Authors: Gary Carson
I drove through Emeryville, coughing and gasping, banging on the wheel and dripping blood on the seat. One impulse had trashed my whole life, flushed it down the drain, and all for a ripped-off status car. I led Baldy to Vincent's house, then I shot a fed or whatever he was and beat up an old lady to steal her car. She could identify me, no doubt about it, but she was the least of my problems. I'd killed a fed. They were going to be all over me now.
I ditched the car in a parking garage and hotwired a station wagon with a missing front bumper and patches of gray primer on the hood and doors. Driving into Albany, I parked on a back street and just sat there for a while, reloading the Glock and checking my face in the mirror. This battered low-life stared back at me, scraped and bruised, drenched to the bone, her nose swollen and bloody. Shivering from the cold and shock, she twitched like a killer at the end of a rope.
There was no point in running now, even if I had the money to do it. The movies made it look easy, but the highway was exposed and I gave myself a couple days of jacking cars, sleeping on the front seat, buying food, dodging road blocks and APBs before they caught me again or I went broke and had to start robbing liquor stores with my last bullets. No, it was easier to hide in the city. I cleaned up the best I could, then took off to meet Brown – whoever he was, whatever he wanted. If he was for real, maybe I could cut a deal with Matthews and get out of this mess.
#
The traffic sucked, but it gave me cover. I hid in the slow lane, then took the University exit and passed over the highway into Berkeley. Railroad crossing lights flashed to the north. The parking lot behind Brennan's restaurant was full of cars – a good place for a meeting. I made the light at Sixth Street, turned left, then drove over to Hearst and headed west again, watching the traffic and the peds walking by with umbrellas. There were a lot of people out in spite of the rain.
Taking a left on Second, I cruised by a row of seafood joints, slopped through a flooded intersection, then passed under University and turned into the Brennan's lot. Steam gushed from a vent on the side of the building and swirled across my windshield. I'd told Brown to park by the south exit in back.
The rain picked up, drifting in curtains, sparkling on hundreds of windshields. I circled through the lot, looking for a dark green Lumina with a missing hubcap on the right front tire. The restaurant was busy and cars pulled in and out of the lot, their low beams probing the downpour. I made a couple circuits, then backed into a space near the south exit to wait for Brown to show up. The railroad tracks ran behind me, passing a grain elevator and a field piled with rusting junk. A switch engine rumbled by and blasted its horn.
Fifteen minutes later, a dark-colored Lumina pulled in on the far side of the lot. It stopped for a minute like the driver was looking for a space, then it drove through the steam gushing out of the vent and turned past the front of the restaurant. The rain was coming down hard now, banging the roof of the station wagon, puddling the floorboard under an open vent. I closed the vent, then turned on the wipers and slouched down in my seat, watching the Lumina glide through the lot and circle around to come out where it had started. Its right-front hubcap was missing. The driver stopped again, then turned and headed towards my spot.
I flashed my headlights, taking out the Glock and laying it on the seat beside me.
#
The Lumina parked a couple rows over and sat there for a while with its engine running. Exhaust puttered from its tail pipe, wisps of smoke whirling across the blacktop in the rain. Five minutes passed, then its tail lights went dark and this skinny geek wearing a black trench coat got out and walked over to the station wagon, hesitating before he came up to the car. It was Brown, all right. He scanned the lot, then leaned over and rapped on the passenger window, trying to see through the fogged glass. He was alone as far as I could tell, but there was no way to know for sure. I picked up the Glock and unlocked his door.
"Emma?" He peered at me, his glasses beaded with rain. "Everything OK?"
"Get in," I said, watching his hands, checking the rearview in case somebody was trying to sneak up through the rows of parked cars. "You alone?"
"I sure as hell hope so."
He looked baggy and haggard, hair plastered over his skull. Blanching when he saw my bruised face and the gun in my hand, he got in and locked the door.
"Take it easy," he said.
"Go screw yourself."
I watched him light a cigarette, fumbling with his lighter to get a flame. I was ready to blow his head off if he twitched the wrong muscle and he must've picked up on my vibes.
"Thanks for meeting me." He cracked his window and let out a cloud of smoke, trying to act casual. "You don't need the gun, OK? I'm just a writer with a bad back. All right? No threat at all."
"Unbutton your coat and put your hands on the dash."
I patted him down the best I could, checking all his pockets. He was clean as far as I could tell – no tape recorders or mikes or hidden bazookas. I relaxed a notch; if something was going to happen, it would've happened by now.
"All right," I said. "Start talking."
"Not so fast." He sat back, his eyes wandering over the dash. "You know why they let you go yesterday. Did you check for bugs and tracking devices?"
"It's not my car," I said. "Just leave it at that."
He shook his head. "We've got to be careful, Emma. I saw the report on your friend. The stripper. It's my ass big time if somebody's listening and they'll come down hard if they think you're talking to the press. They can't afford any leaks."
"The car's clean," I said, keeping an eye on the lot. "I've only had it for like an hour."
"Did you park it anywhere? Leave it for a while?"
"It's never been out of my sight."
"How about tails?" he asked. "Did you see anything?"
"Yeah," I said. "A bunch of traffic."
He studied me for a minute, then nodded and let out his breath.
"That's the trouble with the city." He took a drag like he needed it. "We're probably OK for a while, but we better not stay in one place for too long. I don't think anyone followed me, but who can tell in this crap. We can go somewhere else or drive around if you want. It might be safer to keep moving."
"This'll do for now." I watched a car drive by on Second. "So start talking. Tell me something that makes sense for a change."
"All right," he said. "Let's start with Matthews. He's not FBI, but he's using Bureau ID. It's a standard practice."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I'll get to that in a minute."
"Get to it now." I adjusted the rearview. "How do you know him?"
"I met him in D.C. a couple years ago," he went on. "I worked there for five years. L.A. Times Washington Bureau."
"Sure you did."
"I can prove it." He went for his pocket, then froze when I raised the gun. "Take it easy. I've got my old press card in my wallet. It's expired, but I've still got it."
He pulled out his wallet and handed me a laminated press ID. It looked official enough, but he could've bought it in a toy store for all I knew. The photo showed a younger and more clean-cut version of Brown wearing a suit and tie. He looked sober and almost respectable.
"I broke a lot of stories," he said. "You can check it out if you want – they've got them on microfilm at the library. I was a good researcher and I had a lot of contacts at the Pentagon and State Department. Just look it up."
"So what happened?" I gave him back his card. "How come you're working for that Berkeley rag if you used to be this hot-shot reporter?"
He flipped his half-smoked butt out the window and sat there for a minute, staring at his hands. The weasel looked embarassed, but there was more to it than that. He was trying to make up his mind about something.
"I guess I have to tell you or you'll never believe me," he said after a while. "A couple years ago, I was working a story – let's just leave it at that for now. It was a dead end, but I must've got too close to somebody because they set me up on child pornography charges and got me fired. Smeared me good; that's how they work. I beat the charges and moved up here, all right? I work freelance for rags like the NewsWire because nobody else will touch me after what happened, but I'm still a good reporter, no matter what they say. I keep in touch. I still have contacts."
He stared at me, his left eye twitching.
"The feds set you up?" Maybe it was true, maybe not, but I didn't have any trouble believing it could happen.
"The cops raided my place at four in the morning and confiscated all of my files," he said. "They claimed they found a bunch of kiddy porn on my computer – thousands of pictures of little kids and runaways. They said I was selling them over the internet to this international ring of pedophiles, but the D.A. dropped the charges a couple months later – no explanation. Somebody wanted me out of the way. I don't know who, but it could have been anybody."
"So how'd you meet Matthews?"
"I can't go into details." Brown lit another cigarette, cupping the lighter with his hands. The flame shadowed his hollow cheeks and reflected on his glasses. "He was using State Department cover back then. He works for the Company."
"What company?"
"You know," he said. "The CIA."
I just stared at him.
"Special Activities Division," Brown went on. "Used to be the Directorate of Operations. They keep changing the name." He watched me through a cloud of smoke. "That's the spook division and guys like Matthews aren't even supposed to be working inside the country, so what's he doing talking to some car thief in Emeryville, California?" He took another drag, spilling ashes on his coat. "Remember that picture I showed you at the Hot Box? The male hooker? I found out the kid had been busted by Emeryville P.D. on a hustling charge, so I went down there to see if I could talk to him yesterday. Get a line on his clients. I was surprised when I saw Matthews at the station and I was even more surprised when I found out that he was meddling in your case. That's why I called you, OK? This is a big story. It's part of the same story I was working on when they framed me and it's my ticket off the NewsWire, if you want to know the truth. I've been working this story for years."
"The CIA." My flake detector was buzzing.
"You've heard of them, right?" He sounded impatient. "Did you think they were a myth or something?"
"So he's a spy."
"No." Brown shook his head, smoke streaming from his nostrils. "Forget that James Bond crap. You want the jargon, he's a Collection Management Officer. That's a desk guy who runs agents and collects information. The word is he's working in the field for a group inside the Division. He's using FBI cover, so maybe the Bureau's involved, but I don't know the details."
"He told me he was FBI."
"Like I said, it's a common practice."
"Common on another planet."
"Look," he said. "I know how it sounds, but this kind of thing goes on all the time. The government's got all these factions and they're constantly fighting with each other over policy and influence. Matthews works for one group inside the CIA and he's investigating another group inside the CIA. All right? The guy who was in your car when you got picked up works for the other group. He's into some nasty business. It's the biggest secret in Washington."
"So how come you know about it?"
"I told you," he said. "I've got sources. People send me stuff anonymously. I'm not the only one interested in the guy in your car."
"Who is he?" My head was spinning. "What's he want?"
Brown studied me. "His name's Oliver. He's an Army major detached to the Pentagon. He used to have a partner named Mitchell. Bald guy. He's a professional killer, but you'd probably get an argument about that from the Veterans of Foreign Wars. They work for a policy group that reports directly to the White House."
"They work for the
President
?"
Brown shrugged. "It's hard to say. Nobody really knows who's actually running the country these days." He coughed into his hand, his eyes shifty. "I'm trying to put it together from all these bits and pieces, but it looks like you got caught in one of their spook wars. I know the players and I know the background – part of it, anyway – but I can't figure out why they suddenly got interested in you. What did Matthews want? He pulled some big strings to get you released – they usually try to stay in the background. What did he say? How'd you get mixed up in something like this?"
"Something like what?" I had this nasty feeling that I'd just wandered into the Twilight Zone. Brown sounded like he knew what he was talking about, but he could've been some kind of child-molesting conspiracy nut for all I knew. The Bay Area was full of paranoids and wack jobs in tin-foil hats who wandered around mumbling about the CIA and flying saucers. "You're supposed to be the one with the inside scoop," I said. "Why don't you tell
me
what's going on?"
Brown thought about it for a minute.
"I'm not sure," he said, watching the parking lot. "Something strange happened in Oakland a couple nights ago. Down in the bottoms." He looked over at me, then lowered his voice. "Have you ever heard of the Loose Nukes market?"