I give her my best "are you crazy" look.
"He's got to go for it. We have to know where these guys go when they are in town, and the airport patrol can't follow them. We might even need the FBI."
I just shake my head. They could be carrying machine guns through the terminal, and her boss would not want us following up, provided they were headed somewhere else.
"Come on." I follow her as best I can back to the office, her usual high speed transformed into faster than light travel, but somehow it never turns into a run.
All four names indeed show up on flights, Moscow and Paris, all arriving at the Bradley Terminal in the morning hours last Thursday, and regularly for the past six weeks, which is as far back as the available records go. Combined with the pattern of the first four, we have eight gentlemen, half in LA every week, alternating, taking the same flights.
"You're going to talk to Johnson? And Spears?," I ask.
"Yes. Have to. Even to get extra people on next week, Johnson would have to get approval from Captain Spears."
"I have a suggestion. Tell them about the names, and the departure pattern, not about the arrivals. At least not until after they approve."
She thinks for a second, and agrees. "Good idea. If the second visit with new names isn't enough to shake them loose, then we'll have something to add if we have to make a third try."
That's actually not my devious thought, but I keep it to myself. We walk out to our cars, I let her go first, since her eight tops my four. Jen's working late, so I head for Anaheim and then out over the Pacific. At daybreak I am running down the beach, then breakfast and a shower before going in for my trip to Denver. Perez is there today, and I wish her luck meeting with the bosses. She starts to say something, then gets a cat got your tongue look on her face, and just wishes me a good flight. No Jen when I get back, and not expected, in fact, until Sunday. I try something different based on how scenic today's airline flight was, and spend a couple hours flying the Rockies without the plane, in the dark, up over Loveland Pass into Vail, and then home.
Jen and I pull in at my parent's house a little before two on Sunday, somebody in a black Ford already parked in my usual spot in front of the house.
"Hey, Air Force," rings in my ears. Perez is leaning against the side of her Mustang, wearing jeans and a baggy white top, fluffy, not at all the policeman's outfit. Her black hair flows down to the middle of her back. She's all smiles. No words come out of my mouth, my tongue in neutral, the clutch in my brain pushed to the floor. Jen takes my hand and the three of us walk toward the house.
"Jen called me and suggested we meet for lunch Friday. We had such a good time, she thought I should come meet your family." I'm screwed. The girlfriend, the parents, and Perez.
I look at Jen. "You know she's armed?"
They both laugh. "Didn't you agree to Lope's offer of the advanced class?," she asks.
"I did."
"Then in a couple months, you'll be packing too." Hadn't thought of that. Something else I will need to be careful not to melt.
"Speaking of packing, how'd it go with Johnson and Spears?," not a smooth transition of topic, but the best I had right then.
"Showed Johnson the departure info and he agreed we need to go after it. He's going to the captain on Monday. Advised me to stay away."
My mom is standing in the doorway. "That's the last time," she looks at us, "you are allowed to talk business today." She introduces herself to Perez, hugs Jen, and whacks me lightly on the cheek.
"You should have thought to invite Kiana over. You know her family is in San Francisco." Actually, no I didn't.
"Sorry, mom. Sorry, Perez."
"No sweat, Air Force." She thinks it's all funny.
Mom's admonition about not talking shop holds up another minute at the outside because dad spends the entire afternoon talking with Perez about police work, me about the airline, and Jen about the Fed.
It's almost nine when we line up at the door to say our good byes. Mom looks at me and says, "Six. Rolls." I nod. She's handing out the Thanksgiving orders. Instead of our usual early afternoon feast, it's at six because I have to work holiday duty at the airport.
Jen looks at her, and asks, "What should I bring?"
"You are already bringing your parents, that's enough." Oh joy. The two people on earth who keep my tuxedo measurements handy for "the big day" they are sure is coming. I really will need to be armed when they find out the truth.
"And me?" It's Perez. Guess who's coming to dinner.
Mom's all sappy on me. "Just keep my boy safe."
"Don't worry about him, he's tougher than he looks." She winks at me. Jen squeezes my hand. I'm totally screwed.
Perez walks just as fast in jeans as she does on the job. She's in her car with the engine on when Jen and I are only halfway back to Starbuck, and is out of sight by the time we get to the street. She drives like she walks.
"I like her, even though you lied about how good looking she is. She'll protect you, and," she squeezes my hand again, "you are definitely not her type."
"I'm every woman's type." False indignant voice. Just the right hint of laughter.
"Dream on."
"What exactly is her type?"
Jen's going to leave me in suspense on that one. We drive off, not into the sunset because it went down hours ago.
Chapter 12
It's my day off, but Perez and I are searching the computer for other flights by Lea, Perrins, et al, before I go to Kona, when the door to the little office flies open, and the two stooges burst in. Captain Spears is red in the face and he hasn't even started yelling. We can't see Crane's head because it's stuck up the captain's ass, so probably a different color.
"Request denied! Are you fucking with me on purpose? Our unit review is next month, and I'll be damned if I will let a line officer fill it with unsolved international reports. And the FBI would jump all over it! Can't have them crawling up our ass with the review team here!"
Actually, there's no room in his ass at the present time, it's pretty full up.
"You are hereby barred from working Terminal 2 until further notice. You will report to the main office this minute, and you will do five duty days there." And then he's gone, the door barely hanging on by the hinges.
"Love that guy," I tell Perez, "Looking forward to his episode of ‘Undercover Boss.'"
She's back to depressed face. I try again to cheer her up and fail.
"There's not much we can do watching them in the terminal now anyway," she says while gathering her stuff. "Come on."
We walk out of the terminal, headed for the main office. When we are in the tunnel 300 yards from any living person, I give her my plan B.
"Can you get Johnson to assign us to Bradley on a Thursday?"
It takes just a second for her eyes to light up. "You are a devious man, Air Force. I should say nicer things to Jen about you next time I see her." We didn't tell anyone about knowing what flights the bad guys are using to come in to LA. The Bradley terminal is where they landed, and not currently off limits.
"About that," I try to make my voice pleasant, "what did you tell her and what did she tell you?"
"Girl stuff, Air Force, girl stuff."
I walk Perez over to main, as she describes what she has to suffer through for the next three days: retyping hand written reports from on duty officers. Parking tickets, opening locked doors, finding lost parents, medical emergencies, drunks. I feel guilty leaving her there, but I have miles to fly before I sleep.
I text her a couple pictures just to cheer her up (not). Me at Keahole, me, Ken and two flight attendants at Waikaloa golfing, me, Ken and five flight attendants having dinner next to the ocean, me running on the beach. The return texts are not printable.
I spend Wednesday and Thursday learning the joys of riding bicycles around parking lots, Perez' exile turning my assignments upside down. I send her and Jen a text of my injured palm and forefinger from my first attempt to open a locked car door with a jimmy tool. Neither one expresses sympathy. I get the impression that the two of them have lunch again while I'm in Kona the next day, but the best information I can drag out of either of them is a strong no comment. I do sneak in another round trip to Korea, but I don't tell them about that either, so maybe we're even.
I don't go in again until Thanksgiving, Perez and I patrolling a very busy Terminal 7 all day before sneaking over to Terminal 2 at five. And, indeed, the expected bad guys appear at the expected time for their expected Canada bound flights. Evil apparently does not take a break for the holidays.
I leave Starbuck in the Mountain Pacific lot so she'll be there tomorrow when I get back from Denver, and ride with Perez to my parent's. She's extremely fast, but never takes undue chances, so I sit back and enjoy it. It helps to know we're not going to get a ticket.
Dinner is excellent. Jen's mom makes only one wedding reference, Perez is the hit of the party, so she and Jen spend almost no time together. I spend a lot of time with my sister, Carolyn, catching up on life at Stanford. Turns out both Jen and Kiana brought home made desserts that are out of this world. And now I can say that with some confidence, having been there.
Perez leaves first, tired after a long day and wanting to go call her mom before it gets too late, my mom giving her an open invite, any Sunday at 2, Jen's parents follow Kiana out, then Jen and I not long after. My sister tops off the evening by yelling, "Good night, Air Force," after us as we hit the sidewalk.
It's six days, a round trip to Denver and one to Kona before I am back in my blue uniform at LAX, and another day until we get to do anything interesting. Perez is waiting at the Terminal 7 office Thursday morning, passenger lists in hand. She doesn't even let me walk into the office before she's headed out toward Bradley, me struggling to keep up. There's a flight from Moscow landing in 22 minutes, underlined in yellow on the passenger lists are two first class passengers, 3H and 3J, last names Romanov.
I think we're heading for the terminal itself, but Perez is smarter than me, and has us on course for customs. We wait in the viewing area until two gentlemen that we know better as Sergei and Nikolai pick a line, then Perez makes a light speed jump to the inspection station they will use.
"Trainee needs to see procedure," she tells the Custom's agent before she can open her mouth. A woman in her 30s, short blonde hair, she goes back to work without a word, takes care of four people before she gets to our boys. She seems to be a professional, thorough, competent.
All they have are metal briefcases. Inside each briefcase is a change of underwear, a clean shirt, some bathroom supplies in the correct size baggie, and a few manilla folders. They answer the agent's questions in one or two word responses, providing basically no information of any kind. The agent looks for false bottoms or other compartments, but quickly gives up and signs them through.
Perez goes up to her before she can start the next inspection.
"Anything bother you about the last two?"
"Anyone with that little baggage is always suspicious, but there's no way they're hiding anything of significance in those cases. The walls are too thin." Professionals dealing with a professional. Knew what she'd look for, didn't give it to her.
Perez is moving now, leaving me so far behind I have to run to catch up. She might have said something to me. When I draw even, she hands me a second passenger list, Aeroflot 17, less than 10 minutes out. Mr. Hyde in 2A, and Mr. Jeckell in 2B. How stupid do they think we are? On the other hand, no one but Perez has noticed.
Two men we've seen before, one white and one Middle Eastern, exit the aircraft. They are among the first, but don't head straight out. Instead, they sit briefly in the waiting area chairs, open their briefcases, and at least pretend to check their documents. One of them has something in his hand, and then it's gone. They get up and join the throng heading for customs.
"Stay here," Perez says, and heads slowly for her, quickly for normal people, down the terminal behind them. I disobey, walk over to the seats they had just vacated. Sure enough, there's something wrapped in tissue paper resting on the cross support under the seat. I grab my prize, which is surprisingly heavy, dash over to the Lufthansa counter, ask the nice German girl to hold it for me, and jog back to my spot. Not a second too soon.
Perez is walking toward me, and the two stooges 70 feet behind her, unable to close ground. She starts to say something, and I put a finger to my lips. She turns around just in time to be yelled at.
"Do you think I'm an idiot?" I want to say yes, but that would get Perez in more trouble than she already is.
"Withholding information?" Technically, yes, but you're an idiot, so justified.