When the boss related the message to Barry, he cursed. He looked at his four compatriots—Snorri had joined them. "We're screwed. It was an almost, and in this business we don't get extra credit for trying hard. He was gone when they got there. Looked like he had cleared out for good. No telling where he's gone."
Sammy, on instinct, had driven north across town and stopped at a McDonald's. His stomach demanded its tried-and-true Egg McMuffin. Before he could order, a young woman, maybe not out of her teens, said, "How's your day going so far?"
He deliberated and decided on, "Fine." And not to appear sullen and attract attention, he added, "And yours?"
"Well," said the young woman, "not to complain, but not too good. You know what I mean?"
He said that he did.
After he ordered, she said, "Hey, you're kind of cute. I know this is, way, so not supposed to happen, but I get off at two. If you come by, maybe we can go for coffee or something."
"Sorry I can't. I'm tied up, but thanks." Jesus, you attract attention even when you try not to.
He ended up in the Heights and parked on a quiet side street. This is okay, he decided: no one could patrol the entire city of Houston. Certainly not N.K. or UVL. A targeted search was one thing, but a metropolitan region of six-and-a-half million—no way. And HPD or the Harris County Constable Office? He was not on their radar for sure. A murder is committed in Fresno, and half way across the country they were going to pull out all the stops to look for him? I don't think so, he said to himself.
He relaxed a bit. There was a time to panic, and this was not it. He killed much of the day walking the neighborhoods and on the bike trails and along Buffalo Bayou. Most the time he was lost in his thoughts, oblivious to the cars and the walkers and joggers. His head was thousands of miles to the East, thinking about the Chinese and the Russians and trying to imagine what drove N.K. He still couldn't figure if N.K. had any skin in the Amputation caper other than wanting to siphon the cash—though money was motivation enough. Did he gain anything by the failure of the Chinese?
Maybe it was a business twofer: blocking the money transfer gave the Israelis an opportunity to sell their own technology to the Chinese. But how could that work? If the Israelis let the Chinese know that they had their money, call it a form of prepayment…. We already have your cash. Do you want our weaponry or not? That was the only thing Sammy could figure: the Israelis wanted the Chinese to use their technology—whatever it was. Word would leak and Israeli arms sales would skyrocket. Business was business.
Reality hit hard in the form of a raised edge of the concrete slab. His toe caught it. He tried to deflect his fall with an outstretched arm, but failed and went sprawling across the dirty sidewalk, tearing his jeans and soiling them and his shirt. He lay there for a minute taking stock. Other than his scrapes, nothing hurt. His wrist and arm seemed okay, and once on his feet, he breathed deeply: no broken ribs. No harm done. But his reflection in a store window rendered a different verdict: this is one scary looking vagrant.
38.
While Sammy was walking and musing, Team Lenny was holed up, waiting for the future to happen.
M2 was stretched out on her bed, missing her online hacker sites and at loose ends, when her burner rang. "Hello?" There was a pause. Could somebody have figured out that this was her phone—after all, it was no longer a virgin burner.
Then she heard: "When this is over, I want to express my deep longing for you."
It did not take a seasoned hacker to recognize Zoo's voice and decode his meaning. "Have I got a deal for you," she said and hung up. It would be over one way or another in a few days. Operation Amputation would end tomorrow barring a fuck up. And Sammy had to move soon. No sense in sharing the call, especially not with Barry. No sense mixing business with pleasure. She thought about her reply. She wondered what it meant.
Lenny sat in the living room, lost in his own thoughts. He didn't know how everything would play out. For him the action was Sammy. Murderer or not, it didn't matter. He wanted to be the one to take Sammy down. He was a self-styled paladin—defender of truth, justice and the American way. He could do this. An outsider would have seen Don Quixote as operative. He saw in himself competence and resolve.
Portia had a more practical concern: was she going to have a job when this was over? She had been out of the office and off her employer's radar. It wasn't clear how much slack they would cut her. To her, people like Barry and Emma Meripol seemed essential. Companies depended heavily on them. They were irreplaceable. Then she got it right: companies could always find a good employee—even a cyberguru—maybe not quite as good as the one they lost, but someone who could do the job. But she generated sales, actual revenue, much of which would not come in without her. She was tops at working a client list, especially her own client list. They'd hold her spot, and if not, their software was not the last good stuff around to hawk. She would find something.
Snorri was at loose ends. He didn't fit in, and he wasn't sure what Barry had in mind for him. In for a dime, in for a dollar, he thought. He had no skills that he knew of—other than his wits, and this crowd was long on smarts. What exactly did he add? He finally realized that he was a trusted pair of hands. Maybe there were a lot of moving parts, and they needed all hands on deck. Simple as that.
And Barry—he was busy on his laptop, no telling what he was up to.
39.
Come evening, Sammy looked like hell. He was unshaven, his eyes red and puffy, his shirt soiled from the fall, the knees of his jeans covered with dirt. He had the wild look of someone driven crazy by voices. And he was starved.
He headed back to the McDonald's. Thank God, the young woman who had wanted to have coffee was gone. What a pain she was. He ate a Big Mac and fries and got two more orders to go. He drove around for a while, not sure where he was going or what he was looking for. Then, he found a quiet block in the Heights, one on which most of the houses were dark and few had outside lights.
The inside of the Kia had the musty smell of a long unopened cellar. It was not hard to imagine that its occupant had been sequestered below ground for many months. Its exterior was forgettable—an old, gray nondescript car few would remember or be able to describe with any accuracy.
He checked, yes, the doors were locked. He pushed back the seat and reclined it. A little light crept in from a distant streetlight, but that would be okay. The bag with the money was secure on the front seat beside him. The computer bag was on top of it. Nothing to do but to settle in and try to get some sleep. Tomorrow was a big day.
He tossed and turned and eventually fell into a dream about a nun chastising him for pursuing a virgin. He struggled to get off the airplane and away from her. He realized he was a sight. He couldn't wait to get to a hotel, shower and shave, and find a bar where virgins in bikinis will bring him vats of Elijah Craig.
Then someone seems to be pulling on the door to his hotel room…. A rattling of the passenger side door awakens him. An old, grizzled face, gaunt—the jaw, receding and toothless—is staring in. "Hey, buddy, you got a few dollars so I can buy some soup."
Sammy tells him to go away, that he's trying to sleep.
"No need to be testy," he says through the window. "I'm in need of a few dollars is all. I'm a vet."
"My ass, you are. Let go of the door." Sammy digs into his pocket for the Kia's key. There, he's got them. As he brings it to the ignition, the passenger window shatters and a brick lands on the seat. The guy reaches in and feels for the handle. The engine coughs but it does not start. "Listen motherfucker, get your hand off the my car."
"Don't get all hot under the collar, buddy, I'm only wanting a little something."
Sammy reaches in to his computer case and pulls out the Beretta. "I suggest you get your hand out of my car unless you want six big ones in your puss."
The guy freezes. Whatever he wants to say, not a word comes out. He wants to remove his hand, but it won't comply. Sammy has a moment of clarity. You kill th
is guy, and you could fuck up tomorrow. Then with his other hand he gropes for the screwdriver inside the computer case. Out it comes. He holds it in his fist like an ice pick.
The guy is transfixed by the gun, totally focused on it. Sammy slams the point of the screwdriver into the back of the bum's hand. There is a satisfying crunch—the point has found its way through the skin and into the small bones of the hand. The guy lets out a scream that people might hear in Dallas.
Sammy pulls the screwdriver back, and the guy looks at the blood welling from his hand. "Holy fuck, mister,…" The bum does not have time to finish his thought. The car starts, and he is heading down the street. He's gone before a porch light can come on.
What to do? Sammy drives for a mile or so, stops, and looks over the damage. He's got two problems. The broken window and pellets of safety glass that blanket the seats and floor. And, oh yes, the blood on the door and passenger seat. He can't take the chance of hanging around the Heights. What if the bum is discovered and the police investigate? Unlikely, but not impossible.
He heads north and east and pulls into the far end of a parking lot of a large supermarket. Once inside he heads for the men's room. God, he's a sight. He washes his face and runs his fingers through his curly hair. There's not much he can do. He pulls a clutch of towels from the dispenser and stuffs them beneath his jacket. On the way out he grabs a basket and looks for Home Supplies. Duct tape is what he needs. He cruises the aisles until he finds a canister of Lysol wipes. Tosses it in. He desperately wants a bottle of Elijah Craig. Yeah, that would do the trick, all right, but the store sells only beer and wine. What bullshit. He finds the cooler and takes a bottle of white with a twist off cap. He's back to cleaning supplies and spots a small whiskbroom and a dustpan. In they go. Naturally, he pays cash. He asks the checkout guy if he can take one of the empty cartons stacked up front. "Be my guest."
At the car he works rapidly. He sweeps up much glass as he can and empties the dustpan onto the pavement. He takes the Lysol wipes and the paper towels and cleans away the blood. He breaks down the carton, places it over the broken window, and tapes it in place. It's an eyesore, an attention grabber of the worst kind, but he can't take the chance of stealing another car. It's much too late in the game for that. No sense in going at risk. He puts the wine, unopened, in the trunk. He drives out and decides to head for a low-end Hispanic neighborhood close by. Less chance of the police or a security patrol making the rounds than in a more upscale section, but, and here's the problem, he thinks it's much riskier. He doesn't want another night visitor attracted by the cardboard. Hello, it says, please push me in and steal what's inside.
The houses are much less substantial, and there are no real sidewalks. He finds a patch of gravel-covered dirt between two peeling teardowns and parks. A dog barks, but no lights go on. Everyone around here is used to people coming and going at all hours. He takes the Beretta back out of the computer case, makes sure the safety is on and places it on the seat beside him under the McDonald's bag. Then he realizes he's famished. And thirsty. He pops the trunk and ever so quietly opens the driver's side door and retrieves the wine. Soon he's settled in, working on a Big Mac and drinking more wine than he intends.
He's afraid to let himself sleep in a place like this. Much too risky. But the wine begins to relax him, and anyway he's drained from his close call. He has nearly murdered his second person in two days. Soon he's in a deep sleep, one that not even his bladder could rouse him from. He is awakened by moms and dads shepherding squealing kids into a nearby school bus. It is already light. He looks around the Kia: briefcase with money, check, computer case with special supplies, check, one Beretta with the safety on, check, one cold Big Mac with fries in a white paper bag—to be replaced when possible by an Egg McMuffin. His only problem is that he desperately needs a couple aspirin or Tylenol.
Sammy has time. He has planned his rendezvous with destiny—that's the way he thinks of his coming encounter—for eleven o'clock. That will give Professor Bessnager time to get to his office, check his mail, have coffee and settle into his morning's work. As best he could recall, Bessnager had no classes till late in the afternoon—plenty of time to get the job done and be on his way. First things first. The big yellow school bus has pulled away, and the parents have scattered.
He resurveyed the inside of the car. He looked at the screwdriver still on the seat. That's not good. How is he going to explain a bloody screwdriver if he is pulled over? Driving an unregistered car with bogus plates is one thing, but a bloody screwdriver? It was a damn smoking gun. He took a few Lysol wipes, cleaned it up, and stashed it in the computer case—he had plans for this baby. He stuffed the wipes into the McDonald's bag. My God, what about all the other wipes still scattered about? These he gathered and stowed as well. He pulled the Beretta from under the bag and put it back in the case. In the dark he had missed glass pellets still strewn on the floor. They would have to wait. Right now, he had no energy for another sweeping.
He drove to a nearby pharmacy and picked up some aspirin and a bottle of water. As he headed for the front, he passed a sunglass display and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. The wild-eyed man before him was god-awful scary: his haggard face carried three days of stubble. His hair was a forest of brambles. His shirt was splattered with blood. If he showed up this way at the university, they would see a derelict and call the campus police. He bought a bag of disposable razors and some shaving cream and found an inexpensive hairbrush. A toothbrush and paste—why not? He walked past a stack of Go TEXANS T-shirts on sale and put one in his basket.
He found the McDonalds where he had eaten last evening. On the way in, he dumped the white bag with the bloody wipes in an outdoor trash container. In the men's room he brushed his teeth, washed, and shaved. He slipped on the Texans shirt and brushed his hair. There, he said to himself, as he looked in the mirror again. Perhaps he did not belong on the cover of GQ, but it was a big improvement—not enough to ensure that he could negotiate the front desk of the BME building, but better. He ordered a coffee and the usual Egg McMuffin and settled in.
40.
Months of negotiation and planning are now behind Barry. The last few days has required reworking his approach and improvising, but now he's ready. Show time. He looks at his watch: 7:30 a.m. The transfer is set for 9:50. By 10:00 it will be over. The Chinese money in Tbilisi will be in the hands of WHV, Warthog Ventures, whoever they are. The Chinese will be happy, and UVL and Barry Weeks will be a lot wealthier. He hopes things will not go south. If they do…well, he doesn't want to think about what the Chinese might do. But his team has been briefed, and so far it's going well.
Just yesterday, as planned, one Snorri Samuelsson had shown up at Gwendolyn Rivera's office and inquired about a certain red brick house she was listing. A teardown, he asserted.
"No, quite the opposite, a great family residence for someone with vision. A fixer-upper."
Back and forth they went, and finally when Snorri offered her client cash and waved a certified check in front of her, the only condition being that they close the deal that very day, she looked puzzled. Was he trying to take advantage of her client? Perhaps he was a speculator, and in six months the property would double or triple in value.
"Why are you in such a hurry?"
"Honestly, my parents are coming tomorrow from Iceland. They are planning to retire here to be close to me. I told them I'd find them a house. I've been procrastinating. They're old and very anxious. I have to deliver."
At first she didn't know whether to believe him or not. Then she decided it didn't matter. Her clients would be happy to be out with so little fuss.
"I guess there's a first time for everything. I'm trying to remember when any realtor I know sold a property to elderly Icelanders. Let me call the sellers."
And that was that. UVL, doing business as Snorri Samuelsson, was the proud owner of an empty house next door to N.K.'s base of operations. Score one for Barry Weeks.
&nbs
p; This morning Snorri has parked his aging Corolla in front of some stores a few blocks away and walks through the neighborhood. Just in case, he's wearing a Kevlar vest under his T-shirt and fleece. He's tacking up signs offering a reward for his cat Agatha. Her picture is front and center: an alert-looking, blue-eyed, fox-eared beauty. He uses a hefty hammer, one much larger than necessary—it's his innocuous, just-in-case weapon. On his way down the street, he checks out the new property—it seems just fine to him. It's fine because all it has to do for the next few hours is to be empty and quiet. At 7:45 a.m., N.K.'s house next door looks about the way Barry has described it. The blinds are drawn, but he can see the lights on behind them. There is a black SUV parked a few paces from the front gate. Its windows are deeply tinted, and he can't tell if anyone's inside.
When a gay couple saunters toward him with their schnauzers, Snorri stops and hands them a flyer. "I could really use your help. She is a real sweetheart."
He walks up and down the streets with his flyers and makes his way back past N.K.'s place. He's enjoying the cloak and dagger stuff.
He has a burner and calls Barry. "So far so good. All quiet on the Western Front. I'll let you know when things begin to shake."
Enter Constable Larkin, who drives by. Snorri flags him down. The constable lowers his window, and Snorri holds up a flyer and appears to be explaining that he has a cat problem. "How are things going?"
"Pretty good, I've got Howard Prentice—he's the other constable who patrols this neighborhood—on board. As soon as they move it in, we'll barricade the two ends of the street. I've put my chief in the loop. Told him it was a safety issue, a routine demolition, but just to be on the safe side, we're going to close off the street. No sense telling him stuff he doesn't need to know."
The Nano-Thief: A Lenny D. Novel (Lenny. D. Novels Book 1) Page 19
