by C. A. James
It did no good to complain, or even show signs of discomfort or irritation. At best, any show of anger or weakness would make the ordeal longer. At worst it could mean arrest. So Omar and his friends stood silently, answered questions, and waited.
A message finally came over the radio, and the soldiers left. Bashir’s friends cursed and threw insults at the receding vehicles. Bashir didn’t. Any fool could see that these soldiers were not having fun. Detaining twelve-year-old boys was not what they had in mind when they’d joined the army. Bashir had more patience than the soldiers. That was how you won.
“Yes, Bashir?” Smith’s voice brought him back to the present. Smith hadn’t looked up, and was still reading the report.
“Thank you for seeing me, sir.”
“Please sit.”
“Thank you.” He sat.
“Well?”
“Sir, I was contacted by Agent McCaig yesterday. Last night, actually.”
Smith’s head jerked up from the report. His eyes bored into Bashir. Bashir found himself leaning back in his chair, startled by the intensity of Smith’s anger. A fraction of a second later, Smith’s face smoothed out again, his dark expression replaced by the more-familiar bureaucratic demeanor.
Bashir got the unsettling feeling that Smith had suddenly turned into a dangerous adversary.
“Well? Are you going to tell me about this, or just sit there?”
“Uh, yes, sir. Actually, sir, I’ve written a full report. I sent it to you before I came, so it should be in your Inbox. I just wanted to tell you in person in case you had any questions. Sir.”
“Fine. Give me the thirty-second version.”
“Well, sir, Special Agent McCaig called me using a burner phone. It was purchased in a Target store in a little town called Patterson.”
“Where’s Patterson?”
“Over in the Central Valley just off I-5, not far from Stockton and Modesto, sir.”
Smith nodded and leaned back in his chair, still staring at Bashir. “Go on.”
“I told him that he was a person of interest being sought by the FBI, and that he should turn himself in to the nearest police department or FBI office.”
“Like a good agent. Of course you did.”
“He asked me to do him a favor, sir. I told him that I couldn’t do that, and reiterated my earlier suggestion that he turn himself in. Agent—that is, Mr. McCaig, asked me to do some research about the terrorist Zarrabian and to let him know what I found.”
“What did he want?”
“He wants to know if Zarrabian’s family is alive, sir.”
“And this is all in your report?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you tell him you’d find out?”
“No, sir. Of course not. Even if the FBI looked into Zarrabian’s background, it would be part of an ongoing investigation and I couldn’t share it with him.”
“Agent Bashir, you realize he was playing you, right?”
“Sir?”
“He wants the FBI to look into this for some reason. Maybe to distract us, or maybe he’s with Zarrabian and they’ve cooked up some plot to cause an international incident. Can you imagine what could happen if the USA contacted our spies in Iran right now with the supposed goal of finding the wife and daughter of a terrorist?”
Bashir shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Uh, sir, he never said anything about a wife and daughter. Just family, sir.”
Smith’s eyes narrowed momentarily, but Bashir saw the expression before it evaporated.
“Of course not, agent Bashir. Family, wife, son, daughter, whatever. As I was saying, the United States is on the verge of war with Iran. If McCaig is with his old buddy Zarrabian, who knows what they’ve cooked up? Thank you for your report, Bashir. What case are you working on?”
“The same one, sir. The hacker who is stealing credit card numbers and PINs.”
“Good. Excellent. That case is going to be high profile when we bring in that hacker. The public is tired of stolen credit cards. Concentrate on that case and you could find your career moving forward. I’ll have a close look at your report and forward it through the proper channels.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m sure you know, Bashir, that there’s more to this terrorism case than the public knows.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, you did the right thing, coming to me. And you can rest assured that this information will get into the right hands. But there are national security issues here that are on a need-to-know basis, and it’s important that you tell nobody else. Understood?”
“Yes, sir. Understood.”
Smith stood up and walked to his window, scanning the San Francisco streets below. “Bashir, you seem to have a fondness for retired Special Agent McCaig.” He turned to face Bashir. “Am I right?”
“I learned a lot from him, sir.”
Smith grabbed another chair, pulled it over in front of Bashir, and sat down. He leaned forward with a concerned look on his face. “Bashir, did you know McCaig and I have worked together for over fifteen years?”
“No, sir. I didn’t know that.”
“It’s true. Not directly, like partners. Back when McCaig and I were in Texas, we were on the same teams, off and on, a dozen times. And when I got promoted in Texas, I made sure I kept McCaig on my team. He’s smart and seems to think like a crook. He knows what’s in their minds. When the Righteous Sons of Joseph Smith started giving us trouble down there in Cordo, I thought McCaig was the right man for the job, but it went down badly. I’m not saying it was McCaig’s fault. I’m not sure anybody else could have handled that situation any better. But the way it went down, I think it broke his spirit. He was never the same after that.”
“He seemed to me like a good agent, sir.”
“Oh, sure, he did his job. But he was just marking time, waiting for retirement day. I felt sorry for the guy. I was offered the chance to come here and run the San Francisco division, and I brought McCaig with me. He still did his job, but I kept an eye on him. I was worried that he was unstable, that he might blow up some day or injure a suspect. I kept him off the violent cases.”
“He seemed OK to me, sir.”
“Well, I’m sure he did. Did you know he grew up in California?”
“No, sir, I didn’t.”
“He was a farm boy from the Central Valley. I figured living closer to home would do him some good. His retirement was just around the corner and I felt sorry for the guy. I knew if I brought him out here to California, he’d be a solid worker, and when retirement day came, he wouldn’t have far to move to be home again.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, sir, why did you put him in charge of the Golden Gate Bridge case? I mean, if he was just doing time waiting for retirement?”
“Well, that’s a good question. But you were there, weren’t you?”
“Yes, sir, I was. You got a phone call during your finance meeting.”
“It wasn’t my call. Someone higher up bypassed me. Maybe an old crony of McCaig’s who wanted to give him a second chance? I don’t know. Anyway, what I’m getting at, Bashir, is to be careful. McCaig was a good agent. One of the best. But this Golden Gate Bridge case, well, something went wrong. He withheld critical information, and from what you’re telling me now, it may be he’s been in contact with Zarrabian.”
“He didn’t say that, sir. Only that he wanted to know about Zarrabian’s family.”
“You didn’t ask him why?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, like I said, son, I can tell you have a fondness for Special Agent McCaig. He was your first partner, and he’s a likable guy. A little rough around the edges, but a good guy. He probably taught you a lot. Still, you need to careful. You could get sucked into whatever he’s doing and be in a lot of trouble.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll be careful.”
“OK, then. Anything else?”
“Yes, sir, can I ask one question?”
“Of course.”
“How can Mr. McCaig be in contact with Zarrabian if Zarrabian is dead, sir?”
Smith blinked rapidly for a moment before he caught himself. But not before Bashir saw it.
“Good question, Bashir! You’re right, of course. I was just reading some email about how McCaig hinted that Zarrabian was alive when those news reporters accosted him on his retirement day, and I guess I mixed up reality with McCaig’s fantasy. My advice stands, Bashir. You be careful, OK? McCaig will be fine, I’m sure this is all just a misunderstanding, but you don’t want to get mixed up in it. OK?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
Bashir strolled slowly back to his office and sat down. That had been a very odd meeting. He filed it away in his brain to contemplate later. It was time to head for his daily brain-dead time—the stakeout.
He clicked his mouse to wake up the computer, then opened his email. Nothing new. Bashir wondered who would actually see the email he’d sent Smith. The report about McCaig’s phone call had taken him a while to write. He’d worked hard to get just the right nuance, to tell the truth but not reveal his true feelings about McCaig. Had he done it right? He clicked his Outbox to re-read it.
His email to Smith was gone.
McCaig cracked open an eye and looked through the dusty window of the borrowed Mercedes. He was parked in the middle of a large rest stop parking lot, far from anyone else. Heat waves shimmered off the pavement. A few crows hopped slowly under a deserted picnic table, pecking at odds and ends.
One family was braving the heat, sitting on the lawn in the meager shade of a tree. Probably on a long trip, thought McCaig. Two pudgy boys, maybe eight or ten years old, were poking and shoving each other occasionally; their skin was turning pink in the heat, and McCaig could see sweat soaking through their thin T-shirts. The parents probably hoped the brief excursion from the car would quiet the boys down, but McCaig suspected they were regretting the experiment.
Occasionally a car would arrive and discharge its occupants. McCaig could almost see the heat hit them as they emerged. They’d head straight for the restrooms, do their business, and rush back to the air-conditioned cocoon that protected them from the reality of these farmlands. He wondered if these travelers had any idea what life was like for the farmers and ranchers who settled this valley a century and a half ago.
A motorcyclist crouched in the shade against the side of the rest room building. He still had his helmet on but the faceplate was flipped up. Smoke drifted from a cigarette in his hand, which he occasionally put to his mouth. But the motorcyclist never inhaled the smoke. The cigarette was a prop.
McCaig saw the motorcyclist glance his way. He gave McCaig a barely perceptible nod. McCaig nodded back. Zarrabian had the raw end of this deal, riding the motorcycle from the old farm house to this rest stop in the blistering heat. McCaig had the Mercedes’ engine idling and air conditioner on. To anyone watching he was just another traveler taking a nap on the interminable stretches of Interstate 5 between Los Angeles and San Francisco. But Zarrabian had no such luxury.
A movement at the rest stop’s entrance caught his eye. An RV arrived—a compact, mid-sized model. It drove slowly into the parking lot, then turned and headed directly toward him. Through the windshield, he could make out Christine, wearing huge sunglasses and a baseball cap.
Christine parked the RV next to the Mercedes and left the engine idling. McCaig shut off the Mercedes’ engine and climbed out into the blistering heat. The side door of the RV opened and Christine’s figure filled the doorway.
A few minutes later they were headed north, with the motorcycle securely strapped into a rack on the RV’s bumper. McCaig was in the passenger seat, and Zarrabian sat behind them.
“This is quite a vehicle,” said Zarrabian.
“I love it,” said Christine. “The kitchen’s small but has everything you need. There’s a queen-size bed in the back, and the bathroom even has a shower. We’ve got a generator, air conditioner, and fifty gallons of water. We can live in this thing for a week or two if we want.”
“Where the hell did you get this?” asked McCaig.
“Grant, that’s my boss, had someone buy it at a huge used-RV lot out near Stockton. Figured it wouldn’t attract any attention out there.”
“Just like that? He drops what, sixty thousand or so?”
“Something like that. I told him last week I needed a blank check, and he said I had it.”
“Nice. What about the Mercedes? We just leave it at the rest stop?”
“Someone will be by in an hour or so to get it.”
“Damn. I want your job.”
“It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”
“So what now?”
“We need to find a place where we can get Internet access. Fast Internet access. We’ve got work to do. I feel like we’ve been blind since yesterday morning.”
Zarrabian leaned forward. “I know a librarian who might be willing to help.”
Saylor Dylan drummed her fingers on her desk impatiently. Across the room in the library’s children’s section, a brother and sister were starting to push and poke each other. Each new feint, blow, or twist was slightly more vigorous than the last and was followed by hushes and giggles. Soon she’d be over there scolding them, just like yesterday, the day before, and the day before that. Parents weren’t supposed to use the Rio Vista Public Library as a babysitting service, but Saylor knew life wasn’t that simple.
Everyone had been sure that Saylor, the six-foot-tall, slender, spiky-haired beauty of UC Berkeley’s Library Science Master’s program, would graduate magna cum laude or suma cum laude, accompanied by the tune of fabulous job offers from the top libraries in the country. She was sure too. It was what she’d worked for, and when Saylor worked for something, she usually got it.
But then came the night that changed everything. It was barely distinguishable from dozens of other nights: a bit of wine, a lot of the ganja, crazy libertarian radical political talk, and sex. It always ended with sex, sometimes with one of the few male librarians at Berkeley, but more often with creative combinations of females and males. She’d discovered early in her studies that librarians were not all the prim and proper “Marian the Librarian” of The Music Man (although she and all her friends agreed that Marian Librarian was, without a doubt, the very best song of Meredith Willson’s long and distinguished composing career).
Saylor had gravitated toward the radical element of her class. Their radicalism was expressed in an amazing variety of directions, from feminism to libertarianism to communism to anarchism (which struck her as an odd thing for a librarian to advocate). But in spite of their different philosophies, the group found camaraderie in their mutual dislike for the ordinary and their distrust of government.
And Saylor quickly discovered that their dislike for the ordinary carried into their sexual enterprises.
That one night, barely distinguishable from so many other nights, changed everything. She looked over at the brother and sister again and thought of Marina, her own little girl. These two were, what? Maybe eight and nine years old. In five more years, maybe Marina would be shoving and poking a little classmate in this very library, and Saylor would be shushing her own daughter.
She smiled at the thought. Yes, that night had changed everything. Marina had become the focus of her life.
The other unexpected turn in her life had been this tiny town. She’d been showered with interview offers from New York, St. Louis, San Francisco, Boston, Seattle, and even an inquiry from Toronto. But tiny Rio Vista had a city councilwoman who loved libraries and reading and went on a campaign to restore the town’s library. The job offer had been surprisingly generous, and the cost of living was low. She couldn’t afford day care and rent on a starting salary in the big cities. Here, she and Marina lived well.
But baby or no, her spiky hair, sometimes tinted with blue or pink highlights, made her the talk of this tiny, conservative town. Let them talk. On
e of the great things about civil-service jobs was they were strictly merit-based. A Master’s with top honors from the University of California at Berkeley made it almost impossible for the hiring committee to turn her down.
To her surprise, the job she thought would be drop-dead boring proved to be anything but. The Rio Vista Library was in sad shape when she arrived. It had few new books, out-of-date computers, and looked run down and dingy. Saylor turned her radical energies on all of these things, and inch by inch transformed it into a clean, modern, well-stocked library with modern computers and high-speed Internet access.
It still served as a babysitting service for working mothers, but rules were meant to be broken. Life was rarely fair. Besides, these two particular siblings were relatively well behaved. She’d transformed them from sullen video-game players into voracious readers. That was worth a lot.
Five twenty-five. Almost closing time.
The sound of the front door made her turn her head. She expected the children’s mother, who usually arrived about this time. Instead, a woman with long, chestnut hair wearing huge sunglasses and a baseball cap came in from the shimmering evening heat. She marched straight to the front desk.
Saylor stood up. The woman was quite a bit shorter than her, yet Saylor got the odd feeling she was looking up at a taller woman. “May I help you?”
“I have it on good authority that you are an excellent librarian.”
Saylor thought this was a very strange statement, and raised an eyebrow in response. “OK.”
“I also suspect,” the woman continued, “that like most librarians, you are dead set against censorship.”
“I’m a librarian. It goes without saying.”
“And by your choices in style, I’d believe you are politically liberal.”
“My personal views are not your business. Can I help you with something?”
The woman’s sunglasses hid her expression, but Saylor got the impression she was being scanned from top to bottom. The woman’s demeanor finally relaxed. “I believe you can.” She took off her sunglasses and lifted her hat. “I’m Christine Garrett. Perhaps you’ve seen me on TV. I won a Pulitzer Prize for investigative journalism, which I’m sure you can confirm in your reference section. I need your help.”