"I'm on it.”
Moore knew a few things would follow. Robbie would have some realistic documents created and after this news was delivered to Cindy, she'd be delivering tender demonstrations of love with heightened enthusiasm. That would bring short-term luck to the Senator. Cindy would experience a disappointing lack of monetary gain, alas. After her benefactor’s disappearance, she would make inquiries about a life insurance policy, but that would be another dead end.
53. A BIRD’S EYE VIEW
Faulkner's familiarity with the report’s topic was an understatement. He’d spent hours over the last few days, had given long, hard thought and consideration to the possible outcomes regarding this particular issue on his desk. The potential ramifications of action he was now called to do could be long-reaching. How would the ripples come to shore? Delaying action would be easy, if only that luxury of time was his to spend.
The report, summarized by Moore, determined what must take place. The activities as described offered no alternative. Similar actions he’d taken in the past had been easier, when those activities occurred on foreign soil. It was merely business in the ongoing effort to stay ahead of the curve on war, on global economies, and on securing the fragile hold of freedom and democracy.
When decisions and actions were made effecting the lives of our citizens in the homeland, there was a different flavor to those decisions, and it was not a pleasant taste. He found himself questioning how far he’d be willing to go. The next moment brought realization that he had already crossed that threshold. He clung to the concept of protecting our nation from enemies, both foreign and domestic. Yeah, that still worked.
The colonel retrieved a phone from his desk’s secured compartment, turned it on, made the call that would connect it to an Alliance team member's cell.
When the call connected, the voice on the other end answered, “Yes?”
“This is Hooded Vulture. You are directed to go green on ‘Eye Pluck’.”
The response followed, “Confirmation, please. Go green on ‘Eye Pluck’?”
“Affirmative.” He disconnected the call, opened the phone’s case and withdrew the battery and sim card. He dropped the phone and battery into his desk drawer, then dropped the sim card into the shredder. Plenty where that came from. It barely made a hiccup.
He walked out into the main office after changing into civvies, informing the duty officer that he was done for the day, and left the building. A drink was in order. He needed to slip into a different skin. Understanding the necessity for these types of actions didn't completely armor him from an impact. In the parking lot, he got into his private vehicle, left the federal facility.
A half hour commute brought him to the perimeter of the neighborhood where he lived with his wife and two children. He wasn’t ready for them yet. He veered northeast into a suburb where he sometimes visited a local bowling alley lounge he’d discovered while driving around. He felt anonymity inside the two-beer bar with juke-box noise in the background. The bartender had no interest in small talk, other than with the cocktail waitress he hoped to bang. The colonel could use some of that beer as a lavage to rinse down what certainly tasted like bile.
PART FOUR
54. SURGICAL PREP
The 'Eye Pluck' moniker came up from the catacombs. An operation's name usually made sense if one knew the particulars. The 'eye' in this case was figurative. 'Pluck', not so much. Procedures are typically conducted using resources within. Occasionally, when a clean separation is paramount, delegation to a trusted partner takes place.
Francine Natchez, who'd been around the block, received the file by courier. As the designated in-house handler, she had broad freedom as long as she produced the desired results. She set up a contractual proposal for a man with whom she’d conducted business before.
At her work station, she performed a subroutine that activated a connection to an 'L.B.', currently established in Los Angeles.
“Yes?”
“Is this Lyle Bandahl?”
"Yes...," he waited for more.
"I have a message from your uncle. Your secure access, please?”
Lyle replied, "Seven," then pressed the '2' on his keypad, said "Four," and pressed '1', and finally, "Three" and double tapped '0'.
"Thank you, Mr. Bandahl," she continued. “This is Frieda Nathan. I have a package delivery pending. Please take a moment to consider your availability.” In the customary silence that followed, Francine allowed her mind to drift. I sure like that alias... does anybody even get it?... it's duty with a fucking lisp!
◆◆◆
Life might bring you a second chance, but not here... He looked up, stared at the ceiling. I accept the package, it's mine... Refuse it, it's fuckin' gone! There's no going back either way... His head gently turning side to side. I gotta own it... my choice... Is Palermo ever gonna happen? Then, a slight nod. This could be the ticket!
“Uh, Ms. Nathan?" Bandahl broke the silence.
"Yes..."
"Okay, it's 9:30 in the morning. If you'll text me the location, I'll pick it up tomorrow."
"You should have it by noon."
"Okay. When I get it, I'll text you, and unless I need clarifications, it's done. Does that work?”
"That's fine. Hold, while I check on the location... mmm... okay. Here's the text."
Bandahl's cell beeped, he saw the number/letter code, knew where to go.
55. MAIL CALL
Lyle stepped up, out of the Taurus rental, locking it, and left the parking lot, entered the mail service business across the street. He turned down the corridor to the right, could see the static security camera mounted on the wall at the far end. On his left, a floor to ceiling metal wall, the face of it, pigeon-holed with mailbox doors. His door lived at the far end and he walked to it, used his key to open it. A notice slip there informed him of a package awaiting his signature at the counter.
Whether by his design or not, nobody paid much attention to him. The sunny day had him wearing wrap-around sunglasses that shaded a wide band on his face, sideburn to sideburn. Today, a panama snugged down to the brow, and a few days scruff on the cheeks allowed it to lay dormant. The scar. A jagged bolt, as far as he would allow.
The clerk on duty handed out packages all day, every day. She barely looked at the people who came up, shoved parcel slips her way. It told her what she needed to know–which shelf a package sat on, under what number designation.
Acquiring the services of these mom-and-pop office and mail handling stores was easy. Clients often paid by credit card, but some customers chose to pay with cash. Painless, only requiring the generation of a cash receipt. The business accountant didn’t care. The owners loved it, as long as the customers kept coming.
This particular mail location was a new arrangement, looked like it would serve him well. Easy access, no questions, and the promise of privacy in the way it was laid out. The chevron-shaped interior had mounted security cameras. One situated at both corridor ends would see those coming, two waited above the front entry to see those on the way out. The business counter had two of its own. These electronic eyes couldn't see much past a hat and dark glasses, so Lyle felt at ease.
There were no cameras on the outside corners of the building. During that morning’s run to pick up the package, his glances around didn’t reveal anything new. If he had an eagle’s visual acuity, he might have spotted a bird circling a few miles above him, but he never even looked in that direction.
◆◆◆
The RPA loitered at fifteen thousand feet above the city. Below cruising altitudes and above any local air traffic taking off or coming in. The assignment came by cell from Francine, delivered to Bill Olson. He double checked his info, snapped data to the airman at the controls. The coordinates brought it on location and its cameras trained on the entrance of a building situated on a Santa Barbara street corner. The specific identifier for the action was an alpha-numeric attachment: CA-310-JCT14-LB1. This assignment only las
ted ninety minutes before word came back that it could be terminated.
"Done already, Francine?" he asked.
"Just being thorough, Bill. Gotta keep the boss happy."
56. THE PARTICULARS
Metro Business Space rented office environments—cubbyhole closets to entire buildings. Lyle insisted on a quiet, private nook. This current, dead-bolt secured corner space provided a desk and chair, phone/printer, a cross-cut shredder, and a desk lamp. The rental ad's hook, 'free office supplies', sat in a diminutive cabinet at the back wall. A meagre hodgepodge of paper clips, generic pens and pencils, stapler, and a ream of paper.
The building's front door pass code granted access to the lobby and from there, the elevator or stairway to the second floor. His office was at the end of the hall on the left. He disengaged the deadbolt, entered the room, closed and locked the door. The place had overhead lights, but Lyle never turned them on. He didn't expect, nor want any drop-ins or knocks on the door. He sat at the desk, his back positioned against the wall, switched on the desk lamp. Reaching into his front pocket, he withdrew and activated an open-assisted blade, sliced through the nylon-reinforced security tape that sealed the package. When he turned it upside down, the contents slid out onto the desk.
A smaller, rubber-banded manila envelope rode out, on top of a stack of paper and he put that off to the side. The cover sheet headlined, JOHN CONRAD TURNER, provided general info: birth statistics, home address, physical identifiers—height 5’11’’, weight 185#, brown eyes, grey hair. Only family listed spouse, deceased younger brother. That's good... probable mistress... Uh, huh!... It said he was an early riser... might be able to use that.
The fact disclosed here, a retired U.S. Senator, would be more than enough for Lyle to know that this wet work would pay well. Some rubes put a higher value on the lives of politicians, executives, assholes like that. It identified him as the CEO of JCT, LLC, a physical address for the company, and described this business as an electronics firm that developed both hardware and software. No other specifics were identified.
Under the cover sheet, eight by ten photographs. The first three displayed the primary, with head shots. One taken while nearby the subject, the other two from a distance, with a zoom lens that brought the subject into sharp focus. There were two additional photos of him, one in the driver’s seat of a red corvette and the other while standing on the aft deck of a motorboat.
Beneath the primary’s photos, individual photos of three adult women, all identified with brief profiles on sticky notes attached. He picked up the first of them, identified as the spouse, 'Gloria Turner'. A complimentary photo of a woman sixty-one years old. She didn't work, had a housekeeper. Involved in a few social circles, fund-raising dinners, performing arts functions, with or without her husband. She could be good bait... have to think more on that.
The next photo, 'Cindy Alexander': short, wavy auburn hair, five feet two, athletic build. Resident of an apartment in a downtown high-rise, listed a 'J. Turner' as the lease holder. Ah-ha... juicier bait! Thirty-two years old, from Columbus, Ohio, registered as a student at UCSB. Parents still living (Ohio), and little else about her.
'Linda Hansen'–the last of the women in photographs. Her note said twenty-four years old, part-time college student, barista at 'The Grinder' coffee kiosk. The coffee bar in close proximity to the Primary’s business address, possibility of deeper relationship with the primary. Hmm... is he doing even more grinding on the side? I'd do that. She's a looker! Her home listed as a small apartment in the suburbs, shared with a boyfriend working as a grease monkey in a local shop. Mother deceased, retired father’s address in a suburb of Houston, Texas.
Next in the stack, a photo of what looked like the same red Corvette, a black Lincoln Navigator, and the boat again, labeled as a Beneteau Gran Turismo 44. Notes on this photo described a ‘pleasure craft’, a fair-weather vessel, Santa Barbara Yacht Club. All vehicles owned by the Primary, all registered, no liens. The last photograph showed the entrance to a private parking garage, the 'Circle Self-Park', indicated as common location of the Navigator. Too bad, Senator! No toys goin' where you're goin'.
Completing the review with no need for clarifications, he slipped the bands off the smaller manila envelope. Inside, packets of bills, neatly stacked and banded. His retainer for high-profile sanctions, a hundred thousand dollars, representing a third of the final cost of doing business. Here, an extra fifty large, considering the Primary’s position on the social ladder. This job has a nice bonus—I'm good with that!
◆◆◆
Bandahl didn't receive all the significant background information about Senator Turner, nor did he really expect all information. No questions, no qualms about his role. His job focused less about the knowing how someone came to his attention, and more about the arrangements for the going.
His assignments were studied for hidden or muddled relationships that could bubble up during the course of doing business. Murky situations had come back to nip at his ass in times gone by. Done with that.
I'll never forget the fuck-up with that rancher. If the girlfriend they didn't know about hadn't driven up at the wrong fuckin' time, she'd be alive. If Ernie hadn't made a mess of things, he'd still be alive!
Complications had forced his hand. Having to eliminate his partner back then had been a big loss. Not in dollars, but in irritation, anger, frustration. Ever since, he dove into the details, did his own investigations.
Lyle would need a partner again. He'd bring Mike in for this. A tight rein, he'll be fine. If there were bumps along the way, Mike had proven his skills at handling the unexpected. He'd appreciate the work, the extra pay. This job represented nearly half a million. After costs and Mike’s share, he'd pocket about three hundred large, all free of any burden to good ol’ Uncle Sam.
57. DOUBLE TROUBLE
LYLE AND MIKE
Lyle finished perusing the contract, turned off the lamp, allowed thoughts to drift. They took him back nearly two decades...
I started workin' with Tom when?... Was I twenty?... Shit! Had I been on the street for four fuckin' years? Yeah, that's about right... he was good to me... better than the sisters were!... yeah, okay... they did feed me, gimme a bed... but he brought me in... treated me like..., hell, called me 'Uncle Lyle'..., so did Maria. Mike and the little ones too!
When did I first bring Mike in?... musta been thirty by then, collectin' on overdue bills... muscle for four or five bookies... That's right! Tom got hit about that time... brought Mike in on some jobs when I needed an extra set of hands, eyes, helped support Maria, him and the kids... Only way they were keepin' heads above water... my donations, Mike’s hustles.
Mike dropped out by ninth grade... ready to move on, already had a sheet, petty and not so petty crimes... I could at least give him support like Tom did for me... otherwise he was gonna end up doing hard time or dead... and I needed someone I could trust.
Lyle's memory playback continued, to the time when his lights were switched off... We'd been workin'... maybe two years... tailin' that asshole, had Mike shadowin' from across the street... scumbag skimmin' off the top... got the go-ahead to clip him... maybe twenty yards back when he cut into that alley... saw him lookin' back, goin' faster... started runnin'... heard footsteps... something sent me flyin'... doin' a slo-mo superman... tumblin' into darkness...
◆◆◆
Mike's Story
Mike never shared personal thoughts or feelings, as long as he'd known Lyle. The only exception to this, the several days following that alley encounter, when he'd unloaded his entire experience in detail to a curious, willing and motivated listener in Lyle.
From Mike's view across the street, he'd seen the guy pop out from the shadows, arm raised, just as Lyle went by. The pipe hitter's second swing opened Lyle's forehead in a split of the skin across the length. The hitter brought his arm up for a third swing but as he did, the distraction of Mike's loud shout probably saved Lyle's life. The thug had connect
ed, but a base hit rather than a home run coup de grâce.
The forehead's bloody laceration extended, sending it streaking down between Lyle's eye and ear, then across the cheekbone to point toward his jaw. From what Mike had heard at the hospital, that third strike, delivered with force like the previous one, would have crushed the eye socket and temple, finishing Lyle. Instead, it merely fractured the maxilla, pulverized two teeth formerly anchored there.
Mike told Lyle he'd been scared shitless when he saw the bloody mess that used to be a forehead and face. He'd found Lyle's blood flowing out, painting the broken asphalt in a pool of crimson, heard gurgled breathing, the only obvious sign of life on a tether. Dropping to his knees, he'd rolled Lyle toward his lap, hoping to ebb the flow of blood running into his mouth.
As he cradled head and neck, he fumbled his new flip phone out, dialed 9-1-1, dropped the open phone at his side. He relayed to Lyle that it seemed like he could hear the phone ringing far away and forever before he remembered to enable the featured hands-free speaker. Then he'd ripped his top shirt off, wrapped it around Lyle’s head.
Somehow, everything worked out like in the movies. An ambulance had showed up before long, and in the following blur, Lyle got to the emergency room. He spent a couple hours in the E.R., and by the time Mike got there by cab, IV lines had been established, fluids started, x-rays taken. No signs of brain damage (somebody had said that), but the skull had sustained fractures in doing its job to protect the contents. Emergency surgery stabilized the skull, returned Lyle's face to roughly its original contours, from what had looked to Mike, when in the ER, more like "a deflated soccer ball" than a human head.
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