Operation Barracuda (2005) (23 page)

“Hi, Katia,” I say. “It’s Sam.”

“Oh, my God, Sam! What a surprise!”

“How are you?”

“I’m . . . I’m fine! My gosh, I’m flustered. What are you doing? Are you back in the States?”

“Yes, I am.”

“What’s it like in Baltimore? Still cold?”

“I don’t know, I’m not there.”

“Where are you?”

“Two floors below you.”

She’s not sure if she heard me right. “What?”

“I’m in the hotel. Two floors below you. In Los Angeles.”

“
What
are you doing here?” Now she’s laughing. “Oh, my
God
!”

“I got the message you left me at home. I was in L.A., so . . . here I am.”

“This is amazing. I was just thinking about you.”

“Yeah? Well, me, too, you.”

“Do you . . . do you want to get together?”

“Well,
duh
.”

“Are you hungry? I haven’t had lunch yet.”

“Neither have I. Let’s do it.”

We meet in the lobby twenty minutes later. Katia looks better than I remember. She is dressed in tight-fitting black capri pants that accentuate the shape of her long legs, a red cami, and a short black jacket. I ask her if garlic is okay for lunch and she tells me that as long as I’m having it, too, it would be great. I know a terrific place within walking distance of the hotel, just down La Cienega a couple of blocks, so we decide to hoof it. The weather in Los Angeles is slightly cool but certainly nothing like the winter temperatures back east. Neither of us needs a coat.

“How’s your family?” I ask as we stroll. She takes my hand and I welcome it.

“They’re good. It was a nice visit. My mom hasn’t been well. She had some kind of weird infection in her toenail and the doctor was afraid she might have to lose it. The toe, that is. But the nail was removed and . . . well, you don’t want to hear about that, do you?”

“I don’t mind. I think I can take the image of a missing toenail.”

“Anyway, I think she’s gonna be fine now. And my sister is fine, too. Nutty as ever. She’s getting her second divorce. I have a feeling she’ll never be happy being married. She’s too much of a free spirit.”

“Like you?”

“Well, I’m a free spirit, too, but not like her. If she’d been around in the sixties she’d have been a hippie. What about you? Where have you been?”

“Oh, overseas. Nothing to write home about. Just the usual business.”

“Yeah, right. International sales. Information gathering and troubleshooting. I remember, Mr. Mysterious.”

“It’s true!”

“Sure. So what are you doing in L.A.?”

“Had to make a stop. A business stop. But I’ve got twenty-four hours of free time.”

“Aww, and you chose to spend it with me?”

“If you’d like.”

“Of course I’d like.”

“I
do
have to get some rest, though. I’m pretty exhausted.”

She punches me on the upper arm. “Don’t give me
that
, buster. We might spend the next twenty-four hours in bed but we ain’t gonna be
sleeping
!”

We reach the restaurant, one of my favorites in L.A.—and San Francisco, too. It’s called the Stinking Rose and it specializes in garlic dishes. Katia’s never been there, so she’s in for a treat.

The place is nearly full, as usual, but we’re a little on the late side of the lunch hour. There’s no problem getting a table. The hostess must sense the romantic tension between Katia and me so she sits us in a dimly lit corner and lights a candle. Katia scans the menu and proclaims that it all sounds good. I assure her it is and suggest the appetizer of bagna calda. We order a bottle of the house red wine and settle in for an enjoyable hour or two.

“So where in the world were you, Mr. Salesman?” Katia asks. Her brown eyes sparkle in the candlelight and I’m tempted to open my soul to her. For once, the specter of Regan is nowhere around. Perhaps my late wife is looking down from the heavens and wishes me well. Regan would have wanted me to get on with my life, find someone to love. After all, Regan and I had separated and weren’t living together when she succumbed to her illness. We remained cordial mostly because of Sarah but I know Regan and I continued to have enormous affection for each other. I also believe Regan would have liked Katia.

“I was in the Far East,” I say. I really don’t want to give away too much about my job. Obviously, Katia has guessed quite a bit. It’s an ongoing debate with myself whether or not to tell her the complete truth. I suppose that if our relationship truly becomes something serious then I’ll have to.

“Let’s see, the Far East,” she says. “That must mean . . . Japan? Korea?”

“Nope.”

“The Philippines? China?”

“Nope.”

“Hong Kong? Indonesia?”

“Closer.”

“Look, Sam, one thing I ask is that you be honest with me.” She takes a sip of wine and then looks at me intently. “I realize you have a rather hardened heart when it comes to relationships and I don’t want to scare you off. I’m independent, too, and I assure you I’m not a needy person. But I’ve been thinking about our short time together and, well, I just think we’ll have a pretty good time if we keep at it. I’m not asking for a
commitment
or anything like that, but I am asking that you tell me the truth about yourself.”

Before I can say anything, the appetizer arrives. Bagna calda is an awesome concoction of soft garlic cloves oven-roasted in extra virgin olive oil and butter with a hint of anchovy. Served in a little hot tub, it’s spreadable on the freshly baked bread it comes with.

“My God, this is fabulous,” Katia says when she tries it. “I could just fill up on
this
.”

“It’s good, isn’t it? You can buy a book of recipes from the restaurant at the front desk if you’re inclined to try it at home.”

We order entrees and talk of other things, the question of my
honesty
temporarily placed on the back burner. Krav Maga is a big topic of conversation, along with our personal habits for keeping fit. She tells me a little about her life in Israel before coming to the United States. Her father was Israeli but her mother is American, hence the dual citizenship. After her parents’ divorce, her mother brought Katia and her sister to California. Her father died of heart failure six years later.

The food arrives and it’s overwhelming. She has the lemon-baked Atlantic salmon with garlic caper sauce served with
acini di pepe
pasta. I go for the garlic-roasted medium-cut prime rib, which comes with, naturally, garlic mashed potatoes. As I tell Katia, the Stinking Rose is a great place to take a date because you know you’ll both have bad breath afterward.

Halfway through the meal the conversation returns to what I do for a living. She mentions that she loves to travel but doesn’t get to do it very much. “You’re lucky. It must be nice being able to go places in your job,” she says.

“Sometimes it is. Depends.”

“On what?”

“On what I have to do there.”

“Sam, you
do
work for the government, don’t you? Come on, your secret is safe with me.”

I don’t commit to an answer, but I do shrug my shoulders to indicate she’s on the right track. It’s the best I can do.

“I knew it. Look, I’ve known other men that work for government agencies. I dated a CIA guy once. We went the longest time before I found out what he did for a living and it really pissed me off.”

“Why?”

“Because he’d been lying to me. He told me he was a lobbyist. He exhibited all the same signs as you—he was secretive about his job, he was gone for long periods of time, he was unbelievably fit for his age, and he was a devotee of martial arts. Believe me, Sam, I know the type.”

“And that’s my type?”

“Isn’t it?”

I let that one ride. The meal continues pleasantly and the conversation moves along to safer subjects. At one point during dessert—we share the Irish coffee chocolate brownie mousse—I feel her bare foot brushing against my calf. She’s removed her shoe and has begun to rub my leg, inching higher and higher until her foot is in my lap. She presses her toes into my crotch, all the while looking at me with a glint in her eye that means business. I’m suddenly immensely aroused, a reaction I know has to do with coming back from a life-or-death assignment. The NSA psych doctors who examine me every year always express surprise when they learn of my years of celibacy. Most guys who perform dangerous missions for the government have a libido that won’t quit. Maybe that’s now finally coming to the fore.

“What say you we pay the bill and get the hell out of here?” I ask.

“I was wondering when you were gonna suggest that,” she says, a mischievous grin playing on her wet lips.

 

 

WE
spend the rest of the afternoon and evening in my room at the hotel. The sex is as intense as it was on my birthday back home in Towson. Katia is insatiable, it seems, and I no longer feel the fatigue that was plaguing me when I arrived in California. Maybe it’s the pheromones surging through my body or something like that, if you believe in that kind of stuff. Whatever it is, the chemical reactions in my loins don’t fail to do the job.

By nine o’clock that night we’re hungry again. I order room service and we have a couple of sandwiches and sodas. We sit on the bed, naked, eat our dinner, and laugh at the absurdity of how we must look. After the meal Katia offers to give me a massage and I readily accept. As she works me over with her strong hands I begin to feel tired again. I’m wonderfully relaxed and seem to be floating on water. The next thing I know, the room is pitch-dark and Katia is in bed next to me. I must have fallen asleep during the rubdown. The digital clock on the nightstand reads 2:35. I slept for a good six hours.

I quietly slip out from under the sheets and sit for a moment just watching Katia. She’s sleeping soundly. In the dim light her dark curly hair, spread over the pillow, looks like splashed paint.

Yes,
I think. This could be it. The years of celibacy are over. My daughter, Sarah, just might have to get used to me being with a new partner. I’m not thinking about marriage or anything that drastic. I’m not even sure I’d want to live with Katia. But I do know I want to continue seeing her. If what she said about both of us remaining independent is true, then the relationship might be ideal. I suppose I’ll just have to cross each bridge as I come to it. For now, though, I feel . . . happy.

As if on cue, though, my OPSAT beeps quietly. I grab it, shut off the noise, and see the text message from Coen. All the details I need to find GyroTechnics have been beamed to me. Agent Kehoe has reported that the building was mysteriously evacuated and as of midnight no one is there. Lambert suspects that Mike Wu’s arrest has prompted the firm’s management to take some drastic measures. Lambert wants me to get over there as soon as possible.

Katia stirs and opens her eyes. “What time is it?” she mumbles.

“It’s the middle of the night,” I say. “Go back to sleep. I’ll be back in the morning.”

She sits up and asks, “Where are you going?”

“I have a job to do. I’ll be back. I promise.”

“Are you in danger?”

“No. Katia, go back to sleep. I’ll be back when it’s time to get up.”

Her brow wrinkles and there’s a moment when I fear there might be a conflict of interests. But instead she smiles, reaches out, pulls my head toward hers, and kisses me.

“Just be careful,” she whispers. She then lays her head back onto the pillow and closes her eyes. She adjusts her body beneath the sheets and snuggles over onto the warm spot I left on my side of the bed.

I get dressed in my uniform and leave the hotel in the Murano.

I
find GyroTechnics easily enough. It’s an odd place to stick a technology development company—isolated in the hills, surrounded by trees, standing at the end of an unmarked gravel road—but then again it’s a firm doing illegal shit. If what the FBI discovered is true, and I don’t doubt it for a minute, the place is financed and run by a Triad. It just goes to show that these criminal organizations like Triads, Yakuzas, and Mafias are branching out beyond their normal expected enterprises like drugs, arms, prostitution, and gambling. Now they’re in the global crime market and that means sponsoring and developing technology to use in committing offenses.

I park the Murano on Norman Place and walk to the gravel road. I stay off of it, though, electing to make my way through the dense growth of trees. With my night vision activated, it’s not a problem. I come to the wire fence and can now see the futuristically designed building that is GyroTechnics. A couple of floodlights illuminate the empty parking lot but otherwise the place appears deserted. I draw my Five-seveN, attach the noise and flash suppressor, and aim at the floodlights.

Now the grounds are pitch-black, dimly lit only by the hazy night sky. I climb the fence, dart to the employee entrance, and find a code access keypad next to the door.

Pressing my implant, I say, “Hey, Anna, are you there? I need an access code for GyroTechnics.”

“Hold on, Sam,” she answers. “I thought I’d have it for you by morning and didn’t know you’d be ordered to infiltrate the place at this hour.”

“Well, I’m standing out here in the dark. Hurry.”

I suppose I could blast the damned thing but it would probably set off all sorts of alarms and the police would show up before I could say “Oops.” Instead I circle the building and look for another entrance. The really odd thing about this place is that there’s no front door for Joe Public. The only people that go in and out of GyroTechnics are employees. UPS must bring deliveries to the back door and the postman shoots the mail through a slot. I guess the management doesn’t do much in the way of entertaining clients.