State of Emergency

by Sam Fisher

  The attendant spat into the dust and pumped gas in silence.

  Dave slipped out of the camper. 'You look pale, dude,' Todd said. 'You didn't tell us you got travel-sick, you pussy.'

  Dave gave him the finger as he headed for the bathroom.

  'So, Stevie,' Todd said coming round the back of the camper and draping his arm across his friend's shoulders. 'You missing Audrey already?' Then he pretended to cry and pumped his palm on his chest. 'Young lovers!'

  'Oh, fuck off.'

  'No, really,' Todd said, his face dropping to a mock serious look. 'I find it very touching. We should all have an Audrey.'

  Steve shrugged Todd's hand from his shoulder and started to walk away.

  'You don't reckon she'll be getting some of this tonight, do you, man?' Todd was making an obscene gesture with his fist.

  'Maybe. Who knows?' Steve replied smoothly and reached into the camper to find his wallet. He needed some money but he also wanted to hide the look he couldn't keep from his face. Todd, as always, had hit a raw nerve. Steve had only been dating Audrey Delaney for six weeks, but he loved her so much he had begun to think that he was losing his mind. He hadn't been able to tell her. It was too soon. It would scare her off. And besides, he wanted her to say it to him first. He thrust his hand into his rucksack and surfaced with a handful of bills.

  In the bathroom, with the door latched behind him, Dave was alone and sweating. He stood over the sink and splashed cold water over his face, letting it run down his neck and onto his chest. The face staring back at him in the mirror was that of a much older man. He looked down at his hands. They were shaking. He ran a basin of water and thrust his head in. The sounds of the world vanished and he imagined never surfacing. He could just die here, he thought. Then he pulled his head up and gasped. He dried his face and hair with a paper towel. Leaning against the mirror, he put his head between his outstretched arms and sobbed.

  'Dave?' It was Steve, from outside the bathroom.

  'You okay, man?'

  'Yeah, cool. Be out in ten seconds.'

  He heard a door close. Rifling through his pockets, he found the plastic container. On its side was a sticker from a pharmacy: 'Vicodin. 80 mg tablets. Strong Painkillers.

  Prescription Only.' He tipped two of the small white tablets into his palm and swallowed them dry. He washed his hands and splashed more water on his face before drying it with another fistful of paper towels. His hands were no longer shaking.

  23

  11.44 am, Pacific Standard Time (Incident time minus 7 hours, 33 minutes)

  The VW campervan made it another 48 miles before breaking down. They had just passed the tiny town of Gorda with its Whale Watcher Café, white clapboard houses, flags and chintz curtains, when the temperature gauge started to climb rapidly. Just south of Gorda the van began to lose power. Todd, who had taken over the driving, let the old van glide onto a concrete bridge spanning Villa Creek and then steered off the road and onto a wide gravel verge.

  'Great!' Steve said, jumping out. Todd popped the engine cover at the back of the van and followed Steve around.

  'Fanbelt's gone.'

  'Excellent.'

  Dave eased himself out of the back seat and trudged around. 'What's the story?'

  'Fanbelt's kaput.'

  'Which means?'

  'Which means the "old lady" won't go,' Steve snapped, glaring at Todd.

  'So it's my fault?'

  'I didn't say that.'

  'Well, you implied it.'

  'Whatever,' Steve slurred, turning away and pointedly studying the incredible view. A hundred feet beneath them waves smashed on rock, plumes of spray shot into the crisp afternoon air, water cascaded into the creek and back again. He turned back and was about to ask if either of them had any bright ideas when he saw a car crossing the bridge. It was a white Toyota. It slowed to a stop on the gravel just behind the VW.

  The Dragon had been on the road for about 90 minutes and was already getting twitchy. It was a blend of excitement and expectation. He could taste blood in his mouth. But he had to be patient. Passing through Gorda, he thought of stopping at the Whale Watcher café, but decided against it. He had the driver's window down and the sun was warm on his skin. A short distance on, he approached the north end of the bridge over Villa Creek. A hundred feet away, off the road, stood a VW campervan with three figures behind it.

  'Hey, guys,' he called through the window as he drew alongside. 'Trouble?'

  One of the kids had his head under the bonnet, and another had turned from the view as he had pulled up.

  'Yep. Fanbelt has snapped.'

  The Dragon drove onto the verge immediately in front of the camper and stepped out. His feet crunched on the shingled road edge. He glanced at his watch. It was approaching noon.

  The kids from the camper were a scruffy bunch. Typical students, the Dragon thought to himself. The one who had been poking around with the engine had grease on his hands. The Dragon offered his hand but when he saw the grease he withdrew it with a disarming grin. Todd smiled back. 'Sorry, dude. It's not the newest engine in the world. Leaks oil just a bit!'

  The Dragon felt a twinge of hatred at the kid's familiarity. He had always hated the word 'dude'. 'Let's take a look,' he said.

  Todd stepped back. Steve was over from the edge of the road and Dave hung back a little, close to the door of the camper. They watched as the Dragon bent low over the VW engine. 'I had one of these babies when I was at college,' he lied. 'Went everywhere in it. Where you headed?'

  'LA,' Steve said.

  'Yeah? Girlfriends?'

  'I wish,' Steve replied. 'Kyle Foreman's giving a big speech at the CCC.'

  'Is that right?' The Dragon's voice was strained as he yanked at something under the bonnet, his Russian accent just discernible. 'He's making quite a name for himself, isn't he? About time someone stood up and told it how it is.' He straightened up, the mangled remnants of the fanbelt in his hand. 'Yep, it's busted!' he said with a grin. 'I don't suppose any of you three have a tie? No, silly question.'

  'Nope. No stockings either, dude,' Dave remarked from the side of the van. 'Although, come to think of it, Todd may have a secret he hasn't told us about.'

  Steve laughed and Todd gave his friend a black look.

  The Dragon felt his stomach tighten. The iron taste of fresh blood wormed around his tongue. 'I think I have something we could use,' he said and wiped his hands on a rag Steve had handed him.

  Dave got back into the van and started to roll another joint. Steve stepped round and saw what he was doing. 'Jesus,' he said under his breath. 'Put that shit away!'

  Dave looked nonplussed. Steve nodded towards the Dragon's back, and Dave hid the gear under the seat.

  Reaching the Toyota, the Dragon pulled a metal box from under the front seat and opened the lid. Inside was a pistol – a Russian army Yarygin PYa wrapped in a piece of velvet. Beside it was a garrotte made from a length of piano wire with lightweight leather endpieces. He pulled out the garrotte, closed the lid of the box and pushed it back under the seat.

  Back at the VW, Steve was in the passenger seat, Dave had returned to his Nintendo DS and Todd was again peering at the engine to see if there was anything else wrong.

  The Dragon crunched his way slowly towards the van, the length of wire swinging beside his right leg. He caught a whiff of cannabis as he passed the sliding door of the vehicle and smiled to himself. Passing round the back of the camper, he saw Todd tugging a spark plug from its housing.

  'Good idea,' the Dragon said, making Todd jump and bang his head on the engine cover.

  'Shit!' Todd exclaimed. Bent over, he saw two polished brown loafers ahead of him. Straightening, he came eye-to-eye with the Dragon.

  The wire was stretched between the Dragon's fists.

  'It's not ideal,' he said, 'but it should get you to the next gas station.' And he crouched under the engine cover to slip the wire around the crank and the alternator.

  Todd s
tood to one side, watching the man work. The Dragon was having trouble threading the wire around the water pump housing to one side of the alternator. He twisted his left hand around the spindle and caught the lower end of the wire where it was dangling beside the crank. Tugging it up, he pulled the wire tight and dexterously tied off the two leather ends.

  As the Dragon pulled his hands away from the crank, his shirtsleeve rode up and Todd caught a fleeting glimpse of the tattoo on the underside of the man's left wrist. It was totally incongruous with the rest of the man's appearance, and Todd was shocked.

  The Dragon straightened and snapped his head around. Todd was slow to compose himself but did his best. 'Fan . . . fantastic,' he said, taking a step back. A few feet behind him was the rail of the bridge, and beyond that the foaming water. A gull swooped low, gliding on a warm current of air.

  A faint smile played on the Dragon's lips. He knew the kid had seen the tattoo, and he knew the kid knew he knew. For a second, he considered what fun it would be to slaughter the three of them. It would have to be done quickly, which would take some of the pleasure out of it, but it would be entertaining. The moment passed. The Dragon turned and walked to the side door of the camper.

  Dave and Steve got out.

  'Fixed,' the Dragon said.

  'Cool! Thanks, man.'

  'No problem. I think there's a gas station about ten miles further on. They should fix you up – to get you to LA, at least.'

  The Dragon noticed a line of sweat above Todd's upper lip. With a wave, he paced back to the Toyota, started the engine and pulled onto the road, thinking with satisfaction that the kids he had just helped had only hours to live.

  24

  Santa Monica, California

  1.37 pm, Pacific Standard Time (Incident time minus 6 hours, 40 minutes)

  'You're what?' Simon Gardiner almost choked on his piece of steak.

  Across the table, his elderly mother and father were smiling serenely. They were both white-haired, deeply tanned and wearing blue jeans, sweatshirts and sensible trainers. 'You heard me, Simon,' said Nancy Gardiner. 'We're cycling to the speech.'

  Simon pushed his chair back and paced to the window, glancing at his wife, Maureen, who looked a little lost. He was a senior partner at Gardiner & Feinstein, one of the fastest-growing law firms in the city, and he was not used to being overruled – even by his parents. Those days had long gone.

  'But you can't,' he insisted, spinning away from the vista of Wilshire Boulevard, a hundred or so feet below the driveway of the house.

  'Why, Simon?' Marty Gardiner retorted sharply. 'Back home, we cycle everywhere. Since we had the RV converted to ethanol it's good for long distances, but we're not about to mess up our carbon footprint now . . . are we, dear?' He turned to his wife sitting calmly beside him, her hands in her lap.

  Simon Gardiner was a man in thrall to his own self-image and social status. He hated his parents' RV – it was too big to get in the underground garage and it messed up the lines of his garden. He didn't want to know what the neighbours thought of the thing stuck there on his drive. It had brought his parents down from rural Oregon the day before, and he would be glad to see the back of it. It was old, and a huge, ugly exhaust pipe and filter had been added beside the cabin, making it look like something out of Mad Max.

  He returned to the table and leaned on it with both hands. 'Yes, Pa. But you might have noticed the roads are a little bigger here.'

  'There's no need for sarcasm,' Nancy admonished.

  Simon Gardiner shook his head and straightened. 'I give up,' he said, and walked out of the room.

  Twenty minutes later the elderly couple had finished lunch without their son and had changed into identical red tracksuits and trainers, their cycling helmets in their hands and backpacks over their shoulders. Their hair was so white it looked almost as though it had been bleached with super-strong peroxide. Marty's was cut short at the back and sides, but swept across his head in a boyish style. Nancy still had a weekly 'do' at her local hairdressers, a traditional place that had changed little since the 1960s and where they still used the huge old-fashioned hair driers customers had to sit under.

  The couple were now in their mid-seventies, and both were slender but robust. They radiated youthful energy and a sense of purpose. Each had dark-blue eyes that were as close in shade as to be indistinguishable. It was one of the things that had first drawn them together, a doorway to an intimacy that had lasted 42 years and become stronger as they had grown older.

  Marty walked out to the RV, and Simon drew his mother to one side. 'Mom, you can't go through with this. It's insane.'

  She surveyed her son's face with a mixture of amusement and affection. 'Simon, I'm not going to argue with you anymore.'

  'Talk to her, will you, Maureen?' he implored his wife.

  'I think their minds are made up, darling.'

  'Yes, they are,' Nancy added. 'You know how passionate your father is about the environment. Can't you just drop it now?'

  'So Dad's pushing you into this?'

  'I didn't say that, Simon. I believe in the cause as well. It's just that your father lives and breathes it.'

  Marty strode back through the front door. 'You ready, hon?'

  Nancy snapped shut the clasp on her helmet and gave her husband the thumbs-up.

  'Dad, before you go, I just wanted to give you something.'

  'Heck. Can't it wait till we get back?'

  Simon was already marching off down the hall to his study, so Marty followed him. Simon closed the door.

  'What is it?' Marty Gardiner said in a rougher tone than he intended.

  'Is there anything I can say to stop you doing this?'

  The elderly man sat down in a leather chair facing his son's impressive mahogany desk. 'Look, son. I'm not a child. I understand what I'm doing. You forget that I grew up in this city.'

  'Yes, Pop, but that was 50 years ago. It's changed just a little.'

  Marty took a deep breath. 'Simon, your mother is a committed environmentalist. She totally believes in doing this.'

  'So you're saying you're doing this for Mom? Because if you are –'

  'No, not at all.'

  'Look. How about I take you there? I don't give a fuck about my carbon footprint.'

  Marty was shaking his head. 'You just don't get it, do you, son?' When Simon said nothing, his father went on. 'Look at yourself. You're overweight and overworked. You don't give a damn about yourself, let alone the world we all share. The way you're going, you'll be dead long before me.' He gave his son a stony look. 'Take heed, son, take heed.' And with that he walked out.

  25

  Los Angeles

  4.01 pm, Pacific Standard Time (Incident time minus 3 hours, 16 minutes)

  The Dragon parked the Toyota outside a four-storey apartment block in Glendale. It was a scruffy red-brick building in a back street. It hadn't been painted since it was built in the 1960s, and the garbage bins were overflowing onto a potholed alleyway running alongside the block. It smelt bad.

  He took the stairs. There was no one around, but there was more garbage in the stairwell, and urine stains up the walls. It smelt worse than the alleyway. The man he was looking for was called Dexter Tate and he lived on the third floor. The Dragon had been here before, a week earlier, to make the offer.

  Dexter was expecting him and opened the door before the Dragon knocked. A narrow hallway painted in a repulsive pinkish purple led to a tiny lounge with a couple of ripped armchairs, a low table covered with bottles and cigarette packets. In the corner stood a massive TV. A football game was in progress, Chargers versus Broncos.

  Dexter threw himself into one of the chairs and nodded to the other. The Dragon ignored the invitation to sit. Dexter lit a cigarette.

  'I would rather you didn't,' the Dragon said and snatched the cigarette, crushing it to pieces. Dexter sat to attention and started to protest but thought better of it.

  'I assume everything's in order?' the Dra
gon asked, his Russian accent breaking through on the word 'assume'.

  'Of course. So, you got the second payment?'

  'All in good time, Mr Tate, all in good time. I would like to see the schematic. Talk me through your work . . . please.'

  Dexter shrugged and pulled himself up from the chair. An IKEA cupboard that looked as though it hadn't been put together properly stood against one wall. Two of the shelves sloped. Dexter opened a drawer and pulled out a large roll of paper. He walked over to the table, pushed everything onto the floor and opened the roll. It was covered in lines, labels and typed numbers. It was a schematic of the California Conference Center in downtown Los Angeles. Dexter picked up a couple of bottles and placed them on the corners of the schematic to hold it down. Then he pulled one of the chairs up close to the table. The Dragon looked over his shoulder.

  'The complex is huge.' Dexter ran his finger in a broad circle. 'This is the ground floor,' he said, pointing to one of the horizontal lines. 'Reception is here. There are entrances here, here and here, and four more at the other side of the Main Concourse.' He stabbed at the paper. 'The ground floor has two large auditoriums, Hall A and Hall B. One at each end. Tonight's event is in Hall A, over here to the west of the Main Concourse.' He paused for a moment to look up at the Dragon, who was staring at the schematic.

  'There are three levels above the Main Concourse and Reception. A gym, indoor pool, small meeting rooms. There's a bar and restaurant on first. The whole place is bottom-heavy, though – there are six levels below ground, B1 to B6. B1 is administration: offices, storage facilities. B2 to B5 is all car park. B6 doubles as part car park, part major storage area. That's where they keep everything from spare light bulbs to twelve-foot-high video screens. There's a service lift at the back of the complex.

  'Across the road from the CCC is a small mall with a Kmart, a bank, a cinema, a couple of eateries and a gas station. One thing you might find useful. A buddy at the local planning office got me the architect's plans for the complex and the buildings nearby. Not many people would ever have seen these. The shopping mall and garage across from the CCC were built at the same time as it, and they're all owned by the same company. Turns out there's a service tunnel from the Kmart that links up with B2 of the CCC.' He ran a finger across the paper. 'It's narrow, just big enough for a man to get through, and it's used to access electrical system nodes for the entire area. The main boards are just inside the CCC, here. I got in through the tunnel to position the devices, avoiding the security checks upstairs on the main level.'