by Bob Hamer
"That won't work because the receipt is dated on a day other than when the meeting occurred. All meals and entertainment expenses can only be reimbursed on those days in which an actual meeting occurs."
"Then I'll phoney up a 302 and say I had a meeting."
"It won't work. You can't backdate a computer entry. She'll check, and that's all the ammo she'll need to post your fanny in Death Valley. Eat the expense and be a less gracious guest in the future."
"This is amazing."
"I'll need a check for the cigars," said Dwayne.
"You'll get it. Just don't look at next month's voucher too closely."
"Matt, it's not worth it."
"Yeah, well she didn't risk her life with a bunch of neo-Nazi bikers, and now I have to skip a mortgage payment to pay for a box of Gurkha Centurions. Dwayne, she's never been on the other side of the wire. She's never even been in the green zone. I'm selling a lie while she sits behind a desk all day and watches White-Out dry."
Dwayne tugged at his collar as Matt's tirade continued. Dwayne let him vent. It was more than cigars. Both Dwayne and Matt knew it.
Finally Matt said, "Tell Her Highness the check is in the mail."
The call abruptly ended. Upset with the Queen Mother's accounting, Matt cancelled a planned meeting with Boris that evening at the Veil and headed home early.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Matt took her hand and held it gently, occasionally squeezing it as they walked in silence. A kiss of the warm night winds blew in from the desert, and a dull moon overhead provided more than enough illumination. Safety wasn't an issue. They chose the Thousand Oaks community, a suburb of Los Angeles, because it was annually rated one of America's safest cities. Besides, even on a romantic nighttime stroll with the woman who knew him best, Matt was armed.
"That smile looks good on you," said Matt.
"It's been awhile since we've taken a walk."
"I really am sorry. This case has taken much more time than I anticipated, too many late nights and not enough lunchtime meetings. Maybe I should concentrate on white-collar criminals who want to bribe me over a leisurely brunch in Beverly Hills."
"Don't tease me, Cowboy. That's what I've been trying to tell you. At least with the white-collar criminals you bathe."
"Come on, I've been practicing my best hygiene skills with this assignment."
"Yeah, but you still come home smelling like stale biker and cigarettes."
Matt squeezed her hand. "It's not like I'm hanging out at Bath and Body Works in the mall."
"I understand. When the scene is set in hell, don't expect angels to be singing in the choir."
"Exactly, you do pay attention to me when I tell you about my day."
He leaned over and stole a kiss.
"How are you coming with your Bible reading?" she asked.
"I'm keeping up. I may be a few days behind, but I stash a Bible in the bottom drawer of my desk at the warehouse. When the bad guys are late, I try to catch up."
Caitlin laughed. "The perfect time for reflection, right before some serial killer strolls into your undercover off-site."
Matt smiled, "Yeah, he's strapped with a .40 cal looking to make me an even dozen on his hit list, but at least I die with the Bible opened to 'thou shall not kill.'" He paused, waiting for her to respond, but Caitlin said nothing. "Actually I'm really getting into the Old Testament. That eye-for-an-eye philosophy fits in perfectly with my investigative theories."
"We live on this side of the cross, Cowboy," said Caitlin, shaking her head knowing Matt was trying to get a reaction. "My grandfather used to quote Micah. Maybe you should check him out?"
"Your grandfather? I thought he died."
She playfully hit him. "No, Micah, the Old Testament prophet. He made it pretty simple; do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with your God."
"Humility has always been a tough one for me."
"Yeah, I noticed," said Caitlin as she leaned over and kissed him.
"And that kindness bit, you haven't seen who I've been dealing with lately. Not always easy to put on a smiley face, turn the other check, and pretend you mean it."
A car passed, lighting the road ahead.
Caitlin released his hand and hooked her arm through his. "I believe in a God of second chances who is seeking a relationship with each one of his unique creations."
"I'll agree he made some unique characters, but he can't be too pleased with the actions of some of his creations I keep running into."
"Matt, I'm sure you must be right. Mankind is far from perfect. The God we worship can forgive anything, but we still have to live with the consequences of our actions. He's willing to erase all our failures and betrayals. It's a matter of what you are willing to live with."
They waited for a pickup truck to pass before they crossed the street.
Caitlin continued, "My God loves me so much he was willing to sacrifice his own Son just to have a relationship with me. Do you understand how special that makes me feel?" She paused, waiting to see if Matt would respond. When he didn't, she continued, "You know someday I really want to have children."
Matt interrupted, "I'm doing my part."
Caitlin laughed, "Not when you work late every night." She paused and with conviction said, "Each time we've been pregnant, I was so happy, but then to lose those babies hurt so much. My soul still aches. I know we will make great parents and will love our baby with all our being, but I also know I can't out love God. He was willing to let his Son die for me. Think about that, Matt. I know you would give your life for me. You would give your life for a friend or an FBI agent or a Marine. But would you give my life to save someone you didn't know? Would you willingly sacrifice our child's life for a complete stranger, someone with whom you had no relationship, someone who didn't even know you or denied you or even defiled you? That's what God did when he left Jesus on the cross. I worship a God who willingly gave his Son for me."
They walked in silence as Matt reflected. It was a lot to comprehend. He had so many unsettled thoughts.
"I love you," said Matt.
"I love you too, Cowboy," said Caitlin.
"You wanna go make a baby?"
She squeezed his hand.
"I'll take that as a yes."
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
The morning light was peeking through the office window. Boris was sitting at his desk, reading the newspaper and drinking Russian coffee, when his phone rang. After several rings Boris reached over and removed the phone from the cradle.
"Yes."
"It's Dr. U."
"Good morning."
"I need to stop by and see you."
"Sure. I'm here."
"Good."
"You're the only doctor I know who makes house calls."
"I will be by in about an hour. Have your pants down when I get there, and I will check your prostate."
Boris belched and let out a huge laugh, "I'm looking forward to it."
Dr. U arrived in about forty-five minutes and entered through the back door of the club. He walked into Boris's office and closed the door behind him.
"You made good time," said Boris.
"Traffic wasn't so bad," Dr. U smiled. "Many infidels must have stayed home from work today."
"What can I do for you?"
"I am in need of a loaded military-type truck and a detonator."
"Loaded with what?"
"Anything that goes boom," said Dr. U continuing to smile. "I have an important mission, and I need your assistance."
"A mission that needs a military truck and a detonator?"
"Yes, can you help me?"
"What are you planning?"
"That is not for you to know. Can you help?"
"Soon."
"Do I get the truck back?"
"You ask too many questions."
"Your business is your business. But my price depends on whether this is a rental or a purchase."
"Consider it a purchase."
"And the detonator, what is it detonating?"
Dr. U said nothing.
Boris smiled, "That is why you need to purchase the truck. There will not be anything left to return."
"You are beginning to understand. Can you get me a truck?"
"Yes, of course."
"And will the detonator be a problem?"
"The detonator is the easy part, but you will be purchasing my comprehensive explosion package. Unfortunately there is no off season. The price remains high throughout the year."
"Provide me a figure. If it is fair, we will purchase."
"It won't be cheap. A pound of C4 goes for around $100,000."
"I am aware nothing the Russians sell comes cheaply."
Boris laughed, "Capitalism at work. With sufficient cash I can fulfill almost any need. So your terrorist cells continue despite last year's setback?"
Dr. U's smile disappeared. "I am not a terrorist."
"Right, I keep forgetting. The Wahhabi Islam you preach is a liberation movement creating what the current administration calls man-made disasters in order to bring your enlightened beliefs to the infidel masses. Spare me your mock protests to my insensitivities. I can get all you need."
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Oscar Cano was short and thin. His brown leathery skin looked like a baseball glove left in the backyard for weeks, if not months. Cano, no Mexican Harriet Tubman, exploited everyone he smuggled to freedom. He was a coyote and charged the people he escorted across the border. The locals called him a pollero, and the illegal immigrants he transported were his pollos.
To Cano these people were merely a commodity, pawns in a chess match he played daily with the U.S. Border Patrol. Hundreds of thousands crossed each year, and a growing number of them died in the Sonora Desert.
Leaning up against the faded wooden garage, Cano took another drink from the cold bottle of Corona Extra. The hot sun baked everything in its wake, and at least for the moment Cano found shade. He let out a loud belch as Dmitri cautiously approached.
"I am looking for Oscar Cano."
"Many people seek Oscar Cano. Who are you?"
"I am Dmitri."
"You have found him. I am Oscar Cano."
Dmitri extended his hand but Oscar didn't take it. Instead he threw the now empty bottle of beer into the brush. It landed on a rock and the glass shattered. "Go inside. We will leave in an hour."
A dozen men and three women were sitting on the dirt floor, all preparing for the trip scheduled to begin at sunset. Each appeared to be Mexican although Dmitri suspected one or two might be from Guatemala. He was the only non-Latin member of the group. "OTM," as the authorities called them—other than Mexican.
Each had a plastic jug of water. Some had small bags but not the suitcases or carry-on luggage you would find at any other transportation center catering to international travelers. Almost everyone was young, early twenties, if that. They appeared healthy, but there was no air of excited anticipation for a new venture. Some had been this route before only to be captured and deported. It was a costly mistake. The U.S. authorities were kind, some might call them helpful, if caught. The Border Patrol and even the Minutemen provided first aid, food, and water; but there was no reimbursement of the fees paid for the coyote's services.
Those who tried this before knew the consequences of even a successful trip: nighttime travel through the desert cold, unbearable heat during the day, hunger, dehydration, broken and bloody feet. It was not a trip for the timid, the infirm, or the weak.
The bigger fear each had was the coyote. His payment came up front and with no guarantee. He might run at the first sign of trouble, abandoning his travelers to fend for themselves. The women also knew of the "rape trees." Scrub brush in the desert where the coyotes hung the panties of the women they sexually assaulted along the way. The trophy trees served as not only a monument to the conquests but a warning to those who failed to cooperate.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Matt parked in the back lot and entered the club through the rear entrance. No more on-street parking, pumping the meter with quarters, and confronting Face at the front door. Matt was in. The stolen cigarettes brought him more credibility than any informant. His storage of the owner give-ups solidified his bona fides. His new status allowed him to park in the rear.
He was past the confidence-building stage of the investigation. He wasn't liked by every patron at the Russian Veil, but Boris put out the word "Matt is okay." That was all anyone needed to know. "You got a problem with me, check with Boris."
As always the music was loud. Matt wore a wire, but it served little purpose inside the main bar area. No amount of technical support could clean up a tape well enough for a jury to decipher a criminal conversation. The real purpose of recording everything was to prevent the defense from attacking the case by claiming Matt only selectively taped conversations. Defense counsel made their money by reviewing the evidence, looking for holes in the collection of evidence, and attempting to make an issue of even the slightest crack in the government armor. Inevitably, if the recorder failed, that was the conversation the defense claimed Matt threatened the helpless accused, or when their client got religion but Matt talked him out of withdrawing from the conspiracy. It was almost as if every lawyer attended the same church, and they preached from the same sermon notes.
As he walked through the bar, Matt made a habit of looking at the dancers. In reality he was looking through them. Caitlin was prettier, and these certainly weren't the kind of girls he wanted to take home to dear old mom. The women did not hold his interest. The mystery was gone once they took off their clothes. The Victoria's Secret catalog was more alluring, but he couldn't really scan the bar in an obvious attempt to collect notes as to who was present. Guys went to the Russian Veil to watch women not shoot the breeze about an extra-inning baseball game. Matt had to play the role.
He changed his pattern on occasion, but typically he headed to the far end of the bar, ordered a beer, and from the back assessed the crowd. It was always the same bunch of rowdy patrons, the drunk and the desperate.
He was nursing the beer when Stump approached.
"Andrew MacDonald, I presume," said Matt throwing out his hand.
Stump didn't smile at the Turner Diaries reference.
"The Bear wants to see you in his office."
"Am I being summoned to the principal's office?"
"He didn't tell me. He just told me to get you."
Stump never cracked a smile, did an about-face, and Matt followed. Stump knocked on the door and waited for Boris to grant permission. After several seconds a loud "come" could be heard over the noise from the bar. Boris was on the phone, and Matt wandered around the office appearing to view the photos on the wall but in reality sizing up locations for the tech team to implant microphones.
When Boris hung up, Matt said, "I've never asked you, but these photos are really great. They look like something Ansel Adams would take."
"I took them."
"Seriously?"
"Yeah, in the old Soviet Union I took many photos as part of my job."
"And what job was that?"
"No need for you to worry. That life is behind me."
"Were you a spy?" Matt knew the answer but mockingly, in a singsong voice said, "Boris was a spy. Boris was a spy."
Stump glowered. "Your warehouse and stolen cigarettes don't buy that much grace. I'd knock off the singing."
Matt realize
d he pushed it too far. He backed off immediately. "So what business did you want to discuss?"
Boris flicked his hand toward Stump. The meaning was obvious; Stump wasn't welcome during this part of the conversation. Stump took no offense, grabbed a bottle of beer from the refrigerator, and left.
"What, you don't want any witnesses when you kill me?"
"Something like that," said Boris. He tilted his head as if examining Matt, his eyes panning Matt's profile. "What's your problem?"
"I didn't know I had a problem," said Matt lowering himself into a plush chair near Boris's desk.
"Are you not into girls?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Are you a tea-drinker? A goluboy?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Why don't you bother the girls? You never have a dance. You never ask to take one into the back rooms. Everyone else I bring here can't keep their hands off my girls. Are you into men?"
Matt laughed out loud. "Why don't you borscht eaters just come to the point? No, I'm not into men. My wife doesn't let me date."
Now it was Boris's turn to laugh.
"Most of your girls are beautiful. But I'm betting a few are carrying some commie STD no strain of penicillin can ever cure."
Boris slammed his fist of the desk. "My girls are clean!"
"Whoa, big guy." Matt needed to de-escalate the tension in a hurry. He rose, walked over to the refrigerator, and pulled out two cold bottles of Baltika. He handed one to Boris, and they saluted each other in a mock toast. "Don't take it so personally. This is a community property state. One night of ecstasy could cost me half my net worth. Your girls aren't worth it to me."
"Not even a massage? The girls give a great back rub and will go just as far as you direct."
"Maybe a massage." Matt paused and gulped his beer. "So you called me into the Bat Cave just to inquire into my sexual preference?"
"No, I asked you back here to discuss business. But before I said anything, I needed to learn a few things."