The basic croissant, orange juice, coffee, and omelet breakfast was $14.95. Lane had a per diem meal expense allowance of $35.00. He was reluctant to blow half of it on breakfast, until he saw that cigarettes were also available, French ones, Gauloises and Gitanes. He couldn’t think of a better way to start the morning. Lane went back inside and dialed-up number eight. He hoped they didn’t have any kind of policy against bringing cigarettes to non-smoking rooms, because then he would have to get pissed-off on the phone, and he knew he was too hungry to do it right.
But for the moment, it didn’t matter. No one was answering down at the room service number. And for the second time this morning, Lane wished the phone would stop ringing…
11000 WILSHIRE BOULEVARD – 11:05 A.M.
Catherine Mills sat tensely at her blonde-wood desk. The Director in Washington had just called, and then put her on hold. And now she was being watched, studied. Major Joel Lane sat across her desk, his eyes not really looking at the latest psycho profile she’d given him. Those eyes, deep creased pockets of worn navy blue, seemed to be absorbing every last detail of her office. And they locked onto her whenever she looked away from him…she could feel it.
Catherine realized she had been out of the field too long. She was too used to office culture -- meetings, reports, depositions, presentations and strategy sessions in dim windowless conference rooms. She wasn’t used to having characters like this man in her office -- weathered and rugged, like a scout just in from the wilderness, reporting back to the fort. He wore a deep green field uniform, boots, and an unconcealed shoulder holster. If he didn’t look so authentic, people might think he’d wandered off a set from one of the nearby studios.
The phone dance with the Director had started at five a.m., before she was even at the office. Their Special Tactics stakeout team had broken the leg of the wrong dog. The beach home the dog was defending belonged to the foreign minister of the United Arab Emirates. There had been immediate calls back to Washington, threats, diplomatic hostilities. Anyway she looked at it she came to the conclusion that it had been a stupid incident. Maybe she had too much presence out there, Super Agent Blake, a reject form the elite Hostage Team just couldn’t seem to do anything without maximum force. But she didn’t dare complain -- if she ever really needed to unleash him, there was no deadlier weapon in her arsenal.
“Catherine are you there?” the Director, distracted.
“Still here.”
“Looks like we got this protocol polyp contained. Try to keep Blake reigned in. He’s reporting to you on this deal, but if you’d like, I can talk to him.”
“No, I can handle it, sir.”
“Good. Let’s get this guy. Call me tomorrow with a status.”
“Absolutely first-thing, sir.” She hung up and Lane was staring right at her. She felt the need to explain. “Little special tactics incident last night.”
“I heard all about it while I was waiting for our meeting. Bad luck.”
“Worse luck is that so far it’s the only arrest we’ve made. We have absolutely nothing on this. Maybe we won’t even be needing your services. What do you think?”
Lane shifted in his seat. “I sincerely hope you won’t. But I must say that in my experience, mines are kind of like roaches. When you find one, your problems are just starting.”
“Were you in Iraq?”
“First one. Did a lot of work in Kuwait.”
The rest of the meeting didn’t go well. Lane wanted to bring in a team from South Africa. Contractors. The best in the world, he said. But Catherine was adamant -- the FBI was not about to use mercenaries on U.S. soil. Lane had tried to explain that they weren’t ordinary mercenaries. He had worked with them in Angola, when he’d been an adviser there. It was where he’d met Aimee. She was one of the trainers. Her dad had been an insurgent specialist in the South African military. After he’d retired and become a merc-advisor, she’d joined him, made it a family business. It was a hazardous job that had ended up costing her her life -- although her death hadn’t been an accident. One of their trainees had been a guerilla plant, a fourteen year old on Savimbi’s UNITA payroll. He’d re-mined the training field in the middle of the night. Lane stopped himself before he remembered what he’d done to him.
“There’s an executive task force meeting this afternoon,” Catherine told him. “Do you have a safety presentation you could do? I’m sure we could all use a technology refresher.”
Lane looked at her. “I could probably put something together.”
“If you need PowerPoint or something just ask Alan to set you up with a computer.”
“PowerPoint?”
“Yeah, you know, slides. Cut and paste, point and click.”
Lane smiled at her. “I don’t think I’ll be needing a computer.” He got up and left her office. She felt vaguely unsettled about what he might have planned, but her phone rang as soon as he was gone, and she quickly put it out of her head.
WESTWOOD BOULEVARD, LOS ANGELES – 11:35 A.M.
Major Lane made Alan drive him out to lunch in his non-smoking government car. The FBI was short on motor-pool vehicles due to the task force. Catherine had made it clear that Lane would have to rent one on his own and then get reimbursed. Lane made a note to himself to investigate the Avis desk in the lobby when he got back to his hotel. It was impossible to spend any time in L.A without a vehicle. He’d had to wait twenty minutes for a cab just to get to the office this morning.
“Were you in Iraq?” Alan asked.
“The first one.”
It was an obvious question. Mines and traps of all kinds were the leading killers there. Lane didn’t want to explain why he wasn’t invited for the second conflict.
Alan pulled into a strip mall on Westwood Boulevard. “Togo’s or Subway?” he said.
Lane looked up and saw that the restaurants were located right next to each other. “Where do you usually go?” Lane believed in the adage of trusting local recommendations.
“Subway’s cheaper, but I usually go to Togo’s.”
Lane thought about his per diem. The room service bill had been twenty-one dollars after tax and service charges. “Is there anything wrong with Subway?”
“It smells funny.” Alan said, “Like burps.”
“Burps?”
“Yeah, you know you’d expect a submarine sandwich place to smell like pastrami and smoked ham and summer sausage, but Subway smells like burps of pastrami and smoked ham and summer sausage. I think the teenagers they have working in there must sneak food from the line all day and then belch on each other when there aren’t any customers around. I mean it really smells funky.”
Lane noticed that a large Save-On drugstore anchored the strip mall.
“Listen Alan, I have to go over to that drugstore and buy fifty pounds of kitty litter for my safety presentation this afternoon. How about you go to Togo’s and get me one of whatever you usually get, and I’ll meet you back here.”
“That would be the number six combo.” Alan said, not even questioning the kitty litter.
“What’s in the number six combo?”
“Turkey-avo with chips and a large coke. The Coke is only ninety-five cents when you order the combo.”
“That sounds good, Alan.”
After what he’d heard about the smells, Lane was happy he was buying kitty litter instead of going into a restaurant.
11000 WILSHIRE BOULEVARD – 12:05 P.M.
Alan drove into the parking structure of the Federal building. On the third level he slammed on the brakes as they were cut-off buy a racing green Corvette convertible -- it roared through their right-of-way at about thirty-five.
“Goddamn Blake! He’s going to kill somebody in here.” Alan whined.
The Corvette screeched to a halt in front of the elevators. It’s blond, athletic driver jumped out and flashed them the peace sign just before he kicked in the door to the stairs.
“That’s the TAC team leader?” Lane asked
/> “Yeah, he’s kind of an asshole.”
They parked beside the Corvette. Lane looked at it for a second. “I’m going to stay down here and smoke a cigarette. I’ll be up to join you in a minute.” Lane said.
“Don’t take too long. I can easily eat two turkey-avo’s.”
Lane smiled politely, but inside he was slightly irked. It just wasn’t funny to joke about eating another man’s lunch.
TASK FORCE CONFERENCE ROOM – 2:07 P.M.
Lane’s fifty pounds of cat litter were spilled into the corner in a level pile about three feet square and six inches deep. As the various task force members trickled in for the meeting, few could resist commenting on it.
“It’s about time they put a can in here,” the Captain representing the Border Patrol said.
“I see the sand trap, but where’s the green?” said the Detective from the Palos Verdes Police Department..
“I thought ashtrays were illegal in this building,” the senior ATF agent said.
“Surf’s up,” the Lifeguard supervisor joked.
“Must be a pretty big pussy around to need all that,” Special Agent Blake added.
Catherine Mills was the last to arrive. The testosterone in the room was clearly overpowering the Fresh Step. “What the fuck is that pile of kitty litter doing in my conference room?” she asked.
Lane finally responded. “It’s for my technology refresher, my safety demonstration.”
She nodded. “We’ll save that for the end.” And then she launched into the meeting. There were the above-mentioned representatives plus people from the Santa Monica Police Department, the L.A. County Sheriff’s Department, the Coast Guard, the Airport Police; cops from Manhattan Beach, Long Beach, Seal Beach, Huntington Beach, Newport, and Hermosa, plus another dozen FBI Special Agents responsible for various Task Force components – Database, Lab, Special Tactics, Bomb Squad, etc.
Catherine ran an efficient meeting, she didn’t give any member of the task force more than thirty-seconds to report about his area. There was a massive surveillance operation going on up and down the coast. The Border Patrol had moved their night scopes and helicopters up from San Ysidro, the Coast Guard was searching for suspicious small craft along the shore, the Strand was covered with plainclothes units day and night, black and whites swept the parking lots, PCH was blanketed with Highway Patrol Interceptors, the lifeguards were watching the people on the sand instead of in the water, and the ATF was shaking down every known arms dealer and informant in their files. After she mercilessly cut the first couple people off in mid-sentence, most of the attendees simply shook their head when it was their turn. It only took twelve minutes to go through everyone in the room. No one had anything of substance. Zero leads.
For all the resources involved, Lane could see it wasn’t quite a dragnet. There were a lot of holes. The coast was too big, impossible to defend completely, but if the perpetrator was careless, they might get lucky. Yet still Lane couldn’t shake the feeling that they were over-reaching somehow.
The last item on Catherine’s agenda was the funeral announcement for Officer Mark Park – it was scheduled for tomorrow morning. Lane thought that if there were a perfect time for someone to plant more mines it would be then, when a couple thousand cops looked the other way. Lane suddenly realized all eyes were on him. He had daydreamed through whatever introduction Catherine had given him. Lane stood up in front of his pile of cat litter and cleared his throat.
“I don’t want to be flip, or take anything away from the fine work done on the beach this past week, but as far dealing with landmines goes, I believe we were very lucky. I think it’s a good idea to remind ourselves about how sinister these weapons can be. For purposes of demonstration, we’ll say this pile of sand here is a potentially mined beach.” Major Lane looked over the sea of skeptical faces. “Do I have any volunteers?”
Special Agent Blake’s hand shot up first.
Lane looked at Blake. “Agent, do you have any mine clearance experience?”
“Sure do, I was an Army Ranger for six years. We were all taught the basic probe-technique.” Blake said, eager to quote his credentials.
Lane reached into his pocket and took out his buck knife. He unfolded the four-inch blade and held it out to Agent Blake. “Good, let’s see you demonstrate it.”
Blake ignored Lane’s knife and instead reached into his own pocket. In one motion he brought out and clicked-open a twelve-inch switchblade. “We always used bayonets.”
Lane’s expression was inscrutable, but everyone could sense the posturing. Catherine rolled her eyes at the sight of the illegal weapon. Lane closed his knife. “Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
Blake smirked, and then got down on the carpet and began inserting his blade at a thirty-degree angle into the Fresh Step. “Doesn’t feel like there’s been any kitty’s in here…” He slipped the blade in again, pushed it up to the hilt. Tried another spot. “Wait here we go. Fire in the hole!”
“Alright, obviously at this point everyone clears the immediate area and you call for the bomb squad. But if for some reason you can’t do that, the next step would be to try to carefully identify what you’ve found.” Lane said.
Blake continued to probe around the concealed object, scraping away the top granules. “It seems to be about two to three inches in diameter…Plastic…And also partly metal.”
Lane nodded. “OK, what’s the next step?”
“Well, if I was out in the field I’d probably back-up and shoot it.” There were chuckles around the room.
“Before you do that, it’s probably a good idea to know if you’re going to set off a forty meter killzone claymore or a simple blast mine. Any idea what specific ordinance it might be?”
“I’m not up on every landmine made, but judging from the material, and small diameter, I’m going to guess it’s a Type 72.”
“That’s what you’re going with?” Lane’s face was blank.
Blake eyed him, smug. “Yup.”
“What would you say if I told you it was the gas cap from your Corvette?”
Laughter started in the back of the room and quickly spread. Blake flushed red, and then got up slowly from the floor. His knife was at his side. He stepped up close so he was nose-to-nose with Lane.
“I don’t like people touching my car. Never. Ever. Do that again. Comprende?”
“Agent Blake, put that stupid knife away.” Catherine Mills couldn’t believe she had to intervene, she felt like a teacher in a roomful of junior high school kids. Blake looked at her for a long second, and then retracted the switchblade.
Major Lane smiled. “I’m sorry, Agent Blake. I was just demonstrating the signature of one of the most notorious booby-trap artists in Angola.” He stepped back and addressed the room. “To a metal detector, a fuel cap acts just like a mine. It can paralyze a whole unit. Believe it or not this was the invention of a very devious ten year old.”
Blake, still glaring at Lane, reached down to pluck his gas cap out of the sand. His action triggered a loud WHAP! that sent kitty litter stones flying like birdshot to all corners of the conference room.
“Goddamn it! What the hell was that!” Blake’s eyes were wide and his hand was raised in frozen recoil.
Lane had purchased one other item at the Save-On.
“Rat trap mine. Hiding under the gas cap. You’re dead, Ranger.” Blake had dropped the gas cap when the trap went off and it had rolled to a stop at Lane’s feet. He picked it up and tossed it to the seething Blake. Major Lane looked out at his audience. There was a chilled silence. No one was laughing. “Like I said, he had devious mind. This is what you could be up against folks. Try not to forget it.”
TONLE SAP RESTAURANT – SANTA ANA, CA – 2:05 PM
As Huay listened to the earnest young man enthusiastically explain his intricate business plan to open a fruit smoothie business, his mind began to wander. He had heard a thousand such proposals. And this one was the fifth consecutive business
plan he’d heard today. As an active venture capitalist he already owned interests in a wide collection of donut/noodle shops, nail salons, 99-cent stores, dry cleaners and small restaurants. In fact, he had helped launch the restaurant they were in now – not one of his best investments, but it had taught him an important lesson: never finance someone who hasn’t proven that they know how to run a business. There had been a reasonably steady stream of customers for lunch, but now the restaurant was nearly empty. And Huay knew why, the place wasn’t very clean. A fact that people usually overlooked if the food was good, but the food wasn’t very good either, and the owners just didn’t seem to have the passion to make it better. From his position in the back booth he could see the wife of the owner sitting in the kitchen watching television instead of finishing the lunch dishes. Infuriating. All his investments after this one had been with people who were either expanding on already successful enterprises or had unique talent, expertise. He continued to have his meetings in the often unappetizing restaurant to remind himself that a business, of any size, was difficult, and that there was no glamour in failure.
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