“I don’t want to risk taking this cheap thing apart and maybe breaking it,” said McCafferty. “First thing we need to do is to see if this model came with a GPI either installed already, or if the goots installed one to keep track of you. Nope, no satellite signal. Looks like your new racist buddies actually trust you, Ms. McGee.” Unlike you, thought Kicky.
“Then the more fools they,” said Lainie. “Punch up those numbers, Andy.” He did so.
“They’re masked. Hang on.” He diddled with the meter and ran the rod over it again. She pulled out her notebook. “Can you read the numbers?”
“Yes. Here they are.” He called out three telephone numbers that Lainie jotted down. “Damn! I recognize the series. They’re all throwaways like this, three different models.”
“Not unexpected. Can they be monitored?”
“With what we’ve got? Maybe,” said McCafferty. “Portland PB can access local cell sites, of course, but there’s so much traffic that in order to pick these three phones out of a city this size every time they activate, it will require a fairly complex program. I can set that up, and we can do it automatically and have the data fed into our computer system whenever they use the phones, but that would mean outside access for our system, which you said you don’t want. Or I can just have the data recorded on CD, and that will help us track them, but we won’t have any real-time tracking capability and by the time we get the info it might be hours old. The other alternative would be to have full time manual monitoring, which will mean more people, three shifts of them for 24/7 coverage.”
“Dammit!” muttered Martinez. “There’s too many cooks in this soup already.”
“Should I even bother to suggest bringing in the FBI and using their much more advanced satellite monitoring systems, which can provide real-time coverage on any wireless phone anywhere in the world?” asked McCafferty.
“You should not!” said Lainie sharply.
“Okay, so we stay downmarket,” replied McCafferty with a shrug.
“I’ll have to think about this,” said Lainie. “We need to get something set up by the time they call to give Kristin her new car. When you get that vehicle, Kristin, we will tell you where to bring it so we can fully examine it, track the paperwork, and of course get it fully wired for sound and video. Don’t let the thought of screwing with us on that even cross your mind.”
“I got one question,” said Kicky. “These guys are asking me now to go out and participate with them in committing crimes. I thought you people were supposed to be into preventing that sort of thing?”
“Don’t be a smart-ass!” snapped Lainie.
“No, I mean it. Suppose I’m driving them around one day or night, and I see they’re about to kill somebody? What the hell am I supposed to do?” demanded Kicky heatedly.
“We can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs,” replied Lainie. She simply hoped Chief Linda Hirsch would agree with that assessment.
* * *
“It’s a matter of prioritizing,” said Linda Hirsch later that afternoon, after Lainie and Jarvis had played the recording of the Burger Barn meeting for her and explained the increased stakes in Operation Searchlight. “I agree with your views on the matter, Sergeant Martinez. There is precedent. Undercover operatives have always been required to participate in a certain amount of crime in order to maintain their cover and credibility with the criminals they were infiltrating. However, most departments have always drawn the line at homicide. Most state and local departments, anyway. Federal is a different matter.”
“The question here, Chief, is do we prevent one homicide and most likely lose the opportunity to prevent hundreds and maybe even thousands of homicides down the line?” asked Lainie. “So far as I am aware, we have achieved the only successful penetration of the NVA by any law enforcement agency in the country. I don’t need to spell out the implications for you, but surely we have to understand that given the terrorist nature of the organization we are targeting, sooner or later they’re going to commit acts of terrorism with our operative present. It’s inevitable. It’s what they do. A drug undercover has to be present when drugs are sold and consumed, and sometimes use drugs themselves. A hate group undercover has to be present and participate when hateful speech is uttered, and do so convincingly themselves.”
“How long do you figure before this woman is called upon to participate in an actual murder?” asked Hirsch.
“Judging from what Jackson said last night, it could be any time, and the way they’ve got it set up, we won’t have much advance warning,” Lainie told her. “So what do we do? We can track her through the GPI we have on her, and maybe move in fast enough to wherever the scene is to stop the homicide and take out the NVA hit team. But that would be all. Right now, with what we have, it would stop there. We don’t know where Wingo or Jackson or Lockhart go to earth, or where any of these other people we’ve overheard and monitored are. That may change, if we can just keep this girl under long enough to get a more complete read on them, but right now we couldn’t even pick any of them up.”
“Wingo?” asked Chief Hirsch.
Jarvis spoke up. “James Reynard Wingo, age 30, born in Thibodeaux, Louisiana. We’ve identified him as the man called Thumper and also Bob. His reference to Angola tipped us off, plus we found his prints in the house in Gresham. He did a four-year stretch for committing an act motivated by racial and ethnic or homophobic hatred.” Jamal could speak correct legalese English when required to do so in court, or in the presence of his superiors or white women he wanted to impress in bars.
“What act?” asked Hirsch.
“He assaulted a gay man who made sexual advances to him in a bar in Baton Rouge,” said Martinez. “His domestic partner, a young woman, turned him in and claimed the $20,000 state reward for hatecrime information from the Louisiana Human Rights Commission.”
“Bet he really enjoyed showering with all the fellas in Angola prison,” laughed Hirsch in coarse merriment.
“Actually, he became a member of the Aryan Brotherhood prison gang, and he is believed to have committed his first murder in Angola, the stabbing of a black inmate,” said Jarvis. “He skated on that one because the prison authorities couldn’t get any witnesses to testify against him.”
“Ugh! Another one of the NVA’s charming revolutionary heroes,” growled Hirsch. “Sergeant, there is a whole gang of that kind of man operating in our city, and they’re killing people every day. We have to roll up their whole organization, and it looks like there’s not going to be any pretty way to do it. But we must prioritize. The first thing you have to clearly understand is that I know nothing about any impending homicides.”
“Of course not, ma’am,” said Martinez neutrally.
“I mean that, Sergeant. Neither of you is to tell me anything about any such impending event, now or ever. As important as this operation is, I’m not letting you get my tuchas in a sling over this. You guys will be reaping a good many of the rewards, so you get the privilege of taking the risk. This is political dynamite. I don’t have to tell you what will happen if it should get out that we are turning a blind eye to NVA killings and bombings to protect an informant. The public won’t get it. Our control of the news media is still by no means as complete as we would wish, and there is always the chance of a leak to some reporter who cares more about a Pulitzer than about duty to his or her country. I will rely on your ingenuity and your no doubt acute political sense to prevent any violent acts against, er, the more socially significant and influential members of the community.”
“You mean it’s okay if these racist muthafukkas gun down a few brothuhs on the street, but if they go after any rich white folks we gots to stop them?” demanded Jarvis heatedly.
“That’s exactly what I mean, Sergeant,” said Hirsch calmly. “Don’t tell me you’ve gotten as far as you have and yet you don’t know how America works, Jarvis. Under our wonderful liberal democratic system, all animals are equal, but some animals are more
equal than others.”
“Oddly enough, the NVA seem to have a penchant for quoting George Orwell as well, ma’am,” said Lainie, bemused.
“George who?” asked Jarvis in confusion.
“I believe what the Chief is trying to say, Jamal, is that the NVA sees America as based on race, when in fact it is and always has been based on class and wealth,” said Lainie.
“And that means exactly what?” asked Jarvis suspiciously.
“It’s actually good news. It means anyone can buy their way in. But for us, it means we let Kicky and her friend kill a few brothers and a few muchachos, but not any rich white people,” explained Lainie. Before Jarvis could protest she went on, “But Chief, I think it has to be a bit more nuanced than that. Where, exactly, do we draw the line? What if we overhear imminent assault and murder directed against a gay person? Or an interracial couple? Or a Jewish person?”
“If they’re about to harm a Jew, you drop the hammer and you stop it,” said Hirsch, immediately and without hesitation. “No matter what the cost. The same goes for a gay man or woman. Beyond that, all I can tell you is to use your discretion.” Neither of the detectives needed reminding that Hirsch was both Jewish and lesbian, that they were black and Hispanic respectively, and that their boss’ personal minorities were to be given police protection while their own were not. Lainie glanced at Jarvis.
“I think I understand, ma’am,” said Lainie. “After all, one can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs,” she repeated.
“This better be one hell of a muthafukkin’ tasty omelette,” groused Jarvis.
“One final thing,” said Hirsch. “I want to repeat what I told you when this whole operation started. I want Jesse Lockhart, dead or sitting in a cell where I can go to work with my Dershowitz needles on his goyische ass. The very minute you get a whiff of him, you drop every other line of inquiry and you concentrate on getting Lockhart. This isn’t just personal with me anymore. I don’t have to tell you I’m under a lot of pressure, not just from city hall and the mayor’s office, but from the Elliott Weinstein at the FBI and all the other feds we’ve got crawling up our ass. They don’t like this constant racial violence in Portland that we don’t seem to be able to do anything about. I am going to need some kind of results, and the way it looks now, it will have to be sooner rather than later.”
* * *
A few days later, Kicky McGee found herself the proud owner of a dark blue, fairly late model Toyota Camry. She was awakened one morning by her NVA cell phone. She had never heard it ring before, and at first she opened her regular cell, which she kept beside her bed as well, before she realized the chime was from the cheapie Jackson had given her. She got that open and said “Yes?”
She recognized the voice on the other end as Thumper’s. “This is your favorite sugar daddy. Happy birthday, darling,” he told her. “Look outside. The keys are under your doormat. The title and registration are in the glove box, the emission inspection sticker is new, and it’s all street legal and righteous.” Then he hung up. Kicky went outside and saw the Camry parked in front of her trailer. The keys were where Wingo had said they would be. It turned out they’d even given her a full tank of gas. She couldn’t resist pulling on some clothes and taking the Toyota out for a test drive, and she wildly tried to think of some way that she could get away with not telling Martinez and Jarvis about the car so they wouldn’t wire it. Then she remembered the strange woman’s blank face like a wax mask as she had inserted the acid-filled needle, and any thought of resistance collapsed. She duly called in to her handlers and at their direction brought the Camry to a garage attached to a Portland police station where McCafferty carefully installed fiber optic microphones, cameras, and a separate global positioning indicator.
Kicky had explained her work schedule to Wingo on the drive back from the Burger Barn, under which she had Monday and Tuesday nights off, and the next Monday at about three o’clock she was just coming out of the Safeway when she got a text message. She sighed and called Lainie Martinez on her regular phone. When she answered, Kicky said, “I just got texted. They want me at Burger Barn Two. That’s the corner of Magnolia Street and 31st Avenue. This looks like it.”
“All right, we’ll go on alert,” said Lainie. “You know the drill. Do what you’re told to do like a good little terrorist.”
“Including killing somebody, maybe?” asked Kicky. “You never did give me a straight answer about that.”
“Do whatever you have to do to maintain the integrity of this operation and let us worry about when to intervene,” said Lainie authoritatively.
“In other words, you don’t give a damn about anybody else but yourselves? Don’t worry, I got that a long time ago. One more thing. If this goes off okay, I want to see Ellie and my mom. You want to treat me like a naughty child, okay, you spanked me and you sent me to my room without supper. But I’ve been a good little girl, and I want to come out of my room now.”
“Let’s see how this plays out, and then I’ll think about it,” said Lainie. “Now go play with your dirty little friends.” Lainie hung up.
Kicky put her groceries in the trunk and drove to the meeting point. It wasn’t rush hour yet, so the traffic wasn’t too bad. She found a spot on Magnolia Street and parked, then walked to the corner. A powder blue Nissan pulled up beside her. She looked over and saw Thumper/Bob was driving. “Hop in,” he said, opening the driver’s side door and sliding over to let Kicky take the wheel. Sitting in the back seat was a third person, a middle-aged man wearing a cardigan sweater whom Kicky had never seen before. “Hang a right on 31st,” directed Wingo. “Watch your speed and make all your signals, keep an eye out for cops, and don’t do anything to attract attention. The plate on this car should run clean, but we’re packing and you don’t want to get pulled over. You know the Mighty Mart down the road here?”
“Yeah,” said Kicky.
“Pull into the parking lot and park as close as you can get to the C-1 column. We’re meeting the second car there.”
“Second car?” she asked.
“We always take two cars on a tickle, sometimes more,” explained Wingo. “Tonight will be one lead car with the assault team in it, and one backup to scout and run interference if necessary. This is the backup car. The action itself will be carried out by the guys in the lead car, two of whom are first-time-outers like yourself, if that encourages you. I’m the team leader for the mission. Normally I’d be in the lead car, but since this is kind of a training run, tonight I’m here more to observe, to see how you all do.” Kicky pulled into the parking lot of the giant store and was able to find a space almost exactly under the C-1 sign on a lamppost. “Okay, back-in park,” directed Wingo. “Any time you can, always back-in park so that if you have to beat feet quickly you can see where you’re going and floor it.” Kicky complied, and turned off the engine. “The gentleman in the back seat is Mister Rogers. Mr. Rogers, this is Comrade Jodie.”
“Hey,” said Kicky.
“Hey, Jodie,” said Mr. Rogers. “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood.”
“So who are you tonight?” she asked Wingo.
He gave her a boyish grin. “Hell, everybody in Alpha Company knows my real name by now, and I’m sure the cops must have figured out that I’m around. You can call me Jimmy. But you stick with Jodie. You’re not a U-Boat yet.”
“A what?”
“A U-Boat. A submarine. You’re still floating on the sea of the people, as Chairman Mao would have put it. The cops don’t know you as a Volunteer, or you’d better hope they don’t, so you can operate on the surface. You have a legitimate job, and your aboveground identity is still intact. Later on you might have to submerge, become a U-Boat, but we try to keep as many of our people operating in the open for as long as we can. Saves a lot of hassle with false ID and covert movement, so forth and so on.” A mellow beige Crown Victoria passed behind them and the driver deftly backed in to a space two cars down. “Be right back.” Wingo got
out and went over to the other car, and spoke with the driver through the window.
“I have something for you, Jodie,” said Mr. Rogers from the back seat. He handed her a pistol. “You know how to use one of these?”
“Uh, yeah, mostly from watching movies, though,” said Kicky, hefting the piece. “I used to carry a .25 when I was working this one job I used to do. Never used it, though, and since I got out of the can I carry a lock in a sock.”
“It’s a 9-millimeter Beretta,” said Rogers. “No, don’t fuck with the slide. You have one round up the spout. You see the safety? Yeah, there, that little lever. It’s on. That’s the best way to carry when you’re packing, because you might not have time to jack in a round if things break bad, or you might get a jam, although that shouldn’t happen if you’ve taken proper care of the weapon. Plus somebody might hear you lock and load if it’s a surreptitious kind of situation. You shouldn’t have to use it tonight, but if you do, make sure you click off the safety and then just cock back the hammer and fire. If some guy is coming at you, aim at his belly button, since you’re not used to the recoil. The gun will throw up and to the right, and you should hit him dead center. Even if he’s wearing Kevlar, that round is heavy enough to knock his ass flying, and at close range do some internal damage through the kinetic force of the impact. You don’t have a holster, so carry it on the seat under your leg, so all you have to do is reach down and pull it up.”
Wingo got back into the car. “You give her the piece?” he asked Rogers.
“Yeah.”
“Later on you’ll be given intensive one-on-one training in every weapon we have access to,” said Wingo. “For tonight, don’t take that out unless I tell you to and try not to shoot yourself. Now start her up and follow the Crown Vic.” She did so and followed the lead car back onto 31st Avenue, turning right. “He’ll be turning off for Lake Oswego,” Wingo told her.
The Brigade Page 32