by Dick Stivers
As the two men of Able Team shoved through the elegant guests, the Salvadoran saw them. His right hand closed around a shoulder-holstered pistol, but the pistol never cleared his coat.
Lyons drove a full power front kick into the Salvadoran's solar plexus. In the crowding and confusion, the kick hit an instant late, just as the Salvadoran's forearm crossed his body.
Bones snapped. Screaming, the Salvadoran fell back, his auto-pistol clattering to the floor, lost among the feet of the guests rushing out the door. Smashing the champagne bottle down on the Salvadoran's head, Lyons followed Blancanales and the crowd into the hotel corridor.
They jogged into the lobby. Shoving through the plate-glass doors, they ran past the taxis and limousines lining the hotel's driveway. Their breath clouded in the cool spring night. Blancanales looked at Lyons, noting the champagne soaked tuxedo, the bits of glass sparkling on the sleeves and lapels. The Puerto Rican laughed, put his arm around his partner's shoulders as they ran.
"Lyons, you're my friend, but this is the last time I take you to a party."
7
Passengers bound for Washington, D.C., crowded from the lounge to board the jet. Floyd Jefferson ran to a pay phone. He punched the number of David Holt's Mill Valley home. After a few rings, he heard the voice of Mrs. Holt.
"Good morning."
"Good morning, ma'am. This is Floyd Jefferson. The plane's leaving and Mr. Holt isn't here yet. Did he-"
"He left an hour ago. Could there be a traffic problem?"
"I don't know… I'll call the office."
"And I'll call the office if he calls here."
"Goodbye, Mrs. Holt."
The young journalist punched another number. The law-office receptionist answered.
"Holt, Lindsey, and Stein…"
"This is Floyd Jefferson. I'm calling from the airport. Mr. Holt and I are supposed to fly east this morning, but he hasn't shown up. In fact, he just missed the plane. Did he call? Leave a message?"
"No, Mr. Jefferson, Mr. Holt hasn't called. Perhaps a jam delayed him. Why don't you give me your number? I'll call you when he calls."
He read the number to her. "It's a pay phone but I'll be here. I'll get seats on the next flight east and wait by the phone."
Four hours later, he called the office for the tenth time. He heard the alarm in the receptionist's voice before she told him.
"The police just called! They found Mr. Holt's car in Oakland."
Jefferson felt his body go cold. "What about him?"
"They don't know. There was no…no blood, no sign of a struggle in the car, they said, but…"
"I'll call back in an hour."
Jefferson ran to the ticket clerk, bought a ticket to San Diego.
8
On the sidewalk, girls jumped rope. Jefferson cruised past in his rented sedan, his eyes scanning the parked cars, the doorways, the three Hispanic men standing at the corner liquor store.
He watched behind him in the rear view mirror, then turned right. Continuing around the block, he glanced at every car. A panel truck appeared on the narrow street, the late afternoon sunlight flashing from its blue lacquer. The customized van eased into the narrow driveway of one of the small houses lining the barrio street. A teenager got out.
Jefferson continued his loop. Approaching the apartment house again, he parked and waited. The three men at the liquor store door went their separate ways, one man carrying his six-pack of beer to a truck loaded with a lawn mower and tools, the other two walking away. The four young girls jumping rope continued their game.
Finally, he left the car. He hurried to the entry of the Riveras' apartment house. At the stairs, he stopped and listened to the televisions and voices and footsteps in the old building. A woman laughed behind a door. Applause came from a tv. A toilet flushed. He climbed the stairs silently, easing his weight slowly on the old wood of each step.
He stayed against the hallway wall, sliding his feet along the old linoleum to avoid announcing his approach with footsteps. At the Riveras' door, he stood absolutely still, his back pressed against the wall, listening with his ears and with the flesh of his back.
Nothing moved inside the apartment. Jefferson took a quarter from his pocket and dropped it. The coin rang on the linoleum. It rolled to a stop against the door. Jefferson listened. He heard nothing beyond the door.
Without moving from against the wall, he knocked, rapping his knuckles against the wood three times, hard. The knocks sounded like shots in the quiet hallway. He heard no one inside the apartment.
He tried the knob. It turned. He eased the door open an inch, then shoved it open. Slamming against the wall, the door bounced half-closed. Jefferson eased one eye past the door frame.
Papers with children's writing covered the table. An overturned Styrofoam cup had spilled coffee on the windowsill. Jefferson pushed the door flat against the wall. He peered through the crack between it and the door frame to confirm that no one stood behind the door.
"Senor Rivera! Senora!"
He heard only the sound of cars passing on the street.
9
Weaving through the evening traffic, Jefferson watched the cars around him and behind him. His eyes on the rear view mirror, he almost rear-ended a truck. Brakes screeched as his old Volkswagen rattled to a stop only inches short of a crash. Jefferson felt his hands shaking as he waited for the signal to change.
After returning to San Francisco, he had called the Holt residence. A police officer answered the phone. The officer explained that the police had no reason to suspect kidnapping: David Holt could have simply parked his car and walked away to begin a new life, perhaps with a young woman. The police refused to consider any political or international intrigues until the investigators exhausted every other explanation. The officer suggested Jefferson call the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
Jefferson had other priorities. He did not want to disappear also. He would go "underground." However, he needed his bankbook, his .38 revolver and the negatives of his photos of the Salvadorans in Miami. He would chance a stop at his apartment.
Strolling couples and shoppers crowded the sidewalks of his neighbourhood. He cruised past, his eyes searching the parked cars and sidewalks. The diversity of the people defeated his precautions. He saw Hispanics, blacks, Anglos, Orientals. Muscled young men with perfect hair and designer jeans window-shopped in groups. Hundreds of cars took every space at the curb. Other cars double-parked. A car full of Hispanic teenagers was parked in a driveway while the driver ran into a liquor store.
On his street, Jefferson saw a thousand shadows where they could hide.
A panel truck moved into a space two addresses down from his apartment complex; the driver—a young Chicano in a Windbreaker, slacks and Cuban heels—got out and saw that he had parked next to a fire hydrant. He restarted the truck and drove away. Jefferson swerved into the space. Tonight, a fifty-dollar parking ticket would be the least of his problems.
Leaving the driver-side door unlocked, he got out of the car. He did not go to his apartment. A friend's room overlooked the street and the entry to Jefferson's apartment complex. Jefferson ran up the wooden stairs to the second floor of the partitioned Victorian house.
"Who's that there?" a voice questioned when he knocked.
"Floyd."
"Ah… say, brother. Could you come back later?"
"I got a problem. I got a serious problem."
"This is an inconvenient time."
"I don't care who you're screwing! This is life and death—"
The door opened. Jefferson stepped into the dim interior of the one-room apartment. The air smelled of marijuana and sweat. His friend Peter stood naked behind the door.
His ratted blond natural hairstyle clouding around the bronze tan of his face and shoulders, Peter grinned like a demon. From the double mattress on the floor, two young men looked at Jefferson.
"Want to make it a foursome?" Peter asked him.
"Hey, man.
I'm hetero. How many times I got to tell you that." Jefferson went to the window and looked across to his apartment entry.
"We won't tell your wife!" one of the young men quipped from the mattress.
Jefferson took the phone. He dialed his landlady. "Hi, Miss Curran, this is Floyd. No, no problem with the rent. Reason I called is some friends of mine might be waiting for me. Salvadorans. Short hair. Muscles. Look like soldiers."
"Oh…so macho," the other young man on the mattress sighed. "Introduce us."
"You saw them? They left? Oh, shit."
"I'd be disappointed, too," Peter laughed.
"No, ma'am. I'm sorry I said that. I think I'll be gone for a few days. Talk to you later." Jefferson broke the connection, then dialed another number.
"Hey, Prescott? Working late? Yeah, this is Floyd. We didn't go. I'll tell you why. I'm coming down to the office. The congressman's in town? I got a story for him. Stay till I get to you. There in half an hour."
Peter introduced his lovers. "Craig. Allan. This is Floyd Jefferson. He works for the Globe sometimes. What's this life-and-death problem?"
"You still got that riot shotgun?" Jefferson asked Peter.
"Sure do. Never know when the Moral Majority's going to go Ayatollah ape-shit."
"I'll buy it from you." Jefferson took out his traveler's checks. "How much? Two hundred? Two fifty?"
"What's going on?"
"Three hundred. You can buy a new one tomorrow."
Peter forced a laugh. "Are you serious?"
"And a hacksaw. And all the shells you got."
"Floyd, if you're in trouble, just take it. You don't have to pay me."
Still naked, but his smiles and jokes gone, Peter went to the closet. He took out an old blue-steel Smith & Wesson with an eighteen-inch barrel and a three-round magazine. Returning to the bed, he checked the safety, then handed it to Jefferson. "It's loaded and cocked. There's a round of Number Six in the chamber. Next three are double-ought. Forget the money, just take it."
"No, I don't want any shit coming down on you— you two guys are witnesses. I'm buying this shotgun. Three traveler's checks, three hundred dollars. What about the shells and the hacksaw? And a wood rasp and some electrical tape."
"Here's all the bullets I've got. The hacksaw's down in my tool box, in my car—"
"How about—" Jefferson filled his pockets with twelve-gauge shells, then crossed the room to a plastic basket of dirty clothes. Pulling an old pair of Peter's jeans from the laundry, he slipped the shotgun's barrel and magazine into one pant leg, the stock into the other leg. "This'll do it."
"What's going on, Floyd?" Peter asked again.
"You see David Holt on the news last night? Talking about Ricardo Marquez?"
"Yeah. He said there's some kind of cover-up—"
"He disappeared this morning. And now I got Salvadorans dropping by my apartment. See you three later. Have a good time."
Floyd Jefferson left them in stunned silence. Going down the stairs, he kept his eyes on the street. He looked down into the interiors of cars and trucks. He saw no one in the parked cars. No one loitered in the quiet shadows.
As he crossed the street, he slipped out his keys. If they hit him, it would be as he opened the security gate. The colored decorative lights tinting the modern stucco apartment house also illuminated the shrubbery. Jefferson saw no one near the entry. His right hand gripped the shotgun; the key was ready in his left. He jogged to the gate and opened it fast.
The courtyard glowed with soft green light from the pool. Jefferson paused to scan the walkways. He heard stereos and televisions. Someone closed a window.
Jefferson ran to his apartment. He unlocked the door and threw it open, but did not enter. His back to the wall, he listened for movement inside. Finally, he reached in and flicked the light switch.
They had ransacked the apartment. Every drawer had been emptied, every closet searched, every envelope of photos and negatives opened. Black-and-white prints, color prints, strips of negatives and contact sheets littered the floor. They had pulled the framed prints from the wall and torn off the backings in their search.
Now Jefferson searched the apartment. Leading with the shotgun, he checked the closets, the bedroom, the bathroom. He reached under the bookshelf where he kept his .38 pistol. Gone. He felt only the spring clips that had held it.
In the bathroom, his colognes and medicines and shampoos covered the floor. He saw the spilled box of Arm and Hammer baking soda. Reaching inside the box, he took out the plastic canister.
They had not found the negatives.
Searching through the litter on the floor, Jefferson picked up his bankbook. He didn't bother with clothes. He had enough for three days packed in a suitcase in his Volkswagen.
"Vacation time," he joked to himself, giving his looted apartment a last look. He turned off the light before he stepped out.
He avoided the front entry. Jogging to the rear of the courtyard, he stopped at the security gate to the parking spaces. He listened for a minute, then slowly, silently eased the steel gate open.
Shotgun ready, he crept around the rear of the building to the driveway. He walked quickly but stealthily to the street. Stopping at the end of the driveway, he peered around the corner.
A Salvadoran, his back to Jefferson, crouched beside the entry. In his dark jacket and dark slacks, he appeared to be only the shadow of a shrub. His close-cut black hair glistened red from the decorative spotlights.
On the street, a rented four-door Dodge idled, both curb-side doors open. Another Salvadoran waited behind the wheel. Jefferson strained to see any others, his eyes searching the shadows, the doorways, the cars parked at the curb. He saw only the two Salvadorans.
He waited. As his pulse raced, he forced himself to breathe slowly, to calm himself. He felt the stock of the shotgun become slick with his sweat.
Rising from his crouch, the Salvadoran at the entry looked into the apartment courtyard. He made a hand signal to the other man. Jefferson saw a rope in the man's hand.
They intended to take him alive, Jefferson realized. Maybe for the negatives. Maybe for interrogation.
If he could take one of them, maybe he could help Mr. Holt. Jefferson looked at the shrubs screening the apartments from the street. The Salvadoran waiting in the Dodge would not see him. But could he cross the flower beds silently? No.
The answer came to him. Forget the man at the entry. Take the Salvadoran waiting in the car. Put the shotgun up against his gut, tell him to drive to a police station. All right…
Easing from the corner, the shotgun clammy in his hands beneath its camouflage of pant leg, Jefferson took one slow step at a time. He watched the man at the entry. Shrubs blocked the view of the man in the car. Jefferson moved silently through the shadows and the soft colors of the decorative floodlights.
Headlights blinded him. A car lurched to a stop in the driveway. Squinting through the glare, Jefferson saw a form lean from the driver's window.
"Who are you? What're— Floyd? Is that you, Floyd?"
Disregarding his neighbor's questions, Jefferson ran to the idling Dodge. He jumped into the front seat, the Smith & Wesson riot shotgun pointed at the midsection of the Salvadoran. The Salvadoran jerked an auto-pistol from a shoulder holster.
From a distance of eighteen inches, Jefferson fired, the blast deafening him, the backsplash of blood hot on his face and hands. The Salvadoran groaned once and died as Jefferson scrambled backward, falling out of the car.
On his back on the street, he saw the second Salvadoran running at him, a pistol in his hand flashing. A slug zipped past the young journalist's face.
He tromboned the riot gun and pointed the torn, blood-slick pant leg covering the muzzle at the death-squad soldier rushing him.
A blast of double-ought slammed the Salvadoran back. Shattered glass fell to the entry's walkway as Jefferson scrambled to his feet. Lights came on everywhere on the block. Jefferson ran to his car and jerked the
door open.
His shaking, bloody hands dropped the keys twice before he jammed the key into the ignition. Redlining the Volkswagen's old engine, Jefferson roared away in first gear.
Wiping blood and shreds of flesh from his face and hands, Jefferson drove to the civic center. His friend Bob Prescott worked for U.S. Congressman Buckley as a legal researcher. The congressman had a reputation for investigating conspiracies and federal intrigues.
In front of the congressman's district office, Jefferson looked at the other parked cars and trucks before turning off his old Volkswagen's engine. Working the shotgun's action to chamber another shell, he set the safety. He wrapped the pant legs around the muzzle and stock again. Acting as naturally as his nerves allowed, he left the car, his eyes always moving, searching every shadow. He opened the hood and found a hacksaw and a roll of tape in his tool kit. He took his overnight case.
Often, Jefferson knew, Congressman Buckley— through Floyd's friend Prescott—had tipped Ricardo Marquez to impending scandals and indictments. And in the past year, the congressman had become a leading critic of the Administration's blunderings in Central America. Now Floyd Jefferson had a story for Buckley.
As he went up the steps to the office, a car squealed around the corner. Inside the plate-glass doors, Jefferson paused to watch the car. It skidded to a stop.
His gut twisted as the driver's door flew open, the interior light revealing two Hispanics in the car.
Clutching the shotgun, Jefferson ran upstairs to the sanctuary of the congressman's office.
10
Hal Brognola ignored the ringing telephone. Turning in the bed, he pulled a pillow over his head. He knew it would not be an important call. The White House or Stony Man would only call via the secure line. His pager would then sound an electronic tone. The ringing stopped as the answering machine in his study clicked on.
An amplified voice broke the silence of the house: "Hal? Hal Brognola? This is Congressman Buckley. I'm calling from San Francisco. I have a problem I need to discuss—"
