by M. Z. Kelly
“Yeah. There’s a lot of political pressure on this. You’re both invited to the taskforce meeting later this afternoon. I heard the director is going to be there, along with your chief.”
I groaned. Our new police chief was David Bronson, a thirty-plus year veteran of the force. He and my adoptive father had some past issues, and he’d purposely kept the investigation into his murder closed for years, despite evidence that the Rylands were involved.
Bronson and I also had our share of go-rounds, him recently telling me that he believed my father had been on the take, secretly helping the Rylands import drugs into the country. He’d gone so far as to say he even planned to have his badge removed from the memorial wall at police headquarters because he was a disgrace to the department. Bronson had bowed to political pressure, reluctantly agreeing to let me work with the feds, but his presence on the taskforce obviously meant he wanted me on a short leash.
“He’s still not your favorite guy, I take it,” Joe said, knowing the chief and I had been at odds.
Leo spoke up. “Let’s just say that if Kate and I had a vote, Bronson would be the police chief on a deserted island somewhere in the Pacific.”
“Make that an island full of alligators,” I said.
Joe chuckled as he passed Pershing Square, a public park in downtown Los Angeles that also had its share of homeless. He pulled into the hotel’s underground parking garage, which was up the street from the park. “Let’s go see what Pearl has to say about all this.”
The Millennium Biltmore was a historic hotel, almost a century young. Over the years, it had been the temporary home to celebrities and presidents, and the venue for several iconic movies and TV shows. I remembered reading somewhere that the movies The Sting and Chinatown were filmed here. It was also the one-time residence for gangsters Bugsy Siegel and Al Capone, who hid liquor in a secret location in the hotel during prohibition.
“If I’m ever in witness protection, keep this place in mind for me,” I told Joe, as we entered the grand foyer of the hotel, with its carved marble fountains, murals, and crystal chandeliers.
As we waited for an elevator, Leo added, “Must be how the other half lives.”
Joe smiled. “One of the benefits of working for the feds is they can print their own money, even though you’d never know it by what they pay me.”
We found Pearl’s room on the sixteenth floor of the hotel, where a couple of agents were working undercover as staff while guarding the entrance. After Joe showed his credentials, and we were cleared to enter, we found Pearl in the small living room of the suite.
“I was just having some tea and cookies,” Pearl said, offering us the same, after we exchanged greetings and took seats. He looked at me. “Seems like I’ve been gone forever.”
I smiled. “To be honest, I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever see you again.”
Pearl Kramer was remarkably fit for his sixty-plus years. He had a shock of gray hair, and a voice reminiscent of Morgan Freeman. Pearl was not only one of the best detectives I’d ever known, he was the voice of reason in a world that sometimes seemed like it had gone mad.
Pearl’s smile grew wider, and his gaze went over to Leo. “I’m glad you’re here. We’re going to need all the help we can get on this one.”
Leo bumped fists with his long-time friend. “I’m all in.”
Joe took over, telling Pearl, “Maybe you should start at the beginning. Tell us what happened after you left the country.”
Pearl sipped his tea, set the cup down. “As you probably know, I left abruptly in the middle of the night because I didn’t want to put anyone at risk. I had an informant, somebody who shall remain nameless, who told me where the Rylands were hiding in Brazil. I spent several weeks in-country, just surveilling things and getting a feel for their drug empire.
“As it turned out, the Rylands pretty much owned the city of Gramado. It’s near Porto Alegre, a couple hours south of Rio. Over the years, they bought off the local politicians and used intimidation and physical force to establish their ability to move drugs through the port. For three decades, Harlan ruled his empire, using Colin Russell as his day-to-day general in overseeing the massive export of cocaine and other drugs into this country. When Russell eventually fell out of favor with Harlan’s granddaughter, she had him murdered.”
“Harlee was behind his killing?” I said, never suspecting her direct involvement.
“Her grandfather was getting on in years, and Harlee wanted total control of his operations. That made Russell expendable.”
“I’m assuming Ryland and Russell also used the Tauist religion as cover for their drug operations,” Joe said.
“The Tauist belief system was instrumental in developing local leaders who preyed on their followers. Those leaders were actually nothing more than narco-terrorists that established the drug networks in other countries. Ryland used Porto Alegre and a small armada of vessels to send their drugs around the world.” He looked at me. “As you probably already know, they also used the movie studios in Hollywood to establish their empire here. That’s where your adoptive dad came into the picture.”
I nodded. “He was working security at Wallace Studios and realized what was happening. That’s before Ryland had his hit man, Ryan Cooper, murder him.”
Pearl agreed, adding, “Not before your father gathered a lot of information about what was happening and diverted some of their funds into an offshore account.”
“And Harlee subsequently stole the money back, using Daniel.” I held my breath, asking the question that I dreaded. “Do you know if Daniel is still alive?”
Pearl shook his head. “I know that Harlee was after him before she was arrested, but I can’t say for sure. It might be that he’s still out there somewhere, lying low.”
Leo was sitting next to me and touched my arm. He then asked the question that I desperately wanted an answer to but also filled me with dread and anticipation. “What about Kate’s bio-dad? Did you find out anything about him?”
Pearl’s dark glassy eyes swung in my direction. “You ready?”
I realized my eyes were filling. “Yes.”
He smiled. “It’s speculation on my part, but I believe your father is still alive.”
SEVEN
I heard Pearl’s words, but for a long time they didn’t register. It felt like I’d been pushed over a cliff, and what he said was muted, barely audible, coming at me from far away. I moved my mouth, but nothing came out.
Leo took hold of my arm again. “I think Kate needs to hear exactly what’s on your mind.”
Pearl nodded and leaned nearer to me. “As I got closer to finding the truth about the Rylands and their drug empire, the threats against me increased. When I began making direct inquiries about your bio-dad with some of the lower level players, it was obvious the Rylands wanted me dead, out of the way. It got so dangerous that I tried to leave the country by boat.”
I finally found my voice. “We heard you almost drowned.”
“The Rylands were behind that, but I managed to make it to shore.” Pearl’s dark eyes found me again. “There’s only one reason I can speculate that as I got closer to finding out what happened to your father, they grew desperate to kill me. Your dad has something on the Rylands. That something, so far, has kept both him and you alive. His identity and whereabouts have been kept a secret for a reason. I believe that he’s alive and holds the keys to the Rylands’ kingdom.”
“What...? What kind of keys?” I said, trying to piece together a mystery that had consumed my life. “What does he know?”
Pearl took a breath and folded his arms. “I can’t say for sure, but maybe he knows the identities of others that have been involved with their drug operations.”
“If that was the case, why wouldn’t he have said something years ago?”
Pearl’s eyes grew softer, and his voice came down a notch. “I can only assume he’s been protecting you.”
I brushed a hand through
my hair, feeling light-headed. I stood and walked over to the window, seeing children playing down below in Pershing Square.
I looked back at Pearl. “So, you’re telling me that my bio-dad allowed the Rylands’ drug empire to exist to save my life.”
Pearl stood and came over to me. “I think it’s probably more complicated than that. It’s also a matter of a father wanting to protect his daughter. If given the same choice, I’m not sure what I would have done.”
I blinked back tears. “If what you’re saying is true, it also means that he walked away, knowing that my adoptive father would raise me, and he could never be a part of my life.”
Pearl nodded, and I saw the heaviness in his eyes. He reached over and took me in his arms. It felt like my own father was holding me. “I can’t be sure that it went the way that I’ve laid it out, Kate. But...if it did, it was a choice that your father made out of love.”
It took me some time to regain my composure and process what he’d said. After we’d gone over and sat down again, Joe said to Pearl, “Did you get a name?”
Pearl shook his head. “There may be others who know who Kate’s father is, but there’s only one person who I think knows for sure.”
“Harlee,” Leo said
Pearl nodded.
I took a long breath and looked at Joe. “I’ve got to talk to her again. It might be the only chance I’ll have to ever know the truth.”
“I’ll see what I can do, but...” His voice softened. “You’ve asked her before, and...she hasn’t come through.”
I nodded, knowing that she might never tell me what she knew. I held on his eyes. “I want to try again. I have to try.”
“I’ll find a way.”
After a long moment, Leo brought the discussion back to current events, telling Pearl, “There’s a man that you’ve no doubt heard about. The press has dubbed him Phaedrus. The speculation is that he’s working as Harlee’s surrogate.”
Pearl took another sip of his tea, held the cup in his hands. “I think it’s probably accurate that he’s working for Harlee, and there may be others.”
“He could be acting on his own now, since Harlee’s in custody,” Joe said.
“It’s doubtful. What’s happening with the Swarm is reaching a new level. They obviously want to bring down the government and they want to maximize terror. There are probably other players in deep cover helping him make that happen.”
“This is personal,” I said.
Pearl nodded. “Harlee and Phaedrus are sending a message to the country that they can kill the children of those in power without recrimination. They also want you involved to prove you can’t stop them. And, with Harlan dead, it may be that they don’t feel the same need to protect you.”
“And, maybe my father.”
“Maybe, but that assumes they know who and where he is.” Pearl’s gaze drifted off, and he didn’t go on.
“What else?” Joe asked him. “I can tell there’s something else on your mind.”
Pearl looked back at him and nodded. “Phaedrus. He’s atypical.”
“Meaning?”
“It’s an assumption on my part, but I don’t think he’s just about money and power and protecting the Rylands’ drug empire. If I were a profiler, I’d say he’s intelligent, probably well-read. An intellectual. It might even be that he has ties to a university.”
“There’s something you need to know,” I said. “My friend, Cynthia McFadden. She’s the reporter who he called to make sure I was at the scene of the murder at the museum yesterday. Cynthia told me that Phaedrus said what’s happening is a dialogue.” The lines on Pearl’s wide forehead deepened as I went on. “He told Cynthia that what’s happening is about the soul, madness, and the divine.”
Pearl considered what I’d said for a long time before responding. He then exhaled, telling us, “I don’t know exactly what any of that means, but I have a feeling that, before this is over, Phaedrus is going to make sure that we do.”
EIGHT
The headlights cut a snakelike swath through the darkness, following the serpentine curve of the highway, and grew larger as they came down the driveway toward the farmhouse. Nathan Caine stood on the porch, breathing heavily and squinting through his thick glasses as the lights died.
It was after midnight, the three men approaching without form; shadows moving toward Caine in the moonless night. He was expecting the men, but habit forced him to slide a hand inside his coat, finding the Glock 19 in his waistband.
The visitors came into focus as they reached the porch. The older man greeted him first, the porchlight reflecting off his familiar shaved head.
“It’s a long way from Kazakhstan,” Adam Taylor said, offering a hand.
Caine greeted him, taking stock of his friend. Taylor was in his fifties, and heavier than the last time they had met. His face was blotchy, his features soft, signs that his drinking had gotten the better of him.
“It’s a hell of a long way from Holon Prison, as well,” Caine said.
Even as he exchanged greetings with his friend, Caine had maintained a wariness of the other men, especially the man who was introduced as Lee Chong.
“I’m assuming you’re here for the remainder of your payment,” Caine said to the Asian man.
Chong, a thin man in his thirties, smiled. “I understand your acquisition went as planned.”
Caine didn’t respond, instead cutting his eyes to the man behind Chong.
Taylor made the introduction. “This is Ted Hollister. He’s anxious to get started.”
Caine shook Hollister’s hand, sizing him up. Blue eyes, blond hair, attributes wasted on unpleasant facial features that lacked symmetry. The scientist was thin and pallid, aspects that reminded him of academics he’d encountered in the past.
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Hollister said, attempting a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “They’re calling you Phaedrus. An interesting analogy.”
Caine grunted, waved a hand toward the garage. “You need to concern yourself with other issues.”
“Ted is the best physicist in the business,” Taylor said, as the men moved up the driveway. “He’s worked at Scandia and Livermore.”
Caine took note of Taylor as he kneaded a hand at his temples. He’d heard rumors that his friend had cluster migraines and an addiction to pain medications. That, along with his excessive drinking, could be problematic.
When they got to the garage, Caine paused and hit a light switch. As the lights came on, he said to Hollister, “What’s your specialty?”
“Production and research, including guidance and...” His droopy eyes held on Caine. “...of late, miniaturization.”
Caine met Hollister’s stare. “And your motivation?”
Hollister blinked, obviously intimidated. “I’m sorry?”
“Why are you going to make me a nuclear bomb?”
“You know why I’m here.” The scientist finally met his eyes again. “How is my daughter?”
“Alive, as long as you cooperate.”
“You’ll have your bomb, as long as I get my daughter back.”
“You have nothing to worry about, then.”
Caine moved into the garage, the others following. He was satisfied the scientist would cooperate. There was one thing men valued more than money in this world, and he had the one thing in his possession that he knew would sufficiently motivate Hollister.
They stopped at the workbench, where the silver box sat beneath a bank of bright lights. Caine thought there was something dramatic in the way the lights shone on the polished metal surface as he made the announcement. “Plutonium, gentlemen. One of the most toxic substances known to man.”
Adam Taylor moved closer to the workbench, examining the welded seams of the box. “Our cargo seems to have weathered the shipping process in fine fashion.” He smiled at Caine. “It would seem as though our struggle is about to finally pay dividends.”
Caine returned the smile, thinking a
bout Taylor and others who shared his dream of replacing the weak, corrupt government that had at one time imprisoned him.
“Victory is finally within our grasp.” Even as he said the words, Caine realized he was losing his edge. He had momentarily forgotten about Lee Chong, who seemed to be intently studying the shiny silver box. He said to the little man, “I’m assuming you want your payment now.”
Chong folded his arms. “Yes.”
Caine nodded, but cut his eyes to Hollister, who was moving, catlike, around the work area. “How long, Mr. Hollister?” The scientist looked over at him. “How long will it take to build my bomb?”
Hollister’s voice took on an academic quality. “A piece of plutonium is an amazing thing. Below critical mass, it can be safely held in your hand. But, if critical mass is achieved, there is an instant and enormous release of energy.”
“So how do we make this critical mass?” Taylor asked.
“Our weapon must be assembled in a way that contains the energy buildup long enough to generate the explosive power of the plutonium. We will be using an implosion method: a series of chemical explosives that will be fired at the plutonium in a neutron reflecting casing. As the nuclear material is instantaneously and uniformly compressed, it will achieve supercriticality. The containment pressure of the weapon will be created using natural uranium as the surrounding mass until the plutonium undergoes rapid explosive fission.”
Caine was growing impatient. “Enough with the physics lesson. How long will the process take?”
Hollister ran a hand through his short blond hair. His forehead knitted, his uneven features compressing, as he considered the question. “I’ll know more when I begin the process. A week at the outset, possibly sooner. Maybe as soon as three or four days.”
“How large will the explosion be?” Taylor asked.
