The Last Line

by Anthony Shaffer

  “That,” Chavez said, “looks like a guard.”

  “I agree,” Teller said. “I don’t see the woman who owns the place, and that guy looks more like hired muscle than a midmanagement cartel businessman.”

  This last was pure guesswork, of course, an impression based on the figure’s position and the presence of the rifle. Judging from the hazy outlines of walls picked out by pipes and wiring, the man was sitting in a hallway rather than in any of the house’s living spaces, a spot where he had a clear view of the front door.

  “So,” Procario said, “if we take that guy, could we plant Cellmap on his phone?”

  “We’d have to kill him to do it, if he’s a guard,” Teller said. “Besides, if he’s street muscle, he won’t have that many numbers on his cell.”

  “Yeah,” Chavez agreed. “The higher in the organization, the more phones in the network we could hit at once.”

  “Even a street thug is going to have the number of someone higher up,” Teller said, thoughtful. “Hell, that guy probably has Escalante’s number, since he’s working for either him or for the woman, so it would probably work. We could reach Escalante’s phone through his.”

  “Just like picking up VD,” Procario said. “You sleep with a girl, and you sleep with everyone she’s ever slept with, and everyone they’ve ever slept with, and everyone they’ve—”

  “Thank you, Mr. Middle School Sex Ed.” Teller typed several lines into the laptop, which was processing the image. The raw data would have a lot of weird echoes and reflections from both the building infrastructure and the furniture, but software running on the computer cleaned up the image and even tightened up the details of what otherwise would have been a featureless blob of light. Millimeter imaging wasn’t quite good enough to identify a specific face—the eyes, especially, looked curiously blank—but when he enlarged the image as far as it would go, Teller could see the small metal belt buckle resting just below the man’s navel and the fastener and zipper below it, see some coins floating next to his hip where his pocket would be, pick out a chain and a tiny cross hanging between his nipples, and see the bright, hard circlet of his wristwatch. Unlike backscatter X-ray images, which rendered the subject bald and baby-skin smooth all over, the MMMR scope could see the man’s body hair, picked out in crisp, sharp detail.

  Chavez peered closer at the monitor. “Ha! ¡Un cacahuete!”

  Teller didn’t recognize the word. “What’s that?”

  “Peanut. Mexican slang for ‘tiny dick.’”

  “Ah. I see what you mean.”

  The observation left Teller thoughtful. He remembered reading about a major scandal a few years back, when a TSA trainee in Miami had beat a classmate unconscious in the facility parking lot with a length of pipe and was then arrested for assault. It seemed the classmate had led other students throughout the afternoon in making fun of the small size of the first man’s genitals after he’d gone through one of the new airport backscatter X-ray scanners in a training exercise.

  Where and when did the government have the right to subject citizens to what amounted to a strip search without a warrant, and without even the excuse of probable cause? Backscatter X-ray imaging devices were in use at all major U.S. airports, and there was talk of using the far more graphic but much safer MMMR units to avoid exposing American air travelers to X-rays. Not only that, but the new traveling backscatter vans were being used by various U.S. agencies to search for terrorist bombs inside vehicles on the streets. Several right-to-privacy groups were in the process of suing various agencies for their violation of Fourth Amendment rights, but the through-the-wall surveillance devices were so damned useful that those lawsuits hadn’t made much headway so far.

  What, Teller wondered, was right? The lawyers could argue the thing back and forth and never come to a decision, but a court could only make a determination on what was permitted, not on what was morally or ethically right. If de la Cruz had been here, he might object to a Mexican citizen in the privacy of a home being subjected to such graphically revealing scrutiny.

  Or perhaps not. Mexicans seemed a bit more relaxed about sex, the body, and natural bodily functions than their norteamericano neighbors. Even so, the three intelligence officers already had agreed not to let the CISEN agent see their surveillance setup. It was simpler if they had to answer fewer legal questions.

  “Okay,” Teller said. “We know there’s only one guy in the house, and we know where he is. If Escalante and his girlfriend don’t show up soon, we’ll take this guy.”

  “How long do you want to wait?” Procario asked.

  “Dark,” Teller said. “We’ll go in after it gets dark.”

  OFFICE OF THE NATIONAL SECURITY ADVISER

  WHITE HOUSE WEST WING

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  1610 HOURS, EDT

  Randolph Edgar Preston watched the large-screen television monitor mounted on the wall of his office, his face expressionless. With him were two men, Charles Richard Logan, the CEO of the North American Oil Consortium, and Congressman Harvey Gonzales. Gonzales’s congressional district, which gerrymandered through predominantly Hispanic neighborhoods all the way from East Los Angeles out through Pico Rivera and south to Norwalk, was burning on the TV.

  “What do you think, Harvey?” Preston asked with almost insulting familiarity. “Are the troops going to put it down?”

  “I dunno, Mr. Preston. As soon as one crowd gets dispersed, two more pop up.”

  “Good control,” Preston observed. “Good planning. Your organizers are to be commended.”

  “Not my organizers,” Gonzales said. “Most of that’s by way of the people with MEChA and NOA. Lopez and Acevedo, and their people. The student groups especially.”

  “Well, they’re doing a splendid job.” He chuckled. “I’ll bet the Chicanos can taste Aztlán independence.”

  “This independence thing is not going to fly, Mr. Preston,” Logan said. “You do know that, don’t you?”

  “What, Aztlán independence? Probably not. But once it starts going international, it definitely will put us where we want to be on the map.”

  On the television, an attractive blond news reporter held a microphone below her chin, speaking earnestly into the camera. Behind her, the southwest face of the downtown police headquarters smoldered, the front wall blown out, smoke stains on the concrete.

  “… and eyewitnesses say two men walked into the LAPD Central Bureau Community Station at about eleven o’clock this morning,” the woman was saying. “They were stopped at the security desk inside the front lobby, and at that point, according to eyewitnesses, they pulled out automatic weapons and opened fire.”

  Behind her, a number of medical personnel came through, carrying someone strapped to a gurney.

  “They’re … they’re bringing one of the victims out now. John … John, see if you can get a shot…”

  Police officers flanking the gurney waved the camera back. “Back off!” an officer growled. There were flecks of blood splattered on one side of his smoke-stained face.

  “Unconfirmed reports say that at least twelve were killed in the shootout,” the reporter continued, “and at least twice that number seriously injured. One of the terrorists reportedly threw a backpack, which exploded seconds later, causing a fire and severe damage to the front of the building.

  “So far, police have refused to make a statement, but one officer who wished to remain anonymous said that it looked like al Qaeda has set up shop in downtown Los Angeles. He told Fox News that this attack was well organized and well planned, like a professionally executed military strike. This is Catherine Herridge, live, for Fox News. Peter, back to you.”

  “Thank you, Catherine.” The newsdesk anchor replaced the reporter’s face. “Riots, meanwhile, continue in East Los Angeles for the third straight day since reports and home videos of LAPD officers firing into a demonstration were released by local news stations. For a perspective on the situation, we go in our studio to our exper
ts on urban crises…”

  “Experts my ass,” Preston growled. “The idiots still think it’s al Qaeda.”

  “An easy assumption to make,” Logan said. “Al Qaeda has been the big bugaboo in this country since 9/11.”

  “Well, we’ll disillusion them of that during the next couple of days. Ah! Good product placement!”

  On the screen, footage of a demonstration was being shown—angry Latino faces in a street. A green banner unfurled behind the front ranks read POWER TO THE PEOPLE! POWER TO AZTLÁN!

  “In English,” Preston added, “so the great unwashed masses can read it!”

  Another sign nearby was in Spanish, repeating what was rapidly becoming the movement’s catchphrase. ¡DIGNIDAD! ¡IGUALDAD! ¡LIBERTAD!

  “I still think Walker’s right,” Logan said. “You people are moving too fast. This thing could blow up in our faces!”

  “Nonsense, Charles. I told Mr. Walker, and I’m telling you. An organization such as ours is too big for the details to be kept secret for long. We strike now, and we strike hard, or we risk losing everything.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I’ll be glad when this is over,” Gonzales said. He sounded miserable.

  “Harvey, you will be astonished at just how quickly things fall into place.”

  Chapter Seven

  VICENTE HOUSE

  LA CALLE SUR 145

  DISTRICTO IZTACALCO

  2220 HOURS, LOCAL TIME

  17 APRIL

  A thin, drizzling rain had begun an hour before. Teller and Procario, black ski masks pulled down over their faces, were just about to step into the street when the headlights of a car flared in the darkness, then swung aside. “Hold it,” Teller said, and the two men remained frozen in the shadows beneath the house.

  “I think we have our target,” Chavez’s voice said in Teller’s ear. “A Peugeot just pulled into a parking place a couple of houses up from the objective. Two people getting out.”

  “We’re on hold,” Procario replied.

  Teller heard the double slam of car doors, the click-click of hard shoes on a wet sidewalk. A moment later, a man and a woman came into view, arm in arm as they turned off the sidewalk and picked their way up the sagging steps of the safe house.

  “Target confirmed,” Chavez said from his vantage point above the street. “That’s definitely Escalante. I assume that’s Maria Perez with him.”

  “If it’s not,” Teller murmured into the needle mike beside his mouth, “he’s a very busy fella.”

  The woman was gorgeous, with long black hair wet from the rain. She fumbled in her handbag for her keys.

  “The guard’s heard them,” Chavez said. “He has the rifle. He’s walking toward the door.”

  The door opened, spilling yellow light into the street. The two stepped through, and the light snapped off as the door closed behind them.

  “Okay, they’re all standing in the hallway talking,” Chavez reported. “You know, this doesn’t look like it’s going to break up anytime soon.”

  “We’ll wait for as long as it takes,” Procario said. He was staring up the street. “Hey, Ed?”

  “What?”

  “Do we have a tail there? Two cars back from Escalante’s vehicle.”

  “Wait one.”

  “Now what?” Teller asked.

  “I noticed another car pull in behind Escalante,” Procario said. “The driver hasn’t gotten out.”

  “You two had better abort and get back in here,” Chavez told them a moment later.

  Teller pulled off the ski mask with a gloved hand. “Why? What’s up?”

  “Frank’s right. We have another surveil out there.”

  “Shit. Okay. We’re coming back in.”

  Ten minutes later, the three men were again gathered about the monitor, studying the gray-scale image. The car, its engine still glowing brightly at millimeter wavelengths, was parked on the street perhaps twenty yards beyond the Perez residence. Two figures were visible through the windshield in the front seat, a man behind the wheel and a woman in the passenger seat. At that distance, details were almost impossible to make out, but the woman appeared to have something bulky and partially metallic up in front of her face. Teller used the laptop to try to boost the image resolution, but with only marginal success.

  “They’re definitely watching the front of the Perez house,” Teller said after a moment. “Question is, are they ours or the opposition?”

  “Opposition,” Chavez said. “You mean as in a rival cartel?”

  “Exactly. Maybe Los Zetas and Sinaloa have a truce going, but there are plenty of other cartels out there, and they must be shitting themselves right now at the thought of the two big boys getting in bed together. They might have decided to whack Escalante and break up the party now, while they can.”

  “Or they may just be keeping an eye on the competition,” Procario said. “I never heard of drug cartels using women in the field like that, though.”

  “No reason not to.”

  “No reason except the idiot Latino compulsion to picture everything in terms of machismo.” Procario glanced at Chavez. “Sorry, man. No offense.”

  “None taken. It’s true. People down here still think in terms of men doing the fighting while the women stay home and cook. Of course, that means women can go places and do things without attracting as much suspicion as a guy, y’know? And the cartels use that. Last year, we picked up a sixteen-year-old girl who’d been trained as a Zeta assassin.”

  “Jesus.”

  “We have records of them using a thirteen-year old girl as a runner. Bastards.”

  “Well,” Procario said, “we’ll know in a moment.”

  “Can’t tell from her face,” Teller said, still studying the image, “but I think that one’s a keeper. That’s a really nice set she has.”

  “So what if those two are friendlies?” Procario asked.

  “CISEN, maybe,” Chavez suggested.

  “I don’t think so,” Teller said. “Miguel would have told us, I think.”

  “We didn’t tell him about me being here as your backup,” Procario pointed out. “Or about the nudie-show surveillance gear.”

  “Point. But I was thinking of the Company. Or DEA. Or FBI. Or some other alphabet-soup acronym.”

  “NSA?” Chavez volunteered.

  “Probably not,” Procario said. “They’re strictly SIGINT, signals intelligence. Electronic eavesdropping, phone taps, that sort of thing. They don’t have agents in the field.”

  “That we know of,” Teller pointed out. “Remember, NSA means ‘Never Say Anything.’”

  Chavez chuckled. “I thought it was ‘No Such Agency.’”

  “That, too,” Procario said.

  “No, if it was anyone of ours, I’d have to assume either DEA or CIA,” Teller said, thinking out loud. The Drug Enforcement Agency had a history of sending agents and teams into Latin American countries, trying to shut down the tangle of drug pipelines that wound their way up to the United States from and through Mexico, and from Peru, Colombia, and Venezuela. As for the CIA, well, the Empire had a history of not letting one hand know what the other was doing.

  “How about it, Ed?” Procario asked. “Your buddies back at Langley have another op going down here? Something they didn’t tell us about?”

  “It’s certainly possible,” Chavez said. “The Latin America desk was running scared after losing our network down here. And Larson and WINPAC are scrambling to cover their asses after losing those tactical nukes. They might have several teams on the ground, trying to pick up the pieces, and they wouldn’t necessarily tell any of them about the others.”

  “Hey, heads up,” Teller said, glancing out the window. “More people joining the party.” Sur 145 was a quiet back street, normally. It seemed to be a lot busier than normal tonight.

  Procario readjusted the MMMR receiver, aiming it back at the house. Two men had just gone up onto the porch and were now standing at the do
or. On the monitor, it was clear that both were armed. One had a revolver tucked in next to his left armpit; the other carried a semiautomatic pistol at the small of his back, riding down into the waistband of his pants.

  “Fucking Grand Central Station,” Chavez observed.

  “It’s not a hit,” Teller decided, studying the two closely. “They’re not armed for an assault. And hit men don’t ring the doorbell.”

  The door opened, and the two men stepped into the hallway inside. “It looks more like a convention,” Chavez said.

  The two newcomers were met by one of the men inside the house and led into what was probably a living room. Another man, probably Escalante, and Maria Perez were seated on invisible furniture there. They stood up as the newcomers entered.

  “I do wish we had a bug in there,” Procario said. “It would be nice to listen in on what’s going down.”

  “Once we have Cellmap in place,” Teller said, “no problem. Until then, though, we’re out of luck. Do we have the sat feed going?”

  “Uploading perfectly,” Chavez said. The Prick 117F was transmitting everything they picked up through the MMMR scope back to Langley for analysis.

  “Fucking technology,” Procario said. “We can pick up those guys’ heartbeats, fer chrissakes, but we can’t listen in on their conversation!”

  “Yeah, we need a laser mike,” Teller said, “but the angle is wrong.”

  Sending out a tight beam of millimeter radiation, at the rate of some hundreds of pulses per second, the system could analyze the waves bounced back and actually record the heartbeats and respiration of each target. The laser mike sent a beam of coherent light and bounced it off the glass of a convenient window. By measuring the reflected beam very precisely, the system in effect turned the window into an enormous microphone diaphragm, allowing a surveillance team over a hundred yards away to listen in on conversations inside the room.