by Mark Terry
Derek rubbed his cheek. “Sorry, man. You heard about Dallas?”
Connelly nodded. “And we heard every word you and O’Reilly said. I’m not sure Popovitch is being straight with you.”
“Not a surprise. What makes you think so?”
Connelly nodded at one of his partners, who pushed some keys on a keyboard and brought up a digital recording. The guy had a bushy Afro and wore heavy-framed glasses like he was refugee from the 1970s. He said, “This is from right after you walked out.”
Popovitch: You got beat up by a girl, Jeb.
Jeb: Fuckin’ bitch broke my dose.
Popovitch: Not the first time. Need to see a doc?
Jeb: Do.
Unknown: Might improve your looks.
Jeb: Fug you. Jus’ sat there with your hands on your dick. Didn’t even move.
Popovitch: Yeah, Larry. You didn’t say a word the whole time.
(A rustling sound.)
Larry: Nobody broke my nose or hit me with a chair, either. You also didn’t tell them everything.
Popovitch: O’Reilly’s full of shit if she thinks she can intimidate me into giving her information.
Jeb: I’ll kill that bitch I see her again.
Popovitch: Back off her. Back off both of them. They’re both trouble. And don’t think because you got a drop on Stillwater that he’s a pussy.
Jeb: He suckered me with the chair.
Larry: He reacted with the chair. Pretty damned fast. He surprised the hell out of me. One second he’s on the floor, the next second he’s kicking your ass and back on his feet. He could have put a bullet in your head and mine before either of us got a gun out. I didn’t think he and the bitch were in sync.
Popovitch: They weren’t. They don’t get along.
Larry: So I gathered. You want I contact Valentin, call this off?
Popovitch: Change location, I think. Just postpone it. Tell him this site’s hot now. Give us a couple hours or he can pick something.
Larry: I don’t trust him.
Jeb: Yeah, me neither.
Popovitch: Call him. Tell him—tell him I’ll get back with him in an hour with a new location.
Larry: I understand why you didn’t roll over on the bitch, but Still-water seemed to be playing straight with you.
Popovitch: If you don’t cross him. He can slash-’n’-burn with the best of ’em if you fuck with him. He just didn’t ask the right questions.
Larry: Okay, I’m out of here. I’ll call Valentin. Be back in five.
Afro clicked off the recording. Derek said, “Who’s Valentin?”
“Mafiya,” Connelly said. “Know what that is?”
“Russian mob. Selling AK-47s here in the U.S.?”
“Bringing them in; Popovitch is the wholesaler.”
Derek nodded, thinking. “Which guy is yours?”
Connelly laughed. “We don’t have anybody inside Popovitch’s organization.”
“Larry’s not yours?”
Connelly’s expression darkened. “What makes you say that?”
Derek shrugged. “So Kwan’s is bugged. I need to talk to Popovitch about what he didn’t tell us.”
Connelly exchanged a look with the third man, a short, heavyset guy who looked like the Michelin Man. Michelin Man nodded. Connelly said, “We think we know what he held back. Abdul Mohammad.”
Derek said, “The LAPD has a tap on a guy who is asked to acquire a suitcase nuke and you follow up. I can’t tell you how encouraging that is.”
Afro said, “We’re not amateurs.”
“You arrest this guy?”
“No.”
“Jesus, don’t tell me you lost him.”
“Sort of,” Michelin Man said. “He’s at the morgue. Somebody slit his throat. And we don’t think it was Popovitch or one of his crew who did it.”
Derek leaned forward, blood starting to boil. “If you don’t think it was Popovitch, who do you think it was?”
Connelly shrugged.
“Then who was Abdul Mohammad?”
“A guy who works as a courier for a law firm here in L.A.,” Connelly said. “Jamieson, Perzada, Suliemann and Hill. They’re entertainment industry attorneys. We can’t figure out any connection with the firm, but we think the building he worked in was kind of interesting.”
Derek splayed his hands in an out-with-it gesture.
Michelin Man said, “The law firm is in the Avco Center on Wilshire. It’s about three blocks from the Federal Building. You probably drove right by it.”
“Okay. So?”
Michelin Man said, “Maybe it’s a coincidence, but the Pakistani Consulate is in the Avco Center.”
Derek let that sink in, nodding. “All right. Popovitch still at Kwan’s?”
Connelly shook his head. “Stillwater, you’re done with Popovitch. Don’t go screwing with us. We’ve had a lot of time in on this operation and we don’t need some Homeland asshole screwing it up.”
Derek ignored him and said to Afro. “He leave Kwan’s yet?”
With a shrug, Afro tickled the keyboard and studied something on the screen. “Looks like he’s on his way out now.”
“What’s he drive?”
“Stillwater—”
Afro said, “Black Mercedes SUV, tinted windows. Why?”
“For God sakes—”
Derek shoved open the door and jumped out. The Emerson knife he wore inside his pocket was in his hand. Bending down he slashed the front tire. The Emerson blade was made of carbonized steel, was razor sharp, and it cut through the tire as if through Swiss cheese. It flattened with a whoosh.
Derek took off at a dead run, the complaining shouts of the LAPD a distant echo behind him.
Jumping into the bucar, he raced toward Kwan’s. He didn’t get far before he saw a black Mercedes ML320 with tinted windows. There appeared to be three figures inside. Derek swerved the bucar into a skid, blocking the road.
Jeb, Larry, and Popovitch piled out, reaching for their guns. Derek was already out, Colt in his hand.
“Are you fucking crazy?! What’s the matter with you?” Popovitch’s face turned the color of a basketball.
Derek reached out, caught Popovitch by the hair and dragged him toward the bucar. “I’ve had a change of plans. I’m deputizing you to the Department of Homeland Security. Gentlemen,” he said to Jeb and Larry, “you can go ahead and make your deal with Valentin, but I wouldn’t recommend it. You’re hot. I’d call it a night or turn over a new leaf and go straight, because there’s some prison time in your future if you don’t.”
Dragging a protesting Popovitch over to the bucar, he opened the front door, shoved him in, and slammed it. Racing around he jumped in, waved to Larry and Jeb, and stomped his foot down on the gas pedal. He smiled at Popovitch who seemed stunned.
“You’ll thank me later.”
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“You know what a fish out of water needs to do?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Let me out.”
“He needs to find a local dog to direct him to the local watering holes. Sorry for mixing metaphors, but you’re the local dog. Let’s talk about Abdul Mohammad.”
CHAPTER 12
Donna Price paced around her hotel room in the Sofitel Chicago Water Tower, alternating between watching CNN, clicking on her PDA, and glancing out her window at the lights of Chicago. Winter had come a little early to the Windy City, and a few flakes of snow were whipping around the high-rise. Her cell phone chirped. A peek at the screen only indicated a D.C. area code, not who the caller was.
“Donna Price here.”
The voice on the phone sounded like it needed a good sanding. “Ms. Price, this is Homeland Secretary James Johnston. How are you this evening?”
She stopped pacing, eyes drifting to CNN. “Mr. Secretary—”
“I’m sure you’re aware of the incident in Dallas. I’m contacting both of the candidates to update them on the situation and to let
them know that I’m going to be discussing their security with Director Mallard shortly. That will be coordinated through their Secret Service details, but I want to make sure you know their safety is our greatest concern and we are evaluating it now.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome. And of course we’re aware the candidates will need a briefing so they can prepare their political positions.”
Price wondered if there was a hint of sarcasm in the secretary’s voice. Johnston was notorious for his lack of political sophistication. She ran a hand through her long blonde hair. “We appreciate that, sir.”
“Now, Ms. Price, I didn’t know if Governor Stark was in the middle of something right now or not, so I decided to contact you directly before talking to him. He’s not at a rally or in a press conference, is he?”
She brought up her PDA again. “He’s taking a short break, then we’re going to have a strategy session. Then we’ve got a crew from ABC that’s going to conduct an interview with him.”
“A late night for presidential hopefuls,” Johnston said. “Particularly this close to the election.”
“Yes, sir. We work almost nonstop this late in the game.”
“Ms. Price, in the next forty-eight hours or so, if I understand this correctly, you will make stops in New York City, Washington, D.C., Dallas, and Los Angeles. Is that correct?”
“Yes, of course. Tonight’s the last rest before it’s nonstop. It’ll be constant travel from tomorrow morning until about midday on election day, then he’ll head back home to Phoenix to vote and wait for the polls.”
“Will you be returning to Chicago?”
“Yes, for a late rally tomorrow evening.”
“Thank you, Ms. Price. That’s very useful information. May I speak with the governor now?”
“Of course. I’ll go get him.”
Governor William Stark also had CNN tuned in, but he was on the phone talking to his wife, who was campaigning separately in their home state of Arizona. Just for a little while he was hanging loose, his jacket hung up, stripped down to a T-shirt. He was alone, not surrounded by aides, consultants, strategists, media, or security. It was a fifteen-minute window, and he wanted to talk to his wife in peace.
Stark’s tall, lean frame was sprawled out on his suite’s sofa, bare feet up on the armrest. His gray hair was short, and he ran a blunt-fingered hand through it as he talked. “Yeah, I feel like I’ve got tennis elbow. All those grip-and-grins. And my feet are killing me. How about you?”
“They keep harping on your lack of foreign policy experience, Bill. We’ve got to come up with something new here.”
Stark nodded. “They always nag governors about that. I’ll mention it to Donna, see if we can craft something fresh. I haven’t had an update on Newman’s day yet. Heard anything?”
“He’s hitting the South. Florida, Georgia, Carolinas, Alabama. There was a sound bite on Fox about his experience fighting terrorism under President Langston, how he was the head of some task force or something.”
“Yeah? Anybody ask him why he authorized letting the Fallen Angels loose in exchange for—”
“You know that’s classified.”
“Maybe it should be—”
A knock on the door interrupted and Stark frowned. “Hang on, hon.” He called out, “Who is it?”
The door opened and Jeremy Murg, one of his Secret Service agents, stepped in. “It’s Ms. Price, sir.” Murg glanced at his watch. “I know you asked to be undisturbed for five more minutes, sir, but—”
Stark waved Price in. “Sorry, hon, I guess I have to get back to work. I love you. I’ll call you first thing in the morning.”
Stark clicked off and scowled at Price. “All I wanted was fifteen minutes, Donna. Just fifteen. What is it?”
Price held up her cell phone. “Secretary Johnston wants to fill you in personally.”
Stark scowled. “Did you ask him if he called me first or Newman?”
Price sighed. “I would think Newman was higher on the list than you. Same party, plus he’s vice president. Let’s not get all paranoid this close to the election, Governor. You’re ahead in the polls.”
“Yeah, by three points. Let’s see what Johnston has to say.”
He took her phone. “Mr. Secretary, busy evening.”
Johnston said, “Sorry to have to interrupt, Governor. I need to fill you in on Dallas.”
CHAPTER 13
In the bucar, Derek held out his hand to Popovitch. “I’ll take your piece, too.”
Popovitch laughed. “Or what?”
Derek’s Colt was in his lap. He picked it up and aimed it at Popovitch’s knee. “It might be worthwhile to remember that I’m not as nice a person as Cassandra O’Reilly is.”
Popovitch muttered, “But close,” and slowly reached into his jacket and retrieved a .38 Smith & Wesson Model 36, holding it out to Derek. Derek took it, slipping it into his coat pocket.
“I didn’t think anybody used revolvers any more. What’s your backup piece?”
“Revolvers don’t jam. And I don’t know what you’re—”
Derek backhanded Popovitch with the Colt. “Don’t fuck with me, Greg.”
Popovitch touched his lip with his fingers, which came away red with blood. “Jesus, Stillwater. What’s your problem?”
“Backup. Hand it over. I’ll frisk you later.”
“Okay, okay.” He bent over, pulled up his pant leg to reveal an ankle holster carrying a small semiautomatic. He handed it over. Derek glanced at it.
“Walther PPK? Figures.”
“It’s a good gun and no, I don’t like my martinis shaken.”
Derek smirked. “Okay, Greg. Where are we going?”
“How the fuck would I know? You’re the kidnapper.”
“So turn me into the Feds. We’ll have a great discussion. Tell me about Abdul Mohammad.”
“I told you back at Kwan’s.”
“Yeah, and you also mentioned he was a referral. I can’t imagine that some guy walking through the door asking if you can sell him a suitcase nuke is going to get a free pass from you. For some reason I don’t think you’re as accessible as Wal-Mart.”
“I’m not really in the mood to teach you the basics of how I run my business, Stillwater.”
Derek glared at him. “I know where the LAPD is fixing a tire right now, and I can just drop you off with them. But the fact is, I need your help.”
“Could’ve asked. Didn’t have to fuckin’ kidnap me.”
Derek shot him a look. “Oh, really?”
Popovitch fell silent. They passed over the L.A. River, which at the moment was barely a trickle through its concrete crib.
Finally, Popovitch said, “Yeah, he came twice, as a matter of fact.”
“Twice.” Derek took a turn and they passed by the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels. It didn’t look like a church. It was modern with no steeple, and could have been a museum or a large office building except for the cross on the glass box attached high on the front. Derek could just imagine his father complaining about it; and his mother responding that a church was the people, not the building.
He focused on driving. Derek didn’t know where they were, exactly, but was trying to stay in the downtown L.A. area as much as possible.
“Go straight until you get to Alameda, then go right.”
Derek nodded, not asking where Popovitch was directing him. For the moment, Greg seemed willing to cooperate. It was time to give him a little bit of slack and see where it led. He said, “Tell me about the first time.”
Greg was quiet until Derek turned onto Alameda heading south. Although it was late on Sunday, heading quickly toward Monday, there were a fair amount of people driving around this section of town.
“I was at Bongos the first time,” Popovitch said. “Don’t go there too often any more. Too many cops. I like the food, though, and the chicks are pretty hot. Anyway, he comes to the bar and sits down and asks if I’m Greg Pop
ovitch; he heard I was good at getting hard-to-find items.”
Since Popovitch didn’t give him directions, Derek stayed on Alameda.
“I told him I sometimes had luck finding things other people couldn’t. Then I asked him how he heard of me. He gave me the name of somebody I work with on occasion and I told him to come back in a couple days after I checked him out. He told me his name and took off.”
