Against All Enemies (17 page)

He glared at them. “You’re both going to eat a pile of shit on this one.” He stormed out of the office.

Sutherland looked at Catherine Blasedale. He had an absolute pit bull on his side. “He’s blowing smoke. We can talk to her any time she allows it.”

“He knows that,” Blasedale replied. “Why do you think she came here?”

“As she said, she was scared.”

Blasedale snorted. “Bullshit. Did you see the way she stood up to him? She’s one tough lady. And the way she was dressed! My god! You could hardly take your eyes off her.”

“I thought I did pretty good.”

Blasedale relented. “Actually, you did. She was testing you, seeing if you’re interested.”

“In her? Cathy, that’s crazy.”

“Is it? She certainly didn’t hesitate to lay a hand on you. You’re single and attractive, Hank. The Air Force is a small community and gossip does get around.”

“Cooper. He only wants the appearance of impropriety.”

“He did take an hour to get here,” Blasedale allowed.

Sutherland thought for a moment. “Why would she do it?”

The hard look on Blasedale’s face softened. “Because she loves her husband.” She could tell Sutherland didn’t understand. “You’ve seen it before—the classic mismatch. She married way above her background and Jefferson is her ticket to the better life. They haven’t been married that long and the sex is probably still great. She’ll change her bimbo image the moment Jefferson gets bored. She’s a lot smarter than she looks and is one dangerous woman when her man is threatened.” She paused to emphasize her next point. “Right now, you’re that threat.”

Sutherland’s eyes drew into hard slits. “We’re going to take the lady apart. I want a full-time surveillance on her.”

“Sounds fair to me,” Blasedale replied.

“Thanks for sparing me the
cherchez la femme
.”

She smiled at him. “
Mais oui
.”

The lieutenant colonel in command of the Whiteman OSI detachment was a big, friendly man, at ease with lawyers, and wore his summer two-tone blue uniform according to the latest Air Force Instruction. But the moment he appeared in the legal office later that same day, Sutherland took one look and thought of Dick Tracy.
It must go with the territory
, he decided.

“Problems, folks,” the OSI agent said. “I’ve already asked for, and gotten, five additional agents to help with this investigation. I’m stretched to the limit checking out the mission-planning cell. Putting a full-time surveillance on Mrs. Jefferson is gonna break my back. I haven’t got the manpower.”

“Try womanpower,” Blasedale said. “That might do the trick.”

The lieutenant colonel grinned. “Cut me some slack, Major. I’ve gone to the well too many times for help and need some muscle to ask for more.”

“I think we can provide the steroids,” Blasedale replied.

“I’d appreciate it,” the lieutenant colonel said. He dropped a folder on Sutherland’s desk. “This came in this morning. You’re gonna love it. Two agents at Det One-twelve at McClellan rooted it out.” He waited while the two lawyers read the report that detailed a money trail that led from Reno, to Warrensburg, and was linked to the Middle East through one August Ramar. “They may be onto something,” he allowed.

“I ran across Ramar in California,” Sutherland said. “He’s bad, bad news. He is one vicious bastard whom I’d love to render.” He thought for a moment. “Can you get these two agents here?”

“I can always ask,” the lieutenant colonel replied.

3:06
P.M.
, Thursday, May 27,
Pudu Prison, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia

A white sport-utility truck with U.S. embassy plates pulled through the gates of the prison and halted in front of the administration building. The two men who got out were young and dressed in casual clothes. Their shirts hung loose over their pants to conceal the handguns clipped to their belts. One carried a briefcase with the signed extradition papers along with handcuffs, a waist chain, and leg shackles. In spite of their official cover as assistants to the business and economic attaché, they were easily recognized as CIA agents.

An assistant led them to the prison governor’s office. “Mr. Sahman is conducting an execution,” the assistant told them.

“Interesting work,” Bill Mears said, “hanging the bad guys.” Bill Mears was the bigger of the two and the senior CIA agent in Malaysia.

Chuck Robertson touched the bandage wrapped around his neck. His bruised larynx still hurt but was healing nicely. “I wish it was Kamigami,” he rasped.

“He’d break the rope,” Mears said. “Be a little grateful, it was his wife who saved you.”

“You ever had a hole punched in your throat?”

“Relax, Chuck. It’s payback time.”

Chuck Robertson snorted. “Much to his surprise.”

Mears gave him a hard look, a warning not to discuss that particular subject. They waited in silence for twenty minutes until Sahman appeared. The governor of the prison was a short, corpulent, bald-headed man in his late fifties. He wore a dark red tunic with gold buttons and a Mao collar. His face was covered with sweat, but not from exertion. “Unfortunate,” Sahman breathed. “Very unfortunate.” There was no hint of regret in his voice. He was a methodical man who enjoyed his work, especially when it involved hanging a man—in this case, a Chinese merchant convicted of smuggling drugs.

The assistant wheeled in a tray with tea cups and small round sweet cakes. As hospitality dictated, the men sipped at the hot tea. “He soiled himself badly,” Sahman said, making small talk. “So unnecessary.”

“Maybe you should make them wear diapers,” Mears ventured.

“Ah,” Sahman said, taking the suggestion seriously, “a good idea but that would be undignified.” The obligatory tea dispensed with, Bill Mears handed him the extradition papers. Sahman spent several minutes reading every word before calling for his assistant who did the same. “All appears to be in order,” he finally said. “We will prepare Mr. Kamigami for travel.” The assistant disappeared out the door.

“Was he any trouble?” Robertson asked, his voice gravelly.

“There was one incident,” Sahman replied. “He was in a general cell and four of his cellmates assaulted him. We believe they wanted to steal his sandals but it may have been sexual. Mr. Kamigami broke three of their heads against the wall. He shoved the ringleader’s head through the bars. We don’t know how he did that. The guards had to cut the bars to free him. He died later in the infirmary. Most unfortunate. After that, we moved him into a solitary cell. So much better for everyone.”

“You’re not charging Kamigami?” Robertson asked.

“Because he acted in self-defense, no. Normally, we whip prisoners for fighting. But none of the guards were willing to do it.” He looked at the Americans, his face a bland mask. “Of course, I could not do it.”

“Of course not,” Robertson allowed.

The door opened and four guards escorted Kamigami into the room. His leather wrist cuffs were shackled to a thick leather belt around his waist. He was hobbled by a short chain between leather ankle cuffs. A longer chain ran from each ankle cuff to the belt. He was wearing the same sandals, shirt, and khaki shorts as when he was arrested. But his clothes were freshly washed and pressed. “Well, Victor,” Sahman said, “these gentlemen are returning you to the States. Do you wish to read the extradition papers?”

“If you have read them, Mr. Sahman,” Kamigami replied, “then I’m sure all is in order.” The governor actually beamed at the praise from his prisoner.

“Use these,” Mears said, handing the guards the handcuffs and chains from his briefcase. A torrent of Malay erupted from the guards as they stepped back.

“Victor,” Sahman said, “they want your permission to change your shackles. Is that acceptable?” Kamigami nodded and another burst of Malay echoed from the guards. Finally, the junior man was pushed forward. He spoke in a halting voice. “He begs your forgiveness,” Sahman said to Kamigami. “May he proceed?”

“For Christ’s sake,” Robertson rasped. “He’s been here six days and acts like he owns the place.”

The guard gingerly replaced Kamigami’s leather cuffs with the ones the Americans had brought. Kamigami stood motionlessly while the guard looped a waist chain around him and through the handcuffs. With his hands securely fastened to the waist chain and his legs hobbled with the new shackles, the guard bobbed his head in a small bow and stepped back. “Mr. Kamigami is now your responsibility,” Sahman said.

“Let’s go,” Robertson rasped, his voice giving out. He led the way outside, followed by Kamigami, the guards, and finally Mears.

Robertson held open the rear door to the white truck as Kamigami crawled in. He slammed the door, almost hitting him. “Got’cha,” Robertson sneered. They drove out of the prison and turned left along the brightly painted mural that ran the length of the prison wall depicting jungle scenes of freedom.

Robertson turned around from the front seat and leveled his nine-millimeter Beretta at Kamigami. “You breathe wrong and I’ll blow your shit away.”

“Where are we going?” Kamigami asked.

“Not we,” Mears answered. “You. You’re going back to the States.”

Kamigami stared straight ahead as they drove south out of Kuala Lumpur. When he was certain they were on the main highway to Singapore, he asked for a drink of water. He briefly ran over his next moves.
Shadows within darkness
, he thought, recalling what May May had said about Rios. He glanced at the sun. It would be dark by the time they covered the 240 miles to the causeway that separated Malaysia from Singapore. So much the better.

The sound of screeching tires woke Kamigami. He was instantly awake. They were stopped in heavy traffic on a trestle bridge. He quickly took stock of where they were. The license plates were all from Singapore. When had they crossed the causeway?
You’re getting old
, he told himself,
falling asleep like that
. “May I have a drink of water?” he asked.

“You drink enough for a horse,” Robertson grumbled. He handed Kamigami a plastic bottle. “I’m surprised you haven’t had to take a piss.”

Kamigami took a long pull at the bottle. “I need to.”

“Tough,” Mears replied from the driver’s seat. “You’ll have to wait.”

“Not too long, I hope.” The men waited impatiently for the traffic to start moving. But gridlock on the streets leading off the bridge had frozen them in place. “I have to go,” Kamigami said. His chains allowed him enough slack to reach for the door handle. It was locked. He twisted and felt something give. He hit the door with the palm of his hand and it snapped open. He got out.

“Get your ass back in here,” Mears snarled. Kamigami hobbled over to the bridge railing and made a big show of unzipping his pants. He seriously doubted they would shoot him in the back in front of so many witnesses. Not even in Singapore was urinating in public a crime subject to summary execution. Mears was right behind him. He jammed his Beretta into Kamigami’s ribs. “I said, get your ass back in the car.”

With a speed that defied the senses, Kamigami spun around and knocked the gun out of Mears’s hand with his left elbow. He kicked it through a scupper and into the water thirty feet below. At the same time he butted Mears on the forehead, stunning him. Mears collapsed, skidding down the front of Kamigami’s legs. Kamigami grabbed him by the hair with both hands and threw him over the railing. But he didn’t let go. Robertson was out of the car, gun drawn, and headed for Kamigami. “Don’t,” Kamigami said.

Robertson stopped. “The key,” Kamigami said, his voice calm. Robertson hesitated and Kamigami banged Mears’s head against the railing, knocking him unconscious. “I’ll drop him,” Kamigami said. Robertson fumbled with the key and unlocked the handcuffs and waist chain. The traffic was starting to move as Kamigami drove his free right fist into Robertson’s solar plexus, doubling him up. He pulled Mears back over the railing and bent over to unlock his leg shackles.

A witness ran up to the policeman at the end of the bridge who was trying to unsnarl the traffic jam. At first, his screams didn’t make sense: something about a huge man freeing himself from a chain and using it to hang two men from the railing. The policeman ran onto the bridge as the white truck in question drove past. As the witness had claimed, two Caucasians were dangling from the bridge, linked together by a chain wrapped around the railing. Mears was hanging upside down from a leg shackle and Robertson from a handcuff.

10:05
A.M.
, Friday, May 28,
The Farm, Western Virginia

The whiz kids huddled around a table arguing how “fuzzy logic” really worked. Durant could not follow the technical aspects of the argument but sensed they didn’t truly know what was going on inside Agnes when the computer had to deal with new problems. The discussion seemed to be going off in several directions at once; two of the kids were even questioning the need for voice technologies while another faction wanted to restructure the massive parallel processing systems that made Agnes work.

As usual, Durant carefully followed the discussion. He was listening for an idea or concept worth developing, which was how Agnes started over five years ago. One of the original kids had thought voice technologies had reached the point they could be commercially exploited. Durant had immediately sensed that it was the way to stay in command of the field and had sold the Project to the government as a way to finance the research behind voice interaction. It was proving much harder and time consuming than anyone had anticipated, and he had sunk over two billion dollars of his own money into the Project.

“Enough,” he finally said. “It’s time to see if Agnes can work with a new person.”

The nominal spokeswoman for the whiz kids looked worried. “So far, the only way we can get Agnes to respond consistently to a specific person is to first profile that person’s speech and voice patterns into her data banks.”

“And I was your first test case, correct?” Durant asked. He laughed at their embarrassment. “Well, it’s time to find out how much Agnes has learned.” He picked up a phone and called Gillespie, the redheaded helicopter pilot in command of the 20th Special Ops Squadron. “Gil,” Durant said, “please meet us at the Project in five minutes. Art will show you the way.” He looked at the whiz kids. “Let’s go.” They trooped out of the room and headed for the control room, an unhappy bunch of scientists.

Art Rios and Gillespie were waiting outside the control room when they arrived. Durant gave Gillespie an encouraging nod and opened the door. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Agnes was waiting for them when they walked in. She smiled at the helicopter pilot. “Colonel Gillespie, I presume?” she asked. Gillespie looked around and, lacking any clues, nodded.

“Agnes,” Durant said, “I want you to work with Gil here on the rescue mission we’re planning. Can you do that?”

Agnes smiled. “Certainly, Mr. Durant.” She looked expectantly at Gillespie. “What can I do for you, Colonel?”

Gillespie looked embarrassed and cleared his throat. “Well, ah, we have a problem on the ground.” He went over the plan in some detail and soon he and Agnes were talking like old friends. Finally, Gillespie came to the heart of the problem. “Our major glitch is that we haven’t found a way to get Major Terrant and Captain Holloway to the extraction point.”

“I don’t know who Major Glitch is,” Agnes said.

The whiz kids looked crestfallen. Agnes still couldn’t process the idioms and vernacular of the English language not peculiar to Durant. Agnes gave Gillespie a shy smile. “That’s a joke.” The image gave a little nod in the direction of the whiz kids. They immediately jotted down notes and spoke into their microcassette recorders. This was a new aspect of Agnes they had never seen. Agnes became all business. “May I suggest you approach the CIA and see if they have an agent in place? I tried to query their System Four, but it is a totally sealed system and cannot be penetrated.”

“What’s System Four?” one of the whiz kids asked.

Agnes gave him a patronizing look. “The computer system that tracks all CIA operations and field agents.”

“You’re a sweetheart,” Gillespie said. Agnes beamed at him.

8:30
P.M.
, Saturday, May 29,
Kansas City, Mo.

“You drive,” Harry Waldon said as he dropped their bags into the trunk of the rented car. Toni stretched in the muggy night air, glad for any activity after the flight from Sacramento. She climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine. “Damn humidity,” Harry muttered. “The air conditioner had better work.” He slammed his door shut and fiddled with the controls. A cool gush of air washed over them. “How far to Warrensburg?”

“About ninety minutes,” Toni answered as she drove out of the airport rental lot. She headed for the freeway that looped around the city. She slowed when she saw the flashing lights and cars that blocked the on ramp. Two men wearing uniforms she did not recognize waved them to a stop. She smiled and rolled down her window when one of them approached her side of the car. The man made a big show of resting his hand on the grips of the nine-millimeter Glock strapped under his potbelly. “Good evening, officer,” Toni said, smiling at him. She reached for her handbag to show him her ID.

“Don’t do that,” the man growled. His hand tightened around the pistol grips as he took a half-step back. “Hey, Jim Bob!” he called to his partner, “I got a Chiquita here.”

“Do I look like a banana?” Toni snapped.

“And a real smart-ass!” the man roared. He grabbed the door handle and jerked. But it was locked and he fumbled for the lock to pull it up.

“Hold on!” Harry shouted.

“Get her out!” Jim Bob yelled, running up to Harry’s side of the car. The man jerked the door open and pulled Toni out of the car by her hair. Before Harry could get out, Jim Bob jammed the muzzle of his pistol against Harry’s neck. “Freeze,” he snarled.

Long experience had taught Harry when to play Teddy bear. He put his hands on the dash, fingers spread. “Hey, we don’t want trouble. We’re—”

A loud yelp from the man who had dragged Toni out of the car stopped Harry from telling Jim Bob they were OSI agents. “What the hell!” Jim Bob shouted.

“Damn,” Harry muttered. He knew what had happened. His hands flashed and he twisted the gun out of Jim Bob’s hand. At the same time he jerked, pulling Jim Bob into the open car window. His big hand crashed down on the back of Jim Bob’s head, slamming his jaw onto the windowsill. Harry kicked the door open and pushed Jim Bob to the ground before he rushed around the car. The man who had dragged Toni out of the car was lying on the ground moaning.

“He grabbed my breasts,” Toni growled. Like Harry, she was holding the man’s gun. Her hair was hanging down in front of her face in disarray.

“Where did you kick him?”

“Which time?”

The man groaned and held his gonads. Four more men rushed up, their weapons drawn. “We’re Federal agents,” Harry shouted, not about to explain what the OSI was. He carefully extracted his ID and handed it to them. “Now what the hell is going on?”

A young man climbed into the back of the panel van and introduced himself to Toni and Harry. He was wearing a short-sleeved white shirt and tie. His hair was cut short and his face had a freshly scrubbed look. “Please accept my apologies,” he said, “but this patrol is not from around here.” He handed them back their IDs. “They haven’t been trained properly. But in their defense, we have information that the Calle Treintas and Red Steps are coming here. Needless to say, my men were being overly cautious.”

Toni stiffened at the mention of the two notorious Latino street gangs from California. “Your information is wrong. They’re both out of business.”

“Exactly who are you?” Harry demanded.

“I’m a commander in the First Brigade and these men are deputies from a Neighborhood Brigade. They came up from Arkansas to help us.”

“Help you do what?” Toni demanded. “Molest women?”

The young man blushed brightly. “No ma’am. I assure you they will be dealt with properly.”

“What exactly are you doing here?” Harry asked, very much aware of the drawn guns outside the van.

“The Brigades are forming neighborhood patrols to help the police. We’re making sure criminal elements, like the Calle Treintas and Red Steps, do not enter law-abiding neighborhoods and stay in their own areas.” He swelled with pride. “They’ve chosen Kansas City to implement the program.”

Who are “they?”
Toni thought. “Criminal elements?” she asked aloud. “Do I look like a criminal?”

“Well, you do match the profile we’ve been given. Like I said, my men overreacted and they will be disciplined.”

Harry reached out and clamped a hand on Toni’s arm, stopping her from talking. “Well, I think they meant well, don’t you?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “After all, we’re all on the same side, aren’t we? If you can assure us that this won’t happen again, then we’d like to drop it and get on with our business.”

Toni’s nostrils flared as she sucked in a breath of air. But Harry’s look warned her to go along. “That will be fine with me.”

The young man brightened. “Thank you. I’ll see that you’re escorted around Kansas City until you’re free of the roadblocks.”

Toni stared at him in disbelief. “You mean there’s more of these?”

“Oh, yes. We are very serious about protecting our neighborhoods.”

Harry drove as they followed the pickup with flashing lights and Illinois license plates while Toni gingerly rearranged her hair. Her scalp still hurt from being dragged out of the car. “That asshole,” she mumbled. Harry said nothing and by the time they reached Raytown on the southeastern side of Kansas City, she had calmed down. They didn’t slow as they drove through another roadblock. “That’s number eight,” Toni said. “What the hell is going on?”

“Beats me,” Harry answered. “But there was a sheriff’s patrol car at that one. Whatever is happening, the police are part of it.”

The pickup they were following pulled over and they stopped with it. The driver got out and walked back to them, all smiles. “You’ll be okay now. Just keep going straight ahead until you hit Highway Fifty. Go east and that will take you to Whiteman. Have a nice day, now.” He ambled back to the pickup and they watched him drive off.

“Harry, they’re only stopping cars with African-Americans.”

“Or in our case, Mexican-Americans.”

“Is Kansas City going crazy?”

Harry looked into the night as if he were trying to see something. “It’s happening all over.”

10:40
A.M.
, Monday, May 31,
Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.

I know her from someplace
, Sutherland thought.
But where?
He forced his attention away from the two OSI agents standing against the back wall of his office and focused on the battle going on in front of him. It wouldn’t look good if the local OSI detachment commander and the two FBI agents from Kansas City gave up verbal assaults for the real thing.

“This isn’t why we’re here,” the senior FBI agent said.

“What the hell is the matter with you?” the OSI commander rumbled. “Two of my agents get jacked up by goons at an illegal roadblock Saturday night and you don’t want to get involved.”

“One of them dragged me out of the car by my hair and grabbed my breasts,” Toni said. Sutherland welcomed the chance to turn his attention back to her.

“And you decked him with a swift kick in the charlies,” the FBI agent replied.

“Sounds like a quick attitude adjustment to me,” Sutherland said. Toni smiled at him.

Blasedale was standing in the doorway of the crowded office and for the first time, Sutherland realized she was slightly claustrophobic. “We’ll file a formal report and forward it through channels,” she said.

The FBI agent tried to calm the situation down. “I’d appreciate that,” he told them. “I wish we could get involved, but we’re swamped and getting over a hundred phone calls a day. Hell, we logged three threats against the President alone yesterday. The place is going crazy.” He handed Sutherland a clipboard with a stack of forms. “We’re just here to deliver the Osmana Khalid files you requested.”

Sutherland thumbed through the forms, signing where the FBI agent pointed. “Where are they?”

“Outside, in a truck.”

Toni and Harry helped carry in the last of the cardboard file boxes and stacked them against the wall in the corridor outside Sutherland’s office. Blasedale did a quick count and confirmed that all eighty-four boxes were accounted for. “We’re going to have to get them under lock and key,” she told Sutherland.

“Maybe the law library,” Sutherland said.

“You’ll need more room than that,” the OSI detachment commander said.

“We can use the witness waiting room,” Blasedale said.

“How in the hell are we going to wade through all this?” Sutherland wondered. The answer came to him in a flash. “When I was with the D.A., detectives were detailed to help us with investigations. Maybe Agents Waldon and Moreno could—”

“You want ’em,” the OSI detachment commander said, “you got ’em. But covering the Jefferson woman is your problem, not mine.” He grabbed his hat and left.

Harry shook his head. “We can do more for you sniffin’ around on the outside and working independently. Especially, if you want to stake out Mrs. Jefferson.”

Toni glanced at Sutherland and then at Harry. “Maybe we can do both. When I’m not out in the field, I’ll be in here working the official side. For cover, I can be a part-time civilian clerk brought in to help with the workload. That way, I can also work on the files and act as a relay.”

Harry considered the possibilities. “Good cross-feed can work wonders.” Nods all around confirmed the arrangement. “I’ll work up a surveillance plan and get things rolling. Nice meeting you all.” He disappeared down the hall.

“Harry loves fieldwork,” Toni told them. “I need to find a place to stay in town. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” She followed Harry out.

When they were alone, Blasedale and Sutherland moved the file boxes into the law library and witness waiting room. “You almost stepped on your tongue,” she said, shoving past him.

“What?” he sputtered.

“Agent Moreno. You were mentally undressing her.”