This presented a minor problem. Entry required a special pass, electronic barcode, or a white-and-green striped wrist band. They had none of them. If they had time and local resources, OPSIG could’ve reproduced one or more of them. But this was an op on-the-fly, the riskiest kind.
Rodman and Zheng rendezvoused with Vail in the rear of the Mets’ Hall of Fame museum, ten feet from the framed scorecard of game five of the 2015 World Series.
“We can’t get into the Hyundai Club, not without attracting attention.” Vail waited until a woman and her daughter moved deeper into the museum, out of earshot, headed for a display of the original Mr. Met mascot. “And he has no reason to leave the club until the game ends because they have a self-contained restaurant, restroom, and gift shop. Unless he wants to take a stroll around the stadium, we’ve got a problem.”
“Then we have to be creative,” Zheng said. “We have to lure him out somehow.”
“Here’s how things are going to go down from a law enforcement perspective. After he leaves his seat, once he’s gone for fifteen-twenty minutes, the CEO and CTO will start to wonder what happened to him. They’ll call him and get voice mail. They’ll discuss what to do, then go looking for him. When they can’t find him, they’ll call again. When it goes to voice mail, they’ll report it to stadium security, who’ll alert their staff by radio—the equivalent of a ‘be on the lookout.’ The NYPD, which also patrols Citi Field, will be notified.”
“So we don’t have a lot of time once we start this,” Rodman said.
Zheng looked around the museum. “We have to be ready to act as soon as we inject him.”
“That’s assuming we can get close to him in a secluded area,” Vail said, “which I’m not sure we’re going to be able to do.”
“Hey! Karen. Karen Vail?”
Vail winced. Normally she would welcome a friend or acquaintance. But in a situation like this, a chance encounter was less than ideal. She turned—and saw Det. Steven Johnson standing there, a David Wright uniform jersey pulled over his svelte torso.
“What are you doing back in the city?”
“Catching a Mets game.”
“That much is obvious. But—hey, who’re your friends?”
Vail turned to Rodman and Zheng, who were doing their best to avoid engaging in conversation.
Rodman extended his right hand. “Terry Redmond. This is my buddy, John Cho.” Zheng shook, but he looked like he could think of five hundred other places he would rather be.
“Have you seen Leslie?” Johnson asked. “She’s now in your neck of the woods.”
“We worked a serial killer case together several months ago. She didn’t tell you?”
Johnson bobbed his head. “Well … we had an argument, big brother was right, she was wrong, little sister can’t admit it.”
Something tells me Leslie’ll have a different read of that assessment.
“No biggie,” Johnson continued. “She’ll come around. Gotta give her some space. She fitting in?”
“I know her partner real well. He’s a good guy. They seemed to be getting along fine.”
“Hey, I don’t mean to be rude,” Rodman said, “but we’ve got that thing before the game starts.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Vail said, excusing herself and apologizing for not having more time to talk.
“That case I helped you with several months ago, you close it?”
The codex? Yeah, you could say that. “Sure did. Your info was very helpful.”
“Still can’t tell me what it was all about?”
“Still can’t.”
“Glad to hear I was at least able to help,” Johnson said, not disguising his disappointment.
Rodman placed a hand around Vail’s bicep.
“Gotta go, Steve. I’ll tell Leslie to accept that she’s wrong and that she should call you.”
He laughed. “I wouldn’t put it quite that way, but I’d appreciate that. She can be stubborn and this has gone on long enough.”
Vail winked at him. “Leave it to me. Miss Diplomat.” Before he could reply, she walked off with Rodman and Zheng.
“Nine million people and you personally still know, what, a hundred? And you run into one in the middle of an op?” Rodman shook his head. “We need to take care of business and get the hell out of here before who-knows-who-else pops up.”
“At least let me have till the seventh inning stretch. Syndergaard’s pitching.”
Rodman gave her a look.
“Kidding.”
“Okay,” Zheng said, leaning in close. “We’ve gotta get our guy out of that club. We could have him paged, or we—”
“Wait a minute, Steve had a wrist band on. It had writing on it. Could be the Hyundai Club. Hang on a second.”
She walked over to one of the stadium staff, then returned. “Hyundai Club.”
Rodman snorted. “So you’re just gonna tell this Johnson dude you need his ticket? And then what?”
“Then we’ll figure it out. But at least I’ll be in.”
Zheng turned away. “Too risky.”
“Anything we do here is risky. I can make this work.”
“Can you trust this Steve Johnson guy?” Zheng asked.
“He won’t be a problem.” In truth, she did not really know him. But if he was anything like Leslie, and if her first impressions of him were correct on that case he helped her with, she had nothing to worry about. Vail pulled out her cell and realized it was her OPSIG phone. She accessed her contacts on Gmail, found Johnson’s number, and texted him. He replied a moment later, her suggestion to meet her at Mr. Met in the museum getting a laughing emoticon in response. But a moment later, he showed up.
“I need a favor.”
“Okay.”
“And you can’t ask me what it’s about.”
Johnson eyed her obliquely. “I’m a detective. You know that, right?”
“Obviously.”
“This is weird, just like last time you asked for help. You wanted information but you couldn’t tell me why or what it was for. And if I had to guess—”
“I don’t want you to guess. I just want your ticket stub.”
“You crazy? I paid two hundred bucks for this seat.”
“I don’t want your seat, just admittance to the club. So to speak.” Vail gestured at his wrist band. “That’ll get you in.”
“And what if they ask for my ticket?”
“Show them your badge.”
Johnson frowned. “Now you’re trying to get me fired?”
“Make it subtle. C’mon, man, you know how to do this.”
“Yeah, but why do I need to do this?”
Vail grinned. “That’s the favor part.”
Johnson sighed. “Karen, you—”
“Are a good friend of your sister’s, and you asked me to help reconnect you two, smooth things over. Right?”
Johnson chewed on his bottom lip, considering her request.
He pulled out the stub and handed it to her. “Leslie told me stories about you. Don’t make no trouble.”
Vail recoiled animatedly. “Really? Me?”
TEN MINUTES LATER, with the game getting underway, Vail showed the ticket and was waved through the entrance to the Hyundai Club, which featured life-size photos from the 1969 and 1986 world championships. Wearing a blue hat with orange stitching that read “NEW YORK METS 1962,” she passed through the lounge, catching a glimpse of the home-cooked food as steam rose from the catering dishes, the pungent smell of crushed garlic working its way into her nose. An artisanal cheese table, salads of all kinds, slow-cooked meats, grilled veggies … Her stomach rumbled. Would it hurt to grab a piece of salmon and a side of sautéed mushrooms?
Vail made her way to the doors that led to the field. She pushed through and looked around. Damn good se
ats. For a split second she was lost in the moment. There was something about nighttime baseball, the grass lit up brightly, the buzz of the fans in the stands, the stadium’s circle lending importance to the game that was unfolding in front of you.
Lansford was sitting a few rows away. She verified his identity, then took up a position that did not block anyone’s view. She had no idea how long she would have to stand there, but now that she had eyes on Lansford, she was not about to give up her spot.
As the bottom half of the first inning began, an usher asked her if she minded taking her seat. She told him her back was bothering her and she had trouble sitting for extended periods. That would work for a while, but she would draw attention hanging out there indefinitely.
In thinking it through, she reasoned that if Lansford was here to watch the game with his colleagues, he would not be going anywhere—at least for the first two-thirds of the game—other than to get something to eat or drink or use the restroom. She hoped he was not one of those guys who ordered food at the seat and didn’t get up until the last pitch was thrown.
Vail noted that the ways out of the club went through the buffet and adjoining dining areas that featured windows with views of the field. The most likely place someone would go, at least once during the game, was in here to use the bathroom or get a snack or drink.
She walked inside past the sizzling onions and stopped in front of the large framed photo of Hall of Famer Tom Seaver in full windup, then turned in a circle trying to think this through. She could wait it out in here, checking on Lansford every fifteen minutes or so, but the more unusual behavior she exhibited, and the more contact she had with people, especially as it related to Lansford, the greater the chance she would become an NYPD person of interest when he went missing. Hat aside, she was not making any concerted efforts to disguise her appearance.
The better approach was to engineer a reason for him to leave his seat. As she ruminated on that, she glanced at the wall-mounted televisions showing the action on field, then the white aproned cooks behind the buffet preparing food, the fans milling about, and the people filling their plates and heading out the doors to their seats.
She could not think of a way to compel him to come into the dining area—without attracting attention. She had to be patient, ride things out, and wait for Lansford to enter the lounge. If and when he did, she devised a plan to get him alone—and then out of the club: memorabilia, the game-used stuff, balls, broken bats, and bases the team sold.
Vail used OPSIG’s secure text messaging app to share her idea with Rodman and Zheng. For now, they were to stay close and loiter around the general vicinity of the team store. Vail would wait for Lansford to emerge and then engage him.
By the fourth inning, Vail had split her time out by the seats, in different spots that afforded her a view of Lansford and the food bar. She estimated that their target had consumed two large Cokes, but he had yet to get up from his seat. Though it was a warm night, it was not by any means humid or hot, so she figured there was only one place he could be storing that liquid if he was not sweating it out. He would be making a bathroom run fairly soon.
After the fifth, she was beginning to get concerned. Robby had a large bladder and could go hours without peeing—but he was six-foot-seven. Lansford was five-ten. As she ruminated on the length of time a male could go between trips to the john, Lansford pushed through the glass doors and entered the club lounge.
Vail texted Zheng as she followed Lansford and stopped at the entrance to the men’s room. She moved quickly to the exit and palmed her ticket to Zheng. “Bathroom,” she said. “Through the doors, left all the way down.”
ZHENG HELD UP the ticket and continued past the usher, who stuck out a hand.
“Wrist band, sir?”
“Gave me a rash,” Zheng said, not stopping to argue. “Had to cut it off.” He strode by the buffet and pushed into the men’s room. Lansford was not there.
He made another pass in front of the urinals, checked the sinks, and then glanced under the stalls. Three were taken. Two of the occupants were wearing tennis shoes and jeans. According to Vail’s description, Lansford was wearing charcoal trousers and black wingtips—just like the remaining man two doors down.
Zheng walked out and waited by the exit. He pulled out a staff lanyard he had pilfered from a worker in a crowded elevator and hung it around his neck.
Seconds later, Lansford appeared.
“Jason.”
Lansford stopped and looked up. “Huh?”
“Bill said you’d gone to the bathroom,” Zheng said.
“Yeah.” He squinted. “Do I know you?”
“Oh, sorry, John Cho. I’m with the PR department and the Mets want to give you a game-used ball from tonight’s game.”
“A ball—for me? Why?”
“Aerospace Engineering has been a very good corporate partner, and every week we draw from all our season ticket holders and award them with a gift. Your company won and Bill said I should give it to you. He said I should take you over to the memorabilia kiosk and let you pick out what you’d like. Most people like game-used balls, which come fully authenticated, but you’re welcome to have a bat if you’d like that instead. You can have a base too, but there’s an upcharge for that. It’s not too bad, though, only thirty bucks. But come with me. It’s right outside.” He gently took Lansford’s elbow and led him out of the club. “Did you see the kiosk on your way in?”
“Uh, no, we, uh …” Lansford glanced back over his shoulder but continued alongside Zheng without resistance. “We had dinner at the Porsche Grille. I didn’t get a chance to explore before the game.”
“Oh,” Zheng said. “I might be able to arrange a private tour. Tomorrow maybe, if that works for you?”
“Headed back to DC in the morning, but I appreciate the offer. Maybe next time I’m in town?”
“Absolutely. Just give us twenty-four hours’ notice.” Zheng walked toward the team store, Rodman approaching from the opposite direction. He bumped into Lansford, knocking him backward and spinning him around. Zheng grabbed his arm to keep him from falling as Rodman drew close and pricked his abdomen with the needle.
None of the milling fans seemed to notice.
“Ow,” Lansford said under his breath. His speech slurred as he whispered, “What the fuck was—”
“Jason, you okay?” Zheng helped get him erect. “You nearly took a header.” Lansford was going limp—but Rodman steadied him as Zheng put his arm around the man’s shoulders and helped him to, and down, the escalator thirty yards ahead, right behind Vail.
As they descended, Zheng attempted to look casual while he maintained his grip on Lansford’s body. Lettered above the semicircular windows that spanned the front of the Jackie Robinson rotunda, were the namesake’s immortal words: “A life is not important except in the impact it has on other lives.”
Well put, Jackie, Zheng thought. That’s exactly what we’re trying to do.
“He okay?” an usher asked as they came off the escalator, headed for the stadium exit directly ahead of them.
“Too much to drink,” Zheng said. “Wife left him this afternoon and … well, it’s my fault. I should’ve kept a closer watch on how much he was tossing back.”
“I hear ya,” the usher said knowingly.
Rodman and Zheng more or less carried Lansford into the parking lot and sat him down on the stone retaining wall that rimmed the restored Shea Stadium red papier-mâché “Home Run Apple” that was displayed out front.
Rodman pulled him against his body, keeping his head from flopping forward, as Vail went to get their van.
Six minutes later they were loading him into the front seat. Once clear of prying eyes, a hundred yards from the exit, they transferred him to the back … where no one would see him until they arrived in DC.
24
Space La
unch Complex-4 East
Vandenberg Air Force Base
The morning arrived faster than usual. DeSantos and Uzi both had difficulty shutting down their thoughts, initially lying in the dark and talking to each other like teenagers on a sleepover. They avoided the red elephant in the room—what they were about to do—and finally drifted off. But they spent the next few hours in and out of fitful dreams.
When the alarm blared and the room lights snapped on, they climbed out of bed and faced each other. Without a word, they padded into their bathrooms to get ready. It was 4:00 AM: T-minus five hours and forty-five minutes.
And counting.
THEY RODE THE ELEVATOR up the launch umbilical tower to the top level of the gantry, at which point they were led into the White Room, where several uniformed closeout crew personnel were waiting to receive them. After exchanging pleasantries, DeSantos and Uzi were helped into their orange launch-and-entry pumpkin suits as they prepared to board through the main hatch of the Orion crew module.
“We really doing this?” Uzi asked.
“We are.” DeSantos adjusted the stretch material that covered his head. “Some are born great and others have greatness thrust upon them.”
Uzi cocked his head as two men scurried about them, getting final preparations ready. “You’re parroting Shakespeare? What’s that got to do with this? Better yet, what’s gotten into you?”
DeSantos shrugged. “I just like the quote.”
“You’re nervous. You always get goofy when you’re nervous.”
“If I wasn’t nervous, you’d need to check me for a pulse. We’re about to get into a giant tin can sitting on top of 10 million pounds of highly flammable fuel. I should be having my head examined.”
“It’s only 9 million. Stop exaggerating.”
A voice came from behind them: “This way, guys. It’s time.”
“Last chance to back out,” Uzi said.
“There is nothing that could keep me from this op.”
Dark Side of the Moon Page 14