The answering machine at Anne-Marie Altman’s flat in San Francisco said she could be reached at the Sacramento office of the California Coalition for Environmental Preservation. I didn’t leave a message. Anne-Marie and Hank are a couple who can’t live together but love each other enough to want to remain married; they occupy separate flats in a building they own in Noe Valley, but when Anne-Marie’s away, Hank’s in and out of her place to water plants and monitor faxes and the answering machine. For his safety, I didn’t want him to have a clue to my whereabouts or what I was involved in. I would tell Anne-Marie as little as possible.
When I phoned Sacramento, though, I learned she was in a meeting. I asked when it would be over, said I’d call back then. What to do now? I wondered. Well, I knew one thing that needed attending to, but I wasn’t sure I could face it just yet.
Finally I got off the bed and looked myself over critically in the mirror above the bureau. I was wearing Karen’s jeans—a baggy loose-fitting type that she favored—and a pink blouse that I definitely wouldn’t have bought. The differences in our personal styles were to my advantage, however: Gage Renshaw had seen me when I was wearing the slim-legged jeans and loose type of sweater that I prefer; he would have had that image of me fixed in his mind when he described me to his operatives. As for the man in the Padres cap who had followed me that morning, I doubted he was from RKI, and he hadn’t gotten that good a look at me, anyway. The clothes in the suitcase were almost as good as a disguise. The real problem was my hair.
I leaned in toward the mirror and studied my image. In past years I’d changed my hairstyle very little except for—vainly, I thought when I was in a self-critical mood—dying the gray streak that had been there since my teens. My hair was black and thick and very long; I wore it free or bound into a ponytail for casual occasions, knotted or piled high when I wanted to look like a grown-up. It was probably my most recognizable feature, and I’d always been proud of it.
But now as I stared into the mirror, I saw it for what it was and wondered why I’d kept it this way. With it flowing down my back, I looked like one of those people who are trying to make time stand still. Worse than that, I looked like a caricature that was about to take its place next to the leftover hippie.
Strange, I reflected. I’d never considered myself one who hung on to the past. I thought I’d let go of it repeatedly, so many times in so many ways. Apparently not so.
I’d let go of it two nights before, though, in the ruins of my childhood treehouse. Finding out that the man Salazar had shot on the mesa wasn’t Hy had given me hope, but it hadn’t substantially altered any of the things I’d realized during those bleak hours. After all this was over, no matter what the outcome, my life wouldn’t ever be the same. I could cherish the past—both remote and immediate—but the conditions that had existed then simply no longer applied. I would have to create a new present, one that would lead to a different future than I’d previously imagined. All of which boiled down to an inescapable conclusion: my hair had to go.
I grinned at myself in the mirror, marveling at the workings of the female mind. We make sweeping links between the philosophical and the mundane and think absolutely nothing of those logical—or illogical—leaps. Haircutting translates to destiny—and why not? Those of us who—as a gender—have spent the ages dreaming our dreams while our hands prepared food and cared for children and cleansed our surroundings instinctively know that everything is bound into one great whole.
That issue settled, I put aside the philosophical and went about the mundane task of locating a nearby stylist.
* * *
It was, of course, a hideous experience. For openers, the place was called Shear Mania. Secondly, the stylist, Becky, had an orange-and-green parrot’s crown. Before I could run screaming into the street, she sat me down and began whacking off great hanks of my hair. I closed my eyes. Kept them closed until I got up to go to the shampoo basin. Then I glanced down and saw my former mane lying on the floor like a dead animal. I shuddered and looked away from the carnage while Becky swept it up. She shampooed what was left on my head, then took me back to her work station for final shaping. Grimly I shut my eyes again. Over the hum of the blow-dryer she said, “This is a great style for you. Take a look.”
“Not until it’s done.”
Finally she turned off the dryer, combed, sprayed, made little adjustments here and there. Then she stuck a mirror in my hand. “Now look.”
I looked. My hair fell to my shoulders, glossy and full, turning under slightly at the ends. Nothing fussy, but not too severe. Perfect.
“My God,” I said.
Becky frowned, not knowing whether I was pleased or displeased.
“It is great,” I added, mentally upping her tip. “Am I going to be able to fix it this way by myself?”
She nodded. “You’ve got terrific hair. It wants to fall that way all on its own. Not like mine. It’s mouse-colored and wants to stick up. Finally I just said what the hell.” Then she proceeded to sell me shampoo, conditioner, spray, and a diffuser-type dryer. I left there over two hundred dollars poorer but confident that no one, not even my own brother, would immediately recognize me if I bumped into him on the street.
* * *
This time when I called Sacramento, I reached Anne-Marie. “Are you all right?” she asked. “Hank told me they offered you a totally unsuitable promotion. In my opinion, it was also insulting, and I don’t blame you for skipping out without telling anybody.”
“I can’t talk about that now.”
“If it’s any consolation, Hank feels terrible. As well he should. Where are you?”
“I can’t talk about that, either. I’ll explain it all soon, I promise, but in the meantime I need some information.”
“Sure. But, Sharon—”
“When I get home we’ll discuss it. Right now … What do you know about an organization called Terramarine?”
“They’re eco-terrorists of the worst sort.”
“How far would they go?”
“A few years ago it was suspected that they killed somebody—the captain of a tuna seiner whose fleet was circumventing net inspections by reregistering in a foreign port—but it could never be proven.”
“I don’t understand—about the foreign registry, I mean.”
“The old-style deep-sea nets that most of the purse seiners use trap dolphins along with the tuna, and the dolphins are crushed or drowned. After the Marine Mammal Protection Act was passed, seiners were forced to begin using a new kind of net with a device that allows the dolphins to escape. Our fleet is one of the most closely observed in the world, but foreign registry exempts a boat from inspection. The nonresponsive sector of the fishing industry simply reregistered.”
“And Terramarine murdered this captain as an example?”
“We think so. At first they claimed responsibility, but when an investigation got under way and the authorities started looking closely at them, they all of a sudden had alibis.”
“So they commit acts of terrorism to make a statement. How about to make a profit? Would they kidnap someone for ransom?”
She hesitated. “They might kidnap someone, but I think it would be more for the high-visibility factor than for money.”
That didn’t fit with the Mourning kidnapping. “What do you know about a Mexican environmentalist named Emanuel Fontes?”
“Very dedicated, very highly respected.”
And that didn’t fit with Fontes’s company being the agency through which the kidnappers had intended to collect the ransom.
“Interesting you should mention Fontes,” Anne-Marie added. “That tuna-seiner captain whom Terramarine claimed credit for murdering? He worked for Emanuel Fontes’s brother, Gilbert. Gilbert owns the Corona Fleet. It used to be home-ported in San Diego, but when Fontes bought it, he moved it to Mexico.”
I recalled Gage Renshaw mentioning that there was bad blood between the brothers. “In your opinion, would Emanuel Fontes ha
ve dealings with Terramarine?”
“Definitely not.”
“Not even if Terramarine’s purpose was to discredit his brother, or perhaps get back at him for his anti-environmental policies?”
“No. Under no circumstances would Emanuel cater to their brand of terrorism. I know, because I met him at the Rio conference last year. We spoke at length on ethical considerations.”
I sighed; for a moment it had seemed I was on to a good lead. “Only a couple more questions and I’ll let you go. Have you ever heard of someone named Brockowitz in connection with Terramarine?”
“Stan?” She sounded surprised. “I’ve heard of him, but not in connection with that group.”
“Who is he?”
“Stan Brockowitz is a total asshole. A fund-raiser for anti-environmental causes. You’ve heard of Wise Use? Alliance for America?”
“Isn’t Wise Use the group that held its anti-environmental summit at the same time the Rio conference was going on?”
“Uh-huh. Got a lot of press because of that, too. Their agenda is destructive: to open federal parkland to logging and mining. They want to get rid of all federal regulation of the environment. Alliance for America is a coalition of groups representing mining, timber, ranching, and other business interests—sort of the flip side of my organization. Then there’s the Center for the Defense of Free Enterprise, a nonprofit outfit that raises money for groups fighting environmentalists. Big business contributes heavily. Needless to say, I don’t like any of them, but their tactics are legitimate and I suppose in their way they’re sincere. Brockowitz, on the other hand … His firm is called Facilitators, Incorporated—a nice catchall name for anything that benefits Stan Brockowitz.”
“Where’s it located?”
“San Clemente.”
“Perfect place,” I commented, thinking back to the days of Nixon’s western White House. “Who do they raise funds for?”
“Pretty much the same groups as the Center for the Defense of Free Enterprise. But there’s a difference.” Anne-Marie paused briefly. “Look, can you hang on a minute? I have to take another call.”
“Sure.” I waited on hold, mulling over this new information. When Anne-Marie came back on the line, I said, “Before we go on about Brockowitz, do you recognize the name Ann Navarro?”
“Navarro’s Brockowitz’s wife.”
“Okay, as you were saying …”
“Brockowitz is a former Greenpeace member, was fairly high-placed. Around six or seven years ago he made a big power play and was forced out. He got his revenge by establishing his fund-raising firm and courting big business. His methods … I call them Green Peril tactics. He portrays major figures in the environmental movement as Fu Manchus and the rest of us as their dacoits, scurrying around to carry out their evil schemes.”
“Clever,” I said. “The specter of an evil empire is a great scare tactic—and a great way to raise money.”
“Right. And Brockowitz raises a lot of it. What his contributors don’t realize is that he’d turn on their causes in an instant if he saw greater profit potential elsewhere, and that his administrative costs are padded. A good deal of the money he raises gets siphoned off into his own Swiss bank account.”
“Is that fact or just speculation?”
“Pretty solid speculation. One of my good friends, believe it or not, is an IRS auditor in Orange County. She goes after big-time defrauders, and for years she’s been obsessed with nailing Brockowitz. She’s come close, too, and that’s gotten her slashed tires and a fire in her house that the arson squad labeled suspicious in origin.”
“Brockowitz sounds like a sweetie. Anne-Marie, do you suppose Hy knows him?”
She laughed wryly. “You bet he does. Remember when Hy was arrested at that anti-logging demonstration in Siskiyou County last March? It was Brockowitz who set him off, taunting him from behind the picket line. The bad blood between the two of them goes way back to when Stan was still active in Greenpeace.”
Interesting—very. “Okay,” I said, “how would I go about getting to know Brockowitz? Or Ann Navarro?”
“Well, I’m not too sure about Stan. People with so many enemies tend to be wary about letting strangers get too close. But Navarro … They haven’t been married more than a year, so she probably hasn’t had time to get into quite as paranoid a state. As I recall … Hold on a minute and let me double-check this.”
Again I waited. Anne-Marie returned quickly. “I remembered correctly,” she said. “Navarro owns a store called the Swallow’s Nest in San Juan Capistrano.”
“What kind of store is it?”
“I’m not sure, but from the name I’d say it sells tourist crap.”
“Thanks, Anne-Marie. This has really helped.”
“Shar, when’re you coming home? Hank needs to talk with you. He’s been—”
“I know he feels bad about everything, but I’ll try to make it up to him. Tell him …” I paused, unsure what I wanted to say. Finally I finished somewhat lamely. “Tell him I’ll see him soon.”
Eighteen
To get to San Juan Capistrano, sixty-some miles north of San Diego, I had to pass through the San Onofre checkpoint. The distant nuclear reactor, its cones like dormant volcanoes against the sparkling sea, filled me as always with a dull foreboding; the caution signs beside the freeway that displayed the silhouettes of a fleeing family deepened my gloom. No illegals were attempting to cross the eight lanes of pavement now, and the immigration people looked bored as they waved cars through. But under cover of darkness, the illegals and their coyotes would begin to move; tensions would rise among the checkpoint personnel. Night was the bad time here, when nerves frayed and desperate people risked, and often lost, everything.
When I drove into San Juan Capistrano ten minutes later I was pleasantly surprised. It had been fifteen years since I’d last visited the mission town that had always reminded me of a sleepy Mexican village, but while it had grown, it also retained its old-fashioned flavor. There was a new restaurant at the train station and a lot more antique shops and other stores, but the mission looked as peaceful as ever. No wonder the swallows kept returning on schedule from their annual pilgrimage to Argentina.
I parked on what looked to be the main commercial street, went directly to a phone booth outside a small deli, and started to look up the address for the Swallow’s Nest. Then I noticed it was right next door. What had drawn my attention was the window full of silk birds that sat on perches or suspended from near-invisible threads as if in flight. Below them a two-foot-tall peacock preened its opalescent silken feathers.
How on earth, I wondered as I crossed the sidewalk, did such a specialty shop stay in business?
Inside were more fantastical birds, so beautifully fashioned that each seemed to possess its own individuality. A brilliant macaw winked slyly from one corner; a raven’s expression revealed a philosophical bent; a crow leered evilly; a cockateel looked too damn smug for its own good. I’d never been overly fond of birds—at one time, in fact, I was pathologically afraid of them—but now I found myself completely smitten with a crochety old parrot. If I had to buy something in order to strike up a rapport with Ann Navarro, that’s what it would be.
I went over to it and found a price tag pinned discreetly under one wing. “Ninety dollars!”
“But handcrafted by fine artists,” a husky voice behind me said.
I turned. The woman was tall and coppery-haired with large silver-framed glasses. Either this wasn’t Ann Navarro or Hy had never met Stan Brockowitz’s wife and had approached Ana Orozco because he expected Ann to look Hispanic.
“It is wonderful,” I said of the parrot.
“We have smaller ones that cost less.”
“No.” I shook my head regretfully. “It’s his personality that drew me.”
“Cranky, isn’t he? I call him W. C. Fields.”
“Where do you get your merchandise?”
“Mostly Mexico. There’s a firm that we
order from that employs a stable of talented folk artists.” She hesitated, studying the parrot. “Look, I think we can make you a deal on W.C. He’s been on inventory for a while. What do you say to seventy-five dollars?”
I glanced at the bird. “I’m not sure. It’s still a lot of money. If you have a card, I’ll let you know.”
“Of course.” She went to the sales desk and produced a rectangle of brightly colored cardboard: “The Swallow’s Nest, Exotic Birds That Don’t Talk Back, Ann Navarro.”
“This is you?”
She shook her head. “Ann’s the owner.”
I frowned, staring at the card. “Ann Navarro. Is she married to a man named Stan Brockowitz?”
“Uh-huh. Do you know him?”
“Sure I do. This is quite a coincidence. I’m on my way to San Clemente to talk with him about … a book I’m writing on the backlash against the environmental movement.”
“Well,” the woman said stiffly, “you’ll be talking with the right person.” She moved away and straightened W.C., who slumped disconsolately on his perch.
I said, “I take it you don’t agree with Brockowitz’s stance.”
“Let’s just say that I work here because I like real birds, all of them. Stan has raised a lot of money to oppose legislation that would regulate the oil companies more stringently. If you’ve ever seen what an oil spill does to bird life …” She shrugged.
“I’m glad you told me that. You see, Brockowitz doesn’t know it, but the approach I plan to take in my book is critical of people like him. He may have sensed that, though, because he was very difficult to line up for the interview—wouldn’t let me come to his house, just said I’d have to catch him at the office during working hours and he’d see if he could spare the time. I have visions of waiting around San Clemente for so long that I miss my deadline.”
Wolf in the Shadows Page 17
