by Tim Green
While Madison was questioning Patti Short, Marty was in the county sheriff's office with his friend, Dalton Pollgraft, a sheriff and small-businessman who owned three convenience stores for which Marty did the tax returns every year. Pollgraft was a true Texan with a ten-gallon hat, a cheek full of leaf chew, and a drooping walrus mustache. Marty did the obvious. He called information to leam what he expected, that William Moss had an unlisted number. Pollgraft, Marty knew, had ways of getting around things like that.
"Got yourself a mystery-man, Yankee," Pollgraft drawled as he punched away at his keyboard, using the nickname he'd given Marty upon their first meeting. "But even a mystery-man can't hide in the modem-day world of computers. Gotcha!"
Marty leaned over the terminal and looked on.
"Mr. William Moss," Pollgraft read, "1100 Colorado Street, fancy, apartment 18-G, real fancy, must be a penthouse way up that high. This guy's got some greenbacks."
"Yes," Marty said. "See what else you can find out about him with that computer of yours. How extensive is this network?"
"Hell, Yank, this here is state-of-the-art law enforcement here in Travis County. I can link into every law enforcement agency in the U. S. of A., from the local yokels to the Feds."
"How about the IRS?" Marty asked.
"I need a social security number for that," Pollgraft explained. "Here, this will take a minute. Want a cup of coffee?"
"No thanks," Marty said, sitting back down to wait. They talked about Pollgraft's stores for a few minutes before the heavyset sheriff said, "Here it comes."
"And ... nothing," Pollgraft said. "William Moss, at that address, doesn't show a damn thing. Sony, Yankee."
"Well," Marty said, standing up and shaking Pollgraft's thick callused hand, "thanks, Dalton. I appreciate the help."
"Wasn't much help," he said.
"I got the address," Marty said. 'That's more than I had."
"What're you gonna do with an address?" Pollgraft asked casually.
"I don't know. Poke around, I guess."
"Well, you be careful pokin'," Pollgraft said. 'You ain't a poker by nature. You need some help?"
'Yes," Marty said thoughtfully, "I could use some help, but I don't think it's anything you want to get involved with."
"Then you need my help even more," Pollgraft said.
"1 need to get into this guy's apartment," Marty told him.
Pollgraft raised his eyebrows and brought a battered paper coffee cup to his lips to disgorge a wad of spit.
"That's some serious pokin'," he said. "Lot more serious than I thought--"
"I need to get this guy's social security number. I need to see if he's got a certain kind of gun. I..." Marty looked at the sheriff sheepishly, "I can't really explain."
"Don't want you to," Pollgraft said. "So you need to git in there, and you need to do it now, no cops, no search warrant or anything messy like that,- and you aren't too concerned about a breaking-and-entering charge, huh?"
"I kind of figured you could help me out if there was a problem with that," Marty said hopefully.
"Mmm-hmm." Pollgraft was thinking.
"This is a big favor," Marty said. "Really big. I can't really imagine how I could bill you for this year's return if you helped me with this. No, it just wouldn't seem right to me."
Pollgraft's eyebrows disappeared up under the edges of his sandy brown bangs.
"Well, of course, 1 can't really tell you how to do something like that, " he said. "But if you did need to get into your own place, or somethin' like that, and no one had any keys ... well, there's a guy I know, a locksmith, and he's got this little ditty called a coredriller that I'm sure can get you into anywhere.
"Let me see," Pollgraft said, wheeling his chair over to his desk and leafing through his Rolodex. He found the number and picked up the phone.
"Johnny, how the hell are you, son? I've got a favor to ask you. I got a friend o' mine, a damn Yankee," the sheriff drawled, "locked hisself outta his house. He's a cheap sumbitch, Johnny, too stingy to break a damn window, and he won't pay you to go out to his place. But I owe him a favor, an' you owe me, so I want you to lend the sumbitch that core-driller ditty you got there at the shop, an' tell him how to use it, okay? Bet your ass I'll be there Saturday night, you homed-toad bastard. Right. Thanks. Bye."
Pollgraft hung up the phone and wrote Johnny's address down on a piece of paper, handing it Marty with a wink and a smile. "Need a new outboard for my bass boat, Yankee, just about the same price as what it costs me to have you do those damn taxes. So, it's a hell of deal. Just remember this," the Texan warned him, "if you get your ass in a sling an' git caught, don't say a damn thing to the city cops. You just tell them to call me, that's it. I'll see what I can do if the need arises. Don't go gittin' yourself into no hot water trying to play big-shot lawyer, okay?"
"Okay," Marty said, taking the address. "Thanks."
"1 don't know a damn thing," the sheriff said, holding his open hands up in the air. "Far as I know, you got yourself locked out, an' you're too cheap to break a window or pay the smithy."
Jenny sat with her ostrich-skin cowboy boots propped up on the air- conditioning unit that sat below the window in her room. She was wearing a faded pair of jeans and a snug-fitting, navy cashmere sweater. Her hair was pulled back tight. The suitcase with two million dollars was right beside her on the floor with her 7mm automatic resting on top of it. The gun was locked and loaded. Her Porsche was parked out back behind a dumpster where it couldn't be seen. She had chosen a room on the second floor facing west. She knew the reflection of the afternoon sun would allow her to see out without letting anyone else see in. She could see the entire parking lot of the Texas Inn, so she'd know for certain when the general arrived, or when anyone else did for that matter. At two, a Mexican couple had pulled in, driving an old Chevy station wagon. The couple appeared to be in their thirties, and they looked fairly innocuous, but Jenny kept a sharp eye on their room anyway. She remembered Striker's words: expect the unexpected. She knew that it was the smallest details that could give away agents posing as tourists or common folk, things like someone peering out of a window repeatedly or a piece of luggage that didn't quite fit.
At four-seventeen, the generals Jeep wheeled up to the office in a cloud ol dust. She watched him get out and sutvey the area furtively from behind a pair of mirrored Ray-Bans. He went into the office and after a few minutes came back out and drove to the parking spot in front of his room. It was on the first floor, and Jenny could see the door and window clearly. She watched with a racing heart as the general took a duffel bag and the case that she knew held the plutonium pit from the back of his Jeep. In another minute he had disappeared inside his room.
Jenny had her feet down now. She leaned toward the window with a pair of field scopes and carefully examined the general's room from the outside. When his face appeared suddenly in the window, she jumped. He scanned the area carefully for several minutes before drawing the shades once more. Jenny used the scopes to scan the rest of the area. There was a gas station across the road and some trees beyond that. She would watch everything around her until dark. Then, like Striker said, if she had a good feeling, she would go down to the general's room and make the switch.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Marty sat in his silver Fleetwood for half an hour, looking at the luxury apartment building across the street and trying to build up his nerve to go in. The contents of his briefcase lay stacked on the seat beside him. In their place was the core-driller that Johnny had given him. He finally decided that the only way he could get in would be through the parking garage beneath the building. There was a doorman in the front lobby, and Marty preferred not to have to contend with him. If he could get in the garage, he could probably get up the elevator and to the eighteenth floor without any questions from anyone.
Marty exhaled and picked up his car phone. He dialed Madison's home office and got her answering machine. He left a message telling her what he
was going to do. This way he figured if he got into any trouble, at least someone would know what happened. Leaving the message gave Marty a new burst of courage and resolve. He got out of his car and crossed the street. He sauntered up and down the sidewalk as purposefully as he could until he saw a woman with a beige Jaguar signaling to turn into the garage. Marty eased up behind her and watched as she ran her card through the sensor. The garage door rose, and the car slowly advanced into the garage. Marty waited until her car had disappeared well inside the garage before he dashed for the door that was beginning to close. He just made it inside and he glanced around frantically, afraid the woman might have seen him. She was just getting out of her car in the back of the garage. Marty ducked behind a fat concrete pillar and waited until the click of her heels faded away.
He made his way toward the middle of the garage and saw that there was a surveillance camera mounted above the two elevator doors. He ducked into a row of cars and crouched down to wait. He only had to wait about ten minutes more before a younger woman in a business suit drove in behind the wheel of a Mercedes sedan. Marty stood at his hiding place and timed it so he arrived at the elevators after the woman had used her elevator key and the doors were just opening. Marty smiled at her and got in. He looked like a tax attorney, the kind of person who belonged in a building like this. The woman got off at twelve, and Marty continued on up to eighteen. His hands were sweating now, and his heart was pumping as if he'd just downed an entire pot of coffee. It was quiet in the hallway,- he wondered how much noise the drill would make. He was betting that most of the people who lived on the eighteenth floor would be out at that time, working.
When he stepped off the elevator, his heart sank. There was a short hallway to his left, at the end of which was apartment G, there was a maid's cart in the hallway and the door was open, but Marty had come too far to turn and run now. He calmed himself and listened. A vacuum was running somewhere inside the apartment. Marty looked around the hall, then crept closer to the door. He peered inside. There was no one in sight, and before he could even think about it, he found himself standing upright in a coat closet, his knees shaking as he listened to the maid vacuuming.
After about ten more minutes the vacuum was shut off, and Marty heard the maid clattering around in the kitchen--from the sounds of it, emptying the dishwasher. That didn't take her too long and he heard nothing for some time. Then he heard the rustling of a skirt and the sound of the vacuum being rolled past the closet and out the front door. He heard her load the vacuum and some other things onto the cart, shut the door, and turn the locks from the outside. Marty stood there frozen for almost twenty more minutes before he came out. He looked at his watch. It was quarter to five, and he knew he shouldn't be there too much longer, so he took a quick look around and found the bedroom.
There was a desk that he searched through, being careful not to disturb anything in a way that would let William Moss know he was there. Marty found nothing of any consequence in the desk. He went through the bureau drawers, still nothing. It was three minutes to five. Marty figured the Gem Star offices were ten minutes away on foot and five by car with the heavy traffic. Assuming Moss would leave his offices at five, Marty thought he had about ten minutes more to be safe. He looked briefly through the bathroom, then went into the open clothes closet. There were more drawers there, and he looked but still found nothing. It was strange. There were no papers of any kind anywhere, he could see. Most people had something. Here, there wasn't even any old mail to be checked over. He thought about where he kept his own mail, in the kitchen. He started out of the bedroom then stopped when he was halfway out the door. Behind a sitting chair by the foot of the bed was the outline of a closet, set flush into the wall. Marty moved the chair and a lamp and found a small gold ring in the door. He pulled at the ring and then turned it. It was locked. Marty was certain that whatever he needed to find was behind that door. Just below the ring was a keyhole. Marty could feel the outline of a deadbolt tumbler through the wallpaper. He hurried to the hallway and returned with his briefcase. He took out the coredriller, placed its bit against the tumbler, and pulled the trigger. He hit the jackpot.
Marty pushed his glasses up nervously and tried to swallow. His throat had gone dry as a desert. There, right on the back of the door, was a mini-arsenal, the likes of which Marty never knew even existed. There were exotic machine pistols, a chrome-plated gun with a laser scope, and many small arms. In the middle of the whole conglomeration was a long black pistol. Its grip was coated with a sticky substance that Marty suspected would leave no fingerprints. He picked it up and looked at the barrel. It was a smaller caliber than the rest, he guessed it was the .22 Madison had told him to look for. Many tried to think of what to do. He looked at his watch. It was three minutes after five. He had to go. He hesitated for another couple of seconds, trying to decide if he should just take the gun or leave it and come back with the police. Then he heard the front door open.
Striker walked into his apartment and knew immediately from the smell that the maid had been there. That was good. He liked cleanliness. He hung his coat in the closet and took off his jacket, tossing it on the back of the couch in his living room before going over to the wet bar to pour himself a drink. He poured three fingers of good scotch and put on a CD of Strauss waltzes. He sat down in his favorite leather chair and drank his scotch slowly while he listened to the entire disk.
When it was over he refilled his glass, and then, drink in hand, he picked up his jacket and headed down the hall to his bedroom. He froze in the doorway and his eyes shot around the room with the trained awareness of a guard dog. The carpet had been vacuumed, but crisscrossing through the room were the footprints of a pair of men's dress shoes. They led to his closet and didn't come out. The chair had been hurriedly put back,- he could see the marks in the carpet where it had been moved, and it wasn't quite in its original spot.
Striker set his jacket and drink down quietly on the floor and took off his shoes and socks so he wouldn't slip on the carpet if he needed his footing. Carefully, without making any noise, he pulled the chair away from the door so he could pull it wide open. He could see where the lock had been bored out. With his Beretta in one hand, Striker crouched down beside the door, setting on the floor a pillow he'd taken from the chair beside him. Then he reached up and jerked open the door. The door slammed against the wall with a crash, and Striker quickly snatched up the pillow and whipped it straight into the closet at what he figured was eye level with a full-grown man. Then he darted into the doorway, still in his crouch, aiming the gun up at a man's chest.
"Don't move!" Striker commanded.
The pillow had caught whoever was there off guard, and by the time he had recovered, Striker's weapon was aimed at his heart. The intruder had Lucy in his left hand, and Striker could tell by the way he was holding her that he didn't have a clue.
"Drop the gun," Striker said calmly. A professional would have either dropped it by now or tried to shoot him. Striker knew that one of the most dangerous things you could deal with was a novice,- he would be unpredictable, and that could get even the best agent killed. So Striker didn't want to shake him up.
The man looked at him and, trembling, dropped Lucy to the carpet. Striker kept his gun aimed at the man's chest. He was tall and lanky, about six foot four with thick glasses and a balding head. He looked like an accountant, not an agent or a cop. When he was within striking distance. Striker threw a blade kick to the man's groin, doubling him over, then boxed his ears to disorient him. Striker stuck the Beretta in the back waistband pants, and then carefully, so 98 not to kill him, he took the man's head in both hands and popped him underneath the chin with his knee, driving the man's jawbone back into his skull. The shock left him in an unconscious heap on the floor. Striker kept one eye on the inert figure while he felt around on the shelf right above him for a fat roll of gray duct tape. He found it, then knelt down with his knee in the man's back and started taping.
When Marty failed to show up at the courthouse after the trial had adjourned for the day, Madison was more excited than she was worried. She figured he was hard at work. She tried to get ahold of Alice from her car phone but couldn't. Then Madison called Lucia to tell her to go ahead with dinner and have Jo-Jo get ready for bed. Then she asked to speak to her son.
"I've got some extra work I have to get done tonight," she told her son as she looked over at Cody and smiled. She wasn't really lying. Cody was still her client and the top priority in her legal career at the moment. If Marty wasn't going to be there, she wasn't going to let him eat dinner alone. She wasn't going to bring him home to her house yet, either. The best thing to do was simply to have something with Cody, then go home and put Jo-Jo to bed. Cody could go to his house and change his clothes, then meet her later. They could go over his testimony one final time and then afterward, well, that would take care of itself. There would be an afterward, though. She knew that, and just the thought excited her.
"Get all your homework done," she said, "and get everything ready for bed, Jo-Jo, so when I get home I can help you with any problems you need help with, and then we can spend the rest of the time before bed playing on your computer, or reading, whatever you want."
"When will you be home, mom?" he asked.
"I'll make sure I'm back by seven-thirty." Then, as an afterthought, she said, "I'll let you stay up an extra half hour tonight too. How's that sound?"
"Wow! Great, mom! Thanks!" Jo-Jo said.
Madison wished the entire world was as easy to please as an eight-year-old boy.
"I've only got until seven," Madison told Cody when she hung up the phone.
"I feel bad ... taking you away from Jo-Jo like this," Cody said. "You really don't have to. If you just want to drop me off home, I can fend for myself."
"That's all right," Madison said. "I wouldn't want you to eat alone."
"I don't mind eating alone," he said.