by Chuck Logan
“Maybe.”
“Mind if I come along?”
Gordy shot a wary look at Nina in the other room, took a pen from his chest pocket, and wrote “9 P.M.., here” on a notepad. Then he tore the paper in half, then in quarters, and tossed it in the trash can behind the bar.
Dale nodded and started for the door. As he left the bar he sang out, “Be seeing you, Nina…”
Chapter Twenty
“She calls herself Nina Pryce. Red hair, mid-thirties, and she’s competent. I don’t think she’s a cop. More like government. Maybe military.”
“How can you tell?” the Mole said into the telephone receiver.
“The way she watches things, the way she moves. Trust me on this. And then there’s her alleged husband…”
“Forget the husband, there are already too many distractions.”
“I’m just saying—”
“No, stay on plan, you understand?”
“Okay. But this is taking a funny bounce, the way she’s coming on to Ace, pretending to have drinking problem, marriage problems. Point is, they are definitely here.”
As the Mole listened, his eyes traveled across the deserted truck stop and fixed on the word CLOSED written in soap on the empty diner windows. Closed. Out of business. The end. Now they would be out of business if he didn’t act.
“We’ll see how it goes tonight,” the Mole said.
“You’re taking a big risk, cousin.”
“We’re after a big jackpot. You just get our friend out of there.”
“It won’t be easy. We’ve created some kind of monster. He’s getting harder to control. We might have to put him down and let it all go.”
“No. We’re almost there. Stick to the plan. We’ll get rid of him when it’s all over,” the Mole said. The calmness of his voice was at odds with the violence with which he slammed the phone down on the hook. Immediately he regretted the show of anger. The man he’d been talking to was family, a distant cousin who handled the Canadian end of the smuggling network. Now his cousin was having doubts, and the moment he decided the plan was losing its wheels, he would likely disappear back to Canada.
Shit. The Mole clenched his fists. He’d been too long out of play. His method of recruiting the American had been flawed, and now it had backfired.
Damn, it had all been so perfect.
At first, he had just agreed to smuggle Rashid’s shipment and had brought in his cousin for extra security. They’d met with Rashid to finalize the deal and lingered over coffee. Rashid revealed the depth of his background check. He knew that twenty years earlier the Mole had trained with the group that went on to hit the Marine barracks in Beirut. That he had been diverted from the front lines for this lonely work in America.
Rashid politely wondered if years spent living in the suburbs quietly smuggling drugs to finance Hamas and Hezbollah might have eroded his commitment to killing Americans.
“Try me,” the Mole said.
Some testing back and forth ensued. It was established that the Mole had been trained in the bombmaker’s art and that the contraband being negotiated was explosives. Not long after that, and after he’d made reference to jihad three times, Rashid confided that, yes, he was associated with Al Qaeda. But he was no zealot, he insisted. And being a practical man, he was willing to contract out work; especially in the current security environment.
Which was fine, because while the Mole and his cousin paid lip service to the Cause, basically their background was rooted in the criminal underbelly of the movement in the Bekáa Valley. They preferred their politics heavily flavored with money.
Then they returned to North Dakota to case the specific smuggling route for Rashid’s Semtex. That’s when they were found out by the strange American. The easy solution would have been to kill him on the spot. Instead they let him talk. In the man’s desperate babble the Mole discerned the essence of a plan that could dwarf the 9/11 attack.
The American understood he was in dangerous company. Instead of being intimidated, this fact encouraged him to talk freely, ultimately revealing his secret desires. It was, the Mole perceived, a marriage made in hell. In the end, they agreed to an exchange of favors. The American wanted to kill three people. But the Mole figured that three million dollars deposited in a Danish bank would be a fair price for the project he now envisioned. After thinking it through, he’d traveled to Detroit and sat down for coffee with Rashid a second time.
He told Rashid: “Your organization is under a lot of stress right now. It’s gotta be difficult to mount a large operation in the States. I, however, can offer you one-stop shopping.”
Rashid said, “Explain one-stop shopping.”
“None of your people would be involved,” the Mole began. “Just give me the ton of explosives you have in Canada. I’ll build the weapon and position it and execute the attack. If I succeed, you pay me three million dollars.”
“That’s a lot of money. What do you intend to attack?” Rashid asked.
The Mole explained the kind of target he had in mind, but not the specific location.
Rashid’s coffee cup trembled slightly in his fingers and he leaned closer. “What exactly is the weapon?”
The Mole briefed him with the aid of some photos and several pages of detailed diagrams.
Rashid licked his lips. “But how would you get inside?”
So the Mole told him.
Rashid leaned closer, thought for a moment, then whispered, “God in heaven. This could work.”
Eventually someone in a cave on the Afghan-Pakistan border thought so, too, and the deal was struck. Now, after a lot of work and a bit of luck, the weapon was in place. The Mole had his passport in his pocket, along with an airline ticket to Copenhagen.
He looked up into the clouds with a pained expression as a sprinkle of raindrops dotted his windshield. Please, no more rain. Forget the rain. He had other things to worry about. Like their “friend.” They had set him up for his first kill, thinking that by taping the crime they could always blackmail him if they sensed him slipping outside their control. The opposite proved true. He couldn’t get enough of the tape. Now he wanted more.
But first they had to get through tonight.
Chapter Twenty-one
Broker and Kit watched the blue single-engine Piper Saratoga II HP cruise the Langdon strip at 500 feet then go into a standard landing pattern: flying counterclockwise, making a series of left turns around the strip, and finally lining up on approach and setting down. When the prop stopped moving, two men emerged: Doc Harris, the pilot, and Lyle Torgeson, a Cook County deputy. They greeted Kit and shook hands with Broker.
Harris, a tanned, well-preserved seventy, a retired general surgeon, asked Broker about his hand. Broker lied and said it was no problem. Lyle said, “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what’s going on here? Your mom had us lined up to pick up Kit before you called.”
Broker just smiled, clapped Lyle on the shoulder, and said, “I really appreciate this.”
Lyle said, “I figured that’s about all you’d say. Watch yourself.”
Kit, still in a huff from their minor tiff leaving Shuster’s equipment shed, remained distant and stoic. Broker wondered if she’d acquired the old army trick of picking a fight with loved ones before shipping out, to make the parting easier. But climbing into the small door aft of the wing, she turned and grabbed him in a bear hug and he had to pry her arms from around his neck as she shouted, “I want you and Mommy to come home together.”
Then she climbed into the plane, pressed her face up against a passenger window, and nagged him with her teared-up eyes. The prop revved up but the engine noise didn’t quite drown out the echo of her words.
Broker’s marching orders were getting more complicated.
Then the plane taxied down the strip and flew away. Kit’s face, framed in an aircraft window, faded into a blur as Doc climbed and banked east.
Broker stood awhile watching the plane disappear. He reminde
d himself that the Saratoga was a first-class high-performance aircraft. And that Doc Harris was a veteran pilot. But as he walked back to the Ford he was mindful of the moody clouds hanging overhead. And that JFK Jr. had taken his last flight in a Piper Saratoga.
He got in the Ford, pulled up to the highway, and looked right and then left. The entry road to the airstrip was about 300 yards from the bar and the equipment shed. He could just make out Dale Shuster and another guy walking across the highway and going into the bar.
Broker had dismissed Kit’s strange comment about Dale Shuster’s toilet, but he’d noticed something else at the shed that got him thinking. So he decided to pay another visit. Making no attempt to hide his approach, he drove down the highway and pulled into the weedy lot in front of the shed. There were two vehicles in the lot, both pretty beat up—a Grand Prix with a filthy windshield and a brown Chevy van.
Okay, he thought as he got out of his truck, so I’m being a little obvious. He threw a glance across the road at the bar’s brick facade. Maybe he wouldn’t mind a rematch with that Gordy guy.
Broker walked around the back of the shed to where the lone piece of earth-moving equipment was parked. Something about the Deere had caught his attention: on the left rear end, one of the counterweights was missing. A solid hunk of yellow cast iron two feet square, six inches deep, and weighing perhaps 500 pounds, a counterweight was the ultimate blunt object. Huge bolts held it to the machine’s frame. Its purpose was to offset the load in the bucket. It was not something that got damaged under normal use.
Broker cocked his ear when he heard a motor start. He peeked around the edge of the shed and saw the brown van pull onto the highway, caught a glimpse of the driver—the scarred-up dude he’d seen with Dale Shuster this morning. The van accelerated back toward town. He waited a few moments, heard nothing else, and moved off ten yards into the damp weeds along the side of the shed. Looked around to get his bearings. Right about here he’d seen a flash of yellow on his first visit. The ground was disturbed, dug up and refilled. Okay. He moved deeper in the weeds and found it. A corner of yellow cast iron peeked from the ground. The rain had washed away the top layer of dirt.
Broker stooped and rapped his knuckle against the dense iron. Now who in the hell would bury a counterweight? He got up, walked back to the Deere front-loader, and began to study it like a puzzle.
“Morning,” a voice said behind him.
Broker turned and saw the husky deputy—Jim Yeager—watching him. Yeager was in uniform, tan over brown.
“Hi,” Broker said.
“What’s up?” Yeager asked.
Broker held up a red Bic lighter. “Was by here earlier looking at this Deere. Dropped my lighter. Just found it.”
“Uh-huh,” Yeager said. “Mr. Broker, would you mind following me into town?” Polite but firm.
“I could do that,” Broker said. He walked back to his truck, pressed the lock remote, opened the door, and got in. As he turned the key in the ignition, he instinctively checked under the seat with his left hand.
Shit. After a fast inspection he noticed his window open a crack. And now the badge and gun were missing. Yeager? The brown van? Okay, so it was getting tricky.
Broker decided not to mention the missing pistol and badge as he followed Yeager back to town. He’d just watch and see if Yeager gave anything away. He pulled into the parking area in front of the motel, next to Yeager’s Crown Vic. Yeager got out and leaned against the cruiser’s front fender, hatless, smoking a Marlboro Light that looked like a white straw in his thick fingers. He could have got those arms lifting free weights, but you don’t lift iron for hours on end. Throwing hay bales, more likely.
“It’s Yeager, right?” Broker said.
“Yeah.” Yeager took a drag, exhaled. The steady breeze bled the smoke from his nose and mouth. “Kinda figured you’d be on that plane that took off.” Inhale, hold, exhale. “Guess not.”
Broker did his best to look attentive. He pointed to the Explorer and said, “I’ll be driving.”
“When?” Yeager asked.
Broker mugged a tight smile, looked away.
Yeager was mellow, totally relaxed. He was, after all, completely in control here. He raised his chin inquiringly. “So how’s the hand? Heard you tagged Ace Shuster with a left. Musta smarted some.”
“Some.”
“Uh-huh. And I noticed that you and the little girl dropped in on Dale Shuster this morning. I don’t think he’s going to sell that old Deere, do you?”
“Not likely,” Broker said.
Yeager looked away for several seconds. “You know, there’s this Air Force radar base east of town. Real sophisticated stuff. Tracks all the space junk, is what they say. Can spot a beer can at eight hundred miles.”
“Really.”
“Really. Got private security, though. Local guys man the gate. They stay on orange alert there. The rest of the country is on yellow. But they know what’s going on, and one of them tells me this helicopter showed up last night. One of those Black Hawks, like in that movie that just come out.” Yeager paused and watched Broker’s face for a reaction.
“No shit,” Broker said.
“No shit. The story is, the chopper was en route to Grand Forks on a routine flight and had to stop for minor mechanical repairs. Six guys plus the crew. ’Cept they all wear civilian clothes and keep strictly to themselves. This guy told me four of them are, like, in real good shape. Regular animals. The other two are kinda nerdy looking. Just hanging out, playing basketball next to the hanger. Thought you might be interested.”
“Well, maybe they just had minor mechanical trouble.”
“Yeah, probably. Another thing…Your wife? Nina?
“Yeah…”
Yeager watched him come forward through his cool act, alert.
“Yeah, well, thing is…Her and that Jane Singer”—Yeager hooked his fingers, making air quotes—“the overt lesbian? Army doesn’t know anything about them. Where they are. What they’re doing in North Dakota. Said they’ll get back to us.”
Broker smiled his unhappy smile.
Yeager went on talking in a steady, friendly voice. “And the old guy in the beach shirt who was hanging around the swimming pool when you showed up?”
“You been following me, Deputy Yeager?”
Yeager shrugged and smiled. “Not me.”
“Somebody else maybe?”
“Maybe. Well, after Jane checked out of the Motor Inn yesterday, the old dude drove out of town behind her. Just take a wild-ass guess where they spent last night.”
Broker stared at him.
Yeager smiled. “My buddy the security guard at the radar site heard that Jane has a mean hook shot.”
Broker saw that Yeager wasn’t going away. So, effectively agreeing to dance, he said as much. “You ain’t going away, are you, Yeager?”
“Hey, Broker, I live here. See—after the spooks and the black helicopters and the feds finish creepy-crawling around and have their moment, then they’ll leave.” Yeager studied the coal of his cigarette, put it back between his lips, and calmly placed his hands on his hips. “Then, well…I’m still here in this county. Me and, basically, three other guys.”
Broker withdrew the tinfoil pouch of Sweets from his back pocket, dug out one of the rough wraps, put it in his mouth, and waited while Yeager took out an old-fashioned Zippo and thumbed the wheel.
Broker puffed until he was lit and then pointed at the lighter. Yeager handed it to him. The case was nicked and rubbed smooth. Ditto the brass eagle, anchor, and globe on the side. Under the Marine insignia there were just two engraved words, one almost faded away, one newer:
IWO
BEIRUT
Yeager said, “My dad gave it to me when I went into the crotch. I had it in the ’Ruit in ’83.”
“The barracks?” Broker handed the Zippo back.
“I was on detail, hauling ash and trash, about a mile away when it blew. Three other guys in my room—th
ey never found enough to fill one body bag.” Yeager paused, thumbed his smoke, set his jaw. “Nineteen years old. I handled a whole lot of dead bodies the next couple days. How many dead people you touched in your life, Broker?”
Broker looked past Yeager, scanning the scrolls of clouds that filled the sky, as if he’d find a list of instructions spelled out. Damn.
Yeager, ever patient, watched the wheels revolving in Broker’s eyes. “Okay. Tell you what. Instead of just standing around looking out of place, why don’t you hop in my cruiser and let me show you around. I’ll do all the talking. You just listen. Then, later, if you want to talk or get ahold of me—like, if something were to happen…” Yeager heaved his shoulders, let them drop.
“What the hell,” Broker said. The more he saw of Yeager, the more sure he was that it was the guy, the one in the van, who broke into his truck. Deal with that later.
“Get in. Your Ford’ll be just fine here.”
Broker got in, looked around. “No computer.”
“Nope, we got us a time warp going here when it comes to budget. So it’s old-style. Just the radar and the radio.”
They were easing east on 5 and came up to the flashing red stop. Yeager hung a left, looked across the seat. “So when’s the last time you worked patrol?”
“Jesus. Hadda be the eighties.”
“Goddamn. And I thought I was old. Things have changed, huh?” He paused. “Not here, maybe.”
Broker wished he still had Kit because the fields started to roll out like a scene from the Wizard of Oz, all green and yellow. Swirls of blue. Dizzy with the heat. But no contour to the crops. Flat.
“Yeah,” he said, “things have changed. The new breed of cops are a lot smarter than I was.”
Yeager grinned. “Got to be smart to drive, talk on the radio, type on a computer, answer your cell phone, and ding out messages on your Palm Pilot all at the same time.”
“Way too smart to rush into things the way we did,” Broker said.
