Paladine

by Kenneth Eade

  Moments later, two suited agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation were entering Bryce’s office. The one leading the charge was short, with an obvious Napoleon complex, and the second one was taller than average. The short one introduced them both with a sneer and an insincere outstretched hand.

  “Mr. Williamson, I’m Special Agent Dubrovnik and this is Special Agent McHenry from the FBI.” His voice was nasal, like he had something stuffed up his nose.

  Bryce remained seated and allowed Dubrovnik’s hand to languish in the wind. McHenry toothed a goofy smile. He seemed friendly enough to Bryce. Maybe it was going to be a game of “good cop, bad cop.”

  “Have a seat, gentlemen, I was just having a cup of coffee. Would you like one?”

  Dubrovnik’s sneer turned into a frown as he lowered himself onto the velvet cushion of the Louis IV chaise. Both of them answered in the affirmative on the coffee and Bryce pushed the intercom and ordered two more cups sent in. No pot, they wouldn’t be staying. McHenry flipped open a steno book and started to write furiously.

  “You boys must be busy. What brings you here?”

  “You don’t know?” Dubrovnik couldn’t contain himself. He blurted out the reason for their call before Bryce could ignore the question. “The murder of Aaresh Shanahwaz.”

  Bryce left Dubrovnik’s statement smoldering, without gratifying his interrogator. Finally he responded, “You mean the execution of the terrorist who killed my son? You boys are about…” He checked his Piguet. “…Almost ten years late. But I’m glad someone has finally done your job.”

  “The court found Mr. Shanahwaz insane. The crime we’re investigating is his murder.”

  “All jihadists are insane, gentlemen. That doesn’t mean they shouldn’t be executed.” Bryce coughed phlegm into his handkerchief.

  “You wanted nothing more than Shanahwaz dead, isn’t that true?”

  Bryce said nothing.

  “I take that as an admission,” Dubrovnik delightfully declared as McHenry scribbled on his pad, flipping a page and getting right back to it.

  “The only admission is the obvious incompetence of your department. Now, please tell me the reason for your visit.”

  The tall grandson of the Irish immigrants looked up from his notebook to answer. “We’d like to talk about the murder, uhm, what you’re calling an execution.”

  “Then why don’t you talk to the executioner?”

  The receptionist knocked on the door and excused herself as she placed a silver tray on the desk before the G-Men which contained two saucered porcelain cups and a silver sugar bowl and creamer.

  “Thank you, Jessica. Gentlemen, enjoy your coffee and then you’re going to have to excuse me. If you wish to speak about this or any other matter, Jessica will give you the name of my lawyer. That’s what they’re for, you know.” Bryce smiled and sipped. Dubrovnik looked like a kid who had had his ice cream cone stolen by a bully. McHenry continued to take notes.

  Dubrovnik stood up and McHenry, open mouthed, shut his notebook and also stood, following the example of his leader, who resembled a pouting boy who had been told that his friends didn’t want to play with him anymore. Both held out their hands for a shake and a smile, but their false courtesies were not returned.

  “I guess there’s nothing more to talk about. If you change your mind…”

  “I won’t.”

  Dubrovnik reached for his jacket pocket with his useless hand and withdrew a card. As if on cue, McHenry did the same.

  “Here are our cards. Give us a call.”

  “Don’t hold your breath, gentlemen. I’m sure you already know that I have stage 4 cancer. Talk to my lawyer if you want. My time is much more valuable than you realize, and you can be thankful not to be in the same position.”

  “Even cancer patients can go to prison.” Dubrovnik snickered, attempting to have the last word. Williamson deprived him of that pleasure.

  “So can federal agents.” Bryce smiled with satisfaction. “Good day, gentlemen. If you should find yourselves back in this office, please call ahead to make an appointment.”

  The two exited the office, a boy whose toys had been stolen and his puppy-dog companion.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Robert was not the type who could own or possess anything. Everything was disposable. He rented a storage unit for the 650 from a storage facility where the manager agreed to take dead presidents in place of ID. Robert liked the bike, and he would need transportation, but it would have to stay here and he would use it only for jobs. It could be disposed of at a moment’s notice and nobody would ever tie it to him. On the other hand, he also needed to live in the real world and that meant that Julio Ignacio would have to get a place to live and a way to get around. But he couldn’t find a residence without a ride. Robert liked the ease of mobility and agility of the motorbike, so he found a good used Honda NC700X from a private party and paid cash. Unlike the KLR, he would have to register this bike.

  Robert waited in line patiently at the DMV. He was not sure when he would be able to do another job, but the money left over from the last endeavor would last him a while. He had decided to stay in one place while he spent it, and Las Vegas was as good as any place. It was crowded, transient, and despite the fact that it had more FBI agents and IRS agents than any other city in America, it was somewhere he thought he could hide in plain sight.

  When he got his number, he sat down with the clipboard they had given him and filled out his driver’s license and registration applications. Then, when his number was called, he went to window number seven, where he found a clerk that proved not to be harmful to his eyes. It had been some time since Robert had really been attracted to somebody.

  Virginia Linder smelled like a beautiful country meadow after a fresh spring rain. Her long blonde hair that had been tied in pigtails reminded him of Sabrina Fair, his first love. Her puffy cheeks dimpled when she spoke and he imagined his lips pressed up against hers. Robert stood in front of her, temporarily lost in a fugue state of daydream.

  “I said, may I help you, sir?”

  “Huh?” Robert flinched, back to reality. “I’m sorry, yes, I’m here to register my vehicle and to apply for a driver’s license.”

  Virginia smiled. “Do you have a driver’s license in any other state?”

  “No.”

  “Alright, then, may I please see your application, your proof of birth, ID and proof of Nevada residence?”

  Robert dealt over a package of papers and documents, which Virginia flipped through quickly. “Do you have another document to prove your residence, like a utility bill?”

  Robert frowned. “No, I just moved here.”

  Virginia slid the documents back to him. “Well, we’ll just need a utility bill. A phone bill or power bill will be fine. Then we can complete both of these applications.”

  Robert nodded politely, thanked her, and left, with a vision of her beauty etched against his retinas.

  ***

  When Robert arrived home, he flipped open his laptop, checked it for bugs, then, using the WiFi from next door, activated his TOR browser. There was a message waiting for his PGP key: Work for You.

  At 7 p.m., Robert warily joined Wild Bill, aka Bryce Williamson in the encrypted private chat room as he had requested, using the handle, P:

  I HAVE WORK FOR YOU.

  TOO HOT. CAN’T DO IT.

  DON’T WORRY. EVERYTHING IS SAFE, WE NEED TO TALK.

  NEGATIVE.

  ON YOUR TURF AND TERMS.

  WILL GET BACK TO YOU. ERASE YOUR HARD DRIVE AND DESTROY YOUR CELL PHONES.

  Robert took a blank piece of paper and began to make notes. Another meeting with Bryce would be very dangerous. Because of his relationship to the victim, it was very likely his calls and emails were being monitored. If he was also under physical surveillance, arranging and holding a meeting with him without the feds knowing would be a true test of Robert’s capabilities, especially if Bryce was cooperating with them. />
  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Robert found himself a nice, long-term rental apartment hotel that suited his needs for the moment. He called the phone company who installed a telephone that he would never use in order to establish his proof of Nevada residence for the DMV, but he linked the account to the mail box address. Robert had used some of his stash to get another passport that he may need for a quick identity change. He spent the evening planning out his meeting with Bryce Williamson.

  At mid-day, Robert packed lightly and hit the I15. The sun beat down on his back and the wind pelted bugs against his helmet and goggles for the next eight hours, until he finally parked his bike in a downtown parking area and took the Powell-Hyde cable car to the top of San Francisco’s famous Lombard Street, known as the most crooked street in the world. There were so many lookie-loos always driving down the twisty, turny street with its eight hairpin curves that it took about 15 minutes to complete the one- block trip. Robert studied the street with his field binoculars and then took the cable car back down the hill toward Chinatown. He checked into a local Starbucks, bought himself a black coffee and hooked in to the café’s free WiFi. Within moments, Robert had sent Bryce an encrypted PGP message, logged off and left the Starbucks.

  ***

  Bryce Williamson checked in with his TOR browser and learned that Paladine had left him a message with his concierge, and that he should retrieve the message in a way that did not deviate from his usual, everyday routine. Bryce had been known to break away from his self-imposed monotony for a drink from time to time, so he dressed for the evening, called for his car, and took the message from the concierge on his way out.

  He opened the message in the car, which instructed him to proceed down Lombard Street, then slip out of the car at the last turn, grab a cab on Leavenworth and get out at 3158 Mission. Bryce did as he was instructed, and Robert sat on his motorcycle and watched Bryce’s car as it entered the one-way street. About halfway through the fourth hairpin turn, there did not appear to be anyone following Bryce’s car, which was a good thing. Robert headed on to the meeting place at El Rio Bar.

  El Rio was already popping for the evening, and Robert took a spot in the busy, crowded courtyard and ordered a beer while he listened to live music. A decent-looking twenty-something brunette was writhing around on the dance floor and caught Robert’s eye. He watched her as he sipped his brew, all the while thinking that his voyeurism had gone unnoticed. He discovered he was wrong when she bumped up to his table, and pointed to the seat beside him with a feminine snap.

  “This seat taken?”

  Robert set down his mug. “Yes, it is. I’m waiting for somebody.”

  “Shame,” she said through pouted lips and, without missing a beat, danced on to the next table.

  Bryce showed up about 20 minutes later, carrying a brown laptop bag, and found Robert in the midst of what was looking like a popular meat market. He took a seat on the wooden bench opposite him.

  “Do you have my note?’

  Bryce handed the note to Robert, who held it over the ash tray and burned it with his lighter.

  “They’re not tailing you, at least not today, but you can’t take any chances. And I can’t be meeting you like this anymore.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m giving you this.” Bryce slid his bag to Robert under the table. “There’s an advance in there for ten more jobs. I’ve also included the access codes for the TSDB database. I don’t know how often they change them, so get as much information as you can. You choose the jobs.”

  This all made sense to Robert. The only glitch was that he did not know if he could trust Bryce. As a general rule, Robert didn’t trust anyone, but, given the number of inevitable connections which occurred between people on a daily basis, it was impossible to avoid some kind of social contact, unless of course you lived on Mars.

  “I choose the jobs?”

  “Yeah.” Bryce started sputtering, and pulled out his handkerchief to cover his mouth.

  “You don’t care which ones I do?”

  Bryce folded away his handkerchief. “On the contrary, my dear Paladine, I want you to do all of them.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Robert left Bryce and the bar tab at the El Rio and began to separate his existence from San Francisco. He stopped in a secure area off the road and opened the case. In it were mostly piles of rubber-banded one-hundred-dollar bills and a small slip of paper with the access codes to the database on it. Robert memorized the codes and transferred the money to his backpack. He dumped the case in a city garbage bin.

  On the long ride home, Robert contemplated the propriety of his decision to hang his hat for a while in Las Vegas. He quickly dismissed those thoughts by resolving that he could leave on less than a moment’s notice and disappear into the wind if need be. Robert pulled into the Barstow Outlets along the I15, grabbed an In-N-Out cheeseburger and settled at the Starbucks next door to caffeinate himself for the remainder of his journey.

  He opened his TOR browser using the free wireless connection and surfed his way through the TSDB database, pretending to be a deputy sheriff. The database had a coding system for classifying suspects, with code 1 being the highest risk and code 4 the lowest. There were 318 names in code 1 and 2, which is where Robert would start. He downloaded the data for the 318 on an external hard drive and ended his trespassing session without leaving a digital fingerprint.

  ***

  The code 1 suspect on the top of the list was Aqwa Bukhari, a Pakastani sheik who was suspected of establishing jihadist training camps in the United States for the organization, American Muslims. When the FBI came knocking at their door, they simply hid behind the Second Amendment, which allowed them to train their subjects to fire assault weapons. Robert had an inherent mistrust for the government, so he decided to do his own investigation. He hit the traditional Internet and uncovered reports on the organization and their training camps, including their headquarters in New York. The Colorado camp of their suspected parent organization in Pakistan, which was classified a terrorist organization, had been raided by federal agents, who had found explosives, weapons and evidence of terrorism plots and financing, but were prevented from prosecuting because the group hid behind the First and Second Amendments. They had freedom of expression and religion as well as the right to bear arms. The camps would be a great place to work on, but Robert would need a team for that, which meant disclosure. The more people who knew about him, the more risk he would expose himself to, no matter how much he trusted the members of the team.

  Robert decided to cut the head off the snake. Taking out Bukhari would be a lot easier than taking out a camp of jihadists and terrorists in training with automatic weapons. With a few more passes over the keyboard, which included a visit to the American Muslim’s website, which promoted peace, harmony and tolerance, he discovered that Bukhari would be making a speech at the Colorado complex in two weeks. He made a mental list of the supplies he would need as well as a note in his cerebral calendar.

  ***

  Robert cleared his browsing history, powered off his computer, gathered his dossier for the DMV and tucked it into his bag. When he opened the door to leave, he almost tripped over a dirty, skinny, pitiful looking dog that was sitting on his welcome mat. The mutt had a lamentable, long sad, fuzzy muzzle, and he was staring directly at Robert with his big eyes.

  “Get out of here!”

  The dog hung his head low and his droopy ears fell even lower.

  “I said get out!”

  The canine put his head on the deck and covered it with his paws. Robert laughed.

  “Okay, okay, I guess that’s worth something. You’re hungry, right?”

  The dog came to attention, his tongue hanging out and eyes wide open as Robert turned to go back in. The dog tentatively put one paw inside the door. Robert instinctively sensed the invasion and turned on him.

  “Out! I didn’t say you could come in!”

  The dog quickly withdrew, hangi
ng back and wagging his long tail enthusiastically. Robert looked through his kitchen for any leftovers he could find. Some of them, like the uneaten fajitas and moldy cheese, probably should be thrown out, but he was sure the dog could handle them. He laid out the barely edible treasures on a piece of wax paper and brought them to the dog, whose tail wagged even more furiously as he patiently waited for Robert to set down the goodies.

  As the dog scarfed down the leftover garbage from Robert’s fridge, Robert scavenged for a pail, filled it with water, and put it outside the door. The dog quickly stuck his head into the bucket and feverishly lapped up half the contents.

  “Slow down, now.”

  The dog lifted his dripping face and looked up at Robert thankfully.

  “Now when I get back, I expect you to be gone.”

  The dog just wagged his tail as Robert shut and locked the door and walked away. The manager’s door cracked open after Robert had passed. Robert whirled around.

  “You want something?”

  Caught with his pants down, the manager scratched his 9 am shadow and pulled his used to be white T-shirt down over his ample beer belly. “It’s just that I didn’t know you had a dog.”

  “I don’t have a dog.”

  “Well I saw one up at your apartment.”

  Robert mentally counted to ten. This guy really needed a punch in the nose, but he wasn’t going to be the designated puncher. “I told you, Billy, it’s not my dog.”

  Billy scratched his nose. “Cuz, if you had a dog, we’d have to charge an extra security deposit.”

  Robert said nothing, just stared right at Billy’s nose, an intent and fixed stare. “Okay, okay, if he’s not yours, then, I guess we’ve got no issues.”

  “Good.”

  Robert didn’t need any issues. Or a dog.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Robert traded his number several times, allowing people to go ahead of him at the DMV. He wanted Virginia’s window, not because he was smitten with her, but because she knew his case and he wouldn’t have to explain everything all over again. She greeted him with a wide smile.