluva story, and I must say you’ve definitely taken the edge off my evening.'
'Well, sorry about that, mate.' He dropped back in his seat. Looking towards the bathroom, he had a fair idea of what Belize was up to. Getting high, most likely. With a bit of luck it might make her less feistier, but he doubted it. He normally found her liveliness appealing, but tonight ... Well, the two of them were worlds apart. And he couldn't really blame her. He was hardly himself, not by any stretch of the imagination. It was definitely time to present a more sociable front to his guests.
Even so, he thought back to his unlikely tussle with Reid in the administration building. He hoped Reid wasn't too hurt from it. Again he pushed aside the unsettling notion of MPs or police officers turning up at his door tonight. He didn't think they would as he believed Reid's pride, more than anything else, had been hurt from the unfortunate episode. And he couldn't imagine Reid furthering his embarrassment with legal complaint.
Goldman shifted in his seat as he remembered something important: he'd stormed out of the computer room without shutting down the Milnet system. His console was still logged onto General Turner's private directory. Damn! He thumped his thigh and cursed under his breath. Hopefully Artarmon would fix the problem first thing Monday morning. Of the course the Cornell graduate would be pissed about it. But there was nothing else for it.
Undoubtedly some form of official retribution awaited Goldman when he turned up for work. But he couldn't think about it. Now he had to salvage what remained of his dinner party. It was time to pull himself together, to make something of the night, if not for himself then at least for his guests. Particularly Belize.
With a forced smile, Manuela returned to the table carrying the apricot cheesecake she'd bought from her local bakery. She placed the dairy-rich cake in the middle of the table, having moved the glowing candelabrum to one side. The cake sat on an ornate silver cake dish (which Goldman recognized as a wedding present from Rachel's brother). Manuela returned to the kitchen and came back with a cutting knife, four plates and dessert cutlery. After setting everything down on the table and straightening her dress, she turned to Goldman.
He gathered from her concerned look that she understood (by dint of her limited English) that he was upset over the death of his father. Goldman knew Belize and Manuela's father had died from pancreatic cancer a year before. Most likely she was empathetic to his loss.
She certainly seemed so. Instead of getting the brandy-flavoured cream from the fridge, Manuela stopped behind Goldman's chair. He sensed her closeness, smelt the faint insistence of her perfume, sensed her frustration at not being able to console him in her native tongue. 'Ah, Scott, let me help you, er, feel better.' Traces of her outgoing breath caressed his neck as she worked his rigid shoulder muscles with her determined fingers.
Manuela had enrolled in a Swedish massage course held in a community hall close to her Highlandtown house. She loved massaging, and in turn being massaged (unfortunately Belize didn't share her enthusiasm and wouldn't let Manuela practice on her; she just didn't like being touched by her sister). Eager to practice newly learned techniques, Manuela worked Goldman's shoulders. He didn't mind in the slightest. He exhaled loudly and allowed himself to be pampered by her skillful touch. Truth be told, it was exactly what he needed. After a minute or more, he felt indebted and reached up and stroked her olive wrist. He grinned sheepishly and was about to say “Hey, sorry guys for being such a party poop” when Belize entered the room.
Her fierce mood slashed the air like a sharpened scythe. The atmosphere darkened. Goldman could only imagine Belize's take on the situation. She'd come back from the bathroom (high on cocaine) only to find her sister massaging her boyfriend's shoulders. Only to see Goldman's warm expression as he caressed Manuela's wrist. Of course Goldman had been indifferent to Belize's charms for most of the evening, and his gray mood had hardly improved – until now. And now the night took a turn for the worse as Belize's drug-ravaged mood coalesced into a stream of anger directed at her sister.
'Hey, perra sucia, what are you doing?' she said. 'Get your hands off him!'
The blunt outburst was a catalyst. Manuela crashed back to earth from the light-headed high of the champagne. She pressed her full weight against Goldman, a hot-blooded defiance hardening her limbs. Trouble was afoot. A storm looked set to break.
'Get your hands off him,' Belize said.
Manuela locked eyes with her sister. Her hands remained on Goldman's shoulders. The chemist saw a whisker of blood under Belize's nose. Evidence of her indulgence in the bathroom. Cocaine and alcohol fuelling her confronting mood. In any case the air between the sisters thickened with tension. So much so Belize flexed her fingers and rushed forward with a shrill cry. Not lacking in response, Manuela also rushed forward. Dissension had brewed between the sisters for some time. They hadn't charged each other since cooped up in the crowded Marielisto refugee camp in Miami.
The warring siblings clashed between the dining table and the hallway leading to the bathroom. Goldma
n and Haslow were thunderstruck by the sudden turn of events. Belize struck a glancing blow to Manuela's cheek, before the stocky weight of her older sister bore down on her. Though the blow had slowed Manuela's advance, Belize nevertheless went flailing backward from a solid shunt to the chest. She collapsed against an imitation Ming Dynasty vase holding a cluster of dried bulrushes. The large Chinese vase broke apart and Belize landed on several fragments. The impacted bulrushes releasing a flurry of dead seeds.
Like a boxer egged on by ringside supporters, Belize was back on her feet and slogging at Manuela before Manuela could take stock of the damage she'd caused to the apartment's décor and to her sister's fiery pride. Hardly a time for contemplation, Manuela received a solid punch to the stomach. Goldman jumped up from the table and grabbed Belize's arm in mid-swing, thereby saving Manuela from a determined strike to the jaw.
'Stop it!' Goldman said. Haslow grabbed Manuela and moved her back to the dining table, desperate to defuse the hostility which had flared between the women. 'Stop it!' Goldman repeated. Belize struggled in his grip like a feral cat. He was well aware of his girlfriend's impulsive turns, but hadn't imagined the sisters capable of such explosive violence. Even so Belize gritted her teeth and reared for another round. Manuela sat slumped at the dining table, her bowed head on her folded arms, her sheeny black hair spilled against the base of the silver cake dish; all the while her frame shook from a succession of sobs.
As Goldman gripped his struggling girlfriend, he saw something out of place on the carpet. A small metal device attached to a shard that had been part of the upper-inside of the Chinese vase.
'What's that?' he asked largely to himself.
Haslow stepped closer and studied the device. 'Hmm, that looks like something I saw on Sixty Minutes recently. A segment about boardroom monitoring. It has the same little vents as this UHF bug that's all the craze now.'
Belize freed herself from Goldman's grip. She rubbed her wrists and looked with satisfaction at her sister's bowed and sobbing head. She brushed aside a frizzy lock of hair and turned toward the alien object unearthed from her confrontation with Manuela.
'I'll be damned.' Goldman picked up the shard and studied the compact monitoring device attached to it. A mild panic clutched his heart.
'Whoever planted it has probably heard and taped everything you've said tonight,' Haslow said in a low voice.
'And probably taped everything you've said tonight.' Goldman's pointed remark reminded Haslow of his earlier conversation about Kathy Bosco and the classified drug she'd administered to the Brazilian tribe. Haslow sighed and stared with renewed menace at the bug.
'Damn!' Goldman didn't doubt some government agency had planted the device. Anger grew inside him. Why couldn't they leave him alone? He peeled the metallic device from off the shard.
'You tonto imbecil!' Belize glared at her boyfriend and was again sated with fight. 'What have you dragged me and my sister into?'
'Silencio! Tu estupidio idiota!' Manuela cried out from the table. Belize wheeled about and flipped her finger. She was fired up and ready to take on all comers. Her sharp eyes spoke of a will for further contest. Without warning, she spun around and snatched the device from Goldman's hand.
She grabbed one of her shoes from near the door and returned to the living room, dropping the bug onto the carpet. She inverted her stylish black pump and hammered the bug with her shoe's stiletto heel; hitting it again and again, gritting her teeth and willing the small metal device to break apart.
But it didn't oblige her. With a swish of hair, the shapely Cuban exile looked about the room. She brightened upon seeing a set of dumbbells beside the record player. She grabbed one of the five-kilogram weights, stood over the unearthed bug, and dropped the weight from chest level. There was a crunch of metal before the deep thud of the dumbbell striking the carpeted floor.
EIGHTEEN
Turner pulled off his headphones after two recording meters on the instrument panel went dead. 'Show time, gentlemen.' He cut a grave figure on the van's stool. 'Go into apartment six and get the goddamn cassette-tape. With any luck it should be on the dining table. It'll have a United States Government label on it. Remember, get the goddamn tape before sending the sisters out, that'll give us time to get away before they contact police.'
'Understood.' Armstrong grabbed his Lufthansa carry-on bag and MP5 submachine gun.
'Damn, I almost forgot.' Turner reached into his parka and pulled out a plastic package the size of a luncheon sausage. Using a handkerchief, he wiped his fingerprints from off the taped-together package. 'Here, put this in your bag.'
Armstrong grabbed the proffered MPA and did just that.
'Leave it in the apartment along with everything else you bought.'
'Okay, Mister General,' Armstrong jibed. His round eyes gleamed like polished stone, and again Turner wondered if the mercenary was on drugs.
'Don't fuck this up Curtis. It's very important.'
'Isn't it always, Alex.'
The general chuckled darkly and reached into his knapsack on the floor. He pulled out a grey plastic walkie-talkie. 'Here, take this so we can stay in contact.'
'Ah, come on, Alex. Where'd you get that? From your grandson's playpen?' Armstrong winked cockily at his crouched offsider.
'Just take it, I want to know if anything unforeseen crops up in there.'
'General, please. They're just a couple of chemists.'
'Apparently Goldman is versed in martial arts.'
'Jesus Christ, if you knew how many Chop Suey types I've popped in my time.' Armstrong rolled his eyes in a predatory manner.
'Just take it,' Turner barked, jabbing the radio at him. 'It's pre-tuned to mine.'
'Okay, okay, let's get this crummy show on the road then.' Armstrong grabbed the walkie-talkie and paused. His eyes narrowed and he ran a fingertip along the knife-scar on his cheek. 'Sure you don't want us to rough up the ladies, or anything?'
'For God's sake, no! Just send them out. Once they drive off, I'll call for the backup units. Radio me when you're about to bring the chemists down and I'll have cars pull up out front. Just get the chemists into the goddamn vehicles.'
Armstrong nodded and studied the walkie-talkie's controls. He put the radio in his trench coat, nudged his offsider and pointed to the van's back door. 'This won't take long, general. Apartment six, right?'
'Number six. And don't mention my name, we want the women to think you're part of a criminal drug-ring. Just make sure you get the goddamn cassette-tape!'
'Okay, Alex. Jesus!' Armstrong shook his head as if trying to dislodge Turner's overpowering voice. After the briefest of nods, he clambered from the van, bag and gun in hand. Cold night air struck the general's leathery face before the backdoor shut. Turner hunched forward on the stool, plowing again through each detail of his hastily prepared plan.
After releasing the Cuban sisters, Armstrong would plant MPA, amphetamine and a bundle of cash in Goldman's apartment, and more of the same in Haslow's house once the chemists' bodies were weighted down in a watery grave at the bottom of Chesapeake Bay. Earlier in the evening, Turner had authorized a 100 grams of MPA from Silverwood Centre's stores, while Armstrong had raided his own supply of amphetamine and cash for the venture (Turner would reimburse the mercenary, dollarwise, for what he'd contributed to the last-minute venture).
General Turner would get technicians at the Defence Intelligence Analysis Centre to splice together parts of conversation at Goldman's dinner party. Namely the part where Goldman admitted smuggling MPA from out of his workplace; and the part where Haslow admitted giving a woman-friend a classified drug formula. The legal recordings would further Turner's claim the chemists were suspected of selling classified drugs on the black market, as well as illegally making amphetamine at their workplace.
Truth be told, Belize Cheraz was responsible for the audio-surveillance of Goldman's residence. After a weekend stay-over at Scott's, Belize gave MPA capsules to her workmate Sandra
Gonzalez. Gonzalez was a twenty-three year old party hound who dealt drugs on the side to maintain her indulgent lifestyle. Shortly after getting the capsules, Gonzalez was busted for cocaine and marijuana. The young woman had been sly enough to cover Belize's ass from the law, but not sufficiently on top of things to steer attention away from the gelatin capsules found inside the Nepalese jewellry box atop her hand-me-down television (Gonzalez had just finished smoking Hawaiian kush before the unexpected knock on her door). She'd told the DEA agents crowding her low-rent drug pad that the crystalline powder had come from some army lab. Well, so she'd been told by “... this hot-looking guy who came on to me in Secret Hours. You haven't heard of it? It's a new nightclub on Sixth and ...”
The DEA handed the capsules over to the army for analysis. The DIA pegged contract-chemist Scott Goldman as the likely source of supply. Instead of questioning the chemist outright, they opted to monitor his home and phone to learn what threat he posed.
Now, huddled in the van, Turner believed the Cuban sisters' statements to police would only back the premise the Silverwood chemists had got in over their heads with a dangerous drug-ring. Turner was confident the sisters would prove too inarticulate to convince authorities of another scenario. He was also confident the Towson apartment would be empty by the time police arrived. Turner didn't want the chemists' bodies found as a missing persons investigation would be far less rigorous than a double-murder investigation. The chemists would be missed at first, particularly at their workplace, but Turner was confident the cover story would hold.
In any case, Turner knew the chemists were expendable in more ways than one. Aware of new shifts in neuroscience, the military was outsourcing research work to civilian laboratories. Detailed topographical maps of the human brain were coming to light. Large doses of synthetic molecules derived from 2-oxo-pyrrolidone carboxylic acid had opened up new realms of cognitive and emotive enhancement. The “fight or flight” neurotransmitter noradrenalin could be controlled or disengaged with drugs like Propranol, making the drugged subject vulnerable to outside influence. Turner knew about this and more from a report outlining military applications in this promising new field of pharmacology.
