Guardian of Lies

by Steve Martini

  Llewellyn handed Thorpe a photograph. It was an enhanced enlargement showing a line of military vehicles, what looked like heavy-duty trucks parked side by side near a sizable Quonset building with a corrugated arched roof.

  “That was taken by a U.S. Navy Crusader on an aerial recon flight on October twenty-fifth, three days before the Russian disappeared. The building is located at Bejucal. It was the central storage site. We didn’t realize it at the time because of the single security fence and the absence of any real military presence around it. Apparently the Soviets believed the best defense was deception,” said Llewellyn. “It may also have compromised their internal security.

  “The vans, here and here.” Llewellyn directed Thorpe’s attention to the photograph with the point of his pen. “Those are mobile-weapon movers. That’s what our Russian friend was driving when he showed up at Punto Uno and again at Mariel. The limited security around the facility probably explains how he was able to drive it away. We know that the weapon type in question had already been deployed, because three of them were aimed at Guantanamo. Of course, we didn’t know that until the 1990s. The delivery system would have been on a truck and trailer. It would have flown off a ramp—”

  “He doesn’t have one of those?” said Thorpe.

  “No. The original delivery system would have been more cumbersome than it was worth. It would have been too large and too visible. He certainly wouldn’t want to use it today. It would be much easier to deliver it on a ship, or better yet, the bed of a truck.”

  “So what you’re saying is that if he had the van, he had the weapon and the parts, and with that he doesn’t need anything else to maintain it.”

  “Essentially, yes. With a gun type there are no tricky detonators. My people are working on it but from what we can see, the only thing he might need other than the parts he already has is a little fresh cordite to fire the projectile down the barrel, and that he could probably get almost anywhere.”

  Thorpe issued a deep sigh, then leaned back in his chair.

  “Okay, so the Soviets tracked him to Mariel. What happened then?”

  “Soviet intelligence reports that the Cubans helped him load the van into the hold of a registered Liberian vessel. The ship sailed that night, the twenty-eighth. The Russians thought about sinking it with a sub but they had nothing in position because of the U.S. blockade around the island. They had recalled all their subs out to the mid-Atlantic in an effort to reduce tensions and avoid an accident with the U.S. Bottom line is, the ship, the van, and the man all disappeared.”

  “The Liberian vessel,” said Thorpe, “do we have a name? With a name we get shipping records. Even after forty-five years we might see where the vessel landed.”

  “I thought about that,” said Llewellyn. “Our intelligence people checked our copies of the old Soviet documents. It looks as if the vessel’s name was in the KGB reports, but for some reason it was inked out, redacted by the Soviets, we don’t know why.”

  “And of course without the original document we can’t look behind the ink.”

  “Correct,” said Llewellyn.

  “So we don’t have a clue as to where this guy went or whether he might still be there today?”

  “Until we had access to the KGB reports, he was just an urban legend, one that Emerson Pike was apparently obsessed with. We talked with people Pike worked with before he retired and they all said that he believed the legend to be true. Even after he retired, whenever he traveled, friends said he was always on the lookout. It looks as if perhaps he found him. The Soviet apparatus searched for Nitikin for almost thirty years, until the empire collapsed, and they never found him. So you have to assume the Russian is fairly resourceful,” said Llewellyn.

  “And old,” said Thorpe.

  “Yes, but that may not be an advantage,” said Llewellyn.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I mean if he sat on it all these years, why would he use it now? Unless, of course…”

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless he’s dying and he knows it, in which case it’s either use it or lose it.”

  “So he has to restore it before he dies,” said Thorpe.

  “My guess is that he’s found help. He would need it. It’s possible but not likely that he’d be able to move it himself.”

  “You’re thinking subnational terrorists,” said Thorpe.

  “If the plan is to use it, that would be my guess,” said Llewellyn. “No nation I can think of is going to want to have their fingerprints on an event like that. And while a nation-state could take it and put it in their arsenal, without the capacity to maintain it, what good is it? In ten years they’ve got a corroded hunk of junk. No. Unfortunately, there’s only one purpose to be served by a dinosaur like this, and that’s to turn it loose and let it roar—to make a statement that the world will understand.”

  Both men knew that when it came to potential helpers, there was no shortage of candidates.

  “So you’re pretty sure there’s no chance he goes to use this thing and gets a fizzle?” said Thorpe.

  “There’s always the exception in the physical universe,” said Llewellyn, “but I wouldn’t place too much reliance on it in this case. You have to remember, the first one of these we made, gun type, we didn’t even bother to test it. We just shipped it across the Pacific and dropped it. That’s how certain we were that it would work.”

  “You’ve convinced me,” said Thorpe. “What are we talking about in terms of size?”

  “Are you asking mass, the size of the weapon, or yield?” said Llewellyn.

  “All three.”

  “The warhead would be bigger than a bread basket. Unfortunately, we don’t have a picture. The only one we know of is a photograph of one of the missiles itself on a ramp aimed at Guantanamo. We know the warhead was situated in the midpart of the fuselage. How large or heavy we can’t be sure,” said Llewellyn. “You’d want to use a truck to move it. I’m guessing a small box truck would be more than adequate.”

  “In other words, the kind you can rent anywhere,” said Thorpe.

  “Right.”

  “And yield?”

  “That we do know. Think in terms of Little Boy,” said Llewellyn.

  “You’re kidding. I thought you said this thing was field tactical for battlefield use.”

  “It is. Back then I guess they thought bigger was better,” said Llewellyn. “No. It’s almost precisely the same. A smaller package no doubt, but it’s the same type, and the same yield as Little Boy, fourteen kilotons, and it would be very reliable. That’s what I was saying. We tested Fat Man, the implosion device, in the New Mexico desert to make sure it would work. But Little Boy, that was a gun type, a sure thing. The first test was the live performance over Hiroshima.”

  TWENTY

  Larry Templeton’s facial features have always reminded me of those statues of Lenin pulled down by the mobs at the close of the Soviet Union. His bald head and goatee, the forceful jaw and the deep-set eyes, make for a powerful image.

  Seated behind his desk, as he is this morning when Harry and I are ushered into his office, we get only a slight sense of Templeton’s diminutive physical stature. This comes from his abbreviated upper body hidden partially behind stacks of case books and files on his desk. He lays down his pen on top of the papers he is working on and beckons us to enter.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen, please come in, have a seat.” He gestures with a broad sweep of his right arm toward the two client chairs opposite his desk. His other arm appears to be trapped under the desk.

  “Looks like a den of iniquity.” Harry is not moving, blocking the way, taking it all in.

  There is a thick Persian runner, leading from the door, under our feet. It matches the larger Persian carpet under the desk, which is oak, antique and massive, behind which Templeton sits on a specially built raised chair, like a rajah holding court. All that is missing is the turban.

  In the corner near the windows
, Larry has erected a carved wooden panel, teak, I would imagine, and very ornate. The framed prints on the walls have the definite exotic influence of the East, sheiks with large headdresses and sickle-shaped Sumerian swords.

  Larry’s digs in the DA’s headquarters have never held the appearance of a government office. He has decorated them out of his own pocket since the beginning and has done so lavishly.

  “Mr. Hinds, always good to see you. Mr. Madriani. How are you? Linda, you can go. Close the door on your way out.” Templeton dismisses the secretary who has ushered us in.

  “Only thing wrong is it smells like Tammany Hall in here,” says Harry.

  Templeton brings a finger to his lips to shush him until the door closes. With his secretary outside, Larry smiles, then lifts the smoking offender from under the desk and gives us one of his characteristic looks: devil with a stogie, arched eyebrows, and a polished head. “One in the morning, one in the afternoon, the doctor prescribes them,” he says.

  “So that’s what did it,” says Harry.

  “I know, don’t say it, stunted my growth. Hinds, you gotta get up earlier in the day if you’re going to try to spring that one on me.”

  “How about we go one-on-one, a little basketball?” says Harry. “I’ll give you an edge. Put you on roller skates.”

  “I see you’re as sensitive as ever to the plight of the disabled.” Templeton leans back in his chair and smiles at him from behind a veil of cigar smoke. “You haven’t changed.”

  “Show me someone who’s disabled and I’ll show you a tear,” says Harry. “But let’s not change the subject. I thought this was a no-smoking zone, county building and all.”

  “They don’t ask and I don’t tell. Hope you don’t mind.” Larry doesn’t wait for an answer. He flicks a little ash into an open desk drawer on the other side. “I’d offer you one, but they’re too expensive.”

  “What is it, administrative or criminal,” Harry says, turning toward me, “a violation of the no-smoking ordinance?”

  “I’m not getting into this one,” I tell him.

  “Smart man. Besides, it’s only an infraction. Insulting a midget, now that’s federal,” says Templeton.

  “Which title is that?” asks Harry.

  “When I find it, I’ll send you the citation.” Templeton reaches out and shakes my hand. “How come you were so blessed as to get this dip-shit as a partner?” he asks.

  “Luck of the draw.” I settle into one of the chairs across from him. “You look as if you’re prospering,” I tell him.

  “No lack of offenders to prosecute, if that’s what you mean. It’s a bumper crop.” He gestures toward the files stacked on the floor; off to one side of his desk, they climb the wall a good two feet.

  Harry turns slowly in place, taking in the Dwarf’s new surroundings, his freshly decorated office. If you can get past the cigar, you can still catch a whiff of the paint. Templeton has moved up in the world since we last met. The office is twice as large and has a corner set of windows to boot.

  Harry is busy checking out the Persian runner on the floor, lifting the corner and reading the label.

  “Are you a collector?” says Templeton.

  “No, but I’ve seen a few of these fenced for fees. This one looks expensive enough to fly,” he says.

  “I’d be happy to put you out the window for a test drive,” says Templeton.

  “Later,” says Harry. “After you bring in the belly dancers and we see the seven veils.”

  “I’ll give you the name of my decorator,” says Larry.

  “Don’t bother. I couldn’t afford it,” says Harry. “Just tell me where you keep the magic lamp. I may need to rub it to spring a client one of these days.”

  “I hope it’s not this one,” says Templeton. “Because if it is, the genie’s gonna need a new battery. He’s definitely not going to have enough juice.”

  “That bad?” I say.

  Templeton takes a drag, looks at me, nods slowly and blows a smoke ring in my direction.

  “You called the meeting,” I tell him.

  “So I guess we should get down to cases.”

  Harry picks up on the serious tone and waltzes over to take a seat.

  Templeton leans forward, braces his hands, short armed on the surface of the desk, the cigar still between his teeth. “Before I go any further, I have to have your word that nothing said here will be repeated outside this room. Do I have your word?”

  Harry and I look at each other. “What are you talking about?” I ask.

  “I have to have your word.” He takes the cigar from his mouth.

  “That would depend on what you have to say,” I tell him. “If you tell us you have hard evidence that somebody other than our client did the deed, you can be sure that before they strap her to the gurney and insert the needle I’m gonna mention it to somebody.”

  “No, no. I don’t want you to misunderstand. You’re not going to be hearing that your client didn’t do the crime. Based on all the evidence we have so far, which is, in a word, ‘overwhelming’…”

  “Please try not to scare us,” says Harry. “I break down easily.”

  “I’ve noticed. No, everything we have points to your client. You’ve seen the prints on the dagger, the toxicology report, and the fingerprint evidence on the medication bottle. And there’s more, the coins she took, the pawn tickets in her purse.”

  “What about the coin from the probate estate?” says Harry. “The seller on that one was a man. What do you have on this guy John Waters?”

  “No doubt an alias,” says Templeton. “A dead end.”

  “What do you mean a dead end? Have you checked it out?” I ask.

  “We’re still looking at it. But I wouldn’t hold your breath. She could have passed the coin off to somebody else. Or had help at the house with the murders. The fact is that the only person who had any contact with this guy Waters was the purchaser of the coin and he’s dead. According to the executor the buy was made in cash, so there’s no check or account that we can trace. Like I say, a dead end. So let’s get back to the toxicology report,” says Templeton.

  “What, now you’re going to show that she tried to poison him?” I say.

  “I’ll concede the point; given the amount of the drugs in his system she merely tried to put him to sleep. Under different circumstances, given the evidence, we might even be talking today about reduced charges, dropping the special circumstances, something less than a capital offense.

  “That would be pretty generous,” says Templeton, “considering that Pike’s murder took place during the commission of another crime, the robbery. If that was all there was, I might have entertained a pitch for something less. But we can’t forget the maid. We have multiple murders here. And that one is very hard to swallow.”

  “How could we forget?” says Harry.

  Templeton looks at both of us. “No, either Pike woke up after she medicated him or the medication didn’t work. At the moment we’re not sure. But either way, it’s clear. Pike stumbled in on them in the midst of the burglary, probably while they were in the process of stealing the coins. They killed him, took his computer and perhaps other items of personal property. At this point we can’t be entirely sure of what’s missing. We’re still looking, but you can be sure we’ll find it.”

  “You keep saying ‘they.’” I tell him.

  “Excuse me?” Templeton looks up at me.

  “You said, ‘They killed him.’”

  “Well, yeah,” says Templeton, “we haven’t caught up with the codefendant yet. But we will.”

  “You’re telling us there was a second perpetrator?” says Harry.

  “Well, yeah. You didn’t know that?”

  Harry shakes his head.

  “At first we thought she might have done it alone, but then a couple of weeks ago we figured it out.”

  “Figured what out?” I ask.

  “Whoever it was entered by way of the back door,” says Templet
on. “It appears your client tried to unlock it for him, but the maid must have locked it again. Both sets of fingerprints were found on the knob. The lock was picked for entry, so her helper appears to have come prepared and had some skills. We found scratches on the tumblers, both the dead bolt and the door lock.

  “And we’ve talked to some of the hired help and others who knew your client. It seems she was seen all over town, Del Mar as well as other places, almost always in the presence of other men, talking to them. Sooner or later we’ll find the right one.”

  “What are you saying?” I ask.

  “Well, you’ve seen the woman,” he says. “She’s gorgeous. Catch me at a weak moment and who knows, maybe even I would have helped her out.”

  “She may be petite, but you’d need a ladder,” says Harry.

  “Let’s not get personal,” says Templeton. “You can dress her like a nun when you bring her to court, but there’s no denying she’s knock-dead gorgeous. And if I can’t get at least half the judges in the county, the male half, to take judicial notice of her good looks I’ll quit.”

  “Okay. So she’s pretty,” I tell him.

  “Pretty!” Templeton’s voice goes up a full octave. “Your partner must be quite the lady’s man.” He looks at Harry. “If all he can say about Katia Solaz is that she’s ‘pretty,’ his date card must be full every night.”

  He waits for me to say something, but I don’t.

  “As I was saying, according to all the witnesses we’ve spoken to, she never had a problem finding men to talk to. Fact is, unless I’m mistaken, isn’t that how you met her? The first time, I mean.” When I look up, Templeton’s glowing face is boring in on me.

  “What?”

  “I was informed from one of the police reports that that’s how you and Ms. Solaz first met. What was it, she approached you in a grocery store and started talking, is that right?”

  “Yes.” What else can I say?

  “How did she do it, just walk up to you?” he says.

  “She was looking for something. I don’t remember,” I lie.

  “I’ll bet she was,” says Templeton.