Ballon took the phone. "This is Ballon. What is it?" "Colonel," said the dispatcher, "I have a phone call from General Michael Rodgers of the National Crisis Management—" "Colonel Ballon," Rodgers cut in, "forgive the interruption but I need to talk to you." "C'est evidement." "Do you speak English?" Rodgers asked. "If not, give me a minute to get a translator—" "I speak English," Ballon said reluctantly. "What is it, General Rodgers?" "I understand you're trying to close in on a mutual enemy." "Trying, yes." "We believe," Rodgers said, "that he's planning to download computer software which will help to cause rioting in cities around the world. We believe he intends to use those riots to throw the economies of major American and European nations into chaos." Ballon's mouth began to go dry. This man was either a godsend or the pawn of Satan himself. "How do you know this?" Rodgers said, "If we didn't, the government would take away all the money they give our team." Ballon liked that too. "What about his terrorist squads?
What do you know about those?" he asked, hoping for some new information. Any new information.
"Nothing," Rodgers admitted. "But we suspect he's working closely with several neo-Nazi groups in America and abroad." Ballon was silent for a moment. He still didn't trust this man entirely. "Your information is interesting but not very useful," he said. "I need evidence. I need to find out what's going on inside his fortress." Rodgers said eagerly, "If that's the problem, I can help.
I was calling, Colonel Ballon, to offer you the assistance of a NATO commander in Italy. His name is Colonel Brett August, and his speciality is—" "I have read white papers by Colonel August," said Ballon. "He is a brilliant counterterrorist operative." "And a lifelong friend of mine," said Rodgers. "He'll assist you if I ask him. But I also have equipment in Germany which I'll lend to you." "What kind of equipment?" Ballon asked. He was getting suspicious again. This man seemed like too much of a good thing. A good thing he wouldn't be able to resist. A good thing who might be taking his marching orders from Dominique. A good thing which might end in an ambush.
"It's a new kind of X-ray device," Rodgers said. "One with which my operator can probably work some nearmiracles." "A new kind of X-ray," Ballon said dubiously. "That isn't going to help. I don't need to know where people are—" "It might be able to read papers for you," Rodgers said.
"Or lips." Ballon was attentive but still wary. "General Michael Rodgers," he said. "How do I know you're not working with Dominique?" Rodgers said, "Because we also know about a pair of murders he committed twenty-five years ago. We know about them because we know the person who was with him at the time. I can tell you nothing more— except that I want Dominique brought to justice." Ballon looked at his men, who were all looking at him.
"Watch the monitors!" he yelled.
They did. Ballon was dying to get out of there and into action.
"All right," said the Colonel. "How do I get in touch with this miracle worker of yours?" Rodgers said, "Stay where you are. I'll have him phone you there." Ballon agreed and hung up. Then he told Ste. Marie to take three men outside and watch the building. If it looked as though anyone was staking them out or closing in on them, they were to radio him at once.
But Ballon had a feeling in his gut that General Rodgers was one of the good men, just as he'd had a feeling in his gut about Dominique being one of the bad men.
I only hope my gut is not getting soft, he said as Ste.
Marie and the men left and he continued to stand by the telephone.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
He called himself Streetcorna, and he sold audio tapes from a panther-skin backpack. Every day for more than a year, around seven in the morning, the young man would leave his battered old Volkswagen in the parking lot behind the strip of stores off Laurel Canyon in Studio City, and walk toward Ventura Boulevard. As he walked, his black leather sandals dragged unhurriedly along the sidewalk, propelled by long, lean legs which were visible beneath the dried leaves of his Sudanese pagne. The skirt was held up by a shoulder strap made of leopard skin. Beneath the straps was a sweat-stained black T-shirt with white lettering which read "STREETCORNA RAP." His hair was shaved around the sides, leaving only a large clump in the center which was woven with wood into a latticed cone. His eyes were invisible behind his wraparound shades. The tiny diamond studs in his nostrils and tongue shined. with perspiration and saliva.
Streetcorna always took his time as he walked to his spot. Heading out, he would smile as he drew on a joint to get ready for the day's huckstering and performing. As the smoke loosened him up, he would move his spindly arms and bony hands with the rhythm in his head. His thighs began to move to the beat and he shut his eyes and clapped his hands slowly as he walked.
Each day, he had a new lyric. Today it was, "IgotIgot Igot I got I got what I need if I got my weed. Smokin' gives me creed 'gainst the slick man's greed. Ana greed like his seed 'severywhere while I bleed. I'm not freed no indeed brother heed foll' my lead." Streetconna stopped walking at the corner, though he kept on moving. He doffed his backpack without losing the beat, unzipped it to reveal the prerecorded cassettes inside, switched on a small tape recorder, then continued his performance. He usually sold five or six tapes a day on the honor system. Since he was too busy to stop, a small, handwritten sign on a cardboard instructed potential customers to deposit what they wanted. Most left five dollars, a few one or two, some ten. He averaged thirty dollars a day, enough for smoke, gas, and food.
"AllIallI allI all I need…." His biggest score was the day he was brought to the studios across the street on Radford Avenue. He appeared on an evening sitcom, in a street scene, and earned enough money to prerecord some music. Before that, everything was recorded live, in the street, as he sang it. Everyone who bought a Streetcorna tape had an original. Now, they had a choice.
Streetcorna usually wrapped his day at eight or nine in the evening, after the video store down the street had rented most of what it was going to rent and the drugstore and bookstore closed and the traffic slowed, Then he returned to his car, drove to a side street or a grocery store parking lot, and read in his car by streetlight or candlelight.
On the last day of his life, Streetcorna arrived at his post at 7:10 in the morning. He sold one tape for ten dollars during the next two hours, lit a joint at 9:15, and went into his rap, "I'm a dissin' the Districk, the ho's in Deecee. " As he rapped with his eyes shut, two young men crossed Laurel Canyon. They were blond, tall, and walking slowly as they ate pita sandwiches. They were wearing tennis whites and carrying gym bags. When they neared Streetcorna, one man stopped slightly behind him on his right, the other slightly behind him on his left. As pedestrians rushed by, trying to make the Walk signal on the light, the men calmly took tire irons from their bags and slammed them into the front of the man's knees.
Streetcorna fell with a howl, his sunglasses shattering as his face hit the pavement. People began to slow and watch as the young man screamed again and curled painfully into a fetal position. Before he could turn and look at his attackers, however, the men raised the irons and brought them down viciously on the side of his head. His skull broke on the first strike, splashing the concrete with blood, but the men delivered two more blows apiece.
Streetcorna jerked with each of the blows, then died.
"Jesus!" a young woman screamed as the horrible reality of what had happened made its way through the crowd, like a serpent. "Jesus!" she screamed again, her face entirely white. "What have you done?" As one of the young men stood, the other patted their victim down.