The Fifth Battalion

by Michael Priv

  “Ussie!” The las t thing I saw in my mind as frigid water burned my lungs was the terrified face of Ursula, as she ran out of the house in nothing but a long shirt with tears streaming down her face, looking into the sea, and begging God to spare me.

  “Faolan!” Her scream was the last thing I perceived before my mind shut down.

  12

  Siryoumoron called with the good news that they had access to the money. Surprise!

  “And my girlfriend?”

  “Already on her way to Moscone Center.” I paid the cabbie from my emergency thousand and got lost in the crowd. Seemed clear. Standing in line at an ice cream place presented a great opportunity to look for surveillance. Seemed clear.

  Then I checked into the inexpensive Burton Hotel that catered mostly to students, backpackers, and budget-conscious tourists. “This way, Mr. Bolstad,” the elderly clerk directed me to my accommodations. As always at hotels, the room was a trap, as it offered but a single exit. Not a problem in this case, however, since Special Ops, aware of my exact whereabouts by tracking me through my cell phone, wouldn’t make a move until they were sure I had the flash drive in my possession. My other adversaries, cops and the FBI, would not be able to trace me here for some hours. One of the reasons I rented this room was to lead on the cops. And now that I had the flash drive, I wanted access to a computer. They must have one available in the lobby. Time check—8:55 p.m. The night was still young.

  Alone in my room I was finally able to call Eugene, the owner of Café Zhiguli, my favorite Russian restaurant-bar on Fulton and Masonic—actually, the only Russian place I knew. In addition to proudly sporting the best food within at least a three-mile radius, four large TV screens, and an ambience friendly enough for the cook to come out and mingle with the visitors, Eugene also carried fortyeight different kinds of beer from around the world—all on tap. According to him, it was the largest beer collection under one roof on this side of San Francisco Bay.

  Eugene called himself a beer therapist and claimed to have cured, or driven into deep remission, a wide variety of ailments ranging from flat-footedness and hair loss to clinical depression and everything in between. The medical miracles apparently even included curing a broken arm once—in as far as the arm seemed totally healed to its owner after a carefully measured dose of three liters of Belgian Westvleteren-12, administered with half a pound of beer nuts—within a thirty-minute period. With a 10.2 percent alcohol content, three liters of Westvleteren-12 would probably seem to cure any disease known to man, except, perhaps, cirrhosis of the liver.

  I liked Eugene. Bill even introduced me to his wife, kids and governess, Aunt Rosa. As I understood now, having re-acquired my brains, in cultivating our relationship with Eugene, Bill was not motivated exclusively by Eugene’s sunny personality. Right that minute Eugene could better protect Linda against the Special Ops than the police, if he wanted to, and he could help me in other ways, too. I had a job to do. I couldn’t do it alone. I needed help.

  Eugene answered on the third ring.

  “Hi, Eugene, this is Norman. Need a favor.”

  “Norman who?”

  “Norman. Bill’s friend, remember me?”

  “Oh, yes! Hi, man! Just like that? You need a favor? Well, okay, what kind of favor?”

  “Need you to organize a car to pick up Linda in front of the Moscone Center. Remember Linda? I want her in a secure location.” “ The black chick you were with? Yes, nice girl, I remember. What’s all this about? Norman, and what’s the number you are calling from?”

  “A burner phone I just bought.” “Good man. Hey, listen, what kind of trouble are you trying to get me into—just curious? I’m a respectable businessman. I only like trouble that puts some bread and butter on the dinner table in front of my poor children.”

  “How much bread and butter are we talking about? A hundred thousand cash okay? Can we get orders out on getting Linda picked up? She’s been waiting there for a while, on the Howard Street side.”

  “Certainly!” Eugene went off line for a bit and then continued, “My boys are on their way. So, Norman, we left off at you offering me a sum of money.”

  “Yeah. I offered you a hundred grand. Acceptable?” “Are you joking? You know how much children eat nowadays? Besides, do you actually have the money?”

  “No, I don’t.” “I see,” Eugene replied after a pause. “Tell me, Norman, you nice kid you, aren’t you driving an old VW and working at some office as a clerk or something?”

  “Yes on the Rabbit and no on the clerk. I’m a lab technician. Not important right now. You see, what is important right now is that I’m well into a highly promising business venture. Unfortunately, my unscrupulous business associates held Linda briefly against her will to pressure me. I convinced them to let her go. As a priority, I want to ensure her safety. I might also need some other small favors from you very soon.”

  Silence. “Okay, let’s presume… What kind of small favors? You need muscle? Tell me, how much are you expecting to get out of this business venture?”

  “I’m in for a couple hundred grand at the moment. Wanted to give you half.”

  “My boy, I wouldn’t get up in the morning and face an uncertain future for a hundred grand.”

  “Well, all right. I suppose I could get a mil within a day or two. We could split it in half.”

  “A mil is more like it.”

  “I said we could split it 50-50.” My remark did not solicit any response from Eugene. A long pause followed. I patiently waited. “You know, Norman, you bright kid you, you know how much I love you? I would happily have Linda stay with my friends for a while as a dear guest and do other small favors for you in the future—as a friend. You know, any friend of Bill is like a family to me. But I am concerned about the bread and butter for my children. You know, to me, a million…”

  My hurried “half a million” interruption was completely ignored. “…doesn’t go nearly as far now as it used to. You know how much I’m paying for a head of lettuce for my restaurant nowadays?” “How much extra for the lettuce?” I asked, a bit rattled now. “Two point seven five million dollars in total, all expenses included.”

  “What?! I just said I’m only getting one million, Eugene! And I’ve been doing all the heavy lifting so far.” “Well, I figured if you told me one mil, you were probably in for at least ten. Two point five mil is not that much to ask for my children. You want them to starve to death? And I have a feeling that I’ll have expenses on this up to my kazoo. Deal?”

  “It’s wazoo, not kazoo. Two point five now? It was just two point seven five!” “Norman, listen to me. You see what these politicians are doing to our country? They’re killing us. The manufacturing sector is struggling. Everybody is investing in virtual bullshit like Facebook. Millions of unemployed. My heart goes out to these poor people, Norman. Don’t you understand? We are all in this mess together, so let’s work together! NASA is flying rockets to Jupiter, for God’s sake! What are we even arguing about? Is two and a quarter million really that much to ask?”

  Rockets to Jupiter? I liked this guy and enjoyed the Russian bargaining procedure—a whole new world. “Okay, Eugene, listen to me, one point five mil and that’s my final offer. I could go find a superb service provider practically anywhere for one-fifth of that, but I wanted to let you make some money as a friend. You know how much I love you? So, take it or leave it.”

  “No, I will help you, of course. For two mil even. But only because we are like family. We help each other.”

  “Yes, of course.” “One more thing, Norm. If your business venture doesn’t pay, I’m worried about your health. You’re my favorite clerk. I don’t want you to become my favorite dead clerk. Got to have rules, no? Otherwise it’s a mess. You tracking?”

  “Okay, I understand, Eugene. Great! Settled then. Keep Linda safe. Please ask her to call me on this number from a safe phone.” “All right. Anything you need from me right this minute for your business venture
?” “Yes. I need you to find me two secluded locations. First one should be a house. Somewhere in the woods, at least ten miles from the nearest Starbucks. Really secluded. I need a good crew, maybe three or four guys, at the back of that house in place by 3:00 a.m. latest, let’s say fifty yards behind the house, fanned out and well- concealed, okay?”

  “You mean tonight at 3:00 a.m.? Are you kidding me?” “I thought I was talking to you as a top-notch professional.”

  “Oh, okay. Got it. I can swing it, don’t worry. And you want the house around here some place?”

  “Let’s say within fifty miles, seventy miles, something of that nature. Must be a heavilywooded area. I want good concealment.” “So, it’s a cabin in the woods then? Is this house going to remain reasonably intact after your visit?” “I won’t steal anything, if that is what you mean, but the house may need a new paint job here and there. I got a couple of fragmentation grenades on me.”

  “ Frags are my favorite! I like you, Norman. I really do. Remind me of myself a bit, except I was much better looking—and still am. Okay, I got the picture. Will call you with a location within an hour or two. In our travel agency we never sleep, you know. Service with a smile. What about the second location?”

  “Should be another empty house, an old warehouse or a factory out in the sticks not too far from the first one. Should double as a holding place just in case. I may have to interrogate somebody there, don’t know how it will all work out. It might get noisy.”

  “Okay. Will take a bit. Hey, Norman, who are you? You are not just a clerk, are you?”

  “Of course not! I work at the lab.” Eugene chuckled. “Makes sense now. You know, Norman, deep in my heart I always knew you were a lab clerk and not any old regular clerk. Do you need help where you are?”

  “No, I’m fine, Eugene, thanks for all your help.”

  “You got it, boy. And don’t worry about Linda.”

  Instant compliance and never “can’t do” for an answer. Linda was now being safely kidnapped by the Russian mafia. I had promised to pay them two million dollars. The fact that I was two million dollars short at the moment did not bother me nearly as much as some other things in life, like, for instance, why the Special Ops were after me, the death of my friends, the mounting body count and what the hell was going on anyway.

  13

  I examined my wounds and washed up at the hotel room sink. Nothing super-dangerous that a bit of Neosporin and some sticky tape couldn’t cure.

  Time has come to see what Jane thought was so important regarding the meeting tonight. The small note read, “5B Sulindu St., 10:00 p.m. Mr. Cedu.”

  Too weird to be a real address. Mr. Cedu did not leave the house number, either. And, furthermore, I’d never heard of Sulindu Street in San Francisco. But the word itself was vaguely familiar. Sulindu… sulindu… What was the term for a target acquisition mechanism, a direction finder or whatever that was we used in artillery in the old days? That’s right! I read the note again. 5B Sulindu St.,9:00 p.m.

  Mr. C edu. Sulindu was a lens, a part of an optic device. It had a rather large glass crystal, shaped like a diamond, as one of its components. Glass Street? Crystal Street? Diamond Street? Diamond Street! Boy, I was good. Even so, what was the house number? Could the last name Cedu also be a code? According to my cell phone keypad, CEDU stood for 2338. Okay, let’s try 2338 Diamond at 10:00 p.m. tonight.

  I had the cabbie drive me around the Diamond Street neighborhood until I found an apartment building higher up the hill on the 17th, overlooking the target house at 2338 Diamond some distance away. At 9:30 p.m. the cab let me out at the very end of the apartment building’s parking lot. No surveillance as far as I could tell, but I had to assume I was being watched. Having a team would help—a couple more people covering my back and escape routes. No such luxury.

  How would I get up on the roof and get down from there fast in case this whole operation started sliding sideways? A fire escape would be nice. The four-story apartment building had no fire escape. There were walkways on the second, third and fourth floors with all the doors facing the walkways. I unhurriedly walked up the stairs to the fourth floor then to the end of the fourth-floor walkway, climbed up on the guardrail, reached the edge of the roof fascia with my fingertips and reasonably noiselessly pulled myself up onto the roof.

  With the roof all to myself, I walked around a large maintenance structure in the middle, a gratifying crunch of gravel under my feet. Kind of fun walking on gravel—reassuring, especially good if you needed reassurance. Having gotten up onto the roof of the maintenance structure, I settled at the edge facing Diamond Street with my binoculars in hand.

  It was a dark and cloudy evening, perfect for covert operations. I bet some other people were also having their covert operations here tonight. Well, let’s take a look. I looked. From my vantage position, I saw the rooftops of several single-family houses across the backyard of the apartment building, redwood decks sporting lemon trees in wooden barrel planters and hanging birdfeeders. I saw Diamond Street beyond, and houses lined on the other side. There was 2338, the bronze numerals large and prominent in the street lamp’s even glow.

  The rather mundane looking two-story Craftsman at 2338 Diamond Street with unimaginative wood trim and siding was unremarkable in every way. Some lights were on—nothing suspicious. However, moving in with no intel, I simply had to assume the territory was hostile. In the absence of enemy aerial capabilities, which was the case right at the moment due to the nightfall, I hoped, the first rule of engagement was approach from an elevated position. Hence, the roof.

  I checked Diamond up and down as much as I could through my binoculars. There was the cab that had been stalking me. Check. Any vans? Yes, there it was, a van a bit up the hill from 2338. Alarming. I scanned the street again within my limited field of vision. Aha, a homeless man all tucked into a doorway a couple of houses down. A homeless in a residential area? Could be a real homeless, but I had to assume he wasn’t. My head rang with a cacophony of alarm bells. A seething snake pit of disastrous omens. I bet I’d find a few more reasons to be alarmed across from number 2338, on Diamond Street’s closest side to me, hidden from my current position.

  The house was clearly under surveillance and set up for heavy action. By whom? The Feds? The military again? What did they want from us? I held no animosity toward the Feds. I happened to like the rule of law. My only enemies were the Guards.

  The crunch of heavy footsteps on the graveled roof below cut through the stillness of the night. My heart jumped into my throat. I felt perspiration on my forehead despite the evening chill. Waiting in the darkness, I finally saw a man, large but not unusually muscled, not one of the Guards, walking purposefully toward the edge of the roof facing Diamond Street. Dressed in the battle blacks with F-B-I in large letters on his Kevlar, the officer was openly carrying a sniper rifle, a standard military issue Heckler & Koch MSG90-A2, as far as I could tell. Mumbling something unintelligible, presumably into the radio to his Command, he took a horizontal firing position at the roof parapet exactly by the book: both elbows on the ground, one leg bent at the knee and pulled up beside the body to take pressure off the diaphragm—helps when maintaining prone firing position for extended time. I’d bet he had the 2338 entrance door in his scope. Very bad news. I didn’t want right that very minute was anybody calling me on my cell phone. I carefully extracted the battery and stuffed all the pieces back into my pocket.

  It started drizzling. The neighborhood was as quiet as it ever got at this time of day—a few cars, even fewer pedestrians, an old guy walking his Corgi. The FBI sniper below, not even thirty feet from my position, suddenly mumbled something urgent into his headphone, got up with his rifle, and keeping away from the maintenance building walked around it, looking toward the point where he’d come up on the roof. He must have had a ladder set up there. I looked. There was another Fed hurriedly getting up on the roof, an older guy, not particularly powerfully built either. He was lo
oking directly at me, it seemed. The sniper had his rifle pointed in my direction. They knew I was there and were boxing me in. The op was blown. Somebody must have alerted them to my presence. How could I have possibly been spotted? Either from an even moreelevated position with the use of night vision optics or by homing on my phone, in which case I knew who alerted the Feds to my presence—the Marines. Of course, there were other possibilities, like a thermal scan or a drone with a night camera, or even conceivably satellite infrared imaging. Sure,

  go ing into an op half-assed as usual and hoping for the best—as usual. Sometimes I really didn’t like myself all that much, although, to be fair, in regard to this operation, I had no time to prepare, no resources and no choice. None of that mattered. I put Linda in danger. Being kidnapped by Russian Mafia did not qualify as a great

  solution. I had to get her to safety. How?

  “Hey! Up on the roof. Get down with your hands up! You have nowhere to run!” the sniper walked close to the maintenance structure.

  Thankful for the adrenaline rush, I lifted my body on all four, pushed forward and lunged on the sniper, using the weight of my body to knock him down. A person of authority, he did not expect such audacity. I knocked him off his feet and we rolled on the roof. I heard the other Fed running heavily on the graveled roof around the maintenance structure. Having temporarily disabled the sniper’s right arm by a punch in the shoulder pressure point, I managed to get a quick jab into his throat. He was now wriggling and fighting for his next breath at my feet. Suddenly a red dot appeared right in the middle of his forehead. His head jerked back, hitting the roof, as his eyes lost their focus and closed. The FBI sniper slumped dead. I had not heard the shot, but knew it must have come from a higher point to my left. A glance in that direction confirmed my deduction. There was a tiny pinprick of red laser light aiming at me from that elevated position—maybe a rooftop a couple of streets over. The red light of the sniper scope was reaching toward me—but not for me.