by Bob Hamer
"I bought it at the auction up in Barstow."
"Boris, I'm serious. This better not be stolen. I'm not interested in bringing the Feds in on my operation."
"I have a bill of sale."
"Anyone can phony up a bill of sale."
"I'm telling you my people bought it at the auction. I have no interest in alerting the Feds either, and by the way I got an A in chemistry."
Matt pointed to the two stainless steel SIXCONS, military storage tanks, in the bed of the truck. He knew what they were from his time in the Marine Corps but didn't want to appear too knowledgeable. "What are these?"
"That, my friend, holds my new liquid diet aid."
Matt laughed, "I'm sure this is some nontaxed fuel, smuggled in from Russia without additives, sold at bargain-basement prices to that independent guy down the street."
"You understand my marketing and sales plan."
"So how long does it stay here?"
"Not long. I have to make some modifications, and then it will be ready. The sale will be completed on Friday night. The truck will be gone Friday afternoon."
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
Had a committee been formed to select the least desirable spot for the Los Angeles Greyhound Bus Depot, it could not have done better than the East Seventh Street location. Walking just a few yards in any direction from the terminal put you in the middle of an urban combat zone.
The Greyhound bus, an aging MC-12 Americruiser, pulled into the lane marked J. The bus was on time which, considering L.A. traffic, was a minor miracle. For many the journey would be described as long and uncomfortable; for Dmitri it beat the hike from Sasabe to Three Points. The seats were padded, and the toilet in the restroom at the rear of the bus flushed. Compared to his trip across the desert, toilet paper beat the alternative so he had no complaints. Besides, traveling by bus suited his needs. Security was minimal, not like an airport or some train stations. Even with a boarding in Tucson and a transfer in Phoenix, no one checked his identification. He was illegally in the United States, and the authorities didn't seem to care. If he was successful, he was certain his presence would be of interest to officials at some level of the government, but there would be no record of his entry or exit.
Dmitri left Tucson around 9:30 p.m., and the thirteen-hour trip included seven or eight stops. Dmitri lost count and slept most of the way as did many of the passengers. With his arrival in L.A., another leg of the mission was complete. Now he needed to get to West Hollywood where a friend of a friend, whom he'd never met, lived.
He exited the bus and was immediately greeted by the smells of rotting fruits and vegetables courtesy of a produce company across the pavement. He made his way to the entrance of the one-story building made of split-face concrete blocks. Painted a two-tone red and white, the sign above the entrance to the passenger terminal read, "Welcome to . . . Bienvenidas a . . . Los Angeles, CA." Everything at the depot was written in English and Spanish. Had the sign not told him, he might think he was still in Mexico. He entered through the double doors and made a quick stop at the restroom on the right. More unwelcome smells greeted him. One of the urinals was running continuously, and another had an out-of-order sign draped across it in English and Spanish. He sloshed through the puddle forming on the floor to the third urinal where he hoped to avoid any splashback. The towel dispenser was empty so he used the only working electric blower. This is Los Angeles? I was expecting more.
Before Dmitri approached the large, matronly woman standing behind the information counter, he stopped at a vending machine, dropped in seven quarters, and purchased a Coke. He took a strong pull on the plastic bottle before asking his question.
"How do I get to West Hollywood?"
The gray-haired lady wearing glasses and not appearing too interested in Dmitri's question continued straightening some travel folders and bus schedules on the counter. Dmitri feared his accent might cause him communication problems in the United States, but after only a brief time in the bus depot, he realized his English was better than most.
He repeated the question. "How do I get to West Hollywood?"
She looked up almost annoyed at being disturbed. "I don't know."
"But you are information."
"I know what I am. I don't know how to get to West Hollywood."
"Is there anyone who can help me?"
She shrugged her shoulders and pointed to the exit door. "Try the cabbies. They can get you anywhere."
He shook his head as he walked to the exit, past the bank of pay phones, each occupied. He was used to service like this in his country, but from all he read, he assumed America was different.
Once outside he saw the taxi stand on the street to his right. He walked only a few feet before a brown-skinned, battered man approached with his hand out asking in broken English for spare change. Dmitri ignored him, and the man continued walking, asking the next person out the door.
Three taxis sat ready, the drivers under a tarp to ward off the late-morning California sun.
"How much will it cost me to get to West Hollywood?"
Two of the drivers were talking to each other in Arabic, but the third looked at him and responded, "Do you have an address?"
"Yes," said Dmitri, pulling out a piece of paper from his pocket. "Near the corner of Fairfax and Santa Monica Boulevard."
The driver didn't even hesitate with a quote, "Around thirty-five dollars."
"Oh."
"Get in I will take you. We can leave now."
"No, that is too much. It did not cost me much more than that to get here from Tucson."
"But you are not where you want to be. You want to be in West Hollywood. I can get you there."
"Not for thirty-five dollars."
As Dmitri spoke, he spotted a city bus heading west on Seventh Street and stop a block from the bus depot. He didn't know how long or how much, but he knew the bus would be cheaper than the cab. Dmitri walked to the street, crossing over. A small market was open and he walked in, purchasing beef jerky, several candy bars, and another Coke. After paying for the items, he stuffed them in his pocket and headed up the street to the bus stop. He only waited a few minutes. The next leg of his journey consisted of a long circuitous bus ride including several transfers. Within a few hours he would be in West Hollywood.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
The military truck was nestled into the warehouse, safe for a time.
Boris would be over later to install the detonation device. He still didn't know the target but assumed it wasn't in the middle of nowhere. Dr. U wanted the truck to explode when detonated not upon impact. Whatever the target, a suicide driver made more sense thought Boris. Find some Palestinian willing to self-detonate, seeking seventy-some virgins, teach him to drive, and let him plow into the building. The al-Qaeda Wahhabis learned how to fly. Surely the terrorists could place some willing soul into a local truck-driving school. But Boris loved tinkering. He loved the idea of designing a device which would trigger the fuel-laden truck to explode.
The Russian gangster racked his brain to decide how best to invest his money to gain from the next domestic terrorist attack. Boris assumed the economy would be impacted adversely. If the terrorist attack were big enough, stock markets would crash. Should he sell or short? But short which stocks? Which industry would be impacted? Without knowing the target, it was difficult to predict. With the right move his portfolio could explode with wealth just as jihadist millionaires profited from the last attack on U.S. soil. America would be on its knees again. He would get paid for devising the explosive device, and he would profit from betting the right way on the market. It doesn't get much better than that for the Soviet sociopath.
MATT ARRIVED AT THE warehouse at 9:30 a.m. He set up the recording equipment and awaited his guest. Just as he sat down to read the morning paper,
his cell phone rang, and he looked at the caller ID.
"Hey, what's up, boss?"
"I thought you were going to call me," said Dwayne.
"I was, but I figured I'd wait until he left. I don't have anything to report now."
"Did the truck get there?"
"Yeah, it got here yesterday afternoon around four."
"Any idea what's going on?" asked Dwayne.
"Not really. It's a military seven-ton with two SIXCONS in the bed. He told me it was full of fuel and tried to laugh it off when I told him my insurance didn't cover gasoline explosions."
"What did he say to that?"
"Nothing. He just said it was safe."
"What do you think?"
"I'm guessing it's a tax scam. I figure it's unregulated gasoline they smuggled into the country and are going to sell it to these independent stations around town," said Matt leaning back in his chair.
"There's a pretty big profit in that if you can maintain the volume, but how many gallons of fuel are we talking?"
"A SIXCON holds about nine hundred gallons of fuel."
"So we're holding eighteen hundred gallons at the warehouse. Hardly seems worth all the mystery."
"Dwayne, Boris won't waste his time on anything not generating a profit. He's a gangster entrepreneur. This isn't a not-for-profit crime syndicate. He's making a bundle in some way."
"When does he arrive?"
Matt looked at the recently installed Mickey Mouse clock hanging on the far wall. Mickey's tail doubled as a pendulum and swung back and forth. The clock was more of a subtle commentary on Matt's opinion of FBI management than a humorous conversation piece, even though he assumed it would draw a comment or two from even the most hardened criminals. "He should be here in about ten minutes."
"Call me when he leaves. I'm trying to see if we need to expand the scope of the undercover operation order again."
"You got it."
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
Boris arrived at ten sharp, just as he promised. Matt watched him through the tinted office windows. The Russian removed a large satchel from the rear hatch of the Escalade and awkwardly carried it to the front door. The first knock was civilized; the second louder. Matt decided to let him pound on the door a couple more times before answering. Since the undercover car was parked in the warehouse, Boris couldn't be certain Matt was in the office. Turn up the stress.
After several solid slams on the door, Matt hollered, "I'll be right there. I'm on the phone." He waited a few more seconds, then walked to the door. As he opened it for Boris, he said, "I'm sorry, I was on the phone and had trouble getting the guy to shut up. Come on in."
Boris grumbled something, maybe in Russian, maybe in English. Matt couldn't understand it, and it probably wasn't worth repeating.
"You want some coffee? I just put on a fresh pot."
"No," said Boris as he headed down the hallway into the warehouse lugging the satchel.
Matt followed. "You need some help carrying that? You seem to be having problems, big guy."
Boris's answer was in English and understood.
Matt laughed. "My mother would wash your mouth out for using potty talk."
Boris repeated his response while stopping in front of the restroom. The Russian put the satchel down, walked in, and closed the door.
Matt took a quick peek inside the oversized bag but saw only tools on top. Before he could root through the bag, the toilet flushed. Matt backed away quickly and stood by the door to the warehouse.
Boris closed the door as he walked out of the restroom and grabbed the bag.
"You wash your hands?" asked Matt.
Boris repeated his "potty talk" response as Matt held open the door to the warehouse. "Listen, I've got some calls to make. Do what you gotta do, and if you need me, just holler."
The Russian walked in, and the spring-loaded interior door slammed shut as Matt returned to his office. Unsure what Boris was up to, Matt knew every move Boris made in the warehouse would be video recorded. Thanks to the Constitution and without wiretap authority, an audio recording would be illegal unless Matt was present. For now Boris could feel secure in a nonthreatening environment doing whatever he needed to do. Questions about the Russian's actions and intentions could come later.
MATT SAT AT HIS desk and continued reading the Los Angeles Times. After finishing the sports section, he opened his laptop and accessed the current news. Another typical news day, nothing worth noting. Civilization was on its last leg according to every pundit on either side of the aisle. He was anxious to get out to the warehouse to see what Boris was doing but didn't want to appear too eager. Matt's eyes were reading the computer screen, but his mind comprehended little. Finally he shut the laptop and headed down the hall.
Boris's cell phone was ringing in the warehouse. Matt stopped and placed his ear to the door. He couldn't make out much of the conversation, but Boris seemed agitated. Matt could make out, "Do it now and don't argue with me."
Fearing Boris might be talking about eliminating another dancer, Matt debated his next move but only for a second. It was chancy and illegal, but he flipped the light switch three times and entered the tech room. Then closing the battered file cabinet, acting as a door and concealing the monitoring room, Matt grabbed the headphones and could now clearly hear Boris's side of the conversation.
"You are not listening. I said sell everything."
There was a pause.
"What part of my instructions do you not understand? When I say everything, I mean everything. I am getting out of the market."
There was another pause. Matt listened intently for any footfalls, worried Boris might come back into the office and catch him monitoring the conversation, a violation of the Queen Mother's mandate and Boris's constitutional rights.
Boris continued the conversation more agitated after listening to the caller, "I may buy back in a week or two; it depends. I may invest my money elsewhere. But if you don't follow my instructions, I will have to wait to jump back into the market until after attending your memorial service. I hope I am making myself clear. Sell everything now! Think of it as my financial Armageddon. By this time tomorrow you will have liquidated my entire portfolio. Is that understood?"
With that Matt heard the spring door slam. Boris was in the hallway!
Matt threw down the headset and thought for an extended second.
"Matt," came a call from the hallway.
The undercover agent spied the pipe running across the open ceiling. He jumped up and chinning himself, climbed onto a support beam running the length of the warehouse. He inched his way over to the restroom and dropped. He caught his breath, flushed the toilet, brushed off the cobwebs, and walked out into the hallway.
"I need a broom and something cold to drink," demanded the Russian returning to the warehouse.
"Sure."
Matt walked back to his office, relieved he dodged another bullet, grabbed two Diet Pepsis from the refrigerator, a broom from the metal cabinet, and headed into the warehouse.
The Russian said nothing as Matt handed him the soda can. Boris popped the top and took a long gulp.
Matt looked at the truck. Nothing stood out as different from its appearance before the Russian's arrival. "Everything okay?" asked Matt.
"Everything is fine."
"What have you been doing? The truck looks the same. I was expecting to find a souped-up monster truck ready for the Speed Channel's next event."
"I merely had to tinker with the odometer so when I sell it on eBay I can advertise it as low mileage."
Matt gave the Bear a confused look, and Boris let out one of his patented laughs. The Bear swept around the truck gathering trace pieces of evidence: wire clippings, metal shavings, crumbs of a white, claylike substance. H
e put the accumulations in a clear plastic bag and tossed it in the satchel. When he finished sweeping and he finished his drink, he prepared to leave.
"I will return Friday afternoon at 3:00 p.m. Be here and don't be late."
"Have you ever known me to be late? I'll be here tomorrow afternoon and Friday afternoon. You can count on it," said Matt.
"Do not touch anything and allow no one in the warehouse. I paid for an exclusive rental of your property."
"That's my understanding as well. The five thousand bought you a week."
Boris nodded, "Thank you for allowing me to store the truck here."
"You want to go grab some lunch?" said Matt.
"No, I have to get back to the club. Maybe some other day."
As Boris hustled out of the warehouse, Matt noted the satchel was a little easier for the big Russian to manipulate.
As soon as the Escalade left the parking lot, Matt slammed the double dead bolts on the front door into place and raced back to the warehouse.
He did a once-around the truck trying to observe any modification. He saw nothing. He climbed on the step to the front door and looked inside; his eye caught a minor object which seemed out of place but hardly alarming. Stepping from the cab, he bent over to view the belly of the seven-ton. When he pretzeled his body beneath the vehicle to size up the undercarriage, he froze, then backed out slowly. He grabbed a chair, pulled it alongside the truck, looked inside the bed, and then ran to his office.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
Can you get over here now?" The urgency in Matt's voice was evident.
"What's going on?" said Dwayne.
"I have no idea. I hate to even say this, but you better clue in the ADIC. This is way beyond our pay grades."