"Good," said the whisper. "I want you to bring in Meera Patel and Bob Geller."
Westlake paused.
"Is there a problem?" said the whisper. Westlake knew stating anything other than the facts would be a mistake. A big mistake.
"The surveillance team lost them last night in LA, sir," he said. "Patel first, but later both targets were re-acquired at a bar near Geller's residence. Then they somehow managed to get away unseen. They are amateurs, they're scared and they can't use their phones or any bank card without us knowing about it."
"And yet they evaded a team of highly-trained professionals?" The whisper never changed, never gave any indication as to the feelings of its owner. That flat, husky monotone might denote sarcasm, disappointment or psychotic rage, but no clues would ever be given aurally. Westlake wouldn't have put much money against the final option, though.
"I'll take over personally, sir," he said. "They will be in my custody within 48 hours."
There was a dry chuckle. A very disconcerting sound.
"Oh, I don't think so," said the whisper.
Westlake tensed. "I have the experience and resources to-"
"I do not doubt your proficiency, Westlake. But, as you said, these two are amateurs. And you had a team assigned to each of them?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then they had help. The kind of help that meant your men saw only what they were supposed to see. There are only certain parties willing to offer that kind of help in a situation in which I am involved."
"But no one knew about our involvement, sir," said Westlake. "There's no way they could know."
"But they do know. And they came straight for Ms. Patel and Mr. Geller. They didn't approach Mr. Varden."
"We can't be sure of that, sir," said Westlake. "Someone may be helping Varden too. It could be the same people."
"You don't know, that's true," said the whisper. "But I do. I know Mr. Varden is currently in Las Vegas. I am content for him to remain there for the time being. I intend speaking with him in the near future. He's an orphan, Westlake. No parents, no family. You know what that means?"
"No one will miss him," said Westlake.
"Wrong," said the whisper. "He has very little to lose. Very few people he cares about and wants to protect. And you just let the only leverage we had slip through your fingers."
"I'll find them, sir," said Westlake.
"I know," said the whisper. The line went dead. A message flashed up on the screen. Westlake read his orders before stepping out of the helicopter. He gestured to his two subordinates and they jogged over.
"Prime target has been dropped for now," said Westlake. "We'll be focusing on the girl and the old man. Almost certainly traveling together, but very likely to have been joined by an unknown party or parties, possibly dangerous. They know we're coming after them, continue to track their phones and bank account activity, although I doubt they'll be that stupid. They saw us watching the station, they'll assume we're covering the airport. The most likely scenario is they left Los Angeles by car. Crawshaw, check all car hire shops for cash rentals. Davies, canvass their neighbors, find out if anyone is missing a car. If they have any sense, they'll split up at some point. Get their photos to all local law enforcement within a 1000 miles, but make sure they call it in. They must not be approached. Our orders have changed. When we find them, we watch them. Surveillance only, no contact. Clear?"
Both men nodded.
Westlake headed for the chopper. Crawshaw and Davies started to follow him, but he stopped them with a look.
"There's a car coming for you," he said. "Update me face to face in LA in 24 hours. I have some work to do."
The two men stepped back, shielding their eyes from the dust a few seconds later as the chopper's quiet but powerful rotors started to turn and the machine lifted up, pivoted in the air and headed west.
***
If the Shit Station had been quiet before Billy Joe's unexpected departure, it was morgue-like now. Carl and Chad had expected a burst of activity after the dramatic events just 36 hours ago, but apart from an initial command to wait for orders (which, translated from military jargon, meant "we don't have a clue what to do") they had heard nothing. Even though they had killed a man, then watched him jump to his feet and run away like something out of a cartoon. Neither of them had slept much, or spoken about what had happened.
When George, the retired cop who manned the security gate, buzzed them with the news, they weren't surprised. Westlake was on his way back. They guessed their jobs were on the line.
When Westlake turned up - in full uniform - with George following, they stood to attention, fearing the worst. They were the only three on duty. The Shit Station had only existed to babysit the alien. With him gone, there was no reason for the government to keep throwing money at it. Better to close it down and pretend it never existed. Both Carl and Chad had spent a considerable portion of the last 36 hours looking at worst case/best case scenarios. Worst case, military prison. Best case, laid off with a few years as security guards in the local mall to look forward to if they were lucky. George knew this was his last job - he just guessed he would have to make his government annuity stretch a bit more than he'd planned.
Westlake looked at the three men, then nodded.
"At ease," he said. They relaxed. He motioned toward the table. "Sit down."
The three did as they were told. Chad looked quickly at Carl. Carl had always been more of a talker. Carl coughed.
"Sir," he said, "if I could just explain what happened. We were completely taken by surprise, we-,"
"I've read your report, soldier," said Westlake. "I am not here to attribute blame. You were playing poker?"
The two soldiers moved uneasily.
"Yes, sir, we were," said Carl.
"Can't say I blame you," said Westlake. "You hardly had the most interesting posting in the US army, right?"
Chad swallowed and Carl tried to smile, but failed. This guy scared the living crap out of him.
"I need to complete a report," said Westlake. "Deal a hand of poker. Show me how it looked." The two soldiers looked at each other again. Chad shrugged and took a pack of cards out of his pocket, dealing two hands onto the table.
"Three players," said Westlake, gesturing at George.
"But he wasn't here, sir." Westlake just stared at them. He didn't blink. Chad dealt a third hand in front of George.
"Give me your weapon," said Westlake to Carl, holding out his hand. Carl gulped and hesitated for a second before unbuttoning his holster. He removed his gun, checked the safety was on, then handed it over. Westlake examined it for a moment, checking the rounds were correctly chambered.
"Looks like you follow the drill, soldier," he said, nodding his approval. "You look after your weapon. Make sure it's oiled, checked and loaded. Always ready to fire. Won't let you down."
"Yes, sir," said Carl.
"Good," said Westlake. He flicked the safety off and shot George in the face. The noise was huge in the small mess room. Blood and flesh splattered the wall. A wisp of smoke came up from the small entry wound in his left eye. Before either soldier could react, Westlake turned and shot Chad in the head, then dropped to one knee and pressed the barrel of the gun hard under Carl's chin. Westlake pulled the trigger and rolled away. Fragments of Carl's skull and brain rained down on the table and the floor. Westlake didn't want to get his uniform dirty. He so rarely got to wear it these days.
He wiped the gun down carefully, then placed it in Carl's hand. He stood by the door and checked the scene. Three men playing poker. Two shot dead, then a suicide by a soldier whose medical records had been recently amended to contain a schizophrenic episode in his late teens.
"No one likes a bad loser," he said, closing the door behind him.
Chapter 21
Las Vegas
The restaurant was small and dark. Nothing on the menu cost less than $50. Walt ordered about $1000 of food.
"No wine?" said Se
b.
"They keep a private supply for me here," said Walt.
Of course they do.
"So this is how you support the lifestyle?" said Seb. "Cheating casinos?"
Walt laughed. "Hardly," he said. "I'm their security consultant."
"What?" said Seb. "Seriously?"
"I cheated them for a while when I first arrived," said Walt.
The waiter appeared and filled their glasses with white wine. "Best chablis in the world," said Walt. "Wouldn't be right to drink anything else, since we're having King Crab."
The wine was sensational - crisp, dry. The slight metallic note brought back a memory from when Seb must have been five or six years old. Drinking water from a tin cup at night. The water was really cold; in a tin cup it tasted like the best drink in the world.
"How's your crab?" said Walt. Seb brought himself back to the present moment. He could only nod appreciatively around his first mouthful of the snow-white flesh. It tasted the way he had always imagined lobster might, though he'd never tried it.
"I prefer it to lobster," said Walt, doing that mind-reading trick again. Seb guessed when you lived that long, you could make some pretty accurate guesses about what others were thinking. "I have them fly it in from Kirkenes, right at the tip of Norway. The plane came in this afternoon, these are as fresh as you're gonna get on this continent."
"So how did you get the security consultant job?" said Seb.
Walt chuckled and wiped his mouth with his napkin. "Like I said, I started by cheating them. I went to see the Heads of Security for every major casino. Told them I was going to take them for $500k over the next seven days. Made a follow-up appointment for a week later."
"How did they react?" said Seb.
"They pretty much laughed in my face," said Walt. "Not one of them took me seriously for a second. I knew they wouldn't. But when I walked back in with $500k of chips from their casino, they all experienced a sudden change in attitude. Most of them were angry. A couple of them wanted to hurt me. An unintelligent response."
Walt waved his wine glass vaguely in the air. The waiter materialized and topped it up.
"The ones who responded unintelligently don't work in Las Vegas any more," he said.
"Did they have any idea how you did it?" said Seb.
"Not a chance," said Walt. "Manna is probably the most closely guarded secret humanity possesses. A lot of our power is only useful because people don't know it exists. Luckily, the only people who have suspicions and talk openly about them also believe in Big Foot and spend their weekends staring at cutlery, trying to make it bend. Nah, I just showed them what I'd cheated them out of and gave them a month to review their security footage and work out how I'd done it. When the month was up and they were still clueless, I offered to stop anyone else doing the same for a reasonable monthly retainer."
Walt named a figure and Seb whistled. No wonder he could afford to live in the Taj Mahal.
"Per casino," said Walt. "I do it for nine of them."
Seb shook his head slowly, working out the colossal sums coming Walt's way every month. "They never leaned on you to find out how you ripped them off in the first place?" he said.
Walt nodded. "I expected trouble, so I had a friend stay for a while. Someone whose talent with the source is more attuned to, er...," he seemed to struggle to find the right word.
"Violence?" said Seb.
"Self defense," said Walt.
"You had them beaten up?" said Seb. Walt hesitated, shaking his head. "Killed?" said Seb.
"God, no," said Walt. "I would never initiate anything like that. I genuinely hoped they'd just accept my services and not push me when I refused to reveal my methods. A little professional courtesy. But one casino sent a couple of big guys to follow me and when they figured I was alone, they jumped me. Pushed me into an alley. One had his arm against my throat and pinned me against a wall. The other one slipped a set of brass knuckles onto his hand. They both laughed when my friend stepped into the alley after them. He had been tailing them while they followed me around town."
"Why did they laugh?" said Seb.
"Oh, my friend doesn't exactly inspire fear on a first meeting. He can't really intimidate anyone with his bulk. He's a little person. A dwarf, I would have called him, but he prefers 'little person' and I am certainly not going to argue. He says his appearance helps. It certainly gives him the advantage of surprise. That day, he just launched himself at the one with the brass knuckles, and two seconds later the guy was on the floor, whimpering. He told the one pinning me that his friend seemed to have tripped and accidentally dislocated both elbows and broken his jaw. He suggested that terrible accidents such as this, while rare, could easily be suffered by anyone if they weren't careful. He asked the heavy if he was careful. Unfortunately, he didn't take the hint. He thought his friend must have been caught unawares and he decided he wouldn't make the same mistake. He let me go, backed up a couple paces and pulled a gun."
Walt shook his head and sipped his wine appreciatively.
"I believe the hospital report mentioned that although they had occasionally come across weapons inserted in orifices, this is the first one they'd ever seen that was still loaded. They had to exercise extreme caution when removing it. The damage to his leg was more severe and left him permanently disabled. The other casinos fell in line when they heard the news."
"Not sure I want to meet your friend," said Seb.
"Don't get me wrong," said Walt. "Barrington is a good guy. Just don't get on his bad side."
"Barrington?" said Seb, "seriously? He sounds like a library."
Walt smiled again. "You wanna bring that up with him?"
Seb reached for the wine bottle. "I think I'll leave it," he said.
Walt stood up. "Well, I hate to bring a superb supper to a premature conclusion," he said, "but work calls."
Seb stood up too, regarding what was left of his crab with no little regret. "Casino work?" he said.
Walt nodded. "When we got back earlier, I knew a new User was in town. Now someone's Using close by."
"User?" said Seb.
"User of Manna," said Walt. "I'm particularly sensitive to the presence of others with our abilities. And plenty of those end up here in the first few months after discovering a little about what they can do. Shut-eyes are the hardest to deal with. They genuinely believe they can predict the turn of a card, or where a roulette ball might fall. They don't realize they're physically changing reality to make it happen. No violence necessary these days, in case you were wondering."
Seb had been wondering. He grabbed his jacket and followed Walt out of the restaurant, noticing that no payment was offered or, apparently, expected.
Steve drove them to their destination, a well-known casino on The Strip.
"Remember my trick with the napkin?" said Walt. Seb shuddered, recalling the feeling of dread that had gripped him as the square of linen had scuttled toward him across the table.
"Don't think I'll ever forget it," he said.
"Good," said Walt. "What you've got to remember is I've been doing this a long time. Trained with Sid for 15 years, then developed those skills for more than 60 years. I'm good at reading people, too. I know how to push their buttons."
"You're going to scare them off with a napkin?" said Seb.
"The napkin is strictly for friends," said Walt. "Shows you a little of what I'm capable of. The Users who come to my town ready to break the bank without a thought about the attention they'll draw - not just to themselves, but to all of us, they get the full show."
"But you don't hurt them?" said Seb.
"No need," said Walt. "My art is far more subtle. What Sid used to do with plants, I can do with any physical object. I can make nightmares out of anything. When they're ready to listen, I let them know there's a loose hierarchy among Users. We each have our patch, we look after ourselves, but we don't tread on anyone's toes. Newer Users often get a bit of a god complex at first. Sometimes a quiet word
is all that's needed to bring them back down to earth. Some need a brief demonstration of exactly how far down the pecking order they are. They generally get the message after that, realize there's room for all of us."
"Am I going to be getting this treatment?" said Seb.
"Nope," said Walt. "You don't fit the mold. Something different about you. I watch new Users arrive. It's like they're twisting the dimmer switch on a light. First just a glow, then it gradually gets brighter as they learn to use Manna. Most Users flicker and disappear, either unaware of their abilities or unable to find out how to develop them, how to replenish the supply when they need to. The tiny minority that become regular Users stick mostly close to home, are cautious about being discovered. Only a few of them develop their power more fully. Some of those join the Order and disappear off the map. The others are almost all mentored as I was. Two or three a year - in America at least - learn about Manna on their own. Their raw natural talent is always strong, but they don't develop much control, as a rule."
"Yeah, well I fixed your car after I wrecked it," said Seb.
"You did," said Walt. "And you shouldn't have anything like that kind of control yet. But, like I said, you don't fit the mold. You didn't gradually light up like a dimmer switch. One second you didn't exist, the next someone flicked a switch and there you were."
Seb thought of the glowing alien figure, the gift he had given, the way he'd just vanished. He decided he would be better off letting Walt talk and not give anything away. I know nothing about this guy.
Even without Walt's gifts, the new User in town wasn't hard to find. There was a crowd around one of the blackjack tables. Bottles of Krystal were heading for the table and everyone sitting or standing within 10 feet had a glass. Only one person was actually gambling. And she was winning. Winning big. The pile of chips next to her was tall and growing with every hand, much to the approval of the crowd. The floor manager was glowering from behind the dealer, looking for evidence of card counting but finding none. The casinos had protected themselves against counters ever since the MIT crowd had taken them for a ride in the 90s. When the floor manager saw Walt approaching, he nodded, smiled grimly and walked off without a backward glance.
World Walker 1: The World Walker Page 16
