Steve Martini - The Enemy Inside

“Go ahead!” said the man on the roof. “I can handle the rest.”

“You sure?”

“Yes! Go!”

The man on the ground wasted no time. He jogged toward the car. In less than a minute he was out on the road, headed the other way, away from all the flashing lights and the high-grade action down the street.

His partner on the roof had only two more items to load up, the fourteen-inch satellite antenna and the coil of cable that came with it. He strapped these together with a cable tie, wrapped the end of the rope through a metal bracket on the back of the antenna, and lowered the whole package over the edge of the roof and down. As it settled onto the ground he dropped the rest of the rope over the side. He climbed up and over the parapet onto the ladder and down. By now it was nearly dark. He moved quickly to gather up the antenna, cable, and the nylon rope as he headed toward the van.

The double doors at the back were already open. He skipped up into the cargo area and carefully deposited the antenna onto the floor. He secured it with a tie-down so it wouldn’t fly around.

As he stepped out of the back of the van and closed the doors, he was busy searching for the keys in his pocket. He barely noticed the brief red flicker of the laser-guided broad head as it rocketed toward him. In less time than it took to blink, the rotating razor-sharp edges at the arrow’s tip tore into the center of his chest. The momentum of the arrow carried it through his body as the glowing tip just missed his spine and came out his back. Skewered like a piece of meat, he dropped to the ground like a sack of flour. All of it without a sound, the difference between Ana and the people who abused her equipment.

She moved quickly across the graveled pavement behind the building. She looked in the back of the van and quickly realized that only part of the equipment was there, the antenna and some cable.

By the time she reached the man on the ground, the muscles in his legs were still twitching. A froth of bloody bubbles emerged from the corner of his mouth carried on a shallow breath. He was still alive, but he wouldn’t be for long.

She laid the bow on the ground and got up close to his face. “Where’s the rest of it? The box with the computer?” She grabbed him by the hair and pulled his face up to hers so he could see her in the darkness. “Is it up on the roof?”

She realized he couldn’t speak and watched as the life went out of his eyes.

Agirre took a deep breath and then allowed the man’s head to settle back onto the ground. She reached around behind him with gloved fingers and quickly unscrewed the broad tip of the arrow from its shaft. She examined it to make sure that no part of the razor’s steel had broken off to become embedded in the wound.

Ana then dropped the arrow’s tip into a small plastic bag and slipped this into her coat pocket. Then with enough force to raise his back off the ground, she stood and pulled the fletch end of the shaft with both hands until it slipped from his body. She made no effort to wipe the streaks of blood from the shaft on his coveralls. She wanted no telltale signs offering any clue as to what had killed him.

The rotating flared razors on the tip of the arrow would have made a massive wound obliterating any pathologic evidence as to its cause. The frayed threads of cloth where the arrow had pierced the coveralls, front and back, might offer a hint to a bow hunter. But most pathologists were used to dealing with gunshot and stab wounds, where they would collect ballistic evidence or measure the shape and depth of a knife wound looking for toolmarks on bone. In this case they might venture a guess, but there was nothing left behind from which to form any real conclusion, no toolmarks or ballistics that could be matched to a weapon.

By morning, the removable razor edges of the broad head would be dancing in the sandy surf beneath the ocean off the end of some pier. The wooden shaft would be burned. The light compound takedown bow would be reduced to its three component parts and slid back into their plastic tube, less than a foot in length. Checked with other luggage at the airport, it had cleared both security and customs coming from France, as had the arrows after they were reduced to pieces to be assembled on arrival.

Ana found the keys to the van on the ground next to the dead man’s left hand. First she climbed up onto the roof of the building where she had seen him coming down. There was nothing there.

She had arrived at the corner of the building just in time to see the first man jump into the car and drive away.

There was no sign of the large steel case. Maybe he had put it up in the front seat. She picked the bow up off the ground and went around the vehicle toward the driver’s-side door. When she opened it, her heart missed a beat. There was no sign of the box, the computer, or the one-of-a-kind software inside it, items that she feared could be traced back to its makers, and from them to her.

By lowering the front passenger seat of her rental car, Ana was able to load the antenna, cable, and tripod into the vehicle. She would rent a storage locker to stash the stuff until she could find the rest.

The ragtop on my old Jeep is singed and the passenger-side Mylar window is partially melted from the heat of the blast. Whatever took control of the flashy high-end car that carried Ben to her death, it was clear from what I saw that her boyfriend who was driving was helpless. The fact that Alex was unconscious, and from everything we know couldn’t operate a car in his condition, raises the obvious question: Was Serna killed in the same way? Was Alex just the passenger payload in a guided missile?

My ears are still ringing as Herman and I settle into two high-back wicker plantation chairs on the patio behind Norman Ives’s home. It is on a bluff overlooking the Pacific in La Jolla.

Herman and I didn’t waste time going back to the office following the inferno near the airport. Instead, we drove directly here. I called ahead and then phoned Harry and asked him to meet us. He is on his way. It is time to pick up the pieces and regroup.

Norman and Sharon Ives are Alex’s parents. It is in their house, a stately white Dutch gambrel-style home on an acre of manicured grounds high on a bluff over the ocean, that Alex has been staying since his release on bail. A large oval pool in the backyard, the reflection of its submerged lights dancing in the trees overhead, offers the illusion of an oasis. Beyond the yard, off in the distance, a few dotted points of light mark the dark horizon, boats at sea on a moonless night.

Sharon Ives offers us a drink, iced tea. We decline. Norman offers something stronger and Herman takes a scotch on the rocks. Herman’s hand seems to be shaking, a slight palsy, the effect, I suspect, of the blast. I fill them in. Harry arrives and I replay the revolving tape of the evening’s grisly events for him.

Any hope of evidence that might cause the D.A. to drop the charges against Alex Ives went up in flames with the girl named Ben. I can still see her eyes, the aspect of her face as I stare down at the intricate woven surface of the rattan coffee table around which we are all now huddled.

“I don’t understand. Why can’t you just tell them what she told you?” Sharon Ives doesn’t get it.

“Whatever she told us is hearsay,” I explain, “inadmissible in a court of law. Besides, it’s not likely that the prosecutor would take our word for it.”

“We needed her,” says Herman.

“A writing would have helped,” says Harry.

I talk to Alex about the little bits and pieces I got from the girl before she died, the silver-handled cane with the bird on it, the description of the man, gray hair, sixty to sixty-five, well dressed, wearing a suit. “Could be anybody,” he says, “but it rings no bells.” Not until I mention the name Becket, the man whose table he was supposed to be seated at the night of the party. “That was it. I remember now,” says Alex. “Becket. But I never needed it because no one asked.”