Tales of Tinfoil: Stories of Paranoia and Conspiracy

by David Gatewood (ed)

  Bo leaned up on his elbows. She had a point, but questions remained. “Okay, you talk about putting people on Mars, and considering that fact, building an everlasting light bulb should be pretty simple. But you can’t sit here and tell me there’s only a single prototype out there, Morse. Where are the others?”

  “There are five more, developed by different companies with different versions of the same technology, but after last week’s oopsie, they’re now all locked securely away in the deepest recesses of the CIA’s warehouses, where they should be. We should’ve done it years ago, but it only takes one—”

  She paused when the door opened. One of the automatons—Bo thought she had called him Conners earlier—poked his head inside, and as before, he lifted his chin.

  “What?” she asked.

  Conners marched over, leaned down, and mumbled something into her ear.

  Bo picked out the words “situation,” “development,” and “urgent.”

  Chloe’s face tripped through a range of emotions: frustration, despair, annoyance, and finally acceptance. “Okay,” she said to Conners, “we’re almost ready. Five minutes.”

  Conners left. The door whispered closed behind him.

  “What was that all about?” Bo asked.

  “Timeline’s moved up. We needed to be gone yesterday. Are you in or are you out?”

  “As if I have options?”

  “One, you say no, your file makes its way into the proper hands and you spend the next forty years sharing a bunk with a guy named Switchblade, or two, you help us recover the Slow Burn and we’ll see about that trip to Bhutan.”

  “You have a convincing argument. One last question.”

  “Why you?”

  “Yes, why me. I’m a D-list thief with no real connections.”

  “And that’s precisely why. Don’t sell yourself short. You’re great at what you do, but the international community isn’t going to expect you. They’ll never see you coming.”

  “I don’t know whether to take offense or say thanks.”

  “You’ll have time to think about it on the plane.”

  * * *

  Their flight touched down at 6:17 a.m. at PDX in Portland, Oregon. The sky was overcast and a light rain fell as Bo and Morse descended the aircraft steps. They had taken a direct flight on the private jet out of LaGuardia, and Bo had been impressed with what taxpayer money had provided. It had been cozier than commercial first class. Morse even let him sleep a while after he complained that there was no way he could process her debriefing properly on what little rest he’d gotten over the past few days.

  Once they were on the tarmac in a faraway corner, Conners, the only automaton to join them, whipped open a large black umbrella and held it over Morse’s head. Not Bo’s, only hers. Conners offered half of a smug grin.

  Bo flipped up his jacket collar. “What now?”

  “Here’s where we part ways,” Morse said, tucking her arms inside her vest. “But come with me for a minute.”

  They hustled over to an open hangar to get out of the rain. Once they were inside the massive maw of the building, Bo wiped his face and pushed his wet hair off his forehead.

  At some point during the flight, Morse had changed out of her proper agent attire and into an outfit that would blend into the Portland scene. Boots with fat soles, faded jeans, a red and black flannel shirt, a puffy vest. Give her a microbrew and a set of hipster glasses, and he’d never know that she carried a badge and a sidearm somewhere within that ensemble.

  Bo thought she looked great, but he almost told her that he missed the miniskirt and heels, just to be a cad on purpose, just to mess with her. He didn’t enjoy being on the receiving end of the proverbial shaft, and small jabs were his only offense. Instead, he asked, “We’re not going in together?”

  “Did you listen to anything I said on the flight?”

  “Yeah, but I was under the impression—”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.”

  “But you said—”

  “Plans change.” Morse pointed to a dark, late model Toyota sedan as Conners handed Bo a set of keys. She said, “Take that car and head to the parking garage two streets over from Powell’s. They open their gates at seven, which will give you plenty of time to get there with the traffic. As I said on the plane, hand this to the attendant at the entrance so he’ll know you’re on.” Morse handed him a white, rectangular piece of paper, heavy stock, with rounded edges.

  Bo said, “And then drive up to the third level. Park, wait on the exchange with El Tigre at eight o’clock, and tail whoever he delivers it to. I got it.”

  “Right.”

  “And how do you know they’ll be there?”

  “We compensate our informants better than we should. Quality information costs, but it’s been worth it so far.”

  “Seems about right. So, then what?”

  Morse squinted at him, lifted her shoulders, and briskly shook her head. “Then take the damn thing back, Sheppard. Work your magic.”

  “That’s the extent of your plan? Get it back? Where’s all the double- and triple-crossing CIA espionage stuff? Aren’t you supposed to be waiting in a van somewhere with parabolic mics and dots flashing on screens?”

  “We can only set things up to a certain extent or we risk exposure that we can’t afford. You watch too many movies, and besides, budget cuts. You’ll be fine. Just do what you always do, and if you’re seriously stressing this, the car has a tracking device on it and there’s a burner in the glove box. Use it to call if you see anything out of the ordinary. Other than that, we can track you using street cameras and security cameras. You’ll never be out of our sight for more than a minute at a time.”

  “Awesome. As if I wasn’t already paranoid enough.”

  “If the general public only knew, we’d be one nation under riots. Okay, so, once the drop-off happens, you have twenty-four hours. Our informant tells us that the Czech courier is on an eight a.m. flight tomorrow morning to Hong Kong, where there’s also no extradition treaty.”

  “For God’s sake, Morse. You know this already? Why don’t you just grab him on the damn plane? Take him in the airport before he gets on the plane.”

  “I wish it was that easy. It’s the Internet Age. You cause a scene in an airport—especially in an airport after 9/11—it’s trending on Twitter and filling up Facebook’s newsfeed within ten minutes. Cell phones. Cameras. Instagram. We can’t afford people asking questions so publicly. Did you know that people were live-tweeting the raid on bin Laden’s compound? We don’t want that. If Wolf Blitzer sinks his teeth into this and the world finds out about an everlasting light bulb, everyone will want it, and they’ll all be smiling without realizing they’re tying their own noose.”

  Bo stared out into the gray morning, watching the planes land and take off, lights blinking, engines roaring. He raised his shoulders and let them fall. “Okay, but I still say there are easier ways to do this.”

  “You’re the easiest way. Get the Slow Burn back quickly and quietly, just like everything else you’ve ever stolen. We’ll be at the rendezvous point.”

  * * *

  Bo slowly rolled to a stop and handed the parking pass to the attendant. Or, rather, the undercover CIA agent dressed in a thick blue coat, black gloves, and a skullcap that partially covered a head of salt-and-pepper hair. A mug of coffee steamed on the windowsill. Water dripped from overhead, splashing on the windshield as the wipers swished from side to side. Two women walked around the back of the car. All this happened as the fake attendant studied the parking pass and flicked his eyes up at Bo, then back to the simple card of paper.

  Bo guessed the agent was visually verifying Morse’s contact point, but he was taking his sweet time doing it. Bo tapped his thumbs impatiently on the steering wheel and offered a reassuring smile.

  The man thanked him in a thick accent, and Bo thought it was a nice touch since Portland had a large Russian community. The local agents had done their rese
arch. As he pulled away, he saw the man speaking into a walkie-talkie, most likely informing Morse that their chump had arrived on site.

  Bo proceeded up the ramp and maneuvered the Toyota through the tight turns of the parking garage. Most of the ones here in downtown Portland weren’t like the wide-open, spatial garages of malls and stadiums. Parking in one of these was like trying to wiggle yourself around inside a coffin. Or like how his parents’ ancient golden retriever, Grubby, would turn around and around in tight circles before lying down and squeezing himself into the cat’s bed, legs and fur bulging over the sides.

  Once he reached the third level, Bo turned to the right and stared up at the ceiling as he drove around the western side of the garage. When he found what he was looking for, he backed into a corner parking space, positioning the Toyota so that it was underneath the mounted security camera. Another tiny victory won against Morse. He’d always believed that small acts of defiance eventually created larger waves.

  The disposable cell phone buzzed in the glove box. He hadn’t expected to receive any calls, only to make them, so he answered with a hesitant, “Yeah?”

  “Where are you?” It was Morse, clearly agitated.

  “I’m exactly where you told me to go.”

  “We can’t see you on the monitors.”

  “And how’s that my problem?”

  “Move to a different spot, Sheppard. I need eyes on you at all times.”

  “This is just a matter of self-preservation. Nothing to get yourself all in a tizzy over.”

  “Self-preservation? What do you need self—hang on, you’ve got company. White delivery van. Looks to be a male of Middle Eastern descent. Possibly mid-thirties. He’s through the gate.”

  “Is that El Tigre or the contact?”

  “Best guess says that it’s the contact. If you had listened to me on the flight, you’d remember that the only details we have about El Tigre are that he’s a Caucasian male, mid-forties, and he’s partial to antiques. That’s the rumor, anyway, which is why it was such a surprise that he went out of his comfort zone for the Slow Burn. Hang on… okay, he’s turning onto the third level. He’s, what, forty-five minutes early? Why’s he so early?”

  Bo checked his watch. “Forty-seven, and do you really not know how this works, Morse? The contact is assuming all the risk at this point. He’s just making sure that there are no ambushes or traps set up. Hell, I’d do the same. Or, they probably gave your informant just enough details for the handoff to seem plausible, but just enough false information to offset the chance of capture if he’s a snitch. And if that’s the case, they’ve made him and he’s probably at the bottom of the Willamette River.”

  “Shit.”

  “You haven’t been at this for very long, huh?”

  “Long enough, but—”

  “Whoa,” Bo interrupted. He lowered his voice. “Are you not keeping an eye on your monitors? He’s coming this way. Let me call you back.”

  “Wait, I can’t see—”

  Bo ended the call and watched the white delivery van as it crept toward him. His skin prickled and his heartbeat cranked a few ticks higher. A bead of sweat welled up in his armpit and slid down his side.

  The van pulled in beside him and parked. Morse was right—it was driven by a mid-thirties man of Middle Eastern descent. He wore a thin beard with sharp trim lines that had taken effort to sculpt. Somehow, it accentuated an annoyed scowl as he opened his door and climbed out.

  Bo swallowed at the sight of the 9mm handgun and hesitated when the man knocked on the driver-side window with the barrel. Bo showed him his empty hands, mouthed for the driver to hang on, and held his breath while the window slipped into the recess of the door.

  The van driver said, “El Tigre?”

  Bo nodded silently.

  The van driver laughed. “That’s what you’re calling yourself these days? For real, Bo, that’s ridiculous. You couldn’t come up with something that suggested ‘international thief’ more than ‘Colombian drug lord’?”

  Bo thrust his hand out the window. “Just give me the damn package, Tommy. We’ve got about thirty more seconds before they suspect something.”

  Tommy snorted, leaned inside the van, and pulled out a small pelican case—nearly indestructible rubber on the outside with a soft, foam cushion on the inside. The contents had a perceived value of billions.

  Tommy said, “I still don’t see why you had to go through all this trouble. This is, like, some Ocean’s Eleven shit right here, bro.”

  Bo snatched the case from him. “I told you a week ago. Can you think of a better way to disappear than by hiding in plain sight?”

  “Billions. Billions for a fucking light bulb.” Tommy shook his head in disbelief.

  “Changing the world sixty watts at a time.”

  “And you’re seriously not worried about economic collapse or some shit?”

  “That’d be ironic, wouldn’t it? An everlasting light bulb causes so much trouble that we all stumble back to grunting around a campfire?” Bo motioned toward the far side of the parking garage. “Now go, go, go. I’ll see you at Christmas. And tell your sister I said hi.”

  Bo watched as Tommy slowly drove around the corner and parked in an open row in clear view of the cameras. Then he called Morse.

  “What the hell, Sheppard?”

  He took huge gulps of air, breathing heavily into the phone as he raised his voice a notch and answered, “Oh, man, that was too close. Too close, Morse. I want out. Let me out.”

  “Hang on. Calm down. What happened?”

  “I think—Jesus—I don’t know, maybe he was just scoping me out. It’s a florist’s van and he was asking me if I knew when some office opened up and if he was in the right place. I’m not cut out for this. I’m just a thief. I can’t be your little espionage pawn. Do you have eyes on him?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “He had a gun. Shoulder holster, underneath his jacket. I can’t breathe. Seriously, I can’t breathe.”

  “Just take it easy, Sheppard. You’re doing fine.”

  “Do not tell me to take it easy, not when there’s a man with a gun over there. He’s seen my face. Don’t you get it? Don’t you get how this works?” With his window still down, Bo heard the faint metallic thunk of a stairwell door closing nearby. He glanced over his shoulder, thinking the noise came from the northeast corner; he saw no one, nothing but a couple of sedans, support beams, and the dreary gray of downtown Portland in the opening beyond. “I heard a door. You see anybody? Who’s coming?”

  “You mean like a car door?”

  “No, Morse, a door in the building. Do you see anybody else up here?”

  “Just the florist guy.”

  “I distinctly heard a door slamming.” He was nervous. He’d carefully researched this drop location, knew all the patterns of the usual employees and their parking schedules.

  “Umm,” she said, “nope, all clear from my end. The place is fairly empty from what we can see here on the security monitors. Oh, wait…”

  “What? What’s happening?”

  “Hang on… Okay, we’ve got him. There’s a janitor on the fourth floor, directly overhead. You probably just heard the echo.” She went silent for a moment, and when her voice returned, it sounded as if her mouth was turned away from the phone. “What’s that, Conners? Right. Give me one sec. Bo? You there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m going radio silent for a moment, okay? We’ve had a development, but stay on the line.”

  “Whatever.”

  Bo waited. He searched the entire parking garage again, making sure that Morse was right about the noise of the closing door. He whispered, “Hey. You there? Are you positive that it was a janitor up on four? I could have sworn—”

  “That it was on this floor?” Morse’s voice came from outside the car, just over his left shoulder.

  Bo yelped and spun around. “Damn it, you scared the—easy, what’re you doing?” It had been a
while since he’d been on the opposite end of a gun barrel.

  “Out of the car. Slowly, hands where I can see them.”

  Bo paused, grinning as Morse shuffled around in front of him, never aiming away from the center of his chest. He said, “Finally.”

  “Finally what?”

  “The day finally came. How long have you known?”

  “Six months, give or take.”

  “How? Or better yet, who?”

  “That’ll stay my little secret. Let’s just say that El Tigre has made some chatty enemies.”

  Bo sighed and nodded. “Fair enough.” He held up the small pelican case. “Guess you’re looking for this, huh?”

  “You’ve got the SB 1000 in there?”

  “Yup.” He winked at her. “We could walk away right now, just you and me. Collect a couple billion from this guy I know in Prague, see what happens with the world. What d’ya say?”

  “I’d say you’re under arrest.” Morse lifted the lapel of her puffy vest to her lips. “Alpha and Bravo, you guys are on. Package is secure, and we finally got El Tigre. Who’s ready for a promotion?”

  Bo tossed the pelican case into the passenger seat, lifted his arms, and interlocked his fingers behind his head, watching and waiting as dual commando teams swarmed in from the south and east.

  Evidently Tommy had been late in spotting the raid in his mirrors. The van’s engine grumbled to life. Reverse lights brightened as he rapidly swung the van around, crunched the rear bumper against a support beam, and shot forward, tires shrieking. But thirty feet later, a third heavily armed backup team had the van surrounded. In the seconds that followed, Tommy was out of the vehicle, on the ground, and screaming obscenities as two of the men secured his hands behind his back.