The Night Cafe

by Taylor Smith

  After her meal was cooked, she ate it standing up at the kitchen sink. This was not the kind of meal that deserved to be eaten sitting down with a nice glass of wine. She watched the dew gather on a web outside her kitchen window, sparkling drops on the precise loops and gossamer lines woven by some sure-footed spider. Must be nice, Hannah thought, to be so certain of what your job in life was and how to go about doing it.

  She downed a glass of milk, then cleaned up the kitchen and headed for her bedroom, selecting a backpack for the trip that would allow her to bypass the airline baggage check and get quickly out of the airport after landing in Puerto Vallarta and going through Customs. She packed just enough for an overnight stay, but then, on impulse, tossed a bathing suit into the pack as well. Remembering Rebecca in her gauzy dress that morning, Hannah also went to her closet and slid hangers until she found a flowing skirt. Fancy resort, why not? She could head to the hotel after the painting was delivered, lounge on the beach, and then have a nice dinner on Moises Gladding’s tab.

  Unhooking the skirt and a matching tank top, she spotted the safe in the back of her closet where she kept her Beretta locked away. She would feel naked going out on a job without it, but since she wasn’t checking bags, there was no way to carry it through airport security. The nature of the assignment hardly warranted it anyway, no matter how much of a genius August Koon might be in his own mind.

  Three hours later, she was curled up on her living room couch, flipping channels, when the doorbell rang. Her eyelids had been getting heavy and she’d been thinking about packing it in for the night, but at the thought that Russo might have decided to drop by, she perked right up. Glancing down, she briefly considered a dash for the bedroom to change, but then the bell rang again. No matter. If Russo was going to pursue her, he might as well know the ugly truth—she was a woman who wore Garfield pajamas.

  She flipped on the front porch light and glanced through the peephole, then paused, taken aback. It wasn’t Russo on the other side of the door. Two clean-cut men in almost identical dark gray suits stood on her front porch. It was a little late for Mormon missionaries or Jehovah’s Witnesses, so her money was on cops. And not just any cops. Feds.

  “Who is it?” she asked through the door.

  “Federal agents, Mrs. Nicks,” one of them said.

  Bingo. Through the peephole’s convex lens, Hannah saw both men raise black leather folders with gold-colored shields on the top half and ID badges boldly emblazoned with the letters FBI on the bottom.

  She frowned and opened the door a few inches, keeping herself and her Garfield pajamas mostly hidden. “Can I help you?”

  They lowered their badges in unison and put them away. One was Asian-American, the other Anglo, but they were otherwise so alike as to be almost indistinguishable, with haircuts that were neither long enough nor short enough to be fashionable.

  “I’m Special Agent Bruce Ito, ma’am, and this is Special Agent Joseph Towle,” the Asian-looking man said.

  “We’d like to have a word, if that’s all right,” Towle added.

  “What’s this about?”

  “Can we come in?”

  “Depends. Can you tell me what this is about?” Hannah asked again.

  Ito and Towle glanced at each other, then back at her. “It’s about your trip to Mexico, Mrs. Nicks,” Towle said.

  “How do you know about that?”

  “Maybe we should discuss this inside?”

  Hannah sighed, then opened the door wide and stood back to let them in. They seemed a little taken aback when they saw what she was wearing, but came in. She closed the door behind them.

  “We’re sorry to come by so late,” Ito said, “but we wanted to be sure to catch you before you left.”

  “I’ll ask again, how do you know about that?”

  “We understand you’re doing some work for Moises Gladding,” Towle said.

  Hannah studied them for a minute, then extended her arm toward the sofa. “I guess you’d better sit down and tell me what exactly it is you want.”

  The two agents nodded. “After you,” Towle said.

  Hannah led the way into the living room, took the rocker and left them the couch. She grabbed the remote and flipped off the television as they settled in. Ito was carrying a briefcase and he set that on the floor beside his feet. The two agents leaned forward, elbows on knees, and looked at her expectantly.

  “What?” Hannah asked.

  “You were going to tell us about this work you’re doing for Moises Gladding,” Ito said.

  “You were going to tell me how you know about that.”

  Towle shrugged. “Information came our way. So, about the work…?”

  “I don’t know what ‘information’ has come your way, but I’m not working for Gladding.”

  “We know you’re transporting some merchandise for him. What’s your relationship to Gladding?”

  “Relationship? There is no relationship. I repeat, I am not working for him. What I’m transporting is a painting, if you must know. I was hired by a gallery owner who purchased the painting on Gladding’s behalf. Gladding wants the painting at his vacation home in Mexico. End of story.”

  “This is the first we’ve heard of Gladding’s international dealings having anything to do with art,” Ito said. “And from what we know of you, Mrs. Nicks, art’s not your usual line, either.”

  Hannah shifted back in her chair. “In the first place, please don’t call me Mrs. Nicks. I’m nobody’s missus. And in the second, if you know about my work, you know that I’m a freelance security specialist. I usually do personal security or private ops—”

  Towle grimaced. “You’ve had some interesting press.”

  She waved a hand. “A couple of jobs ended up high-profile because of the players involved. Most of what I do is pretty routine. Getting a painting safely to its destination is not that different from getting a politician or movie star to theirs. The point is, if you’ve checked me out, you know I’m one of the good guys, so I’m not sure why I should suddenly be deemed suspicious.”

  “But since you do have international experience, Mrs.—excuse me—Ms. Nicks, then you must know the kind of client you’re dealing with here.”

  “I do. I don’t take on a job until I have a line on all the parties involved. I’ve never dealt with Gladding before, but I’ve checked him out and I know his rep for playing all sides of the street when it comes to his arms deals—including acting as a cutout for you guys,” Hannah added. When Towle began to demur, she waved away his objection. “Or the CIA or whoever. The point is, our government has made use of him in the past, from what I gather. I also know that high-end art is sometimes used as collateral in Gladding’s business, but the piece I’m transporting is hardly in that league. He’s paying more for it than I would, even if I had his money, but it’s not the kind of high-prestige art your criminal class usually goes for.”

  “Do you have the painting here?” Towle asked.

  She nodded. “Do you want to see it?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  She went into the bedroom, withdrew the portfolio from behind her bureau and took it back into the other room, trying not to think too much about the figure she cut in bare feet and cartoon PJs. So much for her professional reputation. She unzipped the case and pulled out the two-by-three painting. The agents seem taken aback.

  “Looks like one of my dad’s old ties—after he spilled chili on it,” Towle said.

  Ito nodded. “That is one butt-ugly painting.”

  The feds moved up a notch in Hannah’s estimation. Towle made a cursory search of the painting and frame, much as she herself had done, while Ito examined the leather portfolio, not failing to miss the spot where she’d slit the lining to take a closer look at the padding.

  “As you can see, just a painting,” she said. “Since you guys are obviously way ahead of me here, want to tell me what this is really about?”

  They glanced at each other, then
Towle answered. “We’d like you to do a small favor for us while you’re down in Mexico.”

  “I didn’t realize we were on such intimate terms.”

  “We’re talking about performing a service for your country. A contribution to national security.”

  Always the war-on-terror angle, Hannah thought.

  “We imagine you’re going to find yourself inside Gladding’s home in Puerto Vallarta,” Ito said. “While you’re there, we’d like you to see if you can leave a couple of calling cards behind.”

  “Calling cards?” And then it dawned on her. “Oh, man, you want me to plant bugs in his house?”

  “Surveillance devices, yes,” Ito said. He picked up the briefcase by his feet, set it on the coffee table and rolled the tumblers. He snapped the locks but left the lid shut, looking up expectantly.

  “Why do you want his house bugged?” Hannah asked.

  “No specific reason.” From the way Towle’s blue-gray eyes shifted, Hannah suspected there was a very specific reason. “Let’s just say that whatever services Mr. Gladding may have performed for our side in the past, of late he’s dealing with people to whom Washington would prefer not to be linked.”

  “We and some of our sister agencies have been looking for an opportunity to get close for a while,” Ito added. “It’s just serendipity that you happen to have timely access. You can get in without arousing suspicion and slide the devices in with no one the wiser.”

  Ito lifted the lid on the briefcase and withdrew a couple of electronic devices about the size of a dime. “Nothing here you haven’t seen before, I’m sure. These two are voice activated with a transmission range of almost half a mile, so our people can park listening posts well outside his property in areas that won’t arouse suspicion. Dormant unless activated, with power packs that last for months. These ones,” he added, lifting out a couple of small tubes, “are motion-activated cameras. Same kind of range and power pack. If you can plant any of them unobtrusively in his office and anywhere else that looks promising, it would be a real boon to our efforts.”

  Hannah picked up one of the devices and turned it over in her hand. “This is the best you’ve got? I thought you guys were a little more advanced than this. Are these even shielded?”

  “They’ll resist some sensors. Not all, but that’s the point. An operator like Gladding is programmed to assume that he’s susceptible to bugging. We let him find some and he figures he’s outsmarted us.”

  “Even assuming I have access or the time to plant anything, what makes you think he won’t find them all?”

  “He might,” Towle said.

  “So what’s the point?”

  Towle looked over at Ito. “Show her the clincher.”

  Ito pulled out a small case and opened it. Inside was a matte rectangle, maybe half-by-a-quarter-inch in size, tops. Ito peeled it out of the case. It was paper-thin and virtually transparent. “What we’d really love is for you to try to attach this to Gladding’s laptop. We know he keeps it on his desk, so if you can get a minute alone—”

  “What is it?” Hannah asked.

  “A keystroke logger. Gladding communicates primarily via e-mail and he sends out all his business info over an encrypted network. This device will record not only the encryption key, but every strike on the keypad. Unlike those other toys, this one’s almost impossible to detect with standard sweeping equipment. It attaches with an adhesive—just peel it like a bandage. In a pinch, you could stick it almost anywhere on the laptop and it probably wouldn’t be noticed, but I’d suggest opening the CD drive and sticking it under the tray.”

  Ito reached into the case and pulled out yet another device, about the size of a stick of gum. Hannah recognized this one. She’d planted something similar on a vehicle just a few months ago. It was how she first met Russo, in fact. He’d caught her planting it on the car of a surveillance target, but he let her leave it in place when they realized they were tracking the same bad guy for different reasons. And that, as they say, had been the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

  “This—” Ito began.

  “I know what that is,” Hannah said. “You want me to put a GPS tracker on Gladding’s car?”

  “If the opportunity arises,” Towle said.

  Hannah sat back in the rocker. “Jeez, guys, how much time do you think I’m going to have? I’m just dropping this painting off.”

  Towle smiled. “You’re an attractive woman, Hannah, and Moises Gladding is very susceptible to attractive women. From what I’ve heard, you think fast on your feet, too. I’m sure you can figure out a way to seed at least a few of these in his garden.”

  “And why would I do this?”

  “Patriotism?”

  She snorted. “Yeah, right. Look, I’m as patriotic as the next guy, but I’m going to be on my own, unarmed and on foreign turf. How dumb do I look?”

  Towle pulled a laminated card from his pocket and handed it over. One glance told her what it was—identification for a federal air marshal. Her name and picture were on the ID.

  “You’ve arranged for me to take my gun on the flight?”

  Towle handed her his business card. “We know you can handle yourself and we know you have a registered firearm. It just seemed prudent for you to have protection while you’re down there. My number is there for you to call if you run into problems or have any questions. One of us will meet you at LAX tomorrow morning and walk you through security so that there are no questions about the electronics or your weapon. Oh, and one more thing.” Towle reached into his breast pocket and pulled out another business card, definitely not his own. The card was garish blue and featured a cartoon drawing of a lizard in sunglasses lounging under a palm tree, drinking some concoction that came with a tiny umbrella. The card was for a bar in Puerto Vallarta, the proprietor’s name printed on the bottom. “Local emergency contact, just in case.”

  “You guys think of everything.”

  He shrugged modestly. “We try.”

  Seven

  Mazatlán, Mexico

  Tuesday, April 18

  With a tall glass of iced coffee in hand, Kyle Liggett parked himself in a dockside café to watch the first passengers disembark from a Carnival Cruise ship that had glided into port sometime before dawn.

  After taking care of loose ends in Los Angeles last night, he’d had to scramble to catch a late-night flight to Mazatlán. He’d rather have flown directly into Puerto Vallarta, but unexpected circumstances had delayed him, and Mazatlán had been the closest destination available that would get him down here in reasonable time.

  Liggett hated last-minute changes, rushed situations where he had to improvise. They were a recipe for mistakes and he hated mistakes—his and others.

  He’d been down here before. He liked the scenery well enough, although after a while, the slow pace of things made him so antsy he had to get the hell out before he started shooting things up just to see people get a goddamn move on. Fancy resort destinations especially irritated him, with their persistent souvenir hawkers and fat tourists in gaudy clothes and stupid hats.

  Passengers began to stream like ants from the luxury cruise ship, pouring down the gangplank and spreading out across the tropical town. He spotted a handful of Asians in the mix, a few Hispanic-looking types, but most of the crowd off the Long Beach-based liner were white Americans who looked they could have been his corn-fed relatives. Too bad they’d just arrived, because he could easily have blended in with this group. But he had to be in Puerto Vallarta by mid-afternoon, when this ship would just be starting to round up passengers for an evening castoff.

  A second liner, the Galaxy Star, had dropped anchor the previous morning and was scheduled to depart at 7:30 a.m. It was smaller, cozy by cruise liner standards with only a thousand passengers, and that fit his needs better. Mammoth ships like the Carnival liner offered safety in numbers but they were less concerned about empty berths, whose costs they could swallow with relative ease. A smaller ship had to
make every fare count and could usually be counted on to welcome a short-haul passenger with few questions asked.

  Over the years, he’d learned that small liners offered an easy way to slip in and out of ports, staying well under the radar, allowing him to move money, goods and himself from place to place without official notice. Guns were occasionally a problem. These days, most ports had metal detectors, and even if one didn’t, most ships had installed them. That wasn’t a problem on this trip, however. Any weapons he needed would be available down there, while delivery of another package was already arranged. He needed only to get himself to Puerto Vallarta.