The Devil's Code (22 page)

“I don’t mean
take care of you,
like a baby; I mean, watch out for you, too.”

“What’re you going to do?”

“I have an idea. I don’t want to tell you about it, because it wouldn’t be good for you to know yet. Maybe later. But what you’ve got to do is get somewhere public. You have your passport, right?”

“Kidd, what the fuck . . .”

“You’ve got your passport?”

“Yeah, I’ve got . . .”

“Tomorrow morning, early, I put your ass on a plane to somewhere—New York would be good, with the San Francisco ID. Then you shuttle back to Minneapolis, with the first ID you had—that’s still good?—and then fly out to the British Virgins or the Bahamas under
your own name. It’s a lot of flying, but I want you checked through customs somewhere, and I want you in public for the next few days. Where people will remember you.”

Now she was curious. Still pissed, but curious: “What are you going to blow up?”

“I’m not going to blow up anything. But this is all coming to a head, and you can never tell what these alphabet security agencies are capable of. If they put us together, you could be in trouble, and Bobby says they’re peeling back the names.”

“I’ll never get all the flights . . .”

“I booked you this morning,” I said. “You’re all confirmed.”

“This morning,” she said. She turned that over for a second, then said, “Asshole. This morning? You . . .”

W
e argued about it, off and on, for the rest of the evening. Tried to get some sleep; she was throwing clothes around the next morning, but at eight o’clock, her little round butt was in line at DFW, for the New York flight. She’s absolutely capable of turning her back on me and walking away, I think. But this time, she didn’t. After several hours of chill, she gave me a serious kiss good-bye, whispered,
“Take care,”
and got on the plane.

I was on my own, and on my way to Little Rock.

 24 

T
he drive to Little Rock took six hours, with time out for a cheeseburger and a couple of bathroom breaks. I was in the part of the country where, instead of getting french fries, you get home fries. Home fries are actually pure grease, soaked into grasslike strips of potato so you can get it to your mouth. A waitress in a uniform the exact color of two-day-old pumpkin pie dropped off the burger and fries, did a searching scan of my tabletop and said, “My goodness; somebody forgot to put out your catsup.” She was back in a minute with a bottle of Heinz, and said, “Home fries just ain’t right without catsup.”

She was, and is, correct. They just ain’t right.

I
’d only been to Little Rock once before in my life. If you live in St. Paul, Little Rock isn’t on the way to anywhere except itself. I didn’t get to see much of the place, either. The guy I was meeting was waiting at a Shoney’s. I picked him out as soon as I walked in.

“How are you, John?” I asked, sliding into the booth. He reached across the tabletop and we shook hands.

“Not too bad. I heard about Green and that lady: you’re in some shit.” He looked at me sideways, his dark wraparound sunglasses glittering in the fluorescent light.

“I’m sorry about Green,” I said.

“I’m sorry about your friend,” he said.

John Smith was a black man, originally from Memphis, but now going back and forth between Memphis and a small town in the Delta, where his wife lived. He was both hard and intelligent; a political operator, a friend of Bobby’s, and an artist, a sculptor. “I just got in,” he said. “I’m having the open-face turkey sandwich, home fries, coconut cream pie, and diet Coke.”

“Then you check in somewhere for a heart scan,” I said.

I got a Coke and a salad; when the waitress came to take our orders, I said, “Don’t forget the catsup, for his home fries.”

“How could I do that?” she asked, a look of puzzlement crossing her face.

J
ohn said the package was in his car, and we could get it on the way out. “Bobby says that you should
get some duct tape, and tape the box onto the receiver at the focus of the dish. That should be good enough. Then, there are some tapes coiled around the box. Those are pickups, like antenna. You should wrap those around the support lines on the receiver. That gives the receiver a little extra sensitivity. Okay?”

He was drawing a hasty diagram on a napkin, and it was all clear enough. “As soon as the dish begins to move, turn our receiver on,” he said. “There’s only one switch, a toggle on the side. While the dish is moving, make the same kinds of notations you did the other night—direction, times, and azimuths. The receiver will pick up both incoming and outgoing, and record them, and Bobby built in a timer function, but he didn’t have time to do a level or compass function.”

“All right.”

“LuEllen with you?”

“I sent her away,” I said.

“You guys ought to have a couple of babies,” he said. “You’re gonna wind up old, with nobody to care for you.”

“Thanks for the thought,” I said, and flashed to Morris Kendall, dying in room 350. “Has Bobby heard any more about Firewall?”

“I’m not all together on this; this is not my line,” John said. “Bobby says Firewall is definitely phony—he says you think so, too.”

“I’m leaning that way.”

“But he says the feds, the NSA, are blowing it up into a major danger to justify their budget. He says that they don’t have anything to do—they’re completely
obsolete—and this whole Firewall thing has been like a gift from heaven. A reprieve.”

“What about the IRS attack?”

“Bobby says ten kids in Germany and Switzerland. He’s sent four names, specific names, to the feds, but they’re not paying much attention. Bobby says they don’t
want
to catch Firewall. Not yet.”

T
he salad came, along with John’s food, and we spent twenty minutes talking about his wife, Marvel, and kids; and the political situation in Longstreet, where Marvel lived with the kids. He hadn’t quite finished eating when he finished with the political situation, and I looked at my watch and said, “There’s a phone booth out in the lobby. I’m gonna get online with Bobby; see if anything’s happening.”

“Be my guest,” he said.

The phone had little business, and I got right on and dialed. I never got to dial the ten digits after the 800 number, because after seven, the phone rang once, and a woman picked up and said, “Montana Genetics, can I help you?”

“Uh . . . I’m sorry, I think I have the wrong number.”

“Well, have a good day then,” she said cheerfully, and hung up.

I dialed again, “Montana . . .” and hung up.

G
ot a problem,” I told John, when I got back to the booth. “Bobby’s not online.”

He looked at me, a wrinkle between his eyes. Bobby was always online. His life was online. “He’s not . . .”

“When I dial the 800 number, I get something called Montana Genetics.”

He sat back, hands on the table: “Ah, shit. He’s pulled the plug.”

“I need him, man,” I said.

“So do we,” John said. I never did know who
we
were, although I’d known for years that there was a
we.
He looked at his watch and added, “I gotta get back. I’ve got to be near a telephone . . .”

The waitress came over, carrying the check. She looked at John and asked, “Are you Mr. Smith?”

“What?”

“Are you Mr. . . .”

“Smith. Yes.”

“You’ve, uh, got a phone call. Normally we don’t allow customers, but the gentleman said it was an emergency . . .”

John was out of the booth, trailing her; she took him into the back. Two minutes later, he was back out. “Gotta go.”

“Bobby?”

“Yeah. He knew we were gonna be here.” He tossed five dollars at the tabletop and headed for the cashier. Outside, in the open, he said, “He says to tell you that Ladyfingers was busted and she gave them the 800 number and that the feds, the NSA, traced him all the way to the banana stand. He said there were only three more links between him and the feds before he was toast. He’s shut down everything. He says you should
recover the number just like you did before—he didn’t tell me what it was, he’s crazy paranoid—and said you will cut directly into him. It’s the only link he’s going to take coming in, until he reworks all his numbers.”

“Bad time for this,” I said. “Bad time.”

At the car, John handed me a gym bag with the receiver in it. “As soon as you’ve recorded a full movement, mail it back to me, express mail, at the house in Memphis.”

“All right.”

“Good luck,” he said. “Keep your ass down.”

A
t Texarkana, I found a gas station phone booth and hooked up with the laptop. I went out to my two mailboxes, and found, just as Bobby had promised, two pieces of a phone number. I called, keyed a “k,” and Bobby came up.

V
ERY CLOSE
. N
EVER CLOSER
. S
CARED THE S OUT OF ME
. I’
M CLOSED FOR BUSINESS
,
EXCEPT FOR YOU
. D
ID YOU GET PACKAGE
?

Y
ES
.

C
AN YOU MOUNT TONIGHT
?

Y
ES
.

W
HAT ELSE CAN WE DO
?

I told him, and got back a long silence. Then,

T
AKE CARE
. T
AKE CARE
. T
AKE CARE
.

The Interstate crosses some sparsely inhabited landscape between Texarkana and Dallas. After checking the map, I got off at one of the larger white spots, and picked out a long piece of quiet road. I parked on one side, got out my sketchbook, checked around, then paced off 200 yards down the road, and stood a plastic Coke bottle on the shoulder. I was willing to bet I wasn’t more than a yard or two off—one of the things you learn in the burglary business is how to estimate distances. My normal stride was thirty-four inches long, and I’d learned how to swing a leg just a split-second longer than I usually did, to come down right on thirty-six inches.

Back at the car, I looked around again, then got the AK out of the trunk, loaded it, rolled down the passenger-side window. When I was sure nothing was coming from either direction, I ripped up a couple of pieces of newspaper, made them into spitwads, put them in my ears, and aimed the gun out the window at the Coke bottle.

The scope was decent; I leaned back against the driver’s-side door, my left hand cradling the fore-end, and braced against the inside of my knee, held on the bottle, squeezed . . .

The rifle jumped, and I lost sight of the bottle; and when I got back on it—where it would have been—it was gone. I got the car straightened out, repacked the rifle, found the ejected shell and threw it into the roadside weeds.

Rolled slowly down the road until I spotted the bottle. There was a neat .30-caliber hole an inch off center
to the right, maybe two inches below the shoulders of the bottle. Good enough; more than good enough.

A
t Dallas, I stopped at the motel to clean up, change clothes, look at the package—a plastic box with a toggle switch and a couple of pieces of tape antenna sticking out of the top, the whole thing the size of a VHS videotape cassette, but heavier—and get the rest of the gear.

Moving right along, it was still well past nine o’clock before I made it through Waco, and headed out to Corbeil’s. The ranch house showed only one light, and I saw no cars in the yard; I continued up to the ruins of the old home place, took the car back into the trees, then got out, and sat down on the incoming track.

And listened.

Listening will always tell you more than your eyes, if you’re in the dark and somebody might be hunting you. People get tense, try to see, don’t know how to move, breathe too hard, and they stumble. If you’re relaxed, breathing as quietly as you can, eyes closed . . . you can hear. Everything but owls. You hear birds moving at night, but never the owls; they’re like ghosts.

After a half-hour, I was satisfied that I was alone. I stood up and scanned the area with the night glasses, then picked up the equipment, including the AK, and headed down the road. Halfway down, a truck came banging up the gravel. I stepped well off the road to let it pass, and watched until it had passed the car’s hiding place. When it was out of sight, I listened again, then moved on.

Moving this slowly, it was nearly midnight before I crossed the fence line and started down toward the dish. When I was directly above it, I scanned it with the glasses for ten minutes, then moved down. I could hear the electric hum; and waited again, but only a minute or two this time, before taping up the package and extending the little antennas. Then I taped up the plastic bands, so I’d be able to measure the azimuth. That done, I moved ten yards off, into the pasture, laid down, and alternately listened and scanned the fields.

An hour passed, and then another. Halfway into the third hour, the electric hum changed pitch. At first I thought I might be hallucinating the change, because I’d been waiting so long. I scrambled over, listened again: no doubt about it.

I put my hand on the dish and at the first vibration, flipped the switch on our package. The dish was moving, and I began taking measurements; a half-hour later, I was crossing the fence with the package in my pack.

What Bobby could do with it, I wasn’t sure. Bobby would take care of that. I’d put it in the mail as soon as I got back to Dallas—there must be an all-night post office out by DFW, I thought—and then I’d make my own run.

T
he killing of Lane Ward had put the idea in my mind: the anger and frustration growing as these people hit at us, for reasons we didn’t know about, and—aside from Jack’s death—barely cared about. The cynicism of the people who were supposed to help—the FBI and other agencies—was nearly as bad.

That night, on the way back to Dallas, I saw a Wal-Mart, and stopped to buy a box. I finally found one large enough: it contained the side boards and shelves for a do-it-yourself book case. I bought it, and threw it in the car.