“Affirmative. What’s your favorite reptile?”
“The cobra.” Baker paused. “You’ve seen the news?”
“Yes.”
“Elderly people are dying, but it’s not as severe as the media have played it. Yes, there are trace amounts of toxins but they’ve degraded spontaneously. We’re not sure if the bad guys are aware that massive amounts are required to attack a water supply, or else knew this and simply wanted to create panic.”
Tucker grunted. “Suspects?”
“Who else?”
“Our man?”
“Correct. This hasn’t been disseminated to the media, but either he or his people left behind a photocopy of his I’m the Butcher passport.”
“Clever. Say goodbye to South Florida’s economy.”
“God Almighty. It’ll be a virtual wasteland by week’s end. Have you seen the Dow and the Nikkei? Never mind. I need you to stay focused.” Baker paused. “Do you recall the briefing you and Levi attended near the Key Bridge?”
“Affirmative.”
“You discussed alternatives if we couldn’t take our man into custody.” Baker cleared his throat and whispered, “Execute the option.”
Tucker stiffened. “Acknowledged.” He removed his finger from the dead-man switch and the STU-III clicked off. Then he sat still and contemplated his new orders: locate Amahl and exterminate him.
10
Levi sped past a deserted used-car lot, downshifted the Harley and made it roar as he came to a dust-swirling stop in front of the Sunset Bar and Lounge. The engine settled into a potato potato potato rhythm as he studied the building. Peeling school bus-yellow paint seemed to be all that held the wooden edifice together. A blue and green neon sign flickering from a short-circuit promised dancing, darts and other distractions. Traffic from I-40 rarely diverted south onto State Highway 41 to get to the Sunset, but college students often stopped by to shoot darts and play pool—or to go slumming. The FBI dossier identified the Sunset as a known hangout for Kruger’s followers.
A faded green Chevy pickup and a mottled blue Ford sedan that had seen better days sat in the dirt parking lot. Levi made a mental note of them as he shut down the Harley. The red and white ’68 Electra Glide with its Shovelhead engine thundered as good bikes should, but it rattled his body and offered no protection from New Mexico’s March winds. Because he needed an appropriate steed for his lone-rebel role, he’d drawn this vintage model from a special Bureau motor pool of untraceable vehicles.
Adult riders didn’t need helmets in New Mexico, so his heavy auburn hair was blown into a tangle. He had a two-day scruff and his face was streaked with dust except where sunglasses had shielded his eyes. After getting off the Harley he unzipped his leather jacket to reveal an oversized light blue flannel shirt, its tails hanging out of his OD fatigue pants. At 3:00 p.m. he grabbed his knapsack and went in-role as a twenty-six year old drifter who lived a hard life governed by harsh rules. From this moment on every word he uttered, every move he made, would be calculated. His battered brown work shoes clumped against wooden steps as he trudged to the door and opened it.
A noxious odor greeted him. The place reeked of spilled beer, stale tobacco and vomit. Two old timers were hunched over beers at the far end of an ancient bar. He gave them a once-over and concluded they posed no threat. NASCAR posters and neon signs for Coors and Bud hung helter-skelter from the walls. A pool table sat to one side. There was a dart board on a back wall. A sign above two green industrial-metal doors read Rest Rooms. He thought, if this was where Kruger’s people came for fun, what kind of hell must their daily lives be like?
A young woman behind the bar had the front part of her blonde hair done up in Bo Derrick braids. The top three buttons of her ebony blouse were undone, revealing a black velvet choker. As he drew closer he spotted a small, heart-shaped tattoo at her left breast. She wore lipstick, her nails were lacquered bright red and she smelled of jasmine. She said, “Hey there, cutie. What can I get you?”
The two old guys paid no attention as Levi plopped onto a green vinyl stool, its white innards revealed through several rips. “Bud.” He pointed to a row of cupcakes on a display rack, nestled between a huge jar of pickled pigs knuckles, yellow packets of beef jerky, and multi-colored liquor bottles. “An’ gimme one a them Ding Dongs.”
She grabbed a package and set it in front of him with a wide, warm smile, then got busy pulling a draft Bud. The cellophane crinkled as he tore it open, but when he wolfed down the cakes her smile vanished. Bracing her feet against the floor, she planted a hand on her hip. “What’s it been—couple a hours now since you shot up?”
“Ain’t been slammin’.”
“Tweakin’ then?”
“Don’t do glass.”
“X?”
“Nope.”
“Then what are you on?”
“Dope smoke.” He tilted his head. “That okay with you?”
Her smile reappeared. “Oh. Pot’s okay.” She finished pulling the beer. “That your sweet-sounding Harley I heard?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You don’t gotta ‘yes ma’am’ me.” She set the frosty glass before him. “Besides, you’re probably older than me. What’re you, ’bout twenty-five?” Before he could answer she held out her hand. “Brenda.”
He took her hand in his. “Eric. Eric Briggs.”
She leaned across the bar and touched the two rings in his eyebrow, then the labret and the stud in his left ear. “Nice. I like ’em. So. Passing through?”
“Dunno. Right now I’m drinking a beer and talking to a beautiful babe.”
Brenda worried her lower lip with bright clean teeth. “Um, there’s cabins for rent out back. I look after ’em. If you end up stayin’ I could let you have one on the cheap.”
“Might take you up on that.” Then he said in a casual way, “I’m looking for this guy. Heard he’s got a place nearby but I don’t wanna barge in. His name’s Kruger.”
Brenda’s body grew taut. “You one of them skinheads?”
“Nope.”
“You believe in them guys?”
“I don’t think whites and blacks should mix, if that’s what you mean.”
She swiped a dish rag across the bar. “But you don’t hate nobody…do you?”
He drank some beer, set the glass down and pushed it around in circles. “No.”
“Then why you wanna mess ’round with them boys?”
“I need work. Heard he pays well.” He picked up his beer and drained half of it.
Brenda pushed her Bo Derrick braids back. “Tell you what. There’s this fellow comes here most nights. T.J. Jackson. Closet commando type. He’s got a puppy dog crush on me, so he’ll be here around eight. I’ll introduce you. He knows Kruger.”
“Maybe I’ll take that cabin then.”
She reached beneath the counter and produced a key. “Cabin six. It’s next to mine but don’t get no ideas. Twenty bucks for the night, hundred by the week—payable in advance.” She dangled it in front of him, then dropped it to the bar.
Levi parked his Harley next to the cabin and walked inside. A bed was jammed against one wall of the tiny room, a bureau against another. A kitchenette sat off to the side. He stashed his gear, stretched out on the lumpy mattress and took a nap. At 8:00 p.m. he sauntered through the Sunset’s rear door and was instantly engulfed in a haze of blue tobacco smoke. The jukebox played rock and several college kids had taken to the tiny dance floor. There were two dozen other customers, the men outnumbering the women two to one. Levi spotted Brenda seated at a table and started toward her, walking past a lone, black-haired guy at the bar without so much as a glance. Dentz paid no notice of Levi, either.
“There’s the one I want you to meet,” Brenda said as Levi dropped down on one of three chairs. “Over yonder there.” She called out, “T.J. Come on over here.”
Jackson swept a hand through his dark hair and worked his way through a small knot of people. He held a bottle of Millers and when he r
eached the table he looked from Levi to Brenda.
She said at once, “This here is Eric. He wants to meet Kruger.”
Levi stood and held out his hand, but when Jackson ignored it and scowled at Brenda, Levi dropped it and made an instant appraisal: Jackson would do anything for female companionship. Whether he would reach his goal was another matter and Levi didn’t care. He needed to meet Kruger and would push whatever buttons he had to. He glanced at Jackson’s beer and said, “I’m buying. Lemme get you another.”
Jackson worked his mouth and flicked his eyes back and forth between Levi and Brenda until he grumbled, “I won’t turn one down.”
Levi got a round of drinks and fell in with the music’s rhythm as he carried them to the table, working his hips and moving his arms. He passed a Miller to Jackson, bought another round later, and after a third beer Jackson thawed and stopped glaring at Brenda. Levi said, “Some friends told me to look up this guy Kruger if I got out this way.”
Jackson’s eyes narrowed. “Your friends don’t know what they’re talking about.”
“I’m betting they do.” Levi hunched forward and planted both palms on the table. “Listen. I can buy you fourteen beers right now, or eighty-eight later on.”
Jackson stiffened at the 14/88 phrase—the fourteen words of the slogan to make a better world for white babies, and eight for the eighth letter of the alphabet—H. Double eights signified HH—Heil Hitler. “I’ll think about it,” he said finally.
The jukebox segued to a dance number. Half a dozen couples were on the floor, the guys moving listlessly at best and leaving their partners wanting. Brenda touched Levi’s hand. “Dance?”
“Sure.” Levi noted Jackson’s frown and led her to the floor. As they caught the beat it was instantly clear that he could dance. He had that kid-from-the-wrong-side-of-the-tracks rhythm that couldn’t be ignored. He was a playful pup one moment, inventive the next and sassy in between, and Brenda matched his elegant moves skillfully. His fluid movements evidently pleased the other women, for they began to smile with pure pleasure as they watched. As he urged Brenda on her dancing became sexier. Others whispered and pointed, while she stared at him with obvious desire.
Levi took her through three numbers. When they returned he bought another round. After Brenda excused herself to visit the restroom, he turned to Jackson. “How about it? Can I meet Kruger?”
Jackson glared at him but finally said, “What’s in it for me?”
“Whaddya want?”
“You know what I want.”
Levi knew. He took a pull at his bottle. “I ain’t tryin’ to cut in on your babe.”
Jackson said to the floor, “I don’t need help with the ladies.” “‘Course not.”
Jackson worked his dark eyebrows. “Tell you what. Be here tomorrow at five. Maybe I’ll take you to meet him.” He glanced in the direction of the rest rooms, then looked pointedly at Levi.
Levi drained his bottle and set it down. “Well, I’m outta here,” adding with a degree of manipulation, “By the way? She was talking ’bout you earlier.”
The effect was immediate. Jackson’s face brightened. “Yeah?” He chugged the rest of his beer. “Tomorrow. Five sharp.”
When Brenda returned, Levi told her he was beat and excused himself. But as he stood he saw an unspoken message pass from Brenda to Jackson. He filed it away and started for the door, but drawing closer to Dentz he stumbled and fell against him. “Sorry. Too many beers. Five in fact. Man, my head’s gonna be hurtin’ tomorrow.”
Dentz nodded. “Five’ll do it. Well, here’s to tomorrow in a good way.”
After Levi had transmitted the message about tomorrow’s five o’clock meeting, he went to his cabin to prepare for a possible venture into Kruger’s compound. First, he placed his knapsack on the chair next to the bed. Then he arranged a one-ounce bag of marijuana and a quarter-ounce bag of hashish that he’d acquired soon after arriving in Albuquerque. After making them visible through the knapsack’s open flap, he prepared his hash pipe and lit it, letting the smoke permeate his hair and clothes. Then he smoked the rest to get the tracings of a casual user into his blood. He was quite buzzed when he stumbled into bed.
MSNBC WAS THE FIRST to air the Al Jazeera tape. The network was quick to add a disclaimer that the Muslim world did not approve of the mass poisoning of women and children. Unsaid was the reality that for too many others, Amahl’s bio-assault lacked the explosive impact of large airliners hurtling into tall towers.
“This marks a beginning,” Amahl said to the camera. The plain white backdrop revealed nothing of his location or time of day, and there were no outside noises to assist in determining whether he was in Zurich or Zanzibar. “What follows will make the death of your president and the death of your city seem as nothing but appetizers.” Amahl rambled for three minutes and ended with this warning: “Hear me now. I, Amahl, will ultimately take total control.” The tape faded into snow.
Tucker stared without emotion at the television. He switched it off, called the others and announced a meeting in one hour.
LEVI HART NURSED HIS BEER and chatted with Brenda while he waited for Jackson. The TV was tuned to CNN’s coverage of Amahl and the hysteria sweeping the nation, but he wondered at the lack of local outrage over the bio-attack. When Jackson entered at five sharp Levi thought, good, this guy’s predictable.
Jackson walked past half a dozen customers, smiled at Brenda, then sat next to Levi. “What’re you waiting for? You gonna buy me a beer, or…?”
WHAAAP. The front door burst open and Jackson turned with everyone else to stare at a short skinny black man standing alone, oblivious to his surroundings.
“Hey,” Levi yelled, “white folks only.” He got up and moved toward the man in a loose-boned gait. Then he flicked his eyes at the door. “Get outta here.”
Everyone leaned forward to watch as the small man looked Levi up and down. “Screw you. I go where I want.”
Levi got in his face and said, “Well you don’t go here, boy.” Then he backhanded him. Blood flew from the black man’s nose. He gasped, then used his arms to shield himself when Levi began pummeling his shoulders.
Jackson’s face turned deep red. “Kick his ass!”
“Out,” Levi thundered, then punched the man. He fell to the floor with a thud and Levi kicked his ribs with his work shoe. “Get up!”
Levi raised his foot to kick again, but the stranger reached inside his jacket and pulled out a Browning Hi-Power. He leveled it at Levi’s chest. “Back off, white boy.”
Levi stood his ground and taunted him. “Just like a black boy to pull a gun.”
“Just like a cracker to bring boots to a gunfight.” The man struggled to his feet as three customers edged toward him. Jackson was not among them.
Levi’s face was purple with rage. “I’ll kill you.” He took a step forward. “I’ll…”
CRAAACK. The pistol jumped in the man’s hands. The bullet slammed into the wood floor an inch from Levi’s foot, sending splinters flying. A plume of blue smoke rose from the muzzle. Everyone dived for safety. Everyone but Levi. He stepped forward. The guy fired. CRAAACK. This time the bullet nicked the edge of Levi’s shoe.
When Levi didn’t flinch, the man showed real fear. Reaching blindly for the door, he crashed against the panic bar. The door opened with a loud clang. He tumbled into the parking lot. Levi stormed after him with only a glance at Dentz, who was standing nearby. But Levi was too late. He watched in disgust as his assailant jumped into a rusted Chevy and sped off. He ignored Dentz when he stalked back inside.
Jackson sat frozen to his stool. “Jesus. You got a set of balls.”
Levi scowled at the marks in the floor, lifted his foot and inspected the spot where the round nicked his shoe, said, “Humph,” then went to the bar and ordered two beers.
“You sure showed that coon,” a customer yelled.
Brenda brought Levi the beers, then turned her back to him and marched off.
/> “He ain’t no coon,” Levi said while handing a bottle to Jackson. “He’s black an’ he don’t belong here. That’s all I care about.”
“Good, because Kruger doesn’t like slurs.” Then Jackson got a huge grin and whomped Levi on the back. “Christ, but you sure got balls.”
Levi brought the bottle to his lips and drank while all around him the customers told and retold the story of what he had done, and how he hadn’t backed away from certain death.
Dentz walked inside after a while. Taking a seat far from the others, he ordered a beer from a trembling Brenda. Levi checked him from the corners of his eyes and noted the bulge of the SIG Sauer pistol beneath Dentz’s shirt.
The black man sped north on Highway 41, turned west on I-40 and headed toward Albuquerque. Several minutes passed. When he was satisfied that nobody had followed he said, “You can come on out now.”
There was a rustling from the rear floor and Michael Bailey materialized from beneath an old G.I. blanket. He sat up and put a 12 gauge Remington 870 Wingmaster on the seat. “How’d it go? Looks like he roughed you up.”
Hacksaw Jones turned and monkey-grinned him. “Nah. Well, a little. He about broke my nose. But it’s all good. It all went as planned. None of the customers interfered, but Dentz had my back just in case. And my man Levi never even flinched.”
“Tucker never does, either.”
“Yeah, but that’s at the range. This was real-time.”
“Well there you go. Levi’s real-time.”
SUSAN BOARDED THE CONNECTING flight in Atlanta and checked the time. She grabbed her cell yet again, then shoved it back into her handbag. “This is stupid. I will not leave another message for him.”
THE COBALT BLUE MUSTANG CONVERTIBLE meandered down a side street beneath a flawless blue sky, attracting little attention in Florida’s South Beach where Lamborghinis and Bentleys outnumbered Mercedes coupes and Lexus sedans three to one. The air was a balmy eighty-four and locals and tourists alike streamed up and down the sidewalks like so many soldier ants. The driver turned down another street and slowed for a jaywalker, then went past the unobtrusive apartment building. “Negative activity,” he said. He heard a response in his Bluetooth earpiece a second later. “Copy. Hand-off to Suzy and leave the area.” The driver acknowledged the order and continued east to Collins, then turned south to take an indirect route to the rented office that the police intel operatives used.
Cobra Clearance Page 11