If he had realized this trip would turn into such an adventure, he could have brought a satellite phone and more sophisticated GPS technology. He hadn’t expected a simple drive up the hill would become so complex. Now he had to hope Stacey’s horses had survived the night, and that he could find his way to them without many more delays.
He got out of the truck and stood in the bed, trying to get his bearings. He knew from the position of the sun where due east was, and that gave him the rest of the compass points. He still needed to move northeast—probably east-northeast, but that depended on his precise position now, and he didn’t know that. Once he got to Coldwater Canyon Drive, he’d be able to figure that part out, though. So east was his main goal. The road he’d been traveling on when he finally gave up for the night had started out heading that way, but then had veered to the north, and eventually a little northwest. That was when he’d decided to get some rest, before he went too far in the wrong direction.
From the truck bed, he could see thick white smoke higher up in the hills, churning into the sky. There it mixed with the layer of smoke that already hung over everything, giving the sky a brownish-gray cast. A thin layer of ash coated the truck and the trees and the ground that surrounded him. Southern California had seen some devastating wildfires—the Cedar fire in 2003, down in San Diego, still held the record for sheer destructive fury, with almost three thousand structures destroyed—but Los Angeles had seen its share as well. The Station fire in 2009 had been a bad one, as had the Topanga a few years earlier. Fires in Ventura, Orange, and San Bernardino Counties had cast their pall over L.A., too. This one, Granger was certain, would find its place in the record books.
The meteorological circumstances had been perfect. Hot, dry, windy days were ideal fire weather. The past couple of weeks had been nothing but; days when touching anything metal could lead to a hair-raising electric shock—not that I have much to worry about in that regard, Granger thought. With plenty of fuel choking the hills and canyons, it wouldn’t have taken a very big spark to ignite an inferno. Once it was touched off, the landscape would have contributed to its success. The ups and downs of the topography gave the flames the momentum they needed to spread quickly, and the isolation and ruggedness made it hard for crews to get in and control the blaze. Homes were a particular problem. Besides the loss of property and sometimes life, they often contained additional enhancements, like propane tanks or natural gas lines, that could lend extra oomph to even a fading fire. There were just enough of those in the canyons to ensure that the conflagration would continue to rage.
It looked like most of the fresh smoke was billowing up from higher elevations than he needed to travel. He got back in behind the wheel, cranked the engine, and backed out from under the tree, cutting a trail through the white-gray blanket of ash. He would continue in the direction he’d been going last night for two more miles, he decided, watching for a spur that led off to the east. If he didn’t find one by then, he’d backtrack to where he had turned onto this path in the first place, and try another fork.
Calm, rational, logical. People died in fires because they panicked, like the LGB. They couldn’t keep their heads, make the right decisions.
Owen Granger didn’t intend to repeat their mistakes.
* * *
“Do we have a visual yet?” Hetty asked.
“Nothing so far,” Nell replied.
“We have access to the most sophisticated electronic surveillance equipment in the history of the world,” Hetty observed. “We have satellites that can count the spots on a ladybug on a leaf from low earth orbit. How can it be so hard to see a man in a big red truck right here in Los Angeles?”
“That might be a slight exaggeration,” Eric pointed out. “About the ladybug, I mean. As for the man and the truck, there are multiple factors. The smoke, primarily, which is obscuring everything at ground level. Then there’s the sheer amount of air traffic over those hills, which blocks some of what the satellites can see.”
“I was, perhaps, speaking hyperbolically about the ladybug, but not by much. And I do recognize the limitations of our technology, as well as the difficulties involved, Mr. Beale. My overall point was that we know where Owen’s mobile phone is, thanks to the GPS chip in it. I would like to confirm that Owen is with his phone. It’s not like him to go this long without checking in, and given his stated destination and the current situation there, I’m worried about him.”
“Do we know if he’s even in the country?” Nell asked. “I mean, I know he said he was going up Coldwater Canyon. But… people… have disappeared from here before, without saying anything, and wound up in all kinds of places.”
“It’s polite of you not to name names,” Hetty replied. She knew Nell was talking about her, after all. “All I have to go on is the GPS reading, and what Owen told me before he left. And the fact that I saw him driving that ghastly red truck yesterday. Since I have no reason to suspect otherwise, my assumption has to be that he did indeed drive that vehicle into those hills to rescue his friend’s horses. That should keep the visual search parameters sufficiently narrow that even with the obvious limitations, you’ll be able to see him.”
“We’re trying,” Eric said. “And—”
“We won’t quit until we do,” Nell interrupted. Eric shot her a look, but it dissolved into a warm smile. She might never break the habit of finishing his sentences, but if he grew to like it when she did, that might not matter.
“Very well,” Hetty said. “I’m going to my desk, where I’ll pour a cup of Lapsang Souchong and wait to hear from you.”
“We’ll let you know—” Eric began, then stopped.
Nell glanced his way, expecting him to continue. When he didn’t, she grinned and added, “Just as soon as we have anything concrete.”
“See that you do,” Hetty said, and left.
Those two were so cute, it was just this side of sickening.
28
As it turned out, the bed was almost too comfortable.
Callen wasn’t used to that. He had slept on couches, on floors, in cars, jail cells, tents, war zones, on beaches and cliffs and occasionally in the arms of someone warm and soft and smelling faintly of shampoo. A luxuriously soft king-size bed was rare for him, and for the longest time he felt like some kind of trespasser in it.
Which, of course, he was. Not just in the bed, but in the house and in Slava Belyakov’s retinue. That part—undercover work—was not at all unfamiliar to him, of course. But undercover work didn’t often involve sleeping in a bed made of angel feathers and hope, which seemed to be the constituent parts of this one. At first, he couldn’t fall asleep. Once he had, he never wanted to wake up again.
When he finally did, he lay there for a few minutes, wondering if he could parlay this assignment into a full-time gig. That didn’t last long, though, before he remembered what a piece of work Belyakov was, and how damaging it would be to the nation’s already fragile relationship with Iraq if it was learned that the tablet had been stolen by Americans supposedly working on behalf of the government.
Maybe this assignment wasn’t as critical as stopping terrorists armed with dirty bombs or biological warfare concoctions, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t important. The Middle East, after all, was fraught with tensions. Some dated back thousands of years, while others were more recent, the agonizing throes that came with tossing aside decades of colonial rule and redrawing national boundaries imposed by outsiders. Those tensions—combined with factors like widespread poverty and a lack of jobs for young males—contributed to the terrorist threat, without which those dirty bombs and bioweapons wouldn’t even be a concern. So while a stolen antiquity might seem like small potatoes, its impact could be substantial indeed.
Having convinced himself, Callen rolled reluctantly out of bed and took a quick, hot shower, then dressed in the same clothes he’d worn last night. A fresh pair of underwear would have been nice, but if discovered, might have exposed his ruse. He had tol
d some of the Russians that he had more clothes in a motel somewhere, and if this undercover went on for much longer, he’d have to find a chance to go fetch some. If Belyakov insisted on someone accompanying him on that errand, it would be considerably more complicated, because there was no such motel. He’d have to try to call Ops and arrange for some of his belongings to be planted at one so he could go in and pick them up. Then his lack of a key would become an issue.
He checked the pool. Nobody, not even the women Evgeni had promised were “always” there. They might all have been in the rooms of the various men, he guessed, or even in rooms of their own. This house contained more than enough for everyone, after all. Walking downstairs, he wondered who it had belonged to in its heyday. And how it had looked then, when it hadn’t been furnished in Contemporary Holiday Inn.
He wasn’t sure what to expect downstairs, but whatever it might have been, what he found wasn’t it. He followed the aromas of coffee and bacon into the kitchen, where Belyakov—with an apron wrapped around his middle, as last night he had worn a towel—stood by the stove stirring an enormous frying pan full of scrambled eggs. A plate nearby held a couple of dozen strips of crisp bacon, and more sizzled in another pan beside the first. On a nearby counter stood another plate with a stack of toast on it, and beside that was a bowl of chopped cantaloupe, honeydew, and pineapple, along with grapes and blackberries. It was a thoroughly American-style breakfast, Callen thought, or would be if there were some Cheerios or Frosted Flakes in sight.
“Good morning, Grisha,” Belyakov said cheerfully. “Or whatever your name really is.”
“It’s Grisha,” Callen answered truthfully.
“Have it your way. Hungry?”
“I hadn’t given it much thought, but I am now. You’re quite a chef.”
“I try. Russian breakfasts, I’m afraid, aren’t interesting to me anymore. Syrniki, porridge, kolbasa—I’ve grown tired of it all. Some pancakes with mince meat and sour cream, that’s okay once in a while. But American breakfasts I find the perfect way to start the day. I hope it’s good for you.”
“Smells delicious,” Callen said. “Can I have some coffee?”
“Help yourself. That’s another thing. I grew up always having tea with breakfast. And lunch, and dinner. I find Russian coffee less than satisfactory, don’t you? Compared to French or Italian. And here, one can get any coffee. That’s Jamaican in the pot. Blue Mountain. It’s my favorite.”
“It works for me,” Callen said. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had a good Russian breakfast. But anything is better than prison food. Even the coffee in prison is terrible. But the water is worse, so I tried to drink coffee whenever I could.”
“What were you in prison for, again?”
“I didn’t say.”
“Will you?”
“Aggravated assault,” Callen said. When he was undercover, he liked to stay there. Belyakov knew it was a ruse, or had to suspect, anyway, given the fact that Callen had been foisted on him by law enforcement. But it didn’t pay to slip out of character even for a moment. “And a weapons charge. And the guy might have died. But if he did, clearly that was by accident.”
“Clearly. And your victim was?”
“A man in a restaurant. It was an occupational hazard. Hazard for him, occupation for me.”
“So you’ve been a professional tough guy before.”
“That’s as good a way to put it as any, I guess.”
“Yet now you have some sort of arrangement with the authorities.”
Callen shot him a stern look. “We’re not supposed to discuss that.”
“Oh, everyone else is sleeping, and will be until I go and kick their beds.”
“Really? I’d think there would be someone awake any time you are, to keep an eye out.”
“You think my life is more dangerous than it is, Grisha.”
Callen thought about all the firearms stashed under the stairs. “I’m not so sure about that.”
“It’s true, the men get upset if someone isn’t watching over me,” Belyakov said. “Not because they love me so, but because their incomes depend upon my continued presence on the Earth. They do not, however, get so upset that any of them are willing to wake up when I do.” He stirred the eggs a little more, then, deciding they were done, took a large bowl from a cabinet and spooned them out of the pan into it. He sprinkled a little pepper over the top. “I’ve never slept much. The secret to my wealth, I think—I’ve always gone to sleep later and awakened earlier than my competitors.”
“One of the secrets, anyway,” Callen said.
Belyakov gave a knowing laugh. “Well, yes. One of them.” He plucked the last strips of bacon from their pan and dropped them onto the rest. “One rule I have—I do insist that everyone joins me for breakfast. And now, it’s time. Do you want to wake the men, or should I?”
“I haven’t known them long enough to not risk being shot,” Callen said. “I think you’d better.”
“Done and done,” the billionaire said. “Don’t touch. Nobody eats until we’re all at the table.”
“Scout’s honor,” Callen said in English.
Belyakov stopped, arched an eyebrow at him. “Don’t make that mistake in front of the other guys,” he said. “Not if you want to live until lunch.”
29
Sam was parked around the block from the driveway to the house that Callen had identified, in the shade of a willow tree. He watched said driveway on a tablet, on video being fed by a couple of small cameras he’d planted during the night. Sitting on the block itself would be too obvious. For the same reason, they were communicating only on anonymous burner phones, not on radios. They were dealing with professionals who knew many of the tricks they did—albeit without having access to the same level of technology. Or so he hoped.
Callen had sent one text, with the house’s address, but had otherwise maintained radio silence. His phone was a burner, too, but nobody on the outside had any idea what kind of privacy he might have to make or receive messages. He’d be contacted when things were going down, but otherwise left alone. He was the one in the hot seat—the one surrounded by hostiles. Nobody wanted to risk blowing his cover.
Because this was Brentwood, Sam had only been there for about twenty minutes when a patrol cruiser had pulled up behind him. He sighed as the officers got out. The driver was a beefy, ruddy-skinned blond guy, mid-thirties, who looked like he hit the gym every morning. His partner was a few years older, and his uniform shirt gapped a little where a spreading belly strained it. The driver hitched up his belt as he approached the Challenger, but he waited at the rear quarter panel until his partner had reached the front passenger window. Sam had thumbed it down as they approached, but now he had both hands plainly visible on the wheel. He’d been here before. It was sadly a minority of black men his age who hadn’t.
“Nice morning,” the partner said.
“Listen, officer,” Sam said. “I’m on the job. Can I show you my ID?”
The partner straightened up, his face disappearing from the window. “Says he’s on the job,” he said.
“Recognize him?” the driver asked.
“No.”
“I’m not LAPD, I’m NCIS,” Sam said. “If you’ll just let me show you—”
“NCIS,” the partner repeated.
“I heard. What’s that, a cross between the NSA and the CIA?”
“Naval Criminal Investigative Service,” Sam said.
The driver approached him now. “Step out of the car,” he said. “Slowly, with your hands visible. Then you can show us what you got.”
“Look, officers,” Sam said. “You could be in the process of blowing an investigation that has serious national security implications. A low profile would be appreciated.”
“It’s up to you,” the cop said. “You can casually get out, low profile, like you said, and show me your ID. Or I can pull you out, put you facedown on the street, and cuff you. Your call.”
“Okay, I see how it is,” Sam said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means there are lots of good cops in the department,” Sam said. “I’ve worked with some. But there are still a few who see an African-American man sitting in a car on a Brentwood street and think the worst.”
The phony smile vanished from the driver’s face, replaced with a look that vacillated between rage and disgust. “If you’re calling me a racist—”
“I’m not the one jumping to conclusions here. I’m going to get out now, and show you my identification, and then you’re going to get back in your car and get the hell out of here before you ruin a lot of hard work and potentially endanger the life of my partner. Am I making myself clear?”
The driver started to say something, but the words caught in his throat. He just nodded and made a grunting noise.
Sam opened his door slowly, showed his hands outside the car, and climbed out without using them. Once out of the car, he opened his badge case and showed badge and ID to the driver. The man caught his partner’s eye and nodded once. “Looks real.”
“It is real,” Sam said. “You satisfied, or do I have to get your captain on the phone? Because I can do that with one call.”
“Just making sure,” the driver said. “You know how it is. Neighborhood like this, we have to take precautions.”
“Do me a favor,” Sam said. “Don’t take precautions when you go by the couple sitting in a black Escalade on the next block. They’re with me.”
“We saw them,” the partner said. “Didn’t stop, though.”
“Keep it that way,” Sam said, letting the obvious go unspoken. Kensi and Deeks were white. “And if you guys can make yourself scarce, we’d appreciate it. We need you, we’ll call you.”
“Understood,” the driver said. He touched a finger to his brow, the closest he could bring himself to a salute, then hitched his duty belt up once more and went back to his car. A minute later, they drove away.
Bolthole Page 15