Catherine picked up the phone and quickly scrolled through the menu, expertly selecting what she thought were the most appropriate screen-saver image and ring tone. She then slipped the phone into its plastic sheath and inserted it back into the styrofoam slot in the box.
Catherine Mills reviewed the authorization form one more time, signed her name at the bottom and carefully dotted both of her “i’s.”
COMMERCE CASINO PARKING LOT – 1:00 A.M.
Lane was feeling pretty good about himself and his fattened wallet. He’d won back his two hundred dollar stake plus a hundred and twenty percent profit. He was eager to meet the opium dealer.
The dealer worked out of a twenty-four foot RV with blacked out windows. Khieu explained that the man who sold the opium had an arrangement with the parking lot security staff. The guard in the fifteen foot tower that watched over all the cars would call the dealer’s cell phone if there were any signs of imminent rip-off or approach of real law enforcement. As every addict knows, it’s difficult to beat the dealer.
Lane had left his sidearm holster and firearm locked in the Explorer, knowing it wouldn’t be welcome in the casino. As he approached the RV he wished he had it with him. Lane was surprised Khieu would deal with such an overtly criminal situation.
A young Asian man in jeans and a sport coat was waiting by the aluminum steps that led to the side door. He nodded at Khieu and opened the door. Lane ducked into the RV, turned left and found himself in the kitchen. A layer of fresh cigarette smoke hung in the air in the little space. An even younger, jumpy-looking guy with a shaved head sat on a padded bench at the back of the room. He was wearing pin-striped dress pants and a Los Angeles Cobras football jersey – an arena league team Lane had never heard of. The young man was also holding a stainless-steel combat shotgun with a folding stock.
Lane looked at Khieu. His friend seemed calm.
“He’s not here yet.” Khieu said.
The three men watched each other in the smoky kitchen.
A low staccato noise began coming from the shotgun man. He was farting through his pin-striped pants. It was an insanely long release – at least fifteen seconds. When he was finally finished the man erupted in high pitched laughter. He laughed alone. Lane smelled the foul, manner-less emission, reached for his Gitanes and realized he was all out.
A small man entered the dining area from the back bedroom of the camper and seated himself behind the digital scale on the formica table. It took Lane a second to recognize him without the fishing hat. Stone Face smiled and said his first words of the night.
“Welcome.”
Lane patted his wallet and wondered if he would be visiting the ATM after all.
FONTANA GREASE SERVICE TRUCK – 2:05 A.M.
They were outside the El Pollo Loco #135 when Trevor Jenkins said it:
“I’m glad those cops are dead. Nine fewer to mess with me. And there’s gonna be more. Know why? Cause mines ain’t hard to make.”
Napolion rolled down the window and steeled himself for more bullshit. “Right.” He couldn’t believe he had to listen to this night after night. Life was too short.
“I’m serious. I’ve made mines. It ain’t hard. Or you can just buy ‘em. I know a guy who has a brother at Pendleton, he can get you all you want. They’re so cheap the army doesn’t even inventory them.” They were sharing a joint, and as per usual, Trevor was sucking down more than his share. The pink-necked cracker wasn’t even raised to respect drug manners.
Trevor blabbed on, “Shit, I might even start planting some myself now that I got cover. Just lay ‘em on the backseats of convertibles in Beverly Hills. Rich bitch gets in, steps on the gas, and boom!”
Napolion knew Trevor was always saying he was going to kill this guy or that guy. All talk. Fantasy. Yet Napolion often fantasized about stabbing his partner in the neck. Tell the Super they were robbed or something. No one would give a shit. But Napolion didn’t need the aggravation. Maybe there was another way.
Trevor disappeared into the backdoor of the El Pollo Loco, the grease hose coiled around his shoulder. Napolion inserted the other end of the hose into the truck’s intake valve and spun the locking nut. He sparked a swisher sweet, leaned against the truck and observed the gnats swarming around the streetlight.
Those cops blowing up. Maybe it gave him an opportunity too. It had started as a little spark of an idea this afternoon…
A try at a reward would be too complicated, but a little phone call might make his life a whole lot better. He’d at least get a new partner. The feds were jumpy as hell. He knew if they busted into Trevor’s place they would get him for something - an assault weapon charge, violated probation at the minimum.
Yeah, he’s so smart, let him deal with the real FBI. It would be so easy to drop an anonymous dime on him, give up his address. It was on his pay-stub sitting on the dash. Which was also the last insult. The stupid cracker made seventy-cents an hour more than he did.
Napolion walked around to the graffiti’ed payphone in front of the El Pollo Loco. He looked up FBI in the white pages, swelled to twice its original size in the elements. He didn’t want to call 911 because he knew the 911 operator could trace it immediately. He put in three dimes and a nickel and dialed.
When he heard the friendly human voice after the first ring, Napolion realized that the nice thing about calling the FBI is that they always answer their phone.
HOTEL SOFITEL – 3:03 A.M.
The dreams, the dreams that transposed the senses had returned. Vivid, megawatted visions. The smell of laughter. The sound of aroma. Poker chips, white, pink, and black – spread across a field of deep green felt. An ashtray, smoldering, a pencil thin plume of nicotinged smoke. And across the table, eyes hiding behind the cards. The blue-checked cards of the Commerce Casino shielded the lower half of a man’s face. The eyes watched him unceasingly, alternately fierce and amused. Murderous, laughing, hysterical eyes. And then he was looking down at his own cards, exposed, flat on the green felt. A pair of sixes – with the flop and the river holding three fives – then looking at the chips, feeling the dread of an unsure hand. And then Lane was on the table, in miniature, hiding behind a stack of chips, looking up. The eyes, like a cat teasing prey, and the cards were lowered. And Lanes saw his adversary’s face clearly, but only for an instant – the cat winked and flipped a chip at Lane, sailing toward him, a deadly flying saucer…
Lane awoke exhausted. The drive up the 405 had been a surreal journey, like driving up the trunk of an illuminated Christmas tree, or through a narrow disco that never ended.
After the scene in the RV, Lane and Khieu had indulged in another can pipe load. Lane had one question for his friend. “Why didn’t you tell me?” There were a couple signs Khieu could have made that would have made Lane fold the last hand.
Khieu said “I thought there was an equal chance you would lose and we’d get a discount.”
Lane rolled over in the bed and closed his eyes. And he was on his motorcycle. Driving across a frozen lake…stark white-blue. In total control on the ice. Almost as if he were flying inches above it, a cool breeze in his face, but not the biting cold of a real frozen lake. Vacation cabins specks in the distance. A fuzzy moose standing in the middle of the lake watching him go by…
And then he awoke again. And someone was knocking, knocking steadily on the door of his room.
FORD CROWN VICTORIA - 3:29 A.M.
A good indication of how good a driver someone is, is how far ahead of the vehicle they keep their gaze. Lane could tell Alan didn’t keep his eyes looking far enough ahead. He was maybe a fifty-footer. Evidently driving wasn’t one of the pass/fail tests for the FBI.
Lane felt the stubble on his face. He knew he smelled. Even though he’d slapped some L’aiselle cologne under his arms while Alan waited in his hotel room - whistling. First quietly and then loudly, getting into it. He was a mediocre whistler as well.
Alan handed Lane a cellular telephone. “Catherine wanted
to be sure you were issued one of these. We couldn’t contact you yesterday.”
Lane examined the pint-sized Nokia phone. Israelis once killed leading Palestinians with explosive-filled cellphones, but now that they were getting so small the tactic was going away.
“Know how to use it? All the office numbers are already programmed in.”
“Do I dial ‘9’ first?” Alan smiled at Lane’s sarcasm. “I’m sure I’ll figure it out.”
Lane rolled down his window and lit up a Gitane. Alan didn’t say anything. It was emergency procedures now. As they turned onto La Cienega, Alan hit the lights and siren. They swerved around a Sparkletts truck and change dropped out of Alan’s pants pocket as he accelerated - disappearing audibly into the car seat hardware.
* * *
Lane sat in Catherine’s office and sipped FBI coffee. There were several types of bad coffee in America: Church basement coffee – thin and frugal, but friendly. Imitation European cafe coffee - self-consciously strong rather than rich and interesting. Seven-Eleven coffee, which had the undertaste of candy, cigarettes and hot dogs. And Office Coffee, which was usually prepared by the lowest paid and lowest ranking office worker and often ended up tasting like burned hot water. What Lane sampled now was Federal Office Coffee. And it set a new standard. This was institutionally bad. Disgruntled and pessimistic. Punishing. It tasted like someone had brewed up a pot of bad breath.
Catherine entered.
She was wearing jeans and a man’s dress shirt with the cuffs rolled up. Lane hadn’t seen her with her hair up before. He noticed the half-carat Russian diamonds in her ear lobes and recognized her perfume from the car. Her brow was slightly pinched with an expression of sleepless intensity, but Lane thought she looked more attractive than ever, except for the fact that she didn’t look particularly happy to see him.
Lane didn’t have much of a story prepared. He figured she wouldn’t really ask, too much on her plate to wonder about him.
Catherine sat down behind her desk and said “Where were you last night?”
“I was at the library until the second robot arrived. And then I had a hunch and went out to Zuma to check on the first site. A popular tactic in SE Asia is to re-mine an area after it’s been declared clear. I staked out the beach until twenty-two hundred and then drove back to the hotel. I turned off the phone to grab a couple hours sleep and then Alan came and picked me up.”
Catherine stared at him, the stress and fatigue around her eyes the color of storm clouds. The door opened and a small man in a gray suit entered and stuck out his hand in front of Lane like a karate chop. “Bob Zimmerman. No relation.”
Lane shook the hand and said “To who?”
“You’re the mine expert?”
“Yes. Who are you?”
“I’m with National Security.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I have the president’s phone number.” Zimmerman smiled when he said this, but the smile was half a second late. “Catherine tells me you have some recommendations for us.”
“Yes. I think you should close the beaches.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s the easiest place to put them and the hardest place to find them. It’s almost impossible to find plastic mines in sand. And even if they’re not plastic, a beach provides thousands of false positives.” Land noticed Zimmerman’s incredibly smooth face.
“Well that’s not gonna happen. We’re not conceding sovereign U.S. territory to the enemy. Particularly not some of the most valuable real estate in the world. Think how it would inspire other groups. They would all start planting landmines in America. Anyway, this guy is clearly all about cops and leaders.”
“The metal detector guy wasn’t a cop.”
“No, but he was used as bait, to get to cops”
“I’m just saying, with delayed-fusing, there could be anything out there.”
“We haven’t found any evidence of anything like that. Moreover, we have the beaches under surveillance.”
Lane glanced at Catherine.
“But this is probably all academic. We just identified the guy.” Zimmerman handed Lane a sheet of paper.
“Trevor Jenkins. First adult arrest was for shooting a possum with an AK47 he’d converted to full auto. He used the whole clip at one in the morning. The neighbors called. Subsequent to this incident, Mr. Jenkins was stung by a bee, on his thumb. His neighbor was keeping bees, and Trevor was convinced those particular bees were responsible for his misfortune, although the initial bee of course died in the stinging. Anyway, to protect himself from future encounters, he tried to blow up the hives with pipe bombs. The only problem was that while he was planting the third one, the first one went off.”
Lane looked at the arrest record.
“I don’t think he’s the guy.”
“We got a tip. Apparently he’s been less than circumspect. Like the kid who put pipe bombs in the mailboxes. We found him in 72 hours. His dad turned him in. The Unabomber, his brother. Dead cops on television apparently inspired someone to do the right thing here.”
“Pipe bombs aren’t land mines.”
“These were sophisticated, they had timers. And if he’s gotten his hands on military ordinance, it would be easy to step up.” Lane noticed that in addition to the delayed smile, Zimmerman had an artificial twinkle in his eye from radial keratotomy.
“He fits the profile perfectly. And he’s been informed on. It’s credible human intelligence. Moreover, RAND has done some Monte Carlo sims on this. There’s a high probability this is a homegrown nut.” Lane wondered what kind of intelligence they considered that to be. “We’re picking him up, with all necessary prejudice. Briefing starts in two minutes. You’re invited.”
* * *
Lane entered the FBI’s bathroom and ducked into the handicapped stall. On the stainless steel stall wall someone had written Agent Mills gives me a big bertha. And someone else had written below it: Dude, she swings her own big bertha.
Lane put a pinch of opium between his cheek and gum. Not the best way to transfer it into his system, but it helped him to stop thinking about it. He replaced his stash inside his tin of Altoids mints, thoughtfully provided by the Sofitel, and slipped it into the side pocket of his fatigues.
Lane exited the stall and found Bob Zimmerman combing water into his hair. Side-by-side in the mirror, the two men were a study in contrasts, the suit next to the soldier, the kempt beside the un. Lane looked at his own bloodshot reflection and rubbed the stubble on his chin. To break the tension he said, “Gee Bob, how do you keep your skin so smooth?”
“Electrolysis. Painful initially. And I’ve had to have some touch-ups. But overall I’ve saved hundreds of shaving hours.”
Lane looked at him. He wasn’t kidding. “Brilliant.”
A half-second later, the Fed gave him his electronic smile. He had no dimples.
* * *
At the pre-raid briefing, Lane immediately saw that the hostage extraction team was different than the FBI agents he had met so far. Still and quiet, yet coiled. He was used to men like this in the Special Forces. Men who could run a marathon and kill somebody every mile without it affecting their pulse rates.
Lane strapped on a Kevlar flak jacket with a steel insert over the heart. The jacket alone couldn’t stop an AK47 round, and if you got shot in the face or the knee cap it didn’t do much for you either, but it was still a good precaution.
Alan handed out mug shots of the suspect. Lane looked at the photo, Trevor Jenkin’s finicky pipe bomb had burned off one of his eyebrows and his face was covered with swollen bee sting welts. Lane tried to picture this man planting the acoustical mines at Forest Lawn. It would have been something to take out the cemetery guard and not abort the mission. It showed real will, as well as careful, meticulous planning, and an ability to improvise. There was no way Trevor Jenkins was capable of that.
Catherine entered the conference room and everyone fell silent. Lane sat
down on a metal folding chair and had another sip of coffee.
WILL ROGERS STATE BEACH – 5:05 am
The wet nose of the golden retriever snuffled across the top of the sand. Dogs were prohibited, but in the early morning you could get away with it. The dog loved the beach. Loved to run off his Eukanuba brown rice and kale breakfast. And his owner, the bald man with the menacing voice, didn’t mind when he marked his territory here. At their home beach he would yell “Bad dog, Karl!” and then kick sand over his steaming monuments.
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