Finally, Nick looked up.
“Should we wait for Mr. Gold?” asked Neill.
“No, he’s here. Going over his notes.”
“This is his party?”
“The whole way.”
“Is it his clarification?” groggy, gorgeous Chandler, in jeans and sweatshirt, Glock on hip, had to know.
“He’ll explain. Mr. Gold!” he called.
The Israeli entered. Unusually for him, he was not in his daily wear, the jeweler’s black suit and tie. His shoes weren’t even black. The shirt was wide open, there was no jacket, and the slacks were radically gray. He was wearing burgundy loafers.
“Good morning,” he said. “Sorry to drag you all here, but if you agree with me, I think we have to get going on this.”
He sat.
“What has happened is that two unrelated pieces of information—one from Mr. Neill, one from Sergeant Swagger—have suddenly become related. Apart, they are nothing; together, perhaps something. I believe it at least demands a serious effort.”
“Please proceed,” said Neill. “I love it when I’m a genius.”
“You had said that the kind of aerial or drone reconnaissance that led us to Juba in Syria, keyed to the attributes that would identify a long-range shooting venue, were useless in the United States without some kind of limiting or defining function. Not even knowing the region, we were looking for a rowboat in an ocean.”
“True,” said Neill.
“And Sergeant Swagger had said that Juba almost certainly will shoot at living targets, first to acclimate himself to the spontaneous motion of life at that distance through that magnification system, and second—and equally important—to test the killing power of his rounds at that distance, in search of one that causes potentially more damage.”
“Yep,” said Bob.
“Now, I assume that, as a true believer—you never said as much, but I believe the inference was there—I assume that he would use human targets at some time in his journey. He believes them to be infidels, has no scruples against using them, and it is easily within the capacity of the Menendez apparatus to arrange such a thing. Everybody with me?”
Nods and mumbles of assent.
“So a question that can be asked is this: who would he shoot? Where could he get living bodies to hit at long range? It’s not the sort of thing you advertise for, nobody’s going to volunteer for it, not even for a large sum to be left to the volunteers’ benefactors. Those selected would almost have to be of a sort who would not be noticed in their absence, perhaps not even reported. They would have to be from a victim pool about which even the police, in reality, wouldn’t care much.”
He waited. Nobody had a thing to say.
“It seems to me,” he said, “or, that is, it seemed to me all of a sudden two hours ago, that the one source without fail would be any city’s population of homeless men. Nobody counts them, nobody really looks at them, American legalism is such that they can’t be rounded up in a tank or beaten until they leave town. So they find an out-of-the-way place and fester. Under the viaduct, by the river, out with the dumpsters, in abandoned factories, zombie neighborhoods, that sort of thing. And so it seems to me that Menendez might assign men to visit these places, drug an already sleeping hobo, and drag him off.
“You can imagine the rest. He awakens a day later in unfamiliar circumstances and finds himself pinned or in some fashion imprisoned, and, from a long way off, our good friend Juba conducts his experiments. The bullets come closer and closer, and if the man screams or begs, no one is there to hear, because the site is clearly wilderness of some sort. When Juba strikes, the cadaver is examined for terminal forensics, then buried, burned, or otherwise disposed of by cartel methodology. I have heard of buzzards.”
“They do use buzzards,” said Nick.
“So it seems to me that as of this moment we ought to begin a national canvas for any localities that have experienced a sudden spike in homeless disappearances. I doubt they would abscond with people too far from what is their ultimate disposal site, it simply would complicate logistics. And they would be confident in their operations because the homeless have no champions, save the odd social worker or nun, and are of no interest to anyone in society, perhaps garnering some municipal social service attention, but even that is apt not to be so tightly applied. And if it were, who would care? Suppose you go to the police with fears that a number of homeless men have disappeared? What sort of response would that generate?”
Silence, of course, for the Israeli had focused on a particular weakness in American society, one that no one seemed to have the knowledge, the will, or the funding to do much about.
“Nobody’s going to win a Pulitzer Prize writing about vanished homeless, that’s for sure,” said Neill.
“You see the rest of it,” said Gold. “If we do locate an area of usual activity, we can program a satellite to search for the attributes in that area that might show up from outer space. We winnow further by drone. We can put the tiny whirlybirds over the most promising areas and, in that way, find the location of such an installation literally right down to the bench on the ground in front of it. And, as in Israel, we raid. Six helicopters dropping off forty of Orwell’s rough men—or Gadi Motter’s—at oh-dark-thirty, and your problem is solved.”
“So let’s get on this right away,” said Nick. “We want to circularize all police entities for reports of such a spike in disappearances. Maybe they have undercover sources in these communities. Maybe it’s right in front of them, they just have never had any impetus to look. So they assign a clerk for an afternoon to go through the records. Maybe there’s one town where, for some reason, the number had jumped.”
“Boss,” said Chandler, “I’d also do charity agencies, social work departments, and university sociology departments. The homeless interest researchers, and we’ve got to tap into that.”
“Good, Chandler.”
“Also, I’d be sure to get the info request read at the daily preduty briefing to beat cops. It’s the sort of thing a beat cop might hear and discount or ignore, but suddenly when it’s put before him and been validated by the process, he gets involved.”
“You might try places where illegals congregate to find work,” said Swagger. “Lots of men could go missing from Home Depots all over America, and nobody know.”
“Good, good, I like what I’m hearing. Any other suggestions?”
“Anyplace stoop labor is hired,” said Neill. “Harvesttime, lots of migrants come in to work the fields. Some—too many, no doubt—end up in those fields.”
“Non-union construction,” said Bob.
“Should we prioritize by area?” asked Chandler. “I mean, we have sort of assumed that wherever Juba is training, that would be the west. Lots and lots of land out there. Lots of land where he could have a mile-long shooting range and nobody would know.”
“That makes sense,” said Nick. “I think it’s a good assumption. This is going to be a hell of a workload any way you cut it, so any help is worth it.
“Neill, you and Swagger get that software to guide the birds setup. Okay, let’s get— Oh, wait. Let me say it formally: Mr. Gold, you are the best. Don’t know where we’d be without Mossad.”
“I only want one thing in return,” said Mr. Gold. “A long chat with Juba. I want to hear his thousand and one tales.”
49
The ranch, shipping out
A last man was sacrificed on the altar of accuracy, and Juba was pleased to see that the shooting instrument he had so painstakingly built and tuned over the previous months maintained its efficiency after having been laid down for the other rifle. It killed totally on the first shot at the range required. After putting the target down, he cleaned the rifle exhaustively, and, after that, all its surfaces pristine, he fired one more shot, because cold bore shots, by tradition and experience,
were always better out of a fouled bore.
He prepared the rifle for its trip. He shellacked all the knobs on the Schmidt & Bender scope so that they would not vibrate in transit to a new position. To make doubly certain, he marked the settings with stripes of fingernail polish on both turret and turret housing so that the joining of the two stripes in one continuous line would signify that the turret or housing had not been turned. The bolt was removed and taped to the stock. The whole receiver-scope nexus—the heart of it, really—was triple-swathed in Bubble Wrap so that it was suspended midair to avoid being jostled or subject to vibration. Each screw, tightened and shellacked, was also marked so that a quick glance could tell if it had been loosened.
The rifle was the sum of its tensions. It was a mesh of screws tightened to an exact position and no other. Ambiguity, drift, the random and forlorn could not be accepted. So perfectly tightened, it became a matrix of stress. In this respect, it was a musical instrument, all stops set perfectly, all reeds and spit valves dialed to the precise position. It stayed reliable to the degree it retained exact registry. Rifles—all systems—fall apart when individual components go unmonitored and unadjust themselves. Juba could have none of that.
Then he put together a case with all the necessary logistical components: the iPhone 8, with its precious ballistics program; various wrenches; LensPens; a glazier’s key; a set of screwdrivers; and the ten most perfect rounds of ammunition that he had assembled. This too was wrapped and taped to the stock.
Finally, when the whole package was encased in foam and tape—it looked a bit like a mummy—it was secured in the false bottom of a high-end bookcase, invisible to the eye, which was itself skillfully packed in a shipping crate, secured tightly, made inviolate to all but the most violent accidental intrusions. It would survive a crash landing, in other words, but not a crash.
A day later, Juba watched as this object, under the rubric of a well-known custom furniture boutique, was delivered to UPS for delivery to its next destination. It would thereby enter two systems: UPS’s, but also Iran’s Ministry of Intelligence, whose supple and proficient professionals would be responsible for its transport from several different destinations via several different shipping agencies. At a certain point, it would become affiliated with a credit card registered, through Iranian subterfuge, to Brian Waters, of Albuquerque, New Mexico, and in that way join the train of evidence that was slowly accumulating against the dead man, on whom all blame was to be placed.
The intelligence people would discreetly monitor its progress, taking possession of it intermittently, inspecting it, then shipping it onward. It would reach its destination—only one senior executive knew the final address—at a leisurely pace but still in plenty of time. Juba wanted to be there, in the room with the rifle, facing the target, for a good while before he had to pull the trigger—one day, at least, a full week if possible. The whole enterprise disintegrated if it were rushed or improvised.
Finally, it was done.
He sat in the Land Rover, with Alberto, as they drove back to the ranch. The two Mexican Special Forces troopers, who had handled the transaction at the shipping agency, sat in front, indifferent to the Syrian-accented Arabic being spoken behind them.
“This step is finished,” said Alberto. “It must be a relief. Now, only the journey.”
“That part has been well planned. It will proceed routinely. No one will intercept me.”
“The picture they have put out is quite amusing.”
“It makes me look like a cartoon. It degrades me.”
“Everybody’s a critic. More important, it makes you look like me—like Gamal Abdel Nasser, Harvey Weinstein, John Garfield, Omar Sharif—like any other Semitic with strong features. The dark hair helps. It’s all the same DNA, intermingled by crossfucking over the centuries. That is why there is so much hatred. We’re all family.”
“I do not share your theory of mongrel politics,” said Juba.
“No matter. In the end, the drawing is so stereotypical, it looks like everyone and no one. It can be of no help.”
“As you say. In my journey, in any event, I will remain obscure.”
The Syrian laughed.
Juba showed him a finger on which he had written in Arabic, in ballpoint: “Meet me outside in swamp at 0430.”
Then he rubbed it out, and said, “Who’s Harvey Weinstein?”
50
Cop shop, Rock Springs, Wyoming
It was as if her name was Detective. Her last name was Murphy, but people just called her Detective. To look at her was to know why: she had that glare of butch aggression, a face unsoftened by makeup or internal mirth, family, love. If she’d ever had any of them, it was a long time ago. You wouldn’t think life in a city of twenty-six thousand would have eroded her softer components so relentlessly, but it made sense when you realized this was her second department, after fifteen very tough years in Salt Lake City Metro. She’s come to Rock Springs for the landscape and the peace and quiet. She’s found one—the landscape was everywhere—but not the other two.
“Detective, for some reason Rock Springs has the highest rate of homeless depletion in America,” said Nick.
“I’m surprised anybody keeps tabs,” she said.
“I’m not too sure that the figures are reliable, with the single exception of yours. But it’s clear from the report your chief forwarded that you’re the only one paying attention.”
She lit a Marlboro, offered one each to Nick and Bob, who each declined, and took a deep draught. She wore jeans, packed a Smith .357 four-inch on her right hip, a plaid shirt, a five-pointed law enforcement star, boots that had been through fertilizer a time or two.
The three sat on a bench outside Rock Springs’s main station, a nineteenth-century brick extravaganza, from which men with Colts and Winchesters had gone to enforce the law a century before. She would have been happy among them.
“It’s mostly Indians,” she said. “They get in all kinds of trouble. You tell me why. But I’ll tell you how. Meth, speed, coke, Mexican Mud, now opioids. They’re always doing something to fuck themselves up, and if it’s off the res, it’s on us to clean it up. Such beautiful folks too. But you want to hear about our hobos. Oh, wait, can’t call ’em that. Our homeless.”
“You say that of a population you estimate at over seventy-five, at least six have gone missing in the last three months. Not moseyed away, not died in ditches, not frozen, or hit by big rigs on the interstate, but just vanished—one day here, the next day not?”
“Yep, totally. It actually stopped for a while, then, the last few days, another guy ups and vanishes. Then comes your alert.”
Bob and Nick looked at each other. Without having to say it, each man thought of Mr. Gold’s inquiry about whether Juba would refresh his skills with another run-through.
Detective continued. “By my calculations, Rock Springs is weird. Used to be a hard-bitten coal town, but, of late, it’s shared in the tourist boom. That’s why you see all the cornball Old West cowboy shit around. Anyhow, with tourists, you get homeless, as old-school settlers are too judgmental to give nickels and dimes to the scarecrows. But the tourist hands over five-spots just so they won’t have to look at them. So they’re drawn here in the warmer months. Progressive city council, so we can’t get rough with ’em. They hang on somehow. I got to know a few, that’s why I can tell what’s going on. They talk to me. I try to talk for them, but nobody listens.”
“We’re listening.”
“It started about three months ago. I picked up on it fast. ‘Where’s Paul?’ I had to know, because one day Paul was gone.”
“Paul was special?”
“Most of them are self-made wrecks. Paul was wrecked by fate. He had no character flaws. It’s just that God decided it was time to squash a bug, and Paul lost the bug lottery.”
“What was his deal?” asked Nick.
“Paul Finley. Beloved English teacher at Rock Springs High. By all accounts, smart, funny, generous, forgiving, concerned. One day, he backs out of his garage and kills his daughter. I guess some folks can come back from that, but he wasn’t one of them. He just starts falling through pathologies. Drunk, unemployed, suicidal, drug-addicted, divorced, on the streets. We tried hard—and I mean everybody—to help out. But he couldn’t make it back. Last time I saw him, he was sawing away on a Robitussin-and-Ripple high in an alley behind North’s, the restaurant. Maybe if I’d pulled him in that night. But I didn’t.”
“And?”
“And nothing. Gone. I noticed a few days later and asked. Nope, just gone. No one knew where.”
“Is that odd?”
“It is. These folks don’t have homes, but they do have a kind of community. They talk. Nobody leaves without good-byes, advice on where it’s better, towns that are softer, the weather easier, blue less inclined to hit. But Paul was just gone.”
They waited. She took a few puffs.
“Jerry was next. Followed by Husky. Finally, Frank. Same deal, just gone. No one saw a thing. I got an old wheezer named Big Bill to talk. He said he saw three guys come into the alley—the homeless bomb out most nights in an alley that runs two blocks behind the North Street restaurants—give Frank an injection, and load the guy into an SUV. It took about thirty seconds. They’d done it before. Then it stopped.”
“And you say it started up again?”
“Charlie Two-Toes. Lakota Sioux, proud when sober, a mess when drunk, which was most of the time. Gone, no trace. I keep trying to tell people. I sort of want to get a night watch set up, or something, but there’s not much interest. It’s a ‘Good riddance’ sort of thing.”
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