The Gate

by Bob Mayer

  Lake had used Jonas as a broker in three weapons deals so far and since Jonas hadn’t been arrested and the weapons were still out on the street, he had the man’s conditional trust. That was something a normal federal agent couldn’t do.

  “That was quick,” Lake said.

  “They’re rookies at the game and they’re in a rush,” Jonas said. He frowned. “But I wouldn’t want to double-cross them. These slopes are hard-looking people. Almost ...” Jonas paused.

  “Almost?” Lake prompted.

  “Almost like they’re military types. Soldiers.”

  “Probably are ex-military,” Lake said.

  Jonas frowned. “No, I get the feeling like they’re still military, like they’re a unit that’s trained together. Like you’d feel being around a Special Forces A-Team. Plus, the weapons they want are unique.”

  “Why do they want the weaponry?”

  Jonas gave Lake a look. “Come on, you know I ain’t about to ask them that. Like I said, though, they’re in a hurry and because of that I did tell them they’d have to pay more.”

  “How’d you get a hold of them?” Lake asked. He knew Jonas didn’t like the question, but he needed as much information as he could get.

  “They told me they would call back and they did,” Jonas said.

  “How’d they get a hold of you in the first place?”

  Jonas frowned. “I don’t know and I didn’t fucking ask them. You want this deal or not? You aren’t the only dealer in town.”

  “Let me see the list.” Lake took the Post-it note from the other man and scanned it. He saw what Jonas had meant by “unique.”

  “Can you do that?” Jonas asked.

  “Ingrams with suppressors are hot items,” Lake said. He looked up. “When do they want it?”

  “Monday. They said they’d get back to me with a time and place.”

  “I’ll have it Monday. Tell them eight hundred for each Ingram. That’s six thousand four hundred; five hundred a suppressor, four thousand; and a thousand per each six magazines, since I’m going to have to do subsonic rounds. Total, sixteen thousand, four hundred.”

  “My commission is ten percent,” Jonas noted. He slapped a bundle of money down on the table. “Earnest money. Five grand.”

  Lake tucked the list into his breast pocket. He peeled a thousand off the roll, handing it to Jonas. “Okay, charge them twelve thousand beyond the down payment and you keep another grand when we finalize the deal.”

  Jonas nodded and leaned back in the bench.

  Lake stared at him, waiting.

  Jonas slapped his forehead. “Oh, yes. Your gun.” He reached down under the table and pulled up a paper bag. He started to slide it across, but froze as the door to the bar opened and three men walked in, dressed in black pants and windbreakers. “Shit,” Jonas muttered, leaving the bag sitting in the center of the table, between him and Lake. “Federal Task Force. They’re not supposed to come here. I’m fucking protected.”

  The three men sauntered around the table of Patriots and came straight to the booth. “Hey, Jonas,” the leader said, leaning over the table. “What do you have in the bag?” He was a large man, hard-eyed in the way cops who’d spent a long time on the street were.

  “It’s mine,” Lake said, pulling the bag over to his side. He checked out the other two agents: younger, college types who were following the other’s lead out of respect for his experience and age. Lake could sense the high testosterone level coming off the three agents. They were pumped and ready for action.

  One of the younger men stepped up. He wore expensive glasses which didn’t match the black outfit. “And who the fuck are you?”

  “Who wants to know?” Lake’s voice was flat.

  The leader’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t intervene, waiting to see how both sides played it out.

  “Federal Task Force,” Glasses said, holding up an ID.

  “I can buy one of those in any surplus store in town,” Lake said. “And you have a foul mouth for a peace officer.”

  “The badge is real,” Glasses said. “You want me to imprint my number on your fucking forehead,” he added, holding the badge close to Lake’s face.

  Lake didn’t move. “I’m not impressed.”

  “What’s in the bag?” the leader cut in.

  “My dick,” Lake said. “Want to play with it?”

  The Patriots at the table burst out laughing. They began making oinking noises.

  “I’ll put your dick in the goddamn bag.” Glasses put his badge away and pushed up against the edge of the booth inside Lake’s personal space. He was too close, a result of poor training, Lake idly thought.

  “Do you have a warrant?” Jonas had finally recovered.

  The leader was tired of the game and he knew, as Lake knew, that Glasses had made a mistake. “Open the fucking bag, asshole.”

  Lake sighed as he slowly stood, his shoulder brushing lightly against Glasses’s chest. “I don’t think so.”

  The leader went for his piece instinctively and Lake’s movements went into hyper-speed. Glasses didn’t know what hit him as Lake’s left hand hit his chest, knocking the wind out of his lungs and toppling him backward. Lake was moving, following the strike, his right hand extended, grabbing the leader’s gun hand as it cleared the shoulder holster. He squeezed hard and the gun dropped back inside the jacket, the man hissing with pain. Lake’s left hand slammed the man’s jaw, teeth smashing together with a sound heard throughout the bar, wiping the surprised look off his face. The leader went down, out cold.

  The third agent was frozen at this unexpected turn of events. Lake spun, the back of his right foot catching the man on the side of the head and dropping him. The first man he had hit was still trying to catch his breath. Lake stepped over him and knelt on his chest. “You serve the people,” he hissed. “We don’t serve you.” He pulled the man’s gun out and tossed it away, then stood. “Next time, watch your language.” Lake sharply tapped him on the side of the head with his hand, middle finger knuckle extended, and he was out like a light.

  Lake reached into his pocket and peeled off three thousand dollars. He slapped them on the table in front of Jonas.

  “What did you mean you were protected?” Lake asked.

  Jonas was staring at the three agents, then slowly swiveling his large head to look at Lake. “You’re fucking crazy, man.”

  “What did you mean about being protected? From the feds?” Lake asked again.

  “I got friends,” Jonas said vaguely. “Special friends who make these guys look like nothing.”

  One of the other agents was beginning to stir and Lake decided he would have to delve into things at another time. “Later,” he said to Jonas as he picked up the bag and headed to the door, leaving those still conscious in stunned silence. As he walked out the door a couple of the Patriots began cheering and clapping. The smart ones followed Lake out the door and disappeared into the darkness.

  Lake walked steadily, heading east, then north, for sev

  eral miles, the pavement flowing under his stride until he hit the Embarcadero. The cool night air coming off the water slowly seeped into him, throttling back the adrenaline flowing in his veins. He could have gotten the Hush Puppy from the Ranch supply without any problem, but getting it from Jonas helped his position with the man. Ideology aside, most people looked more favorably upon those they could make some money off of once in a while. Plus Lake wanted a gun that the Ranch didn’t know he had. He couldn’t explain that desire, but he had learned a long time ago to trust his instincts. Lake followed the waterfront street until it passed under the ramp for the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge.

  A figure came out of the dark, wrapped in a long raincoat. “I don’t have much time. I have a plane to catch.”

  “Nice to see you too,” Lake said. Randkin was the science expert for the Ranch. He was a short, compact man who moved nervously. He had long blond hair and wire-rimmed glasses that framed a pinched face. Ran
dkin always looked to Lake like he was constipated. He imagined having to work at the Ranch with Feliks looking over his shoulder all the time contributed to that.

  Randkin ignored the barb. “There was a virus in the glass jar. But it wasn’t lethal.”

  That was Lake’s first surprise of the evening. “What?”

  “It would have made a bunch of people sick. Maybe even killed a few people here and there who had other physical problems, but it was basically a non-lethal virus. That’s why Feliks sent me to meet you.”

  Lake rubbed his forehead. “I killed three men over that virus.”

  “You didn’t know that it wasn’t lethal,” Randkin said. “No reason to. Your wet work was justified.”

  “That’s not the worry,” Lake said. “What concerns me is that maybe this was a test-run and I shot up my only link in the chain. Maybe somebody wanted to see if it was pos sible to get some dumb-shit Patriots to do this sort of thing.”

  “Feliks did express some concern about the same thing,” Randkin dryly noted. “But there might have been another purpose to the entire episode.”

  Lake had been considering the situation. “To make the attack public and point the finger at the Japanese without causing a major disaster, but hinting at one.”

  “Correct.”

  “And the Patriots would love that,” Lake noted.

  “Not just the Patriots,” Randkin said. “The automobile industry. The entire Republican Party. The American Legion. Wall Street. There’re a whole lot of people in this country right now that are just itching for an excuse to go after the Japanese. The sanctions Clinton started and this administration picked up have backfired and we aren’t winning this trade war. The Japanese aren’t winning either, which in a way makes it worse all around. The Tokyo market crash last year shows that, but the man on the street doesn’t care about what’s happening in Japan. He only cares about what’s happening in his home burg.

  “So we know it was a setup,” Randkin concluded. “We just don’t know who was behind it.”

  “And Feliks wants a name,” Lake said.

  “Correct. Feliks also is concerned about the third man. We checked him out. Fingerprints weren’t on record. His image isn’t on record either. We don’t have a clue who he is. Genetics indicates he has Japanese ancestry. That doesn’t jive with a Patriot operation. You never saw this guy before?” Randkin asked, holding out a morgue photo of the man from the boat.

  “I told Feliks that,” Lake said, taking the photo.

  “Feliks told me to double-check.”

  “You’ve double-checked,” Lake said.

  “Hey, don’t jump my case!” Randkin looked around nervously. “Hey, Feliks is upset about something. Some weird stuff is going on, so everyone’s a little uptight.”

  “What kind of weird stuff?” Lake asked.

  “If I knew, it wouldn’t be weird,” Randkin said. “I just wouldn’t want Feliks after my ass. Some of the stuff I’ve heard about him...” Randkin paused, then shrugged. “Anyway, one more thing about our friend there,” he said.

  “Yes?” Lake asked irritably. He didn’t like being drip-fed and Randkin’s vague comments bothered him.

  “He had a tattoo removed shortly before this operation.” Randkin handed over another photo. It showed a large patch of pink skin on the man’s upper right arm.

  “Any idea what the tattoo was of?” Lake asked.

  “No, but the fact it was removed could—”

  “I know what it could mean,” Lake snapped.

  “I’m just trying to be helpful,” Randkin sniffed. “Feliks is very concerned about this whole situation.”

  “Why?”

  Randkin blinked. “What do you mean why?”

  “I’ve been working for Feliks for a long time,” Lake said, “and on cases that looked bigger than this. He never showed as much interest as he is in this one.”

  “A biological agent attack on San Francisco is serious,” Randkin said, as if speaking to a two-year-old.

  Lake wasn’t happy. There had been no need for Feliks to be in San Francisco the other night and there was no need for Randkin to be here to give him information that they could just as easily transmit to him over the phone. Then there was Randkin acting strange.

  “What about the Internet?” Lake asked. “Anything on the recruitment message that hooked Starry and Preston?”

  “We’re running it,” Randkin said. “There’s so much crap that’s been on the Internet in the Patriot part of the Web that it’s taking longer than I thought it would. As soon as we get it, we’ll send it to you.”

  Then what are you doing here, Lake thought. “Get this in the works,” Lake said, handing him the weapons list. “I need it in my drop by tomorrow evening.”

  “A lead on the van people?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Feliks won’t accept a maybe.” Randkin looked at the piece of paper. “And he won’t give this hardware away to just—”

  “I stand on my record,” Lake cut in.

  “You may, but I have to go back to Feliks and I don’t want your record standing on my shoulders when the ship goes down.”

  “The people who want those weapons are Asian,” Lake said, noting that he’d given Randkin his surprise of the evening.

  “Japanese? Going to the Patriots for guns?”

  “I don’t know,” Lake said. “I’ll know when I see them and give them their guns. Maybe they have tattoos on their upper-right arm. How the fuck do I know until I get the guns? I got the order through a Patriot cutout, which is kind of different by itself. So maybe there’s something here.”

  Randkin fingered the note, then put it in his pocket. “You didn’t have to be so hard on those feds. They were just doing a job. They didn’t know they were bait in your game to keep your cover floating.”

  “Maybe they’ll treat citizens like citizens next time they go on the street.”

  “Yes, and maybe next time they’ll bust someone’s head.”

  “Lots of maybes in the world,” Lake said. He walked back off to the south, his mind full of troubled thoughts.

  SATURDAY, 4 OCTOBER 1997

  1:12 P.M. LOCAL

  The phone rang, shattering the silence of the room. Nishin stared at it. No one knew he was in here. Perhaps a wrong number. It rang six times, then stopped. He went back to doing elevated push-ups, feet up on the bed. He was working out the soreness accumulated on his last mission. The pain felt good.

  The phone rang again. Nishin stopped and hopped to his feet. He walked over to the cheap table next to the bed and stared at the ancient black instrument. On the fourth ring he picked it up and held it to his ear without making a noise.

  A voice spoke in Japanese. “Senso to Kyonsanshugi. By Takeo Mitamura.’’ The phone went dead and Nishin slowly lowered it back onto its cradle.

  He taped the Plexiglas knife to his stomach, then strapped the Brown High Power on, putting a short blue windbreaker on over the gun. The AUG was in its case and he took that with him. The rest of his meager belongings went into a gym bag. He wiped down the room. By the time he was done there was no sign he had ever been there. He jammed a chair up against the door. Someone would really have to want to get in to open that door. It might gain him a couple of days.

  He took the fire escape down to the back alley. Six blocks away, he checked into another flophouse, reserving a room for a week. He went upstairs, deposited the AUG case and the gym bag, then left, this time by the back staircase.

  His new hotel was three miles from the Japan Center and he made it almost twice as long by zigzagging and occasionally doubling back on himself.

  He knew where the Yotoku Miyagi bookstore was, but he approached it slowly. He sat for a half-hour a block away, watching customers going in and out. Finally he went into the store. The young woman from the previous evening was not there. An older man stood behind the counter. Nishin gave him the book title and author in Japanese.

  The old man nodde
d. “Yes, sir. We have your special order. It just came in.” He reached under the counter and handed Nishin a hardbound book. The old man pulled a receipt out from the inside cover. “It is already paid for.”

  Nishin thanked the man and tucked the book under his arm. He took an even more roundabout route back to his new nest. By the time he arrived it was getting dark. He locked himself into the room and finally took a look at the book. It was old. The copyright information said it was published in 1950 by a press in Tokyo.

  The book was only the wrapping, though. Tucked inside was a map of San Francisco. Nishin scanned it. A pier on the northeast side of the San Francisco peninsula off the Embarcadero was circled in red.

  Nishin put the map in his shirt pocket. He opened his gym bag and pulled out a sweater. It was foggy out and would get chilly before dawn. He put the sweater on, re-strapping the shoulder holster on over it, then the windbreaker.

  The phone startled him. He stared at it, then reluctantly picked it up.

  A voice on the other end laughed, then spoke briefly in Japanese. “This is my city, remember that.” Nishin recognized the voice: it was Okomo, the Oyabun of the San Francisco Yakuza. The phone went dead.

  Nishin put the phone down. Before he picked up his gym bag and the AUG case, his hand strayed to his stomach and tapped the knife strapped there.

  *****

  A half a mile away the same man who had been on the roof the previous night had Nishin’s travels of the day overlaid on a computerized map of San Francisco. He was sitting in the driver’s seat of his white rental van, a laptop computer wedged up against the steering wheel. He started the engine when the computer told him Nishin was moving again.

  *****

  A freighter and a fishing trawler were docked in the berth that had been circled. Nishin knew which was his target immediately. The freighter flew a Panamanian flag, the trawler the flag of South Korea. He found a large crane that looked like it wasn’t used much and climbed up to the control booth so that he could overwatch the trawler. It made perfect sense that the North Koreans would infiltrate using a fishing boat flying the South Korean flag as their cover.