City of War (28 page)

At the end of the passageway, we came to a large manhole cut into the concrete floor. An iron grate covering it had been removed, and more work lights and the hose ran down into it. The top of a steel ladder extended a foot above the rim, and without hesitating, Jeremy and Ian disappeared down.

Max froze, but I prodded him hard in the back, and with shaking hands and legs, he managed to get onto the ladder. As I followed him down, I saw the broken remains of ancient, iron handholds protruding from the rock. However, as we passed a distinct, still-wet waterline on the walls, the handholds disappeared. Rusted away.

Thirty-five feet later, we dropped onto black bedrock, wet and slippery with algae. We were in a round chamber perhaps twenty feet in diameter. Along the walls behind the ladder lay coiled ropes and pressure hoses, acetylene and oxygen tanks, a pair of welding masks, heavy gloves and a torch.

To the right extended another lighted passageway, this one slightly narrower than the one above. Its entry was through a hinged, vertical iron grate as tall as I was. It reminded me of a bank vault.

Ian had to raise his voice to be heard over the humming noise now. “This is where they held African slaves bound for London. The U.S. gets most of the human trafficking vitriol, but beginning around 1700 and running for a hundred and seventy-five years, Britain had her own issues. The Trade Triangle they teach you in school—guns and trinkets to Africa; slaves to America; then tobacco, sugar and cotton back here—is only part of the picture. What they don’t mention is that some English owners of American plantations couldn’t say no to cheap labor and imported domestic help right from the outset. Cooks, housekeepers and liverymen mostly, but some were brought for sex—all kinds.”

He looked at Maximus Rhein. “Welcome, Mr. Rhein. They say if you listen carefully, you can still hear the screams.” To
me, he said, “Everything you requested is about halfway in, Mr. Black. There’s a wide spot cut into the rock, where mothers used to sit and nurse their babies.”

“What’s that noise?” Rhein demanded nervously.

Jeremy pointed to the hose. “A pump. We’re about twenty-five feet below river level. Perhaps you noticed the waterline on the way down. Eighty years ago, the city fathers flooded the catacombs to keep history as non-visual as possible. It’s a criminal offense to be down here.” He winked at Rhein. “Don’t tell, okay?”

Jeremy Tyrconnel stepped aside, and Ian entered the passageway. I pushed Max after him.

“What do you think this is going to solve?” Rhein shouted over his shoulder, trying to sound belligerent but not pulling it off.

“Solve? I’m not trying to solve anything.”

“Then why bring me to this dreadful place? Okay, you win, I’m terrified. But you could have just shot me in my office. Dead is dead.”

“Max, I’m surprised at you. This is England. I’m not carrying a gun.”

Ahead, the tunnel began to widen, and shortly, we were standing in a much larger area, about the size of a hotel suite. Stacked against the far wall were a wet suit, mask, regulator and four individual scuba tanks.

“Get changed,” I said to Max.

He looked at me with palpable terror. “I don’t dive anymore,” he stammered. “I’m too old.”

I reached out and took his suit coat off him. “It’s just like riding a bicycle.”

As Max Rhein stripped, he began to weep. He didn’t beg or cry out, he just sobbed to himself. And like in the office, I tried to feel something—anything—but nothing came.

Just then the pump stopped. The silence was momentarily startling, and the hose immediately deflated. Then Ian came into view, carrying the hose and coupling over his shoulder
like the head of a giant, dead anaconda. He disappeared in the direction of the entrance.

Max was in the wet suit now, his business clothes folded neatly and sitting on his shoes so they didn’t touch the damp floor. I noticed that the wet suit was a little large, making him appear smaller than he was.

He had stopped sobbing, but his throat still spasmed like a child’s. “What happens now?”

“Without the pump, this chamber is going to start filling with water. About two inches an hour, I’m told.”

I saw him look up at the ceiling and do a rough calculation. Eight feet. Forty-eight hours.

“That should give you plenty of time to scream yourself hoarse and run back and forth a few times before you get exhausted and settle down to do some serious thinking. Maybe even spend a minute or two on some of the children you sentenced to live in agony thousands of miles from their parents.

“Roughly two days from now, you’ll need to strap on the first tank. That will buy you another hour. There’s one for each of my parents, one for Sanrevelle, and one for our baby. My wife was pregnant, or didn’t you know? By the time you reach the end of the fourth tank, maybe you’ll be halfway to some of the anguish you’ve caused others. Of course, there’s always the possibility you’ll go mad and forget the tanks, and that will be okay too.”

As the reality of what I was saying washed over him, I saw he was about to become hysterical. I stepped forward and slapped him—hard. It brought him back.

“Please, don’t do this,” he cried. “I’m begging you. Just kill me. Oh, dear God, please, just kill me now.”

“Max, God has nothing to do with this.” And with that, I turned and walked away.

As I exited the chamber, Ian closed the iron grate behind me and padlocked it, then he turned off the work lights, and the slave chamber went dark. Turning, he began to help
Jeremy, who was now wearing the welding gear and rolling a massive, steel plate over the grate.

Just before the plate hit home, I thought I caught a glimpse of Maximus Rhein running headlong toward us, his face becoming a skeleton. But I couldn’t be sure.

And then Jeremy fired the acetylene.

22

Late-Night NFL and RICO

I left the
Sanrevelle
with Eddie with instructions to go through it with a fine-tooth comb and a bottle of bleach. Afterwards, he and Liz were to sail it down to F&G Yacht Design in San Diego for a refit.

F&G’s owner, Preston Gage, is as discreet a man as exists, and if Eddie and I had missed something, he wouldn’t. He’s another Delta guy, but we didn’t serve at the same time. Preston lost a leg in Sierra Leone, and somebody we both knew called me when the VA was putting him through a Catch-22 for a prosthesis. They wanted paperwork, which they couldn’t get because the mission had been off the books, so as far as the bureaucrats were concerned, Preston might as well have lost his leg in a bar fight.

Bert Rixon got him fitted with one of his prostheses, then hired a therapist to teach him the intricacies of muscle and nerve manipulation. During the long hours of learning to walk again, Preston picked up a design magazine in the therapist’s office and got hooked. Fabrics and colors aren’t a traditional career path for former special ops guys, but as Preston is quick to point out, “There’s a lot more money in Ralph
Lauren than checking car trunks at a nuke plant.” Rhonda used to work for him before she struck out on her own.

I wanted to avoid the heliport, so I borrowed
Zydeco,
and Archer and I ran flat out to San Pedro. There, we grabbed a cab and headed for Dove Way.

It wasn’t as bad as I expected. Tino and Dante evidently hadn’t stuck around after Mallory had gotten away. I called Melvin Rose again and told him to get his Russian women out to the house as soon as possible. I also asked him to get someone to board up the window the two Corsicans had broken on the way in.

My preference for temporary quarters would normally be the Beverly Hills Hotel, but as nice as it is, there are too many ways in and out, and the bungalows are set off by themselves. I decided instead on the Beverly Wilshire, right in the middle of downtown BH. Also, a personal friend, Duke Pennington, a former SWAT commander for the Sheriff’s Department, is head of security.

They offered me the Pretty Woman suite, but I opted for a penthouse in the much less conspicuous Beverly Wing next door. To belt and suspenders it, Duke assigned an extra security man to the desk next to the private elevator. He also called in a marker and had a couple of uniforms come by and run Archer home to pack some fresh clothes.

I gave Archer the bedroom facing west, and I took the one with the view of the Hollywood Hills. We were both exhausted, so I found an NFL game on television and we ordered Beverly Wilshire baby shrimp salads and a bottle of merlot from room service.

I don’t know what time we went to bed, but the game wasn’t over yet, and I was asleep before I hit the pillow. I awakened at 2:30 and lay there for a moment, looking at the lights in the hills as the second hand on the electric clock clicked softly on the nightstand.

I heard Archer come in. She wasn’t wearing anything, and
she had her hair pulled back in a ponytail, leaving her scar and eye uncovered. She looked as sexy as any woman I had ever seen. She didn’t say anything, just pulled back the sheet and got in next to me. I turned, and she kissed me deeply.

I started to put my arms around her, but she put both hands on my chest and pushed me back gently. She kissed my chest and lingered at my nipples, teasing them with her teeth. Then she slid the rest of the way down and took me in her mouth.

I started to stroke her hair, but she stopped me again. “Don’t,” she whispered. “I’m very good at this, and I want to do it for you. But I’m so keyed up, I’m about to explode. If you touch me, I won’t be able to concentrate.”

So I lay back and looked at the hills again. Shortly, they wouldn’t stay in focus. She was right. She was very good.

I wanted to see Jake, so Duke assigned Doreen Cantwell, his second-in-command at the hotel and a former county jail supervisor, to go with Archer while she got her hair done at José Eber and picked up some makeup at Neiman Marcus. Doreen is black, pretty and built like a linebacker, and I could imagine how many wiseasses she’d straightened out during her time in uniform.

I was waiting for my car on El Camino Real, the private street that runs between the two wings of the hotel, when a voice came up behind me. “I see you’re famous again this morning.” It was Duke, a perfectly tailored, blue pin-striped suit draped over his six-foot-five frame and looking more like Julius Erving than usual. “Front page of the
Times,
and you didn’t even have to get shot. Is that why you’re hiding out in my crib?”

“Partly. If any reporters show up, I’d appreciate it if you could keep them out of my hair.”

“You’re already invisible on the hotel computer, but I’ll keep my eyes open.”

“Thanks.”

“I figure you’re not stupid enough to do something like this without a plan. So whatever it is, I hope it works, because from where I sit, you look like a dead man trying to find a place to lie down.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

I saw my Rolls crest the hill from the underground garage. There was somebody sitting in the front seat with the valet. The kid stopped the car and got out looking nervous. He didn’t wait around for a tip.

Sergeant Manarca leaned across the seat. “Well, if it ain’t the Duke himself,” he said. “How’s the house dick business?”

Duke looked down at the detective. “Morning, Dion. Hope you’re not applying for a valet gig. How many department cars you wrecked this week, or do you still have that dimwit spic driving you around?”

Manarca smiled. “What’s a big day for you now, Pennington? Busting a weenie-wagger at the pool?”

It was just a bullshit exchange between two cops, but you didn’t need a decoder ring to know there was a history, and it still had bite.

“Get in, Mr. Black,” Manarca said to me. “Let’s take a ride.”

He smiled, but it wasn’t friendly, and I got behind the wheel. This hadn’t taken as long as I thought it would.

As I pulled out and turned onto Rodeo Drive, Manarca said, “Never been in one of these fuckers before. About four hundred grand, right? Humidor in the glove compartment, safe in the trunk. Makes you wonder how Toyota stays in business, don’t it?”

“Where would you like me to drop you?” I said, ignoring his question, which wasn’t a question anyway.

“Oh, no place in particular. Just drive. My partner’s behind us.”

I looked in the mirror and saw Detective Pantiagua behind the wheel of a black sedan that might as well have had “cop” emblazoned on the windshield.

I turned onto Wilshire and headed east. Manarca had a
folded newspaper in his lap. He opened it so I could see the headline. It was the one Duke had been referring to.

“You know what two words you never want to hear your cellmate say?” Manarca asked.

“I have a feeling I’m about to find out.”

“Nice dick.”

“You make that up or steal it from your wife?”

Manarca seemed to like that. “You’re a clever guy, Black. Quick too. You want to take a stab at why it fits into what we’re talking about?”

“I wasn’t aware we were talking about anything, but go ahead, enlighten me.”

“I’m gonna give you twenty-four hours to drop your bullshit lawsuit, or I’m gonna find a way to bust you just long enough to get you into the general population at County. There’s probably a hundred Los Tigres in there who’d love to give you their deposition—no lawyer necessary.”

“Looks like I hit a nerve.”

“Oh, you hit a nerve, all right. About ten thousand of them. The entire fuckin’ department. It’s not bad enough we gotta risk our lives protecting assholes like you. Now you want to haul us into court and get into our files. You don’t give a rat’s ass about Los Tigres. This is only about making cops look bad. Well, it ain’t gonna fuckin’ happen.”