“Look for a four wheeler with a tank full of gas.”
They were cruising at a sedate thirty-five while the traffic sailed past
at close to seventy.
“Here comes one,--- nope,--- they'll be lucky to make it back to Boulder.
Ah, here comes another. Pull over.”
Chet slipped the van to the shoulder and stopped. A moment later a beat-up
Chevy pickup sailed by, slowed, pulled to the side and backed up on the shoulder
to the van. A young man got out,
“Need some help?” he asked.
“Yeah, we sure do.” Ivan said, ”How about selling us your pickup?
What would you take for it?” Ivan all ready knew the fellow was in
debt and owed a lot more than the old pickup was worth. Ivan read the figure
and before the guy could answer, he said,
“$9,000 and we'll toss in the van. Is it a deal?
“You bet,” the young man replied, enthusiastically, hardly able to believe
his luck. Ivan did just enough to the man's mind to delete the strangeness
of the encounter and then paid out the money. The price cut their travel
funds to the bone, but the guy was truly in need and Ivan could always wire
for more. Besides, he would get about an hour out of the van before the fed's
nailed him. Ivan thought of it as just a little bonus for the hassle facing
the man.
Five minutes later they were on their way again. The map showed a dirt
side road, fairly straight that lead toward a winding road back to Kingman.
It was going to be close. The fellow would reach Boulder before they could
reach interstate forty, no matter how fast Chet drove, but he floored it
anyway. Ivan slowed the young man to thirty letting him believe there was
something wrong with the van and the race was on. They nearly missed the turn
onto the side road. Bart sat in the middle hanging on for dear life as Chet
negotiated the washboard dirt. After twenty minutes of bone jarring potholes
they came onto a winding paved road and Chet let it all out, sliding through
the curves.
“Interstate marker ahead!” he shouted. ”Have they got him yet?”
“No, he has to cross the dam yet. Won't be back in Boulder for another
few minutes. Shall I block the whole incident?”
“No, that will just make it harder for him. God, I'm glad we're on pavement
again,--- I think I left my kidneys back there somewhere! “
“None too soon for me either” Bart commented. He'd been holding on for
dear life and concentrating on keeping his head from hitting the roof.
”Would you please tell me what the hell is going on. One minute I'm asleep,
and the next I'm in a strange truck going ninety miles an hour. What happened?”
“Oh, nothing much, we're just running from the FBI, that's all. They blew
up a highway a while back and it appears they took some real nifty pictures
of you, me and Ivan, and now we have about two minutes before they discover
we're not in the van anymore. Other than that, hardly a thing has happened.”
It wasn't a laughing matter, but he laughed anyway. With the interstate
just ahead, they would be out of this bottlenecked part of Arizona in no
time.
“Holy Shit, take a look at this! “ Ivan sent a view of what the man was
seeing through the windshield of the van. A barricade suddenly
swung out in front spewing a cloud of white smoke. The man slammed on the
brakes. The smoke engulfed the van, pouring in through the ventilators and
then the view went gray.
“They killed him!” Bart exclaimed.
“No, he's alive, just knocked out. That's what was waiting for us.” he
quickly filled Bart in. They communed for a few moments, their thoughts moving
far faster than speech, then Bart said,
“A half hour, maybe less. When the kid comes around, we better be shed
of this rig. We need a town in a hurry. Head for Kingman.”
“But it's the wrong way,” Chet protested, “We're a good ten miles east.
Why not Flagstaff?”
“You want this thing seen on the highway?”
“But, Ivan can make people think it's a Rolls-Royce.” Chet argued.
“Not from the air, he can't. I'll bet they've all ready got choppers warming
up just waiting for a description of this heap. They've figured out what
Ivan can do. Now with a ringer on their hands, they know exactly where to
look, right on I-40. We've gotta' get rid of this truck NOW before the kid
can give a description of it.”
Chet couldn't argue the logic. Thankfully, Bart was back to his old sharp
self, looking at all the angles he and Ivan might have missed. Bart directed
them to a scrap yard on the edge of town. The truck looked right at home,
Chet thought as he found a spot deep in the pack of beat up, dented vehicles.
Ivan talked to the owner, casting a veil of forgetfulness on the man while
Bart ripped the license plate loose and frisbied it into a nearby scrap
pile. Then the three set out on foot, heading back toward the highway to
a truck stop they passed on their way to the junkyard.
* * * * * * *
As the hours began piling up, Moore knew it was hopeless. The three were
gone and only pure chance could spot them now. Harris, with a glum look on
his face, brought the news to Moore,
“Not a sign of them, Sir. They've covered the interstate from Barstow
to Flag. They're not on the highway.”
“Don't bet the farm on it.” Moore responded, “They've ditched that truck,
but they're heading east on forty. I'd stake my life on it.”
“But, Sir, the last destination they spoke of was Tijuana. Shouldn't we
get set up there and wait for them?”
“Christ, Harris, use your head!” Moore snapped. It was close to thirty
hours since Moore last closed his eyes. On edge over the losses of the day,
he found himself yelling at everyone, even the rookie.
“I'm sorry, Son, it's not your fault,--- I'm just tired. Can you rustle
up some coffee?” When Harris returned, Moore gratefully accepted the
Styrofoam cup and said,
“Thank you, Ron, just what the doctor ordered. Now, sit down and let's
see if we can't figure out where those three are going, and why. Remember
the camera? It wasn't a short, the thing was cooked. Intense heat for no
more than a microsecond, or so they tell me, but it does give us another
bit of information about Decoviak's abilities. In case you haven't heard
yet, that's the third man's name, Ivan Decoviak.”
“A Russian?”
“Only by ancestry. He's a high school art teacher from Alberta, Canada.
Anyway, We've been over the tape a dozen times. Right near the end of it
they somehow found out about the bug. That talk of Tijuana was just for our
benefit. If you study the tape you see them getting real casual all of a
sudden, that's when they decided there might be a bug on board. Think about
it. There's an accident up ahead, folks are out of their cars, wandering
around, talking, but Decoviak suddenly decides to take a nap, only he's not
relaxed, he's looking for the bug and I can pinpoint the moment he found
it.”
“Oh, hell. That means they might be headed anywhere now, even Canada.”
“No, it's Mexico. Those plans were set before they realized there was
a bug, and I don't think they can change them. They made a haul in Vegas.
On the day they skipped they pulled in about hundred grand. In just a matter
of hours, Latham himself cashed in jackpots at four different casinos. Add
that to the five weeks they were there and it's a tidy sum I'm sure, and
way too much to carry around. Harris, tomorrow morning I want a list of every
money transfer made from Vegas and Boulder City banks to Mexican banks in
the last thirty days. Better yet, make that all international transfers,
just in case they're working a double blind. Maybe we can't track them at
the moment, but we sure as hell can locate those assets.”
Light dawned in Ron Harris's mind, and along with it a new respect for
his boss. Of course! Lock down the money! That means they'll be scrambling,
making mistakes, leaving a trail to follow. Old J. T. was sharp all right.
Everyone said he was, only Harris couldn't see it at first. Riley was the
man, brash and confident where Moore was just an old black guy nit picking
details and Harris had been none to pleased at being assigned to him. 'What
a difference a day makes,' he thought. In the course of only twenty-four
hours everything changed. Moore was right all along. He was now in charge
and only God knew where Riley was, but wherever he was, Harris was glad he
wasn't with him. Harris looked at Moore and realized the man was exhausted.
“Sir, why don't you get some sleep. I'll wake you if anything comes up.”
“Good idea. Tell Norton to call off the search. Everyone stand down,---
tomorrow's going to be one long day.”
* * * * * * *
“Oklahoma City coming up” Ivan warned. Chet began to rouse, coming awake
with a yawn. He glanced across the aisle at Bart now twisted over in his
seat, his rear end facing Chet as he stuffed loose items into a small zippered
canvas carry on. The bus held a few more people now, he noted. They must
have picked up passengers at Tulsa.
“What time is it? “
“Three A.M.”
“Well, I hope the restaurants are open, I'm starved.”
“Bart just said the same thing. Got any money left? “
“Forty-fifty bucks. Are we broke? “
“Just about. Guess we should have held back more than ten grand, but who
knew? I'll wire today, Bart thinks its safe to lay up here for awhile.”
“Tell Bart I said he has a cute butt.”
Bart swung around to look at Chet, a big smile on his face. He winked,
and Chet received a picture of himself, his sleep mussed hair sticking out
at odd angles.
“He say's you're cute too.” Ivan's chuckle overlay the message.
The next day Ivan read bank employees, sifting through them until coming
to Sally Arno. She was the one he needed. He read the procedures from her
before making the request and the whole operation went smoothly.
When Sally Arno sent the wire, it started a tiny ripple in international
banking services so small it went completely unnoticed, except to observers
of six particular Mexican accounts. Two weeks before, $90,000 at the
rate of $9,000 at a time went from banks in Boulder City to a bank in Tampico
and into the account of one Jose Cardel. Like the other five accounts
the Feds were watching, Cardel was unknown to the Tampico bank. It was a
password account opened by deposit. Now $9,500 was coming back from that Tampico
account to the First National Bank of Oklahoma City. The news rather surprised
Moore. The men were still in the States. Why hadn't they gone directly to
Mexico, he wondered, and where have they been all this time. Not a whisper
of them for a ten days and then suddenly, Oklahoma City. It didn't add up,
just like the new shoot to kill order on Decoviak didn't add up, nor for that
matter, even the original charges against the three. Latham was wanted for
further questioning in an Ann Arbor murder case, but not by local authorities,
this was a federal warrant. And what about Ludlow? An ex-cop with a vague
accessory after the fact charge. True, Decoviak broke the law. He was here
illegally,--- along with about a million others,--- hardly a capital crime;
yet, there was that damn shoot to kill order. It didn't make sense.
As J.T. pieced together the actions of the men during their six weeks
in Nevada, there emerged a picture that didn't match the dire one coming
out of Washington. Nothing the men did so far jeopardized national security,
unless removing a bit of excess profit from Vegas gamblers qualified. His
team went through Vegas with a fine toothed comb, studying every tape, balancing
daily losses in casinos where the men showed up. He could quote to the dollar
what those three took and nearly all of it went to Mexico where it still
lay untapped. It fit no terrorist pattern Moore ever heard of; and yet, that
was exactly the implication being handed down. Was Decoviak's mind control
ability really that dangerous, Moore wondered, or was he only dangerous
to certain people. He didn't have to think twice about that one; someone
in Washington was scared shitless of Decoviak. Moore punched a button on
the intercom,
“Call the team leaders together for a briefing. Ten minutes, and find
me Harris. I need him in five.”
Poor kid, he thought, always stuck with shit work. Oh, well, it goes with
being young. Moore liked working with rookies, their minds seemed to grasp
new concepts far faster than most of the older men. The screw up in Bolder
City should have taught them all a lesson, but even afterward, some on
the team were still not convinced of what Decoviak could do. Not so with
Harris. He might be a little uptight, a little prudish, but he was one sharp
cookie. Not only sharp, Moore thought as he looked up to see Harris come
bursting into the office, he's also fast.
“You wanted to see me, Sir?”
“Yes. It seems our traveling trio has turned up again. We're heading for
Oklahoma City in about an hour so arrange for the flight. We'll need the
same stuff we used at Bolder. Cameras, a gas delivery system, the works for
an indoor set up this time.”
“An hour?” Harris paled, “I can't put it together in an hour, Sir.”
“Sure you can, Ron. I've watched you work and believe me, I have every
confidence in your ability. Roust whoever you need, but we're leaving in
one hour.”
Harris shot out the door like the hounds of hell were after him. What
a line of bullshit, Moore thought, and yet, bullshit or not, it usually
worked. Ask the impossible and a kid like Harris will do it, whereas older
men waste time arguing logistics. Yes, he found working with rookies an
easy task, it just took patience to bring them along. A few minutes later
the team leaders arrived and Moore laid out the details. They had from closing
time, until nine A.M. tomorrow to set up at the bank. Luckily, banking regulations
made twenty-four hours the minimum required time for an international wire
transfer.
“Gentlemen, it looks like another all nighter coming up, so get your men
together. We're leaving as soon as the plane is loaded.”
* * * * * * *
Since Boulder City, Ivan was more cautious than ever and far more
intent on getting a pipeline to those tracking them. Bart and Chet stayed
in St Louis, Chet confined to the motel room the entire time, while Ivan
headed east to Virginia. Conner was out of the loop, no longer a viable source
of information and the same went for the rest of Fennman's employees from
Ann Arbor. They were off the case, or at least no longer informed of what
was going on. Ivan needed a new source, either in the FBI or Fennman himself,
so he went east, only what he found there wasn't particularly enlightening.
Fennman left for Europe the day Ivan arrived. He missed the man by a matter
of hours. Ivan did learn the heat was on concerning the three of them and
the CIA was now involved, but FBI operations were so segmented names was all
he got. The man leading the FBI team was Moore, now in Kansas City, but that
was all he learned. It was frustrating. Nothing but names led to other names
and no one in Washington directly involved,--- at least, no one in the know.
He headed back to St. Louis only slightly better informed than when he left.
At ten the following morning, Ivan checked Sally Arno's mind, looking
to see if the money arrived. He found it hadn't occurred to her to check.
Sally was upset. Her boss, normally a genial man, snapped at her over being
a minute or two late. He in turn was upset over the auditors who suddenly
descended on the bank again last night. Ever since Weeks embezzled forty
grand, the bank was subjected to these surprise audits. When was it ever
going to end, she wondered. Satisfied, Ivan nudged Sally's memory. She turned
to the computer screen, punching in the information. The money was there,
she transferred it to Cardel's new account and promptly forgot the matter.
“Okay, all we have to do is make the withdrawal and we can be on our way.”
“You mean YOU, can be on your way. Chet and I will be stuck in a motel
room again. Let's forget Kansas City and head for Mexico.”
“I wish we could, only with the CIA involved I've got to find a solid
source and Moore looks like the man.”
“Well, lets go out for awhile first, get something to eat and buy book
or two.”
“Do the laundry!” Chet interjected. ”I'm down to one change.”
At one P.M., they headed for the bank with Bart taking Ivan's place as
the young, brown haired man in Sally's mind. Ivan and Chet waited across
the street, Ivan lightly scanning the passersby.
“That's Ludlow!” Moore exclaimed, looking over Norris' shoulder at the
monitor. ”Where the hell is Decoviak?” Other monitors displayed the
entire lobby, showing not a sign of Decoviak or Latham. Harris looked out
the window thinking maybe the two were still outside. The movement in the
second story window caught Ivan's eye and he reached out to touch the man.
“BART, it's a set up! Get out of there! “ Too late. Familiar white mist
spilled from the air conditioning vents, one of which was directly above
where Bart stood.
“They've got him, damn, oh damn, they traced the money. I led them right
to us and now they've got Bart! “ Ivan was in a panic as he flashed it all
to Chet.
“Calm down. There's bound to be a lot of confusion in there. Take advantage
of it. The guy in the window is the key. Get him to call someone else over,
the more the merrier.”
“Sir, you have to take a look at this!” Harris exclaimed, “I've never
seen anything like it in my life!”
Below, in the middle of the street two naked women wrestled, throwing
punches, kicking, tearing at each other's hair while cars flowed around
them on both sides, narrowly missed them.
“GOD Almighty!”
“What is it, Harris?”
“A fight, only you won't believe what's happening.” One woman pulled loose
a manhole cover, slinging it at the other like a Frisbee. ”Oh my GOD!”
Harris exclaimed.
What the hell is going on, Moore wondered. He strode to the window, Harris
merely glanced at Moore, but when he looked back, the fight was over.
“Where did they go?”
“Who?” Moore asked. Traffic flowed serenely on the street below.
“The two women,---” Confused, Harris scanned the street and then became
doubly confused when J. T. said,
“A soon as they get Ludlow bundled, I want you to escort him to County.
Stay with him and don't let anyone tell you differently.”
“But, I thought you said,---”
“Plans have changed. Ludlow goes to county until I hear from Washington.”
Suddenly, all the nagging doubts about this case flooded Moore's thoughts.
He wanted answers, especially the names of those behind the shoot to kill
order on Decoviak. Why this now became vastly important, Moore couldn't explain,
but it was, and he didn't question it, just as Harris never questioned the
fight he saw.
For hours, Ivan sifted through the minds of Harris and Moore, comparing
what the two knew or surmised. That Moore was a genius became evident at
once, his deductive powers seemed almost limitless. With Moore, when information
didn't fit within the framework of experience, he didn't discount the data
as others might, Moore simply shifted the frame of reference to where it
would fit and so at fifty-nine, Moore's thoughts still retained the elasticity
of youth. Ivan searching backward to the events at Boulder City, noted while
Harris was turned off by what he saw on the tape, Moore's reaction was just
the opposite.
'Ah ha,' Ivan thought, 'a repressed homosexual,' only that proved wrong.
Moore was fully aware he was gay, only it was a side issue as far as he was
concerned. He consciously sublimated his homosexuality, throwing himself
totally into the work he loved, and retaining but a few solitary outlets
for sexual relief. His books and magazines, a number of videos and of course
memories of experiences before the Bureau called. For thirty-four years Moore's
life consisted of work, a small circle of straight friends, celibacy and
frequent masturbation, but his love of the work he did was still the driving
force behind the man. Ivan learned a great deal from Moore. He saw at once
the mistakes he made in the wire transfers and from Moore's mind he discovered
how to move money about without leaving a trail. This he implemented right
away while leaving it to Chet to sort through the procedures the Bureau used
in tracking suspects. Moore was now an open book to both men and as Ivan
reiterated so many times; it's difficult to dislike someone when you can
see into their soul.
The next day a clerical error at County, released Bart by mistake and
three days later, Ivan calmly walked into a branch of the First National
Bank and withdrew twenty thousand dollars. Long before Bart was released,
Ivan read Moore's entire team, spending a short time with each man, and
each man would forever think he spoke with Harris.