Steve Martini - The Enemy Inside

The Tarnished Eagle wished he was in the bar, the private club with the lawyer and the girl. At least he could have had a drink. He could have used one, but there was no time for that now.

“Do we know what they talked about?”

“If I had to guess, I’d say he was trying for a date. We lost at least half, maybe sixty percent to background noise.” The transcript was going to have major holes, train loads of blank white space labeled “Unintelligible.” The gain on the mic from the lawyer’s cell phone simply couldn’t handle the constant blast of the bass from the music.

“Why couldn’t they have met in a library?” said the Eagle.

“He’s out of the building.” The voice at the other end suddenly came alive.

“Where is he headed?”

“Hold on. Looks like the other man has joined him out in front of the building. They are both headed back toward the car. They’ve crossed the street. Yes, they’re back in the car.”

“Do we have sufficient assets to track them?”

“Got it covered.”

“Are they moving?”

“Not yet.”

“Keep an eye on them. Where is the girl?”

“One second. Looks like they’re on the move, backing up.”

“Where’s the girl?”

The Eagle could hear voices conferring at the other end of the line.

“We think she’s still inside.”

“What do you mean, YOU THINK?”

More panicked voices at the other end. “No. No. She’s inside.” This seemed to be the consensus.

“Are you sure?”

“That is confirmed. Feet on the ground inside. She is still there.”

The Eagle settled down. Maybe she had already told them what it was they wanted to know. At least she hadn’t left the building with them. He thought for a moment and considered the options. Then again, maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. “What do we have on the man’s vehicle?”

“Plate number, aerial profile. Not to worry, we have it covered.”

“That’s not what I meant,” said the Eagle. How old is it?” He was thinking about the target possibilities.

There was a delay at the other end. They were gathering the information. “That’s a negative,” said the other man. “Cannot be used.”

The lawyer’s car was too old. Their man on the ground had checked it out while the two occupants were in the club. Just his luck. More than a million lawyers in the country and they had to find the one riding around in a dinosaur.

“We could try to hijack a cue ball,” said the voice from the other end. “That is, if they try to use his ride. But that is problematic.”

“You think?” Sarcasm dripped from the Eagle’s voice.

What the man at the other end was talking about was to electronically hijack another car or preferably a large late-model truck and use it like a missile to destroy the target vehicle.

“As I recall, that didn’t work very well last time.”

“We got the target.”

“You got half a target. The reason we’re doing the drill over again,” said the Eagle.

“Not our fault.”

“OK! All right!” said the Eagle. “Let’s not be splitting hairs on an open line.”

“We’ve got movement. The vehicle,” said the man on the phone. “Moving slowly, westerly direction. Away from the building. They do not appear to be in a hurry.”

“Any sign of the girl?” asked the Eagle.

“No. One moment.” Seconds went by, almost half a minute.

“Talk to me,” said the Eagle.

“They’ve stopped again. Half a block down heading west, stopped at the intersection. Looks as if they’re not exactly sure. . hold on. They turned left and picked up speed. Wait a second.”

“What is it?”

“They pulled into a parking lot.”

“Where?” said the Eagle. He was getting too old for this. The stress, the long days, it was taking a toll.

“One moment.” More seconds passed.

“It’s a motel.”

“Damn it!”

“One of them is out of the vehicle, headed toward the front of the building. Looks like he’s gone inside.”

The Eagle knew it. They had set up a meeting. He wondered how much the lawyer already knew. A transcript with more holes than Swiss cheese, she could have told him anything inside that club. The girl was likely to remember him, right down to his silver-handled cane. She had commented on it, the fact that she’d never dated someone who carried a cane before. She called it “elegant.” He wondered if she was putting him on or putting him down. What was an old man like him doing in a club like this? Business, if the truth be told. Champagne and a room upstairs, conversation and money changing hands. Services rendered, but not the usual kind. Sweet girl, and bright. She didn’t miss a trick.

“Both men have now exited the vehicle and entered the motel. What do you want to do?” The voice at the other end of the phone roused him and set the adrenaline flowing again.

“Just hang tight. Keep an eye on them and call me the minute the girl leaves the other building. Do we know where her ride is?”

“One moment.” There was a delay. He could hear voices in the background over the line. “The driver is on the road, just exiting I-5, en route.”

“Headed her way?”

“That’s affirmative.”

All the pieces suddenly snapped into place. They were waiting for her at the motel. She called her ride and, depending on what they told her, how much she knew, she was either getting ready to meet with them or getting ready to run.

What he couldn’t be sure of was how much she knew. She had very quick eyes and they seemed to be everywhere all at once, spilling over you like a flood. There was little that escaped her. She caught him up in two small lies in the first three minutes of their conversation the one time he met her. That and the fact that the story he gave her about a practical joke being played on a young friend, the prank invitation to a party, had not fooled her. She knew he was lying. There was more to it than that, but she didn’t care.

She did it for the money. The mistake was in paying her too much. The high tariff would guarantee that she would remember him, right down to his argyle socks. Still, the cash couldn’t be traced.

It was the note and the name he had given her that worried him the most, the name Ives was to use if he got stopped at the door. He told her not to write it down. He gave her the name and asked if she could remember it. She said: “Sure! Just like the Bishop at Canterbury.” She might have worked in a strip club, but she’d read a few books and knew how to trigger memory with it. He worried the instant she said it. For all he knew, she could have been a grad student at the university. He should have checked her out more thoroughly, but it was too late for that.

He wrote the address and a phony cell number out on a slip of paper and told the girl to wait for the kid outside his office at noon. He gave her a photograph so she could recognize him. The address would get him to the party. The name would get him through the door if anyone questioned him.

Now, as the man at the other end of the phone might say, the entire mess had become “very problematic.” If the lawyer told her that Ives was used as cover in a killing, her nimble little brain would start turning over all the details. The man who gave her the note: What did he wear? What did he look like? The silver-handled cane. She would certainly remember that. What was on the note? The location of the party. She probably looked at it. Whether she would have committed it to memory was doubtful. But the one thing she was not likely to forget, the name, the one that gave Ives access if he was challenged, that she would remember.

Inside the hotel room I turn on the light, which consists of a single lamp on the nightstand by the bed. Herman pulls the curtains closed and we sit and wait.