"That's odd. Me, too."
"Great minds think alike."
Burke got up, extended his hand. "I'm Kevin Kramer."
"David Garrett," the man replied. They both smiled pleasantly at the smooth lies. "Listen, my wife and I were about to get some fresh coffee. Would you like to join us?"
"Wife?" Burke had read the classified ad carefully. The code in it called for a meeting in this section of the bookstore, but said nothing about a second player. The sloppiness made his stomach flutter with alarm.
"Cora?"
A woman who was thumbing through something at the magazine rack turned to face them. She seemed aloof and scholarly, was dressed in a plain brown business outfit. Her short hair was brown, flecked with gray. The woman had the slightly owlish look of someone unused to contact lenses, so Burke doubted her eyes were actually green.
"Yes, Dave?"
"This young man is a war buff. Would you mind terribly if he joins us for a cup of coffee?"
The woman sighed a bit and checked her watch, a note-perfect impression of a bored housewife. "We need to get home soon, honey." But she had already replaced the magazine, turned away from the rack, and started their way before completing the sentence. She hugged a sizeable purse close to her blouse, hands skillfully covering the contents. No one who bumped into her, on purpose or by accident, would be allowed to feel the weapon inside.
Moments later the three were seated in the back of one of the Valley's ubiquitous coffee shops, heads close together. The war books were in the middle of the table, opened to black and white photographs of twisted tanks and shattered bodies.
Burke made the first move. "They didn't say anything about there being two of you."
The man who called himself Dave shrugged. "So somebody fucked up. What else is new?"
"Relax," the woman whispered. She had a large, fake smile plastered on her face, a mild expression totally at odds with her tone. "We're just passing a message from Major Ryan. He wants to see you."
"Tell him I haven't changed my mind," Burke responded. "I'm out, at least for the time being. I've got enough on my plate."
Dave laughed and leaned back. He patted his belly as if joking about food. Cora stayed close in and her frozen smile wavered. "You're not hearing us, Burke. We're not offering you options. We're relaying a direct order. Ryan wants you to come in for a sit down."
Burke sat quietly, thinking. I don't know why Cary gets off on this. He shifted his chair around so that his back was to the room. He pinned the woman with his eyes and smiled. His vibe was decidedly unfriendly. She tried valiantly to hold his gaze, but faltered and looked away.
"Did they tell you about me?"
She swallowed, nodded slightly. Burke heard a snort from his right. Santa Dave was getting his macho up. "Listen, asshole, they told us but we're not impressed, okay?"
Burke grinned again, but now his eyes were steady, cold as frozen marbles. "You should be," he whispered. "I have a silenced Firestar nine pointed at your girlfriend's pussy right now, and if she goes face down on the table it will look like a seizure. I'll be out the door screaming for a doctor before anyone can identify me."
Dave leaned closer, hand now sliding under his sweatshirt. "Oh, and you figure I'm just going to sit here and let you do that?"
In a flash, Burke snaked his hand onto the man's sweatpants. He grabbed at the genitals and twisted. A quick glance showed the first shock of agony and then a complete loss of blood to the face. Burke turned the testicles again, just enough to keep Dave paralyzed, in pain, and filled with dread.
"Dave, if I wanted you dead it would already be over." His face was still pleasant and hadn't broken a sweat. Dave's features were streaming perspiration. Cora was pale except for two little pink dots on her cheeks.
The waitress chose that precise moment to call out cheerfully: "You folks having fun over there?"
"Say you're having fun."
Cora waved back. "A ball, thanks."
Burke released Dave, who moaned with relief. "Now that we have established that I have the biggest dick, let's get down to business. Why does Ryan need to see me?"
"Need to know basis," Dave grunted, then added, "asshole."
Burke ignored the epithet, though he admired the effort. He shook his head. "He knows me, Dave. He knows I'd ask. So he gave you something to say if everything else failed. Cut to the chase and tell me what's up."
Cora was not doing a very good job of covering her anxiety. She needed to bring the meeting to a swift conclusion. "He said to tell you this one is live ammo. He said you would know what that meant."
Live ammo. Burke drank coffee to buy time. "Where?"
Cora swallowed. "All I have to do is page him. He said he will be waiting back at your car, in the underground garage. We made certain you weren't followed."
"Gee, thanks." Burke rose. "Tell him to be there."
"Yes, sir."
Burke looked down at Dave, who had regained his composure but was obviously seething. He experienced a small twinge of remorse. "And by the way, stud, I was lying about that silenced Firestar nine. I didn't even bring it with me. I'm just having a bad day."
Burke left some cash to cover their coffee. He walked out. He caught the light perfectly and crossed Laurel Canyon with a clump of other pedestrians, feeling frustrated for having such a short fuse—and for thinking that a woman he saw looked a lot like Indira Pal. Ever since her husband's name had come up, Burke hadn't been able to stop thinking about her. When he reached the stairwell he chastised himself for all the grandstanding. Dumb move. Dave and Cora had no idea what was actually on his mind, and he might need them to watch his back someday.
Burke entered the underground garage. A slender, middle-aged man with a precise crewcut was leaning against the side of his car, holding a thick accordion folder.
"Why do you always need to pull this silly movie shit, Cary?"
"I didn't write the manual." Major Ryan was impeccably dressed, as usual. He wore Gucci slacks, a jet black, form-fitting knit shirt and a new pair of loafers. Ryan was tall, nearly Burke's own height, and could be one tough customer, but his delicate features and effeminate movements could make him seem like a woman in drag as a man. "Nice to see you too, Red."
Burkes automatically searched the garage. He approached, one hand sliding casually toward the small of his back. They were alone. Satisfied, he opened the passenger door. Ryan slid in and placed a CLASSIFIED folder in his lap. Burke moved around to the driver seat and started the engine. Ryan's eyes widened when Burke backed out of the parking space. "I thought we could talk here."
"No," Burke replied. "If you want to play spook, let's stay on the move."
Ryan was silent. He'd worked with Burke often since their black ops days in Somalia, so he knew better than to argue. Burke roared up the circular driveway, handed the attendant some cash, and joined the flow of traffic headed west along Ventura. As he drove he planned his usual series of turns—up Fulton and along Riverside to Colfax and then back down—and a route that would eventually bring him back to the same shopping center.
"What is going on, Cary? I told you I was taking a break."
"It's important, Red." Ryan attempted a soothing tone. He was generally a slick customer, and a born politician. That part of his personality had always annoyed Burke, never more than now. "I can run this down for you fairly quickly. You give me a yes or a no. If you're not up for it, I'd like your input about who we should send."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
Burke arrived at Fulton and turned. "Shoot."
"As you know we have pretty nifty satellite surveillance of Mexico and South America going on at all times." Cary was clearly reciting something he'd said dozens of times before. "The system is basically designed to give us heads up on any cocaine and marijuana crops our erstwhile allies are neglecting to tell us about."
"Cary, I led a small LURP team to kill Buey for you just last year, remember?"
; "You missed him by a pubic hair, but you burned an entire field of coca plants without being discovered or suffering a single casualty. That's exactly why I'm back to talk to you about this situation."
"Which is?"
Cary Ryan slid some photographs out of the manila file. He checked to make sure they were in the proper order. He waited patiently for Burke to arrive at a stoplight before handing him one.
Burke studied it. "This is from a predator drone, right?"
"Yes, at five thousand over a piss-ant town called Los Gatos in northern Mexico. You have a sharp eye." The smarmy stuff again. "We sent the predator two nights ago, with the permission of the Mexican government, ostensibly on a drug mission."
"This isn't about drugs?"
"We don't know yet, Red. Let me bring you up to speed, and then you can ask all the questions you want." Burke sighed and returned the photograph. "Now, look at these," Ryan continued, with a subtle tension in his tone. "We have Spectra, Gamma, UV, and SLR. But let's look at the Gamma shot more closely."
"Hang on." Burke pulled to the curb and parked. He grabbed the photograph and examined it. Now he could see something that was not there before: a swirl of color, like the eye of a hurricane on radar. "What is that, some kind of hydrocarbon smear?"
"Nitrogen for the most part, but normal is around seventy-eight percent and this is low eighties."
"Which means?"
"Considering the fact that there are no swamps in the desert near Los Gatos, we think it may be the spoor of buried, denitrifying bacteria, starting to leak above ground."
Burke felt yet another chill pass over him. Who just walked on your grave? Something was rotting, down deep in the earth. "Leaking from what?"
"Our boys agree that the most likely explanation is some kind of killing field, like in Cambodia or Bosnia."
"A mass grave." Burke thumbed through the photographs front to back and back to front. "And now you want to insert a team to check it out."
"I have decided on that option."
Burke returned the photographs and Ryan closed the file. Burke held his gaze. "What is it you're not telling me?"
Ryan's eyes fluttered, and for a moment he seemed like a nervous girl. "I don't know what you mean, Red. Why would I be keeping something back?"
"Because you're not going right to the Mexican government, so somebody is being told hands off. Who's applying pressure, and why?"
"Come on, Red. There's no pressure." Frowning, Ryan shook his head and pointed to the roof of the car. He's wired. So their conversation was being taped. The hands-off instructions were coming from above him, high up.
Burke nodded in understanding. "All right, Cary. I'll take your word for it. Forget I said that. What else is going on in that area? No offense, but what has the spooks giving a shit about this, mass grave or garbage dump?"
"Like I said, Los Gatos is a one-horse town. It means nothing in and of itself, but Juan Garcia Lopez has been spotted in the area."
"Buey again."
"Yes. Buey owns a large hacienda at a compound in the foothills, just a few hundred feet away from where that photograph was taken."
"So?"
"Burke, he brought down a drone last night, probably with a Russian-made SAM."
"You're kidding me."
Ryan ran delicate fingers through buzz cut hair. "I shit you not."
"That took guts, or he's dumb as a box of hammers."
"We had clearance from the Mexican government for a flight over in that general area, so whoever gave that order has cojones. He will clearly fuck with Uncle Sam, his own government, whatever."
"Why?"
"We think he's building some kind of fortress out there. The over-flights made him nervous."
"Great. So any team going in there will run right into a posse of spooked druggies with AK-47s and an attitude."
"We have a plan to distract them. The pay is one hundred thousand for a couple of days' work, wired straight to your bank in the Netherlands Antilles. Will you do it?"
"No." Burke started the car and headed back to the garage. "I had my shot at Buey last year. I'll pass on this one. I've got too much on my plate with private clients."
"I can't change your mind?"
"Not this time."
They rode in silence, down Ventura to the garage entrance. Ryan tapped the dash. "Let me out here. My driver is picking me up." He got out, leaned back into the vehicle. "Should I use Weston, or maybe Lukac?"
Burke was intrigued, despite himself. He pondered. "Lukac has better Spanish. You might need that if he can grab a prisoner. Off the record, I think Weston should be riding a desk. He's a year or two past burned out."
"I'll ask Steve, then. Take it easy, Red."
Ryan started to close the door. Burke leaned across the passenger seat, held it open. "Cary?"
Ryan thought Burke was about to change his mind. He looked both ways, put his head back in the vehicle. "Yeah?"
"Keep me up to speed on this one. I'm into it, although I don't exactly know why. Just not now, okay? Maybe I can help out later."
Somewhat mollified, Ryan agreed. A Lincoln Town Car rolled slowly around the corner, tires squealing on the pavement. Major Ryan's driver unlocked the electric latch. Ryan slammed the door, got into his own vehicle and drove away.
Jack Burke remained behind for a long moment, brooding. He was starting to feel like a piece on someone else's chessboard.
TWENTY-TWO
Hidden Hills was a ranch-style community near the far suburb of Calabasas, right on the edge of L.A. County proper. It covered a large, sunburned area and featured white, rail fences and western style estates with horse corrals and riding trails. Burke gave his name at the gate and was handed convoluted directions to the property owned by Dr. Hasari Pal.
After two false starts—streets with similar names that led to dead ends—he found a two-story house, relatively modest for the area, perched at the top of a long and curving drive. Beyond the fence, a weary old Palomino studied Burke with something like suspicion, and then shook his long head to dislodge the relentless horde of flies nesting in his mane. Burke parked the car and stepped out into the shaded driveway. He checked his watch for the tenth time and brushed imaginary lint from his clothing. The walkway was flawless brick and curved through the lawn to a heavy wooden front door with a large brass knocker. Upon closer inspection, the knocker proved to be a brilliant carving of Lord Shiva, dancing before the wheel of life. Burke was nervous but determined not to show it. He lifted Shiva's feet and rapped them against the world to announce his arrival.
The clacking sound boomed through what sounded like a largely empty foyer. After a time, small footsteps approached. The door opened with a low moan. The small, fit elderly man who stood behind it wore a turban and traditional cotton clothing. His short white beard was neatly trimmed and he wore round reading glasses. He peered up at Burke with a palpable sweetness.
"May I help you, sir?" His accent was charming, probably Calcutta.
"I am here to see Dr. Pal." Burke was suddenly aware of his own accent, a flat, nasal twang that seemed annoyingly bland compared to the lilting, pastel lisp of the Indian. "My name is Jack Burke."
"Ah, yes! Mr. Burke, you are very welcome. The doctor and missus are expecting you. Please." The little man backed away from the door, motioned expansively. "My name is Mr. Nandi. May I offer you some tea?"
"Tea would be nice."
"Consider it done, sir. Dr. Pal asked me to tell you he is very, very sorry but he will be running a few minutes late. He hopes that this will not pose a difficulty."
"No, I have plenty of time."
"Very good."
The small feet pattered away. The living room was immense, yet sparsely furnished. Burke noted several beautiful pieces of art, carefully placed for maximum effect. There were Buddhist items, but the majority of the artifacts came from the Hindu pantheon. He saw numerous Shivas, some of the elephant god of wisdom Ganesh, the monkey god whose name Burke
had forgotten, even a few striking representations of the Goddess Kali, the dark aspect of the feminine. Many of these pieces were even more striking and expensive than those in Stryker's small collection. Burke strolled over to admire some framed art and a photograph of a massive Tibetan Buddhist sand painting. He worked his way along the walls. To a man of his interests, the assembly was captivating.
The smell of strong tea entered the room, but when Burke turned a bit belatedly, the little man called Mr. Nandi had already vanished. He continued to look around. A small tea set was now carefully angled on an end table near the leather couch. Burke approached and spotted a large, leather-bound volume that rested on the mahogany coffee table.
He sat down, added two lumps of sugar to the strong black tea and opened the book, which had been painstakingly produced and seemed hand-written. Someone had very carefully quoted classic Hindu poetry and then translated the lines into contemporary English. There were only a few illustrations and the poetry did not seem to have been arranged in any particular order.
"Is Kali, my Divine Mother, of a black complexion?
She appears black because She is viewed from a distance;
But when intimately known She is no longer so.
The sky appears blue at a distance, but look at it close by
And you will find that it has no color.
The water of the ocean looks blue at a distance,
But when you go near and take it in your hand,
You find that it is colorless and clear."
— Ramakrishna Paramhansa (1836-86)
Burke carried the book, which was heavier than he'd expected, over to one of the representations of Kali. Seen up close, it was a clever wood carving painted over in black, silver, and red. Burke knew the black goddess to be many things to many people. Here, she was seen in her most terrible aspect, as Kali-ma, the dark mother, a raging black woman with four arms. She had the head of a victim—some say a demon—in one bloody hand, and a sword in the other. Her two free hands were raised as if to demand the worship of her followers. Kali wore a necklace of skulls and a waistcoat made from the hands of corpses. Her enormous red tongue rolled out of her mouth like some terrible serpent; she stood on the prone body of her husband. Burke looked down at the book, turned the page.
The Pressure of Darkness Page 14
