Courier (21 page)

Rick could only writhe in agony.

The cowboy stepped back. "Go get goddamn camera. Give me motherfucking film."

"Goddamn camera. Motherfucking film. Got it."

"Now get out of here."

Rick got up to his hands and knees, tried without much success to blank the pain from his mind, and staggered the rest of the way to his feet. The cowboy pushed him toward the stairs.

"Go fast. You got motorcycle. Go fast."

Corey spoke up from the recliner. "Please hurry, will you? I think this guy means it – he'll kill us." He paused, then flicked his eyes to the gunman and added carefully, "Regardless."

"Stop talking, cocksucker." The cowboy spun around and threatened Corey with another blow. Corey cowered behind raised hands, but Rick noticed that his eyes didn't look afraid. They looked calm and angry.

As he turned and walked slowly, carefully, up the stairs, Rick thought he should have paid more attention and gotten to know his housemates better. They kept surprising him.

 

The bike rumbled slowly through the predawn darkness, every pothole and stone sending a wave of pain through Rick's torso. He was going slowly, not only because going any faster was almost unimaginable but also so he could figure out what to do.

He had to get the Bolex. Clearly, this guy thought the film was still in the camera. He didn't know about the other can or that they'd already processed that film. There was no doubt in Rick's mind that Corey was right. They were both going to be killed as soon as he gave the camera back.

How did this low-grade moron know where he'd been wounded? He'd have to have read his military medical records to get that information, and he would bet anything that he hadn't gone through his records personally. That meant there was someone else involved – someone with government clearance. These hired guns weren't running things; they clearly weren't smart enough.

Therefore, whoever was directing the hunt for the film had enough clout to be able to order up classified government files and get them in a matter of days. Almost certainly, the same person who made sure the "A-roll" film had gotten lost. Twice.

Slowly, the steady vibration of the BMW began to loosen the knots in his body. All those hours of weights had kept the cowboy boots from doing any lasting damage to soft tissue and vital organs. It didn't mean that his whole body didn't hurt like hell, but he didn't think he was going to lock up or pass out – not for a while, anyway.

He was stopped for a couple of minutes on Connecticut Avenue as the Metro construction workers replaced the massive eight-foot-square iron plates that covered the access holes. He realized it must be nearly dawn if they were getting the street ready for traffic again. When the backhoe finally laid down the last plate and rumbled away, he drove on to the bureau, pulled into the narrow alley, and brought the bike into the rear courtyard. As he parked, he noticed Kyle's motorcycle was already there and idly wondered why he was working so early. Sam usually took the first shift because he had the most seniority and because there weren't that many runs at the beginning of the news day.

He found out what was going on as soon as he walked in. There were irritated-looking cameramen and producers milling around the halls. Apparently, some nutcase had jumped the gate at the White House and claimed he had dynamite strapped to his body and a dead-man switch in his hand. All the camera crews were willing to bet any amount of money that he was just wearing a bunch of highway flares and parts from an old radio, but the junior editor chosen to staff the Assignment Desk on a holiday weekend had decided to take it seriously and called everyone in early.

The President was already up at Camp David preparing to celebrate Christmas Eve, and the consensus in the bureau was that, on the off chance that he wasn't faking, the bastard on the North Lawn should just go ahead and hit the switch so they could go back home. There wasn't a lot of sympathy for anyone who ruined a slow day when half the bureau should have been off.

No one was at the courier desk when Rick got there. Kyle must have been somewhere else in the bureau. Rick grabbed the desk and jerked it back.

He stared at empty space. The Bolex camera was gone. He looked under the desk and in all the drawers and even banged the coats hanging on the divider in case it was hung by its strap. Finally, he stood and stared at the space where he'd put it.

There was a smear of orange on the wall that had not been there when he had hidden the camera. He looked at it closely, touched it with his finger, and smelled it. Cheese.

More precisely, "Cheez".

He pushed the desk back and sat down to wait.

Kyle bopped down the hall a few minutes later, looking up in exaggerated surprise when he spotted Rick. "What are you doing here, dude?"

"Where is the camera?"

Kyle looked appropriately innocent and confused. "What camera?"

"The Bolex I had stashed behind the desk. I can see the Cheez Doodle smears from your fingers when you stole it. Where is it?"

"I have no idea, man." Kyle grabbed his coat. "I've got to go on a run."

Rick stood up, grunting with the pain, and slammed a hand down on Kyle's shoulder. His crushing grip stopped the smaller man and then pulled him close. Rick leaned down and said very slowly in his ear, "I know you stole the fucking Bolex. I need it, and I need it now."

"OK, OK. Don't get crazy." Kyle rubbed his shoulder after Rick released him. "I had to take it, man. I have to pay a lawyer and a probation officer and a counselor."

"I am truly sorry for all your troubles, but A, getting busted means you're dumber than even I thought was possible, and B, I still really need that camera."

Kyle finished putting on his coat, and, abruptly, turned and tried to run. He took two steps, and his feet went out from under him. Rick had grabbed him by the hood, and now he twisted his fist into the fabric, turning the heavy jacket into a makeshift noose.

"OK, stop, stop! It's in my locker," Kyle gasped. This time, Rick didn't release his grip until Kyle had opened the locker and handed him the camera.

"I'm sorry about the lawyer," Rick said.

"Don't forget about the probation officer and the counselor," Kyle whined.

Rick continued. "But, just to satisfy my curiosity, how did you get nailed for grand larceny?"

"The first time, it was so easy. No one was around, and I got such a cool pair of tires. The Rabbit rode like a dream." The younger man sighed. "I just thought it would ride so much better if I had all four tires, you know, a matched set. How could I know they'd be waiting for me?"

"You should have known they'd be waiting because someone had just stolen tires off one of their cars, you idiot."

"Yeah, apparently. Then they found the first set of tires, and that sort of made it a second offense." Kyle slumped into a chair. "The third and fourth tires kicked it over five hundred bucks, and that made it grand larceny." He brightened. "At least it's not guns or drugs. I still get to go to the White House, so I can keep my job."

"You never cease to amaze me." Rick started walking stiffly up the hall toward the cameramen's lounge.

"Hey, what's up with you?" Kyle said. "You're walking like you crashed the bike or something."

"Or something. Try and stay out of any more trouble."

As he turned the corner toward the lounge, an angry voice from behind said, "Hey! Biker boy!"

He turned, moving his shoulders and neck at once to keep the aching in his muscles to a minimum. One of the engineers, a big, blocky man who always wore a blue lab coat with "Lee" embroidered over the left breast, was coming up the hall, looking pissed. Rick gave him an inquiring look.

The engineer started shaking his finger in Rick's face as soon as he got close enough. "You and your fucking friends stop it!"

It wasn't hard to look innocent – Rick had no idea what he was talking about.

"Get your friends to get off the goddamn feed line. I don't have any time to deal with your silly games."

"I'd stop it if I had any idea what ‘it' was," Rick said. "What feed?"

"Don't give me that crap. Someone is screwing with the feed from the West Front – the inaugural pool line."

Rick shrugged. "I have no clue what you're talking about."

The engineer's face turned red. "The hell you don't. Your fucking name is on it. Now cut it the fuck out before I get the goddamn Secret Service on your ass."

Rick shook his head. "My name? There is no way my name is on a feed I've never heard of."

"Come with me." The man whirled and banged open the doors to Telecine. "I'll show you."

Rick followed him into a room filled with equipment – some looked a bit like film projectors, but most looked like nothing he'd ever seen before. The man in the blue lab coat had already gone over to the left side, where the entire wall was covered with racks of electronic equipment and TV screens with test bars on them. The engineer pointed to a screen in the center.

"There. See it?"

At first, Rick only saw a thick line of black across the bottom of the screen, and then words appeared in blocky white letters over the black background:

Rick watched in amazement as the letters stayed up for a few seconds and then changed.

As he stared, the line turned to black and then repeated.

"Now get that crap off my feed line," the engineer said.

"What is it?" Rick said. He turned to the other man. "Look, Lee, I really don't know anything about this. Where is it coming from?"

"That's some sort of homemade closed captioning inserted into the vertical interval of the line coming down from the Inaugural Pool." Lee peered closely at Rick. "You really have no idea what that is, do you?"

Rick shook his head.

"OK, you can insert information into a TV signal when the phosphor refreshes…"

Rick kept shaking his head.

"OK, don't worry about how it's being done. All you need to know is some friend of yours is sticking a signal in my feed. It's not supposed to happen. It's coming straight from the truck to here. No one sticks anything in one of my signals. This is the most advanced computerized TV technology there is, and I don't need anyone screwing with it."

At the word "computerized", Rick slowly began to smile.

Lee looked at his face intently. "Yes, you do know who it is!" he said triumphantly. "Stop being so happy about it! Damn it, this is the official Presidential Pool line!"

Rick's smile grew broader.

"I'm not sure," Rick said. "But maybe I can get it stopped."

 

When he got to the camera lounge, he looked around and found a black changing bag, stuffed it and the camera in his jacket, and went back to his bike. He watched the street for a minute for anyone who might be watching him, then took off fast, heading north. Once he was sure no one was on his tail, he made an illegal U-turn and headed south toward Motor Mouse.

The bikers lounging outside in the weak winter sun looked as if they hadn't moved for days. They made the usual jokes about his bike, but he ignored them. There really wasn't time to trade insults. He found Hector inside.

"
Feliz Navidad
,
Gordito
."

"I hate that fucking name." The mechanic turned. "And what exactly is merry about this Christmas?"

"We're not in the war."

Hector looked at him for a moment. "Yeah, I suppose that's enough."

"Did you get what I asked for?"

"Yeah, although I don't know why."

"Because if we don't have each other's backs, no one else will."

"OK, OK, I know." Hector turned to his four-foot-tall mechanic's tool case. "Stop before you start whistling that fucking bagpipe song."

Rick hummed a couple of bars of "Garryowen".

"Damn, you are an irritating bastard." Hector unlocked a drawer and pulled out a paper bag. "Here."

Rick took the paper bag and looked inside. "Ready to go?"

"Ready to go."

Rick rolled up the bag. "What about the bike?"

"That German piece of shit not fast enough?"

"It's a lovely piece of precision machinery, but no, speed isn't one of its finest attributes."

Hector led the way to the back of the shop. "Don't you tell any of the guys outside that I even own this," he warned. He unlocked a heavy door and stepped out into an alley paved in old bricks. Next to a battered blue Dumpster, a heavy tarp covered something. Hector pulled up a side of the tarp just enough to reveal a bright green motorcycle with a low racing fairing and upswept pipes.

Rick whistled. "What is it?"

"Kawasaki H1 500cc triple. Race modified." Hector raised the tarp a bit higher so they could see the whole machine. "Fastest production motorcycle made, and this one is bored, balanced, and blueprinted. It'll hit two hundred miles per hour without even breathing hard."

"Damn. It doesn't look big enough."

"The Japanese don't know how to make things strong yet – the steel in the fucking springs still goes flat – but they sure know how to make them fast." Hector threw the tarp back over the machine. "I went down for Bike Week last year and saw them run at Daytona. They had to build a chicane with three more turns into the track just to keep the Kawasaki riders from lapping the pack."

Hector turned and put a finger right in Rick's face. "And don't you ever tell any of those morons outside that you even saw it. I've got a reputation. Now do you want it or not?"