Total Immunity
Page 1
an otto penzler book
First published in the United States of America in 2009
by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt.
This edition first published in Great Britain in 2011
by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books.
Copyright © Robert Ward 2009.
The moral right of Robert Ward to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978-1-84887-567-8 (hardback) ISBN: 978-1-84887-568-5 (trade paperback)
eBook ISBN 978-0-85789-672-8
Printed in Great Britain.
Corvus
An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd
Ormond House
26-27 Boswell Street
London WC1N 3JZ
www.corvus-books.co.uk
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Part II
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Part III
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Acknowledgment
BOOKS BY ROBERT WARD
Shedding Skin
Cattle Annie and Little Britches
The Sandman
Red Baker
The King of Cards
The Cactus Garden
Grace
Four Kinds of Rain
Total Immunity
For Jed Dietz and his wonderful family.
His wife, Julia McMillan, and awesome kids,
Edith, Robert, and Elihu
PART I
THE EVIL EYE
1
THE SILVER CESSNA glided down from the clouds and landed without a hitch at the private J. T. Hodges Airport in West Co- vina. Only seconds after it rolled to a stop, the side door slid open, portable steps dropped to the ground, and the blond female flight attendant stood by the top step and said good-bye to the muscular Arab, Kafi , dressed in his black silk tracksuit. The wiry bodyguard’s head swiveled left and right as he traced the airport for signs of danger. When he was certain the coast was clear, he turned and nodded to a figure who waited just inside the plane’s exit door. A few seconds later, stocky, burr-headed South African Karl Steinbach, whose parents had moved the family from Germany, dressed impeccably in his $10,000 silk Prada suit and his $5,000 bespoke Lobb shoes, walked down the silver steps. Just behind him was the second bodyguard, the apelike Welshman, Colin Draper. Like Kafi , Draper scoured the horizon for signs . . . a metallic glimmer, any evidence of an FBI agent hidden behind the eucalyptus trees to the north.
He saw nothing, no one.
Still, the two bodyguards didn’t rest easy until they’d crossed the steaming tarmac and deposited their charge, Steinbach, into the black Cadillac Escalade which waited just about twenty yards away from the silver plane. Within five seconds, both of them had joined Steinbach in the backseat and shut the doors. The uniformed chauffeur locked the doors from his control panel, turned up the AC, and the elegant limo pulled away. Inside, Karl Steinbach clicked on his favorite movie, House of Games. He’d seen the David Mamet written and directed movie six times but never tired of it. The low elegance of the machine-gun dialogue and the endless twists of the plot pleased him in a way that no mere action thriller ever could.
But today he couldn’t lose himself in it. Indeed, the things on his mind were of such a serious nature that he had trouble watching at all. This deal — and its myriad complications — had to work. It had to, and it would . . .
(But what if it didn’t? What if something went wrong?)
Nonsense. He wouldn’t allow himself to think about that. Every thing was under control, and it was going to work just the way he’d set it up.
He watched as Lindsay Crouse shot Joe Mantegna at LAX. Usually that was the high point of the picture for him . . . but now he glowered out at the window, feeling a roiling in his belly, a tension in his neck.
He squeezed the leather armrest with his right hand.
Relax. Chill.
The flight in, the landing, and the subsequent drive-away were a total success. It was all running like proverbial clockwork. It was all going to work out. It had to and it would.
But in any human endeavor, there are plans and plans.
Take FBI Agent Michael Perry. As Steinbach and his little crew headed into Silver Lake, Perry was sitting on an old and battered projectionist’s chair on the roof of the white stucco snack bar in an abandoned drive-in called The Floodlight. The dusty parking lot was covered with blowing newspapers and ancient popcorn boxes. It was all very American Gothic, but Perry wasn’t concerned with the atmospherics of the place. Perry had been watching the Steinbach landing through his high-powered Canon 10 × 30 binoculars. He had seen the whole efficient event: the plane coming in, the landing, and the drive-away. And as soon as Stein- bach’s car had left the runway and headed into town, Perry took a bite of his cold burrito and hit the speed dial on his cell phone.
The phone had barely rung once before a voice on the other end answered. The man receiving the call was Oscar Hidalgo, a Mexican FBI agent who was thirty-four years old. He sat across the seat from his partner, Agent Jack Harper, thirty-five. The two men were diametrically opposite. Hidalgo was five foot six inches tall and weighed nearly 200 pounds. He was the strongest man at FBI Headquarters in Westwood, California. On a good day, he could dead-lift 359 pounds. Harper was thin and looked almost brittle, belying the fact that he was the champion boxer and karate man in the unit. Harper had also been an all- American college lacrosse player at the University of Maryland, where he’d been known as the quickest and toughest midfielder in the United States. He could run all day, and seemed impervious to hits from hulking defensemen. His lacrosse nickname was Scary.
Now Hidalgo spoke:
“Chef H. Here. What’s happening, baby?”
“The enchilada is o
n the fire,” Perry said.
“How high’s the flame?”
“Smoking, man,” Perry said. “So if you don’t want supper to burn, you guys should get a move on.”
“We’re rolling, baby,” Hidalgo said. “’Cause we’re some hungry dudes. How about Moyer and Rosenberg?”
“They’re inside the diner and ready to eat,” Perry said.
“Good,” Hidalgo said.
There was a small silence from Perry. Most people wouldn’t have noticed it but Hidalgo had worked with Perry before and knew that if the voluminous talker hesitated there must be a reason for it.
“What’s up?” Hidalgo said.
“I’m afraid we have two dinner cancellations,” Perry said.
“Snyder and Bond?” Hidalgo used two other agents’ code names.
“’Fraid so. Seems they’re dining with other people.”
“Who?” Hidalgo looked over at Harper, who was frowning as he weaved seamlessly in and out of traffic.
“They’re out with the new clients in town. They’re all going to Disneyland to see the fireworks.”
“I see,” Hidalgo said in a controlled way, which belied the sudden bolt of anger he felt inside.
He put the phone on hold and looked over at Jack.
“Snyder and Bond aren’t going to be there. They got called away by Homeland Defense. There’s an orange alert at Disneyland.”
Harper punched the steering wheel.
“Oh that’s nice,” he said. “They got you and me walking into a warehouse full of villains, and our backups are down in Ana- fuckingheim saving Goofy.”
“We could abort if you think it’s too risky, Jackie.”
“And let the Kraut run all the way back to his castle somewhere in the Black Forest? No fucking way! We finally got him here, and we’re not letting him go.”
“Then we’re going in?”
“What the fuck else?” Jack said. “When it’s time for dinner, a man’s gotta eat.”
Hidalgo clicked back on the phone.
“Mikie?”
“Yeah?”
“We’re going to go get us our dinner now.”
Perry started to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Hidalgo demanded.
“Like there was ever any question. You guys like it better this way? Makes for a bigger rush.”
“Like my old grandmother said, ‘El futuro es una nube que uno no puede ver. Osea que el sabio hijo de puta dispara hoy y no se acompleja como una nena cuando lo hace.’”
“Which means?”
“That, my friend,” Hidalgo said, “is an old dicho. A saying filled with wisdom. It means: ‘The future is a cloud that no one can see. So the wise mutherfucker takes his shot today. And doesn’t whine like a pussy when he does it, either.’”
“Some mouth on your grandmother,” Perry laughed. Then he clicked off the phone.
The limo maneuvered down the 101 Freeway, turned off at the Echo Park exit, and drove north to Sunset Boulevard. Steinbach worked over the plan once again in his head, missing the street action, the blondes, redheads, and stunning Latina women of Silver Lake. He hated Los Angeles with a passion anyway, the cars, the loudmouth entertainment people . . . they reminded him of hyenas in suits. He didn’t like doing business here either, but circumstances dictated that he do so from time to time.
Like now . . . He felt a tightening of his chest muscles, and casually wondered to himself if he might be suffering the beginnings of a stroke.
Ridiculous, of course, but the tension was thick inside of him, like congealed grease in his aorta.
A few seconds later, Steinbach’s Escalade turned left into a potholed parking lot behind a gray stucco building, Ace Billiards and Pool Supplies. The driver stopped at the back door, and the three men got out. Kafitold the driver to wait across the street at Jed’s Big Star Diner.
The driver nodded and pulled away, and Kafiwalked past the other two and unlocked the padlock on the warehouse’s back door.
A few minutes later, Harper turned down a narrow alley and took a quick right into the same warehouse parking lot. Oscar checked to make sure his Glock .22 was fully chambered and took a deep breath.
“Here we go, Jackie,” he said.
Harper smiled and reached in the backseat for the briefcase. “It’s time to play that nifty game, Fuck the Scum,” he said.
Hidalgo laughed, but it came out more like a gag.
“Stomach’s acting up,” he said.
“You eat your breakfast this morning?” Harper said.
“Yeah, I ate it . . . a little. Two eggs, refritos, and a corn tortilla.”
They were out of the car now and walking toward the warehouse door.
“Yeah, well, that’s real healthy,” Jack said. “You should add lard and maybe cement in there, too. Plus, did you chew? You gotta chew.”
“I chewed,” Oscar said. “Trust me, I fucking chewed.”
“I doubt you did.” Harper smiled. “You’re a weak chewer, thus Hoovering indigestible bullshit down into your sensitive Latino stomach.”
“Fuck you, Jack,” Oscar said. “I don’t fucking Hoove.”
“He who hooves shall heave. Or so it is writ,” Jack said.
A lame joke, Jack thought. Just chattering away to ward off the fear he felt every time he walked into a room full of animals with high-powered weapons.
They came to the back door, but before Jack could ring the bell, the buzzer rang them in.
“Isn’t that nice,” Jack said. “They’re eager to see us. They love us, they really do.”
They walked inside. Oscar felt his stomach turn, and suddenly couldn’t remember if he’d chewed or not. All that he knew was that his stomach felt as if someone had turned up a welding torch inside his lower bowel. Maybe he had another fucking ulcer. Sweat trickled down his forehead. He took another deep breath. And the air seemed to whistle through the imagined hole in his gut.
Next life, maybe he’d be a teacher or something. But given the L.A. school system, maybe that would be worse.
He looked over at Jack who seemed as cool as a pitcher of sangria. The fucking guy . . . when it came to danger, affable Jackie seemed to disappear, and something blank and icy took over his body. He knew nothing of the way his partner actually felt. Neither of them ever talked about their fears.
They walked through a narrow hallway with a calendar of a topless Asian girl wearing a short plaid miniskirt and riding a Harley in front of a neon-lit bowling alley called jay’s spotlight lanes. From there they went through two more doors, then walked into a large, dimly lit warehouse, which was stacked with boxes inside which were pool tables.
Waiting for them in the middle of the room were not only Kafi , Draper, and Karl Steinbach, but two more goons, a blond boy with a birthmark on his jaw and a freckle-faced goof with a twisted mouth and a shaved head. Huckleberry Finn on crack. All of them were fully armed. Steinbach nodded to Jack, picked up a pool cue, and cleanly knocked in a bank shot.
“My friends,” he said. “I trust you had a good trip.”
“Right as rain,” Harper said, setting the briefcase down on the edge of the table.
“That’s good to know,” Steinbach said. He lined up another shot, and then in quick succession knocked in the five, six, and seven balls. His hand didn’t shake, and the worries, which had obsessed him only a few minutes ago, were dissolved in the small ecstasies of performance. Karl loved the game and had often wished he could be filmed.
“You look like you know what you’re doing,” Oscar said.
“Yes, in my wasted youth, I spent a lot of time in pool halls. They say it’s a relaxing game, but that’s untrue. Pool takes intense discipline and concentration. Like any game you play to win.”
Harper smiled and picked up the second cue, which was leaning against the table.
“I don’t think so,” he said. “I think it just takes a modicum of talent and a little luck.”
Jack turned around backward, wh
ipped the cue behind his back, and lined up the cue ball.
“Eight ball in the far left pocket,” he said.
He hit the cue with a high topspin, which sent it around the three ball, and hit the eight, right into the far left pocket.
“Bravo, Jackie,” Steinbach said. “But that took a lot of practice and a lot of skill.”
“Nah, Karl, just luck,” Jack said. “But then I’ve always been a lucky guy.”
“Maybe so,” Steinbach laughed. “Look how lucky you got when you met me.”
Jack smiled and put down the cue.
“Speaking of which . . . though your charming company is all anyone could hope for, my friend Luis and I have a plane to catch, so maybe we should get down to business.”
“Of course,” Steinbach said.
He looked at Kafiwho handed him a black felt box, about as big as Jack’s palm.
“More pool balls?” Hidalgo said.
“Yes, but these are special.”
Steinbach snapped open the box and showed the balls to Jack.
“Hand carved, Jack. Each ball made to exact specifications and real ivory. The finest in the world.”
Steinbach handed the ball to Jack.
“Push the number, Jackie.”
Jack pushed it with his thumb; there was a slight click and the ball slid open.
“Just like an Easter egg,” Oscar said. “You got chocolate bunnies in there?”
“Something far more delicious than that,” Steinbach said.
Jack reached inside the pool ball and found a small perfect diamond surrounded by crushed velvet to keep it from rattling around. Next to it was a second diamond. Within seconds, he’d discovered a third and a fourth.
“Hey, now, this is a game I could start to like,” Jack said.