Enemy agents, p.13
Enemy Agents, page 13
“Don’t mention it.”
“You take a lot on faith, Mr. Whatever-your-name-is.”
“Let’s stick with Cooper, shall we?”
“Like I have any choice.”
“We all have choices,” he replied.
“I KNEW THAT PRICK was up to something,” Axton muttered to himself. Talking to himself was fine this evening, since he was on his own, with no one else to stare and call him crazy.
He was sober, too, learning from past mistakes.
He’d bugged out early from the training exercise, telling Halsey that he’d forgotten the pain pills he needed to cope with his broken nose. He acted happy the whole time, pretending he was tickled pink that Cooper took out twenty of their men like it was nothing, almost without breaking a sweat.
But not quite.
It was hot in the desert, and Axton knew that when Cooper finally cut loose from Halsey and the rest, when he’d soaked up enough cheers and backslapping, he’d be coming back to the Desert Palms for a nice long shower, maybe for something to eat.
The longer Axton waited, the more nervous he became. It wasn’t Halsey, so much. Axton could tell him that the pain pills made him sleepy and he didn’t want to drive doped up. The tough part would be answering his boss’s questions when the new guy turned up dead or missing overnight, with himself unaccounted for.
Missing was better; it could mean anything. Maybe the great war hero wasn’t such a hero after all. Maybe he got cold feet and bailed, he thought. Maybe a UFO came down and beamed him off to parts unknown. Who cared?
Axton would have to wear his dumb face, stonewall Halsey and make an energetic show of trying to locate the vanished biker, but that shouldn’t be too difficult. On the other hand, if he was forced to kill Cooper and leave the bastard where he fell, that could be trouble.
Axton knew that he’d be number one on Halsey’s suspect list. Hell, he’d be the whole list, if he couldn’t stage the scene to throw suspicion somewhere else. Maybe a mugging, though that didn’t happen much in Apple Valley.
It would be much better if he killed the prick, to have a case against him first. Renting a hooker wouldn’t do it, but if Axton dug up something that would cast doubt on Cooper’s loyalty…
He’d been yawning, wondering what could be taking so long for God’s sake, when he finally heard the motorcycle coming. Axton had switched cars, driving an old pickup this time, watching the Desert Palms from the parking lot of a liquor store fifty yards north. He’d seen Cooper pull up and go into his room, then settled back to wait.
But not for long.
Ten minutes later, Cooper was back on the bike and rolling into downtown Apple Valley. Axton had followed, wishing that he’d planned ahead, come up with some disguise, but it was too damned late for that. He’d followed Cooper to a mom-and-pop Mexican restaurant, circled the block and found a parking spot down range on his second pass.
So the major had tired of the Apple Valley Diner’s menu. Who wouldn’t? Using a compact pair of field glasses, Axton peered through the café’s tinted window, spotted Cooper’s profile—and recognized his date.
Same woman. Obviously not a whore, unless Cooper liked to wine and dine them on the cheap, before she followed him back to his low-budget motel room. But if she wasn’t a hooker…then, what?
Watching them talk, Axton wished he was a lip-reader. He could’ve followed Cooper’s side of the conversation, at least, and maybe learned something. Then again, perhaps there was a better way.
His first thought, of racing back to the Desert Palms and searching Cooper’s room, was a nonstarter. Axton didn’t know what he was looking for, and if Cooper should return and catch him at it, there was at least a fair chance that he’d kick Axton’s ass. Maybe worse.
On the other hand…
He reckoned that the woman was the key. Whether she worked for Cooper or it was the other way around, she obviously knew what he was up to. Maybe they were shagging on the side, the way spies always did in the movies, but something else was going on, as well. Luther could tell from Cooper’s expression that he wasn’t feeding the woman sweet nothings.
They were talking business, and it wasn’t pricing for a trip around the world.
Axton had already tried grilling Cooper, and he had a broken nose to show for it. The woman was more his style.
Smiling, he settled back to wait.
CORWIN SLOWLY CLOSED her cell phone and reholstered it. She faced Cooper across the table, wishing that she had a shot of whiskey, maybe vodka, rather than the coffee in her mug.
“If this goes south on us—”
“Then I’ll be dead,” Bolan said, interrupting her, “and you can blame it all on me. Or just play dumb. No one on your side knows we’re teamed, unless you’ve told them.”
“No,” she said. “Nobody.”
“Then you should be clear.”
“And you take the fall as a patsy, or what?”
“It won’t matter at that stage,” Bolan said.
“Some life we lead,” she said.
“It’s not for everyone.”
“You got that right. I’m starting to believe it’s not for me.”
“Well, if you’re quitting,” he suggested, “now’s as good a time as any.”
“Quitting, hell. I have to see this through, no matter what. Speaking of which—”
The waitress interrupted them, cleared their plates and offered them dessert, then left the check when both of them declined. Bolan claimed it and prompted her, “Speaking of which…?”
“How’s Plan B coming, with the Comancheros?”
“It’s a work in progress,” he replied. “I’ll make a call tonight or in the morning, see if I can put some wheels in motion.”
“Maybe let the bad guys deal with one another,” she suggested. “Like a self-cleaning oven.”
“Maybe. In the meantime, there’s another player that I haven’t met,” Bolan informed her. “No name, yet. Halsey says he’s coming in from outside to assist.”
“That’s it? ‘Outside’?”
“So far.”
“That could mean anything from Frisco to Bogotá.”
“Right. The good news is that we meet tomorrow sometime.”
“Okay. You have my cell number.”
“And you have mine,” Bolan replied.
She also had a long drive back from Apple Valley to L.A. and her small house on Meyers Street, overlooking the normally dry Los Angeles River. Time to go.
“All right, I’m out of here,” she said. “Be careful with those Comancheros, will you?”
“Careful is my middle name,” the soldier said.
“I doubt that, very much.”
“Well, it’s my story and I’m sticking to it.”
Corwin appreciated that he didn’t try to walk her out, doing the chivalry routine. It didn’t play well in her world—much less, she imagined, in Cooper’s.
The night was still warm, but she cracked the Crown Vic’s windows in lieu of turning on the air-conditioning. Rolling the windows down completely was a risk no savvy Angeleno took at night, and rarely in the daylight if they had to travel through the city’s low-rent neighborhoods.
The drive gave Corwin an hour and change to consider her problem. She had foreknowledge of a credible threat to the President of the United States, and she’d agreed to sit on it at Matt Cooper’s request. Stand back, in effect, and do nothing while he played secret agent with the NMM and tried to bring them down before the deadline in Lancaster.
If he succeeded, they’d have no problem.
But if he failed…
As Cooper had explained, in that case he’d most likely be among the dead. Corwin wouldn’t be invited on the raid, and ATF had no executive protection duties, so the only blowback she would face involved her ongoing investigation of Halsey’s militia. And even there, she had an out, considering the death of her CI.
So, what’s the problem? a small voice in her head asked.
Simple.
Whether her supervisor knew about Cooper and his plans or not, whether someone in Washington had pulled strings to sideline the ATF brass, Corwin would still blame herself if the plan went to hell. And at the moment, she wasn’t altogether certain she could live with that.
But what was the alternative?
Blow the whistle on Cooper? Too late.
Contact the Secret Service anonymously? Good luck with that.
As Corwin nosed the Crown Vic into her driveway, she decided that her best hope—perhaps her only hope—was to play along with Cooper, standing ready to jump in if something went wrong with Plan A.
Which meant she should be working on Plan B.
Her key was in the lock, her door half-open, when a rush of scuffling footsteps sounded from behind her and a body shoulder-slammed her forward, sending her sprawling on the vinyl flooring of her foyer. Instantly, the muzzle of a gun was pressed against her temple, and she heard a raspy voice say, “Bitch, we need to have a little chat.”
12
Once they were in the living room with lights on, Axton shoved the woman toward a funny-looking couch and snarled, “Sit down!”
“What do you want?” she asked him, looking like she might start bawling any second, which was good. He liked those tears sometimes.
“I ask the questions, bitch!” he snapped, pacing in front of her, his pistol not quite pointed at her, muzzle dangling somewhere in between but still delivering the threat.
She sat and stared at him, waiting.
“Well?” he said.
“Well, what?” she answered back.
Shit! He’d gotten so worked up about who asked the questions that he hadn’t actually asked one, and he’d let her turn the whole damned thing around on him again. Wishing he’s had a drink or two before he started this, Axton demanded, “What’s your name?”
“Grace Corwin,” she replied.
It meant nothing to Axton, so he forged ahead. “I take it that you’re not a working girl?”
“I work,” she said, seeming a bit indignant.
“Not on your back or knees, though, right?”
She stared at him like he was crazy. Axton couldn’t tell if she was more pissed off or frightened. Rather than beat that horse to death and get himself worked up, he tried another tack.
“Tonight makes twice I’ve seen you with Matt Cooper. What’s the story there?”
“I like him,” she admitted. “Well…I mean, you saw that at the Desert Palms. We get together sometimes, just for fun.”
“Fun, eh? I’ll bet.” Axton was picturing the way she’d looked in bed, losing his train of thought. “So, you know all about this Cooper, then.”
“When you say all—”
“I mean like how he makes his money. Who he works for. What he’s doin’ out in Apple Valley.”
“Those aren’t the kinds of things we talk about. You know?” She shifted on the couch, showing some leg. Was that an accident?
“Oh, yeah? So, tell me what the two of you do talk about.”
She blushed at that, and said, “It’s personal.”
“Lady, I’m here for answers, and the only way I’m leaving you alive is if you give me something pretty goddamned quick!”
“If I had some idea what you were after—”
“I already told you that! Matt Cooper! Anything you know about him, I intend to know before I leave tonight.”
“Okay. He was a soldier for a long time. One of those with funny hats. What are they?”
“Green Berets?”
“That’s it! I know he went to war but didn’t like to talk about it. When he left the service, I suspect there was some trouble, but he never told me so.”
“I know all that,” Axton said.
“Well, then—”
“What’s he saying about me. Come on!”
“Oh, I’d prefer not to say.”
Axton thumbed back his pistol’s hammer, liking the dramatic sound, although it wasn’t necessary with the weapon’s double-action trigger. People saw that in the movies, on TV, and figured that it meant real trouble, as opposed to simply being shot stone dead.
“You will say,” he demanded. “And be goddamned quick about it!”
“Okay. But just remember, this is him talking, not me. All right?”
“Yeah, yeah. Get on with it.”
“Well, last night, after you left the motel, he said you were—” She stopped and said, “You know, it’s bound to make you mad.”
“Just spit it out!”
“A drunken idiot. Oh, and a stupid prick.”
Fuming, he asked, “What else?”
“That’s all. I managed to distract him after that.”
“Uh-huh.” Axton was pacing up and down the room more rapidly. “So, I’m a stupid prick, am I? A drunken idiot? Well, I was drunk, I’ll give him that. Lucky for him I was, or he’d be dead right now, and you along with him. But if he thinks I’m stupid—”
“I’d say he was right,” the woman interrupted, in a voice he barely recognized as hers.
Turning to face her and slap the hell out of her, Axton needed two full heartbeats to recognize the pistol in her hands, aimed at his face. It looked like a Glock from where he stood, maybe a .40-caliber.
“Where the fuck did that come from?”
“I’m guessing no one ever taught you how to search a prisoner,” she said. “Now set your weapon on the carpet, nice and easy, then step back away from it.”
“The hell I will.”
“Last chance.”
He took it, jerking up his pistol, teeth bared in a manic grin. Axton had heard a lot of soldiers say you never heard the shot that killed you.
As it turned out, they were wrong.
San Bernardino International Airport
UBEL STERN WAS FAR FROM home, and hating it. Travel displeased him, and he loathed America specifically, on principle—not only for its tolerance toward nonwhite races, but its smug self-righteous arrogance.
Stern often wished that he could build a time machine, go back to 1944, and whisper in der Führer’s ear, “It’s not Calais! Watch Normandy!” Or further back, to 1937, and provide greater assistance to the putschists who had schemed to topple FDR’s regime by force and make the White House truly white.
All fantasies.
Stern occupied the present, looking forward to the future. And after the next two days, he would strike a telling blow against the nation that had turned his fatherland into a socialistic mongrel state.
The airport looked like what it was: a former military air base, grudgingly converted to civilian use with a cosmetic makeover. He’d searched “SBD” on the internet before leaving Munich, doing his homework, and learned that the Pentagon had closed Norton Air Force Base in 1995 and sold it to the highest bidder. Despite its new name and a ten thousand–foot runway, San Bernardino International was still a poor relation to the larger Southern California airports. None of the major couriers—DHL, FedEx, or UPS—saw fit to use its second-rate facilities.
Better for me, Stern thought, as his flight from Miami touched down. His forged passport and other pieces of ID were excellent, but why take chances? For the job at hand, he’d flown to Mexico, then Florida, and on from there to California. Just another European on vacation in the good old U.S.A.
Clearing the arrival gate, Stern paused to scan the small group of persons awaiting his flight. One face stood out, from internet video conferences, and the German made a beeline for it, brushing past a couple that seemed bent on making love in public and a clutch of people welcoming a youth in uniform.
“Good flights?” Halsey asked, as they shook hands.
“No worse than I expected,” Stern replied. “With stopovers, eleven hours.”
“Well, you’re here,” Halsey said. “You’ve got a full day to relax in. Any check-through luggage?”
“No.”
Stern traveled light, and he knew Halsey was mistaken about taking time off to relax. His date with history was only thirty-six hours away, with much still to be done. Even if Halsey had prepared the way efficiently, with no mistakes, Stern had to double-check all preparations for himself.
“You came alone?” Stern asked.
“I’ve got a driver waiting with the car.” As Halsey spoke, he drew a cell phone from his pocket, opened it and speed-dialed a programmed number.
Seconds later, he said, “Larry, meet us out in front. That’s right. Okay.”
“The site and time have been confirmed?” Stern asked, as Halsey put his phone away.
“It’s definitely on for day after tomorrow,” Halsey said. “And I’ve acquired some backup since we spoke last.”
Stern frowned, instantly suspicious. “Backup?”
“Just one man,” Halsey replied. “Another specialist of sorts.”
“Newly discovered?”
“It was serendipitous.”
“Which means?” Stern understood the word, but couldn’t guess what Halsey was suggesting by it.
“He’s a real find. Helped me out with certain unexpected difficulties, and it turns out he’s a pro. Ex-Special Forces, blooded to the max, before the service turned on him and cut him loose. He’s proved himself, skill-wise, and he’s got bitterness to spare.”
“A find, indeed,” Stern said. “And how coincidental that you make this great discovery so soon before…how do you say? The main event?”
“Sometimes we just get lucky.”
“Ja. Sometimes. I shall look forward to our meeting.”
They cleared the terminal, just as the black Hummer arrived outside. Its driver stayed behind the wheel but pressed a button to unlock the doors. A moment later they were rolling, Stern in back, with Halsey in the shotgun seat.
“I guess you’ll want to eat something, then get some sleep,” Halsey said, half-turned toward the rear.
“I would prefer to see the target first,” Stern said. “How far is it from here?”
Stern already knew the answer to that: sixty miles, more or less, an hour with traffic.
“We can do that,” Halsey told him, “if you’re sure.”
“With no doubt whatsoever,” Stern replied. “And I would like to meet this backup man. I’m looking forward to it, very much.”
