“We think it’s a beard,” said Howard.
“Lovell didn’t have a beard, not while he was here. We don’t allow facial hair, it gets in the way of the mask. But he could have grown it after he left, of course.” He narrowed his eyes as he scrutinised the photograph. “I can tell you one thing, that’s definitely a Barrett in his hands. There’s no mistaking its profile.”
“Yeah, that’s what put me on to him,” said Howard. “I showed it to another sniper who recognised it and said that it was Lovell’s favourite weapon.” Howard rubbed his chin. “This might sound a crazy question, but I don’t suppose he took his rifle with him, did he?”
The two SEALs laughed. “I hardly think so,” said Walsh.
“Out of the question,” agreed Tucker, “but you can buy them through most firearms dealers.”
“Do you have any idea what he’s doing now?” Both men shook their heads. “Do you think he might be selling his skills?”
“What, you mean as a mercenary?” asked Walsh.
“Yeah, that sort of thing.”
Walsh and Tucker looked at each other, then back to the FBI agent. “It’s possible,” said Walsh.
“Would he be concerned about the nature of the target?”
“I would say not,” said Walsh.
Howard looked at Tucker for confirmation. The ensign nodded in agreement. Howard paused, tapping his pen on his notebook. “This last question is hypothetical, and I wouldn’t want it repeated outside this room. But I have to know exactly what I’m up against, I have to know what Lovell is capable of.” Both men stared at Howard, waiting for him to finish. “If he was paid enough, would Rich Lovell shoot the President?”
“Jesus Christ,” whispered Tucker.
“Based on what I’ve read in his file, I would say it’s a possibility,” said the lieutenant.
“Oh yes,” said Tucker. “Definitely.”
Rich Lovell’s BUPERS file listed his last address as an apartment block on the outskirts of Coronado, a ten-minute drive from the SEALs training compound. Howard sat in his car, read through the file, and examined the photograph of Lovell. The former SEAL had an unnaturally thin face as if giant fingers had pinched his head at birth. He wasn’t surprised to find that Lovell no longer lived at the apartment. His knock on the door was answered by a teenage girl with dilated pupils and the spaced-out stare of an intravenous drug user. A Grateful Dead record was playing in the background. Realising that the girl would probably freeze if she knew that there was an FBI agent on her doorstep, Howard slipped his credentials back into his pocket and told her that he was an old friend of Lovell’s. In a slow, faraway voice she told him that Lovell had left a year ago, that she’d never met him and that mail had stopped arriving about six months earlier.
“Did he leave a forwarding address?” Howard asked. He heard a voice from within the apartment and a bearded man appeared at the girl’s shoulder. He also had blank eyes and smelled like he could do with a bath.
“Who are you?” he asked, sticking his head forward.
“He’s a friend of that guy who used to live here,” the girl explained.
“He looks like a cop,” said the man.
“A lot of people say that,” said Howard.
“Yeah, well he doesn’t live here any more,” the man said and moved to close the door.
Howard put his foot against the door and kept it wedged open. “Did he leave anything behind?”
“No,” said the girl.
“That’s a cop’s question,” said the man, pushing harder.
“If I was a cop, I’d be in there with a warrant,” said Howard, coldly. “And if you don’t stop behaving like an asshole I’ll make sure they do pay you a visit.” The man mumbled something incoherent and moved away. Howard smiled at the girl. “Who’s your landlord?”
“Why?” she asked, frowning.
“I just want to know if the landlord has a forwarding address, that’s all.”
The furrows on the girl’s brow deepened as if she was having trouble understanding him, then she nodded. She left the doorway and disappeared back into the apartment. Howard slowly pushed the door open with his foot. The apartment was a mess, with clothes strewn across the furniture and dirty plates and fast-food cartons piled high on a table. The bearded man was sprawled on a sofa, one arm across his face as if shielding his eyes from what little sunlight fought its way through the grimy windows. The girl returned with a piece of paper torn from a notebook on which she’d scrawled a number. She thrust it at him and closed the door.
According to the BUPERS file on Lou Schoelen, Lovell’s diving buddy lived with his parents in a section of Coronado best described as belonging to poor white trash. The house was a single-storey building which was badly in need of repainting. A rusting Ford pick-up was standing in the driveway, its tailgate held closed with string. The untidy lawn, which was parched and turning brown in places, was surrounded by a chain-link fence. On the fence was a large, handwritten sign warning ‘Beware of the Dog’. Howard slowed his car as he drove by and a large Rottweiler sitting on the grass stared at him. Howard decided not to go knocking on the door, instead he drove to a telephone booth and called the number in the BUPERS file. An old woman answered and Howard guessed it was Schoelen’s mother. Her accent was Germanic and she spoke slowly as if she had trouble forming sentences. Howard told her he was an old friend from the Navy and Lou had always insisted that he drop by if ever he passed through Coronado. The woman was apologetic and said that her son was working in California and that she wasn’t expecting him back for at least three months. Howard asked if she had a number for him but she said he was moving around. When she asked for his name, Howard pretended not to hear her and hung up. He had several more quarters so he called Lovell’s former landlord from the public phone. He wasn’t surprised to find that Lovell hadn’t given a forwarding address.
Before catching the plane back to Phoenix, Howard telephoned the office to tell Kelly about Lovell and Schoelen and to give her the names and account numbers of the banks into which the Navy had paid their monthly salary cheques. He doubted that the two men would have been foolish enough to continue using the accounts, but he couldn’t afford not to check. It was surprising how often it was the little things which ended up with a name being crossed off the bureau’s Ten Most Wanted list.
“Bad news about the Peter Arnold and Justin Davies credit cards,” she said.
“What’s the problem?” asked Howard.
“I asked for a breakdown of the purchases and they’ve just arrived. Gold jewellery, television sets, video-recorders, stereo equipment. Not the sort of things that a terrorist would buy.”
“But exactly the sort of shopping list a homeboy with a stolen card would have,” said Howard.
“Just what I was thinking,” she said. “Sheldon says we should just pull them in.”
“I agree,” said Howard. He told her when he’d be back in the office and hung up. He ran a hand through his hair, mentally cursing Kelly Armstrong. It seemed that every time he left the office she took the opportunity to go running to see Jake Sheldon. She was one hell of an ambitious woman and Howard had the feeling she didn’t care overmuch who she had to step over to get to the top.
He made one final call — to his wife. She wasn’t at home and so he left a message on the answering machine telling her which flight he’d be on and that she wasn’t to worry, his car was at the airport and he’d drive himself home.
Mr Oh handed the old woman a receipt and wished her a good day. As she carried the Nintendo game system out of the shop, Mr Oh saw the two black youths standing at the window, looking in. They were pointing at a portable CD player, the latest Panasonic. They were wearing brand new black leather jackets and expensive Reeboks and had lots of gold chains and bracelets. They looked too young to be pimps, thought Mr Oh. More likely they were drug dealers. He sighed and waited for them to decide if they were going to buy or not. Mr Oh didn’t like his customers much,
even though he depended on them for his livelihood. He didn’t have enough capital to open a store in the more prosperous areas of Los Angeles so until he could amass enough savings he was restricted to the black areas to the east of the city. Premises were relatively cheap, though security was a problem. Mr Oh had been robbed at gunpoint twice, and now he kept a small automatic taped under the counter.
His wife sat behind another counter at the far side of the shop reading a Korean newspaper. She glanced up at the two teenagers as they walked into the shop and then she returned to her newspaper.
“How can I help you?” asked Mr Oh.
One of the teenagers nodded towards the window. “Yeah, we wanna see the boom box in the window, the one with the CD player.”
“It’s $649,” said Mr Oh.
The teenager thrust his chin forward. “We’ve got money,” he said. Mr Oh went to the window display. “These fucking Koreans, they’ve got a real attitude,” said one of the boys.
“Yeah, you don’t get no respect, that’s for sure,” said the other.
Mr Oh snorted. He wanted to tell them that respect was something that had to be earned, and that it was hard to respect people who did nothing more productive than hang around on street corners, sell drugs and shoot each other. Mr Oh hated East Los Angeles with a vengeance. His shop had been looted during the 1992 riots and he had given serious thought to moving to the East Coast, where race relations weren’t as heated as they were in LA. If his eldest daughter hadn’t been in her second year of law school the family would have probably moved. Eventually he had decided to stay put, to refurbish the shop and restock it, but he had never got over the bitterness and resentment. The people who came to his store had to be tolerated, that was all. He carried the CD player over to them and put it down in front of them. “This latest model, very good,” he said.
“Yeah, right,” said one of the teenagers.
“We’ll take it,” said the other, handing over an American Express card.
Mr Oh took the plastic card over to his cash register and swiped it through his card reader. As he waited for confirmation that the card was good he looked at a special bulletin of names and numbers by the side of the register. His eyes widened when he saw the name Justin Davies. He checked the number on the card and it matched. His palms began to sweat. He pressed the cancel button on the card reader and called his wife over. The teenagers looked across at him.
“There a problem, man?” one asked.
“No, no problem,” said Mr Oh. “Machine slow today, that’s all.” He spoke to his wife rapidly in Korean, asking her to handle the transaction while he phoned the police from the back office. Mrs Oh smiled at the men as she swiped the card a second time.
The Colonel’s private line buzzed and he picked it up, motioning to the bulky sergeant that he could go. He waited for the soldier to close the door behind him before speaking. The man on the end of the line didn’t identify himself, and neither did the Colonel.
“Our friends in the Big Apple have been asking questions about Damien O’Brien,” said the voice.
“Nothing worrying, I hope?” said the Colonel.
“Seems routine,” said the voice. “Surveillance pictures, passport details courtesy of INS, and a set of prints, taken off a Budweiser bottle of all things. General request for information with a copy to the RUC and a request that we cross-check with CRO.”
“It’s good to see them on the ball,” said the Colonel. “When will they get their reply?”
“Thought we’d sit on it for a day or two. Pressure of work, you know.”
“They’ll understand, they’ve had their own cutbacks to deal with.”
“Sign of the times,” said the voice. “Thought you’d appreciate the call, anyway.”
“Absolutely,” said the Colonel. “Hopefully that’ll be the end of their interest.”
“I would hope so,” agreed the voice. “I’ll keep in touch.”
The line went dead and the Colonel replaced his receiver, a tight smile on his face. So far, so good.
The phone on the bedside table rang, startling Cole Howard awake. He grabbed at the receiver but before he could reach it, Lisa answered it on one of the downstairs extensions. Howard squinted at the clock-radio. It was seven-thirty. He rubbed his eyes and groaned. Lisa had a golf game at eight o’clock and as usual she’d slipped silently out of bed without wakening him.
He heard her walk down the wooden-floored hallway and stop at the bottom of the stairs. “Cole!” she called. “It’s Daddy!”
Howard picked up the receiver. “Good morning, Ted,” he said.
“Still in bed?” asked Clayton. Theodore Clayton made it a point of principle to be at his desk before anyone else in his company. He claimed it was because he could get more work done in the early hours, but Howard suspected it was because it gave him the opportunity to go through his employees’ offices.
“Late night,” lied Howard. “What’s up?”
“My computer guys have something they’d like to show you. Seems they’ve made something of a breakthrough using one of their programs.”
Howard sat up and ran a hand through his messed hair. “Great. Where do I go?”
“Come to our labs. I’ll arrange for your clearance, just tell the gate you want to go to the Image Processing and Research Labs, they’ll tell you where to go. Ask for Jody Wyman.”
Howard repeated the name. “This morning?” he asked.
“If you can make it,” said Clayton. “Cole,” he said, his voice almost hesitant. “When you meet Wyman, don’t be put off by the way he looks, okay? You have to make allowances for his appearance and his attitude. He’s a creative type, right?”
“Right,” said Howard, intrigued. An hour later he was walking down a white-walled corridor which seemed to be pulsating from the sound of a Led Zeppelin track being played at full blast. Clipped to his breast pocket was a visitor’s pass which gave him access to the section where Wyman worked and nowhere else. Sensors embedded in each door detected a magnetic coding on the pass and it had been explained to him that all sorts of alarms would ring if he tried to pass through a door without it or if he entered an unauthorised area.
He found a door with a plastic plate with two names on it: Jody Wyman, PhD, and Bill McDowall, PhD. The pulsating beat was coming from behind the door, and Howard knocked hard. The door swung open and the music billowed out, along with the distinctive sweet smell of marijuana. Howard saw two men standing with their backs to him, rocking their heads backwards and forwards and strumming imaginary guitars. Their laboratory was almost a carbon copy of the one Bonnie Kim worked in, though it seemed to have more equipment. Like Bonnie Kim’s it had no windows.
Howard stepped into the laboratory and closed the door. The two men failed to notice him. Their whole bodies were rocking in time with the music. They began a synchronised side-step and then as one they turned round, eyes closed, fingers strumming, mouths open, hair flying. A joint was smouldering in a glass ashtray next to a laser printer. The track came to an end and the two men opened their eyes, looks of rapture on their faces. They appeared to be in their twenties but looked like refugees from the hippy era: sweatshirts, Levis which had faded at the knees, and leather sandals. Both had several days’ growth of beard.
Their eyes widened as they realised they weren’t alone in the lab. One of them began to speak but before he could say anything the next track began and Howard couldn’t hear him. The other man rushed over to a CD player and switched it off. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “We gotta have a Led Zep injection or we can’t get any work done.”
“It’s sort of like brain flossing,” said his colleague. He squinted at Howard. “Er, who are you?”
“Cole Howard,” said Howard. He waited a beat. “Of the FBI.”
The guy who’d switched off the CD player looked guiltily at the ashtray. The other man stepped forward, his hand extended. Howard noticed he was wearing a mood ring. He hadn’t seen one since the Sixties.
It was green, but Howard couldn’t remember what that signified. “I’m Wyman,” the man said. “How’s it going?”
As they shook hands, Howard saw the other man frantically stub out the joint and toss it into a wastepaper bin. “This is Bill McDowall,” said Wyman. “He’s been helping me with the video.”
Howard shook hands with McDowall, whose hands were hot and sweaty. “It’s a pleasure,” said Howard, holding McDowall’s gaze just long enough so that he’d know that it wasn’t too bright an idea to be smoking pot when expecting a visit from the FBI.
“You want a Bud?” asked Wyman, opening the door to a refrigerator and taking out a can. When Howard refused, Wyman popped the can and took a sip.
“What about a coffee?” asked McDowall. “It’s from a machine, I’m afraid.”
“Coffee would be good. Cream, no sugar,” said Howard.
McDowall fumbled in his pocket then shrugged shamefacedly. “No change,” he said. Howard dug into his pockets and handed over some quarters. As McDowall wandered out into the corridor, Wyman pushed a chair in front of a computer terminal and motioned for him to sit.
“Clayton showed you the pictures we did already?” Wyman asked. Howard nodded. “I think you’re gonna be pleased with what we’ve done,” said Wyman. His fingers played across the keyboard. “We’ve left it all on the computer, it’ll only take us a minute to print out the pictures you want.” He switched on a large monitor and a picture flickered onto the screen. It was the middle-aged balding man who was holding the walkie-talkie. Howard’s face fell. The quality appeared no better than the photographs Clayton had given him.
“This was the stage we were at before the weekend,” said Wyman. Howard felt a wave of relief wash over him. “We went pretty much the same route as the guy you used.”
“Girl,” corrected Howard. “Bonnie Kim.”
“Okay. Well we did the neighbourhood averaging thing, but then we took it further by running a few pixel aggregation programs through the blurred areas. That gave us some more definition, but as you probably realised, the improvement was marginal at best.”
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