Jan 22
The Spook Makes Some Moves
Denver, 3:30–5 pm MDT
Fernando Ruiz steered his twenty-year-old pickup into the Adobe Hacienda Motel near the Denver rail station with the usual pained screech from the power-steering pump. The steering wheel stuttered against his capacious belly, which grumbled in reaction to mouth-watering odors filling the cab. The insulated pizza-delivery bag on the seat held three extra-large Jalapeno Specials. Whoever was in Unit Six must have a large family.
The parking lot was deserted mid-afternoon. Even cleaning carts were gone from the breezeways. No car at Unit Six but families often came in on the train to shop, or catch a ball game. He slid out of the high cab, grabbed the warm bag of pizzas, knocked on the motel door. A faint “Hola!” sounded above a loud TV set. “It’s open!” in English.
When he pushed the door open the room was empty. He paused in confusion. His gaze was drawn to the nearly exposed breasts of a woman on TV, expostulating in Spanish to her off-screen Corazon.
The door swung shut behind him. He started to turn, was struck by lightning. Pain blasted through his nervous system. He was on the floor. Pizza bag dropped, limbs convulsing. Such pain! Mary Mother of God, be with me now…
Brisk hands rolled him face down.“Relax, Senor. You’ll live.” His arms were pulled behind his back. He dimly heard a metallic click and felt cold circlets embrace his wrists. Handcuffs — he knew what those were. Even in pain he could gauge how expertly he was frisked from his unfortunate life history. Switchblade quickly found. “Naughty boy! How are you called?”
He groaned “…Fernando. I have no money but for change, Senor. Take the pies. My gift to you — “ His head was lifted off the carpet. His blurred vision went dark. He bit off an exclamation of terror.
“Better you not see my face, Senor Fernando. The pies I accept with thanks. Do not try to lift the hood while I am still here, and I will give you the gift of life in exchange for your fine pies. Comprendo?”
Something wrong with the accent: Anglo actor playing a Mexican on TV. But Ruiz couldn’t think.
“You forgot to offer the loan of your fine pickup, Fernando. But I forgive you. You shall have it back. Rust, ruined power-steering, and all. And you shall find one hundred Gringo dollars in the bureau drawer for your trouble. Do not tell the clerk who comes to release you. A shifty eye, that one!”
It was too much, too fast. “Senor…”
“Adios, Fernando. A story to tell your grandchildren.” The door closed, locked. His rusty muffler roared. His power-steering screeched. His truck left without him.
___________________________________
“Pizza delivery,” said the federal watcher in the surveillance van.
“Look at the size of that stack. Staff luncheon maybe?”
“I could use a pizza myself. Flip to see who goes for lunch?”
“Look at the poor guy. Beat-up old truck, not insured on a bet. Minimum wage if that. Working with his leg in a cast, and a cane. No health insurance on a bet. He doesn’t work he doesn’t eat. Wonder how he got the lighted pizza sign on the roof with his leg in a cast?”
“Who knows? Look at him: straw cowboy hat, MacArthur shades, old Army field jacket. Probably an illegal. You get a look at his complexion?”
“I’m not La Migra, who cares? You might be wrong though. Look at his boots. Well, boot.”
“Tan like the jacket. Desert-combat boot?”
“Got a pair just like ’em from Desert Storm. Maybe a veteran down on his luck.”
“We ought to treat our vets better. You were in the Gulf War huh?”
“I was. Tanks.”
“Where all the action was, what I heard. Imperial Guard, fish in a barrel. What they said.”
“Maybe I’ll tell you about it one of these days. You gonna flip to see who goes for lunch?”
______________________________________
Across the street, eWraith opened John Curtis’s door without knocking, put aside his cane and big red pizza sack, hobbled to the window. Pressed the curtain delicately against the dildo. Curtis said irritably, “Keeps going and going and going like the commercial says.”
“And so should we. Go, I mean.”
“What, no notepad this time?”
“I verified they can’t read us through the buzz.”
“Why the Halloween getup, Spook?”
“All for you.” Jarrett doffed hat and sunglasses. “Time for you to limp out of here. Invisible under the all-seeing eye of the federal government.”
“That why Feldtman pulled the guard? One less witness?”
“Yep.” Jarrett unstrapped his soft cast. “Shit! I got the wrong color. You’ll just have to make do with this one until we’re outta here.”
“It’s really the Feds out there, huh?”
“Beginning to talk about bagging you on general principles. So time to go.” Jarrett shed his field jacket to reveal a Kevlar vest and shoulder holster. He stripped those and unzipped the pizza bag to pull out a handful of folded white clothing.
“Hell, I thought I was gonna get pizza.”
“Pizza in the truck. Wait till you’re clear to indulge.”
“Teaching me to suck eggs, Spook?” Curtis carefully shucked his own cast and hospital gown. Jarrett stripped off baggy sweat pants.
“Suck eggs — ever wonder where such expressions come from? No? I may look it up one of these days.” Jarrett unfolded pristine hospital whites. “I leave as an orderly.” By the time Curtis had on the sweat pants and wrong-colored cast his face was sheened with cold sweat. Jarrett dressed quickly, extracted white Crocs from the pizza bag. He regarded Curtis with concern. “You gonna make it?”
“I’ll make it. I can rest later.”
“Excellent.” Jarrett helped him on with the vest, adjusted it to fit, then the single boot. “Got the boot big in case your feet swelled in hospital.”
“It’ll do. That gun for me?”
“As ordered. Spare mag in the field jacket.” A Glock 17. Full-size version of the gun the Poindexter woman shot him with. He popped the magazine, cleared the chamber, tried the trigger pull. It was a Glock, what could you say? Jarrett slipped the harness over his shoulders. Curtis recharged the gun and holstered it.
“Not sure I want to wave a gun at Feds.”
“Taser in the left-hand jacket pocket,” Jarrett said calmly. He pulled a photo ID on a chain from his white smock and dangled it around his neck. “I’ll be the foot-sore orderly waiting for the bus up the street.”
“You want to be in the CIA when you grow up, Spook?”
“I don’t think so. Not after the shabby way they treated you in Ecuador back in the day.”
Curtis shot a look at the curtains. “That’s deeply classified shit, Spook!”
Jarrett’s lip curled. “From me?” He handed over sunglasses and straw hat. “Strip-mall six point seven miles down Kipling toward downtown. White Chrysler minivan. Wyoming plates. Keys in your right-hand pocket. I know you can’t walk far, but park away from it. Use the cane — it’ll help. Fernando’s old beater is automatic, so you don’t have to use a clutch. But he’s got it jacked up, so be careful climbing in. Wipe it when you leave.”
“Who’s Fernando?”
“The pickup with the lighted pizza tower out front. Keys in the ignition.”
____________________
“Look at the poor bastard trying to climb back in his truck,” one watcher said. “Looks like he’s about to faint. Wish I could go help…”
“We’re not even here,” his partner said. “I really detest jacked-up 4x4s. Maybe he’ll remember this before he does that to another one. Relax, here comes an orderly now. See, giving him a hand.” The old pickup squealed like a banshee turning out of the drive. “Needs power-steering fluid.”
“A new pump, more like. New pump, new truck, a whole new life. See that? Orderly waiting for a bus — least this joker could do was offer a lift.”
“On deadline to deliver more pizzas or get sacked.”
“You still interested in pizza for lunch?”
“Not from a company treats veterans like that.”
Denver 8 pm MDT
The old 727 leased by Feldtman’s law firm wasn’t as tricked-out as some eWraith had seen, but it would do. For one thing it had state-of-the-art shielding for his electronics from ravages of the thunderstorm raging over Denver in the long June twilight. He was glad the storm waited to break until he freed Curtis. Seated in the private office between passenger seating and rear sleeping quarters, he was practicing social-engineering on the woman at the agency that rented Curtis his Taurus. Infusing his phone voice with bureaucrat fussiness he considered method-acting.
“We did place the usual hold on Mr. Curtis’s card, sir,” she said stiffly. “Platinum, by the way. The hold went through fine. He took the full insurance package! There was no way to suspect the vehicle might be used in a crime.”
“Use in a crime is pure speculation,” Spook said prissily. “All we know is the vehicle is out of service and overdue.”
“But sir, the FBI issued a BOLO — ”
“Excuse me,” he interrupted. “There is no code B-O-L-O in our system.”
“A law-enforcement term,” she said eagerly. “Be on the lookout.”
“Heaven protect us from TV cop shows! The point of this call, young lady, is we have a car missing. Unreported to Audit. Charges past the return date mounting up. You will find Mr. Curtis’s Platinum card blocked.” He had blocked it himself. “Help me understand: you have no idea where Mr. Curtis is. Or the car you so happily rented him.”
Through the open office door, the missing Mr. Curtis lay back in one of the large passenger seats, injured leg propped on a facing seat. He raised his head briefly to hear Jarrett’s social-engineering palaver before his chin drooped back on his chest. His escape had taken a lot of starch out of him.
“The FBI — ” the woman on the phone began.
“My goodness, are you a moonlighting federal employee? I ask about our rolling stock and you cite the federal government.”
“Well but sir — the FBI has our vehicle in custody!”
“What?” He didn’t have to fake surprise. “Highly irregular. Highly. I see no notation of this.”
“The agent on the phone said we would receive confirmation of possession tomorrow.”
“I’m not quite sure I heard you correctly.” Jarrett’s voice sank to the dangerous whisper of a bureaucrat provoked beyond reason. “All the knowledge you have of this situation is from a phone call? By an alleged FBI agent?”
“He gave me the local FBI office number, sir.”
“Which you promptly called to obtain confirmation he was indeed FBI?”
“I did, sir.” Stronger now.
“I don’t suppose,” he added silkily “you verified the Denver FBI number by the simple expedient of checking the damned phone book?”
Jarrett’s version of a trick question. If she did, he eased up and praised her. And got what he wanted. If she didn’t, he kept pressure on. And got what he wanted. Neither dialog likely to be shared with the FBI. He waited her out.
Finally “No, sir, I didn’t. Were we scammed?” He let her listen to the echo of her own words for a five-count. Then, “Surely you verified the alleged location of our vehicle?”
“All I know is what he said…” She was finished; child’s play. “The vehicle is located at a towing company in Kanorado. On the border with Kansas. A crime-scene unit is en route — ”
“Why did Mr. Curtis leave our car there? Is it damaged? You know our insurance carrier will want an adjuster on the spot right away.”
“Well, uh — the FBI didn’t mention Mr. Curtis. Or any damage. They weren’t able to contact the driver who towed — ”
“Very well,” he said shortly. “I expect a notation to Audit, start of business tomorrow.”
“Sir, I’ve never dealt with Audit.”
“Read your manual, Miss — it’s right online.” He broke the connection, pounded keys. “Okay. This Kanorado wrecking yard is under twenty miles from Dorn’s Colorado ranch. Right next door in that country. My guess: she ditched the car to go with him. Hope cops haven’t tumbled to him yet.”
The front passenger door sighed open, admitting a loud riff of thunder. Feldtman stepped through, neck hunched in his raincoat. “Brother!” he said. “Not exactly soft Seattle rain. I thought you’d like to know, John. Claudine’s plane just touched down.” He peered into the stormy dusk. “They’ll bring her right next to us. Don’t you love general aviation?”
Jarrett spun his chair to a window. Guy in day-glow cap, glistening slicker, was posed alongside, glowing wands over his head like a two-fisted Statue of Liberty. Or lightning rod, given the storm. Jarrett glanced at his keyboard, played a quick tattoo. “Reception committee: two Customs guys and a DOD civilian assigned to greet foreign dignitaries.”
“Probably not DOD,” Curtis muttered. “State Dip Security or the Company. Or I miss my guess.”
An older Lear Jet rolled into view. First Lear Jarrett ever saw painted camouflage. He didn’t recognize the pattern.“What the hell?” He keyed again as the jet parked and shut down and ramp crew swarmed it with chocks. The jet’s door slid open. Stairs unfolded. Jarrett’s screen said the Lear was U.S. lend-lease to a major South American air force. When he looked back outside, the first passenger was on the pavement. Unfamiliar gaudy uniform. “That’s a Ecuadorian Navy admiral. Or the doorman from the Westin.”
Curtis snorted. “That, my friend, is aide de camp to a strongman. And a stone-cold killer.”
“I thought this was Claudine’s ride.”
“Claudine goes in style when she goes.”
Uniformed Customs people vanished into the plane. Feldtman came in view, not wearing a hat, hair plastered to his head; what was rain to a Seattle resident? He shook hands with a trench-coated civilian and the military aide. The aide popped a golf-course umbrella open above the stairs. Long sleek legs materialized beneath it, stockings shimmering in reflected light. Slender ankles above stylish strappy red heels. The umbrella rose. Dark-skirt hem above perfect knees. “What an entrance!” Jarrett breathed.
“Jesus, Spook, get a grip.”
The aide whipped the umbrella above her head as she cleared the fuselage. Blood-red leather jacket over pencil skirt. Ink-black hair caught up in a crisp red military beret. Heart-shaped face, firm chin, perfect cheekbones, patrician nose, large dark eyes. “Che Guevara, eat your heart out,” Jarrett sighed. “That’s the absolute livin’ end in guerrilla chic. Red Queen of the Southern Hemisphere.”
Curtis scowled. “Don’t ever call her a Red. Even in fun. Or she’ll break both your arms.” He gazed at the woman fondly. “She’s right-wing as Attila the Hun. Strongmen down there love her.”
“Don’t cry for meee, Argentinaahh,” Jarrett sang softly.
“Behave, Spook. One of us wearing a cast is enough for this rinky-dink operation.”
Feldtman extended his hand to Claudine. She walked past it into his arms, almost tall as him. Cupped his face in red-gloved hands. Kissed him soundly. “My God! Felt that all the way in here,” Jarrett groaned. “If I knew how she said hello, I’d stand in the rain too.”
“Yeah, yeah. Look at Mr. Cool, though.” Feldtman hugged her briefly, stepped back, holding hands, to regard her like an indulgent uncle. Next man off the Lear was a heavy-shouldered bull of a man, his dove-gray perfectly tailored uniform a-dazzle with medals. Gleaming riding boots, high-peaked garrison cap that looked Teutonic.
“It’s Hermann Goering,” Jarrett said. “After Rio scientists gave him monkey glands.”
“Need to work on your people skills, Spook. El General makes Goering look like a Sunday-school teacher.”
“You knew these clowns back in the day?”
“And they knew me.”
Claudine melted into the general’s arms for a deep kiss. Turned away, fluttering gloved fingers. The general looked dazed. “Always leave ’em gasping,” Jarrett said admiringly. “But — John? I thought Claudine was your main squeeze.”
“Never doubt it. She’s just working her magic. Kiss for a plane ride from Lima. Hell, he’d march on the Pentagon after that kiss.” Four more men deplaned after the Customs agents. Two were in less-garish uniforms — probably enlisted rank. The other two were eye-catching: tall bald men in rough-looking brown robes secured at the waist by hempen ropes. Sandals in the rain.
“What now? Village priests hitching a ride?”
“Claudine bought two of her monks with her.”
“They gonna hear your confession?”
“You need to behave, Spook. They walk behind Claudine. Death, walking. Don’t see how Customs missed the sawed-offs under their robes.”
“Shotguns under a monk’s robes? Sure, why not? But no Banana Republic general lets armed wierdos in his personal space at twenty thousand feet. Even with his bodyguards.”
“They wouldn’t need guns for him or his bodyguards. Her monks go where Claudine goes. Or Claudine doesn’t go.” Ramp employees were unloading luggage. Most of the group trudged toward the waiting room. Feldtman led Claudine and the monks out of sight beneath the Boeing.
“Kind of a heavy posse for one Pennsylvania woman,” Jarrett observed.
“We don’t know all Poindexter’s friends over there on the border with Bleeding Kansas.”
“Just one buffalo-herding cowboy so far. Internet didn’t turn anything beyond the buffalo shit.”
“Wouldn’t that be buffalo chips?”
“Hah! Feeling perky now your squeeze is in town?” Jarrett folded his laptop. “I cracked his home computer. Connected all the time. Zero security. Hasn’t touched it since I started watching.”
“Busy snuggling in the sagebrush with his cybersex-girl. Over-the-hill cowboy for God’s sake!”
“If the over-the-hill cowboy can shoot like her, and her husband,” Jarrett said, “this could turn into High Noon in Kanorado.”
