NCIS Los Angeles

by Jerome Preisler

That was also easy enough. Although its file extension was masked, Erasmo had run a scan of the hard drive’s service area—and noticed a large amount of its allocated space was mysteriously unavailable. For someone like him, it was a telltale sign the memory was being used for stealth storage.

  The hidden partition was essentially a virtual drive, something people used to conceal their most valuable and secret data, and Erasmo had been sure the map would be there. But after mounting and decrypting it, he again came up cold. He found several versions of the manuscript for the old man’s published memoirs, fragments of a second work in progress, a great many speeches and committee reports from his years in the Senate, and assorted personal and financial documents.

  But there was nothing at all related to what he was looking for.

  That seeming dead end left Erasmo stumped.

  The files on the hidden partition would have been important to Sutton, yes. But they were fairly unremarkable. Why bother stashing them on a hidden drive after having already encrypted the primary, physical drive? The added trouble didn’t seem warranted.

  After that proved a waste of time, Erasmo went rooting for passwords to a cloud vault. If the info wasn’t on the computer, he had reasoned, it must be stored in an outside host.

  In hindsight, that was his biggest misstep. Sutton’s browsing and download history indicated he used the Internet mostly for routine email, reading the news, and occasionally streaming movies. Though several of the programs installed on his machine offered cloud backups, he’d never taken advantage of them.

  That brought Erasmo back to square one.

  The information had to be on the drive. But where?

  His frustration had only intensified as he tried to make sense of it. He racked his brain throughout the night, probing the drive’s registry and directories, sifting through every bit of data, drinking one Red Bull after another to stay awake.

  But nothing worked.

  Dawn crept through his window blinds along with a feeling of hopeless futility, and by afternoon he was wearing down.

  It was desperation more than anything else that prompted him to check the hard drive’s controller—the flash chip and circuitry that communicated with the CPU, and functioned as the drive’s own miniature operating system. Like the disk’s service area, the controller had a small allocation of ROM memory, possibly two or three megabytes, most of which would be reserved for hardwired command codes. Theoretically, however, some of it would still be available for data storage.

  Erasmo had known this was a longshot. The drive controller’s tiny memory was not intended to hold user data. Its resident code normally remained unaltered through software updates, disk encryption, even a complete disk wipe. Writing information into the controller’s memory required commands that would be highly guarded by the hard drive’s manufacturer. And while the CIA and NSA had developed sophisticated ways of doing it for espionage purposes, their methods were far beyond a limping relic from the vacuum-tube era like Elias Sutton.

  Still, Erasmo decided to play his hunch. The old man was well connected. If a third party helped him bury his map on his computer, the full hard-disk encryption could have been a deliberate blind, something to draw attention from the actual hiding place. It was a devious, ingenious trick…

  For most of the afternoon, Erasmo had worked to access the controller’s flash chip and examine its memory layout. He didn’t need long to identify binary strings that were uncharacteristic of hard drive firmware and looked suspiciously like custom code.

  A little more analysis told him he’d found a hidden cubbyhole in the closet, one containing a single data bag, a ciphertext file conspicuously protected by an entirely different form of encryption than the rest of the hard drive’s information.

  That was two hours ago.

  Ten minutes ago, his head pulsating from stress and exhaustion, he had finally decrypted the file…

  And realized it was a list.

  A list.

  When he read it, he was rocked to his core.

  Erasmo looked at the clock on his computer now, his eyes stinging and bloodshot. He needed to bring himself into focus, needed to think. It was almost six-thirty. Late, very late in the day. He had repeatedly called and messaged Azarian, but gotten no answer.

  That wasn’t a good sign. He’d blown his deadline, left it shattered to bits and pieces behind him. Which would not go down well with his employer. Azarian had no idea of the difficulties he’d faced completing his task.

  And he wouldn’t care, of course.

  Men like him…

  They made their own rules.

  And dealt out their own punishments for breaking them.

  Erasmo could only hope he was pleased enough with his findings to let him live.

  * * *

  “May I?” Sam asked, and held out his hands. “I have two of my own… a boy and a girl.”

  Karyn Valli sat on the living room sofa, Callen and Sam opposite her in matching gray armchairs. She was weeping uncontrollably, the baby also still crying in her arms.

  “You’re sure?” she said.

  He nodded and rose from his chair. “What’s her name?”

  “Lila.”

  “Sweet Lila,” he said, taking the little girl from her. “One part honey in a cup, two parts angel powder.”

  “A baby from scratch?” Callen said.

  Sam grinned.

  “That’s the classic recipe.”

  He settled back into the chair, felt the baby squirm against his chest, and lifted her so her chin was resting on his shoulder.

  “What’s the matter, hon?” he said. Rubbing her back, his large hand as wide as she was. “I’m guessing you just need to get rid of some gas.”

  The baby squirmed against him some more, but quieted a little.

  Callen watched him a moment, wondering how he could miss something he’d never had. Then he reached into his pants pocket for a pack of tissues and silently held it out to Karyn.

  “Thank you.” She took a couple from the pack and dabbed her face, wiping mascara off her cheeks. “I’m really sorry I started to cry… but…”

  She hitched in a breath and broke down in tears again.

  He sat there a minute feeling awkward. In the seat beside him, meanwhile, Sam had shifted Lila to his lap, where she was now making happy baby noises.

  “Doll face,” Sam clucked. “You have a honey doll face.”

  Callen cleared his throat. “Mrs. Valli…”

  “Karyn,” she said. “Please.”

  He nodded.

  “Karyn, we came here to speak with your husband…”

  “I don’t know where Ron is,” she said, sniffling. “He left this morning without letting me know.”

  “Didn’t say anything?” Callen asked. “Write you a note?”

  “No,” she said. “I was up with the baby at five, six in the morning, and fell asleep. When I woke up, he was gone.”

  “And when did you last see him?”

  “Right around the time I got back to the bedroom.”

  “After being up with Lila.”

  She nodded.

  “Has he ever done anything like this before?”

  “Never. He’s a very responsible man.”

  “So what could make him do it now?”

  She shook her head, her eyes red, her cheeks wet from tears.

  “I don’t know,” she said, and then lowered her gaze. “I wish I could tell you.”

  Callen watched her closely, thinking she knew more than she wanted to divulge.

  “Karyn,” he said, “I assume you know what happened to Elias Sutton.”

  “Of course,” she said. “Ron is… was… his driver.”

  “Can you tell me how long he worked for him?”

  “Three years… it would have been four next December,” she said. “Ronnie and I started dating about a month after he was hired.”

  “And, as far as you know, there were no problems between him and th
e senator?”

  She looked back up at him, swabbing her eyes.

  “Do you think my husband did something to hurt him?”

  “I don’t know,” Callen said. “Do you?”

  She kept looking at him, the tissues bunched up in her hand.

  “Ronnie loved him like a father,” she said, her voice suddenly firm and defiant. “Admiral Sutton…” Her voice fell off, the tears flowing again. “Ron always used the title Admiral… He gave him a chance when no one else would.”

  “After his parole, you mean,” Callen said, laying it right out there for her.

  Karyn didn’t answer immediately. Callen waited, listening to Sam and the baby coo at each other.

  “Ron’s… mistakes… were all a long time ago,” she said at last. “He told me about his past before we were married. Never hid anything from me.”

  Callen nodded, waiting.

  “When he got out of prison, Ronnie could barely get a job washing dishes,” she said. “He didn’t think he had a shot when a prisoner reentry counselor sent him to interview with Admiral Sutton. A former United States senator hiring a two-time felon as his personal driver… who would expect it?”

  “But he got the job.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Elias Sutton didn’t just talk about people having the ability to change their lives. He believed it in his heart and soul.”

  Callen took a deep breath. “Karyn, a few hours before Mr. Sutton and his housekeeper were killed, Ron drove him to the cemetery where his wife is interred…”

  “I know,” she said. “Yesterday was the anniversary of her death. He went every year.”

  “We think the murders took place minutes after he got home,” he said. “Your husband would’ve dropped him off, which probably makes him the last person to see him alive.”

  “Yes…”

  Her voice caught, her eyes dropping back to her lap.

  Callen suddenly wondered about something.

  “Karyn… was Ron in the house after the murders?”

  She was weeping outright again, breathing in moist, ragged snatches.

  “He brought the car for gas,” she said. “Admiral Sutton read the paper every day, and Ron picked it up at the station.” She took a fresh tissue from the pack and blotted her face again. “When he got back to the house… he… found the side door open, went inside… and saw what happened there.”

  Callen looked at her. “Can you tell me why he took off instead of coming forward?”

  Karyn’s shoulders were trembling. “I… I think Ronnie was afraid he would be an automatic suspect,” she said.

  “Because of his record.”

  “Yes. He didn’t admit he felt that way, but I knew.”

  “Did he say anything about wanting to contact the police?”

  “He told me he’d already done it. That they told him they’d be in touch.”

  “And you believed him.”

  She nodded. “He didn’t sleep all night. I could see he was worried and upset. But who wouldn’t be?”

  There was a long silence.

  Sam stood up with Lila back in his arms. She was falling asleep, her cheek against his shoulder, his hand supporting the back of her head.

  “Would you like me to put her in her crib?” he whispered to Karyn.

  “That’s okay,” she said, smiling through her tears. “You don’t have to bother…”

  “It’s no bother,” he said. “Just show me where to go.”

  She motioned toward the hall. “If you turn right, it’s the first door,” she said quietly. “And thank you.”

  He nodded and left the room.

  After a minute, Callen turned back toward Karyn. There was one last subject he needed to bring up.

  “I know this was before you met him… but when Ron was in CSP-Sacramento, he shared a cell with someone named Isaak Dorani,” he said. “I wonder if you—”

  She snapped her eyes to his face, then averted them.

  “Karyn,” he said. “Is the name familiar?”

  She didn’t answer.

  Callen sat forward in his chair. “I didn’t come here to rack up a parole violation for Ron,” he said. “This isn’t about him associating with a felon.”

  She remained silent another few seconds. Her crying had subsided enough that she could stop wiping her face. Finally she took a long, deep breath.

  “Isaak’s my husband’s pet project,” she said. “He gets into hot water, Ronnie helps pull him out.” She paused. “He remembers the difference it made when Admiral Sutton believed in him, and wants to do the same by believing in someone else.”

  “Sounds like you aren’t sure he picked the right guy.”

  Karyn gave him a downbeat smile.

  “Isaak’s a character,” she said. “He’s sweet in his own weird way. The original mixed-up kid… you have to know him to love him.”

  “Have they been in touch lately?”

  She nodded.

  “He phoned last night,” she said. “Around midnight.”

  “Odd hour,” Callen said. “Does he usually call that late?”

  She shook her head.

  “Never,” she said. “Ron told me it was because he heard about Admiral Sutton in the news.”

  The room was silent. Callen heard the low creak of wooden floorboards under the carpet, glanced over his shoulder, and saw Sam returning. Rather than sit down, he stood behind his chair with his hands on the back of it.

  “Lila’s in dreamland,” he said. “She hardly budged when I laid her down in the crib.”

  Karyn smiled. “She takes after her mom.”

  More silence. Callen lifted his eyes to Sam’s, nodded, and looked back at Karyn.

  “Thanks for your time,” he said to her. “If Ron contacts you, please tell him we only want to talk. And if you have any idea where he might be…”

  She suddenly met his gaze. Held it. Filled her lungs with air, released the breath, then inhaled and exhaled again…

  “I think I know,” she said at last.

  10

  Daylight was well on the wane at seven P.M. when the white Porsche Panamera slid up to the decrepit tenement on Hollywood Boulevard and Western, the lavish German sedan an incongruous sight amid the tired watering holes and adult novelty shops that shared the street.

  Karik left the car first, sliding out the front passenger door. Then he went around to the rear door and opened it. His eyes were watchful.

  The slender, athletic man who exited from the backseat was wearing a light tan sport coat, black jeans, and black ankle boots. Polished to a soft, even shine, the boots were lace-up chukkas made of supple, handsewn peccary leather. His long, dark hair was slicked straight back and fell several inches below the collar of the tailored jacket. Underneath the jacket, in a sheath on the left side of his belt, was a spiked titanium kubotan customized for his grip.

  There were only a few scattered people on the avenue—a couple of teenaged bangers in sagging jeans, a woman with a gaggle of kids and a stroller, a gaunt, pale drag queen smoking a cigarette outside a vacant, fenced-off lot.

  None of them gave the car, or the men who got out of it, a direct look. In this west Los Angeles slum, a wrong look at the wrong time could easily get you shot or stabbed, and people knew when to mind their business.

  The Porsche’s tinted window slid halfway down, and the long-haired man leaned over to speak to his driver. After a few brief words, he straightened and turned toward the tenement.

  Karik shut the door and followed slightly behind him. The Porsche pulled from the curb and drove off.

  The two men pushed through the partially boarded-up outer doors of the apartment building, Karik stepping over to the double row of buzzers in its vestibule. He quickly found the name and apartment number he was seeking.

  He moved toward the inner door without ringing the bell. Pressing his palm against the lockplate, he applied his shoulder to its flyspecked glass and pushed hard.

  The door ratt
led a little and swung open.

  The lobby was large and dim, its light fixtures broken, its tiled floor covered with cigarette butts, candy wrappers, and other assorted trash. Someone had left a furry pink slipper just inside the doorway.

  Karik pushed it aside with the toe of his shoe, holding the door for the long-haired man.

  “Remember what I told you,” the man said in a quiet voice.

  Karik nodded, letting the door swing shut.

  Then he once again fell in behind Azarian as they climbed the stairs.

  * * *

  The practice range was in a shallow gully about a quarter mile from the safehouse. Hidden under an overhang of rock and thick, thorny scrub, its wooden target stands, obstacles, and mockups could be dismantled at a moment’s notice.

  Alysha thought it reminiscent of the Hama al Riyaah training camp, where she had lived with Tomas and the mujahideen of the Marwan Hadid Brigade. At the facility she had combat conditioned her body, learned how to use a handgun and assault weapon, and eventually honed her skills with a sniper rifle.

  It was after almost a year there as Tomas’s lover that her attentions drifted to a powerful, charismatic al-Qaeda soldier named Umar, with whom she would steal off to Iraq, three hundred miles to the south.

  At the Al Karar camp, in Tigris province, she became schooled in the arts of stealth combat, took training in water and forests, and became expert in the making of improvised bombs.

  Her goal was to become the perfect killer.

  At first, she thought it was because her killing ability impressed Umar. But later she would see her time in Iraq as another stage in her Emergence.

  When the Syrian civil war erupted, she and Umar returned there to join al-Qaeda’s Jabhat al-Nusra front in its rebellion against the Assad government. But a group of the insurgents would soon attack the ethnic Karikian town of Kessab, setting fire to churches, looting homes, abducting and torturing villagers of Armenian origin.

  Umar and Alysha were elsewhere in Syria when the massacre occurred. Sickened by it, Alysha had decided she was moving on. With or without Umar.

  They were at Hama al Riyaah to pick up weapons and ammunition when she again met Tomas. She’d thought then that he would try to kill her as payback for her infidelity. But in hindsight, she realized his loyalty to the cause always exceeded his passions.