Cobra Clearance (20 page)

An hour later his learning curve showed a marked improvement. Then Kruger took the weapon, inserted a fresh magazine and held the pistol in a two-handed grip at chest level while assuming a practiced stance. “Say when.”

“When.”

Kruger straightened his arms and fired six shots in two and a half seconds, putting them into an area the size of a silver dollar.

Levi noted how fast he had gotten “on the rail.” TPC-level shooter. Might even be better than me—at least with paper targets that don't shoot back. Levi made a show of letting out a low, long whistle. “Damn.” He shuffled his feet. “Hey, you ever been in a gunfight? 'Cause I bet you've blasted plenty a losers.”

A long silence hung in the air until Kruger holstered his weapon. “Never been in one. But I have experienced the pleasure of killing a few men.”

“Yeah? Damn. Hey…I wanna be like you—an' as good as you.”

Kruger's face was a mask. “I can get you there. It'll take work, but I'll have you ready by May.” He showed a sudden smile. “Maybe you'll get the Zionist in your sights.”

Levi went to high alert. “Zionist?”

Kruger hesitated. “I meant
Zionists
. Plural.”

“Okay.” Now was the time to pry. “Who are they? How're we gonna do it?”

But Kruger said nothing. They broke for lunch. Afterward he handed Levi a pile of books on weapons and tactics. “Something to keep you busy while I go into town.”

“I'll go with you.”

“Maybe another time.” Kruger got into his F-150 and drove off.

Kruger's pickup raised a dust cloud as he barreled down the dirt road beneath a bright sky. He turned north on Highway 41 and went past circular patches of agricultural land, a few rock mounds and the occasional ranch vehicle. He pulled into the Sunset's parking lot precisely at 2:00 p.m. and shut off the engine. She was standing outside in a red coat, blue jeans and boots. After looking
over her shoulder she strolled across the dirt lot and climbed inside the truck. He turned to her. “Well?”

“I did what you said and fixed it so he had to move in.”

“The cannabis and hashish in his cabin—were they for show?”

She shook her head. “Nope. He's been smokin' since way back. I can tell. He rolled a joint and wanted to pass it with me. But he put it away when I said no.”

“Good. He's not a total stoner. Did you tempt him with the drugs I provided?”

“Yep. He did a couple lines a coke with me. He was gonna do another till he remembered he wasn't supposed to. I swore not to tell nobody but it didn't matter. He said no. Then he saw the smack. Christ, he freakin' drooled over it. It took some doing but I finally got him to shoot up…” At Kruger's glare she said quickly, “But he didn't. He backed off. Said he wanted to stay clean. For you.”

“So other than a little cocaine he stayed true-blue, huh? Excellent.”

“Tell you what. For a user—an' he was a user—he's got will power 'cause he sure wanted it.” Facing him she said, “Something else. He was never a heavy doper.”

“What led you to that conclusion?”

“His skin's too pretty. Hard-core dopers? Skin turns to crap in a few months an' it stays crap.”

“Hmm, good observation. I'll have to remember that. Okay. Push him hard to do heroin and keep me posted either way. Now then, how did he talk?”

“Huh?”

“Jesus. Listen, did he use big words?”

“You mean like you? No. He talked reg'lar, like me.”

“All right. Could he be homosexual?”

“Christ, no. For sure he's into pussy—an' randier than a three-balled tomcat.”

“Enlighten me.”

“What's to say? He nailed me three times. Says he's gonna knock me up.”

Kruger looked into her eyes. “Did you tell him you're infertile?”

“Of course not.”

“Good, because since you are, your sole worth to me is in this capacity.”

She looked down. “At least he's great in bed. An' I love his piercings.”

Kruger let out a cruel laugh. “Don't get attached. I'm putting him out to stud.” He shifted in his seat. “Has he mentioned the activities at the compound?”

She lowered her window a few inches and let in some fresh air. “No. Nothing.”

“Anything else? What do your instincts tell you about him?”

“Eric's the real thing, Brent. He—he's like my brothers.”

“The ones in Folsom?”

“Yeah. He's just like 'em. A thug.” She looked up and to the left. “It's little things. Like, he can't wait to get shed of his shoes and shirt when he comes indoors.”

“Hmm. Yes, I see. Behavior consistent with humble beginnings. Very good.” He reached inside his bush jacket and pulled out an envelope. “Here's your money.”

Brenda took it. “Do I get the bonus now that you stuck me with him?”

“I said you would, didn't I?” He turned the key and started the engine. “By the way, how's your mother?”

Brenda held up the envelope. “She'd already be dead if it wasn't for this.”

Levi brought the books to the barracks. The dingy room of yellow pine contained ten bunk beds, a shower room and a lav. Dirty clothing and porn magazines were strewn among empty beer cans.
He stretched out on an unused bunk and was reading a gun magazine when three tattooed gang members trooped inside. The first two in the door were tall and gaunt. Their pinched faces shouted ex-con and they sported recent track marks on their arms—one more reason for Levi to question the validity of Kruger's drug policy. The third guy was a walking poster for morbid obesity.

When the big one saw Levi he snapped, “Hey. New guy. You the one went after that coon with the cannon?” After Levi nodded the guy grinned and mimicked smoking a joint. “Wanna burn one with us?”

Levi dug into a pocket and produced a baggy. “Yours, or mine?”

A buzzed Levi went outside at noon and walked a jagged pattern while Avwatch flew a stable pattern miles away. When Levi returned to the bunkhouse one of his new friends chortled, “Hey. We done agreed. You're one of our kind, and damned generous with the weed.” He sighed. “Quality product, too.”

Hacksaw watched the images on his laptop and checked the reference sheet. “Nothing new.” He yawned and said to Dentz. “What's room service got? I'm hungry.”

Kruger pulled up to his office and found Potts waiting for him. The short man climbed down from the F-150 and after they went inside Potts said, “The boys feel comfortable with him. According to Tiny Ted, ‘Eric's righteous.'”

“Good. Brenda's also convinced he's genuine and she's never been wrong. Plus he did two lines of coke last night. A cop wouldn't have done that. Not with the out I provided.” At Potts' raised eyebrows he explained, “My zero-tolerance speech. Whoever he is—and he is what we've been looking for—he's not an operative.”
It was past six when Levi parked the Harley and stepped inside the Sunset to see Brenda. They chatted a bit but she was busy so he told her goodbye and went to the cabin. Tossing his jacket on the bed, he retrieved the surveillance detectors and swept the room. Satisfied, he hid them and was getting ready to take a shower when he noticed a spiral-bound notebook atop the bureau. He had to explore all possible sources of intel, so he picked it up. After brushing aside a large brown roach atop the bare mattress he plopped down and began reading. Brenda had filled page after page with prose. Her cursive handwriting was as elegant as the words she had written. The prose were riddled with grammatical and spelling errors, but her thought process impressed him. He turned the pages with care and read each word. “Wow,” he whispered. “Untutored, but brilliant.”

“
BRILLIANT. JUST
…”
SUSAN
ended the call and flopped down on her hotel bed, wondering what to do next. She'd called an Albuquerque hotel and told the desk clerk, “Mr. Levi Hart's room.” The clerk told her bluntly that there were no Harts registered and hung up. After a few minutes she reached for the phone book and called the next hotel. If he was a guest then a clerk would put the call through. If indeed he was in a hotel, and not staying with another woman. The image propelled her into another calling frenzy. “Hello,” she said when the Airport Comfort Inn answered, “could you please put me through to Mr. Hart's room?”

PUNGENT AROMAS FROM BRATWURST
and sauerkraut stalls taunted Tucker's appetite as he flicked his eyes at the cabaret's entrance. “Sawyer, take the lead on this. Same S.O.P. as before.” The procedure
was straightforward—if they found Kalil they would establish a surveillance and tail him to see if he led them to Amahl. Or, they could take him into custody on the spot. Tucker would make that call.

“Very well, sir.” Sawyer took Monica's arm in his and led the way from the snow covered cobblestones of Predigerplatz, and up a short flight of steps to the door.

Hundreds of tourists and locals had braved the Saturday night snow storm, and Tucker and crew had mixed with the stream to let themselves be carried toward Zurich's most popular cabaret. He wondered at the revelers' ability to shrug off gloomy economic prospects and venture out on this of all nights. It didn't register with him. Rational people didn't behave this way. The lucid assessed their resources, estimated the situation and hunkered down until the barrage was over. Only then would they venture out to celebrate a new lease on a life spared from the shelling.

The appalling news from Ft. Lauderdale had been moderated by measured optimism at the outset, and later by scientific evaluations. The experts determined the risk to the drinking supplies to be so minimal that authorities were prepared to reopen the valves. That was the sort of all-clear that made sense to Joe Tucker. The all-clear had yet to sound for the world's deepening recession, yet people were out anyway. He prayed that Kalil was, too.

He had total confidence in Sawyer. The man knew his way around gay cabarets. You didn't work the streets of Miami without learning to navigate the clubs frequented by the fringe societies. The tall black Bahamian, raised by strict Christian parents, had no issue with how others lived their lives. Sawyer said often that he walked his path, and if others walked a different one then God bless them and may they find happiness. To no one's surprise, he'd become a rising star among the elite detectives of his squad.

Tucker trailed behind as Sawyer and Monica pushed inside a venue where same-sex, hetero-sex, and mixed-race couples were
a common sight. A layer of cigarette smoke hung like a low cloud inside the dark room as they sat at a tiny table wedged among a dozen others. Meanwhile, Tucker found a seat at the horseshoe-shaped bar, and watched as a waiter took their drink orders. The waiter returned moments later and Tucker could see Monica raise a glass of pinot to the light. Its color was superb even from a distance. Sawyer raised a lager, and Tucker could see that it was full bodied.

Baker entered twenty minutes later, and after taking a seat at the far end of the bar he acknowledged Tucker by touching his left ear.

The cabaret filled rapidly. So did the tobacco haze. Tucker observed everything, and when a man and woman walked in moments later he showed no reaction. But inside his head he shouted
that's him
, and signaled a passing waiter. Pointing to Sawyer and Monica he said, “Please bring that couple two more of whatever they're drinking.”

Monica remained calm when the waiter placed a full glass in front of her. Resting her fingers on Sawyer's arm a moment later, she picked up her purse, got up, and worked her way past the other tables toward the ladies room. Along the way she went past a dark, slender young man in the company of a tall, brunette woman. They had taken a table directly behind theirs.

Tucker was convinced it was Kalil. He caught Baker's eye, paid his tab and went outside. After crossing the narrow cobblestone walkway to a café bar, he took a window seat facing the cabaret. Ordering a Coca Cola Light, he took out his cell and made a call. “Hello,” he began. “Yes, I'm here. Where have you been? Yes, of course I will wait.” He ended the call. Fewer than six minutes passed before an elderly couple bundled in black great coats strolled past his window. They were Swiss and they were on the job.

An entertainer in gold lamé dress and raucous boas around his beefy neck was taking the stage. Sawyer stood when Monica returned, and after she sat he caressed her cheek with practiced intimacy. When they exchanged a private look he could see the guy and his girl from the corner of his eye. Sawyer bided his time, then got up and walked toward the bar. But drawing abreast of the couple he took an awkward step and stumbled against them. “Oh, I do apologize,” he said in his deepest Bahamian accent.

The young man smiled. “It is not a problem.”

Sawyer looked at him with a glint of recognition. “Why, I have not heard such an accent since my friend moved to the United States.” He paused for a heartbeat and asked, “Are you from Ethiopia by any chance?”

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

Sawyer nodded wisely. “I thought so. I met my friend two years ago in Brussels, but he was forced to move on.”

“Well you see,” the Ethiopian began, “the Belgians have tightened their immigration laws. Too many refugees, no?”

Sawyer held out his hand. “My name is Albert.” He pointed to Monica and added, “My wife Patricia.”

“This is my friend, Maria,” the young man replied with a nod toward the woman, “and I am called Kalil.”

AT THAT MOMENT IN ANOTHER PART
of the world, Brenda decided to greet the good-looking guy at the bar. “Seen you here a few times,” she began. “I'm Brenda.”

Wild Bill Dentz swigged some Coors and set the bottle down. “Buddy.”

Brenda began cleaning glasses at the bar sink while she talked. “So what're you doing in these parts? Ain't no jobs 'round here.”