“He’s on our side, Commander.” Logan knew the words were worthless to Keys.
“Let me share something with you, Mr. Logan.” Keys gestured toward two chairs at room’s center, where they sat. “About twenty-five years back, not more than six months in the front seat, I caught myself some flak at six hundred knots in my good ol’ F-4. And, mind you, there weren’t any friendlies below. Just a slew of pissed-off gooks. Can’t say I blame ‘em, being that we’d just blown the crap out of a road network around their village. Anyway, my backseater didn’t make it out before we hit — his seat must’ve screwed up or something. I hit the ground in damn good shape, which ain’t supposed to happen in an eject. Nothing broken. Nothing at all.” Keys’s head shook slightly, almost wistfully, as the time came back. He looked up at Logan. “I was the only one to survive from the flight. Six planes. Eleven good men — dead. Thank God SAR got to me before the locals. And do you know why? Because we were getting our intel from some gook insider. He gave us lots of good stuff as a lead-in: a bridge here, and maybe some rice convoy or some other piddly shit. Just enough so our intel guys were comfortable with it all. Just enough so he could draw a bunch of us in to a grade A bushwack. We bit at it, and good.” The commander looked down and then at the spy again. “He was on our side, Logan. Think about that.”
Logan breathed deeply. “The orders, Commander, come…”
“I know, Logan.” Keys waved off the reminder. “From the top. You see, that’s where I differ from that candy-ass raghead of yours. I obey orders. I am loyal to my country, and to my men. You’ll have everything you need to complete this mission. Everything. If you need a goddamn turkey dinner waiting here for him, you’ve got it. But take this advice: don’t be surprised if your beloved traitor — you know, the one on our side — don’t be surprised if he’s playing both sides of the fence.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.”
“Keep this in mind, too, mister: There’ll be a helo full of good men going in there with you to pull that guy out. You’re not the only one who could get killed. You’ve got a lot of lives on your shoulders, Mr. Logan.”
He was right, as much as Logan wanted to not believe it. DONNER, like any other agent, could be a pawn. Damn! “Message received, Commander. Loud and clear.”
Keys nodded. “The lieutenant will take you to your bunk. It’s small, but it’s private. I assume you’ll want to brief the helo crew ASAP.”
“And the special ops troops,” Logan added. “Who do we have?”
“A squad of recon Marines from Guam. Eight men…Good men.”
“Point well taken, Commander.”
Logan looked for some common ground that they could work from, but since he knew of the commander’s distaste for DONNER, a man he had not yet met, settling for noninterference would have to do. He knew he would have all the help he needed, but he wanted more. Not approval — at least not for himself, and definitely not from this man. Maybe he was hoping for acceptance for his agent, so the man wouldn’t come in from the cold and realize that home had been a hell of a lot warmer.
“Very well. Briefing in forty minutes.” Keys returned to his chair, again without taking the CIA officer’s hand. It was a cold signal, one that Logan heeded, immediately, picking up his escort outside the door as he left.
If their average was translated into baseball terms, Agents Francine Aguirre and Thomas Danbrook would be candidates for yearly multi-million-dollar contracts. Already the word had spread that they were blessed, the Buddha whose tummy one rubbed to bring luck. That was before the immediate moment. This one, if it was a hit, would put them in the realm of legends.
Frankie heard it first. The lowered white Hyundai pulled slowly into the driveway to avoid dragging its ground- hugging underside. Its bass-heavy stereo system thumped until going silent as the headlights faded to darkness. The driver stepped out and approached. His babyish face was framed by the dark strands of his wet-curl perm, and the white Nike sweat suit glowed, even in the dim light from the distant sodium lamp. He walked toward his boss and the two agents waiting outside the sliding night window of the storage yard.
“Daryl, come here.” The owner spoke in a heavy Indian accent. His dark-haired wife watched worriedly from inside.
“Watsup?” Daryl James had almost thought the phone call from his boss was a joke, but Mr. Patel was a serious man. That he knew for sure. “You almost didn’t catch me. I just walked in when the phone rang.”
“Daryl,” Frankie said, offering her hand. The young man, polite and calm, accepted it. “I’m Agent Aguirre and this is Agent Danbrook. We’re with the L.A. FBI office.”
The young man straightened up at that. “Hey, man…I mean lady. I don’t do none of that shit that you all handle. No drugs or gang banging. Honest.”
Thom was skeptical, but not Frankie. The kid wasn’t a street slime, like so many others she had seen or grown up with. No expensive jewelry or flashy clothes. Even his car was sedate when compared to what other young guys who looked the part were driving. Thom, a new agent, had seen too many movies and spent too much time behind a desk.
Frankie smiled. “Don’t sweat it.”
Thom handed Daryl a page from the facility’s register book. It was similar to that of a hotel, showing who rented each particular space. This one was for space 141, one of the small walk-in units. A picture was also passed over, which Daryl held under the light over the night window.
“Do you remember any of these men?” Frankie asked, watching Daryl for any reaction as his eyes went between the form and the strip of three photos.
“Yeah. Last week, I think.”
“Which one,” Frankie probed, sidestepping closer to the light as her heartbeat picked up.
“This one here. On the left.”
“Jackson,” Thom said to his partner, who nodded.
They had been right. It had been a simple hunch, but then that was good police work. Some of it could be taught: the investigative techniques, to an extent, and the reckoning of fact with conjecture, most notably. But that gut feeling that good cops got was inborn. Not every agent had it, but all street agents worth their salt did.
“Let’s check it out,” Frankie said, her manner now more serious. The time for glee was past. “Mr. Patel, the gentleman that Daryl just identified is wanted for questioning in the assassination of the president. You can imagine how serious this is. Now, we can have a search warrant here in less than an hour, if you wish, but it would be a great help if you would allow us access.”
“I do not know. What if it is not the same man…the one you want?”
Frankie shot her partner a look, which sent him walking toward the car.
“No! No! No!” Patel said rapidly, stopping Thom after only a few steps. “I will let you in. Jira,” he called to his wife, finishing the sentence in his native language. She disappeared momentarily, then returned with a key. “Come. Come.”
The agents followed the diminutive man to the gate, which he opened with a card, and on to the small storage space. Daryl stayed outside near the window, still somewhat perplexed by what was happening.
The door to the space was orange, and only slightly larger, both in height and width, than an ordinary entry door.
“I’ll take the key,” Frankie said. “Would you wait back by the gate?”
Thom waited for the owner to get out of earshot. “Do you think it’s tricked?”
Frankie shook her head. “Why would it be? These guys were interested in getting in and out, clean and quick. Jackson, too, I figure. The car they used wasn’t booby-trapped. These guys had specific targets, which means that random killing just doesn’t fit. Plus, what if someone had opened this up before they did their deed? It might have been enough to spook the Service.” She ended with a raised-eyebrow invitation for rebuttal.