Lethal People - John Locke

Of course, our body doubles are totally clueless about their participation in our reindeer games of national security. If they knew about it, most civilians would disapprove of the practice, just as most disapproved of the army’s plan for wide-scale use of the ADS weapon. However, from my side of the fence, collateral damage is a fact of war, and civilian sacrifice a necessary evil. When managed judiciously, body doubles can buy us time to eliminate paper trails or change our appearance so we can get back to the business of killing terrorists.

Callie asked if Jenine was prettier than her—just the sort of crap you’d expect from a gorgeous woman. “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “Remember, she doesn’t have to look exactly like you. She only needs to be the same age, shape, and height. The fact that she’s beautiful, with high cheekbones, is a plus. The tattoo and birthmark are small and easy to replicate.”

“What sort of butter��y is it?” she asked. “Is it stupid looking? A tattoo is a permanent fixture, Donovan. It sounds creepy.”

“Think of it as a shrine to Jenine’s memory,” I said. “And try to show some respect, will you? She’s putting her life on the line for you.”

“Not knowingly,” Callie said. “Not willingly.”

“A technicality,” I said.

“If we ever terminate her,” Callie said, “I’m going to be stuck with a tattoo and birthmark that my next body double won’t have.”

I let that comment hang in the air unanswered, and soon we were back to exchanging theories about the Monica hit. I wasn’t ready to completely dismiss the terrorist angle, so Callie asked if it were possible Sal Bonadello was involved with terrorists. After all, he’s the one who gave Victor my cell phone number. I told her Sal was many things, all unsavory, but a terrorist sympathizer, no. I told Callie to keep watching the news and let me know if anything interesting developed.

“This isn’t interesting enough for you?” she asked.

CHAPTER 24

I was about to turn off the TV and take a shower when I got sidetracked by Courtney Armbrister’s live update on CNN.

FBI Special Agent Courtney Armbrister was a media dream. Playing to full advantage her shoulder-length auburn hair, perpetually pouting lips, and killer body, she managed to appear beguiling despite the seriousness of the occasion. Courtney sported the obligatory dark suit favored by the bureau, though hers was obviously tailored. Her jacket framed a white blouse that appeared more silk than cotton. Her eyes glared fiercely into the camera, and when she spoke, it was with such conviction you knew she had to be telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

Although in this case, she was lying like hell through those perfect, dazzling teeth.

I knew the cover-up was in full swing when S. A. Armbrister informed the CNN audience that FBI computers had identified the kidnappers as former Soviet agents with confirmed ties to terrorist leaders. On the screen behind her, the bureau displayed phony names and doctored images of Callie and me. In these photos, I was younger, smaller, and had no facial scar. Callie had been aged at least ten years, and they’d done something to her nose and eyes she wasn’t going to like. They also displayed fake profiles obtained through “classified sources” to show they were on top of things. She said the bureau was sharing these photos and documents with the public so we could be part of the process. It was a total load of crap, but as far as the Joe and Mrs. Lunchbox crowd were concerned, any words coming from that face would seem credible.

“Until we have proof to the contrary,” Courtney said, “we have every reason to believe Monica Childers is alive and being held captive. So we’re asking for your help. We want you to be our eyes and ears on this one. If you see anything, if you hear anything, please, call our hotline. There is no clue too small when it comes to saving an innocent life.”

Almost brought a tear to my eye, she did.

Then she talked about the white van and showed her national audience a picture of it. She said police around the country were working on that lead but they could use the public’s help on this, also. Finally, on behalf of FBI agents and law enforcement officers everywhere, Courtney promised to hunt the kidnappers down and bring them to justice. She ended by issuing a special alert: “If anyone has any information regarding these two former Soviet agents, please call the FBI hotline at …”

The phone vibrated again, and I answered it.

“Creed, you son of a jailhouse bitch! What did you do with the body?” The man I knew only as Darwin had only just begun yelling at me. He told me how much trouble they had to go to in order to doctor the photographs and plant the phony Russian suspects. Darwin called me stupid, careless, and a bunch of other names that would have hurt my feelings had I not been keenly aware of his indelicate nature. So he unloaded, and I sipped my bourbon and took my lumps and waited for him to get on topic, which he eventually managed to do.

“I want to know who hired you, because whoever it was, he managed to throw a monkey wrench into our national defense system. And don’t tell me Sal Bonadello, a guy who thinks software means sweaters.”

Darwin fell silent, but only for a moment. Then he said, “I’m waiting.”

“I can’t give you a name,” I said.

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Can’t. But on the bright side, I know how to get it”

“Creed, listen to me. You’ve done a lot of stupid things over the years, things I’ve turned a blind eye to because up to now, you’ve been more valuable than the shit storms you’ve created. But this is too much. We can’t let someone hack into our national defense systems, and we can’t let the government find out that you and your people are running around taking contracts from criminals to kill people,” he said. “They’re funny about shit like that. How the fuck did you let this happen? No, don’t bother telling me. Just tell me this: what are you going to do about it?”

“I’m going to talk to an angry midget,” I said.

“What? Are you insane? You trying to tell me some midget hired you to kill the doctor’s wife?”

“Little person,” I said. “They prefer the term little people.”

“I prefer Viagra and a nice set of tits, but right now you and Callie are the only boobs in my life.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, I’m saying a midget hired me to kill Monica Childers, but I’m not sure she’s dead.”

“I know how to tell: did you kill her or not?”

“We killed her, but we left her body. Now it’s gone.”

“Wait,” Darwin said. “Maybe I should get some Roman soldiers to move the stone away from the tomb.”

“Look, I gave her a syringe full of BT. I think someone got to her in time to administer an antidote. I think that’s why Victor monitored the satellite, so he could get a chase team to pick her up as soon as we left.”

“Victor? Who’s Victor? The midget?”

“Little person.”

“Let me get this straight.” Darwin paused on the other end of the line. “You took a contract from an angry midget to kill a prominent surgeon’s wife, but she was rescued and then kidnapped by other people working for the very same midget. That what you’re telling me?”

“It sounds stupid when you say it out loud like that.”

Then, in a tight voice, he said, “Kill her again, Creed.”

“Okay.”

“Because otherwise she’ll be able to identify you.”

“Okay.”

“And kill the midget, too.”

“That I can’t do.”

“Why the hell not?”

“First, I don’t know for certain he’s the hacker. Second, if he isn’t the hacker and I kill him, I’ll never be able to find the real hacker. Third, I’ve entered into an agreement with him.”

“You’ll be entering a pine box if you don’t put a stop to this hacking business.”

“I will.”

“And don’t forget to kill Monica Childers.”

“Assuming she’s still alive.”

“Don’t assume anything. Just kill her.”

“Will do.”

“Keep me in the loop. I don’t want to have to keep calling you after the fact.”

“Got it.”

“Oh, shut up.” He hung up on me.

CHAPTER 25

I’m a Time Saver.

Time Savers are people who commit special moments to memory. A skilled Time Saver can freeze all the components of an event—the date, mood, time, temperature, lighting, sights, sounds, scents, the breeze—everything. Then we park this information in a corner of our brains and relive it whenever we wish. It’s like opening a time capsule years after an event and having all the wonderful memories spill out.

Some guys like baseball, some ballet. Maybe they’re content to grow old with memories of sweeping the Yankees or reliving the Dance of the Cygnets from Swan Lake. But me, I’d rather Time Save the memory of trysts with beautiful young ladies like Jenine.

Fully dressed now, sitting on the balcony again, I closed my eyes and began experiencing all the facets of our encounter, committing them to a permanent file in my mind. Just as I’d indoctrinated my body to survive torture and function at a high level by testing weapons and sleeping in a prison cell, I’d structured my mind to compartmentalize the significant experiences of my life. These I can relive as if they’re happening in the moment—a wonderful skill to be able to call upon the next time I’m stuck in a real prison for any length of time.

Some people plan for their retirement. I plan for my imprisonment, for I am certain to end up dead or in prison, and if it’s to be the latter, I want my body and mind to be prepared.

I began by concentrating on her voice. Then I relived the heightened awareness, the anticipation—the entire range of feelings and emotions that raced through my mental synapses and physical receptors just after she called from the lobby phone. I marked these things in my mind until I knew I could call upon them at will.

Then I re-experienced Jenine’s arrival in the doorway, my first view of her, and the immediate impressions I formed, and how I felt the moment I encountered her beauty, newness, and youth. I smiled, thinking how none of this mattered in the least to Jenine and the other beauties I’d met in my life, although I’m sure they have fond memories of the money I spent.

I focused on the way she entered the room while listening to music, just as you’d expect a college kid to do, with the ear buds, the oversized MP3 player, and …

And suddenly I realized she didn’t have the MP3 player with her when she left the room!

A cold chill rushed through me. Could Jenine have put the MP3 player in her purse while I was on the balcony, signaling Quinn? I didn’t think so. If she ever kept it in her purse, she’d have done so before meeting me. I had to assume the worst. As a trained assassin for many years, I survived the deadliest ambushes, the most terrifying physical encounters imaginable, by always assuming the worst.

I jumped to my feet and dialed the operator. A young lady answered. “Front desk. This is Jodie; how may I help you?”

“Jody,” I said in my most commanding voice, “this is Donovan Creed in room 214. I’m a federal agent. I need you to listen very carefully.”

“Is this a joke?” she asked. “If it is, it’s not funny.”

Maybe I should have told her that after spending twelve years as the CIA’s top international assassin, I ought to know a bomb threat when I saw one. Then again, the word assassin conjures up such diverse feelings. I decided to stick with the federal agent story and gave her another go.

“Jody, I repeat, I’m a federal agent and there’s a bomb in my room. I want you to activate the fire alarm, contact hotel security, and immediately begin evacuating the building.”

“Sir,” she said, “bomb threats are taken very seriously. If I report you, it could mean prison time.”

“Jodie,” I said, “I wrote the manual on bomb threats, okay? Now sound the fire alarm and make an evacuation announcement before I come down there and rip your face off !”

I slammed the phone down and ran to the door, flipped the lock latch outward so the door would stay propped open, and tore down the hall, banging doors, yelling at the top of my lungs, “Emergency! Evacuate the building immediately! Leave your things behind! Get out of the building now!”

By the time I got to the fifth door, the fire alarm started blaring, so I raced back to my room and started a frantic search. The bathroom seemed the likeliest place, so I started there. I checked behind the shower curtain, lifted the toilet bowl tank cover, looked up to see if any ceiling tiles had been dislodged, and checked the floor for debris in case I’d missed something. Then I realized this wasn’t going to work. I simply didn’t have the time to conduct a proper search. Jenine, on the other hand, had the entire length of our visit to decide where to hide it.

If she hid it.

If it was a bomb.

I ran to the balcony, felt my legs climb over the railing, felt myself hurtling through the air. I realized I’d just jumped off the second floor balcony! My legs had made the calculation without me, had hurled me as far out as possible in an effort to clear the sidewalk below.

Now, in midair, with my mind back on the job, I tucked and rolled as I hit and tried to ignore the searing pain that suddenly knifed through my shoulder. I scrambled to my feet, sprinted twenty yards, and dove behind the thick base of a giant palm, scattering twelve-inch sand tsunamis in my wake. I tucked my chin, protected my vital organs as well as possible, and waited for the explosion.

CHAPTER 26

And nothing happened.

A handful of hotel guests began filing out the side and back entrances. There weren’t many, but I supposed that during a fire drill, the vast majority would have gone out the front.

A minute passed, and the fi re alarm droned on. The speakers must have pointed to the front and sides of the hotel because the alarm was fairly muted from my position.

Some more guests joined the first group. I considered running over to warn them, but no, a discussion was bound to follow, and we’d probably all get killed while they questioned my credentials and the conclusions I’d drawn.

In the end, it didn’t matter, because someone in the group made the decision to walk toward the front of the hotel and the others followed.

More time passed, seconds I’m sure, but it always seems longer while waiting for a bomb to explode. The muffled drone of the alarm gave way to other sounds you’d expect to hear from behind a palm tree fifty yards from the Pacific Ocean: breaking surf behind me and, somewhere, hidden from view, the musical clang of steel drums rising above the traffic noise. A quarter mile to my left, I could hear the distant rumble of the roller coaster on the Santa Monica Pier.