“What are you talking about?” Pat asked, trying to bluff his way out of the situation.
“A very pretty girl,” the detective said, “good lighting, excellent camera work, energetic performance by you. But there’s one problem. You’re going to jail.” He paused for effect. “Unless you want to talk to this man.” He nodded at Harry.
Harry loomed over the manager. “Tell me about the fifty thou you sent to the ‘Show Me’ state.” He smiled at Pat. It wasn’t meant to reassure him.
“Who are you?” Pat asked, still trying to bluff.
“He’s a Fed,” the detective said. “He’s got muscle, Pat. Real muscle. You want to be his friend.”
Pat panicked. “Look, I don’t know anything about it. I get the order, the money comes through the club as business, I send it where they want.”
“Who’s ‘they’?” Harry asked.
“I don’t know.” Harry stared at him for a long moment. It was not a pleasant experience. But Pat was much more afraid of August Ramar than the two men standing in front of him. “Some guy. I only talk to him on the phone. Thick accent.”
Again, Harry stared at him. “Not enough. We got a link here between child pornography and money laundering across state lines. It’s a Federal thing now and you’re going away for a long time. A very long time.”
Pat wasn’t convinced. “Like I said, I don’t know who.”
“We know about Augy Ramar,” Waldon said, bluffing. “This is a one-time good deal, Pat. First one to help us gets helped. Going, going…”
“August Ramar,” Pat blurted out, finally collapsing. “And some Arab guys. I don’t know who. They pay Ramar big bucks to supply muscle and be their errand boy. I just pass the money on.”
“Who do you pass it to?” Harry asked.
“I don’t know. It’s always a dead drop.”
“When did you pass the fifty thou to Missouri?”
Pat shook his head. “I haven’t yet.” He pointed at the money on his desk. “That’s it. I’m supposed to deliver it this week.”
The detective looked at Harry. “What do you want to do with this piece of shit?”
“He makes a statement, signs it in blood, and delivers the money on schedule.”
“What about Ramar?” Pat moaned. “People disappear, like forever, if he gets worried.” The detective confirmed the truth of it.
“We’ll take care of Ramar,” Harry assured him. “You just keep your mouth shut and remember who you belong to now.”
1:20 P.M., Tuesday, May 25,
Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.
Linda, the legal office’s superefficient secretary, had taken a long lunch because it was her birthday. When she came back to her desk, a visitor was waiting to see Sutherland. She buzzed his office where he was working with Blasedale. “You’ve got a visitor,” Linda announced. Her voice had an unusually stiff quality.
“Let me guess,” Sutherland replied, a big smile on his face. “Mr. R. Garrison Cooper wants a continuance.”
“Actually,” Linda replied, “it’s Sandi Jefferson.”
Sutherland punched off the intercom, looking confused. “Hank!” Blasedale said, her voice incredulous. “Wake up. Sandi Jefferson is the defendant’s wife.”
“I know who she is. But why is she here?” He looked around his office. “We need to meet her somewhere more neutral.”
“Take her to the witness waiting room,” Blasedale said, “and I’ll have Linda bring coffee and tea.”
“Good. Meet you there.” He walked quickly down the hall to the secretary’s desk. Years as a prosecutor had made him a consummate actor and nothing betrayed his dismay when he saw the woman sitting in the outer office. Her flaming auburn hair was pulled back off her face and a brightly colored scarf held it in a loose bundle that cascaded down her back. She had the brightest blue eyes he had ever seen and a perfect peaches-and-cream complexion. Her high cheekbones and full lips made him think of a pouting cherub. But her short summer dress and obvious lack of a bra dispelled any angelic illusion. She uncrossed her long legs and stood up, revealing a flash of black panties. The gold high-heel sandals she wore made her legs appear even longer and she matched his height.
His first really conscious thought was She’s taller than Jefferson. Then, Where did he find her? “Mrs. Jefferson?” he asked, hoping nothing in his voice betrayed what he was thinking. He glanced at Linda who was staring at her, a look of stern disapproval on her face. “How may I help you?”
“Brad said…” She stopped, fighting for control, obviously upset. “Brad said you were concerned about his family.”
“Please,” he said, motioning down the hall to the witness waiting room, “why don’t we talk in private.” She followed him down the hall and he breathed in relief when he saw Blasedale was already there. He made the introductions and she sat down, again with a flash of black. He was careful to sit at an angle where his natural field of vision fell on Blasedale whose mouth was slightly open in amazement. “What can we do for you, Mrs. Jefferson.”
“Early this morning,” she said, her voice shaking, “they burned a cross on our lawn. I called the police but they didn’t arrive for almost an hour.” Anger replaced the worry in her eyes. “We live two blocks from the police station.”
“Where do you live?” Sutherland said, making notes.
“Kansas City. It was the only place where we could find a decent house because Brad is…” She let her voice trail off. “He has to commute. It’s ninety minutes each way.”
“Do you know who burned the cross?” Blasedale asked.
She nodded. “Men I see every day. A Neighborhood Brigade.”
Sutherland’s head jerked up. “One of Meredith’s brigades?”
She nodded. “I don’t know who to talk to and Brad said you were the only person to ask about his family.” She looked at him, her eyes pleading. “The Air Force doesn’t give a damn about us because—” Again, she didn’t finish the sentence.
“You’re a mixed marriage,” Blasedale said.
An inner voice told Sutherland they were on dangerous ground talking to this woman. “Mrs. Jefferson, I must ask you, did you know your husband was served with charges and orders convening a court-martial?” He felt like a clod when she started to cry.
“No one tells me anything,” she whimpered.
Blasedale moved over and sat beside her. “Mrs. Jefferson, we can make sure you are protected and safe.” Linda came in with a coffee service. “Coffee or tea?” Blasedale said, pouring a cup of coffee and handing it to Sutherland. She spoke quietly, calming the distraught woman. “We’ll answer any questions you have and make sure the right people are looking after you.”
Sutherland listened as they talked, fully aware of what Blasedale was doing. She was answering questions in a way that led to other questions and slowly, they learned what Sandi Jefferson knew about the case. He noticed that Blasedale kept looking at her watch as if she was expecting someone. “Mrs. Jefferson,” she finally said, trying to bring the meeting to an end.
“Please call me Sandi.”
“Sandi, please remember that we will tell Mr. Cooper everything we know and are as concerned with your husband’s rights as anyone. But we are—”
“You are absolute bastards!” R. Garrison Cooper bellowed, interrupting them. He was standing in the doorway, his face flushed with anger. “Sandi, never talk to these people. They are the bastards who are trying to put—”
“Someone burned a cross on my lawn last night!” she screamed, interrupting him. “And no one else seems to care!” She placed a hand on Sutherland’s arm. Her touch was warm and sent tingling waves racing over his skin. Then just as quickly, it was gone. “I called you three times and you didn’t answer. I called the Security Police, but they said they didn’t have jurisdiction and to call Colonel McGraw. But she was in a meeting with someone and didn’t call back. So who do I talk to?”
“Wait outside,” Cooper ordered. She stood and walked ou
t.
“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” Cooper shouted. It wasn’t meant to be a question. “I’ll have you both disqualified.” He glared at Sutherland. “And disbarred.”
“For what?” Sutherland asked. “She came to us.”
“And we recorded the entire session,” Blasedale added.
“That’s a violation of her right to privacy,” Cooper said, his case made.
“Please remember you are on an Air Force base,” Blasedale said, pointing to a prominent sign on the wall that said the room was subject to monitoring. “I’d ask you to read it, but that would be assuming you can read. We’ll send you a copy of the tape so you can listen to it. Also, check your answering machine and you’ll discover that I immediately called informing you that Mrs. Jefferson arrived here, of her own volition.”
He glared at them. “You’re both going to eat a pile of shit on this one.” He stormed out of the office.
Sutherland looked at Catherine Blasedale. He had an absolute pit bull on his side. “He’s blowing smoke. We can talk to her any time she allows it.”
“He knows that,” Blasedale replied. “Why do you think she came here?”
“As she said, she was scared.”
Blasedale snorted. “Bullshit. Did you see the way she stood up to him? She’s one tough lady. And the way she was dressed! My god! You could hardly take your eyes off her.”
“I thought I did pretty good.”
Blasedale relented. “Actually, you did. She was testing you, seeing if you’re interested.”
“In her? Cathy, that’s crazy.”
“Is it? She certainly didn’t hesitate to lay a hand on you. You’re single and attractive, Hank. The Air Force is a small community and gossip does get around.”
“Cooper. He only wants the appearance of impropriety.”
“He did take an hour to get here,” Blasedale allowed.
Sutherland thought for a moment. “Why would she do it?”
The hard look on Blasedale’s face softened. “Because she loves her husband.” She could tell Sutherland didn’t understand. “You’ve seen it before—the classic mismatch. She married way above her background and Jefferson is her ticket to the better life. They haven’t been married that long and the sex is probably still great. She’ll change her bimbo image the moment Jefferson gets bored. She’s a lot smarter than she looks and is one dangerous woman when her man is threatened.” She paused to emphasize her next point. “Right now, you’re that threat.”
Sutherland’s eyes drew into hard slits. “We’re going to take the lady apart. I want a full-time surveillance on her.”
“Sounds fair to me,” Blasedale replied.
“Thanks for sparing me the cherchez la femme.”
She smiled at him. “Mais oui.”
The lieutenant colonel in command of the Whiteman OSI detachment was a big, friendly man, at ease with lawyers, and wore his summer two-tone blue uniform according to the latest Air Force Instruction. But the moment he appeared in the legal office later that same day, Sutherland took one look and thought of Dick Tracy. It must go with the territory, he decided.
“Problems, folks,” the OSI agent said. “I’ve already asked for, and gotten, five additional agents to help with this investigation. I’m stretched to the limit checking out the mission-planning cell. Putting a full-time surveillance on Mrs. Jefferson is gonna break my back. I haven’t got the manpower.”
“Try womanpower,” Blasedale said. “That might do the trick.”
The lieutenant colonel grinned. “Cut me some slack, Major. I’ve gone to the well too many times for help and need some muscle to ask for more.”
“I think we can provide the steroids,” Blasedale replied.
“I’d appreciate it,” the lieutenant colonel said. He dropped a folder on Sutherland’s desk. “This came in this morning. You’re gonna love it. Two agents at Det One-twelve at McClellan rooted it out.” He waited while the two lawyers read the report that detailed a money trail that led from Reno, to Warrensburg, and was linked to the Middle East through one August Ramar. “They may be onto something,” he allowed.
“I ran across Ramar in California,” Sutherland said. “He’s bad, bad news. He is one vicious bastard whom I’d love to render.” He thought for a moment. “Can you get these two agents here?”
“I can always ask,” the lieutenant colonel replied.
3:06 P.M., Thursday, May 27,
Pudu Prison, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia
A white sport-utility truck with U.S. embassy plates pulled through the gates of the prison and halted in front of the administration building. The two men who got out were young and dressed in casual clothes. Their shirts hung loose over their pants to conceal the handguns clipped to their belts. One carried a briefcase with the signed extradition papers along with handcuffs, a waist chain, and leg shackles. In spite of their official cover as assistants to the business and economic attaché, they were easily recognized as CIA agents.
An assistant led them to the prison governor’s office. “Mr. Sahman is conducting an execution,” the assistant told them.
“Interesting work,” Bill Mears said, “hanging the bad guys.” Bill Mears was the bigger of the two and the senior CIA agent in Malaysia.
Chuck Robertson touched the bandage wrapped around his neck. His bruised larynx still hurt but was healing nicely. “I wish it was Kamigami,” he rasped.
“He’d break the rope,” Mears said. “Be a little grateful, it was his wife who saved you.”
“You ever had a hole punched in your throat?”
“Relax, Chuck. It’s payback time.”
Chuck Robertson snorted. “Much to his surprise.”
Mears gave him a hard look, a warning not to discuss that particular subject. They waited in silence for twenty minutes until Sahman appeared. The governor of the prison was a short, corpulent, bald-headed man in his late fifties. He wore a dark red tunic with gold buttons and a Mao collar. His face was covered with sweat, but not from exertion. “Unfortunate,” Sahman breathed. “Very unfortunate.” There was no hint of regret in his voice. He was a methodical man who enjoyed his work, especially when it involved hanging a man—in this case, a Chinese merchant convicted of smuggling drugs.
The assistant wheeled in a tray with tea cups and small round sweet cakes. As hospitality dictated, the men sipped at the hot tea. “He soiled himself badly,” Sahman said, making small talk. “So unnecessary.”
“Maybe you should make them wear diapers,” Mears ventured.
“Ah,” Sahman said, taking the suggestion seriously, “a good idea but that would be undignified.” The obligatory tea dispensed with, Bill Mears handed him the extradition papers. Sahman spent several minutes reading every word before calling for his assistant who did the same. “All appears to be in order,” he finally said. “We will prepare Mr. Kamigami for travel.” The assistant disappeared out the door.
“Was he any trouble?” Robertson asked, his voice gravelly.
“There was one incident,” Sahman replied. “He was in a general cell and four of his cellmates assaulted him. We believe they wanted to steal his sandals but it may have been sexual. Mr. Kamigami broke three of their heads against the wall. He shoved the ringleader’s head through the bars. We don’t know how he did that. The guards had to cut the bars to free him. He died later in the infirmary. Most unfortunate. After that, we moved him into a solitary cell. So much better for everyone.”
“You’re not charging Kamigami?” Robertson asked.
“Because he acted in self-defense, no. Normally, we whip prisoners for fighting. But none of the guards were willing to do it.” He looked at the Americans, his face a bland mask. “Of course, I could not do it.”
“Of course not,” Robertson allowed.
The door opened and four guards escorted Kamigami into the room. His leather wrist cuffs were shackled to a thick leather belt around his waist. He was hobbled by a short chain between leather ankl
e cuffs. A longer chain ran from each ankle cuff to the belt. He was wearing the same sandals, shirt, and khaki shorts as when he was arrested. But his clothes were freshly washed and pressed. “Well, Victor,” Sahman said, “these gentlemen are returning you to the States. Do you wish to read the extradition papers?”
“If you have read them, Mr. Sahman,” Kamigami replied, “then I’m sure all is in order.” The governor actually beamed at the praise from his prisoner.
“Use these,” Mears said, handing the guards the handcuffs and chains from his briefcase. A torrent of Malay erupted from the guards as they stepped back.
“Victor,” Sahman said, “they want your permission to change your shackles. Is that acceptable?” Kamigami nodded and another burst of Malay echoed from the guards. Finally, the junior man was pushed forward. He spoke in a halting voice. “He begs your forgiveness,” Sahman said to Kamigami. “May he proceed?”
“For Christ’s sake,” Robertson rasped. “He’s been here six days and acts like he owns the place.”
The guard gingerly replaced Kamigami’s leather cuffs with the ones the Americans had brought. Kamigami stood motionlessly while the guard looped a waist chain around him and through the handcuffs. With his hands securely fastened to the waist chain and his legs hobbled with the new shackles, the guard bobbed his head in a small bow and stepped back. “Mr. Kamigami is now your responsibility,” Sahman said.
“Let’s go,” Robertson rasped, his voice giving out. He led the way outside, followed by Kamigami, the guards, and finally Mears.
Robertson held open the rear door to the white truck as Kamigami crawled in. He slammed the door, almost hitting him. “Got’cha,” Robertson sneered. They drove out of the prison and turned left along the brightly painted mural that ran the length of the prison wall depicting jungle scenes of freedom.
Robertson turned around from the front seat and leveled his nine-millimeter Beretta at Kamigami. “You breathe wrong and I’ll blow your shit away.”
Against All Enemies Page 17