by Roland Smith
Robert, who had no doubt been watching the conversation from somewhere nearby, waiting to move on the Leopard if necessary, entered the study.
Miss Ruby came around the desk and shook Malak’s hand. “It’s been a real pleasure, honey. I can’t wait for us to meet again. Y’all have a safe trip now,” she said and left the room.
Robert motioned for Malak to follow him. She left the study using every ounce of self-control she had to keep her face from showing how she truly felt. Back in the ATV on her way back to the guesthouse she could only think of one thing.
Angela.
Stranger Danger
Outside the main gate of the Firebrand Ranch, a nondescript brown sedan came to a stop. Eben was driving and Ziv was in the passenger seat. It was the worst possible setting for surveillance, with its wide-open spaces and nothing to hide behind, not even a bush. The mansion was at least a hundred yards off the road. It was in the middle of a huge parcel of flat, open land with no other houses or neighbors within miles. No doubt it had been chosen or built precisely because it would be so difficult to watch.
Neither one of them was happy now. The weather had further delayed their departure from Norfolk. Malak had been on the ground for some time. It would be dark in a few hours.
Eben popped the hood and got out of the car. He surreptitiously poured bottled water on the engine, causing steam to rise and making it look like the car had overheated. Ziv sat in the passenger seat, with the window down, trying to look like a stranded motorist. Trying and failing. The Monkey became nervous when he could not see the Leopard.
X-Ray had tracked the plane from Manteo until it had landed here. What they did not know was whether Malak had been taken somewhere else or if she was still at this location. Ziv was certain she was still close by. He knew she’d be watched closely and unable to contact him, but … well … he couldn’t explain it. He could sense when Malak was in trouble and he did not have that feeling now. Not yet. Still, their position was problematic.
“This is not good,” Ziv said.
“I know,” Eben said.
“We can’t stay here long. If we are going to do any reasonable reconnaissance, we will have to return at night.”
Eben was wearing a navy-blue polo shirt, but with great exaggeration he put his wrist, now bearing the Seamaster watch, to his face. “Which will be in a few hours,” he said.
“Pfft. I don’t suppose your fancy watch has a telescope or binoculars, does it?” Ziv asked.
“No, but its Swiss-certified chronometer keeps virtually perfect time. Which is amazing for a mechanical watch,” Eben said.
“Wonderful.” Ziv got out of the car and walked to the front where he and Eben pretended to fiddle with the engine. Along the far edge of the property they saw a small ATV driving along the fence line. Undoubtedly a security patrol.
“We are too exposed,” Ziv said. “A broken-down car in front of their gate while they are hosting the Leopard will not be viewed as a coincidence. We are putting Malak in danger. We must leave, call Boone, and see if X-Ray can arrange satellite reconnaissance before dark. Then we can return …”
“What is it?” Eben said as Ziv’s words trailed off.
“Trouble,” Ziv said.
Eben looked up to see a police car pulling up behind them. It rolled slowly to a stop on the asphalt behind their sedan, the blue and red lights flashing in the rising, glimmering waves of heat. When the door opened, Ziv could read the words Valiant County Sheriff’s Department. He made an instant assessment of the man who emerged from the car. Mid-forties, six feet two inches tall, black buzz cut that he covered immediately with a white Stetson that had a large silver badge above the brim. He was thin and rangy looking, but his arms were roped with muscle. To Ziv he had the appearance of a man who knew how to handle himself. His gun belt contained a full complement of police equipment: mace, cuffs, collapsible baton, and, most important, a nickel-plated .357 Magnum on his right hip. He spoke quietly into the radio microphone connected to his uniform near his shoulder. So far he was doing everything by the book, Ziv thought. Which didn’t mean he wasn’t a member of the ghost cell.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen. What seems to be the problem?” he asked.
“We are not sure,” Eben said. “At first we thought it was the radiator, but that doesn’t seem to be the trouble. The car just died.”
“Is that right. The car ever done that before?” the officer asked.
Ziv and Eben glanced at each other. Undoubtedly the officer had called in their plate and knew the car was a rental. He was probing them for information.
“No … that is, we don’t know … it is a rental,” Eben said.
“I see. And what brings you to Valiant County?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, officer … forgive me, I didn’t catch your name?” Ziv asked.
“I didn’t give it,” he said, turning his attention to Ziv. “But it’s Hackett, and it’s Sheriff Hackett.”
“Sheriff! How lucky for us!” Ziv said. “What a beautiful county you have here, Sheriff Hackett.”
“I like it. But you didn’t answer my question. What brings you to Valiant County?”
“We are just on our way back to San Antonio….”
“Kind of an out-of-the-way route to San Antonio, isn’t it?”
“Yes, we were lost, then the trouble with the car … if it starts we will be on our way. Sheriff, what an honor it is to meet you!” Ziv put his hand out and stepped toward the man.
Eben closed his eyes. This was not going to end well. No police officer anywhere in the world liked being approached without permission in a situation like this. From his years of training Eben knew that traffic stops were very dangerous situations for cops. They followed strict training protocols. Ziv should not have moved from his spot.
“Stay right there,” the sheriff said loudly, drawing his revolver and pointing it at Ziv’s chest.
“Oh my!” Ziv said, putting his hands up. “Sheriff, please, I did not mean to—”
“Quiet! You behind the car, step out where I can see you. Hands out to your sides.”
Eben thought about turning and running but decided he couldn’t because running would deny him the opportunity to strangle Ziv. So he did as the sheriff asked.
“You,” the sheriff said, nodding toward Eben. “Lean forward, hands on the fender, and don’t move.” He turned his attention to Ziv. “I want to see your ID. Remove it from your pocket very slowly.”
“Sheriff, really, is this necessary? We just need to get our car started. In fact I think we were close to correcting the problem as you pulled up. We will happily be on our way,” Ziv said with a broad smile.
Eben wanted to hang his head but all he could do was grit his teeth. He had no doubt that whoever was in the house was watching what was taking place. They needed to get out of there, even if it meant getting arrested to get away from the house. Before everything fell apart, Eben offered up a silent prayer the sheriff was not an overly excitable, shoot-first-and-ask-questions-later type.
He stood up straight.
“Sheriff, my friend is right …” he said, choking off the words as the big revolver swung back to his chest.
“I SAID DON’T MOVE,” the sheriff ordered. “Both of you. Assume the position. I’m placing you under arrest.”
“On what charges?” Ziv asked.
“On the charges of failing to cooperate with an officer in lawful performance of his duty, obstructing justice, and the charge of I don’t like not being listened to. Both of you on the car, now! I have a feeling you know the routine. Move and I shoot you. Don’t test me,” he said.
A few minutes later Sheriff Hackett had quickly and efficiently searched, cuffed, and loaded the two men into the backseat of his cruiser. After he radioed for a tow truck, they were on their way.
“We need to make a phone call,” Eben said.
“You’ll get your chance,” barked Sheriff Hackett.
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER
9
11:10 a.m. to 3:45 p.m.
A Not-So-Grand Entrance
I was going to say what a cool experience it was spending the night on Air Force One, but truthfully, I don’t remember much of it. After flying to Atlanta and Tallahassee, I couldn’t stay awake. I thought I’d take a short nap, but didn’t realize how tired I was. Chief Steward Rogers let me bunk down in a spare bed in the staff quarters and I slept straight through to the next morning. I wasn’t sure if Angela slept or not. I’d left her staring at her computer screen and that was the last I remembered until I woke up as the plane touched down in San Antonio.
Mom was still pretty geeked about flying on Air Force One. When she and Roger came on board in Raleigh, Angela had the smart idea to have them find us doing our homework. We’d updated some info on the plane and Chief Steward Rogers posed for pictures with us. Now Angela had turned to studying the history of San Antonio and, specifically, what it was probably best known for, the Battle of the Alamo, during the Texas Revolution in 1836.
Mom and Roger were happy to see us and after hugs and greetings Marie and Art kept them busy with interview requests and other tour stuff. With so many people coming and going on the plane, we didn’t have a chance to discuss the pictures P.K. had sent us. Like so many other things with the mysterious Tyrone Boone, it would have to wait. And then of course I fell asleep.
Our San Antonio hotel was bustling, and we hadn’t even been in the lobby of the hotel for three minutes when Buddy T. appeared. Buddy’s face was a reddish color I hadn’t seen before. He’d flown down with Heather Hughes, who was president of Mom and Dad’s record company, but she was nowhere to be seen.
“Look at Buddy’s face,” I whispered to Angela. “It’s the ‘I had to fly on a tiny corporate jet while my clients got to fly on the coolest plane in the world’ crimson.”
Finally, I got a chuckle out of Angela.
“It’s about time you got here,” Buddy said to Mom and Roger. “This public service-announcement tour has thrown off the whole schedule. If we don’t—”
“It’s funny you should mention that,” Mom said. “Roger and I were talking about making all the remaining dates free in exchange for donations to the victims.”
Buddy’s face turned someone-just-kill-me-now white. “Well … ah … I think if we do a little juggling we’ll be fine. It’s just that a tour schedule is like dominoes. And …”
Buddy was now circling around Mom, who was no longer paying attention but was instead listening to Art, who was handing us all keys to our rooms. Mom and Roger had a suite and Angela and I had adjoining rooms down the hall.
Buddy made his money by representing the biggest and best acts in the business. Even though he’d still get paid, he attracted more and better clients when his acts sold out auditoriums and by having his talent reach the top of the charts. If the tour suddenly stopped collecting admissions, in a couple years no one would remember that Mom and Roger gave the money to charity. It would not be a big-grossing act and that would hurt Buddy’s reputation. He was a complicated, annoying little weasel of a man sometimes. But he was smart about business. The funny part was Buddy had met his match in Mom. He just hadn’t figured it out yet.
About a minute after that, Dirk Peski, aka the Paparazzi Prince, arrived, shoving his obnoxious camera and his even more obnoxious self in everyone’s face. The entire group reacted with groans. Angela and I—well, I wouldn’t say we exactly liked Dirk, but we had learned he was Ziv’s partner. And he watched the Monkey who watched the Leopard. Ziv must have gotten him here somehow.
And he had the perfect cover. The Alamo concert had changed focus. Mom and Dad had invited a couple of other acts to play with them to honor the Washington, D.C. bombing victims.
With the other artists now participating, the concert had blown up in the media and the hotel lobby was full of rock stars and celebrities. Mom and Roger had to go do interviews, so she gave me a big hug right there in the lobby.
“Mom … uh …” Dirk snapped a photo, then scurried away from our group when Art stepped in front of him and cracked his knuckles a couple of times.
“Sorry,” Mom said. “Didn’t mean to embarrass you. It’s just this past day has been so … well, my head is spinning! Air Force One and the album doing so well and … I try not to forget about the bombing victims but …” her words trailed off as she put her hands on my shoulders, looking me over and giving me the “mom inspection.” From the corner of my eye, I saw Roger doing the same thing to Angela. I guess it was a universal parent trait.
“Mom,” I said. “Don’t feel guilty. You’ve earned this and you deserve it. You and Roger are doing a great thing to help people.”
She kissed me on the cheek again. “You’re so sweet. I wonder where Boone is? He called me and said he was going to have a couple of guys he trusted drive the coach and he’d catch a flight. He heard about the concert adding the other acts so he wanted to get here quicker and make sure everything was on schedule,” she said, switching the subject abruptly. “Maybe you and Angela should come to our suite until …”
“Howdy.”
I almost jumped, and over Mom’s shoulder I saw Angela’s eyes grow wide. Boone was standing right in front of us in the bustling lobby.
“Boone!” Mom said. “I was just asking about you….”
“I know. My plane was late gettin’ in yesterday. All kinds of air traffic delays ‘cause of that storm. You know how much I like flyin’, anyhow. Had to take a long walk around the city this mornin’ just to calm myself. And I wanted to stop off at the Alamo stage and make sure the roadies got everything squared away for tonight,” Boone said.
Boone could drop in and out of his drawl as easily as he dropped out of thin air.
“How’s the crew?” Mom asked.
“It’s good, Blaze. Had to stop some monkeyin’ around. You know how roadies get sometimes. Ain’t a one of ’em don’t think he’s gonna be the next Bobby LaKind,” he said.
Mom chuckled. She knew a lot about music and music history.
“Who’s Bobby LaKind?” I asked.
“Bobby was a roadie for the Doobie Brothers,” Mom said. “They were a huge act back in the seventies. One night after a show, some of the band members caught him playing the conga drums. Turns out he was a real talent and eventually he became a full-fledged member of the band.”
I knew that most roadies got into the business because they were or wanted to be musicians. But I’d never heard of a roadie making it into a band before. Being a roadie was hard, unglamorous work.
“Yeah, I knew ole Bobby,” Boone said. “Did a couple of tours with the Doobies back in the day. Rest easy, Blaze. Ain’t no Bobby LaKinds in this bunch. But they’re doing a good job. Now, I figure you and Roger got all kinds of work to do, so don’t worry, I’ll take care of Q and Angela.”
“Okay. But Q, are you keeping up with your schoolwork?” Mom asked me.
“Sure,” I said, smiling.
“Q …” Mom gave me the half stink eye.
“No, seriously, we are. On the plane we did a report about Air Force One and we were learning about the Alamo and stuff … about Texas … and hurricanes …” I was almost in big trouble. Angela did the homework. I’d been too busy trying to do Boone’s magic trick. I had no idea what our homework situation was. But I tried to sound convincing, hoping Mom wouldn’t ask too many questions.
Angela came to the rescue. “I couldn’t help overhearing, and you know what? The Alamo is really a fascinating story. I’m looking forward to working more on it,” she said. “I’m hoping Boone will have a chance to take us over so we can get some photos and video for our assignment. I was just reading this morning about the actual battle. There’s a lot of controversy over how many men died there. Historians argue between a hundred eighty-three and one eighty-five, depending on who—”
“One eighty-four,” Boone cut in.
All of us looked at him.
“I read a lot, ya know?” he
said. When he looked at Angela and me, I was pretty sure he winked.
“Anyway,” Angela continued, “is it okay if we hit our rooms? I think we’ll finish our assignment and, I don’t know about Q but I could use a nap.” Angela was likely going to be the best secret agent ever. She could stretch the truth to the breaking point and make you believe every word of it. So far the only person she hadn’t been able to crack was Boone. Forget the fact that she’d forgotten I’d just slept for about a zillion hours and didn’t need a nap.
“Sure,” my mom said. “Roger and I will go do our press stuff so that Buddy T. doesn’t have a meltdown before we get any further behind in the schedule. We’ll check in with you later. Keep your phones on, both of you!”
Boone followed us to our floor.
“I’ve got the SOS crew in a room at the other end of the hall. I need to check in and get an update. I don’t have any new information yet, but they might. Stay tuned …” He took off down the hall.
Once in our rooms, I opened the adjoining door and fiddled with my deck of cards while Angela got her laptop booted up.
“What now?” I asked. “And please don’t say homework.”
“Yes, you’ve got to be exhausted from all the homework you’ve been doing,” Angela said with a sly smile.
Ouch.
Angela looked at the screen and pulled up the pictures of Boone. I’d forwarded P.K.’s e-mails to her earlier.
“Can you send a message to P.K.?” she said. “Tell him thanks for the photos. And ask him if he can find any more.”
Gearing Up
Boone entered the three-bedroom hotel suite that SOS had turned into their command post. X-Ray had four different laptops and several high-definition monitors on two desks and a coffee table. Boone was never sure what X-Ray was doing, but knowing X-Ray it probably involved hacking some secure federal database. Felix was over against a wall in the sitting area doing one-handed push-ups and watching ESPN. Beyond him, Vanessa had brought a board from the intellimobile into the suite and was practicing her knife throwing. Uly was in one of the bedrooms, sleeping.
