Cobra Clearance (18 page)

The agent shook her head in disgust. “Good thing there were air marshals aboard.”

“God, yes. Two of them had to break cover to stop the jerks.”

“That bad, huh? What started it?”

“Race.” Susan watched as officers took away two white men and two black men.

“And you weren't even working the flight.” The agent shifted gears and smiled. “Lovely outfit. So what brings you to Albuquerque?”

POTTS ENTERED KRUGER'S SPARSE
office the next morning and took a notepad from his shirt pocket. “We're on schedule,” he said as he flipped through it. “The Semtex is ready for transport and the planned event hasn't been altered.” He turned a page. “Training's nearly complete, the mortar rounds have been checked and the launch vehicle is being prepared.” He put away his notes and looked at his leader. “All that's left is to get Mr. Eric Briggs up to speed—if you decide to use him.”

“How do you feel about him?”

“He's a heroin addict.”

“He's a casual user.”

“There's no such thing.”

“He experimented as a youngster to take brief sojourns from his wretched lot in life. Herman Goering was addicted to morphine, yet he still controlled the Reich. Besides, others here are using drugs...and you're an alcoholic.”

Potts sniffed and crossed his legs. “I'm two years sober.”

“Whatever. At any rate, Eric was up-front about his use of heroin.”

“That's true.” Potts uncrossed his legs.

“Nor does he fit the carefully designed profile that agents employ.”

“True again.” Potts leaned forward. “There are his clothes. Agents are too stupid to acquire worn-out clothes that don't even fit. And they're too uptight to...”

“Go without underwear—and no agent would say they use
heroin. No, he's candid and he presents himself with a ‘this is who I am' openness that I find refreshing. Recreational drug use I can live with. I need soldiers, not saints. He's a fighter.”

“The polygraph did confirm that he's not done heroin in at least a year.”

Kruger examined his nails. “He checks out across the board then?”

“Absolutely. My sources are impeccable.” His source was the special agent-in-charge of a Secret Service field office. SAC Tim Brewer hated women, Jews, African Americans, gays, people of color, Libertarians and anyone engaging in unwed carnal knowledge. He'd mentored Potts when the young agent entered the ranks of the once-fabled but now suffering organization. Potts felt honored when Brewer confided that his beloved Service was rife with “unworthies.” Potts agreed and added that the United States was a haven for white Christians only, and whatever the Founding Fathers were thinking when they wrote that crap about the pursuit of happiness was the result of too much English tea and not enough good old Kentucky Straight.

Kruger interrupted his thoughts. “We need soldiers. Now.”

“We also need breeders, and to date I've uncovered thirteen birth certificates that list him as the father of various illegitimate children.” He opened his mouth, closed it and finally said, “And you like him. The son you've never had.”

Kruger studied an unseen image. “Eric's had a tough life. Now he's in search of a home—the family he never had. That means he's malleable.” He rolled a soft-lead pencil between his fingers. “I'm also pleased that he doesn't take crap from anyone. Yes, I see potential in him. I'll push him hard later today, to see what else he's made of. If he's got something then I'll use him for breeding
and
fighting.”

Levi sat alone at a table in the steamy but pleasant-smelling mess hall and shoveled bacon, eggs and biscuits into his mouth. The men and women sat at separate tables. The half dozen women present, while blessed with decent physiques, were uniformly hard-bitten. All were sizing-up the new guy.

“Hey, New Meat,” the nearest woman finally said. “Damn, you sure are purty.” After the others howled, her eyes narrowed. “How 'bout you put a baby in me. If I give Kruger a purty baby, he'll bump me up to a room a my own.”

“Shut your pie hole, bitch! He's mine,” another woman shouted. She leapt to her feet, and Levi saw a ragged scar across her nose. She was solid, and stepping closer, she backhanded the first woman with a resounding,
Whap.
Then she turned to Levi and said matter-of-factly, “Tonight, Sweet Cakes. My bed. Me an' you.”

Knowing the men were watching him; waiting, gauging, Levi barked, “Bitch, you're high if you think I'm bonin' your skanky ass.” He made a point of glaring at her. “Now get lost so I kin digest in peace.”

Raucous laughter from the men and a burst of applause from the women made it clear that everyone had drunk the Kool-Aid.

From the mess hall he went to the infirmary for a post-confinement check-up. As Levi buttoned his shirt after the exam, he spotted stacks of pregnancy testing kits along one wall. Earlier he had noted eleven pregnant women and lots of children streaming in and out of the dorm.
This is clearly a cult and Kruger wants me to participate. I might have to manipulate Brenda. I don't want to, but she could be my only out.

Leaving the infirmary, he pulled up the collar of his leather jacket as a shield from the wind and checked his cheap Timex. It was twelve noon. He trudged back and forth across the rock-strewn compound as if lost in thought.

High above, Chris Lane adjusted the throttle of Avwatch's Velocity 173FG pusher-prop aircraft and settled into a race track pattern 5,000 feet above and five miles south of the compound. He flipped a switch and slaved the surveillance camera to his client's computer, then circled the irrigated fields and ranches dotting the landscape.

Hacksaw sat at the desk in his hotel room miles away and let out a low whistle. “Look at that resolution, will you?” He studied the images and noted Levi's pattern, then held a finger to the translation and announced, “Our boy's still safe.”

Michael closed his eyes and asked, “What else?”

“You're to meet him tonight at the Sunset.”

“I'll be there.”

Dentz, asleep since his return, stirred and mumbled, “So will I.”

Levi finished his walk and went to Kruger's office. A gust blew his unkempt hair as he opened the door and stepped inside. Kruger was at his desk talking to a sweating, bald tank of a man in need of a bath. His back was turned but a medical sling around his shoulder troubled Levi.

Kruger looked up and said, “Eric. I want you to meet Bronk.”

The man turned, and when the ceiling light caught the Swastika on his forehead Levi yelped
holy hell
on the inside, but kept his composure. But after a second look he realized that the bullet-headed behemoth with a busted arm was not his Georgetown nemesis.

Bronk looked Levi up and down and snickered. “Hell, this can't be the tough hombre you was telling me about.” When Kruger stood and moved to one side as if giving a signal, Bronk dropped his voice an octave. “Boy, I'm gonna mess you up.”

Levi read Bronk instantly: he could break both his elbows, and the big man would still fight on. So naturally he took an aggressive step toward him. “Yeah? Go bark up some other tree,
Sparky
.”

“Sparky, huh?” He laughed woodenly even as he slid his left hand into his jeans. A second later a switchblade snapped open with a metallic click.

Levi made an instant decision to fight poorly. A trained fighter could do that—until he needed to be good. He yelled, “Come on then—boy. I ain't afraid.” Bronk lashed out with the knife. Levi leaned back from the waist. The blade sliced empty air, missing him by millimeters. He feinted a rush. The blade zipped toward his neck. He timed his move, then ducked at the last instant.

The large man held the knife awkwardly and swung wildly. “I'll get you!”

Levi protected his belly with his arms as a novice would, and taunted him. “Hey, what's the matter? Bring it on, you little pussy.”

His face red with fury, Bronk swung. The blade tore through Levi's sleeve.

Levi felt blood. Time to use Bronk's size against him. He leaped forward, then swiped clumsily at Bronk's head to distract him. But then he landed a direct blow to Bronk's brachial artery. Bronk's eyes glazed over, his knees buckled, and he crashed to the floor. Levi kicked the knife from the prostrate giant's hand, and stood over him.

“Very good,” Kruger said. “Jackson claimed you had what it takes but he tends to exaggerate. I wanted to see for myself.”

Bronk shook his head and opened his eyes. Levi offered a helping hand but Bronk said, “Nah, man,” and studied the smaller man through half-lidded eyes. “You're okay for wantin' to help, though.” Then he laughed. “Can't fight worth a damn, but you stood your ground.”

Kruger said mildly, “Sometimes that's what counts. Don't you agree?”

Bronk nodded as he got up and retrieved the knife. After he put it away he pointed to Levi's arm. “Here, buddy. Lemme help you with that.”

Pulling off his leather jacket, Levi let Bronk examine the shallow laceration that ran along his left forearm. Levi's ploy had worked, but at a price. Finally he asked, “What's with the sling?”

Kruger replied for him. “Bronk is one of my enforcers. He enforced a rule with too much fervor last week, but the sling's due to come off any day. Isn't that right?”

Bronk nodded, and then he and Levi locked eyes as they shook hands.

After the huge man left the office, Kruger regarded Levi. “You've got balls, and you've earned the right to assist in our endeavors. So. What did you do in the Navy?”

“I was a techie in their war-gaming center.”

When Kruger sat straighter and leaned close, Levi took that as his cue to continue. “I helped run the control center. In fact, I did run it when the ensign let me.”

“Then you would've been privy to everything taking place...”

“Everything.” Levi put on a look of pride. “I had my act nailed. Wasn't nobody could see the big picture better 'an me.”

Kruger stroked his chin. “Hmm. You could be useful.”

Levi had waited for this opening and leaped at it. “I can keep track of all sorts a stuff—all happenin' at the same time. An' I can make sense of it, too. S.A.—situational awareness. That's what the Navy calls it.”

“I'll keep that in mind.” Kruger picked up some papers and looked them over. “In the meantime I want you to learn our ways, and to make a baby with what's-her-name, that barmaid. It seems you have a propensity toward fecundity...”

“Pro,
whaaat
?”

Clearing his throat, Kruger said, “It means you're a stud.” Dropping the papers he laced his fingers across his flat stomach and looked at Levi. “Although I do not indulge, members are permitted the pleasures of cannabis and its derivatives. But nothing else.
Certainly no heroin.” Kruger leaned forward. “Am I clear?”

“Not even blow? Hell, if I can do junk without gettin' hooked, I can...”

“No. Now you are dismissed. See Stewart and get that arm looked at.”

Levi's puckered expression revealed his displeasure at Kruger's edict. But he said “Yes...sir,” and turned to leave. He needed to get out of there; his disgust at Kruger's reasons for bringing babies into the world knew few bounds.
Kids have feeling, too. They sure as hell shouldn't be used as pawns. Yeah, they're a lot of work—but that's part of the joy. Christ, I wanna kick these bastards' butts.

Levi reined it in. Kruger's a nut case, he thought. No doubt about it. His fixation with controlling others would delight the most jaded analyst, and he obviously had no sex life, hence his preoccupation with breeding babies. His feeble indifference toward “that barmaid” also stood out. But Levi was more disturbed that the Bureau's report of heavy drug use within the club was in conflict with Kruger's policy. Also, he wondered why nobody had mentioned the assassination or Ft. Lauderdale, despite the pervasive news coverage. Nothing. No outrage over foreign attacks on U.S. soil, no vows of revenge.

He went to Doc Stewart again and had his arm attended to, and at 4:00 p.m. he mounted his Harley, idle these past five days. At all times tactile, he spurned the electric starter for the kick start, and putting his right foot on the pedal, he stood and dropped his weight on it. When the engine engaged on the third attempt he nursed it until it idled into its
potato potato potato
rhythm, then twisted the throttle and charged out through the main gate. He ached to know how Tucker's split was doing—but was more determined than ever to take down Kruger and his entire sordid operation.

I
t was late night in Zurich when Baker and Sawyer entered the Rothaus Restaurant near Spiegelgasse. Sawyer glanced around. “Last on our list. He…”

“Must be somewhere.” Baker signaled the hostess.

While they waited to speak to the maitre-de, a dark slender waiter with piercing eyes stepped from the rear door of the Rothaus into the alley, where he lit a Marlboro before turning north to begin the short walk to his flat.

BRENDA STOOD BEHIND THE BAR
in a white blouse and blue jeans. She wore no lipstick this night and her nails were clean of lacquer. The dozen or so regulars turned as one to look when Levi walked inside. “You're back,” she said in a flat voice.

“I've been…”

“I know where you've been. Just didn't know for how long. Sorry, but I had to rent out your cabin. I put your stuff in mine for safekeeping—including your stash.” As he raised an eyebrow she added, “Shouldn't leave it out like that.”

“You're welcome to help yourself to it. The ganj is good, so is the hash.”

She tilted her head. “I got some smack if you need any. Got some blow, too.” She smiled. “An' me an' you are gonna do some lines tonight.”