Red rain 2.0 (33 page)

"I'll be working on it."

"Shee-it! Workin' on it? We move swift, we move silent, we move deadly. You don't, you're KIA."

"Yessir."

"You're distracted, Luther. Get clear and cold real fast. Don't be carrying a load of worry about your momma. Cap sent her off with two troopers in a cruiser. She'll be staying with friends at Camp Lejeune."

"And you?"

"You got shit for brains? I'll be outta here in three, four days. I'll have claymoors and an M60 at the house in twenty-four hours. Any damned fools come around, I blow their shit away," Gunny says. "You know it, too.

He pauses.

"But you won't get cold and clear. You'll be thinking too much about your base camp, I do anything like that. So I'm going down to Lejeune as soon as they'll let me. If you give me the right answer to one question?"

I nod.

"A question I ask you once, maybe twice before. You still operating under orders, coming down the chain of command? Or is this some freelance, private war you got goin'?"

"Orders, everything by the book. Authorized mission."

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"Then move out, soldier. Move swift, move silent, move deadly. Grease the motherfuckers. Your momma and me, we'll stay safe and sound at Lejeune 'til the mission's completed."

"Aye-aye, Gunny."

Two nights later, first Tuesday in November, I'm in my apartment, weapons out of their cases and loaded, now SOP. I'm chill, clear. I'm using my tabs in the prescribed dosage only, to prevent the seizures the drug's designed to prevent. I flushed all the Ativan and anything else down the toilet the same night I secured my apartment. Just sitting there in the dark. Clear and cold, combat ready.

That doesn't stop the rush and the jolt when every light in the place goes on. I grab an MP5, seize the handle of the wire that runs to the frag taped next to the door and snug it into my gun grip hand, hit a knife switch. The lights go out. I think I hear murmuring out in the hall, think I hear a little metal against metal, like a lock being picked.

Imagination. The doorbell rings. I stay quiet. Rings again. Then a loud rap. Then "Hey, Five-O, you there?"

Fucking Ice Box, at the top of his range. I drop the frag wire, but take the gun to the door, keeping well to the side of it.

"What?"

"Shit, Luther. Open up. Gotta talk to you." Definitely IB. But maybe he isn't alone, so I unlock the door quietly as I can, crouch down to the left for a clear field of fire, sight on the knob. Left finger on a knife switch. "C'mon in," I call.

I hit the switch when the door swings open. IB's hands go by reflex to bis eyes, blinded by the spots. So do Annie's. There's nobody else.

"What the fuck was that all about?" IB says, stumbling in.

"And what the fuck is all this stuff?" Annie says, blinking hard but quickly picking up me and my piece, and the other weapons near me.

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"Exactly what it looks like," I say.

"Christ, Luther, this must be what a bunker in a war zone looks like," Annie says.

"Not even close," I say. "Why'd you two come by?"

"Gotta have a drink first," Annie says, brushing by me to the fridge, yanking a bottle of Stoli from the freezer, taking a big slug straight from the bottle. She makes a face. "You just scared me so bad I almost wet my pants." She hands the bottle to IB, who knocks back a big hit.

"So
what!"
I shout.

"You want the bad or the good first, Luther?" IB says.

"Bad. How bad?"

"As it gets. That young ex-marine, the Mexican guy on your team at the meet with the Russians? Found him dead in his bed this morning. Three in the face. They can't figure out what hit him. Or how the hitter got in and did it and got out so clean."

"Oh Jesus fucking Christ," I say. How'd Vassily ID my guy? Video in the stable? How he'd track him, locate him? Nightmare image: Somehow, some way I named a name to Helen. Nah, couldn't be. I couldn't have done that, not even on an Ecstasy night. No way. I don't talk in my fuckin' sleep. Horrible flash: I do. Helen was all over me about Mikla once. Jesus fucking Christ.

But then IB unfucks it for me, big time. "It ain't much consolation, but we finally busted Buzz Cut's chick partner. Young undercover guy, in a club last night. The little bitch is, guess what, American-born Russian from Brighton Beach. And, Luther, you are not going to believe this."

Annie hands me a mug shot. I have to look twice, then look back again before I'm sure it isn't Helen. They could be twins, they're that close.

"Guess you gotta forgive me for mentioning that sketch resemblance," IB says. "Hell, when I saw her in the holding cell I started talking to her like she was Helen. But she just looked at me like she'd never met me before in her life.

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Which, it turns out, she never had. Just to double-check, I called Helen. Sure enough, she was in her dorm room."

"How'd you get that number?"

"Oh," Annie says, "I did that little thing I do with your computer. Quite a list there, actually. You rate 'em by stars, do you? Helen's a four. I happened to notice a certain 'AM' with five and a question mark. What's that mean, Luther?"

She's laughing then. But she squelches it quick when she sees the look on my face. "Luther, you never let on things were this serious. I'm going out of my mind with worry here. What are you planning? What can we do to help?"

"I can't tell you what I've planned, what I might have to do."

"C'mon Luther. You see who you're talking to here," IB says.

"Can't tell because if I do it, it'll be so illegal I'll spend the rest of my life in prison if I get caught. You want to be in the position of maybe having to testify under oath against me? Maybe losing your own careers?"

"I'll risk it, if it comes down to that," Annie says. "You need us, Five-O."

"Yeah. But I won't let you risk it. You can't know anything."

"Then how the fuck are we gonna help your sorry ass? I am not liking any of this one bit," IB fumes. "I am getting very definitely pissed. And put that fucking gun down, for Christ's sake. You're making me nervous."

I do. Then I go into the bedroom and come out with two small boxes, recent purchases. "There is a thing you can do. I don't think you'll be in any jeopardy if you do it. I wouldn't ask you to do anything illegal."

"Fuck that, Luther," Annie snaps. "Get to the point."

"Okay." I hand her the box marked A, give IB the one marked B. "Inside there's a brand-new worldwide cell. I won't give you the numbers. I'm the only one who's ever gonna know them. So if they ever ring, you can be sure it's me."

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"I'm feeling I need to know a little bit more here, Luther," IB says.

"Simple. If I vanish for a while, one day a UPS package will land on your doorstep. All you have to do is keep it until you get a call from me on that cell, then send it on to where I tell you to send it. If the call doesn't come in on that cell but on your regular cell, means I'm not phoning because I want to, but because someone's forcing me to. Hang up immediately. Then ditch the packages where nobody'U ever find them, and ditch the phones too. Fast. Nothing else. Okay?"

"We can do that," Annie says. But she looks ... don't know exactly. Maybe sad, like she's mourning.

"Thanks. Now get out of here quick. IB, make sure you aren't tailed. You get a sniff of a tail, even just an instinct, call me here immediately, let me know where you are. This is important, big man." I grab his shoulder. "Important."

IB nods, holds my eyes just a beat too long. "Later, Luther."

Annie just turns, head bowed, and leaves. IB follows.

28

It's time.

So just do it.

First thing next morning I FedEx my list to JoeBoy. Include the addresses the packages need to go to. Plus a "Valid Without Photo" Maryland driver's license in my name, all my credit cards and a note asking him to take that furlough right now to Key West. "Make it conspicuous, you fuck," I write. "Take my cards to the limit if you want. Make me a real fine paper trail that proves I was there."

Then I drive the Cherokee to Baltimore/Washington International Airport, park it in the long-term lot. I catch the shuttle bus to the terminal, humping gear like any other traveler. Only my gear includes a beat-up old guitar case— specially modified inside to cradle the Weatherby. I do not buy a ticket, board a plane. I walk through departures to arrivals, go to the Avis booth, and rent a midsize sedan using Buzz Cut's license, one of Buzz Cut's credit cards. "Your car's in space sixty-four, Mr. Raskolnik," the Avis girl says. Gives me a big smile.

I'm a dead man, traveling.

I drive to Brighton Beach, cruise the neighborhood in the late afternoon, dictating information on buildings, subway station locations, one-way street patterns into a tiny Olympus digital recorder. Then I drive to Newark Airport.

I do not board a plane. I turn in the Avis car, have a burger

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and a Coke in one of the airport bars, then rent a midsize sedan from Hertz, using another of Buzz Cut's cards. I check into a motel two exits south off the Jersey Turnpike. As I listen to what I've dictated, I use a soft pencil to overlay the info on a street map I'd bought. I sleep for eight hours. I do not dream.

I love malls. Next morning I drive to one a few miles from the motel. I find a hair place called Cutz, have my cropped head completely shaved. At a Gap I pick up a pair of black jeans, a pair of green cargo pants, a black hooded sweatshirt, a blue nylon windbreaker, an acrylic knit watch cap. In a store called Beau's I buy a charcoal suitcoat and matching pants, already hemmed. White poly dress shirt and a rep striped tie too. At Shoeworld, the cheapest wingtips they have. Lunch at McDonald's.

In the afternoon I cruise Brighton again, dictating more details. I park a few times, quickly measure some distances, some building heights with a small Bushnell rangefinder. I tell everything to the Olympus. The situation is looking fair, not great. Lots of ways in and out, the ocean's only two blocks from Brighton Boulevard. But the fucking subway line here's above ground, running high above the street on a rail system supported by massive steel I-beams, riveted, crissed and crossed and thick with maybe eighty-five years of periodic paint jobs. The fucker shakes when a train goes over. Only plus to it is the noise; it'd cover the sound of a shot. Then I drive to La Guardia, turn in the Hertz car, pick up a compact from National. I check into a Ramada Inn, have a steak with baked potato and sour cream in the place's restaurant, go back to my room, add the day's data to my map. Later, at the bathroom sink, I get all the curls out of this wig I'd bought using hair straightener from Duane Reade. Wet and messy. I cable-surf for a while in bed. I sleep for eight hours. I do not dream.

Next day, wearing the sweatshirt under the blue wind-breaker, the long wig and the watch cap, I park the car and walk around Brighton Beach. Nobody looks twice. I search

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for a building, I watch and time the ebb and flow of foot traffic and street traffic. I have lunch in a little Russian place, more deli than restaurant, careful to speak only English. A Russian-speaking stranger might be enough for someone to drop a dime in this 'hood. I walk two blocks to the boardwalk, watch the gray Atlantic grow restless and grayer as the day declines, notice the only strollers are geriatric cases. Not a soul on the beach. Then, in the dark of early evening, I walk Brighton Boulevard right in front of the Palace twice, going six blocks past Vassily's club one way, then eight blocks past on the other side of the street.

I drive to JFK, turn in the National car, rent a sedan from Alamo. That's enough of this CIA-type shit. No way I've been tailed or trailed, no way anybody knows where the fuck I am. Probably didn't even need to take it so far, but I allowed for the chance Vassily's web might be wide beyond belief. Best to go too far than not far enough. I check into a motel. Sleep eight hours. No dreams.

Drive into Manhattan, park the car, take the subway to Brighton Beach next morning, wearing the suit, carrying a briefcase. No wig. I walk. Check out the building I'd settled on the day before. Five stories, a bakery occupying the ground floor. The other four floors are empty. The neighboring buildings are all four stories only. I circle. Fire escape in the back, easy climb to the roof. I walk, spot at least one watcher near the Palace. A Fed for sure, most likely DEA. Fucking amateur night. If I made him so easy, Vassily made him and any others backing him up probably ten minutes after they started, whenever that was. Probably laughed his ass off over it. He knows they can't do a fucking thing to him. They got a team up in a building doing a video number, Vassily probably waves and smiles in their general direction each time he enters his club.

I walk more, quartering the area, stop in a store here and there, buy a few small things I'll just dump in the trash later. I note the bakery closes at six, same time it did the previous two evenings. The building stays dark. I hit the boardwalk.

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Nobody but geriatrics and an empty beach. I recheck my building at eight, at ten. Still dark. I go around behind, remove my shoes, start to scale the fire escape. Every few rungs I flick on a mini Maglite, looking for scrapes or smudges in the thick crust of grime and rust. Nothing. Nobody's climbed the escape in a very long time. I edge over the low parapet onto the roof. Move to the front, look down on Brighton Boulevard. Angle's not the best—those fucking elevated tracks are almost in the way, but there's a clear view of the Palace. All lit up now, people arriving in limos, others strolling. There's one of those classic New York water tanks on my roof. Wooden, with a copper roof, raised up on girders. I climb its ladder, check the hatch. Hasn't been opened in a long time, the seams are filled with dirt and debris.