Soft Targets

by Dean Ing

  She returned to Glendale long after midnight to find Hakim a sentry in the kitchenette. Somehow she knew that what she had overheard would trigger arousal in Hakim. "The network has a backlot, a great fenced area, north of Burbank," she told him. "I believe the men were connected with the Charlie George show."

  An hour later she slid from their bed to take sentry duty, using her compact mirror as she daubed antiseptic on the marks left by Hakim's teeth on her shoulders and breasts. Perhaps, she told herself, psychology was a useless tool after all. She could intuit the onset of Hakim's savage needs, but despaired of discovering the mainspring that drove him. She wondered what Hakim would do if he learned that her nimble fingers gentled Chaim during the nights, as one might gentle a long-abused stallion. He would do nothing, perhaps. Anything, perhaps. It mat­tered little, so long as Chaim Mardor continued to function in the interests of Fat'ah. A less pa­tient man than Guerrero, modifying their vehic­les in their garage, might have found Chaim's help unacceptable.

  Smiling to herself, she slipped to the bedside of Chaim, listening to the measured breathing. Presently, at her manual urging, his respiration quickened. She spoke to him then in their an­cient tongue, gently leading him as he slept. It never occurred to Talith that, in her role as suc­cubus, she had performed a displacement. To Chaim, Fat'ah was embodied, not in Hakim, but in Leah Talith herself.

  The next morning, a few kilometers to the northwest, Gina Vercours introduced herself to Charlie George on the NBN backlot and indi­cated her strapping—and foolishly smirking—blond companion. "And you know Simon Kenton here," she said.

  "Holy gawd," Charlie gaped, staring hard. In his costume as Idi Amin's twitchy analyst, Charlie was a study in contrasts. He glanced from the big man's stylish sandals to the yellow hair two meters above. "You're new!"

  Everett hugged the comedian. "Refinished," he corrected. "We were glad to see tight security at the backlot gate, by the way. Hey, I think they're ready for you."

  Charlie moved away toward the waiting crew; glanced back with an admiring headshake. He then proceeded to blow his lines so badly that his director suggested a break. "My mind is well and truly blown," Charlie admitted, taking his visitors by the arms. He guided them to a bench, out of the paths of technicians, and studied the face of Everett carefully. "Even the eyes," he said, bewildered. "I've seen a few good nose jobs in my time but Jee-zus, I'm even wondering if you're really you."

  "Panoramic contact lenses," Everett said. "Would you believe they're as good as bifocals? The hard part, they told me, was dickering with my vocal chords. I'm supposed to fool a voice-printer, too."

  "In-damn-credible. Excuse my staring. You look thinner, too; what'd they do to your cheeks?"

  Gina began to laugh. "Mostly kept food out of 'em," she said, as Everett strained to look aloof. "That was tougher than surgery, Mr. George. It still is."

  Charlie darted a keen glance at Everett. "Something I keep trying to recall," he said, "about the meeting at my place. Somebody was sketching something." He seemed expectant, uneasy.

  Everett sucked at a tooth. "No—except for D'Este, of course."

  "Go on."

  Everett spread his hands, nonplussed, then suddenly burst into laughter. "Charlie, you're testing me! You really aren't sure," he accused. "I feel more secure every minute," the comedian replied. But the concern did not leave Charlie's face until Everett passed his exam. The come­dian apologized for his suspicions, to Everett's genuine delight. At the end of the ten-minute break they had banished their reserve and Gina was saying `Charlie' instead of 'Mr. George'.

  The comedian's reaction underlined for Everett the success of the cosmeticians in Tuc­son. Incisions at jaw and scalp had brought other subtle changes in the planes of the rugged features, and Gina's companionship accounted for much of the startling weight loss. Dental work, bleach, and a new hair style completed the pro­cess, though nothing had been done to alter Everett's fingerprints.

  The name was a conceit, one he had de­manded over the objections of David Engels. He had chosen the name of an obscure early Ken­tucky woodsman, from whom he could claim descent. He claimed it gave him a built-in background, but with his obligatory change in clothing style, knew it was a substitute approach to his mountain-man fantasy. Gina, he found, had been wrong: no self-image could stay wholly unchanged under such an implosive as­sault.

  Lunch was a set of informal choices between the NBN mobile lunch truck and a caterer's van, both parked outside the mammoth sound stage. Charlie insisted on buying. "Don't worry about fitting in today," he said around his mouthful of ham and cheese; "just get the feel of the place. We're doing all my stuff on the bacidot these days. Find the head, the script girl, and the union steward, and then you'll know where all the power is." He turned to Gina. "That place you rented: does it suit you?"

  "Three exits, one from the patio," she nodded, "and a video monitor to check visitors. Besides," as though auditioning for Little Women, "who could possibly be interested in us?"

  "Autograph hunters," Charlie said. "You two make an imposing pair. I might get you both some walk-ons if you like, Maury."

  "Sy," Everett said quickly.

  "Shit," Charlie hissed. "Sy it is. Keep harping on it." He became his imbecile bumpkin: "I ain't the quickest study on the set."

  "As for going in front of cameras, we'll decline with thanks," Everett said, explaining Gina's need to maintain a low profile. "Face it, Charlie, union scale for bit players is a poor trade for the salary she rakes in now."

  Charlie studied the auburn-wigged Gina with new interest. "Somehow I thought you had, uh, personal motives."

  Gina bit into an apple, chewed a moment before: "Mr. Kenton is, as they say, my main man; no reservations on that, Charlie. But let me save you a lot of unasked questions: my client happens to be a very, very dear friend, and that's a bonus. Still, I am not independently wealthy." She aimed a forefinger toward him to punctuate her next phrase: "And I intend to be. That means I must think about other clients next year, and the next."

  Charlie blinked. "You're very direct, Gina. In this business I tend to forget there are people like you.”

  "There isn't anybody like her," Everett chor­tled. "She'll con you with a candid serve, but look out for her backhand."

  This reminded Charlie of the nearby tennis courts. Before returning to the set, he advised them to get familiar with the self-contained world of the backlot. NBN officials had assured Charlie George that the vast fenced area was secure, far better than a leased location and near corporate offices as well. They had not added that their own security chief disagreed and avoided mentioning the obvious: the backlot was relatively cheap. The new passes gave an added measure of security with their integral electronic ID. It was a measure that diminished geometrically with the issuance of every new pass.

  Larry Farquar toyed with his drink after work on Friday evening and assessed the dark roman-nosed beauty through the bar mirror. He had spotted her the previous evening, her huge serious eyes studying a carpenter from Warner's as he tried for a one-nighter that simply was not in the cards. For one thing, the wood-butcher's line was a string of Industry names, dropped like pennies in a trail to his sack. None of those names had done much for the girl, who seemed more interested in the baggy-eyed old NBN guys in the back booth.

  But then, the carpenter didn't have the confi­dence of a Farquar, the best damn' electrician on NBN's backlot with a profile just a trifle too three-dimensional to make it through a screen test. Well, Farquar was a star at what he did, and knew that a steady job was as good an aphro­disiac as most girls needed.

  Farquar decided the slender, high-breasted girl was not the sort to reveal what turned her on, and this turned Farquar on like a quartz-iodine key light. Genuine or faked, impassivity in ex­otic women was a challenge to be overcome. In­ternally as Larry Farquar moved in, he was buz­zing like a housefly. Leah Talith saw him from the edge of her vision, and waited in the web of her secret smile.
<
br />   Sunday, Farquar learned from an honest bartender in Burbank that his wallet had turned up minus cash, but with papers intact. He would never know whether he had simply passed out on the bed Friday night, or if the girl had spiked his drink; but whatthehell, she hadn't trashed his apartment or taken his stereo. He retrieved the wallet, saw that his licenses and the new NBN security pass were accounted for, and had a drink to bank the fires of his confidence. He vowed to forget the girl with the dark eyes and the Gioconda smile. If he reported the temporary loss to NBN it would only make trouble. Besides, he had the security pass. How could you copy its electronic ID?

  Fat'ah could have told him.

  TUESDAY, 20 JANUARY, 1981:

  It was midmorning, a week after Guerrero first drove into the backlot to test his forged pass, before Charlie George and his writers were mol­lified with the script. It was a tepid takeoff on an attempted prison break by Raza terrorists the previous week.

  The skit had two things going for it: Charlie's Chicano accent was uproarious, and he could do pantomimic wonders as a terrorist sapper trying to wire a bomb and chew gum at the same time. They threw out the line identifying the leader as Irish. It was faithful to the new connections be­tween terrorist gangs, but it was also confusingly unfunny. Charlie fumed inside, wishing Rhone were around to bandage the wounded script. But Rhone Althouse was now ABC. He was also scared shitless.

  The caterer's van left Glendale on time as usual, on its normal route. The driver noticed nothing unusual until a few minutes after some idiot girl swerved into the space ahead of him on Glenoaks Boulevard. He heard several metallic impacts as he started away from the stoplight but was not worried until his engine started to overheat.

  He managed to coast safely to a stop when the engine seized, the girl in the little sedan now all but forgotten as she extended her lead and dis­appeared into Burbank traffic. He did not see the sedan pass him again, this time with a scarfaced youth at the wheel; he was wondering how his radiator had suffered so many punctures. Neither he nor anyone else had seen Chaim Mar­dor, prone and peering from a slot in the trunk of the little sedan, empty the clip of his small si­lenced target pistol into the radiator of the van.

  By low-static FM citizen's band radio, Talith informed Hakim that the baby was sleeping soundly and without complication. She dropped Chaim where his rig was parked in the north end of Burbank, radioed again when they were in sight of the access road that lay between the NBN acreage and a freeway.

  Bernal Guerrero replied from the inside of the backlot. All was well at home; the front door had not stuck and the side door would open.

  Talith signaled to Chaim with her arm, and both moved over to the shoulder of the road. They took a small calculated risk in stopping, but far greater chances were being taken across the heavy chain-link fence.

  The Charlie George crew managed a half-dozen takes before noon and, as lunch vans began their setups at unobtrusive locations away from the exterior set, Charlie's nose directed his eyes toward the new van which advertised hot Mexican food. Charlie's mania for Mexican food had been duly noted by news magazines.

  "Okay, it's a wrap," the unit director called. "Eat it!" Charlie threw off his prop raincoat, ignoring the free spread by NBN. He drifted instead, with Everett and Gina Vercours, toward the menudo and its vendor, Bernal Guerrero.

  Only one side panel of the van was raised, for the excellent reason that one side was rigged for lunch, the other for Charlie and one of his crew.

  The comedian awaited his turn. The latino appeared to recognize his patron only at second glance, bestowed a grave smile on Charlie and said, "For you, Senor Carlito, something special. Bring a friend; there is enough for only two."

  Charlie motioned with his head to his tall blond companion. "Rank hath its privileges," Everett muttered to Gina. "If you're nice, I'll share with you." She made a face and turned back to study the unfamiliar food. Somewhere in the far recesses of her mind, an alarm chittered for attention. But it was only something about the food, which did not tally with the Mexican dishes she knew. They were, in fact, Panama­nian. Prepared by Guerrero, mercury-poisoned by Hakim. Not that mercury was so lethal; it was really a matter of tradition.

  Had Charlie not followed Guerrero to the hidden side of the van, Hakim could have shot him with the veterinarian's tranquilizer gun from inside the van, through one of the thin silvered mylar panels. Guerrero would then have been obliged to take their second hostage, preferably one known to the comedian, with the hypoder­mic. The second hostage was to be, in Hakim's wry parlance, the `demonstrator model'. But the tranquilizer was a recent fast-acting drug, and its dosage was determined by guesswork. Sometimes the target animal died within minutes. Hakim, peering closely through the mylar, poised himself to choose whichever target Guer­rero left him.

  Gina turned, started to follow the men, then was rediverted by one of Hakim's deft touches as entire racks of warm lunch items began to spill from the display racks onto the macadam. She rushed instinctively to help minimize the spillage.

  On the other side of the van, Guerrero heard the commotion Hakim had initiated. Charlie's smile was tentative until he felt Guerrero's nee­dle enter his side like a cold lightning bolt. He cried only, "Hey, that hurts," not convincingly, before Guerrero's gristly fingers numbed his diaphragm. Everett spun, had time to wrench Guerrero around as Charlie began to slump before a fletched dart caught the big man high on the left pectoral muscle, Hakim's round a muf­fled slam as he fired pointblank from inside the van.

  Guerrero ducked under Charlie George to catch him by the thighs, then lifted, hurling the limp NBN star against the featureless side panel. Guerrero had delayed the operation for days, tinkering with pivots and countersprings until those panels worked to perfection. The panel swung inward, dumped Charlie at the feet of Hakim, and swung shut again. Hakim snatched up his stockless submachine gun and swung it toward the laughing group whose own minor panic had masked the sounds from Charlie's side of the van. Hakim would squeeze the trigger, a spray of forty rounds into their faces, the instant Guerrero dumped the second hostage inert at his feet.

  But Everett, knocked too breathless by the dart to cry aloud, was a bigger specimen than Fat'ah had expected and was slow to succumb. He found the dart, gasping, tore it from his flesh, and took a step toward Guerrero whose foot caught him squarely in the crotch. The Panama­nian whirled him by his collar, slammed him against the panel, finally managed to thrust him inside, though mauled by the long legs that kicked as Everett began to lose consciousness. Hakim spat the single code word, "kuwa, power," and dropped over the struggling blond giant to smother his hoarse cry.

  Guerrero rounded the rear of his van to find Gina Vercours stacking food on the lip of the narrow counter. "Charlie, Sy," she was laugh­ing, "come see what we've got."

  Guerrero made a gesture of helplessness, said, "Keep it," and dropped the side panel which sideswiped Gina's head as it fell. She dropped to her knees as Guerrero reached the driver's seat and a technician, aghast, leaped to Gina's aid.

  Guerrero was hard-pressed to keep from draw­ing his Browning parabellum sidearm because he could hear, two hundred meters away, screams from the script girl who had seen it all.

  The van squealed away as Gina, swaying to her feet, realized who was missing and where they must be. She fumbled in her shoulder bag for a heartbeat too long and Hakim, locked against his second victim, heard two rounds from the Beretta ricochet from the chassis beneath him. She had missed the tires, and knew better than to fire blindly into the van's rear panel.

  Gina, staring helplessly after the careening van, replaced the Beretta before she retrieved the tranquilizer dart, holding it by its needle tip with a tissue. "Warn the gate and get me to a tele­phone," she slurred, dizzied by the blow against her temple. All the way to the sound stage, two thoughts vied for primacy in her head. They were, I've lost Maury, and I've lost my job. She could not decide which thought had occurred first.

  As the van howled b
etween two of the hangar-like sound stages, Guerrero bore far to the right to begin his left turn. He had thirty seconds on his pursuers but Hakim had made it clear that they must expect communication between the exterior sets and the guarded backlot gate. Guer­rero smiled, hearing Hakim's curses as he strug­gled with dead weights greater than his own, and sped toward the perimeter cyclone fenc­ing. Outside the fence was the access road, de­serted except for a small foreign sedan and a larger car towing an old mobile home. These vehicles were motionless.

  Guerrero slapped the button in plenty of time but was not gratified. He slapped it again, then pressed it with a rocking motion as he tapped the brakes hard. Five meters of cyclone fencing peeled back as the bangalore torpedo at last ac­cepted its microwave signal, and Guerrero felt the pressure wave cuff the van. He angled through the hole, negotiating the shallow ditch with elan, and exulted in his choice of a vehicle with high ground clearance. As he made a gear change, accelerating toward escape, he could see Chaim in his outside rearview, dutifully tow­ing the decrepit mobile home into position to block immediate pursuit along the access road. For once, Chaim Mardor performed above ex­pectation, the mobile home teetering for a mo­ment before it rolled onto its side, a barricade stretching from the ditch to the opposite side of the road.

  Talith waited for Chaim in her small car, the only vehicle of their regular fleet that was not a van. Guerrero waited for nothing, but tossed quick glances to check the possibility of air sur­veillance. Van Nuys airport was soon sliding past on his right, and they would be vulnerable until he reached the state university campus where their other vans waited.

  Minutes later, Guerrero eased the van into a campus parking lot. Hakim was ready with the crate and together they wrestled their burden, the bulk of a refrigerator, from their vehicle into the rear of a somewhat smaller van. As Hakim urged the smaller vehicle away, encouraging its cold engine with curses, Guerrero wheeled the kidnap van across the lot and abandoned it along with his vendor's uniform. It might be many hours before the abandoned van was noticed, among the hundreds of recreational vehicles on the campus. Guerrero knew what every undergraduate knew: a recreational vehicle was lim­ited only by what one defined as recreation.