David Corbett - Do They Know I'm Running

He tamped down his tie and turned to leave, stopping himself only to address Happy one last time. “You’re absolutely certain this interpreter’s name is Samir Khalid Sadiq?” He posed the question as though to imply there were varieties of deceit, especially in the Muslim world, that were not just hard to discern, they were impenetrable.

“Yes.” Happy swallowed. “At least, you know, that’s the name he always used around me. Always.”

The lawyer shot a warning glance across Lattimore’s bow, then left like time was money and the money was down the hall. And that was pretty much the last Happy saw of Assistant U.S. Attorney Jon Pitcavage.

LATTIMORE GUIDED HAPPY TO THE ELEVATOR AND DOWN TO A LOWER floor where his own cubicle was buried. Happy felt a little shocked to see what a rat’s nest it was, binders stacked helter-skelter on every surface, copies of National Gang Threat Assessment, National Intelligence Assessment: The Terrorist Threat in the U.S. Homeland, A Parent’s Guide to Internet Safety and a dozen others scattered everywhere to the point you had to wonder if something might collapse if it was all hauled away. The only personal items he could see were a gym bag stuffed with ripe sweats and three framed photographs on the shelf, one of a sprawling colonial-style house in the country somewhere; another of an older couple, parents maybe; the third of a tricked-out Harley with gold and crimson flames on the gas tank. Happy supposed the mess made sense. For all the sharp, battened-down attitude the man possessed, it wasn’t too much of a stretch to imagine a daredevil slob lurking just beneath the skin. He wore no wedding band, never spoke of kids. Maybe the whole of his life was contained, one way or another, in this clutter.

Removing a clump of files from the chair beside his desk, Lattimore waited for Happy to sit, then commenced to unpack his memory, searching out every possible detail he could bring to bear about Samir: schooling, family, wife, in-laws, best guess on dates he stayed in Abu Ghraib, dates he traveled with the convoy to Najaf, everything and anything so it could be passed along to field agents in Baghdad. “If your story doesn’t pan out on that front,” Lattimore said, “the plug gets yanked quick, understand? We can’t have a Trojan horse rolling toward the border. Everything shifts gears then and we focus on making sure he gets nowhere close.”

Happy glanced again at the pictures in their dime-store frames. “You live with a man day in and day out,” he said, “you go through hell with him-I told you, he saved my life-you get a sense of when he’s making crap up. You know, tell a good story. You figure out too, when he’s speaking for real.”

From there it was farther still into the bowels of the federal building, to the lair of a tech named Merriwether. Curiously, given the cutting-edge nature of his job, he was the oldest guy Happy met that day-mudslide of chins, wispy hair swirling around a freckled bald spot. Happy found it easier to picture him selling vacuum cleaners to housewives than miking up snitches.

It turned out there wouldn’t be a body wire. “Very old school,” Merriwether explained. Instead they had a flannel shirt with a microphone in the collar, a tiny video camera in one of the buttons. Happy felt like 007 as he shouldered into it.

“We used to have an on/off switch right here in the cuff,” Merriwether said, “but defense lawyers complained that if the CI could switch the tape on or off himself, how did anyone know when he might have been making a threat, offering a bribe?”

The backup recorder turned out to be the battery for a cell phone. It sent out a continuous signal to the nearest relay tower, no need for a booster transmitter.

As they walked back to the elevator together, Merriwether put his hand on Happy’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about anything except getting these people to say what they’re supposed to say.” A few brisk pats. “You’ll be frightened. That’s understandable. If you find yourself at a loss for what to say, ask a question, any question. You’d be surprised how often that works.”

“THIS YOUR GUY?” VASCO POINTED WITH HIS CHIN ACROSS THE TRUCK yard at the figure striding toward them. He was lithe but short, a boxer’s gait, decked out in a black suit, a silver silk shirt buttoned tight to the collar.

“He’ll call himself Zipicana,” Lattimore had said, “the name of some underworld spirit, Mayan Quiché lore. And don’t wear your flannels or bring the cell-phone battery to the meet. You’ll see why.”

As the man named Zipicana came nearer, Happy could make out the smeary reddish blotches on his face and neck, the faint outlines ghosting the skin, and wondered at the missing tattoos, assuming laser treatment. The guy skipped up the concrete steps onto the loading dock but ignored both Happy and Vasco, continuing on instead toward the office across the warehouse floor. Vasco and Happy exchanged baffled glances, then fell in behind.

Zipicana gestured for them to wait outside as he climbed the wood-plank steps to the office, which resembled a work-site trailer. He knocked, entered, spoke briefly with the owner, who was still yammering away on his phone. Happy was beginning to wonder just how long this charade was going to last when the balletic Zipicana turned back, opened the office door and snapped his fingers for them to step inside.

Before anyone could say boo, the warehouse owner rose from his desk and approached Happy and Vasco, bearing a black wand-like instrument. He waved it up and down both their bodies, like he wanted to remove some lint, and Happy realized why he’d been told to leave the spy gear behind, not just because it was redundant. The guy was checking for RF frequencies, to be sure neither of them was wired. It was all pure theater, of course; the guy was undercover FBI. He knew better than anyone he’d find nothing, unless Vasco had secrets of his own.

A murmured apology, the magic wand returned to its drawer, introductions ensued. The owner-agent identified himself simply as Nico. Happy resisted the impulse to glance around the room, search out the cameras, the microphones.

“You’re here,” Nico told Vasco, plopping back down in his chair, “because Happy put your name forward. Otherwise we could just as easily turn to Sancho Perata.”

Like that, Vasco flushed bright red. “Listen, Sancho’s got no trucks. I do. I’m watching your dock here all morning, thinking this is perfect. I’m your guy.”

Happy could only marvel at Vasco’s predictability. Make it a competition, make it with Sancho, he’d throw all qualms overboard and fight to win.

Nico just stared across the desk, unfazed. “My point, you’re here because you’ve been vouched for.”

Vasco bit back his pride, let it drop. The talk turned to the operation, Nico explaining the code they’d use over the phones: “produce” for cocaine-the particular fruit would change day to day, the meaning wouldn’t-and Vasco would refer to his wholesalers as “grocers,” not customers. “Other than that, a shipment’s a shipment. I’m the consignee on all bills of lading, you place orders through me. I mention a number and an invoice, that’s what you owe. Keep it simple. You get shorted on your end, it’s not my problem.”

“What kind of loads are we talking?”

“Five hundred kilos.”

Vasco looked like he’d just swallowed an egg. “Okay. But you break it down here in the warehouse, right? Separate my product out from, you know, the fruit.”

“Why would I do that?”

Vasco’s shoulders buckled together. “What the fuck am I gonna do with a couple dozen pallets of bananas?”

It was like he’d farted.

“You don’t take the whole shipment,” Nico said, “who needs your goddamn trucks? You drive in here, leave the pallets behind, I mean, you nuts? Blows the whole scheme. I want the whole load out of here. Otherwise why am I doing business with you? And this way we can both plead ignorant, some cop stops you on the street, checks the load, finds-”