Blood Flag: A Paul Madriani Novel (26 page)

“We’re guests,” says Herman.

“In that case the entry fee is two hundred and fifty dollars each. You can pay by credit card or cash.”

Herman takes out his card and hands it to the man.

He runs the credit card, looks at the receipt, checks the card again, and says, “We’ll keep the tab open in case you want to order food, drinks, or anything else.” It’s the “anything else” that draws the wink from the man just in case we don’t understand. “Just give whoever waits on you the name on the credit card and they’ll add it to the bill. Private rooms are upstairs.”

“How convenient,” says Herman.

He gives the credit card back to Herman, then directs us to the security line across the entry area.

We get there and another one says: “You know the drill, gentlemen. Same as TSA at the airport except we don’t grab you in the crotch. We leave that to the girls. Take off your shoes, belts off your pants, everything out of your pockets, watches off. Everything goes into the plastic tubs, then step through the machine one at a time.”

It’s not nearly as advanced as the airport. The gateway is a simple metal detector, though as Herman goes through he sets it off.

“Sorry about that. I should have told you, I got some metal in my hip,” says Herman.

They send him back a second time. He sets it off again. This time they hold him on the other side and use a hand wand. It screams as it gets close to his hip. They frisk him and find nothing. “He’s OK,” says the guard. “Grab your stuff,” he tells Herman and waves me on. I step through the magnetometer without mishap.

We start to gather up our belongings and the guard says, “No. There’s no sense putting them back on. Just take the tubs into the dressing room, through the gallery.” He points the way. “You’re not allowed to wear street clothes beyond that point. They’ll provide you with swimwear and sandals, robes if you want them.”

He gives us each a pair of cloth slippers. We grab the plastic tubs with our stuff and start to slip our way across the cold tile toward the cavernous gallery. The Bavarian theme is carried on inside as well as out. Suits of armor and chain mail flank the wall on one side of the massive walkway.

On the right, high up on the wall above the display of armor, are tall Gothic windows. Through them I can see the upper parapets of an outer wall surrounding what appears to be an enclosed courtyard. Across the gallery on the other side is a fireplace large enough to swallow and burn an SUV.

Beyond the fireplace the wall is covered by bookshelves, leather-bound volumes stacked neatly behind closed cabinet doors. The carved filigreed wood is inlaid with diamond-shaped strips of brass. Whoever built the place spared no expense.

As we pass the bookshelves there are several large glass display cases spanning the wall to the end of the gallery. Behind the glass are mannequins in period costumes, Bavarian folk dress and military uniforms, some from earlier periods, some from the nineteenth century. One of the cases houses a German soldier complete with gas mask and helmet from World War I.

Herman nudges me with his elbow. “You see what I see?”

“I do.”

We stop for a moment and look.

Standing alone in the last display case is a figure dressed in the black uniform of a German officer. Around the neck is the military medal unmistakable as the Iron Cross. Above the elbow, on the left arm, the tunic sports a red armband with the black Nazi swastika. The mannequin has its hands posed on its hips, its unyielding face and sightless eyes fixed on the wall at the other side of the gallery. Covering the head is an officer’s cap with its shiny visor, and above it the death’s-head insignia of the SS.

THIRTY-FOUR

T
he Israeli consul general’s office was located in a brown high-rise office building at the corner of Wilshire and Granville in West Los Angeles. It was a large concave structure with smoked glass windows and a well-planted elevated plaza in front of the main entrance. Nino suspected that the plaza contained defensive obstacles for cars and trucks, to prevent bombs from being driven inside, though he didn’t know for sure since he’d never gone over and picked any of the flowers.

He also assumed that the Israelis probably took up the entire top floor of the sixteen-story structure. He had never been inside and had no intention of going now. The place was an armed camp. It bristled with security, and for good reason. The building housed at least five foreign diplomatic missions. Besides the Israelis, there were the Brits, the Swiss, the Hungarians, and three or four others.

The parking structure in back had secured areas chain-linked off and closed to the public. Here they parked their black SUVs with the smoked windows. There were also a few armored limos, though from what Nino could see, they were not often used.

Instead the choppers flew back and forth, landing on the rooftop helipad right above the Israeli offices. Diplomats, even in America, had wised up to the fact that it was no longer safe to ride on congested freeways where bumper-to-bumper traffic could make them sitting targets. Even an armored limo could be opened up like a soup can if you had the correct penetrating warhead on your RPG.

Nino sat under an umbrella outside a Japanese restaurant sipping green tea as he watched the front of the building from the other side of Wilshire Boulevard. Ari had an office inside. Nino knew it. And Ari knew that he knew it. The little Israeli cadaver wasn’t taking any chances, not since failing to nail Nino with the sniper team.

Ari actually came out of the building several times on foot. But each time he had at least two security men with him.

Once, the day before, Ari and his entourage actually walked within three feet of Nino, down the sidewalk and directly in front of the table where he was now sitting. Nino could have reached out and smacked the little bastard with a fly swatter. But he didn’t. Instead he looked down so that his face was covered by the brim of his large floppy hat. Nino stared at the sidewalk as the three men passed by. Fortunately he had shaved his legs the night before, at least up to his knees. Nino was almost disappointed when none of them even bothered to turn their heads and take a look.

Something told him that today would be different. Ari was a creature of habit. And that made him vulnerable. He almost always took a long lunch on Thursdays. He ate alone and he didn’t walk. He drove about nine miles across town to what apparently was one of his favorite haunts. It was a small open-air diner near the tourist-congested stalls inside the old Farmers Market in the Fairfax District of L.A. The only question in Nino’s mind was whether Ari was feeling safe enough to do it today.

He checked his watch. It was almost noon. He looked back toward the building. There was no sign of Ari’s car coming out of the lot next to the building where it was parked. Maybe not today, thought Nino. He would just have to be patient. Sooner or later he’d get him, assuming he had enough time. After all, there was business to take care of. He couldn’t constantly indulge his pleasures.

He got up slowly from the table, walked the few feet, and dropped the paper cup with the remaining tea and its bag into the trash. As he turned to come back to pick up the straw bag he glanced up and saw the car stopped near the corner of Stoner, about a block away. Ari was waiting to make a left turn onto Wilshire. He was alone in the car, headed for the 405 freeway on his way to lunch.

In the 1880s, before the village of Los Angeles became L.A., the area around what is now Third and Fairfax was a dairy farm. In 1900 a farmer drilling for water struck oil. Derricks went up almost immediately as far as the eye could see. As the city moved in around them, the derricks had to give way. They were noisy, smelly, and a fire hazard. The area fell into decline. In the 1930s, at the height of the Depression, two businessmen decided it would be a good idea to develop a small village where farmers from the outlying areas could come to town and sell their produce. And the Farmers Market was born.

It has been an institution for locals and tourists alike ever since. Usually crowded, largely open-air, it functions under a sprawling series of connected roofs and intersecting walkways, a series of barns, sheds, and other buildings constructed and patched together over the years. An old wooden clock tower presides over everything. Today the farms are gone and the market has gone high-tone. Starbucks presses cappuccinos under the clock tower. Vendors and merchants still sell meats, poultry, fruits, and vegetables, but much of it is shipped in from around the world along with high-end gourmet goods and other trendy consumer products. Step outside and there’s a tourist tram and a multiplex theater across the way.

But none of this meant anything to Ari. He was a traditional man. He had come here for the first time in the late seventies as a little boy. Brought by his grandmother, who lived in a big house on the corner of Third and Hoover, he remembered the market as it was back then. And he pined for the past. Ari had spent the first twelve years of his life in the United States before moving to Israel with his parents. He held both US and Israeli passports.

He stepped around all the glitz and headed for his favorite spot. It was a small open-air place called Moishe’s Restaurant at the far end of all the stalls. It wasn’t old, but it reminded him of the restaurants that his grandmother favored. That and the fact that they had great kebobs.

He walked up to the gleaming stainless-steel counter under the old green-and-white- striped canvas awning and ordered the usual: lamb kebobs with grilled tomato, peppers, and onions, a side of rice, and a sauce to die for. He gathered up the plastic knife, fork, and a couple of paper napkins and waited. Three minutes later the man behind the counter handed him a plastic plate filled with steaming food.

Ari carried it twenty feet or so to one of the small round metal tables up against a wall, where he was out of the traffic. The little round tables were probably the same ones he and his grandmother sat at so many years ago. He settled himself, back to the wall, in one of the three mint green folding chairs that surrounded the table and started to eat. He was enjoying the taste, savoring the flavors, halfway into the first kebob when the old lady wandered up to the table. She stood there for a second, looked in her bag, and then pulled the chair out next to him. She put her large straw bag down on the seat and kept looking inside, searching for something.

Ari didn’t say anything, but he did look around at the two empty tables just a few feet away. If she tried to sit down, he would tell her. But she didn’t. Instead she remained bent over, fishing for something in the bottom of her bag. The woman had the hairiest arms Ari had ever seen. When he glanced up he glimpsed the five o’clock shadow on the chin and the Adam’s apple. He didn’t say anything. After all, this was L.A. No one was surprised by anything anymore and correctness dictated that you kept your mouth shut. Ari diverted his eyes and kept eating, hoping she would take her bag and go.

A few seconds later something toppled out of the bag. Ari heard it hit the chair and felt it as it bounced onto the floor and hit his foot under the table. He looked down and saw a woman’s hairbrush lying there. Ari made no move to retrieve it. Instead he just sat there chewing, ignoring that the item was even there. Dressing like a woman was one thing. Expecting a guy to act as if you were was another.

The gravelly deep voice said, “Would you mind?”

Ari fumed. He didn’t look up. Instead he shook his head slowly and leaned down to reach under the table. His fingers were inches from the hairbrush. He strained to reach it. He was stretched out as far as he could, his back under the small table, when he felt the shock of the spring-loaded spike. It punched through his left side under his outstretched arm deep into his chest. As the needle-sharp tip entered his heart, Ari’s eyes opened wide. He leaned there frozen, paralyzed with pain.

Nino looked down and wiggled the handle on the stiletto’s long blade. He watched as Ari’s mouth opened. No words came out, only the gurgling sound of blood.

He moved the handle again, slid it out a few inches, and pushed it back in, all the way this time. He waited a couple of seconds and Ari’s body went slack. A little shove by Nino and the dead man’s upper torso was folded over, balanced perfectly on top of his motionless thighs and knees. Ari’s hands dangled on the ground. Anyone looking would think he was doing stretching exercises.

No one at the counter or in any of the public areas behind Nino could see a thing. His dress with its billowing folk skirt of many colors blocked their view as he stood there leaning over the table. He wondered if he’d make a fetching appearance on the market’s security cameras. Gypsy woman killer, he thought. Next time he’d wear cymbal rings.

He pulled the stiletto from Ari’s body, pressed the button retracting the blade back into the long handle, then dropped it into the straw bag. He reached down, scooped up the hairbrush, and did the same. Nino pumped up his best falsetto voice and said, “Thank you.” Then he gave a little curtsy, picked up the bag, and walked quickly away. Within seconds he had disappeared into the crowded shopping area.

THIRTY-FIVE

Y
ou think maybe there’s room inside that case back there for a flag?” says Herman.

“I don’t know.”

Herman and I are thinking the same thing. Maybe Menard was after something more than just Sofia?

We can hear women laughing and giggling, and the sounds of splashing water beyond the maze of lockers in the center of the room leading to the pool outside. The attendant comes by and hands us each a pair of tiny Speedos.

Herman looks at his, holds it up, and says, “I know they stretch, but I’m worried about if it snaps, goes off like a roadside bomb and kills half a dozen innocent bystanders.”

The guy laughs and says, “You’ve come to the wrong place if you think there’s anybody innocent out there. Help yourself to a pair of rubber sandals. Robes, if you want them, but nobody ever does. Enjoy yourselves.”

Ricardo Menard, known as Rick to his friends, is everything Joselyn described in the car that day driving out to Lang’s house. If she had given it to the cops for a sketch she couldn’t have been more dead-on. He is, in fact, tall, dark, and handsome right down to the gray streak on his temple. He even has a cleft that either his maker or some plastic surgeon chiseled into his chin.