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Hostage San Diego
A Novel of Persuasion in the Near Future
(circa. 2018)
“. . . because freedom is as dangerous as beauty in women, whom all seek to seduce out of love, or vanity, you failed to preserve her in her natural innocence and purity, just as she descended from heaven . . . her inconceivable nature reduces men to such a state of frenzy that it simultaneously fills everyone with an insatiable lust for absolute power and an implacable hatred of legal process.”
Simon Bolivar (1829)
Part I - ANGELS
1
The circumstances of the year 2018 disappointed most of Northern Hemisphere, despite their lack of fulfillment of their expectations, people kept moving around the country attempting to find some satisfaction. Satisfaction with what wasn’t clear. The weather was a major issue, so the southern migration was massive. Michael Franks was no exception. No Franks was not exceptional in anyway, so he ended up in San Diego, just like a massive bunch of the other dissatisfied. Although it was technically south, San Diego also disappointed most everyone that came to it.
“As a tourist it’s great, but you wouldn’t want to live here.”
Michael, a.k.a Bo-dog, his surf name, thus didn’t pay much attention to web-blogs, too much stupid shit on them, but he agreed with them on this. Living in San Diego was the shits. The weather could be hotter. The waves could be better. The girls could be better. Things could be much cheaper. The drugs could be better. This was high-tech biotech land; shouldn’t the designer drugs actually be designer drugs, wizard of Oz, over the rainbow stuff, not the same old, much cheaper, crap he could have bought back in Iowa?
“The land of opportunity?” His mom had speculated. Mom was wrong about a lot. Still, mom knew her drugs. She had trained Bo-dog well on how to sniff out a loser stash. Avoid using it and unload it immediately to the most gullible, business was business. Mom didn’t care much about the waves, she didn’t much like traveling either, so she didn’t come. Bo-dog wished she had, he could use her income, things were so expensive here. He had to sell more drugs than he got to use. And the drug buz took away from wave time. Mom would have taken care of the business for him. “Good ole, Mom!” Bo-dog could only shake his head in admiration for mom. She was great! She was old but still had a bod on her too!
She could have taken care of this shitty house too. “Beach house! Surf house! What a joke.” Bo-dog even thought about this shitty house when he was ridin’ the shitty waves in the no hot enough afternoon. He should have been able to see it from the beach. “Fuckin’ San Diego!” He would shout as he literally hit the beach. Most of the sand had gone away somewhere. “Too many fuckin’ tourists! Must be eating it?”
The house was supposed to be a San Diego original beach-style, which Bo-dog later learned meant small. ‘Original’ in California usually meant really broken down crap. If it wasn’t new in California, it got no respect. The living room was small, the kitchen cramped and the bathroom was a stand up only; the sink was in the shower stall and the toilet so close to the wall, Bo-dog can’t get the knees of his long legs and butt at the same level. He had to leave the door open to take a dump. Mom always shouted in his head. “Always shut the door with a dump!” And it was dark, really dark, despite the partial ocean view. Ha! Well, maybe there was back when it was first built but it did the worst thing a thing can do in California, it got old; just got old and compromised. It got imprisoned among the taller newer condos now crowding the hillside. Thus there was no morning sunlight, no afternoon sunlight either, you were just left with the knowledge that the sun would set across the Pacific Ocean. Although you weren’t going to see it from here. The kitchen was so gloomy, mostly that you couldn’t tell the color of the walls or if the walls had color.
“Fuckin’ shit house makes me bitch like a bitch.” Bo-dog would whine when he did get a chance to get high.
Bo-dog thus sat in the even darker, more cramped kitchen and ate his traditional lunch; a sprout, goat cheese and whole grain wheat bread sandwich. Bottled water and as big of an apple as he could find. His mom always made good sandwiches. All she made was sandwiches, so Bo-dog knew how to make sandwiches. He wanted to go surfing this afternoon, so he wanted a good sandwich fully digested by thirteen hundred hours. He thus had to finish this sandwich and the apple by noon. The water didn’t matter.
“Water can come anytime.” His mom always used to say. “You’re swimming in water, ain’t ya?” Mom was great and practical too. Loads of advice, some of it useful too.
So Bo-dog was chewing away thinking only of the shitty waves that would have to do when they just walked in. It was like they were vampires or the landlord. Well, the thin one was his drug supplier; still, they hadn’t even knocked, just walked right in. It was an odd thing for Andrea to do. He was always so polite. But the other guy! The mammoth, the giant, he was more of a Norse god, Thor was it? He tramped, stomped, lurched in carrying that trunk like it was a brief case. The entire house shook. Bo-dog swore he could hear the toilet banging against bathroom wall. ‘What are you?’ was what Bo-dog had wanted to say, but he didn’t say anything just finished chewing his bite of sandwich. Mom was clear about chewing. Always chew food good. It digested quicker. Bo-dog didn’t, always, but he did now.
“An . . . Andrea wha’s up?” Bo-dog said through his sandwich chewing to the normal sized, but extremely well-dressed, all in white, fellow that came in after Thor. Bo-dog couldn’t smile and chew, even though he thought he should.
“Ojala, in return to your local beach salutation, wha’s up? Ha! Ha! So colorful for a Caucasian youth, bless them, always looking for identity. Always turning toward Africa, when all could be had by turning a little more south. Ha! Ha! Ojala! Ojala! How are you Michael Franks from the Midwest? A fine day is it not?” With his white silk handkerchief and a flourish, Andrea brushed the sand off the seat of the only other kitchen chair and then sat down across from Bo-dog. “Place that down by the door.” Andrea pointed to the only open floor space by the refrigerator. The trunk thumped to the floor. The toilet shook in response.
“Ah, ah . . . fine . . . good . . . uh . . . Yes!” Bo-dog was having difficulty concentrating. The oddness of all of this was making his stomach hurt. Too much oddness too soon after eating, but he was still eating, so he took another bite. He had to be done by noon. As he bit, he stared. There was a Norse giant standing by a black steamer trunk? Too much oddness. They, Thor, the trunk and the oddness, now dominated Bo-dog’s ever contracting rented dwelling. Beads of sweat were also crowding on to his forehead. “Wha’s . . . ah . . . you want?” He finally looked at Andrea. Andrea being here was oddness, too. He always met Andrea some place else, never here. Andrea didn’t make house calls, well, normally. Sweat was forming on the very top of Bo-dog’s head too.
“Quite a fellow my colleague, Sim? No? Very useful, he is.” Andrea looked up at the enormous figure that completely filled what was left of the kitchen. “Desculpe, excuse me, if I don’t introduce him, you know . . . delicate is the situation.”
“Sure . . . sure . . . Andrea, I thought we were square.” Bo-dog first wiped the bread crumbs from his mouth with a paper napkin and then the sweat from his forehead. The house was cold in the morning; stuffy more than hot in the afternoon. It wasn’t even noon yet, at least, Bo-dog hoped it wasn’t. “It’s not hot yet.” He said as he looked at the moisture on his napkin. Mom always said. ‘Use a paper napkin, it’s disposable.’ Bo-dog did.
“Wha’s up?” He was becoming afraid. He recognized that. Things were not as they should be, he was feeling out of control. Bo-dog liked things being out of his control when it was self administered, chemical out-of-control. But he felt fear. Fear? He never liked fear. It was way too out of control. “I haven’t fucked up that I know of? Bo-dog suddenly felt like crying. Way to out-of-control.
“Mande usted? Nao, nao, there is no difficulty. Ha! Ha! Ha! Simply a favor to ask.” Andrea turned the bottle of water around so he could read the label. He shook his head as he clicked his tongue with disproval. “American’s drink too much water. So much else to enjoy.”
“Ah . . . a favor sure, w . . . w . . . what?” Bo-dog was thinking, ‘What delicate situation?’ He said. “What do you need?”
“Le almacenaje, the storage, simply keep this trunk here until one of my colleagues comes for it.” Andrea made a small shrug with his upper body and eyebrows in affirmation.
Bo-dog looked up at Thor. Thor had been so quiet. Thor looked out the window to the far and partial ocean. Quiet was scary around Thor. “Wa . . . wait . . .” Bo-dog was thinking more clearly now, but not clear enough.
“Digame?” Andrea raised his distinct eyebrows.
‘Do men usually manicure their eyebrows. Is that what it’s called?’ Bo-dog thought. He said, “I haven’t . . . I have not . . . I’ve kept quiet . . .” Bo-dog was getting confused, not because of drugs though, he always stayed clean for the waves. Drug confusion later, after the waves. No other reason for confusion now, except the unknown. ‘Unknown, fear and confusion were bad things.’ Mom always said that too. “I’ve been good!”
“No one has said otherwise.” Andrea turned questioningly toward Thor. Thor kept his fearful quiet.
“Is this a lealtad? No, I haven’t done . . . why?” Bo-dog looked back and forth from Andrea to the trunk. “I’ve been good, always good.”
“Pare, nao, nao . . . lealtad testing is a myth. We only ask a favor. We would prefer that you do not open the trunk, but it will not explode. Why would we do that to our friend?” Andrea laughed, re-folded his silk handkerchief. “You are our friend, are you not?”
“No! Yes! I didn’t . . . I won’t . . .” Bo-dog couldn’t think any more. It was like cheap drugs, confusing and not good at all. All he could do was look at the trunk and think. ‘Don’t open. Don’t open. Won’t open.’
“Maybe my English isn’t clear. My American colleague could explain it better.” Andrea waved his handkerchief over his right shoulder.
The Thor reached over Andrea toward Bo-dog. Bo-dog flinched. “Excuse me for disturbing your lunch.” Thor’s voice rumbled deeply as he picked up the shining red Macintosh apple that was the substantial second half of Bo-dog’s health conscious lunch. The apple looked small in the palm of Thor’s left hand. The hand closed quickly and completely. Juice and pulp dripped from Thor’s left hand.
“And he is right-handed.” Andrea said as Thor let the remainder of the apple plop on to the table top. “American English is such a succinct language, is it not?”
Bo-dog nodded his head and looked down at his lap. ‘Won’t open. Don’t open.’ Was his brain’s mantra.
“Optimo! Just leave it there until we come for it.” Andrea stood up, re-folded his handkerchief again, placing it carefully back in his suit coat breast pocket. The shine of the white silk contrasted well with the white linen of his suit. The contrast accentuated all the fabric involved. “There will be something extra in your normal delivery next week, just for good will and the inconvenience. Nos vemos.”
The young men were bundled in thick woolen, yet fashionable sweaters and colorful contemporary scarves. It was as though they were at an Ivy League college football game, instead of in the sub-basement annex of the State Department. They huddled around a small glowing space heater clutching steaming mugs of coffee close to their faces in their manicured hands. Washington D. C. was always a cold, business-only, place, but it seemed to always be winter now too.
“I tell you, this department is going to get more action soon.” Said the young man with the stylish red and gold scarf.
“Is this your New Ice theory for Latin American prosperity, again?” Chuckled the not so colorful man to his right.
“Certainly, there was just an international environmental web-conference resolution. You fellas must have seen it?” The young man with the red and gold scarf breathed over his steaming cup. His breath added to the fog.
A general grumble and “Always looking for those.” Arose from the group.
“Come on. Don’t ya know? Since the Gulf Stream collapsed five years ago, it’s never recovered. As a result . . .”
“As a result, blah, blah, blah.” Came from the group.
“The, the Northern hemisphere has substantially, significantly cooled. A new Ice Age has been declared.” The red / gold scarf shook as he nodded triumphantly.
“Hurrah!”
“A new anything is good.”
“Why not a new steam age?”
“That doesn’t work. Try again.”
“Ha! Ha! Ha!”
“I don’t think I’m going to wait for a glacier to hit D.C. I want a transfer to Miami immigration, now! Se habla!” Said the fellow across from the red /gold scarf.
Everyone chuckled and sipped coffee, then chuckled some more, sipped more, stood around more. There was then what sounded like a muffled man’s voice down the cold hall, in the distance. It could have been an echo, it was so faint.
“You hear someone yelling?” The unstylish young man by the coffee maker stated as he stuck his head out of the coffee room door.
“Ah, it’s the penguin army. Come to conquer, rape and pillage a frigid Northern Hemisphere.” All laughter, no action.
“Damnation, where is everyone?” The formerly distant, indistinct voice came clearly this time. No echo. No penguin. It was a man’s voice.
“Over here!” The unstylish young man called out. There was no move to greet the man of the voice.
An older man with snow flakes on his brown flannel shirt and blue jeans walked down the hall toward the coffee room. “Cold as Ben Laden’s heart in here. Haven’t you guys at State heard about central heating?” The man said as he entered the coffee room. “Great, all together.” The group of fellows was already beginning to disperse like a nuclear disintegration. “Any of you jokers know about Consolidacion Americana?”
“Suit coat consolidation?” Red / Gold scarf mumbled and giggled.
“I say something inappropriate again?” The old man chuckled.
The others giggled also. “White House moron.” Someone whispered.
“Americana is a type of suit jacket in the Southern Hemisphere. You mean Consolidacion America.” The young man corrected as he returned to the coffee maker. An empty coffee cup hung from his little finger.
“Yeah, that’s it, any of you know about it?” The old man looked for an unused cup near the coffee maker. There was none. He put his hand on the warm coffee pot. “How’d they know I was from the White House? What?”
“The way you dress. Not Ivy League Brooks Brothers enough. And yes we are the State Department analysts for Latin America, yeah, we know something about it.” The young man held his cup out to the old man.
“Where’s the we, part?” The old man waved off the offered cup pointing around the now empty room. “Close friends of yours?” He chuckled.
“Guess not.” The young man shrugged. “I don’t shop at the right stores either.”
“Why would anyone give a shit the way you or I look? Should find something useful to do. Hi, Edgars, White House aide, you are?” The old man offered his right hand. It was red from the cold; dry and cracked, from who knew what. It could have been manual labor from the way he dressed. “But you’d guess that except for the name.”
“Oh, Mark Stevens, uh, State Department analyst for Latin America. Sorry you already know from repeating myself.” Mark let his empty cup dangle from his little finger as he shook Edgars’ cold rough hand. The cup shook too.
“We need some Latin American knowledge type in the Oval Office right now. Meaning right now! We gotta get going. National security! I didn’t even have time to grab my coat. You better get yours though?” Edgars waved Stevens toward the door.
“Yes, ah yes at my desk.” Stevens stumbled over the worn carpet and had to catch himself by the door frame. “It’s serious?”
“Yeah, and me without a coat. That way?” Edgars acted like he didn’t notice thre trip and pointed down the hall. “Good! Lets get it and your laptop as we leave.”
“Ah, sure. . . . I guess it’s okay.” Stevens followed Edgars down the hall. “You okayed this with my boss?”
“You mean, Frank DeFort?” Edgars shouted over his shoulder.
“Yeah, him.” Stevens caught up with Edgars.
“Jerk’s never around when you need him. Won’t even answer the phone anymore. Would have hauled his ass over with me if he was. Forget him.” Edgars slowed as Stevens ran over to his desk through his now busy colleagues, flipped his laptop closed then scooped it and his coat up in his arms. He knocked his desk chair over on the floor with a loud bang. Normally, this would have generated a round of laughter, cracks, and abuse, now there was only silence. ‘The White House silences?’ Someone had once told Stevens. Apparently, it did.
As they went out the door, another older, more appropriately dressed gentleman entered at the other end of the hall. Stevens waved with recognition of his boss, Dr. DeFort, but Edgars was already up the stairs. Stevens pointed at Edgars’ back and rushed to follow. “Hard to forget a paycheck.” Stevens muttered. DeFort had made it clear on many occasions that the boobs in the White House were to be avoided at all costs. ‘They make us die on their crosses if we’re not careful.’ He said in the best ‘avoidance is the best strategy’ bureaucratic manner. DeFort would not, did not tolerate departmental cross – contamination. “It’s grounds for termination!” He announced regularly.
Stevens had thus just become a State Traitor, in DeFort’s eyes, at least. “But it was the White House calling.” Stevens mumbled as he ran up the stairs. He could see his breath, almost touch the futility of his word. The outside wasn’t that much colder than the sub-basement; it was noon, but the clouds were thick and dark. It had been brighter in the sub-basement, at least. Stevens thus felt gloomy and fired when he caught up to Edgars on the snowy street.
“Yeah, the White House has good ears and we take care of our own. Not to worry kid. Edgars face was red from either the climb or the cold. “You look pretty young. You got a title or something to give you some umpha?”
“Well, I’m twenty nine and I have a Ph.D. in International . . .”
“Great, Doctor, Doctor Steven.”
“Dr. Stevens, ah . . .” Stevens was still zipping his coat. He almost dropped his laptop.
“Sorry ‘bout that, should have got the S things. Pisses me off too. Dr. Stevens, Latin American scholar. Not bad.” Edgars nodded his head. “I’ll just introduce you then you’re on your on. Lucks kid.”
“Oh, okay. . . yeah, fine.” Stevens followed Edgars into the frigid and silent White House. “Nation in crisis and all.”
“Damn straight. It’s always something.” Edgars simply walked through security without flashing his badge. Stevens fumbled for his.
The Southern California sun made the afternoon shadows extremely sharp and defined. Andrea’s face was thus sharply contrasted as he got into the black town car. It was hot but not as hot as it used to be. He waved a friendly, comfortable “Good Bye.” The town car pulled away while the Norse god stood calmly at the curb with a large envelope in his hand. He didn’t wave back. “This is trouble!” He said to the contrast around him. “Where are you?”
“Right, behind you.” A much smaller man with an earphone in his right ear said as he stepped out of the parked van. Thor turned, handing the envelope to the smaller man. “Phone.” It wasn’t a demand. It was a change of state. He reached to his belt, pulled off the phone then clicked out its battery. The smaller man did the same to his earphone mobile. They stood quietly for a moment for the residual charge to evaporate from their phone’s circuits. The town car vanished over a rise in the road, black into the blue.
“That should be enough time. Don’t want any reverse eavesdropping on this. Chris, this is trouble. Departing Andrea, there just paid me, in full. He even threw in an extra thirty percent.”
“When do you complain about a tip?” Chris pulled out a wad of new $100 dollar bills. “Hollywood Protection Services always does a good job. It’s our corporate logo.”
“It’s all in cash and the ink still looks wet.” Thor blew air from his lips.
Chris rubbed the bills with his index finger and then visually examined its tip. He then tasted it. “They’re fine.” Chris squinted at the bills. “I think?”
“The real trouble is moving away from us. We just made four quick deliveries, a big heavy trunk each. At every stop, it rattled the surprised recipients. This last kid almost cried he was so scared. Do you know what lealtad is?”
“Loyalty in Spanish? Go, I’m from Southern California.” Chris put the money back in the envelope. He glanced at them again before he closed it. “I know basic Spanish.”
“Nooo, related to the drug trade.”
“Oh, the tamper-proof exploding, ‘you had better be loyal’ package?” Chris turned to toss the envelope in the van.
“Yeah, this guy was really freaked already but Andrea there wanted him further focused. I had to get physical.” Go looked at Chris’s back.
Chris turned back around. “No, you’re usually the focus everyone’s attention just by being there.”
“My point.” Go smiled. “Still, I had to crush his apple.”
“You’re favorite party trick. Not so dangerous; but effective at focusing the mind.” Chris pulled out his pocket PC. “So what do you want me to check out?” Stylus standing ready.
“Make a list. Don’t do this on our servers. Use one of the newer web cafes. I don’t think we should leave any foot prints behind on this.” Go looked back down the street into the blue. “See, if there’s been any lealtad type situations around here recently both San Diego and L.A., look up Andrea Fortebracci in the drug trade or anywhere else. He spoke Castilian Spanish and Portuguese, maybe a European education to go with those manners and look up a foot locker sized device very likely Russian made.”
“Device and Russian made. Yeah, not good at all.” Chris looked. “Russian device sounds so cold war to me and I was just a little kid then. Why a device? Why Russian?”
“Well, it certainly wasn’t four hundred pounds of cocaine in those trunks.” Go looked down. “One of them had the word vodka written in Russian on it.”
“When did you pick up Russian?” Chris poked at his pocket PC.
“From a vodka bottle, of course.” Go pulled his truck keys from his pocket. “Such heavy bastards, I think he used me because I could move them myself. Keep the manpower down.”
“Odd, usually with muscle jobs, the more personnel the better.” Chris looked up at Go.
Go nodded. “My point about the trouble. When it’s real odd, it’s real trouble. Oh well, part of the job.” Go looked down at his pocket watch. “My clothes are supposed to be ready this afternoon. I’ll stop by Venice Tailors on the way back to the office. The 405 will be jammed as usual but I’ll get past Irvine before it’s too bad. Meet you in the office after dinner. They should have a bullet train coming down here.”
Chris waved quickly and punched at his Japanese made, lightweight device.
Stevens left the situation room in the White House rubbing the top of his head. His medium length hair continued to defy gravity.
Edgars was waiting for him just outside the door. “Ah, Dr. Steven, uhmmm, about goin’ back to State . . .” He shook his head. “Well, I’ll just set you up in an office here. You should be close in case something comes up, anyway. Space just around the corner here. We take care of our own, as I said.”
“Dr. DeFort doesn’t want me back.” Stevens was exhausted from the afternoon’s events. He had no emotion left. He needed time to think. It didn’t matter where.
“Well, it’s not you; DeFort seems to have a very negative feeling about the Oval Office, and well, me specifically. He just doesn’t have the right thinking. If it wasn’t for the civil service, well, you needn’t worry about such details. You’ve more immediate things to take care of.” Edgars turned into a small office, desk and phone only no window. Stevens was used to his ‘no-window’ status. One of his colleagues told him, ‘You get the status you deserve.’ Stevens never believed that but he was used to his status being out of his hands. “Needs a chair but I’ll grab one from next door. Come in and put your stuff down. Chair’s a comin’” Edgars slipped past Stevens with a smile.
Stevens wanted to shake and nod his head at the same time. He was so filled with information that his head hurt so instead he put his laptop on the desk. He realized he had left his coat in the situation room. “I’ll get it before I leave. When I leave.” He mumbled.
“Not leaving soon.” Edgars came rolling back in on an office chair. “Here ya go.” He got up, pushed Stevens down into it and then rolled them both behind the desk. “Like you were made for each other. Oh, uh, keep the door closed when you’re out. Everything’ll be fine. I’ll get some food sent up, got calls to make I suppose?”
Stevens nodded his head. “Yeah, yeah . . . right on it. And get some aspirin; I’ve got a wooly mammoth of a headache.”
“Right-hand drawer, all White House desks come equipped with a supply of pain relief.” Edgars smiled. “Welcome to the real world, just one big pain that never goes completely away, but I will. Later then.” Edgars waved as he departed.
Stevens opened the aspirin and popped three in his mouth. He could never do this dry. He needed water. As he went out he shut the office door. “Hope it’s not locked.” He mumbled into the dark.
The room was dark, not because Stevens wanted a better view of his computer screen, even though it was better, the real reason for the darkness was he couldn’t find the light switch. These rooms were just boxes made from false-wall partitions. Who knew where the switch was? He couldn’t find it. On the screen was the animated face of Udiko Forest. He’d known her since high school. She had entered the Foreign Service because of his dedicated interest in Latin America, she told him.
“What a role model I am.” Stevens thought. “She’s in Chile and I’m here in Washington. Real smart, me.”
Stevens could never understand why, but when he was in Udi’s presence, even virtual presence, he got stupid or rather stupider. His brain would lock up at one point and all he could do was look at her. Her Japanese / Germany / American Indian genes made her appear Polynesian. She always liked Hawaii. “Maybe it’s a genetic comfort.” She once joked. Someone in high school had said she had a Gestalt beauty; the sum being better than all the parts. Stevens always thought the parts were pretty Gestalt too.
“Mark, Mark, come back to Earth, you who?’ Udi waved her hand across the screen. “Would you stop that! I thought we had an understanding.”
“Uh yeah, sorry, just all of this, a bit overwhelming.” Stevens sat up in his chair. He tended to slump in any type of chair, eventually.
“I would say. From Junior State Department Analyst to White House aide in a day.” Udi smiled. “A lot of ‘whelming indeed. I’m proud of you, I knew people would take notice of you, eventually.”
“I was the only one left in the office for him to talk to. Everyone else ran off.” Stevens shrugged his shoulders. “Left me there alone and unprotected.”
“Still, it was you he brought back.” Udi’s smile was not helping him concentrate. “I’ll help anyway I can, but since the United Nations moved to Rio de Janeiro in twenty fourteen, the White House cut off relations with Brazil and Argentina, and with Chile’s isolation from the Consolidacion America movement, I don’t have much to offer you in way of direct access.”
“Yeah, the President never much liked the U.N. but he still feels that Sforza hijacked it from him somehow.” Stevens smoothed his gravity defiant black hair.
“Most people down here think it was more the constant cold in New York that moved the U.N. down here more than anything President Sforza had to offer, but who knows with politics?” Udi’s laugh numbed his brain again. “Colombia’s involvement in Consolidacion America is something I’ll look into. I’ve heard Piar’s name mentioned in relation to drug trafficking but not politics. . . .”
“But in Colombia?” Stevens was trying to get control of himself. He pulled himself back up in his chair.
“Drugs are politics there. Ummm.” Udi looked off screen and typed on a keyboard. “You know. There is someone up there you might want to talk to.”
“Okay,” Stevens’ personal e-mail dinged at him.
“He’ll know if anything big-time fishy is happening in San Diego or California for that matter. You just got his contact info. He’s the son of a friend of my parents. His father ran a biotech company, in La Jolla, I think. Go Quint is his name. He runs a celebrity bodyguard and protection service in L.A. To him celebrity means anyone who can pay his enormous service fees; movie stars, sports guys, business Exec’s and visiting drug folks. His fees are as big as he is, but don’t let his size make you think he’s dumb. That he is not.”
“Go Quint,” Stevens looked at the e-mail insert on his screen. “Five by five.”
“You’re mumbling again?” Udi giggled at her childhood friend.
“Go is the Japanese word for five and quint is short for quintus the Latin word for five. Is he Eurasian too?” Stevens asked.
“No, he’s of German or Dutch extraction, I don’t know. The way your brain works?” Udi laughed. “You need to get out more. No, his real name is Geoffrey. He told me once that when he was a kid, he would get angry at everyone for mis-spelling his name. So, he would say his name was Geoffrey with a G and an O. Ergo, Go.”
“Oh,” Stevens hated being embarrassed like he was now, but Udi always did it to him. Embarrassed and stupid, not qualities of a gentleman. Good thing it was dark in his office, she might not have noticed. She noticed everything. “Thanks, I’ll give him a call right now.” It made him more embarrassed.
“Rightyo, I’ll get talking to some people around here, but the old US of A has its limits of influence south of the border.” Udi smiled and waved. “’Lucks, talk to you soon.”
Stevens waved at her fading image. “Bye.” Then he reached for the phone and punched up the number remained on his screen.
Go pulled on the black satin vest. He looked at his reflection in the large front office picture window. The night outside only intruded as pin points of light, most stationary, some moving. He pulled it tight and velcroed it shut.
“Kevlar looks so much better then it use to.” Chris said as he walked into the main office conference room. “Much better variety of textures.”
“Thanks for the fashion affirmation. But fuck your condescending tone. You know I have to get new clothes made regularly because I keep growing.” Go said to the smirking reflection of Chris. “And you can fuck off with the vanity comments. Hear ‘em all. I’m big and conspicuous, that’s the way it is. A big target mostly, bigger everyday.”
“The sins of the father, etc.” Chris sat down at the modern conference table, placed two file folders and two mobile phones on the table’s original wood blonde surface. “You want the good news or bad news, first?”
“There’s good new?” Go pulled off the vest and then noisily ripped into the package of new shirts.
“I’ll just start; trunks first.” Chris flipped open a red file folder. “Description you gave, size, weight, the ‘vodka’ label, puts it into the very bad old news category.”
Go nodded as he put on a black matte silk-like shirt.
“Kevlar too?” Asked Chris. Go tilted his massive head. “Of course, info just came on-line from the KGB document scanning project . . . The automated translator’s still not too good with Russian, so some of the data are jumbled.” Chris liked things to be clear. “To the point, the trunks are likely KGB Bliny’s.”
Go shook his head and frowned. “Bad to badder, Russian confections are seldom sweet and always have an unusual surprise for you.”
“Code name for a series of portable devices.”
“Atomic?” Go sighed as he looked at his black on black reflection.
“Of course, old style, 1972 version, of a portable A-bomb.” Chris flipped another page. “Only about a half a kiloton of force each, enough to get the point across though.”
“Fifty years old, wonderful.” Go put on the vest over the shirt; black on black on black.
“Yeah, seemed the KGB thought Nixon’s Watergate problems would destabilize the US enough that nuclear anarchy could be useful.” Chris nodded this time.
“You saying, these bliny’s have been in the US since the ‘70’s.” Go velcroed up again.
“Seems like it.” Chris continued to nod. “They were given food and beverage names and then treated as contraband food rations. They smuggled just fine that way.”
Go shook his head and sat down. He had a specially reinforced chair built for himself. “Everyone wants Russian vodka and caviar.”
“Enough did . . . oh, security, seems the KGB had the lealtad / loyalty package back then, non-nuc, though. A few people made a, let’s say, conventional mistake. When the real stuff comes through everyone has learned the lesson and were extra cautious.” Chris pushed the red file to Go. “Three conventional lealtad like situations occurred six months and one seven months ago in the San Diego environs.”
“Preping the ground.” Go flipped open the file.
“Numbers, you’ll see, 366 were made.” Chris pointed at the red file. “Guess why?” Go shook his head. “Do it for me.” Chris gave a weak smile. “Guess.”
“I don’t know?” Go chocked his head. “Numerology, three goes into six two times.”
“Hey, pretty good, but no. 1972 was a leap year.”
“Fuck, 366 days in a leap year.” Go flipped the red file shut.
“Affirmative on that.” Chris opened the other file. “Oh, only thirty seven of these devices have been accounted for. Well, add four more to that, make it forty one.”
“God damn the devil’s dildo, what da fuck’s going on?” Go leaned back in his chair. “Who would want old A-bombs, if they aren’t Islamics?”
“These other data might help a little on that.” Chris looked down at a blue file. “All I could find relevant on Andrea Fortebracci was a historical reference. He was a mercenary in the early 1400s. He tried to get himself crowned the king of Naples, of all things.”
“How’s that relevant to the early 2000s California?” Quint looked at Chris over the long table. “Not one of your random educational moments, is it?”
“Nope, I think it answers your question about a Portuguese connection with ole Andrea here.” Chris smiled back.
“You can be really annoying, you know?” said Quint.
“I have to be good at something.” Chris nodded. “Fortebracci is mentioned in Machiavelli’s The Art of War along with Francesco Sforza . . .” Chris held up his hands in a mock question. Quint just looked at him. “Francesco Sforza, also a famous mercenary who seized power of the city he served and became the Duke of Milan in 1450 . . . You know . . . Francesco Sforza”
Quint frowned in response.
“Francesco Sforza, Sforza, the now President of Argentine / Brazil.” Chris shook his head. “His first big triumph in his Consolidacion America movement was to bring the two countries together in an Administracion Progresivo.”
“What’s that?” Quint asked.
“Who knows with politics? But it got him elected the President of the combined countries, uh, country.” Chris pushed Quint the blue file. Quint saw a picture of a smiling dark haired priest. Quint looked up and frowned again.
Chris nodded. “Oh, now an ex-Jesuit, sorry, old picture. Your Andrea must have some connection to Sforza, too much coincidence, otherwise. Fortebracci must be a nom de guerre.”
“Yeah, revolutionaries and porn stars always use pseudonyms.” Quint flipped through the file. “Everybody wants to be funny or literary, world’s run by a bunch of clown’s either way.” Quint shut the file and pushed it back to Chris. “What the hell is this all about?” Quint sighed deeply putting on his sunglasses. They were black too. “Italy and Jesuits and atomic bombs? Maybe the Holy Roman Empire wants to make a come back? Seems, all roads lead to Rome and other clichés.”
“And why the hell did we get in the middle of it?” Chris took back the file. “I’m a lazy agnostics, I don’t care if God exists or not.”
“We’ve always been careful to steer clear of politics, always been trouble and these days they’re very big bad trouble.” Go tapped the table top with his thumb. The report echoed off the conference walls dominantly. “I feel like I’m being played here. And if you play me, you have to pay me.” Go slammed both his hands open on the table top. The boom escaped the room and echoed through the office hallways. It was late, so no one was there to be surprised. Not that any of the employees of Hollywood Protection would be surprised by a loud noise when their boss was around. He stood up and went back to the window. “Who’ll still talk to us in Washington?” Quint looked down and took off his sunglasses, a yellow-lit Main Street came to his eyes like a vision. Traffic was heavy as usual for Venice, the California kind. Despite the perpetual war on terror people still needed to be entertained, go out at night for a drink, have a few laughs.
“You think Sforza is working with some of the Arab states? He’s a catholic, for God’s sake, literally.” Chris walked over to Quint and handed him the two mobile phones. Quint took the phones and shrugged his massive shoulders. “Not that Washington’s ever been much of a friend to Latin America. Speaking of Washington, here’s a coincidence? Hardly! A White House aide called wanting to talk with you, a Mark Stevens?” Quint shook his head. “He said he was a friend of Udiko Forest?”
“Knew her parents, well, they knew my father. I thought she was in Chile.” Quint put the phones in his vest pockets.
“Don’t know about that, but he wanted to talk with you about, you’ll never guess?” Chris smiled. Go just frowned more deeply.
“San Diego?” Chris said. “All roads lead to Rome and San Diego, it seems.”
“Yeah, bein’ played somehow. Well, gotta play this through even if it is a shit swamp. Gotta get these Bliny’s in the ‘fridge before they spoil. I’ll take them to our safe house in the desert.” Quint looked down at his pocket watch. “Call him in an hour, that should be enough time, give him the house coordinates and tell him to bring himself and a couple of big bomb experts. He should be there by 22:00. Tell him I have four presents for him.”
“This business can get really odd sometimes.” Chris nodded. “A-bombs.”
“First time for everything.”
“Dreamed of staying a nuclear virgin, though.” Chris sighed walking out of the conference room, only his departing footfalls and Go’s breathing remained.
It was that desert darkness, black, crisp and cold; colder than usual. Stars made the sky even blacker by their pointed brightness. No moon to interfere. Go Quint sat behind a rock outcropping realizing that the new Kevlar was thinner than the old Kevlar. Still it was as good with bullets, just not so good with cold as the older version. It was cold and about five hundred yards from a gloomy post WWII desert recreational ‘weekend’ get-away. He was his get-away / safe house. It wasn’t a bungalow, just a house, little more than a shack. But it had high ceilings. Go liked that. Even at night, at this distance, it needed a paint job. Getting the Bliny’s back here had been easy. None of the four trunks had been moved or even touched from this morning. The trunks were exactly where he had left them. Everyone was more than happy to have them taken away, even if it was by the Norse God, Thor. Maybe that was better, divine interference.
Go knew the FBI teams were sitting over the far hill. He had seen them when he came down the road. At least, they were waiting for the White House aide to arrive before they stormed down on his ass. He heard another storm coming now; a roar of lights and sound, the White House cavalry had arrived. No surprise attack possible here. The seven attack helicopters formed a ring just above the ground as an F-128 vertical-lander hit the sand fast and hard dead center in the middle of their flying ring; roars of all kinds from all directions. It was no longer a quiet desert night. One of the ‘copters landed beside the house and lit up like a Hollywood marquee.
“It’ll need a new roof after that down draft, if it doesn’t get evaporated in a nuclear fuck storm tonight.” Go put a new phone to the side of his head. “Chris, you should see this entrance.” Go laughed. “The military is always dramatic. Send me a pic of this Stevens.” The photo flashed onto Go’s handheld as he spoke. “Oh, thanks, he looks young.” Go looked through his night vision monocle at the figure getting out of the back seat of the jet. “Helmet off, yeah, it’s him. Wait for him to get on the ground . . . Now ring him up and connect me.” Go watched as Stevens ran from the jet and pulled out a satellite phone from his left breast pocket.
“Mr. Quint, I’m, we’re here. Udiko Forest’s friend.” Stevens had his finger in his left ear to help his hearing. “Sorry about everyone, I kept it as small as I could.”
“Less then I expected, ya did good kid.” Go scanned over behind Stevens, two rifleman hit the ground and started firing spaced shots into the rocks on either side of Go. Stevens jumped and turned around waving at the riflemen. “I got the idea kid. I’m unarmed and they can kill me if they want. Call off your cowboys. You walk forward when you’re ready. I’ll meet you half way.” Go then smashed the phone onto the rock in front of him, rolled to the side and ran behind an even bigger and thicker rock. Stevens was still waving at the snipers. An officer walked out to Stevens, spoke into his headset and the firing stopped.
Stevens turned, looked back and forth, into the darkness, shrugged his shoulders and started walking. He put his hands out to his sides. Go waited until Stevens was two hundred yards away and then he crawled carefully over the rock. He stood up slowly; arms also out stretched. Those riflemen were still there. They still had him in their sites; they had just stopped pulling triggers for now. Go walked slowly toward Stevens’ backlit silhouetted form. He was like a black specter walking out of Hades. He could bring death and destruction with him at any moment.
The rock itself seemed to stand up in front of Stevens. That dark growing mass in front of him must be Go Quint. “He’s even bigger than Udi said.” Stevens started walking faster toward the mammoth shadow that loomed in the distance.
“Tell me some personal things about Udiko Forest.” Go yelled out.
Go’s voice startled Stevens even more than his dark bulk. It boomed across the night sand distinct over the background whomp of the ‘copter blades. Stevens wanted to keep his voice from shaking as much as his hands were. What should he say about Udi? “She is Eurasian, beautiful.” He squeaked out. “Ah, um . . .” He had to get control of himself, this was important. He took a deep breath and shouted out. “Her mother was Japanese American, ah, she died of cancer when Udi was six or seven, and um, her father was a molecular biologist, he never forgave himself for not being smart enough to save her.” His voice was high like a girl’s. Fear was a horrible thing.
“Okay, good.” Said Go as he stepped up to Stevens. Stevens screamed like a girl with surprise at how fast Go crossed the distance between them.
Go chuckled resonantly. “The devices are the four trunks in the living room, door’s open. All I had was old flack jackets for shielding. Tell your people they are heavy, old and likely inadequate, but as safe as I could make it.”
Stevens looked up at Go’s face, he stepped back, Go was so close in, Stevens’ face was in Go’s chest. He then keyed his phone. Go flipped his night vision monocle up, the place was well lit now. Four figures with luggage run into his now ‘unsafe’ safe house.
Go looked back at Stevens whose forehead gleamed with sweat. “Extremely, awkward moment isn’t it?” Go smiled.
Stevens sighed and shot a quick glance up at Go, “They seem to be accumulating today.”
“Kid, you’re on the web as being at State not the White House.”
“Yes, well, that just happened this afternoon.” Stevens looked at his watch. “I’m really just a Latin American Situations analyst, now this.” Stevens shot his arms in the air.
Go flinched. “Don’t move so abruptly. Those guys with guns are nervous enough all ready.”
“Oh, yes, sorry, Not used to this yet.” Stevens lowered his arms slowly.
“Yeah, yeah, been an odd day for me too, kid.”
“I’m only four years younger than you.” Stevens snapped and then thought better of it. “Ah sorry.”
“Sure, sure . . . whatever . . . you just didn’t seem to be one of those ultra-conservative White House macho buffoons.” Go watched for muzzle flashes.
“Oh, thanks, I guess.” Stevens tried to control himself again. “Why not?”
“Too educated for one.” Go laughed. “Ph.D., internships, scholarships, scholarly articles in reputable journals, you’re too smart for the likes of the America Affirmative crowd.”
“Oh that. Oh yeah, well, ah, I used to be a Democrat.” Stevens looked back at the chaos of activity, lights and wind. “Until the 2012 convention.”
“Yeah, amazing how a suicide sarrin gas attack ended a whole political agenda.” Go shook his head and watched the show with Stevens. “It was that very night when AA splintered off from the old Republicans. AA won by a landslide even though no one ever took credit for that attack. I was always suspicious.”
“All the Democratic party leaders were gone. Wiped out in a single stroke.” Stevens turned his palms up into the air and looked up at Go. “They could never recover.”
“Politics has always been a lethal endeavor.” Go looked at Stevens. “Better to keep your opinions to yourself, especially now.” Go pointed to his desert retreat with his right thumb. Things, big things were being carried out one at a time and put in one attack helicopter each. After one was loaded, the helicopter would roar off at top speed. To an undisclosed location no doubt.
Stevens nodded. “Since, we’re becoming good friends here.” Stevens smiled at Go.
Go laughed, “Asked away kid. Everyone has a question for me.”
“Well, like you.” Stevens cleared his throat. It was hoarse from the shouting. “I’ve read your file, of course.”
“Of course.” Go smiled watching the air show.
“Your father wasn’t working for the military that I could see.”
“Nope, one of the few things good about the ole bastard was his scorn of the military mind.” Go nodded toward the noise and light. “It was a righteous scorn, though.”
“So if you . . . if he wasn’t making a super solider out of you? What were his intensions? When he, ah? Messed with your DNA?”
“Hell, solider, that would have made a little sense. No, my old man was an impractical jerk off.” Go sighed. “He infected me with gene therapy vectors, lentiviruses that constitutively expressed somatostatin, other growth hormones and neurotrophins. He wanted to make me the world’s greatest athlete.” Go shook his head. “No sense at all! All he made me was scary, big and scary. At twelve, I was so big no one would let me play team sports. Then the world found out I was bio-engineered, I was out of any professional sports. I was on my big assed own. No, Dad was a self-centered impractical selfish asshole. With no superstar, he lost interest in parenthood. Family can really fuck you up.”
Stevens’ life just seemed to be one uncomfortable moment followed by another. “I guess you don’t talk to him much.” That was all he could think to say. His face, his ears, his whole head was hot with embarrassment. Good thing for the darkness.
“Don’t believe in ghosts. Nope, Daddy was killed when I was fifteen by a disgruntled employee right there in the lobby of his own biotech firm. Proof that Dad was just a general pain in the ass to everyone.”
Stevens shook his head. Another uncomfortable moment ticked by. “I’m sorry I didn’t know.”
“It’s okay. Good thing it happened when it did. I probably would have killed him myself a few years later.” With four helicopters loaded and departed, a figure came out of the house and waved. “Looks like it’s time to go back.” Go started walking.
Stevens followed quietly a few steps behind. “Can’t embarrass yourself if no one can hear you.” Stevens repeatedly reminded himself.
As they neared the cluster of military uniforms and black suits at the house, Go slowed gradually to a stop. Five black clad soldiers had stepped out from behind the cluster, their rifles were pointed at Go along with the first two snipers. “Seven is a nice prime number.” Go said to himself waving Stevens to his side. “Kid, you’re going to have to exert yourself here, show them your White House badge or something, otherwise they’ll walk all over you and me.”
“I don’t have any White House ID,” Stevens looked at the ominous dark cluster. “Things just happened too fast.”
“Well, go in there throwing around the White House and the President as much as you can. Otherwise, if they don’t shoot me, they will arrest me for sure.”
“Why? You helped us.”
“Helped? Like that matters. Ask the guys with the guns if being a good citizen matters?” Go kept his hands visible. His body remained rigid, despite his brain screaming in alarm, ‘RUN!’ ‘Not yet!’ He shrieked back at himself. He wanted to get the hell out of there but wouldn’t, no yet. “I told you people were generally afraid of me. Fear makes soldier a bit feisty. Been here before.” Go waved Stevens ahead. “Knock’em dead, kid, but not me.”
“But it does matter. You can’t just shot everything that scares you, especially the scary stuff that helps you.” Stevens thought for a moment then moved toward the cluster that still ignored him. He was just too normal, too non-frightening to be noticed. “Become frightening.” Stevens shouted to himself. As he penetrated the cluster he shouted out. “Okay, what’s the status? Stevens, White House, the President needs information.”
Go watched the ends of the seven barrels pointed at him. Those circles of darkness were always his image of death. They always got bigger as he stared at them, as if his vision improved as death came near, like a person’s vision at night; the longer you look into the dark, the better you see in it, except that it’s only in black and white. A simplified view on reality; death and darkness; light and life. “Too many horrible things to see in the light.” Go had once made up a bumper sticker, ‘The Grim Reaper is an Optometrist.’ Like a lot of things Go did, no one understood it.
Go heard Stevens’ voice shout something. Stevens was in the center of the widened cluster. He shoved his phone at the Army Colonel. “Call him then.” The Colonel shook his head. Stevens shouted at a technician. “Come with me!” He walked directly toward Go. The technician reluctantly followed a few paces behind. “Had to make you part of this or they’ll arrest you.” Stevens said quickly as he approached Go.
“Told ya?” Go faked a child’s voice quite well. “Good kid, I think I can help.”
“Udi said you could.” Stevens turned to the technician. “Tell him.”
The technician was a woman. In the protective suit it was hard to tell. “You sure you’re with the White House?” Her attitude didn’t help much with a feminine ID, either.
“Go on.” Stevens snapped out despite his desire to fade away.
“Vintage KGB tactical nuclear devices designed for passive delivery. Ancient though, age and corrosion has made two of the devices non-functional, another of questionable functionality. The remaining device would definitely detonate with between one half to one kiloton of force, blast radius small, a couple of city blocks.”
“What’s the trigger?” Go interrupted intentionally. He wanted to assert his authority too. “Is it a manual switch, a timer?”
The tech looked at Stevens. Stevens nodded her on.
“Jerry-rigged, old pager technology interfaced with the detonator. Likely a specific code is entered for detonation, for security sake.”
“Pagers?” Stevens looked at Go. “No one uses pagers any more.”
“Oh, yes someone does.” Go said.
“Yes, there is someone.” Said the technician.
“Drug dealers.” Both the technician and Go said simultaneously. They then glared at each other. She shrugged to keep herself silent. She had done what was demanded of her. She didn’t care what size he was, most men are bigger than her, but why should she pick a fight?
“Oh, the drug cartels.” Stevens waved the tech to go back to the cluster. “This is too, too much of a coincidence.”
“You disarmed them didn’t you?” Go yelled after the tech. She turned abruptly and just glared at him. “Oh, guess you did. Thanks.” Go waved at the tech’s back. “And people call me scary.”
“Drugs?” Stevens sighed.
“Not to pun excessively, but is there a drug connection on your side?” Go clicked his tongue. It was his safest reaction. No abrupt visible movements and the snipers couldn’t hear as good as Go Quint. No one could.
Stevens nodded. “You don’t seem too surprised.” Stevens then shrugged. Everyone knew more about this than he did. “This morning in Washington, they received a call. Everyone thought it was a joke, at first. It took three tries before he got through. It was from a Manuel Piar.”
“Piar?” Go interrupted. “You see him? A big guy?”
“Not as big as you.” Stevens sighed deeply. Everyone knew way more than he did.
“Well, a fat guy, round face, dark hair, balding?”
“Yes, Manuel Piar, the Colombian drug boss.” Stevens nodded with frustration. “Now ex-boss, as you likely know already.”
“Ya but.” Go shrugged back.
“Anyway, apparently he’s now the self proclaimed leader of the Consolidacion America movement for a Gran Colombia. The original Colombia included Panama, you know?”
Go shook his head. “Politics? No, not the Piar I know. All my Piar cares about is money. He’s even past spending it, he just wants to roll around in it.”
“Udi thought you’d know him.” Stevens sighed. Even she knew more about this than he did. “I’m certain it’s the same Piar. The one you know.”
“Know is a bit strong. We’ve had business dealings.” Go clicked his tongue as he thought. “Security stuff. Body guarding, mine guarding his. Bigger for the big. Nothing else. You can rest your mind.”
Stevens smoothed his hair down for no reason other than filling time. “Piar wants the President to sign the Consolidacion America treaty with South America, making North and South America one country.”
“So, sign it. What’s a piece of paper?” Go tried not to move his hands abruptly. Politics always made him anxious; he gesticulated a lot when he was anxious, obvious gesticulations. “Politician’s lie all the time on treaties, ask any Indian.”
“Well, maybe if he had left it at that, the President would have, but Piar said emphatically that he wanted to impress his point on North America with force.” Stevens looked up into Go’s face. “A demonstration showing the need for the USA’s acquiescence to the Consolidacion America will occur in two days in San Diego.”
“And that San Diego should be evacuated before it occurred.” Stevens also looked at the house. “No one actually believed this was real until now, but since you’ve already found the bombs, that threat is over.”
“Yeah, maybe that’s exactly what this is, just part of the demonstration, third party verification, of sorts. Since you brought up Colombian history, know any current events? You know what retencione is in Colombia?”
“The polite term for a hostage’s ransom.”
“Yeah, to the FARC revolutionaries it’s simply paying back taxes, clearing up ‘little debts.’” Go took out his other phone.
“Yes, I did a paper on Colombia and their perpetual revolution.” Stevens nodded. “Not so ‘little debts’. In most cases, the hostages are killed even when the retenciones are paid! Shit!”
“Yes, shit. If people stay within character and mostly they do, this isn’t over. Far from it!” Go wanted to gesticulate a lot but could, so he didn’t. “I might still have a working number for Piar.” Go punched at the phone. “Going to the horse’s mouth or some part of it.” Go said to Stevens.
“Bueno!” Said the phone.
“Hola, habla, Go Quint.”
“Geoffrey! Oh, oh, oh.” Laughed a heavily accented voice. “So good to hear from you.” A voice rough but jolly. “I knew you would call. I left this phone on just for you”
“Manuel, then why the hell didn’t you tell me I was working for you today?” Go rolled his eyes. “I’d have given you the usual discount.”
“I told them you would find out. No secrets from you. Anyway, what can one do? You’re so reliable. You must contain the blood of Espana.”
“Citizen of the world, that’s me. So, you’ve come up in the world, now. When you care about politics?”
Louder laughter came from the phone. “We all do what’s necessary in this tumble of a world.”
“You know, I just bought a house in Del Mar, anything I should know?”
“Oh, oh, well, you should always be careful with real estate, the market is so sensitive to outside pressures.” The fat man giggled. “So volatile, extremely volatile.”
“You finally go to business school like I suggested, Manuel?”
“Ha, ha, you always a good business partner. Best of advise. Hope we do business in the future. Cuidado! Amigo.”
“Back at ya.” Go clicked off the phone, threw it on the sand and smashed it under his custom boot heel. “Man shit and donkey fuck!”
Stevens looked down at the smashed phone. His manly composure felt just like the phone was.
“Gimme your phone.” Go shot out his right hand.
It made Stevens jump back a little. “You want to smash mine too?”
“Oh?” Go looked down at the flattened remains of the phone. ““Sorry, just a cautious guy. Anyone can trace a signal, open a circuit and listen in on you, these days. Microprocessors were never secure. Always cautious with phones when I’m in the field, so to speak. Your’s is an NSA issue, though.”
Stevens nodded. “NSA loaned it to me they said.” Handing it to Go.
“It’ll be shielded.” Go punched in the number. “No need to smash it, only people listening will be the NSA and they already know my business numbers in LA. Yeah, Chris?” Go turned away from Stevens. “Implement Plan D.”
“We don’t have a Plan D.” Said Chris in an amused toned.
“Well, make one now. Take Plan C but do more of it.”
“Worst case scenario?”
“Worst of the worst. Get all and everyone out of San Diego. Even mother-in-laws.” Go clicked off the phone and handed it back to Stevens. “If you want some privacy, take the battery out of it and wait for the charge to dissipate. Put it in your pocket, just in case.”
Stevens looked down at the phone and did just that. “What did Piar say?”
“It go boom.” Go threw his hands in the air and then flinched, but the seven remained quiet and cocked, for now. “Kid, I would get anyone you know or love out of San Diego, right now.”
“The White House won’t negotiate with terrorist.” Stevens said weakly and ground his teeth, too much of a cliché even for this situation.
“Negotiation isn’t involved here. They’re making a point.” Another helicopter roared off at top speed with a Bliny. Go looked back in the dark to where he parked his truck.
“But, ah, thousands of lives could be involved. Hundreds of thousands.”
“Piar said to get everyone out. Warning from him? That’s being saintly for his lot.”
“But what could he gain? The military will retaliate against Colombia.”
“He’s not in Colombia. Nobody important to this is. With the pager triggers, there’s probably some computer somewhere, some big city, New York, London, Rome, that’s already input with pager numbers and codes just ticking away. Not that computers tick.”
“But? We have to do something.” Stevens was very confused. “This is crazy.”
“Piar’s crazy like a fox, he’s a good hunter but still a dumb animal, he’ll follow through on this, for sure. But he didn’t think up this plan. It’s too complex. Piar’s a direct contact kind a guy. There’s someone else behind this. This little drama we just ran through here was a tactic, a kick in the ass for the White House, likely it had multiple purposes.” Go pointed at Stevens. “You, the White House, needed to ‘stumble on’ the nuclear aspects, the more theatrically, the more believable, as you can see, also, I think there’s a bigger message here. Finding out just how serious they are and how defenseless the US really is. All of these things are in place already and not only in San Diego.”
“Other cities too?” Stevens’ fear brought his mind back into focus. He patted his hair down with both hands, unnecessarily.
“Please don’t do that. They’ll think I’m robbing you or something.” Go dug in his pocket for his truck keys.
“Sorry, sorry.” Stevens jerked his hands down to his side. “Sorry, other cities?”
“My bets are on it.” Go pressed the special electronic key. Off in the distance, only to his ears, there was a beep beep.
“What? We have to do something to stop this.”
“We just did something, it’s just not enough.” Go clicked his tongue loud enough for Stevens to looked around for the source of the noise. “Maybe military drones fitted with radiation detectors. Flying low, they might be able to find a few more of these atomic Bliny’s but there’ll be too many to find in time. I bet most of them are around the busiest areas, make the biggest impact, when go boom. The request for evacuation shows they want buildings not people, yet.” Go stopped clicking and sucked in air threw his teeth. “Tomorrow, just close all the businesses; declare a national holiday or something. Close the freeways. Have a gigantic traffic accident. Make people stay home, should reduce losses.” Go put his hand on Stevens' right shoulder. “Kid, you too, just stay clear of San Diego and try to convince those jingo-wackos in Washington to realize the inevitable. Stop trying to force their will on reality. Ya can’t kill all of your enemies, ya just make more.”
“Sure, sure, no problem.” Stevens snapped his fingers.
“Good, attempts at humor always help.” Go looked toward the military crowd. “Now that the bombs are gone, they’ll start looking for me. Gotta go. Call me if you need me.” Go ran off into the night. A few bullets dusted the ground but Go moved too quickly even for the sharpest of shooters.
Stevens stood there looking after him. Better for Stevens to stand still until the firing stopped. Even good marksmen make mistakes. Stevens turned around in the same spot; the military cluster was breaking up. Bombs were gone. Go Quint was gone. No reason to stay out here in the dark anymore. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the phone and put the battery back in it. It rang immediately, Stevens knew they wanted him back there without their asking, but he answered it anyway walking forward.
“Hate to close up Hollywood Protection like this. Business was booming. So to speak.” Chris placed the last phone on his kitchen table. The marine cloud layer had finally burned away from the Santa Monica sky; the afternoon sun could finally make the small room hot like it wanted.
“Won’t be any business in a few days.” Go had to bend his head a little to stand up in this kitchen. “Hell’s going ta break loose. Military everywhere soon, with soldiers to protect them, they won’t need us. Military will likely keep coming after me. They like my big face so much. Everyone should scatter carrying everything of value. Close the accounts?”
Chris nodded. “Got as many dollars, pesos and real as allowed; gold and silver to their limit.”
“Pass it around to everyone? I’ll need the pesos and real.” Chris handed Go a sports bag. Go pointed at the array of phones on the table. “If everyone gets two, how many are left?”
“Seven.”
“Still, a good prime number. That’ll do.” Go picked up seven phones from the end of the table and put them in different pockets of his Kevlar vest. “You think prime numbers are interesting to people because they can’t be divided by any other number than themselves and one?”
“Are prime numbers interesting?” Chris moved his head toward the closet door. “You taking any weapons?”
“No, crossing borders, too much trouble.” Go velcroed shut his vest pockets. “It and they usually find me anyway, without me trying.”
“Going south then?” Chris separated the phones into pairs. “All the way to Brazil?”
“Yeah, most likely destination. Find Piar on the way down. Give him a talking to.” Go patted his vest pockets taking inventory. “Figure I did my unwilling part in this mess, need to pick up my back pay.”
“You don’t need to do it alone.” Chris handed Go four more phones. “Eleven’s a good prime too. A few of us would be happy to come along. Extra hands, extra eyes, extra phones. ”
“No, thanks.” Go shook his head to both offers. “Scattering is the best strategy here. It’s my legacy to be conspicuous as hell, not any of you.” Go smiled down at Chris. “I don’t know what will happen. I’ll need you up here, almost certainly.”
“If President Sforza is heading all this up for the greater good of man, God, and Brazil, how did he get Piar involved? Piar’s not that religious or that stupid. He’ll be the fall guy on this.” Chris put the phones back on the table and sat down on a kitchen chair.
“All I can figure, it’s still business. Drug business. San Diego drug business. Damn economic politics. Eliminating the competition, or rather the replacement technology.” Go sat down on the floor to be more even with Chris. “ContraAddiction Pharmaceuticals is based in San Diego.”
“Oh, of course, they’re the ones with vaccines to immunize against cocaine and heroin intoxication. No addiction because there’s no high to chase.” Chris liked to keep up to date. “They’re in clinical trails,.”
“Piar doesn’t give a crap about Gran Colombia, Pan America or any country. He does care about his business. Those vaccines would put a major dent in profits, maybe eliminate them. That must be Sforza’s lever with Piar, a quick way too eliminate the competition, short term thinking but standard operating procedure for Piar.”
“Dangerouser and dangerouser, to paraphrase Alice.” Chris shook his head. “All for a buck.”
“The drug buck is a big buck. A lot turf to fight over.” Go pushed himself back off the floor. “Since there’s a direction here, maybe I can get on top of this one.”
“You think Sforza will trust you?” Chris was always amazed at Go’s size. He stood up and up.
“Trust, no, but you know I can be useful.” Go started for the door. “Oh, get a message to the Kid on how to connect with me via e-mail. I’ll need him too, I’m sure.”
“No need to say be careful because you won’t be.” Chris nodded.
“Not me.” Go chuckled. “Too big to be careful.”
“Just get them before they get you.”
“Just what I’m good at.” Go waved as he went out the door. “Longer reach.”
“Udi, Mark, sorry it took me so long to get back to you.” Stevens stood at the window of a high raise office. He looked down on the Veteran’s cemetery. All the white head stones in the mid-afternoon sun made a pattern of shadow and white on the ground, almost like one of those optical illusion puzzles he liked as a kid.
“Where have you been?” Udi’s voice was clear but strained. The Chilean embassy’s satellite communication system always worked well.
“Administrative detainment.” Stevens walked back to the desk and sat down. “What ever that is.”
“But you’re with the White House.”
“Didn’t impress the FBI.” Stevens twirled in the chair. “Just not scary enough, as always.”
“What could you have done to tick off the FBI so much? Even down here, I heard you were a big hero, finding four A-bombs, getting them out of San Diego, everyone’s so impressed the White House is leaking like a sieve.” Udi’s voice had relaxed.
“I found Go Quint. You were right, he was very useful. He found them. The FBI’s just pissed that I didn’t restrain him, let him get way before they talked to him.”
Udi laughed. “I haven’t seen Go in a number of years, but it would be easier for you to restrain an elephant than Quint on the move.”
“I told that very thing to the Special Agents, that didn’t impress them either.” Stevens was a little dizzy. He looked over at the office door, it kept moving even though he has stopped twirling. “They’ve just given me my phone back. I called you straight away.”
“I wasn’t really worried. I haven’t been given all the details but I heard your recommendations on the San Diego situation are being implemented. Congratulations are getting redundant for you.”
“They’re Go’s also. I’m more of a Go between than a hero.” Stevens stared at the door until it stopped moving. “Actually, I hadn’t heard anything though, in captivity here, debriefing or whatever. They must have passed my de-briefing files on to the White House. I’m still locked up in LA.”
“No one wants a panic, today is a Security Holiday in all major cities, especially San Diego, everyone’s to have a party for the Homeland.” Udi laughed. “Sforza denied knowledge of a plot against San Diego or the USA. He’s the founder of Consolidacion America. Unity is his issue. Still, the C.A. has become an important movement in the America’s. Continental unity is very emotional to some South Americans. People take matters into their own hands. Colombian’s are, have always been, very aggressive in their emotions.” Udi laughed again.
“Go said Piar was only emotional about money. That he’s no Simon Bolivar re-born. That someone else is behind this. That it’s not over. I’ve got to get out of here.” Stevens stood up and walked over to the door.
“Go would know. From what I’ve read on Piar though, I would agree. You think it’s Sforza himself?”
“But he was a priest.”
“Once a Jesuit, always a Jesuit, as my father would say. Only the best possible training in manipulation and brainwashing. Dad was a pessimist.”
“Sforza is the President of Argentine / Brazil. Getting those two countries together was some feat.” Stevens tried the door knob, it turned and the door came open. “Oh crap!” Stevens sighed.
“What?” Udi’s voice became strained again. “What is it?”
“Fucking door’s been open all along. Now, I can’t say they held me captive, can I?” Stevens walked out of the office. “Just too dumb to leave. What a day.”
“What are you going to do?” Udi asked. “Go back to D.C. I hope?”
“Don’t know.” Stevens stood in the FBI headquarters of Los Angeles. It was crowded with furniture but empty of personnel, except for a woman in the corner making photocopies. She never looked up. Just doing her job. “Still bomb’s out there.”
“You’re an analyst. Not trained for field work.”
“Like you are?” Stevens scanned to room. “Where’s the stairway exit?”
“Well, yeah.” Udi said. “You should get back to Washington, ASAFP.”
“ASAFP? That field terminology?” There was an EXIT sign at the other end of the room.
“As soon as fucking possible. Yeah, I guess it is a field term.” Udi was confused. “What’s the matter with you? You did a good job with very little time to prepare.”
“Just a tool.” He walked cautiously toward the door. This seemed too easy. Of course he was never being held. “All this makes me angry! Udiko, who’d believe anyone, would . . . do such a thing . . . to a whole city?”
“Go does.” Udi said. “I do.”
“Yeah, ah, I do too, now. Field knowledge. Been lacking in the field experience.” Stevens opened the Exit door. No alarm sounded. “Do you have anyone, know anyone in San Diego?”
“No. You know me. Always on the move.”
“Yeah, I know that. No attachments to lose.”
“Mark, that’s not true. I have you and my family.” Udi’s voice stopped being relaxed. “Why are you being so odd? What are you going to do?”
“Not just sit safely on my butt. Going to do some field work for a change. Uhm, call ya back later.” Stevens clicked off his phone and popped out the battery. He took the stairs down. He hurried down noisily without his usual caution.
The black full sized pick-up was pale with dust. The roar of its oversized engine dominated the vacant desert-scape. One of Go’s seven phones rang. They were laid out on the passenger’s seat. He had to check two before he got the one sounding. “One down, six to go. Chris, what is it?”
“Udiko Forest insisted. Sorry.” Chris said.
“No, it’s okay. Put her through.” Go inserted the phone into the truck’s speaker system.
Udi’s voice came on in mid-sentence. “. . . men like this? Always have to be pro-actively stupid in initiating of their own death. And they call women emotional . . .”
“Udi, Go here what’s this about?” Go talked to the windshield as he sped down the empty road. “Nice to hear your voice by the way.”
“Oh, yeah, hi . . . It’s just that Mark is heading for San Diego.” Udi’s voice weakened.
“I’m here too Go.” It was Stevens’ voice.
“I conferenced everyone in, my job’s done here, so Bye.” Chris clicked off.
“Hey, Kid, why you going back to San Diego? Want to direct traffic in a stampede?” Go raised his voice.
“I just . . . couldn’t . . . had to do something to help . . .” Stevens’ voice seemed extremely distant. “Seems like I’ve just been a leaf blowing around in the wind . . .”
“Machismo makes me so angry. What you’re going to do is get yourself killed.” Udi almost yelled it from Chile without the satellite.
“Kid,” Go lowered his voice. “You’ve done a lot already.”
“It was Udi knowing you. It was you. It wasn’t me.”
“Hey kid, it is who you know, you know. Always was, still is.” Go wasn’t sure what to say either. “This situation has pushed all of us around. I sure as hell don’t like it, but we’ll get on top of the wave.”
“How’s that? I don’t see what else to do, but clean up after.”
“There’s still other bombs in other cities to find. They won’t go off this time. Need to keep some as further leverage. You’re needed in Washington.” Go was trying to sound concerned over a three way phone link. The electronic isolation made him suddenly feel insecure and alone in a deserted desert, just like he was.
“Just an analyst, plenty of those. Who needs one more?” Stevens’ voice was over shadowed by the growling disapproval of Udi. “I need some hands on experience. Get dirty for a change.”
“Kid, I need you then, in place, in Washington. Rest of the world can fuck itself.” Then the circuit went dead. Not even static. Go slammed hard on the brakes. The truck skidded a long ways until it stopped. It was okay, his truck was the only thing out there. The desert was pale. The desert was cold. Even when it was hot, the desert could feel very cold. Go looked off to the right. The sun was low in the sky. He knew he was too far away to see anything, but still he felt the heat of the blast on his face. “Fucking Colombians never could tell time!” Go yelled, opened the driver’s door, threw the phone onto the worn dusty asphalt, backed the truck up and then in forward, crashed the phone under the truck tires and continued south.
Udiko sat in her office re-dialing Stevens’ phone. Tears ran down her cheeks. Dial – no response, dial – no response, dial no-response.
There was a knock and then her office door popped open and a man yelled, “There’s been a nuclear event in San Diego!”
“I know . . .I know . . .” Udiko continued to dial and cry.
The man slammed the door continuing his polite vocal news broadcast.
Dial – no response, Dial – no response, Dial – no response.
“I don’t know Chris, I feel kind of foolish.” Stevens stood in the reception area of Camp Pendleton. He was dirty and tired. His hair was still defiant of mother Earth and her gravity. “I didn’t get much past Carlsbad, before . . . Well . . . took me a while to get back to Pendleton.” He looked at his left hand, it was smudged and greasy. “Got my hands dirty, at least. I realized I could be more useful here, get back to D.C. when I can.”
“No problem here, I’ll get a message to Go and MS Forest that you’re alright.” Chris’ voice was always upbeat when on the job. “Your e-mail will have a secure message from me with instructions on how to contact him, but he won’t be available for a few days.”
“Chris, way back in the 1820’s, Simon Bolivar said. ‘I fear peace more than war.’ Do you think this is what he meant?”
“Don’t know. The quote I always remember is from Machiavelli, ‘War makes thieves, and peace hangs them.’ Adding heroes is my only amendment to the quote.”
“Thieves and heroes?” Stevens replied.
“Heroes and thieves.” Chris chuckled. “The reality is, it’s hard to distinguish the two, sometimes. That’s why they hang both of them. But you did a good job Mark, remember that.”
“Some hero? Don’t deserve hangin’. All I did was survive.”
“And actually that’s good enough, most of the time.”
THE END
Copyright 2006
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Just to be perfectly clear!
All Rights to this piece reside with the Author