True fiction, p.17
True Fiction, page 17
Seth put the two photos up on the media wall. One was a close-up of the rear license plate, which Cross didn’t need or care to see. The second was a close-up of the front of the vehicle, heading toward the camera. It clearly showed Ian Ludlow sitting in the passenger seat and Margo French at the wheel.
Cross wanted to break Seth’s neck. Seth should have immediately shown him the goddamn photo of Ian and Margo the instant he stepped into the room and scrapped the whole tedious story leading up to it. But no, Seth wanted to show off his work and build up suspense like he was putting on a fucking stage show. He’d wasted Cross’ time and that was unacceptable. Cross would deal with that later. Maybe transfer the smug prick to Tasmania. For now, he took a deep breath to calm himself.
“Show me a map of the I-15 heading southwest,” Cross said.
One appeared immediately on the media wall. The I-15 went straight into Southern California. The only fork beforehand was near Barstow, California, where the I-15 met the I-40 eastbound toward Arizona, New Mexico, and the lower third of the country. But if any of those places was their destination, there were much shorter routes out of Las Vegas to get there. So Cross was sure they’d stay on the I-15. Once they hit Victorville, they could take Highway 18 west, and from there hit several other routes heading to Central or Northern California. Or they could stay on the I-15 and connect to a number of southbound freeways toward San Diego and Mexico. Or they could take it straight into Los Angeles, Ian Ludlow’s home.
“He’s going back to Los Angeles,” Cross said. He was sure of it, though it was just a gut feeling.
“He can’t be,” Victoria said. “That would be insane.”
“More insane than breaking into our office in Las Vegas?” Seth said.
Victoria didn’t reply. Seth had a point, Cross thought, and might even have the motive. Did Ludlow intend to strike their Beverly Hills office? Cross didn’t think so. Ludlow wouldn’t take the risk of returning to LA, his home and the place where he was most likely to be spotted by his pursuers, unless he absolutely had to for a crucial strategic or operational purpose.
“The real question is what’s in Los Angeles that he needs?” Cross said, putting the question to the room.
“Money,” Victoria said.
Cross nodded. That was a real possibility. But Ludlow wouldn’t be dumb enough to walk into a bank or go to an ATM for a withdrawal. That would announce his location almost instantly. So that meant he had either money stashed away somewhere or someone he could approach for cash.
“Freeze his bank accounts and stake out his house, or what’s left of it,” Cross said. “Maybe he had a floor safe or something. Doesn’t he have family in Southern California?”
“His mother is in Palm Springs,” Victoria said.
“Put a team on her,” Cross said. “I want her watched twenty-four/seven and all of her e-mail, phone, and other communications monitored. What did you get from the license plates on the station wagon?”
“It’s owned by the same shell companies as the compound in Nevada,” Seth said. “We’re digging into it. We have our people sorting through records in Delaware, Panama, Bermuda, and the Cayman Islands. We’re hours away from an answer.”
“Make it minutes,” Cross said.
And if Seth strung out the answer when he got it, Cross might actually break the man’s neck.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Woodland Hills, California. July 21. 7:00 p.m. Pacific Standard Time.
Margo parked the Ford station wagon in front of the Target store on Ventura Boulevard and looked at Ian in the passenger seat. He took the foil-wrapped driver’s license out of his pocket.
“If you want to quit,” Ian said, “now is the time to do it.”
“No, I’m in.”
“So you think the plan will work?”
“Not really. But it’s how I choose to die.” The sentence was barely out of her mouth before she started giggling like a little girl. “I don’t know how you can write or say that Straker shit with a straight face.”
“It’s simple. You have to believe it.”
He peeled the foil from his driver’s license, gave her a smile, and got out of the car. She watched him walk into the Target and disappear inside.
Bethesda, Maryland. July 21. 10:17 p.m. Eastern Standard Time.
Cross sat in his office, watching CIA director Michael Healy’s press conference, which was being aired live on every major TV network and cable news channel.
“Ayoub Darwish and Habib Ebrahimi, the two terrorists responsible for crashing TransAmerican 976 and, prior to that, Indonesian Air 230 were killed yesterday in Antwerp in a joint operation conducted by the CIA and Belgian intelligence,” Healy said. “The two men have familial ties to Harakat Ahrar al-Sham al-Islamiyya, a coalition of radical Islamic terrorist groups based in Syria, and they worked on the Gordon-Ganza assembly line when both of the aircraft were manufactured. Evidence found on computers and cell phones recovered at the scene in Antwerp conclusively ties the men to the downing of those jets.”
Poor Mike, Cross thought. It was his moment of glory, the kind of political coup that could easily propel a man of his youth to the Oval Office someday. Perhaps it would. But for now he had to stand there, freshly castrated, a Ken doll in a suit who had nothing to do until Cross or Holbrook or the president decided to play with him.
The Belgians were the luckiest bastards of all. They were given the shared glory for an intelligence coup they not only had nothing to do with but didn’t know anything about until an hour or two before Healy’s press conference. It was a gift, one that would allow them to downplay how Darwish and Ebrahimi were able to get into their country and remotely crash a plane in Honolulu from a barn outside of Antwerp, without Belgian intelligence knowing they were even there.
His phone rang and he snatched it up. “Yes?”
“Ludlow has surfaced.” It was Victoria, calling from the control center.
“Where and when?”
“A Target store in Woodland Hills, California, thirty minutes ago. The alert in the national known shoplifter database paid off for us again. We got a hit from the RFID chip in his driver’s license as he passed through the security scanners.”
“I’ll be right there.”
When Cross entered the center, security camera video of Ludlow, taken from inside the Target store, was already playing on the media wall along with satellite images of the store and the surrounding neighborhood. There were also security camera photos from the parking lot showing Ludlow getting out of and into the old Ford station wagon.
“Do we know what Ludlow bought?” Cross asked.
“Four throwaway cell phones, hair coloring, toiletries, and groceries,” Victoria said. “But all the food was packaged goods, nothing perishable like meat, fruit, or vegetables.”
Ludlow was going into hibernation. If they lost him now, they might not have another shot at him until he made his next move against them. They had to take advantage of Ludlow’s mistake while the opportunity was there.
“He’s going back to ground, probably somewhere in Los Angeles,” Cross said. “We have to move fast before we lose him. Get a surveillance drone up over the San Fernando Valley and try to home in on those RFID tags.”
“He could be in Ventura by now,” Victoria said. “Or halfway to Pasadena.”
“I think I know where he is,” Seth said. “The one common denominator of those shell companies and bank accounts is that they all lead back, through a lawyer or accountant, to Ronald Mancuso, an actor Ludlow worked with on the TV series Hollywood & the Vine.” Publicity stills of Ronnie from his roles as Frankencop, Publicity Hound, and Charlie Vine appeared on the media wall. “Mancuso has a home in Tarzana, a few miles away from that Target store.”
Seth didn’t know it but he’d just saved himself from a one-way trip to Tasmania and the end of a once-promising career. Cross turned to Victoria. “Get me eyes on the house and dispatch a hit team.”
“The asset we sent to Honolulu just got back to Los Angeles,” Victoria said.
It was perfect timing and a good omen. Doric Thane was their best assassin and utterly dependable. It was why Cross had entrusted him with downing the plane.
“Put him in charge of the team and give him a helmet camera,” Cross said. “I want to see Ludlow die for myself.”
Ronnie led Ian and Margo into his garage and proudly showed off the six cars parked inside:
The bright green 2011 Ford Crown Victoria from Hollywood & the Vine
The black-and-gold 1977 Pontiac Trans Am from Smokey and the Bandit
The red-and-white-striped 1976 Ford Gran Torino from Starsky & Hutch
A silver 1964 Aston Martin DB5, like the one James Bond drove in Goldfinger
KITT, the jet-black 1982 Pontiac Trans Am from Knight Rider
The Batmobile from one of the Michael Keaton, Val Kilmer, or George Clooney string of Batman movies
Ronnie went over to the Batmobile and patted the hood. “I’m thinking this is the car for the job.”
Ian went to the green Crown Vic, which had a set of ramming bars on the front grille, and gestured to it with a swing of the Target bag in his right hand. “Let’s go with this one. It’s a bit more subtle than the others.”
“Not by much,” Margo said.
“Do you know what this car is?” Ronnie asked her.
“Garish and ugly?”
“It’s my ride from Hollywood & the Vine. Like the Batmobile, this car is rolling justice.” Ronnie lovingly stroked the side of the Crown Vic and then nodded at Ian. “You’re right, buddy. Driving this will make it personal.”
“We don’t have much time.” Ian reached into his bag and handed a cell phone to Margo and another to Ronnie and kept the remaining two for himself. He looked Ronnie in the eye. “Are you sure you’re okay with what might happen to you if this plays out the way we hope it will?”
“Absolutely,” Ronnie said. “It’s a small price to pay to topple the New World Order.”
Ian gave him a hug. “I owe you.”
“The hell you do,” Ronnie said, still in Ian’s embrace. “This is the fight I’ve always wanted. You’ve given me a gift, buddy.”
Ian stepped back. “Then you better get going.”
Ronnie held out his arms to Margo for another hug but she took a step back and offered him a friendly wave. “Good luck.”
“Fuck luck, honey.” Ronnie stuck the phone in his pocket. “I was born for this. See you at the after-party.”
He got into the Crown Vic, used his remote to open the garage door, and drove out, burning rubber. Margo hit a button on the wall, closing the garage door. While she did that, Ian opened one of his two cell phones, typed *72, waited a moment, then began typing in a number with a 301 area code.
Margo joined him and looked over his shoulder. “Are you sure this is going to work?”
“Why are you asking me? It was basically your idea.”
“It was never an idea,” she said. “It was an example of something insane you could do to get yourself killed by the people who are chasing us.”
“Uh-oh,” he said. “I may have misunderstood.”
“I hate you,” she said and unpeeled the aluminum foil from her driver’s license.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Studio City, California. 7:20 p.m. Pacific Standard Time.
The actress found the assassin’s emotional truth after her second, bone-rattling orgasm.
“I know who you are,” she said, catching her breath.
“You do?” Doric Thane lifted his face from between her legs and climbed up beside her on the bed. They’d hardly spoken since they’d met at the pool and even that didn’t qualify as much of a conversation. He hadn’t given her his name, not even a fake one, but she’d given him her full name and, when they arrived in her apartment, one of her head shots. Then she’d given him head.
Now she rolled over to face him, her body damp with sweat, her nipples hard enough to cut glass. “You’re alone but not lonely. You are complete in yourself. Your pleasure comes from taking a job and doing it well but that’s where your personal investment ends. Your emotional truth is that you don’t have any emotions beyond pride in your work.”
She’d been way off the mark on how an assassin thinks but Thane was impressed by how accurately she’d read him. “You got all that from how I fuck?”
“I’m guessing you’re a surgeon.”
Thane smiled. He liked that guess. “Why is that?”
“The way you handled my body and looked at me when I climaxed,” she said. “It was like you were studying the response of individual muscles to your actions.”
Right again. “Very observant.”
His phone vibrated on her nightstand. Thane sat up, grabbed the phone, and looked at the screen. It was a text message telling him he was needed urgently at the office. That was code for a high-priority kill, one that had to be done immediately. He bent down and picked up his Speedo off the floor.
“I have to go.” Thane stood and pulled on his Speedo in the same motion. “An emergency at the office.”
He headed for the door.
“Wait, I have to know,” she said, propping herself up on her elbows. “How close was I?”
He paused at her door, thought about his answer, and turned back to her. “I’m an exterminator.”
She looked like she’d just eaten something sour. “You mean like rats and cockroaches?”
“It’s always my parents.” He walked out without taking her head shot.
The actress would go on to enjoy some fame two years later as the wacky neighbor with the beehive hairdo in the long-running CBS sitcom Geez Louise. But all four of her marriages would be destroyed by her adultery, a consequence of her futile quest to achieve the ecstasy that she’d experienced for three glorious hours with a stranger, a man she would never know was one of the biggest mass murderers in history.
Beverly Hills, California. July 21. 7:45 p.m. Pacific Standard Time.
Blackthorn occupied a sleek, eight-story monolith of black glass a few blocks west of Rodeo Drive. A ten-pound surveillance drone camouflaged to blend in with the sky lifted off from the top of the building. The drone had four helicopter-like propellers branching off from a central hub that held multiple high-definition cameras, an RFID scanner, and heat sensors. It circled once over the adjacent buildings, where Blackthorn snipers were keeping watch on the rooftops in case Ludlow attacked, and then it streaked out to the San Fernando Valley, the killing field.
Ronnie walked into the restroom of the Chevron station on Van Nuys Boulevard but twenty minutes later it was Detective Charlie Vine who walked out. He wore a cheap suit and had a badge clipped to his belt. His hair was vibrant green and matched the color of his Crown Vic. He got into the car and sped off, the theme from Hollywood & the Vine blasting from his stereo.
Ooooh you heard about that cop Vine
A plant who can’t stand crime
You get caught, you’re gonna do time . . .
Honey, honey yeah . . .
In the basement armory of Blackthorn’s Beverly Hills office, Doric Thane and five other men suited up in their black tactical gear and prepared for battle. They wore ballistic helmets with cameras, night-vision goggles, armored vests, kneepads, and duty belts loaded with stun grenades, pepper spray, doorstops, flashlights, and extra magazines and rounds of ammunition. They were armed with knives, Sig Sauer P226 semiautomatic pistols, and Heckler & Koch HK416 assault rifles with suppressors and mounted lights.
Doric Thane thought that killing by laptop, with a cocktail in your hand, was a lot easier on the lower back than carrying all of this but it wasn’t nearly as much fun.
A flat-screen TV on the wall displayed pictures of their three targets: Ian Ludlow, Margo French, and Ronald Mancuso. Wilton Cross’ voice came through on the speaker, giving them their marching orders.
“This is a stealth operation, swift and quiet. The targets are well trained and heavily armed. They have already killed three of our agents, shot down one of our helicopters, and bombed our Las Vegas offices. Don’t underestimate them. Kill them on sight. Leave no witnesses.”
“Roger that,” Thane said.
He led the men out of the armory and into the underground garage, where they split up, got into the two waiting black panel vans, and raced out of the building.
Some clichés are true. Cops really do love doughnuts and coffee. That’s especially true for California Highway Patrol officers. That’s because doughnut shops offer a cheap, quick fix of sugar and caffeine, they’re open all hours, and they can usually be found within two blocks of any freeway off-ramp in Los Angeles County.
Rolley’s Donuts, where CHP officers Brubeck and Flotz were taking a break, was a good example. It was one block south of the Coldwater Canyon off-ramp of the 101 freeway and there was almost always a police car parked in the lot. This time it was their black-and-white CHP Ford Explorer.
Flotz held his glazed old-fashioned doughnut in front of his face and pondered its beauty and complexity. “Doughnuts are an American delicacy.”
“You bet. Right up there with fried chicken and barbecue ribs.” Brubeck slurped some of his coffee. He and his partner were both in their midthirties, as pale as vampires from working nights, and one belt-buckle notch away from having to buy wider pants.
They sat at a window table along the street. They weren’t paying attention to the parking lot or the alley behind it. Neither one of them noticed the green Crown Vic that pulled up behind the dumpsters. If they had, they probably would have mistaken it for a cop driving a plain wrap, coming in for a break.
“So why is it that Koreans make the best doughnuts?” Flotz gestured to the Korean woman who sat on a stool behind the counter, reading a Korean-language newspaper.
