The Puppet Master

by John Dalmas

  Carlos thanked the captain and disconnected, then turned to me. "So?"

  "I'm not sure. But McCarver was in Special Forces, and Steinhorn supposedly in the Rangers. Steinhorn left in February '08 and McCarver, what? Three months earlier? Let's say that both of them were connected with SVI. So how did they get recruited?"

  Carlos nodded, turned back to his computer and keyed up another Pentagon office. This time he asked for the Criminal Investigation Division, and did something illegal: Citing a contract with Sonoma County, regarding smuggling, he asked for access to a name-and-number-coded list of army personnel separated since 2006, with final postings. There had been no Tischenberg-Hinz. A Captain Aquilo Reyes had resigned in August 2007, last duty post Fort Bragg, Kentucky, which would fit both the Rangers and Special Forces. And the name could hardly be a coincidence. There was also a Spec 2 Kelly W. Masters who'd taken his discharge in 2010 at Fort Benning, an unlikely match.

  Carlos looked like he does when he's on a roll though. His fingers jabbed again, calling up directory assistance. The guy he wanted was listed, and he keyed the number. While it rang, he told me what he was after. "There's an engineer I've heard of," he said, "a spook freak, who's researched and compiled a list of ex-OSS personnel. As complete as he could . . ."

  The guy answered. Yes, he'd compiled such a list, including ex-Special Projects personnel from the CIA, before Haugen had split it off and reconstituted the old OSS. All in all, he said, his list included probably half its retired or otherwise terminated operatives. Why, he wanted to know, was Carlos interested? Carlos explained without being specific, and said he was interested in just two names: An Eustaquio Tischenberg-Hinz, and a Kelly Masters. He spelled the first. The guy's list had a Kelly Masters, but not a Tischenberg-Hinz. Masters had taken an early retirement in June 2007.

  Only two months before Reyes had resigned his commission! Something was starting to take shape. We might have been looking at coincidences, of course, but it felt unlikely. And while it still might have nothing to do with me or the Christman case, we'd work on the assumption that it did.

  Carlos decided he'd go to Ensenada and investigate SVI on the ground. He wouldn't be conspicuous. He speaks fluent Spanish in three dialects: the chicano patois of Colorado's Rocky Ford-LaJunta Irrigation District, where he grew up; the somewhat different patois of L.A.'s Mexican barrios; and the proper Spanish of educated Mexicans. And his appearance wouldn't be a problem; there's a sizeable Japanese colony in Ensenada.

  He also had a friend he'd worked with a couple of times, an inspector in the PEF in Mexicali, the capital of Baja Norte. Presumably the guy would be willing to provide him with credentials for liaising with the PEF in Ensenada, if necessary.

  My Spanish, on the other hand, was merely functional, so I wouldn't go with him. I'd be recognized as a gringo right away. Instead he'd take one of our junior investigators, Miguel Vasquez. Until they got back, I could fill in for Miguel, helping Ernie Johnson on a case of trespass and illegal dumping. I'd be doing legwork, that sort of thing. If anything further broke on the Christman case, I was to go back to it. Ernie's was a case with its main features well worked out. The job was to fill in the details for litigation and prosecution. It sounded restful, compared to the Christman case.

  * * *

  That evening I called Tuuli again, at the Diaconos'. Someone named Debbie answered. Tuuli, she said, was off to some place called Sipapu, with the Diaconos and a couple of other people. I got the impression it was some sort of test. I hoped she was having a good time. Meanwhile I took advantage of the opportunity to feel sorry for myself because I couldn't talk with her.

  28

  HARLEY SUK O'CONNELL

  A couple of days later I went down to the parking lot to grab a company car and check some things for Ernie. As I started east down Beverly, a small maroon sedan pulled out of the lot across the street. So why not? A lot of cars pull out of parking lots behind me, and don't mean a thing. But this one rang an alarm in my mind, so I called Ernie and told him. He said he'd be right down.

  I hoped to hell it wasn't a false alarm. At the stop light at Sweetzer, I could see the car and driver in my outside mirror, a few cars back. I couldn't actually see his face very well, but it could have been the face I remembered from a few weeks earlier, when I'd been followed two or three times. I'd almost forgotten about that. This time I wouldn't try to throw him off. To give Ernie time, I pulled into the parking lot at the Big Ekon between Fairfax and Grove, and hurried in as if to buy something. When I came out, I couldn't see my tail anywhere, but I continued east. Sure enough, he'd jogged south a few blocks, then circled north and pulled in behind me again at the intersection with Genesee. I told Ernie, who by that time was in a car and on the phone only a couple of blocks behind us.

  I also told Ernie what I had in mind, so he peeled off north on Highland. Keeping it down to the speed limit, I stayed on Beverly a ways farther, then turned north on Rossmore. When my tail and I came to the intersection of Melrose, where Rossmore becomes Vine, Ernie was only a couple of blocks west. Probably by crowding the ambers or even the reds. I stopped for a stoplight at the corner of Sunset, and took the opportunity to snap the silencer onto the Glock 9mm the firm equips each car with. When the light turned green, I continued north to Franklin, then east to Beachwood Canyon and north to Mossydale, a little goat-trail street that hairpins its way up a ridge in the Hollywood Hills. My tail had dropped a little farther back on Beachwood, as if he hadn't wanted to be noticed. The traffic had been light. I couldn't see him at all, and wondered if he'd thought better of it, but at the upper switchback I glimpsed his maroon sedan a couple of switchbacks lower, still coming.

  The danger then was that I'd lose him even if he didn't quit, so on the top I stopped where he could see me from a little ways back, got out with a camera, and let it seem as if I was taking pictures of a house there, shooting over the roof of my car as if trying not to be noticed. He stopped as soon as he saw me, got out and opened his hatchback as if doing something entirely legitimate. He even took out a piece of paper and stuck it in the gate of a yard there, like a notice. He was back in his car before I was.

  I knew exactly where I wanted to lead him, and told Ernie, who by now was coming up the switchbacks. There's a point—a short side ridge with a curving stub street about a block long—where couples sometimes park. I turned off on it. If my tail knew the area well, he'd smell a rat and drive right on by. It dead ends where you can look out southeast over the L.A. basin, and there's no houses on it, I suppose because of a landslide hazard. It's just chaparral brush and the overlook. The curve is near the end. As soon as I was well around it, I stopped and got out, keeping the car between me and my follower, if any. Sure as hell, there he came, and saw me as he rounded the curve. Right away he stopped and began to back.

  I heard my phone. "I see him!" Ernie said. Then, "I've got him blocked!"

  I could still see the maroon sedan from my end, too, and with the Glock in both fists in front of me, I started toward it. The guy got out, a bearded black, caramel brown, actually, staring at Ernie. You've seen those old Dirty Harry movies on late-night TV. Ernie looks a lot like Clint Eastwood did—like a forty-year-old Dirty Harry. He was actually mild-mannered, but he knew how to use the resemblance. He'd have his car gun too; the guy was boxed.

  "Spread 'em!" I shouted, and he did, hands and feet wide, leaning on his car. Close up I recognized him—Harley Suk O'Connell, the son of a black G.I. and his Korean wife. He was a minor league gun who got hired from time to time by the black mafia. He hadn't worn a beard when he'd ambushed Tuuli and me last October, but close up I knew him. I had a memento from that time, a scar on my right cheek from a bullet fragment.

  "What're you up to, O'Connell?" I asked.

  "I drove up to enjoy the view."

  I pressed the silencer against his ear. "This is a nice private place here," I said, "and I've got a good memory. With the silencer, this nine em-em is as quiet as the one you sho
t at me with. Only there's no ornamental railing to blow the bullet up; just that quarter inch of skull bone.

  "So, I'll ask again. What're you up to, O'Connell? Who are you working for?"

  "You won't believe me if I tell you."

  "Try me."

  "You know I followed you a few weeks ago."

  "Right. Several times"

  "I was doing a job for the Carwood Family. They hired me to do a surveillance of Melanie's house. Suspected some brother was selling her information on the family's operations, and she was passing it on to Kim Soo."

  "Was she?"

  "Not that I could see. But I saw you go in, so Roman hired me to follow you and see what I could learn. About what you were working on. No big deal, but you got him curious, and he likes to know. It seemed to me you were doing something on the Gnosties, but I couldn't be sure. I told him you were on to me, and he said let it cool.

  "Not long after that I heard he had Melanie picked up, questioned her about stuff and let her go. No profit gettin' in a war with the Soong Family. And he never did say to get back on you. I figured maybe he found out what he wanted."

  "So what happened this morning?"

  "I got a different car, and I'd been busy in Beverly Hills last night. You know how it is; a guy's got to make a living. And I was driving by your place of occupation and thought I'd stop a few minutes and see if you came out. If you did, I was going to follow you. See if you'd spot me this time."

  I stared at him. He was still spread, looking at me from the corner of his eye. It sounded unlikely as hell, him just happening to stop. He'd had no reason to expect me.

  He must have read my mind. "See!" he said. "I told you you wouldn't believe me!"

  The funny thing was, I decided I did. I didn't like him, didn't trust him. He'd tried to kill me twice, and come close. His first bullet would probably have hit either Tuuli or me, if it hadn't hit that iron railing. And apparently he'd spent last night burgling. But somehow I believed him.

  And he'd been lucky for me that other time: His trying to kill me had given me the leverage I needed to complete the Ashkenazi murder case. I stepped back and lowered my gun. "I believe you," I told him. "Just don't ask me why. But do us both a favor, O'Connell. Don't try me again." Not that I'd have shot him there in cold blood, but he didn't know that.

  He stared at me a couple of seconds, then nodded and got in his car. We both stood watching him, guns in our hands, as he jockeyed around and left, squeezing past Ernie's car.

  Ernie looked at me. "We should have looked in his luggage space," he said. "Then held him here till the police came. He's probably got a couple months' pay worth of loot in there."

  I nodded. That's what policy said we should have done. It's what the law would have us do. And it would have been a point for Prudential with the LAPD.

  "I'll call them," Ernie said.

  "No," I told him. "Let him go."

  Ernie peered at me, then shrugged. I didn't know why I said what I had, and neither did he. But it seemed to me like the right thing to do.

  29

  PULLING THREADS

  Carlos was in Ensenada for four days. It turned out that SVI occupied a rented floor of offices over a large clothing store. Across from it was a big furniture store with a warehouse upstairs, and Carlos managed to rent a dusty upstairs corner with two windows, pretty much screened from the rest of the loft by furniture. His cover was, he'd been hired by an absent partner in SVI, who wanted to know what went on across the street. Carlos dropped a vague hint that gun-running might be involved, but didn't make clear whether with or without the partner's approval. In any case, it could obviously be dangerous for the furniture store owner to snoop or talk.

  The SVI offices seemed to be three good-sized rooms in front, with maybe two rooms and a lavatory in back. Masters' office was the smallest front room, located in a corner.

  Carlos had already learned, through his PEF connection, that SVI also leased four hectares of land from a dairy farm twelve kilometers out of town. He drove past on the day they arrived. Mostly it was an equipment park. Either they didn't have a lot of equipment, or most of it was out; there was more than room to spare. It also had a big Plastosil shed where they maintained their ground- and aircraft, and maybe drilled their operations.

  The farm buildings were a kilometer farther up the road, which was known as El Camino Alfarería, "The Pottery Road." A couple hundred feet back from the road, and just across from the SVI land, was the pottery itself, which had been closed for about a year.

  The next day, Carlos and Miguel got up well before dawn and drove out the Pottery Road to a jeep trail Carlos had noticed the day before, maybe a kilometer short of the pottery and on the same side of the road. They drove back in out of sight and parked. Then they walked to the pottery, which was on a little slope, giving them a view of the equipment park and its shed.

  They spent the morning watching, careful not to be seen themselves. At one point after daylight, Carlos nosed around in the building and noticed a sizeable but inconspicuous brown stain on the coarse concrete floor, pale from washing. Basically the stain existed in the pits in the concrete, and it could have been anything. Including old blood. He also noticed a mop in the restroom and, checking it out, found the mop strings stained pale brown. With his pocketknife, he trimmed about half an inch off the strings, and bagged the trimmings.

  All they learned from watching the shed and equipment was that the four men there didn't have much to do, that day at least. A resonance scanner, aimed at a window of the shed's office, found them playing cards most of the morning. A skyvan came in at 10:25, carrying two men who left for town after giving instructions about a skytruck they'd be taking out that evening.

  Back in town that afternoon, Carlos called his connection in Mexicali, and Miguel was able to pick up a kit from the PEF's Ensenada office for collecting samples of bloodstains—in this case from the pits in the concrete. He drove out again at dawn the next day and collected his sample as soon as it was light enough.

  Between he and Miguel, they also got telephoto footage of people arriving at and leaving the SVI offices over two-plus days. And eavesdropped on conversations in Kelly Masters' office. Mostly what they heard didn't mean much to them because it lacked context. But they did hear Masters' half of a phone conversation with "Dave." Masters was interested in "Seppanen," with whom Dave worked. There was no doubt at all now that Steinhorn was part of SVI.

  Carlos didn't get any explicit information on the Christman case, but he arrived back tentatively pleased. We screened his video footage and compared the faces with the pictures Charles Tomasic had given us. And found matches for two of the three faces in Charles' pictures. Carlos had also left the mop trimmings with Skip at the lab, along with the putative blood residue from the pottery floor. Charles' pictures had no value as courtroom evidence, but if—if—the blood could be identified as Christman's . . . Assuming it was blood.

  I was just getting up to leave when Skip came into Carlos' office. "It's human blood," he said. "They seem to have mopped before the blood dried, and didn't use any cleaning compound. If you can get me some blood, tissue—maybe hair from a presumed victim, I can hire a DNA match made at UCLA."

  * * *

  The only possibility I could see was that Winifred Sproule just might have a keepsake of some kind. Or know of one. I couldn't imagine her keeping a lock of anyone's hair. My office being bugged, I called her on Carlos' phone. She said to come out and we'd talk; she'd treat me to lunch.

  Come out. She'd treat me to lunch. It gave me an erection. I was glad Tuuli was coming home the next day.

  Sproule, though she still came across sexy, didn't make a move on me, and to my dismay, I found myself disappointed. And while she had no keepsakes, she did have some information. Christman had had a vasectomy—"the better to tom-cat around"—as she put it, and before the operation he'd had a sperm sample stored. She also gave me the name and maiden name of Christman's ex-wife, along wi
th the street she'd lived on in Phoenix, twenty years earlier.

  * * *

  Back at the office that afternoon, Carlos sicced an investigative assistant, Bridges, onto tracing down Christman's ex-wife, who hopefully would know the name of the sperm bank. Where hopefully Christman's sperm were still happily hibernating. Even though he'd sent Steinhorn off with Rossi again, Carlos made sure that Bridges knew damned well not to mention the assignment to anyone, in or out of the firm.

  Meanwhile there was the question of getting access to the sperm. Needless to say, while some of our own people have law degrees, Prudential has a high-powered law firm on retainer, so Carlos called them. There was, it turned out, a legal precedent. If we had a contract with some law enforcement agency to investigate Christman's disappearance, and assuming no one contested it, we should be able to get a court order for a microscopic sample. Enough to test for a DNA match.

  Unfortunately—so we thought—none of this fell within the jurisdiction of the City of Los Angeles. Or the county, or the State of California, as far as that's concerned. And at that time the feds rarely contracted investigations. So Carlos got on the phone and called the Lane County Sheriff's Department in Oregon. The receptionist said that Sheriff Savola was on another line, if we cared to wait. I told Carlos that Savola was a Finnish name—Americanized Finnish, shortened from Savolainen. I went to school with some Savolas in Hemlock Harbor.

  Unless he was totally divorced from his roots, Savola would recognize my name as Finnish too. So when he came on the screen, Carlos introduced both of us to him, and told him I was the investigator. And that I had evidence which might lead to an indictment for an assault on Ray Christman, assault leading to kidnaping. We believed it might have taken place on the church's estate in Lane County, and we'd like a contingency contract for the case, to give us access to information we couldn't get otherwise.