Dead of Night

by Blake Banner

  The next thing was the almighty crash and scream of tortured steel as the two birds dropped out of the sky and hit the ground.

  Then I got back in the cab, spun the wheel and made for the road. When I hit the blacktop I turned right for about half a mile or a little more, then turned left into the desert along Parkside Drive. I still had my lights off. I rolled along at five or six miles an hour. I wasn’t in a hurry and I didn’t want to draw any attention; not that there were many people out there to notice me.

  About three quarters of a mile along the drive there was a dirt track I had seen on the satellite pictures. I found it and turned into it. One and a half miles due north, northwest across the open desert, the track led me to the Coachella Canal, or more precisely, to a dirt track that crossed a bridge over that canal. After that there was no road, no dirt track, no path. It was just desert, funneled into a shallow, broad canyon that grew narrower and deeper the farther in you drove.

  A moon, in its first waxing, was morphing orange over the horizon on my right. What little light it gave showed the terrain ahead becoming impassable, strewn with boulders and pitted with holes. I stopped and killed the engine, swung down and walked around to the passenger side. There I wrenched open the door, took a handful of Mohammed and dragged him out of the cab. I slapped his face a couple of times to bring him round, then dropped him in the dirt.

  I had taken my goggles off, but he still hadn’t got a good look at me. Now he squinted at my face in the slowly growing light of the moon.

  “Who are you?”

  I hunkered down, got up close and let him study my face.

  “You don’t recognize me, Mohammed? I’m the guy who was going to execute you in the caves in the Sulaiman Mountains, before your pal Captain Hartmann came to your rescue.”

  His eyes went wide but all he said was, “Oh…”

  I said, “Do you remember?”

  “I remember you, and those other men. You are like machines. Killing machines.”

  I shook my head. “Do you remember the people, the children, the women, the mothers and fathers, the old people…? Do you remember all the people from Al-Landy?”

  He pulled down the corners of his mouth, hunched his shoulders and spread his hands. “They were kafir. They had heard the word of God, but still they reject him. I had been, personally, to teach and instruct them. Many mullahs had gone. But they turn away and reject the word of Allah.”

  “You raped children!”

  “Allah says a kafir woman can be slave for a jihadi!”

  “You made them watch as you decapitated their parents, for crying out loud!”

  He raised his hands, pawing at my face, terror and tears in his eyes. “To teach! To teach! Maybe they repent in death and their souls can be saved!”

  I roared at him, “You laughed as you did it! You enjoyed it! You didn’t need to kill those people! You butchered, raped and murdered innocent people! Old, weak men and women, fucking children!”

  My voice echoed out in the darkness, leaving a terrible silence behind it. I grabbed the scruff of his neck in my fist and dragged him toward me. “Can’t you see that what you did was evil? What is wrong with you?”

  He gave his head a small shake, searching my eyes. “It is the will of Allah…”

  “The will of Allah…?”

  He nodded. I stood and stamped down hard on his right knee. I heard and felt it snap. He screamed, but now he wasn’t going anywhere. I reached in the back of the truck and pulled out a half-full one-gallon can of gasoline that was left from the fertilizer bombs I’d made. I used half of it to dowse his legs up to his hips. He was hysterical, screaming and holding out his hands to try and stop me.

  When his robes were sodden I put the cap on the can and tossed it back in the truck.

  “Don’t sweat it,” I said. “It’s the will of Allah. You know, the look on your face, in your eyes, it’s exactly the same look I saw in the faces of those people you raped, tortured and murdered in Al-Landy. Maybe I am helping you, teaching you something about empathy and compassion. What do you think?”

  “Please! Please! No! You right! I was bad, wrong, God is merciful! Forgive me! Please!”

  “Shut up! You get a chance to save yourself, you son of a bitch, which is more than you deserve.”

  “What! What! Anything! I do anything!”

  “You get one chance, Mohammed. Lie, cheat, try to be smart and the deal is off. You burn. Understood?”

  “Yes, yes, yes! Please, anything!”

  I pulled the massive Smith and Wesson fifty cal from the rucksack and thrust it in his face. “One slug from this baby will ignite the gas, and I will leave you here with your legs on fire, to die in the sand the way you deserve. Now listen carefully and listen good. You don’t know how much I know. You don’t know who I spoke to in Paris or what I saw. There will be trick questions. It is not worth your while to lie. Lie just once, think too long, hesitate, and I will ignite the gas. Just once. Understood?”

  He nodded. I stood and stepped away from him.

  “What is the deal going down between you, the Yemenis and the Mexicans?”

  The terror in his face was indescribable. “They…” He reached up toward me, like he was praying. “Please, they want our help…”

  “The Mexicans?” He nodded. I went on. “Because all the routes into the USA are closing down, they can’t shift the produce…”

  He was nodding. “And the plantations in Colombia and Mexico being destroyed. But we can grow!” He laughed. “We can make big, big farms in Afghanistan. You can join! Make very rich! Lots of money!”

  “Shut up. So by using you to supplement production, using their experience and expertise, you can smuggle tons of coke and heroin into Europe via a thousand routes from Turkey, Greece and Italy, the Balkans and the Black Sea all the way to southern Russia and the Ukraine. With Mexican money and know-how, the possibilities are infinite. But what’s in it for you?”

  He swallowed hard. “Weapons. Very hard for us to buy weapons now. But Sinaloa cartel has many contacts who can for us buy weapons…”

  I started to ask, “But how…,” and the final pieces of the puzzle I had started to understand on my first night in LA, listening to the would-be glitterati at the next table, fell into place. I shook my head.

  “Son of a bitch! That’s what you need Yemen for. Mexico can provide men like Bernardo Muller, with political contacts as well as Sinaloa ones, to buy on your behalf, and the weapons and cash can be flown to Ta’izz, Dhamar or any of a hundred other airfields in Yemen where al-Qaeda has absolute control, or can gain it. From there the weapons and money can be distributed anywhere across the Arab world, especially with the help of members of the royal family, who are sympathetic to the cause. Meanwhile Sinaloa gets a thousand back doors into European markets and expands their empire beyond anyone’s wildest dreams. Hell, they can even get to Canada, and a new route back into the USA.”

  He nodded. “And provide us with operatives who look European! Do not look like Arabs. It is a cooperation on many levels.”

  He stared at me for a long moment. We both knew what my next question was going to be, and we were both wondering whether it would cost him his life. I drew breath but he spoke first.

  “You must be very careful now. Because we have very powerful friends in America.”

  “What part does the CIA play in this?”

  He simpered, spread his hands, shrugged. “I cooperate, they cooperate. They know I have the contacts, like nobody else: Yemen, Mexico, American friends… So I cooperate, they cooperate…”

  “What does that mean?”

  “CIA need information, Middle East is complicated…” He laughed. “Islam, Israel, Christians, Americans, Europe… So complicated! And so much money, oil, weapons… CIA must be getting much information to control all sides. Also percentage of trade proceeds, to fund operations…”

  “And you provided them with all that, and in exchange they keep you in luxury.” />
  “No, just, make me more powerful, spread my influence. I can do favors for them, and they can do favors for me. This is war.”

  A slug from a Smith and Wesson 500 will shatter two concrete cinder blocks. You can imagine for yourself what it will do to a terrorist’s head. I put a single slug between his eyes and his head exploded like a watermelon. It was too good for him, and too painless. But at least he had been executed, and the guts had been torn out of the operation he was planning.

  I left him there for the vultures and drove slowly back to the canal. There I wiped the 416 and the Smith and Wesson clean and dropped them in water. Then I drove sedately back to Los Angeles. I dropped the RAM back in the multistory parking, collected my Wrangler and drove back to the hotel.

  It was gone midnight, so I went straight up to my room, had a shower and two large whiskies, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  The dead were finally sleeping too.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I awoke because I heard a noise. I lay very still. The light from the city lay across my sheet in luminous pools from the window, but the room was still and dark. I remained motionless, listening, and the sound came again: a soft scratch and then a click.

  I snatched the P226 from under my pillow and rolled silently out of bed, then flattened myself against the wardrobe waiting for whoever was at the door to come in. Nothing happened for a moment. Then a long, distorted oblong of light reached across the floor, framing the shadow of a man. The shadow moved and was joined by another. Then both began to swell as footsteps, I counted three sets, drew whoever it was closer.

  Then there were three dark, bulky shadows playing flashlights over the bed. I spoke quietly from the shadows.

  “Freeze, put your weapons down and turn your backs to me.”

  A calm, steady voice answered. “Captain William Hartmann, Central Intelligence Agency…” He turned his flashlight onto his ID card.

  I flipped on the light. He winced, holding out his ID for me to see, but I kept my weapon trained on his chest. Beside him were two big gorillas in suits, like him. One was fair with a shaggy Viking mustache. The other was black and built like a quarterback on steroids. I dropped my piece on the bedside table as Hartmann spoke.

  “Harry Bauer,” he said facetiously, “we meet again.”

  “What the hell are you doing here, Hartmann?”

  “Looking for you, as it happens. Seems I found you.”

  “You broke into my room.”

  “At the management’s invitation. It’s their property, not yours. You only have a license to stay here. We’re covered legally.”

  “You’re an asshole, Hartmann.” The Viking mustache chuckled. I ignored him and went on, “What do you want?”

  “You’ve been a bad boy today. Somebody wants to talk to you.”

  I answered softly.

  “Fuck you. A, I am not going anywhere except back to bed. B, what I did or did not do today is none of your goddamn business and C, you have no jurisdiction in this country. If you, or the asshole who sent you, think I broke the law, call the cops or the Bureau. Meanwhile, get the hell out of my room before I kick you down the goddamn stairs.”

  By the time I’d got through saying it, I was real mad. The guy with the mustache stepped forward. He’d stopped sniggering now and was looking pissed.

  “You got a big mouth, trooper. You want to watch how you use it.”

  His eyes were a pale shade of blue that made them look transparent. My voice was almost a whisper.

  “Is that a threat?”

  He answered the same way: “What if it is?”

  He was close enough for me to reach out and put my palm on his chest. He squared up because he didn’t realize I was gauging the distance. I spun on my left foot and raised my right foot, then brought my heel crashing down onto his knee. His eyes bulged and his jaw dropped. I could have broken it with my elbow, but I figured he’d had enough. I sidestepped him as he hobbled toward the bed, ducked under the quarterback’s massive fist as he swung it at me, and as I came up again I drove a right hook deep into his solar plexus. He went down retching and I picked up the Sig and pointed it in Hartmann’s face. He held up both hands.

  “We just want to talk to you, Bauer. Find out what you’re doing here, have a friendly chat. That’s all. You wanna do it the hard way, we can do that too.”

  I stepped in close. The quarterback was on his hands and knees, and the mustache was keening softly, holding his knee. I thrust my face into Hartmann’s and pressed the muzzle of the Sig up under his chin.

  “You want to run that by me again, Captain? You threatening me? You think you’re going to make it hard for me? How is that working for you right now?” He blinked once, slowly. I snarled, “Get out of my room before I blow your damned head off. You want to talk to me, make an appointment. And Hartmann, next time you sneak into my room at night, I’ll kill you. Get out!”

  He didn’t move. He let his eyes take a walk over my face, then said, “You’re in deep shit, Bauer. We’ll be back. And next time, you come with us.”

  The big quarterback finally made it to his feet, helped the mustache to his one usable foot, and the three of them made an ignominious exit, the way they’d come. I watched them get in the elevator, closed the door and went to get my burner. Buddy Byrd sounded sleepy.

  “Bauer, I’ve been expecting to hear from you. Any news?”

  “Yeah. Everything is wrapped up. We need to talk, in person. I just got a visit from the Firm.”

  “Oh?”

  “Our old friend. The one who took my prize. He said they knew what I’d been up to.”

  “How could they?”

  “I don’t know. There’s a lot to talk about. More than we can cover on the phone.”

  “All right. Catch the next flight to New York. I’ll pick you up at the airport.”

  “Listen, if you have any pull in DC, you need to get the Firm to pull their boys off me.”

  “OK, I’ll make a call. Try to get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Try to get some sleep. Sure.

  I lay on the bed for another two and half hours with the P226 on my belly. At six thirty AM I showered, dressed, packed and went down for breakfast at a few minutes after seven. I was just sitting down to bacon and eggs and a pot of coffee when my cell rang. There was no name on the screen, just an LA number.

  “Yeah?”

  “Is it too early for breakfast?”

  “Miriam. No, I’m just sitting down to bacon and eggs. Where are you? You want to join me?”

  “I’m in the lobby, actually. I was passing by and I had pegged you as an early riser, so I took a chance.”

  I watched her enter the dining room with the cell still at her ear, grinning. I stood and gave her a kiss and we both sat. She ordered a cappuccino and two hot croissants from the waiter and watched me a moment while I ate. I spoke with my mouth full, breaking a piece of hot, crusty bread.

  “I have to leave.”

  Her eyebrows shot up, then knitted into a frown.

  “Oh… I thought…”

  “I got a call this morning. I have to go back to New York.”

  “New York? I thought it was Arizona…”

  I shrugged. “I have to go to New York.”

  “That’s disappointing. There were a couple of things…” She sighed. “I feel really stupid now.”

  “You don’t need to, Miriam. I wanted to spend a couple of days with you too, but this was unexpected.” I smiled at her. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Well, there was a concert. I don’t know if it’s your kind of thing, a tribute to Oscar Peterson.”

  “That’s my kind of thing.”

  “And a late meal afterwards.”

  “When?”

  “Day after tomorrow. And those Mexican Arabs got in touch. They were very apologetic, said something had come up, and could they see the properties tomorrow. I thought it would be fun if you came along, and when we wer
e done, you and I could go to lunch and spend the afternoon together.” She shrugged. “But if you have to go…”

  She could see me faltering. My gut was telling me there was a connection between Ben-Amini’s plans and these guys from Mexico. But what didn’t make a lot of sense was their pressing ahead despite what had happened the night before.

  The waiter brought her croissants and her coffee, and as she broke into the first one she said, “Look, what time is your flight?”

  “Next available. I haven’t booked it yet.”

  Her face lit up. “Then book it for this evening! And we’ll drive down to the border this morning. I’ll show you around and we’ll have lunch at a Mexican restaurant! What do you say?”

  I went to answer but she kept on talking. “I had really hoped you could come along tomorrow. I have to say that after our conversation, I feel a little scared. But I wouldn’t feel scared if you were there.”

  I nodded. “OK, I’ll make a call and see about booking the flight for tonight, or maybe even tomorrow. Let’s go and see those properties and have a hot, jalapeno lunch.”

  She giggled. “Sounds good to me, cowboy.”

  I excused myself and stepped out into the lobby to call the brigadier again.

  “What is it now, Bauer. You seem to have a telephone addiction.”

  “Listen, something’s come up and I don’t really know what to make of it.”

  I explained the situation and he was very quiet for a while. Finally he said, “I don’t see how this ties in with Ben-Amini.”

  “Neither do I right now. There’s a lot you don’t understand yet. Let me go with Miriam this morning and tomorrow, see who these guys are. Maybe it’s nothing, but I can’t help feeling it’s too much of a coincidence.”

  He sighed and sounded unhappy. “Very well, if you’re sure. I can’t say I’m insane about the idea.”