by Thomas Perry
The two black cars slowed and stopped at the end of his driveway. Then they stayed there while the clouds of dust and sand slowly drifted away. Even at this distance he knew that the engines were still running because none of the windows rolled down. The Mojave Desert in August was a very hot place to sit in a closed car without air-conditioning. He remained motionless, watching them not move and thinking that the last hour of his life had begun.
He heard a phone ringing. He felt for his cell phone in his pocket and looked at it, but the screen was black. Had it been the house phone? He opened the closet door cautiously, because he knew that calling him would be a great way to lure him out of a hiding place. He ducked low and hurried to the phone on the other side of the living room. He heard the ring again, but it was not this phone.
What was the matter with him? The men in Niagara Falls, Canada, had given him a cell phone. The ones in the car must be those men. He ran. He had hidden the phone in his kitchen inside a cupboard and run the charging wire down through the cupboard to the outlet under the sink to keep the battery charging. As he picked up the phone the ringing stopped. He was sweating, the kind of sweat that felt as though it had been squeezed out of him. He stared at the telephone, trying to remember the number they had given him to call. He pressed the button to get the opening screen. The phone had been programmed with that number. Just as he raised his other hand to touch the screen the phone rang again. He swept his finger across the screen. “Hello?”
“We’re at the end of your driveway and we want to talk to you. Come out to us. Don’t bring anything with you.”
The bomb maker took everything out of his pockets and put it on the kitchen island. He set the phone down with his wallet and keys and walked to his front door so he would be visible when he stepped outside.
He opened the door, used the button on the doorknob to make it lock automatically, and closed the door. He had a key hidden under a pot among some potted succulents near the closest ring of land mines, so he knew he wouldn’t have to break in later.
He went down the steps, holding his hands a few inches away from his sides so they wouldn’t think he had a gun or knife. The walk seemed long, and he felt self-conscious being watched.
When he reached the car, the back door swung open and a man got out. He was tall, with close-cropped dark hair and dark skin. He patted the bomb maker’s legs, belly, and back, then lifted the bomb maker’s arms and ran his hands up and down his sides. Finally he ran his index finger around the inner side of the waistband of his pants to check for anything hidden under his belt. Then he ushered the bomb maker into the backseat of the car, got in after him, and closed the door.
The tint of the car’s windows was so dark he had not been able to see its inhabitants from outside. These four were not the ones he had met in Canada. All but one looked younger, maybe in their mid-twenties. They were all in good physical condition with muscular arms, flat bellies, and buzz-cut hair. The only exception was a man in the front passenger seat whose head was shaved. He seemed older. They had a military look, and their expressions were set and unchanging, but the older one half-turned in the passenger seat to look directly at the bomb maker.
The driver shifted and drove onto the highway for a mile or so before the bald man said, “We’d like you to do something.”
The bomb maker waited. He could not have said what country these men were from, but he sensed it was an old-fashioned place, and traditional cultures always seemed to him to be prickly about formalities. He tried hospitality. “You’re welcome to come to my house to talk in comfort. I have cold drinks and comfortable furniture and air-conditioning.”
“We don’t know you that well.”
“My new friend beside me just searched me for guns or recording devices and found none.”
The bald man said, “We can’t know what you have in your house. You could have both. Or maybe the authorities have been watching you all year, and they’ve put transmitters in your house without your knowledge. The result would be the same.”
“Believe me,” said the bomb maker. “If they knew who I am and where I live, they would have brought an army. I’ve been killing police officers for weeks.” He knew he should stop talking.
The bald man sighed. “If they learn about you later, they’ll search your house for fingerprints and DNA. If we don’t go there, we don’t have to worry about that. But we didn’t come here to argue.”
“Why did you come?” Instantly he realized that this could have sounded disrespectful. So he added, “What can I do for you?”
The bald man smiled, and his teeth looked odd, with spaces between them, but straight and even. “Good. That’s the right attitude.”
“Thank you.”
“You and we are at war with the United States, and that’s a serious thing. We understand that you set off a bomb at a police party last night. How many did you kill?”
The bomb maker resisted the temptation to deceive or exaggerate. “I don’t know. The television news said only two.”
“Both police?”
“No. Nurses. Or one nurse and a young orderly.”
“Is there a chance they just haven’t told the public about other deaths or very serious injuries?”
“It’s possible. Sometimes more people die later. But we can’t count on it.”
“No matter. You disabled a hospital. We saw pictures of the building. A hospital can be as important as a few bomb technicians. And you’ll get the others.”
“Yes,” said the bomb maker. “I will. What happened was—”
“We don’t care what happened. You kill or you die. Learn from your mistakes, and try again. And I want you to do something else for us.”
“What is it?”
“We’re going to need weapons. We didn’t want to risk bringing any here ourselves, but we don’t need to. You’re an American citizen. You can buy them for us.”
“What kind of weapons?”
“We need fifteen Kalashnikov rifles, fully automatic. We need fifteen pistols. Ammunition and high-capacity magazines.”
He knew he would have to be careful now. “I’m a bomb maker. I don’t have an armory of guns.”
“Of course not,” said the bald man. “But you’ll buy them for us.”
“This could take some time,” the bomb maker said. “There are laws, even for citizens, and the government is very careful about that kind of weapon. The ammunition for an AK is hard to find, and has to be bought in small lots. Each of the rifles will have to be altered, the trigger and sear mechanisms replaced with hand-tooled ones so the rifle will fire on full auto.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” the man said. He was getting impatient. “So do what’s necessary.”
The man lifted a small day pack off the floor in front of him, swung it over the back of his seat, and tossed it onto the bomb maker’s lap. “Here. You’ll need money for the guns and ammunition. I don’t want you using any of the bomb money. Buy and transport everything yourself. Don’t bring in other people. Use the cell phone when the guns are ready for us.”
He stared at the bomb maker hard, as though he were trying to decipher a form of script he had never read before. “Don’t get caught.” He tapped the driver’s arm and the car pulled onto the shoulder. “Go home and do your work.”
The man who had let the bomb maker into the car now slipped out and stood holding the door open. He watched the bomb maker get out and swing the day pack over one shoulder. The bomb maker moved slowly, hoping to hear one of the men in the car say something to another, so he could hear the language they spoke, but they said nothing and looked ahead through the windshield, not at him. The man got in and closed the door, and the big sedan glided back onto the highway like an alligator sliding into a river. A moment later the second car slid onto the road and accelerated after it.
When he was alone, the bomb maker swung the day pack around to his belly, unzipped the main compartment, and looked inside. There were stacks of hundred-dollar bill
s, all with paper bands as though a bank had banded them. One probably had, but there was no printing on the bands. He estimated that the hoard was another hundred thousand dollars. He closed the pack.
The sun was bright and fixed just past the highest point of its arc. The two cars were already out of sight. He turned toward his house and began to walk. It took only about three minutes before he wished he had brought a hat and sunglasses. The sun on the desert seemed almost white. He judged that he was two miles from home and would be there in forty minutes. When thirty minutes had passed he still couldn’t see the stretch of road where he lived, so he revised his estimate to three miles.
He knew very well why they had left him out here. If he had been the sort of man who got scared and changed his mind, he might call the police or FBI and turn them in. He wasn’t the kind of man who panicked, but these people weren’t fond of risks.
After another ten minutes he saw houses he recognized—both abandoned—and after another mile, he found his own. He turned and walked up his driveway, found his key, and let himself into the bath of cool air in the dim interior of his house.
During the walk he had been thinking about the guns. He would have to do some planning and some traveling to fill the order. He wondered about his backers. Did they know everything about this country, or nothing? Were they able to assess what was difficult for him and what wasn’t? The only thing he could be sure of was that they wouldn’t care.
28
It was after six, and Stahl was at his desk trying to stretch the squad’s schedule slightly so there would be an overlap at the beginning and the end of each team’s shift. So far the bomber hadn’t noticed those weak periods during shift changes, but Stahl couldn’t believe he wouldn’t. He wanted every moment covered, and if the bomber struck during the half hour of double staffing, Stahl would be able to hold over the finishing shift and send out the fresh shift to handle the emergency.
There was a knock and he saw Andy through the clouded glass of his door. “Come on in.”
Andy said, “There’s a call from Dave Bushman at the Times. He needs a comment on the questions the Channel Ten people asked at the press conference.”
Stahl took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “Tell him the department has a press office.”
“I did, but he said he’s doing you a courtesy.”
“Okay.” He held up the page he had been working on. “Take this. It’s a design for a new schedule, with each shift staying on a half hour later so we never have that gap between them. Which line is Bushman on?”
“One.” Andy took the schedule and closed the door. Stahl took the phone receiver from its cradle and pressed the button that was flashing. “Dick Stahl.”
“Hi, Captain. This is Dave Bushman at the Times. I wanted to give you a chance to comment on the record about the line of questioning we heard from Gloria and Todd from Channel Ten today. Would you like to make a statement?”
“Not at this time, Dave. I appreciate the chance, but this isn’t the moment, and I may not be the person to answer.”
“Can you clarify that? Are you confirming or denying?”
“I’m pretty sure we’ll have a statement within twenty-four hours. But for now, I guess the answer is that I don’t have anything to say at this time.”
“All right,” Bushman said. “I hope that works out for you.”
“Thanks.”
Andy appeared at the door again, and Stahl beckoned to invite him in. Andy said, “They’re about to run the story on Channel Ten. They just gave a teaser and went to commercial.”
“Are you watching TV?”
“I’m streaming Channel Ten on my laptop.”
“Want to bring it in?”
Andy hurried out to his desk, lifted the open laptop, brought it in, and set it on Stahl’s desk. He hit the key to make the television image fill the screen. When the commercials were over, the faces of Gloria Hedlund and Todd Tedesco appeared. Gloria Hedlund’s big blue eyes widened and her perfect mouth turned upward in a smirk as she said, “A well-known public official has come under suspicion of violations of police regulations and city standards of conduct.”
Todd Tedesco sat beside her staring into the camera and wearing the expression of stern disapproval he displayed during each night’s most serious stories.
Gloria said, “Our story involves Captain Richard Stahl, the recently appointed commander of the LAPD Bomb Squad.” Stahl’s picture, a frozen image from the press conference a few weeks earlier, filled the screen. “And it involves this woman, a bomb technician who was seriously injured in a bomb blast about a month and a half ago.” Stahl recognized a frozen image from the press conference when Diane’s name had almost been revealed on camera. It was now on a split screen beside his. She looked beautiful.
“Here’s what happened at a police department briefing earlier today.” There was a shot of the police press room, where Gloria Hedlund stood and said, “Sergeant Hines seems to be pretty important. Do you have a special relationship with Sergeant Hines?”
Stahl and Andy sat through the rest, which ended with his stepping down from the podium and out the door. Even though three reporters from Channel Ten had spoken, Gloria Hedlund said, “The captain seemed a bit uncomfortable with my line of questioning. At the moment we don’t know why that is. It’s all too familiar to see an older male public servant with an exalted rank who suddenly gets touchy about his relationship with a young, pretty woman under his command. We believe Captain Stahl should know that and—innocent or not—be willing to answer questions from the public about his conduct. This is Gloria Hedlund, Channel Ten News.”
Andy sat paralyzed for a few seconds.
Stahl said, “I’m going to get a call in a minute. You should get out there and answer it quickly to show you’re on the job.”
“Yes, sir.” He took his laptop and went back to his workstation. A few minutes later, Stahl saw Andy pick up his phone. Then Andy turned in his swivel chair, saw that Stahl was watching him, pointed at the phone, and held up two fingers.
Stahl looked at the phone on his desk and picked up the receiver. “Captain Stahl, Bomb Squad.” He listened for a moment. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
Stahl had to sit for only about five minutes in the waiting area outside the office of the chief of police. He used the time to type a few reminders to himself on his cell phone screen. He knew it was possible that these notes and reminders were things he would be passing on to his successor, and that made them more urgent. Some of them were ideas he had devised to solve technical problems he’d noticed over time, and there was no reason for the next commander to repeat the same work.
The chief’s door swung open and Deputy Chief Ogden looked out. When he saw Stahl he nodded and held the door open for him. Stahl walked to the door, took the hand Ogden offered, and shook it.
Ogden gave Stahl a smile that seemed to be intended as a reassurance, but Ogden’s nervous manner was unusual.
When Stahl stepped in, he saw the chief stand up from behind his large wooden desk and walk around to greet him. It took a few seconds, and during that moment Stahl took note of the fact that the room held several people he didn’t know.
The chief shook Stahl’s hand, but he didn’t smile. “Dick,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” said Stahl.
“Thank you for dropping everything to come in. I’ve been meaning to tell you how grateful we are for the help you’ve been giving us during this crisis. It’s clear to everybody that you’ve saved innumerable lives—police and civilian lives—in the past few weeks. Deputy Chief Ogden is closer to the scene, of course, because you’re in his command. But he tells me you’ve been proving day after day that you’re still the best bomb expert we’ve had. People say you’ve raised morale a hundred percent just by your example, and taught your technicians a whole lot of essential techniques and information.”
“Thanks, Chief.”
“I wanted to be sure I said that first, so y
ou and everyone else know without a doubt that I have nothing but admiration for you.” He paused. “Have you heard the story that Channel Ten just ran on its local news tonight?”
“I did.”
The chief said, “When we knew there would be a story, I invited these ladies and gentlemen to watch it with me.” He held his arm out to introduce a middle-aged black woman in a navy-blue business suit. “This is Gwendolyn Barker, the chairperson of the police commission. You know Deputy Chief Ogden.” He passed him and pointed to a small man in a light gray suit. “This is Robert Minoso, our liaison with the city attorney’s office. And this is Nora Zorich, assistant DA.” She was exactly what Stahl expected of a prosecutor—very thin, wearing a black suit, sharp-featured, with dark eyes behind severe glasses.
Stahl shook hands with each of them. “You’ve assembled quite a team.”
Nora Zorich said, “If you’d like to have an attorney present, we can call and ask the union to send one.”
Stahl said, “I don’t think that’s necessary, but thank you. Let’s go ahead with our discussion.”
The chief said, “I’m going to ask you a question. You don’t have to answer it, but I hope you will. Is there any truth to the accusation from the newspeople?”
“Absolutely.”
“Pardon?” said Robert Minoso. “I’m not sure I heard correctly.”
“Yes,” said Stahl. “From the evening after the bomb we dismantled and destroyed at the gas station in the Valley until the day Diane Hines got injured in the trap at her apartment, she and I were engaged in a sexual relationship.”
The mood of the room seemed to become charged, full of potential energy like a courtroom. Gwendolyn Barker leaned forward. “Are you saying that the relationship is over?”
Stahl said, “No. But we hadn’t been together for very long before Sergeant Hines was attacked. About six days. She was severely injured and was in an induced coma for forty-two days before the doctors felt it was safe to bring her out of it. I think she’ll need time to assess our relationship from her present perspective and decide whether she still wants to pursue it. I’m hoping she’ll decide she still wants to, because I do.”