by Kyle Mills
This was the part of the operation that put him on edge. Full-page ads explaining the CDFS’s actions would only save those who would be better off dead, and give the FBI another thread to pull on. The Reverend had made his decision, however, and Hobart had given his word.
He had originally thought to just shove cash into three FedEx envelopes and mail them off with the ad. After some research into the costs of the ads, though, he had reconsidered. It wouldn’t be wise to send the better part of two hundred thousand dollars accompanied only by an anonymous letter. Three ad clerks would most likely be driving Corvettes the next day.
After some thought he had decided that the best bet would be to have cashier’s checks issued and to enclose them with the ad. The problem was that he would have to walk into a bank to get the checks, and that it would take the FBI less than a day to swarm all over the issuing branch. Not a thrilling prospect, but there seemed to be no alternative.
It was almost four o’clock by the time the Gateway Arch began to emerge from the haze. Hobart maneuvered his car through the light traffic for about ten minutes before exiting the freeway. He slowed and swung the Jeep right for no particular reason and continued on until he spotted a small branch bank on his right. He drove for almost another fifteen minutes, finally turning into a strip mall and parking in the sparsely populated lot.
He looked in the rearview mirror and examined his disguise for flaws. He wore a gray wig of slightly long but well-groomed hair, and a closely cropped gray beard. His eyes were tinted blue by contacts and partially hidden by wire-rimmed glasses.
He had darkened his skin somewhat with a foundation and accentuated the wrinkles around his mouth and eyes. This, combined with a slightly stooped walk perfected in Warsaw, made him look much older than he actually was. Looking in the mirror with a dispassionate eye, he guessed mid-fifties. He hoped everyone else would, too.
After putting on a pair of blue leather gloves and a matching topcoat, he grabbed the black satchel lying next to him on the passenger seat and walked quickly back to the main street. It took another fifteen minutes to hail a cab, but mercifully one pulled over just as it began to rain.
“Where to?”
“First Missouri. The one on the corner of Pine.”
The cabby nodded and eased the car back out into traffic.
“What can I do for you, sir?”
The thin young man behind the teller window didn’t look like a bank employee. His long blond hair was tied back in a ponytail that seemed to go quite a way down his back. Despite his youth, his skin had a ruddy complexion, suggesting that he spent most of his spare time outdoors. The nameplate next to him introduced him as Lance.
“Hi, Lance,” Hobart said, hoisting the satchel into the teller window. “I’d like to get a couple of cashier’s checks made.”
“Oh, I’m sorry sir, you don’t do that here. Our customer service representatives are the ones that take care of cashier’s checks. That lady right there can help you.” He pointed to a graying woman sitting at a neat desk near the front of the building.
“Thanks.” Hobart dragged the satchel off the counter and maneuvered back through the line of people waiting behind him.
“Hi, may I help you?”
“I hope so. Lance over there told me that you were the person to see about having cashier’s checks made.”
“That’s me. My name’s Jennifer. Have a seat.”
“Actually, I have a lot of cash in this bag. Is there an office we might use?”
Jennifer frowned with concentration for a moment. “Maybe. I think that my boss might have taken an early lunch. Why don’t you wait here and let me check.” She dashed around her desk and disappeared around the corner. She reappeared in less than a minute.
“We’re all set. Could you just follow me?” Hobart trailed her around a corner and into a small office alongside the teller line. Jennifer sat behind the desk and motioned to one of the two chairs in front of her.
“If you could tell me the amount of the checks you’d like made, and who they’re to, I can get them going. Did you say that you were going to pay cash for the checks?”
“Yes, if that’s not a problem.”
“Oh no, no problem at all. Now, what do you need?”
“Let’s see. I need one made out to USA Today.” Jennifer scribbled on a legal pad. “That one should be in the amount of $57,500.”
She looked up. “You said that you were going to pay for these checks with cash?”
“If it’s not a problem,” Hobart repeated.
She shrugged. “No, I guess not.”
“The second one is to the Washington Post in the amount of $53,565. And the last one is to the LA Times in the amount of $72,000 even.”
She added the numbers on a calculator on the desk, ripping the tape off when she was done. “Including fees, that will be $183,072.50.”
Hobart tugged at the straps on his bag and began pulling out neatly bound stacks of hundred-dollar bills. Jennifer looked on in amazement.
“There you go. I think it’s all there.”
Jennifer looked around her and picked up an empty cloth bag with the bank’s logo on it. She slid the money off the desk and into the bag and struggled for the door.
“I’ll go get your checks. Would you like a cup of coffee? It might take a few minutes.”
“No, thank you, I’ll just wait.”
She paused at the door. “Oh, could you please get out your driver’s license and Social Security card. The bank is required by law to keep track of large cash transactions.”
“Sure, I’d be happy to.”
When she reappeared she was holding three cashier’s checks. Hobart looked them over while she copied information from his forged driver’s license.
“Look okay?”
“Perfect. Thanks a lot for your help.”
She slid the license back over to him. “Now, Mr. Harrison, if you could just look over the information on this form and sign at the bottom if everything looks accurate.”
He glanced briefly at the form and signed, using his left hand. The signature was completely illegible.
Jennifer stood up and offered her hand. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Harrison. Let us know if we can be of any more help to you.”
“Thanks, I will.”
Back out in the parking lot, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. Hobart hurried down the street in the opposite direction of his car, the empty satchel hanging from his shoulder by its long center strap. When he was well out of sight of the bank, he began looking for a cab. It only took about five minutes to get one this time.
The cab driver watched his rearview mirror silently as Hobart piled into the back seat.
“I’m going to the Safeway up a few miles on the right, but I think I’d like to see the Arch first.” The cabby started the meter and made a U-turn in the middle of the street, heading back to the freeway. Hobart relaxed and began going through a mental checklist, distracted only by the sound of western music and the overpowering scent of car air freshener.
His tour around the Arch killed about forty-five minutes, and it was almost five thirty when the cab driver let him off at the Safeway where he had parked his truck. He went in and did a little food shopping, stuffing a cooler full of ice, Pepsi, and deli sandwiches. The shopping trip took fifteen minutes—plenty of time for the cab driver to move on.
Hobart grunted as he hefted the cooler into the back seat of his car, centering it for easy access from the driver’s seat. Pointing the Jeep back toward the freeway, he glanced at his watch. He wanted to get in at least five hours of driving tonight.
“How’d the bank thing go, John?” It was eight o’clock and Robert Swenson was already staring intently at his computer screen.
Hobart tossed three cashier’s checks on the desk. “Went okay. File these, would you?”
Swenson took them and walked to the filing cabinet in the back corner of the office.
“You’re working on the
ad?” Hobart asked, motioning to the computer, though his partner’s head was still stuck in a file drawer.
“Nah, playing solitaire. I finished the ad yesterday. Hang on and I’ll print it out.” He slammed the file drawer shut and sat down at the computer. When the whirring sound of the printer stopped, he pulled a single sheet off the top and laid it on the desk in front of him.
*****ATTENTION NARCOTICS USERS*****
In light of the seriousness of the drug problem in America and the government’s inability to stem the tide of illegal narcotics, the COMMITTEE FOR A DRUG-FREE SOCIETY has voted to act unilaterally to end this threat.
Let it be known that on (date] the CDFS will begin a SYSTEMATIC POISONING OF NARCOTICS IN THE U.S.
To include all organic and manufactured illegal recreational drugs.
Anyone using narcotics after that date will run a SERIOUS RISK OF DEATH or permanent disability.
We at the CDFS regret that such drastic measures must be taken and any casualties that may result from our actions. It is our belief that the countless lives saved from drug-related health problems and violence will eclipse those lost as a result of our decision.
*****ATTENTION NARCOTICS USERS*****
“I went out and bought this software package called CorelDraw—it’s like a desktop publishing thing—does graphics. But I haven’t had time to figure it out. So I ended up just doing it on Word.”
“Shit, looks okay to me. It gets the point across. I like what you did with making us look remorseful. It plays well.”
“Hey, John, if I didn’t believe that this would save lives in the end, I wouldn’t be here.”
Hobart backpedaled. “I know, Bob. I wouldn’t, either. Hey, I talked with my friend in Mexico. You’re set for next week. He offered to let you stay at the house—but I told him the hotel would be fine.”
“You haven’t had time to tell me anything about this guy, John. How about a little background. I’m about to bet my ass on the reliability of his information.”
“His name’s Richard Penna—call him Rick. We met years ago when we were both with DEA. Actually, I haven’t seen him in almost ten years, but I still get a Christmas card every December. Hell, I’ll bet there’s one at my house now.”
Hobart settled himself into the chair more comfortably and put his feet on the desk. “Could I get a Pepsi, Bob?”
Swenson dug through the small refrigerator at his feet.
“Anyway, back in ’83, Rick and I were on a four-man detail to apprehend some dealers in DC. To make a long story short, these guys somehow got tipped off and they were ready for us. Things got ugly real fast, and Rick got hit in the leg while he was in these guys’ backyard. He managed to get behind a tree and stop the bleeding in his leg, but he was pretty much pinned down. I went in and dragged him out.”
Hobart took the can of Pepsi offered him and continued. “The whole thing really got to him, and he ended up taking an early retirement—got some disability pay—a pretty good deal, if I remember right. But he credits me with saving his life.”
“Sounds like you did.”
Hobart smirked. “Not really. Like I said, he was behind a tree and he’d stopped the bleeding. The guys out front took care of the perps in about ten minutes. Truth be told, he’d have been better off sitting it out behind that tree than getting dragged across an open yard by me. Stupid move on my part, but shit, we all do stupid things when we’re young.”
Swenson nodded.
“So Rick retires and gets hooked up with some investors in an up-and-coming resort area in Mexico. I understand that he got in on the ground floor there and he’s done really well. Word is that he’s still pretty plugged into what’s going on, though—kind of as a hobby. I suppose it’s also helpful to be able to get whatever your customers need.”
Swenson looked skeptical. “And you think Rick will let me in on what’s going on with the heroin trade down there. C’mon, man, I’ve never met him and you haven’t seen him in years.”
“Rick’s a guy who likes to drink a lot and talk big. And he trusts me. You’re not gonna have a very hard time maneuvering him into telling you anything you want to know. Shit, you’ll probably just have to sit there and take notes.”
11
Near Houston, Texas,
January 15
Steve Garrett smiled mischievously. “So fess up, Mark. Deep down, you’re missing all that high-powered headquarters stuff, aren’t you?”
Mark Beamon sighed and adjusted his seat belt to rest more comfortably across his chest. “Oh, yeah. It’s been tough, but the opportunity to work for a man of your stature doesn’t come along every day.”
Garrett laughed. “No, seriously, Mark. You’re not getting bored are you?”
“Not a chance,” he replied honestly.
Beamon had been at his new job as the number two agent in Houston for only a couple of months, but he already felt like a new man. To him, the field agents were the FBI and Washington was just there to make their lives easier. Unfortunately, his view wasn’t a popular one with management.
The fierce loyalty and sense of belonging that had made the Bureau special was quickly fading in Washington. It was becoming just another nine-to-five government organization, run by typical social-climbing bureaucrats.
He had been overjoyed to find that his cynicism wasn’t shared by the agents on the street. They were out there chasing the bad guys with the same dedication that he remembered as a young man. He felt he was back where he belonged.
“I was beginning to think those guys at headquarters just kept me around for target practice.”
His new boss chuckled. “Well, you sure as hell gave them enough ammunition.”
“You know how it is.”
Beamon turned and stared blankly out the window, surveying the hard earth and stones as they flashed into view and then just as quickly disappeared. His mind wandered back thirty years to the last days of summer after his graduation from high school. The small concrete schoolhouse where he had spent a good deal of his childhood had long since been torn down, but it hadn’t been far from where they were now.
His family had been so proud when he was accepted to Yale on a full academic scholarship. Like many of his friends from that period, he had been the first of his family to go to college. The fact that he was accepted to the Ivy League was completely lost on his father, who saw all colleges as equally regal and mysterious institutions. Until the day he died, he would brag to anyone who would listen that his son had gone to college. When they asked which one, he’d reply that it was a place “back east.” Beamon never quite understood that particular mental block.
On the day before he left, he finished packing and drove out to the desert with his girlfriend. Driving the obscure desert roads with a case of warm beer had been a favorite pastime in an era of quickly disappearing drive-ins and skating rinks.
He had never seen her again. Her parents moved to Dallas about halfway through his freshman year at Yale. They had written at first but the time between letters grew longer and longer as the months passed. He could still see the way she looked with the desert sun setting behind her. Strange what the mind grabs and holds on to. It had seemed at the time to be a pivotal moment in his life, but had turned out to be nothing.
The harsh ring of a cellular phone interrupted Beamon’s daydreams, and he turned his head away from the side window, not yet ready to be pulled back into reality. They still had an hour of driving before they reached their destination and what would undoubtedly be a very long and very dull meeting.
Garrett punched the button on the side of the phone, turning it to Speaker. “Steve Garrett,” he announced.
“Mr. Garrett, this is Bill Michaels. We just had a report of a branch of Houston National being robbed and a guard there being killed. A single marked unit is in high-speed pursuit on Limestone Road about forty miles west of Houston, heading north. We’ve dispatched agents to the scene.”
Beamon sat upright and
looked behind him out of the back window of the car, then scanned the landscape all around.
“Keep me posted, Bill, I’ve got my portable with me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Garret punched the button one more time and the phone went silent.
“Did you know that I grew up around here, Steve?” Beamon asked.
Garrett looked at him strangely. “I think someone mentioned that to me once. It might have been you, actually.”
Beamon wasn’t listening. “I spent about six years here as a street agent, too.” His voice was rising in volume.
“So?” Garrett replied, dragging the single syllable out longer than he needed to.
“Well, I’d swear that if we take a left onto an old dirt road about a mile up here,” Beamon pointed through the windshield, “we’d get to Limestone. It’s not a very long road, as I recall.”
Garrett looked at him blankly.
“Are you suggesting that I get us involved in a highspeed chase on a dirt road in my wife’s car?”
Beamon looked around him in disgust. “Jesus, Steve, I thought this was a Bureau car. Couldn’t you have gotten her something a little more sporty?”
Garrett frowned. “You got a gun?”
“Nope. You?”
“Huh-uh.”
Beamon shrugged. “Shit, Steve, they gotta be most of the way up Limestone by now. Well just take a leisurely drive up there, pull in way behind the cops, and show up after they’ve got the whole thing sewn up. You know how the Director’s always harping on our relationship with the locals. Lots of PR points to be had here, you know? Besides it’ll be fun.”
Garrett mumbled something under his breath that Beamon didn’t catch. Then he spoke up in a defeated tone. “Okay, where’s the turn?”
Beamon smiled broadly. “You should be able to see it up on the left in a minute or two.”
A narrow dirt road appeared as they came over a rise, and Garrett swung the car onto it, slowing to under forty miles per hour. He simultaneously grabbed the phone and hit a speed-dial number.
