The Valley of Shadows

by Mark Terry

  “I don’t know. Can you?”

  Derek’s gaze flickered. “Why don’t you just lay out your ticket, buddy, and save us both some time.”

  “All right. Just keep your hands where I can see them, seeing as how you’re carrying.”

  “And why don’t you move real slow, seeing as how you’re carrying,” Derek said.

  The guy did as Derek suggested, reaching slowly into his jacket pocket and retrieving a badge holder, which he flashed. Derek rolled his eyes and held out his hand. “I’ll want a little more time to see your ID.”

  The guy reluctantly dropped the badge into Derek’s hand. It was an LAPD shield and identified the man as Detective Stephen Connelly. Derek handed it back. “All right, Detective. What can I do for you?”

  “I overheard you asking about Greg Popovitch. I’m curious as to your interest.”

  Derek didn’t blink. He said, “Patriot Act notwithstanding, what business is it of yours?”

  A feminine voice behind them said, “Oh for God sakes, Derek, show him your ID.”

  Connelly and Derek turned to see Cassandra O’Reilly walking down the sidewalk toward them. Connelly asked, “Who are you?”

  O’Reilly reached into her handbag, and Derek saw Connelly tense. “Easy,” Derek murmured. “She’s with the Office of the Director of National Intelligence.”

  She presented her creds to the cop. Derek took the opportunity to pass over his identification with the DHS. O’Reilly said, “I take it you know something about Greg Popovitch, Detective?”

  “I know he’s bad news and people who want to talk to him are usually worse news. What’s this about?”

  “National security,” O’Reilly said. “Do you know where we can find him?”

  “We?” Derek said.

  She ignored him and waited for Connelly to provide an answer. The detective nodded. “If he’s not here at Little Pedro’s, you can usually find him at the Suehiro Café in Little Tokyo or sometimes Kwan’s if he’s in the mood for Korean barbeque.”

  “Thank you, Detective. We appreciate it.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “Business as usual,” Derek said. “Stopping bad guys.”

  “I hear that. Anything more specific?”

  “Not that I’m going to talk about with you,” Derek said. “Why don’t you go find some junkies to harass or something. We’ve got work to do.”

  “Jesus,” O’Reilly muttered under her breath.

  “Maybe I’ll take you two over to the PAB to discuss what you’re doing here.”

  “Give it your best shot,” Derek snarled, stepping toward the cop. “But keep in mind that my first phone call will be to my immediate boss, who happens to be James Johnston, the secretary of Homeland Security.”

  The cop didn’t budge. Connelly was taller and broader than Derek. Probably few people intimidated him. The cop started to place his hands on Derek’s chest when O’Reilly shouldered Derek aside. “We don’t have time for this shit. Detective, we’re following actionable intelligence that there’s going to be a terrorist attack in the city in less than forty-eight hours, and if you were in the office instead of a bar, you’d probably already have heard about it.”

  To Derek she said, “Grow up. Come on.” She started off down First. Derek followed. Connelly said nothing and stayed where he was.

  Little Tokyo was lit up like a carnival, all energy and brightness, but not crowded late on a Sunday evening. Once they were out of earshot of the L.A. detective, Derek asked, “Were you behind me or ahead of me?”

  “Behind. I was heading into Little Pedro’s when I saw you coming out. I didn’t like that there was a guy behind you. Did you know you were being followed?”

  “No.”

  She stopped, studying him. “That’s not very operational of you. And why the hell didn’t you just try to diffuse the situation? You always make things worse.”

  “It’s a gift.”

  “I’m the team leader, Derek. It would be my pleasure to have your ass sent back to D.C.”

  “If that’s how you feel about it, go right ahead.”

  Sighing, O’Reilly poked him in the chest with her index finger. “I am not impressed with your bullshit. I think you try remarkably hard to get thrown off teams. We don’t have time for this, so I expect you to live up to this reputation of yours for cutting through BS and getting things done. Impress me.”

  “Okay.” He turned and walked away. She tagged after him.

  “Get your game on, Derek. This is serious.”

  “I’m aware of that. But at the moment we have nothing. I’m just looking for a thread to start pulling on. Were you looking for Popovitch?”

  She nodded. “Great minds think alike. Where’s Pimpuntikar?”

  “Back with the feebs being a computer geek with Helen Birch.”

  “Let’s go find Popovitch, then.”

  “All right. Suehiro Café or Kwan’s barbeque?”

  “Let’s try the Japanese place first. If Popovitch is in one of his zen phases, he’s more likely to go with Japanese.”

  “And if he’s not, he’s likely to shoot us the second we walk through the door.”

  O’Reilly said, “That’s one of two reasons why I want you to start paying attention.”

  “Okay. What’s the other?”

  “I want you to go through the door first.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Charlie Daniels thought the Dallas, Texas night was sultry. Yeah, he thought, sultry. I like that word. Hot and wet. Like that line from that movie, what was it, that’s all right if you’re with a woman—that movie with Robin Williams, the DJ in Vietnam, what’s the name, Good Morning, Vietnam, that’s what it was, yeah, funny movie.

  Charlie pushed an old Schwinn alongside him, its three metal baskets jammed with all of his life’s belongings—a sleeping bag, a blanket, a little pillow with Santa Claus embroidered on it in red, a photo album wrapped in a black garbage bag, another black garbage bag full of the beer and soda cans he had picked up so far today, two dozen newspapers he had collected from trash cans, and a half-box of stale Ritz Crackers.

  He pushed across the Brookhaven College campus toward the Loos Field House on Valley View Lane. Charlie liked college kids because they were wasteful. They threw out the best stuff, especially food. Pizza slices, french fries, fruit that hadn’t gone completely bad.

  And one of Charlie’s favorite places for Dumpster diving was behind the Loos Field House.

  Sweat soaked Charlie’s skin, not just because it was sultry, but because he wore almost all of his clothing—a pair of graying Army boots that were holding up well, a pair of dirty jeans that were rotting around him, three pairs of white tube socks, just a single pair of jockey shorts he had recently scavenged from a Dumpster, three T-shirts, a brown and red checkered flannel shirt, a Dallas Cowboys sweatshirt, and an Army jacket he’d also found in a Dumpster. Charlie started wearing all his clothes after he was robbed once while sleeping in an alley downtown and he’d been left with only the clothing on his back. From that time on he’d decided he was always going to wear all the clothes he owned so it never happened again.

  Charlie pushed his bicycle toward the back of the Loos Field House, keeping an eye out for campus cops and students. He wasn’t sure which were more dangerous; he’d had problems with both from time to time.

  Nobody.

  It was a hot night.

  “Sultry,” he said, his voice an unfamiliar croak.

  Don’t start talking to yourself out loud now, he chastised himself. That’s the beginning of the end. You know you’re really going downhill then, gonna be one of them crazies, those schizos talkin’ to God.

  Charlie leaned his bicycle against one of the Dumpsters and climbed up to lean in. It was a sticky stew redolent of rotting food and, thank the Lord, beer and wine and spirits. Charlie pushed the lid off and crawled in, peering through the gloom. A shaft of light from a nearby halogen pierced the interior of the Dumpster.
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br />   He picked up a plastic cup half-filled with stale beer and tore the top off and drained it, the beer dripping down his matted beard.

  Up to his knees in trash, he wallowed through it, picking up a partial box of popcorn, half a hotdog, more stale beer, and a plastic container of nachos, the cheese sauce congealed and cold.

  “Good eatin’,” he mumbled, not correcting himself for speaking out loud. His gaze caught sight of what looked like a small garbage can about two-and-a-half-feet tall, made of gray-green metal, the top sealed.

  “What’s this?” He floundered over and tried to peel back the lid. It wouldn’t open.

  Charlie set down his treasures and applied both hands to the top of the metal can lid, finally getting purchase with his fingers. With a tearing sound the lid came up. Charlie peered myopically into the interior of the can, his disappointment mixed with a rare curiosity.

  Clearly there was no food in the can, but maybe whatever it was he could scavenge and sell.

  It looked like some sort of electronics—a circuit board, something from a cellular phone, all connected with wires to some packages wrapped in plastic. Maybe it was some junk the guys who ran the sound system and stuff in the field house had ditched.

  Charlie reached in and tapped the circuit board. Years before, back before the booze sunk its claws in, Charlie had worked at a factory that built radio-controlled cars. The circuit board looked like something from one of those cars.

  With a shrug, he grabbed hold and pulled.

  The explosion was instantaneous.

  CHAPTER 9

  Derek and Cassandra O’Reilly finally found Greg Popovitch at Kwan’s Korean BBQ, a green faux-pagoda building tucked between an Asian market and a noodle shop. After the woman at the desk told them Popovitch was in a private room, O’Reilly said to Derek, “Let me do the talking. You piss everybody off. You’ve really got to work on your interpersonal skills.”

  Derek raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment.

  Running a hand through her blonde hair, O’Reilly headed for the back room. Derek followed.

  He and O’Reilly had dealt with Popovitch in Iraq, back when the man was some sort of contract operator involved with the CIA. Derek had never been able to quite put a job description on Popovitch’s résumé. “Intelligence asset” was probably one possibility, as were “smuggler,” “snitch,” “spy,” “soldier of fortune,” “mercenary,” and “unreliable self-interested asshole.” Since his return to the U.S., Popovitch kept his fingers dangling in a stream of information about all things illegal and illicit on the West Coast.

  Popovitch was holding court in a private room with two steroid-juicers. Only a blind man could miss the handguns they carried under their warm-up jackets. Popovitch took one look at the two of them as they walked through the door, shook the dark hair he wore past his shoulders, and said, “Jeee-sus Christ! It’s been a long time. C’mon in, have some barbeque. Want a beer?”

  Derek pulled up a chair and took the bottle of Hite beer offered him. O’Reilly stayed standing. She said, “We’re in kind of a hurry, Greg. We need some information.”

  Leaning back in his chair, Popovitch’s black silk shirt stretched over his bulging belly. He laced his hands together behind his neck. “Sandy, how are you? How’s that husband of yours?”

  “We’re divorced.”

  Popovitch grinned. “If you don’t mind my saying so, I could have seen that coming from a thousand miles a way. Hell, I did see it coming from about ten thousand miles away. From Iraq, as a matter of fact. Who you working for these days, babe?”

  “ODNI.”

  Derek saw something saurian move behind Popovitch’s dark eyes. Derek turned his attention to Popovitch’s buddies, one of whom was seated at the table eating. The other roamed the room, dark blank eyes taking in everything.

  “Yeah? And Derek, I hear you’re with Homeland.”

  Derek dipped his head in assent.

  “So what can I do for you? And might I add that it’s a bit unusual to find you two together—again.” A leer edged his voice.

  O’Reilly said, “There are two things specifically you might help us with and maybe some general things.”

  “I’m sure we can work out some sort of arrangement, assuming I can help.”

  Derek said, “Have you heard of an al-Qaeda op that goes by Kalakar?”

  O’Reilly shot him a squint-eyed look.

  Popovitch rocked in the chair. “Kalakar, Kalakar. Hmmm, nope. Sorry. Guess that one’s a freebie. Besides, those al-Qaeda assholes keep to themselves pretty much. Nasty fucks, generally.”

  Still standing, O’Reilly leaned forward, fists resting on the table. “Any unusual shipments lately that you might have heard rumors about, Greg?”

  Popovitch tipped forward on his chair and laughed. He picked up his own beer bottle and knocked back the remaining half and set it down with a clunk. “Can you be a bit more specific, babe? This is La-La Land. We get unusual shipments every day.”

  Popovitch’s minions chuckled as if he’d told a really good joke.

  O’Reilly’s voice was so low Derek could barely hear her. She said, “We’ve got actionable intel that al-Qaeda intends to set off a major attack in the next two days. L.A. may be one of the sites. That unusual enough for you?”

  Popovitch scratched at his jaw, an expression both contemplative and crafty on his broad face. “Info of that nature would carry a significant price tag.”

  Flipping open his sat phone, Derek asked, “You want cash or do you have an account somewhere?”

  Hands splayed in an of-course gesture, Popovitch said, “Cash is always welcome, but I do have some offshore accounts that would work well for this piece of business.” He reached into his pocket. Both Derek and O’Reilly tensed.

  “Easy.” Popovitch slowly retrieved a PDA from his pocket. “Easy.” He tapped keys for a moment and passed the instrument over to Derek. It listed a Grand Cayman bank and an account number.

  “How much?”

  “Ten.”

  Derek shook his head. “Nice opener, but I’m not committing to that much until I know what it is.”

  Popovitch shrugged. “The problem with information—”

  Both Derek and O’Reilly’s phones rang almost simultaneously. Derek pointed to O’Reilly. “You take it.” He let his own phone pick up. O’Reilly answered hers with a curt, “Yes,” and walked away from them to stand by the door.

  Popovitch continued. “As I was saying, the problem with information is you pretty much have to buy it without knowing its value. And it sounds as if you folks are in real need.” He grinned his shiny white grin. Derek remembered an old biology instructor warning them not to anthropomorphize: “If an animal grins at you, it’s not smiling. It’s showing you its fangs. It’s a sign of aggression.”

  Derek leaned forward. “Greg, for all we know you could be at ground zero for an attack. If this is good information, I can go to twelve. If it’s crap, we’ll go five. But I’m not paying you anything until—”

  O’Reilly clicked off her phone, strode over to Greg Popovitch, caught up a fistful of his long hair and slammed his head down on the table. Her Beretta was in her left hand and she dug it into the underside of his jaw.

  The big thug who’d been roaming the room rushed toward Derek, ham-sized fists swinging. Derek got his arms up and took the blows on his forearms, but toppled backward in the chair. He tried to roll with it, but still hit the floor hard enough to rattle his bones. The thug kicked out, catching Derek’s thigh with his cowboy boot. Derek yelped, reached out, caught the toppled chair and arced it sideways into the bruiser’s legs. With a shout the thug collapsed to the floor. Derek leapt up, gun out, and aimed at the other guy.

  O’Reilly snarled, “Enough. Listen to me, Greg. A dirty bomb just went off in Dallas. They’re still sorting out the radiation counts and they don’t know if anybody’s been killed yet. Whatever al-Qaeda’s got going is starting, and if this is their opening salvo, things a
re going to turn to shit big-time. So don’t fuck around with me, or I will kneecap you and we can have this same discussion in an emergency room.”

  “I don’t know anything about attacks,” Popovitch said in a muffled, strangled voice. “I know some people have been asking about suitcase nukes. Jesus, back off.”

  Derek thought: shit.

  O’Reilly stepped away, gun aimed at Popovitch’s head. Derek moved back so he could keep his gun trained on everybody. His leg hurt like a bastard, but at least he hadn’t taken the kick to his bad knee.