'Frank.' Salt's voice is as clear as if she's sitting next to him.
'Thanks for agreeing to talk,' says Frank. 'I know it's out of office hours but it's something of an emergency.'
'I rarely get emergency calls,' says Salt. 'It's fine. Besides, I'll be billing your department. Now, since this is an emergency, what is it all about? I'm assuming it's concerning Ben Noone?'
'We have some new information. And I believe Noone has killed again.' Frank fills Salt in on the details of Warren Eckhardt's involvement and his death.
'It's being ruled a heart attack,' says Frank. 'And they're probably right. But with him following Noone I don't believe that his death was accidental.'
'And there's other new information?'
Frank looks around him to check there's no one eavesdropping. 'We think that Ben Noone is the illegitimate son of Dennis Sheehan, the former US Secretary of State.'
There's a silence on the end of the line. 'Dr Salt?' says Frank.
'How sure are you? That's quite an assumption.'
'We're sure.' Frank tells Salt about the Nixon photograph. 'If it was just a physical resemblance – even a striking one – then we'd have nothing. But we did more digging on Noone's mother. She was employed as a nanny for Dennis and Mary Sheehan's youngest child, Cody, in '82, '83. The timing's right for the pregnancy. Sterling had no money. We suspect the man listed as her husband is a cover. We can't find any evidence the two even met. And yet, once the child is born, Deborah Sterling is loaded. She'd been bought to silence her. There's nothing illegal about any of that, but it's pertinent to my investigation.'
'And Noone lives a life of wealth, privilege and protection. Without a father.'
'Correct.'
'And what about the name? If his mother's name is Sterling, where does Noone come from?'
'Noone changed his name shortly after his mother's death. Nothing illegal about it.'
'But suggestive on several counts,' says Salt. 'Not least of which the choice of name.'
'What do you mean?'
'Noone,' says Salt. 'No one. You probably already thought of that?'
'No,' says Frank, feeling stupid. It was so fucking obvious now Salt had pointed it out. 'I didn't see it.'
'Well anyway, it's a significant – if adolescent – event. Coming hard on the death of his mother. That could have been the rationale.' Salt isn't talking to Frank now, she's musing to herself, so Frank just listens. 'But if Noone is a narcissistic psychopath, as we suspect, then I wonder if he discovered the truth about his father on the death of his mother. That would explain the acceleration from bad behaviour – relatively minor criminality and destructive patterns – into full-blown violence and murder.'
'His father's been protecting him,' says Frank. 'At least that's what we think. Again, we have nothing concrete.'
'And the Americans? What was their response?'
'They've closed ranks. Those who believe us about the connection to Sheehan are shying away. He's too powerful, even out of office. Our contacts here – the official and unofficial ones – have pulled their skirts up and run. We're the untouchables. And we had a visit from a couple of people who scared us. And we don't scare easily.' Frank tells Salt about the visit from Ashland and Baines.
'Sheehan's due to visit the city tomorrow. A presidential fundraiser no less.' Frank lowers his voice, 'I think Noone's going to do something. And that's the emergency, Dr Salt. I need to know what he's likely to do.'
'It doesn't work like that, Frank. You must know that.'
'Yes, I do. But we need to do something. And I'm not ready to let Noone get away with the killings in Liverpool.'
'OK, I can't say I like it, but here goes. For what it's worth, I don't think his father will be the target. Noone's narcissistic personality disorders are, essentially, a scream for attention. Having an absent father – no matter how indulgent – will anger Noone. His acts of rebellion in an accelerating series of criminal actions show that although he thinks he can get away with anything, he has an underlying desire to be caught. That sounds trite, but Noone wants attention from the one person who has denied him that attention – his father. He is choosing – Noone, I mean – to get that attention through classic adolescent behaviours. In many ways narcissists remain stuck in adolescent patterns. What's dangerous here, if we're right about Noone, is that those adolescent behaviours are being acted out in killing. The best way Noone can get attention is by pointing out the way he has been "badly treated", in his eyes. He may try to shine a harsh light on his own abandonment by Sheehan by doing something extreme. Killing his father wouldn't do that. It's not grandiose enough. He'll want something big, something that will demonstrate to everyone how special he is, how unique. The best way to do that – assuming he's performing the way you describe – is to have his day in court. Noone's not going to be someone happy to arm himself and die in a hail of bullets. He wants everyone to see not only how poorly he's been treated – and don't forget Noone will see every financial and physical benefit he has been given as something he is "entitled" to – but how clever he's been, how ingenious. He'll want to survive.'
'Survive what?'
'From what you tell me, Noone wants to survive when he kills the president.'
Twenty-Nine
Three days to go.
Noone's lawyer, an aggressive, supremely confident man called Max Perot, arrives at Noone's house at nine with two people from the committee who make the trip to Santa Monica to apologise. The thirty thousand Noone had splashed on the fundraising ticket had been worth every cent. He makes the most of handing it back, playing the aggrieved but magnanimous donor to perfection. He can afford to: he doesn't need the ticket. Never has.
'I expect a good seat next time,' Noone jokes, seeing them to the door. 'One with a good line of sight and an easy exit route.'
They laugh and shake hands.
When they've gone, Noone drives into the city, making sure he slips any of the Daedalus tails that still remain. He's not even sure they're there but he does it anyway.
In a theatrical outfitters on Sunset he buys several items he needs for Thursday.
Back home Noone puts his purchases down on the metal-topped kitchen counter and gets a low-cal soda from the Sub-Zero and watches the waves rolling in on Santa Monica Beach down below as he drinks. Further away, a jetliner, its fuselage gleaming in the afternoon sun, slides out of the hazy clouds at the edge of the Pacific and drifts down towards LAX. The traffic's light on the distant highways, no sound reaching up to this rarefied stratosphere.
It's perfect, a snapshot of the American Dream, California style.
Noone's neighbours are global names. Movie stars. Politicians. Even a stray rapper, the Palisades' nod to inclusion. Tom Hanks at the PTA, Schwarzenegger coaching soccer, Christian Bale buying bagels at Vons. Noone'll miss it, he will, all the clothes and money and shiny, shiny stuff, but it's bullshit compared to immortality.
The TV is on and is tuned to a news channel. Noone turns and watches a report from outside the house the president will be staying at prior to the fundraiser. It's a fucking zoo: camera crews, reporters, photographers, gawkers, cops, agents. The place is sewn up tighter than a Beverly Hills facelift.
Noone's glad his plan makes all that go away.
Lateral thinking.
The deaths in Liverpool, his first baby steps, now seem pathetically amateur.
Killing fucking dentists. Jesus.
What was going to happen if he got caught for those childish stunts? It wouldn't even make a dent in Sheehan's Kevlar-coated reputation.
With the deep pockets of Loder Industries, his father might even emerge stronger from any court case in Liverpool. A deranged son. A tragedy. Sheehan could be forgiven, pitied even, for his bad fortune. A couple of appearances on a TV couch and some repentant noises in the press, the right marketing advice, and Ben Noone's name would be gone on the wind.
It's not enough. Someone like him needs a bigger stage. A crime tha
t will echo across the globe and down the decades. A crime so terrible that even Dennis Sheehan will be taken down. A JFK, a 9/11, a Utøya Island.
He opens the bag from the theatrical shop and lays out his purchases. Seeing them there on the counter makes it all seem very real. Noone smiles.
This fucker's going to work.
Thirty
Koop's in front of a public access computer at a desk in the LA Central Library. As Frank approaches, Koop glances up and then turns back to the screen. Frank pulls up a chair and leans forward.
The room is busy but Frank can't detect anyone there who shouldn't be. After the conversation with Angela Salt his paranoia levels are rising to a point that Frank thinks might be unsustainable. He feels ill.
'Look at this,' says Koop, gesturing at the screen. There's a photograph of a Greek vase. Wrapped around the curving black surface, two orange-tinted figures – one human, one a hybrid creature, half-man, half-bull – are fighting.
'Theseus and the Minotaur,' says Koop. Both he and Frank are talking in whispers.
'Theseus is sent by the King of Athens to slay the Cretan Minotaur. He's half-bull, half-man and every seventh year devours seven of Athens' youth. The Minotaur lives in an underground labyrinth created by Daedalus.'
Frank leans closer. 'As in Sheehan's company.'
'And Sheehan's nickname – the one Deborah Sterling called him – is Minotaur.'
Franks reads the text that runs underneath the image.
Theseus, unarmed, takes the place of one of the youths offered to the monster. On arrival in Crete, Ariadne, the daughter of King Minos, falls in love with Theseus. Daedalus, the creator of the labyrinth, tells Ariadne to hand Theseus a ball of twine in order for him to find his way out of the labyrinth if he manages to slay the Minotaur. Theseus follows her instructions and finds the Minotaur. Producing a hidden sword he fights the beast, slays it and returns to the surface using the string.
'Noone's email was a quote from Theseus,' says Koop. 'I thought it might be interesting to see what the background was. We thought it was just a reference to the kid in the tunnels but it looks like there's a bit more to it than that.'
'You can say that again.' Frank's head is reeling with possibilities. An unarmed warrior slaying a monster in the heart of his protective maze.
Frank tells Koop Salt's conclusions.
'We can't go to them with this,' says Koop. 'It's interesting stuff if you think the way we do but you can imagine the reaction.'
'I still think we have to tell them,' says Frank. 'In fact we're going to tell them.'
Koop leans back and folds his arms across his chest.
'You're right,' he says. 'But there's one thing I think we should do before we call Hagenbaum.'
'And that is . . .?'
'Break into Noone's house.'
Thirty-One
Noone parks the jeep – its plates muddied just like he'd done back in Birkdale after killing the Peters couple – and walks a block to a blue and green bungalow on one of the neat suburban roads way the fuck out in Corona. He'd been put onto this dealer by an obliging Samoan biker he'd met in Manhattan Beach. After getting the guy laid and handing him enough coke to choke a Russian supermodel, Noone had fed him some bullshit about an independent movie he was making that needed a gun. Did the Samoan know anywhere he could get his hands on a particular weapon?
The Samoan didn't give a supersonic shit why Noone needed the weapon so long as the money was good and Noone kept up the supply of top-grade pussy and blow. The only downside with the Samoan's contact is him living out in the boonies.
The bungalow has a Ford mini-van parked outside and looks well cared for. The garden is trimmed, and there's shade from a couple of orange trees. 'Just go in and knock,' the Samoan had said. 'It'll be cool. Money's always cool, bro. But be polite, y'hear? There's kids around.'
Noone plans to be polite. He's not so green that he's about to piss off an arms supplier with biker links.
The place doesn't look like somewhere you'd get high-grade assault weapons. There's a rainbow sticker on the window and Noone can see brightly coloured plastic children's toys inside. There's music playing, something familiar he can't quite identify, a nursery rhyme.
Noone knocks at the door. After a few seconds it's opened by a small white woman in her early sixties with a wide rear end. She's wearing glasses and carrying an Hispanic child about two years old.
'Elliot?' she says. Her voice has a muted southern twang.
Noone nods.
'Come on in. I'm Gena. Traffic heavy?'
'Some,' says Noone.
'Wait till Thursday when that big ol' presidential dinner starts. You don't want to be moving anywhere then.'
'I was expecting someone else,' says Noone. He's not keen on talking about the president. 'Gene.'
'A guy, right?'
Noone nods. 'I suppose.'
'Well, you'll have to settle for me, young man. Happened before. Gene. Gena. Mickey doesn't always speak real clear. Come through.'
Gena pushes through a door into a living room. There are two children about three years old sitting in front of a large TV showing cartoons. It's an old show: ThunderCats. The theme tune is what Noone had heard through the door. He remembers watching it first time round.
The kids turn their moon faces towards him when he comes into the room and look at him, their expressions blank. One of them turns back to the screen after a couple of seconds.
'Take a seat,' says Gena. 'Don't mind the kids. I run a kind of amateur kindergarten. Lot of working moms in the neighbourhood.'
Noone sits down on a fat sofa. The floor is strewn with toys and he moves a couple out from under his feet. Gena puts the kid she's carrying down on the floor next to the other two.
'Play nice, Hector,' she says. 'Watch the show.'
She waddles out of the room. The kid who's been staring at him continues to watch Noone. Hector looks like he might have a few issues. He picks his nose and watches Noone too. The TV is loud but not unpleasant.
'ThunderCats,' says Hector and points at the screen.
Noone nods. 'Yeah.'
Hector seems happy with the response and resumes the examination of his nose.
The house is clean and comfortable. Noone had been half-expecting a slum.
Gena comes back in carrying a solid-looking wooden box. She puts it down on the coffee table and clears a couple of cartons of juice out of the way. The effort of this task makes Gena breathe hard and she rises after placing the box, looking like she might pass out.
'You OK?' says Noone. Not that he gives a shit about the old woman but he doesn't want to have to deal with whoever's behind Gena if she dies right here. And there will be someone behind Gena. It's a tactic – so Mickey the Samoan told Noone – for suppliers of illegal weaponry to run them through a front. The front will get a hike in his – or her – pension and is completely expendable in the event of a crisis. 'Plus they have more balls than some young guys,' Mickey said. 'Dependable.'
'I'm fine,' says Gena. She puts her hands on her hips and sucks in some oxygen. 'Cancer,' she says in the voice other people might say 'flu'. She waves her hand to dismiss the subject and then leaves the room again.
Hector pulls himself up using the edge of the coffee table and puts his chubby hands on the box.
'Don't, kid,' says Noone. Hector ignores him so Noone growls in a low, urgent way and Hector sits back down.
Gena returns with two more boxes, one wooden, one waxed card. She places these down next to the larger box and, with difficulty, manoeuvres her behind into a leather armchair.
'Watch TV, Hector,' she says, flapping her hand at the tube. 'Be good, chico.'
She passes Hector a carton of juice with a straw in the top and he takes it, although he doesn't turn away from the box or sit down. Gena shrugs and flicks the clasp on the lid.
Inside, lying on a bed of shaped foam, is the most simultaneously beautiful and ugliest object Noone has ever seen. H
ector leans forward, interested, the juice carton clamped to his mouth.
'Micro Tavor X95S,' says Gena. 'Just like you ordered.' In the presence of the Micro Tavor, her voice takes on a reverential tone and she transfers some of that to Noone.
He's paid upwards of twenty-five grand for this weapon alone when he could have had a fully automatic Uzi for a tenth of that. The money doesn't matter; he'd have paid double once he'd seen the gun online. It is utterly, completely, one hundred per cent, the most badass gun a person could own.
'Israeli made. Ten point eight inch barrel, nine millimetre, integrated silencer, twelve hundred rounds a minute. Maximum range around four hundred metres. This one came from Operation Defensive Shield. Hector, don't touch; you got sticky fingers, chico.'
Gena pushes Hector's hands out of the way, lifts the gun out and passes it to Noone.
'Mine,' says Hector.
'Not now, honey,' says Gena in a soothing tone. 'Fucking sweet, hey?' she says, turning to Noone. She's not talking about Hector.
The weapon is a short-barrelled, snub-nosed, squat lump of absolute evil energy. The power of it fills the room like smoke and Noone feels his heart beat faster, the cold black muzzle of the gun seeming to draw energy inwards. No one – Hector and his compadres excepted – would ever be within fifty yards of this thing and not know exactly where it was pointed.
The weapon's made of dark grey composite material and is surprisingly light in Noone's hands. Back in Liverpool, when he'd handled the taser for the first time, he had felt the thrill then of having violent power at his fingertips, but the Micro Tavor is a beast of another species. When Noone had been researching assault weapons, the Micro Tavor had screamed out to him. Here, in Gena's living room, having one actually in his hands almost makes him cry.
Down Among the Dead Men Page 33