by Brian Drake
The lawyer fumbled for his keys, dropping them. He started to bend over, but a jab from Stiletto made him slow down. Carefully the lawyer retrieved the fallen keys. He pressed a button on the fob to unlock the doors. While the lawyer slid behind the wheel, Stiletto climbed in the back and scooted to the passenger side.
The lawyer waited with hands on the wheel.
“Where are you going?”
“To another place to hand over the case.”
“What’s in the case?”
“I don’t know, I swear. This isn’t my usual thing. They called me last-minute.”
“Start driving. Don’t go anywhere I don’t tell you.”
Ben Pito fired up the motor and merged into traffic.
“I have to drop this briefcase by a certain time.”
“You’re gonna be late.”
“My employers won’t be happy.”
“I may kill you,” Stiletto said, “so think about that.”
The lawyer took a deep breath.
“I’m going to ask you some questions,” Stiletto said. “Answer me honestly and I won’t hurt you.”
The lawyer laughed.
“Suddenly feeling confident?”
“What could you possibly want to ask me? I don’t think you’re representing any clients. I don’t do criminal work anymore.”
“Why does Fairmont want Ali Lewis’s company?”
“Oh my God. . .you’re--”
“You may know me as Mr. Hero.”
The lawyer stopped for a light. Stiletto spotted a freeway on-ramp ahead. He told Pito to get on the freeway.
“Well,” Pito said. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“Answer my question.”
Pito drove across the intersection and guided left to join the 280 freeway.
“I don’t know what Fairmont has in mind,” Pito said. “I know his company is failing and he wants to stay in business. If he can’t do it with software, maybe he can do it with fashion.”
“Now it’s my turn to laugh.”
“He helped Ali’s mother build that company. He’s fully capable of running that kind of business.”
“With Califano as a silent partner?”
“His deal with Mr. Califano is none of my business.”
“Fairmont is responsible for a couple of murders, and for trying to have me killed,” Stiletto said. “Tonight, in fact, before I intercepted you. Unfortunately, his guys are no good against somebody who knows his business. I don’t think he’s very good company for a lawyer who likes nice things.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I can promise you protection if you testify against your boss.”
Pito laughed. “I wouldn’t survive a day. You don’t know half of what’s going on here, do you?”
“Enlighten me.”
“I’m not sure I even understand it all myself, but there are more people involved than just Fairmont and Califano,” Pito said. “People from overseas, if you know what I mean. The kind we see on the news a lot.”
Stiletto frowned.
“And if I’m going to be killed,” the lawyer said, “I’d rather choose the way I go out. I could crash this car, you know.”
“You might survive.”
“You might not be so lucky.”
“Ben, you’re driving a new Audi. There are airbags all over. We’d both come out with a couple of scratches. You wouldn’t accomplish anything.”
Stiletto saw Pito’s hand move toward his lap.
“Keep that hand where I can see it.”
Pito nodded and put the hand back on the wheel.
The lawyer said: “I think we should test your theory.” He stepped on the accelerator and the Audi surged forward. Stiletto’s body pressed back into the seat. He licked his lips as the lawyer weaved around other cars, increasing speed slightly. 80 to 90 to 110. He held it there a moment, then the needle climbed to 120.
The lawyer had to shout over the engine. “Never had it at this speed before!”
Pito continued dodging cars, moving at such a fast clip the scenery blurred, the other cars only flashes of light.
“Crash already,” Stiletto said.
Pito glanced at Stiletto in the rearview. Stiletto saw the man smile.
Peter Rollins, Fairmont’s golf buddy and business associate, sat in his office on the west side of the city. He was reading through the latest reports from his people on what he referred to as “the Project”. The Iranians would be very happy. So far, the numbers looked good and he had no problems with the effort. When his phone rang, it disturbed the quiet room. Rollins frowned and answered, but nobody responded. What he did hear were voices in the background.
“Keep that hand where I can see it.”
A voice he didn’t recognize.
Then one he did: “I think we should test your theory.”
Ben Pito.
Rollins heard a car engine growl. A few moments later Pito said: “Never had it at this speed before!”
The other voice: “So crash already.”
What the hell was going on?
He grabbed the phone on the corner of his desk, his landline, and quickly dialed.
“We have a problem,” he told the person who answered. “I think Pito’s been hijacked. He managed to dial his cell phone and I’m listening to him and the other person in Pito’s car. No idea where they’re at. Stay on the line and I’ll try and tell you what’s going on. Yes, I know he has the case.”
Pito said, “Uh-oh,” and let off the gas.
“Cold feet?”
“Cops.”
Stiletto stashed his gun as Pito slowed the car and pulled to the side of the road. The blinking strobe flashed through the rear window and filled the car.
The officer leaned into the driver’s side window.
“Somebody better be dying or I’m throwing you in jail,” the highway patrolman said. His deep voice boomed.
Pito kept his hands on the wheel as the cop shined a bright flashlight into the vehicle.
“What’s the story?”
“Got a little carried away, officer, we didn’t mean any harm.”
“Let me see your license and registration. It’s not looking good for you unless I get a better story than that.”
Pito didn’t argue and produced the registration and insurance paperwork from the glove box. The officer read the papers with his light.
“Mr. Pito,” he said, “you know better than to do this. I have to impound the car. You know that.”
“Officer, I assure you it was a momentary lapse in judgment and it won’t happen again.”
The officer sighed and shined the light in the back seat.
“Why aren’t you up front?” he said.
Pito answered. “I was taking some friends home. He didn’t feel like moving.”
The officer put the light on Pito.
“I’ll give you a warning this time, counselor, but not again.” He handed back the papers.
“My word, officer.”
The cop turned off his light and walked back to patrol car. As Pito returned the papers to the glove box, the cop sped by and merged back into the freeway.
“Friends in high places,” Stiletto said.
“I do pro-bono work for the cops,” Pito said. “A lot of them know me. Gotta keep the bases covered.” He started the Audi and drove off. Then: “We’re still in a stalemate, my friend. What would you suggest?”
“Take the next exit.”
“Giving up?”
Stiletto laughed.
“I’ll make you a deal,” Pito said. “I’ll let you out, you walk away. I’ll make up a story why my delivery is late but nobody has to know about this.”
Pito steered the Audi off the Silver Avenue Exit and pulled over. Traffic flashed by.
“Now what?”
Stiletto leaned across the gap between them and bashed Pito in the head with the .45. The lawyer slumped in the seat unconscious, a wet red welt forming w
here the steel gun had hit. Stiletto exited the car, opened the passenger door, and tossed the briefcase into the back seat. He unbuckled Pito and dragged the lawyer’s body to the passenger side. Taking the wheel, he hit the freeway again and made his way back to UN Plaza. He parked the Audi in a red zone. Pito stirred not a bit. Exiting the car again, Stiletto took the briefcase, used the Buck knife to slash two of the tires, and returned to the Lincoln.
He found a parking ticket under one of the windshield wipers. He tossed that in the back and returned to Ali’s condo. She answered on the first knock and he slipped inside.
“Are you okay?” she said. “What happened?”
“Some rough stuff,” he said. He removed the Stafford and his gun rig.
“Still carrying that same pistol?”
“She never lets me down,” he said.
“What’s in the case?”
“Let’s find out.”
They sat on the couch and placed the briefcase on the coffee table. Stiletto used his pick set to pop the locks and raised the lid.
“Light bulbs?” she said.
Stiletto took out one of the two items inside, both of which were nestled in foam containers. It indeed looked like a light bulb, albeit not of the usual shape. This one was longer, thinner, rectangular. A sense of déjà vu hit Scott between the eyes.
“This is no light bulb,” he said. “It’s far worse. This is a krytron.”
“A what?”
“A gas tube used to trigger a nuclear reaction inside a warhead.”
Ali blanched.
“Whoa.”
“Now something Pito said makes a little more sense.”
“What did he say?” Ali said.
“That Fairmont has overseas partners. The kind we see in the news a lot. That job I did in Switzerland? It concerned Iranian agents trying to acquire a bunch of these.”
“So you broke the Swiss connection and they found one here in San Francisco.”
“Exactly. And I’ll bet the farm this is why they want your company. Never mind the money laundering. They can move these around the world without a second glance from customs people used to seeing your clothing shipments.”
Ali sat back on the couch. “I have no words.”
“I think it’s time I got up close and personal with Mr. Max Fairmont.”
He returned the krytron to the case.
“You have to tell General Ike,” Ali said.
“Of course.”
“What are you going to do with the briefcase?”
“I can keep it in the hotel safe for now,” he said, “but that’s not a good solution long term. Keep your pistol handy, Ali. Things are going to start getting bloody.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
She leaned close to him and by sheer reflex he put an arm around her and pulled her closer. He felt her hot breath on his neck. “It’s going to be okay.”
“How many times do we say that without really believing it?”
“I believe it.”
“I know you do.” She lifted her head. “Kiss me.”
He bent his head toward hers and their lips met, lightly at first, and then something happened. The kiss became deeper, more intense, their tongues meeting with a flash of pent-up desire that had finally found an outlet, residual embers catching fire.
He gently pushed her back onto the couch.
When Pito finally came to, he opened the passenger door of his Audi, leaned out, and vomited on the ground. A nearby homeless man sitting in a doorway said, “That’s gross, man.”
Pito coughed, wiped his mouth, and took note of his surroundings. His head throbbed where the gun barrel had struck. He felt the stinging lump. He furiously patted his jacket pockets, looked around the floor in front, and found his cell phone. It had not been damaged. He dialed Rollins.
“Where are you?” Rollins said.
Pito explained the hijacking. He said he’d lost the case. Checking the condition of his car, he noted the slashed tires. He told Rollins he’d need a ride and gave his location. Rollins promised to be there as soon as he could.
Pito sat in his car and leaned back in the seat, his head still spinning. He wasn’t aware of how much time ticked by but eventually another car pulled up beside his. He looked over. Rollins exited on the driver’s side. The man who stepped out on the passenger side made Pito forget the pain in his head.
Rollins approached Pito. The other man stood a little behind him. He had dark hair with blonde highlights. Pito knew he liked American jazz and that his name was Shahram Hamin.
Rollins said, “Bad night?”
“I can’t believe it, Rollins, he grabbed me after I made the exchange.”
“Where’s the case now?”
It wasn’t Rollins who asked the question, but the other man, Hamin. Pito turned to him.
“I don’t know.”
Hamin took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
Rollins stepped back and conferred briefly with the Iranian agent.
“There was nothing I could do, he had a gun!” Pito said.
Rollins shook his head at Pito and returned to the car. Hamin stepped forward, removing a silenced pistol from under his coat. Pito screamed. Hamin shot him in the face.
Chapter Nine
It was going to be a long night.
Pito’s information wasn’t the only item listed in the notes provided by O’Brien. The G-man had also listed Fairmont’s home address in Marin County.
As Stiletto powered the Lincoln across the Golden Gate Bridge, suspicion about his buddy’s generosity began to snipe at his thoughts. Did O’Brien have a side agenda he expected Stiletto to somehow aid? All Scott knew was that he had a potential lead on Shahram Hamin or somebody who knew where he was. Because who else wanted a steady supply of krytrons?
Thinking about O’Brien kept his mind off of Ali. He could still feel her against his skin.
Stiletto drifted into the right lane to get around a slow truck and drove up the Waldo Grade, through the Robin Williams Tunnel, and took the Highway 1 turn-off prior to the Richardson Bay Bridge. He drove the winding road of Shoreline Highway until he came to Muir Beach. The curtain of night blacked out surrounding scenery. His headlights carved a path through the darkness, and he found Pacific Way and drove to the top of the incline where Fairmont’s home waited behind a gate. Beyond the gate lay the long driveway leading to the front doors.
Scott parked off the road and stepped into the wooded area surrounding the home. He found a low rise, dropped behind the foliage, and examined the grounds.
ADT Security signs had been placed strategically along the fence. Stiletto wasn’t significantly deterred by those, but what did give him pause was the sight of an armed guard holding a dog on a leash. The guard carried a stubby submachine gun over one shoulder. The dog, a Doberman, wasn’t to be taken lightly.
Scott watched the guard circle the grounds and, after about twenty minutes, walk out of sight. No other troops or animals appeared. That didn’t mean there wasn’t a team inside that rotated patrols.
Stiletto clenched a fist. He wasn’t properly equipped and didn’t want to charge headlong into a hot zone. But lights burned on the upper level of the house. Somebody--Fairmont--was home. Stiletto had questions that required answers. He started formulating a strategy and checked his .45. He’d reloaded his magazines so he had a total of 24 rounds, along with his folding knife. He’d trade all the money he had for a silencer or tranquilizer gun. There wasn’t any other way to deal with the dogs, but the shots would alert the entire house.
Sometimes, Stiletto thought, the job sucked.
Scott started hiking further along the fence to infiltrate closer to the house. An engine revved and headlamps lit the grounds. Stiletto dropped flat.
A Jeep with two guards left a garage and traveled down the driveway to the main gate, where another car waited to enter. The Jeep stopped at the gate, one of the guards opened the gate, and the new arrival drove through.
The pair in the Jeep escorted the car up the driveway to the house.
Two men exited the sedan but the porch light wasn’t bright enough to highlight their faces.
A late meeting probably caused by the Pito interception. Good. Stiletto had rattled cages indeed. Now he really wanted to get in there and hear the pow-wow.
He rose and took a step toward the fence. . .
A twig snapped. Scott spun around. Two figures in black rising from the brush. Before he could raise his gun, they had him tackled and pinned and one used a stun-gun to knock him cold.
Rollins kept to ten miles an hour as he followed the Jeep. Hamin occupied the passenger seat beside him, and the Iranian had said nothing since disposing of the lawyer Pito.
Fairmont received them in his study, which was not only decorated with the usual bookcases and leather furniture, but physical displays or photographs of the evolution of the personal computer.
It was all junk to Rollins.
Fairmont rose from a leather couch and offered drinks. Rollins took a glass of Cutty Sark; Hamin, nothing. The three men sat.
The Iranian spoke first. “Why am I only now learning about this problem you call ‘Mr. Hero’?”
“Because we had it under control,” Fairmont said.
“Not the best choice of words considering the loss of our items tonight.”
“We sent four men to kill this person,” Fairmont said. “Rollins arranged it.”
“I did indeed,” Rollins said.
“How one man can get the best of four trained gunmen, I don’t know,” Fairmont said.
“He isn’t some average Joe, as you say,” Hamin said. “Did you check him out at all?”
“We did. We found his college information, military background, and then the trail went cold,” Fairmont said.
“Nothing at all?”
“Zero.”
“So he’s a ghost.”
“If you want to say that, yes.”
“And you have no idea what that may mean?” Hamin said.
“Why don’t you explain instead of hinting,” Fairmont said.
“Easy, Max,” Rollins said.
Hamin glared at Fairmont for a moment, then he said: “It tells me you should have told me in sooner. The only kind of person who would have a cold background would be a government operative, and I don’t mean F.B.I. Do you have a picture?”