by Paul Bishop
“Dr Templesmith is expecting you,” he said.
“Thank you, Colin,” Navarro acknowledged and turned toward a hallway. At the end of this was a double door that looked like it led into a boardroom. She opened one to reveal a brightly lit garage-like work area with the various advanced-looking machines and tools he had expected.
A tall, older African American man in a stained lab coat and with a head of close-cropped gray hair worked to repair part of a heavy-duty transmission on a workbench. He used an electric torch and he clicked this off and shifted his protective goggles to his forehead.
“Welcome, Mr. Brenner,” Hiram Templesmith said as he walked over and extended his hand. “Or do you prefer Noc?”
Brenner shook the man’s hand. “Or Ned will do. I’m very pleased to meet you, sir. I was at your talk at the demonstration that day,” he continued. “The one outside the World Bank meeting in Chicago when the cops went ape, pepper-sprayed everyone, and cracked heads.”
Koburn and Navarro exchanged a look.
“Really?” the other man said. “We were led to believe you weren’t particularly political, Ned.”
“Well, I was with this anarchist woman at the time.” He looked chagrined for a moment and hastened to add, “But yeah, man, even by then, I’d read a couple of your books.” He shook a finger at him. “That rally was a few years ahead of the Occupy movement. But you kind of dropped off the scene after that.”
Templesmith smiled briefly. “I was in the wilderness after that, Ned.” He swept a hand at their surroundings. “But this gave me the chance to put action behind my words.”
Brenner gestured at Koburn with his thumb. “Like the nanotech he uses to change his face.”
The man nodded in the affirmative. “I help Efrem, but it’s his ability to do voices and be in other people’s skin that’s the real talent.”
He looked at Ella Navarro. “And your magic moment in the restaurant?”
She deflected. “Come and have a seat.”
The four sat at a plain table on plain chairs, an open laptop and a bunched assortment of crescent wrenches before them.
Navarro continued. “Ned, I’m not over-exaggerating by saying Hiram is a genius.”
Templesmith looked uncomfortable but remained silent.
“Needless to say, then, we’re glad to have him as part of the team.” She tapped the keyboard and the monitor woke up. On-screen was a space-age designed tank with a blunted main gun. Molded metal hugged where the treads would have been and the vehicle floated over a desert landscape.
He frowned. “That’s not CGI is it?”
“Oh no,” Koburn said, “that’s the real deal.”
The tank maneuvered over low hills, stopped in mid-air, reversed course, and fired a burst of energy from the barrel that destroyed a target shack.
“That’s hacked footage from the Defense Department,” Templesmith explained. “This prototype was built from the efforts of several scientists.”
“But it’s your anti-gravity tech keeping it afloat, isn’t it?” Brenner asked.
“Keep watching,” the scientist responded.
The flying tank moved again but soon began to rock and shake and finally had to set down. Apparently, wheels emerged from the bottom in emergencies and the tank rolled toward a group of men and women in civilian clothes and military garb. The footage ended.
“As you can see the SK-19—the tank’s official designation is still very much in its test phase. The anti-gravity engines are still unsteady, and the energy canon is limited in its power. Blowing that wood shack up is the high end of its destructive abilities.”
“One of the women at the end there wore a Dior coat of…I’d say, at least a decade ago vintage,” Brenner commented.
“See, that’s why your services are in demand, Ned. Your keen powers of observation for one,” Navarro interjected.
He ignored that and addressed Templesmith. “Is the SK-19 the reason you came out as anti-war, Doc?”
The older man considered a more detailed answer but said, “It was a combination of factors, but yes, the idea that the tank could be used in towns and villages, say in Iraq or Mali, and unleash its devastation on innocents was something I couldn’t ignore any longer.”
When he recalled an article he’d read about Templesmith’s grown scientist daughter dying, he realized that too must have been a factor. He didn’t recall the particulars of her demise, though.
“So the tank gets shelved in favor of what—the drone program?” Brenner continued.
“Yes,” Navarro confirmed.
“What’s different now?”
“The schematics of the anti-gravity engine were stolen,” Koburn said, “from the secret government warehouse where it was kept. On a thumb drive, on a shelf, and in a strong box.”
“You’re kidding.” He made no effort to hide both his concern and surprise.
Deadpan, the scientist answered, “This is the same government that sent pallets of money into Afghanistan for the purpose of winning hearts and minds, Ned. Then, they were shocked—shocked—when millions went missing, unaccounted for.”
“Good point,” he agreed.
“It’s not like it wasn’t under guard,” Navarro clarified.
“Still,” Templesmith said with a shrug.
“I suppose you have an idea of who might have snatched the plans and intends to improve the Doc’s design.”
“We do,” she said. “We’re fairly certain the theft was the work of Prospero.”
Brenner chuckled. “The character from The Tempest by Shakespeare?”
“That’s the name he uses,” Templesmith said. “He has been something of a magician in keeping his identity hidden and not being caught by the authorities.” He shrugged again. “Whether he was banished to an island by his scheming brother, that we can’t say.”
“So you don’t have any idea who he really is?”
“We don’t,” Koburn responded. “We do have a file on him, though. It’s suspected he was once a KGB spymaster but there is no reliable photo of him and little is known about his personal life. It wasn’t a large inner circle in Russia who even knew him, and what few there were have either disappeared or are dead.”
He paused, then tapped a few keys on the laptop and turned it more toward Brenner. Onscreen was a blonde woman in her thirties or possibly early forties. She had the appearance of an athlete and the competitive glare in her eyes wasn’t lost on him.
“We know from a TSA alert we intercepted that this woman may also be in the country, even in New York,” Koburn explained. “She’s a former asset of Prospero’s after the wall collapsed and he went freelance. She’s of Chechen origin and was very much involved in their fight for freedom from Mother Russia. She uses various names and aliases.”
“Meaning if she’s around, she’s either working for Prospero again or after the anti-gravity blueprints,” he concluded.
“Right. Ella has tried but hasn’t been able to get a lock on him or her yet.”
Brenner glanced quickly at her. “Are you psychic, Ms. Navarro?”
“No, not hardly,” she said, raised a hand, and let it drop to the table again. “But you can see why a man of your abilities could be very useful to the Vigilance Initiative, Ned.”
“Purpose and direction, young man,” Templesmith said. “You weren’t only trying to impress a girl at that rally. I’m sure there was something about the sentiment expressed there—about fair play, about justice if that’s not too corny a word—that connected with you.”
He rose. “I’m sure you have all looked into my past so enough, Doc, we ain’t going there, understand?”
“Understood,” the scientist said.
“Look, I can respect that you guys are into being the Avengers and whatnot, but it’s not my thing, okay? I like my life.” He started to walk away.
“What about money, Ned?” Koburn said evenly. “What’s your price?”
Navarro gave the man with
the changing face a sharp look but didn’t say anything.
Brenner turned and looked directly from one to the other. “If I said a million or two, you probably wouldn’t blink. Now this might shock and amaze you, but other than buying a burrito when I want one or being able to go to a ball game, I don’t give a damn about money.”
He turned away again and she said, “You don’t give a damn about anything, Brenner.”
“So you say.” As he headed toward the door, he glanced at an assortment of mechanical and electronic devices on another workbench. He walked over to the items and frowned, his hands on his hips, and stared at them for a few moments. After a moment, he picked a particular one up and returned to the others.
“Here’s my price,” he said and placed the object on the table. They all focused on what appeared to be a simple cell phone in front of them.
“How did you know that’s a disguised sonic disrupter?’ Templesmith asked.
“I didn’t know that, but of course you’d be all Q and Bond with the gadgets. No, what I meant was I’ll sign on for your little adventure, and you get Max Damakas on the phone or channel him and get him to agree to play me in a chess match. He’s supposed to be the best and even plays against his own computers and wins, or so I’ve heard.”
“We can’t guarantee that,” Koburn said. “Max is…well, as you know, he has his…uh, ways.”
Brenner pointed at Navarro. “She can get him to do it. It can be as germ-free as he likes.”
“How do you know I can get him to play you?” she asked.
“Because that’s your skill, isn’t it, Ella? Getting inside people’s heads. What Koburn said and that business in the restaurant where you went all blank for a second when you sensed the gunmen. You’re the group’s profiler. But you’re more than that.” He snapped his fingers. “You have low-level ESP abilities that Doc here has tried to augment.” He pointed at the workbench. “You have a brain wave measurement device over there that I read about in one of his books. It’s one of his areas of experimentation.”
Koburn chuckled. “And you dropped out of high school?”
“Do we have a deal?”
“I can’t promise Max will agree to the match, Ned. I’m not a spell-caster.”
“But you’ll ask him?” he persisted. “It’s clear you’re the usual go-between.
“Yes, I will,” she agreed.
“Bet.” He wrapped his knuckle on the table and headed to the door again.
Koburn demanded, “Where the heck are you going? Didn’t you say you’re in?”
“I am. But I have this museum curator who happens to be built like a young Vanessa del Rio to visit while I’m in town. I’ll see you in the morning.” Smiling, he gave them a half-salute.
Navarro resisted showing irritation but used sign language to say something to Koburn who signed back and smiled. Brenner didn’t seem to notice as he departed.
3
While the true identity of Prospero hadn’t been determined, that was not the case for known associates of his or at least a few underworld types he’d done business with—often indirectly and through intermediaries—over time. Given that Vigilance had deep coffers and was able to expend larger than usual bribes, several leads had been developed as to what the mysterious mastermind planned to do with the blueprints for the anti-gravity tank, particularly its engine. Yet sometimes, extracting pertinent information took more than handing money over.
That’s what led Ned Brenner to jump from the higher rooftop to the lower one in pursuit of an individual known as Ted “Snakelips” O’Hara. He was called that because due to nerve damage in a swing accident as a child, Snakelips barely moved his lips when he talked.
His quarry was at the other edge, but he’d miscalculated. The next rooftop on this side was farther away, separated by a swathe of a parking lot. The two had raced across the stores in an outlet mall outside of Ho-Ho-Kus, New Jersey. Now, Snakelips turned to try to make it down the stairs but found the door to the roof was locked. Suddenly, his pursuer reached him.
“Hey, Lips, do you think I’m some kind of chump?” Brenner bunched his thin nylon jacket in his hands and shoved him against the door to the roof.
“Look, man, I panicked, see. It’s not like I was trying to beat you,” O’Hara said. “I know you Vigilance types don’t bullshit.” Down below, his right-hand man and bodyguard, Tweets, was laid out after a roundhouse kick in the side of the head. This had occurred after Snakelips took the grand he had offered him for information, then sicced the big man on him to try to take the cash without delivering the goods.
“Give,” Brenner demanded.
Snakelips O’Hara was engaged in several hustles, including being a procurer of sorts. That meant he provided certain entertainments to discerning gangsters and self-deluding dictators. “You’ve recruited working girls with specific attributes for a meeting of VIPs about to happen in the Caribbean.”
“Yeah, sure,” the other man said. “That’s my thing, man. There’s no harm in that.”
“Names, Snakelips, I need names of those customers.” He already knew one of the names. The shadowy blonde woman with many identities had been seen in the New York area. If she was attending the meeting, it seemed Prospero was looking to auction off the anti-gravity blueprints. Her name had surfaced via a contact Koburn had and in turn, two snitches down the line, O’Hara’s recent activities had been mentioned.
“And don’t try to stall. You know who’s coming ʼcause you have to match honeys to money.” He released him but used his body to crowd the flesh-dealer.
“Look, see—Ned, right? Ned, the way it works is I’m told, like, you know, one guy likes his girls with big tits and red hair, or another likes enemas up his hoo-hoo shoot. See? I’m only an order fulfiller.” He hunched his thin shoulders and looked aside for a moment, then hopefully at his tormentor.
Brenner smiled and socked him in the mouth. He dragged the sagging man to the edge of the roof and held him by the ankles, his head down over the side of the building.
“Aw, shit, man. I just got a haircut. You...you wouldn’t really drop me, would you? Ain’t Vigilance the good guys?’”
“What do you wager, Lips? This is the first time you’ve met me. Maybe there’s a reason I’ve been brought on. The dude who does the scud work. See what I’m saying, homey?”
He let one ankle go and O’Hara screamed. “Wait, wait.”
“I’m listening,” he said.
“Villalobos, Ismael Villalobos. He’s gonna be there. Okay?”
“Now that’s a name.” He pulled him back onto the roof. “Next time, don’t be so obstinate. What kind of way is that for us to establish a working relationship?”
Snakelips O’Hara looked as if he’d swallowed something sour as Brenner walked away.
Ella Navarro jabbed an index finger on a top sheet she’d turned to from a sheaf of printouts. “This is culled from DEA surveillance we hacked into and the highlights of several interrogations of a cartel middleman they flipped.”
Brenner splayed his hand on the printouts. “And the pertinent part you have there?”
“This is the part detailing Villalobos’ sexual proclivities,” she said expressionlessly.
“While I’m concentrating on the man himself,” Koburn said. “Like so many of these cartel honchos, he does what he can to alter his features now and then. He’s done what he can to obliterate his fingerprints with repeated acid on his fingertips, damaging the dermis, plastic surgery of his face, and who knows what else.”
“Do we have current pics of him?” the other man asked.
“We have a CCTV capture of him from a nightclub in Mexico City last month,” Navarro answered. “We’re fairly certain he still looks the same now.”
He studied the grainy print captured from an overhead camera. The man in the shot had a gregarious face, full mustache, and a widow’s peak to his combed-back salt-and-pepper hair. He was flanked by two pretty women and two bruiser bodygua
rds. The women were smiling but their eyes told a different story. Other printouts of photos of the cartel chief made it obvious that over time, he had become thinner or heavier, spent time sans facial hair, and had changes made to his face.
“No matter what he’s done to his face,” he began, “his taste for fine clothing remains constant.”
“That’s right,” Koburn said. “In fact, one of his favorite tailors is here in Manhattan.”
“Is that right?”
“Yep. And wouldn’t you know it, since he has to pass through the city on his way to this meet, it looks like he’ll stop in and have a few suits made.”
“You hacked into the tailor’s computer?”
“He’s old-fashioned and keeps his appointments in a book,” the man explained. “I went in there as a ConEd worker the other day, supposedly to check the meter.”
“As he did so, there happened to be a small explosion under a manhole in the street near their doorway that drew the attention of the two employees to the window,” Navarro added. Her smartphone chirped and she focused on the screen to read a text message. Her face clouded briefly before she set the device aside.
“Which gave me enough time to take a peek at the appointment book,” Koburn continued. “Mr. Rojas—one of the aliases Villalobos uses—is scheduled for a fitting in three days.”
To Navarro, Brenner said, “Do you do your own stunts, Ella?”
“Watch me, stud.”
“I intend to. Closely.”
“Silly boy,” she said.
Koburn chuckled.
4
“I suppose it does no good to say this wasn’t my fault,” Adam Damakas said. He and Ella Navarro walked through the cavity of incomplete storefronts of the half-finished mixed-use commercial building on Washington in Hoboken.
“I know, Adam.” She made sure to not sound weary.
“There was a business plan. I had the numbers checked and re-checked.”
