Robert Ferrigno - The wake-up

The Engineer's bodyguard gave Frank Thorpe the jitters. The man wasn't doing anything that should have given him cause for concern- he leaned against a black 850 BMW sedan, lost in the pages of a porn magazine, while the Engineer stretched nearby. Same as usual. Thorpe bent down, pretended to retie his running shoes, heart pounding. The bodyguard had to be three hundred pounds at least, with a head like a hammer, and Cyrillic tattoos ringing his squatty neck, busy now staring at Tits and Clits Annual. Thorpe smiled at his own nervousness, strung out on adrenaline, imagining the worst. You'd think he'd learn. The moment of truth… it applied to Thorpe even more than to the target.

The Engineer took off down the path that circled the park, a soft intellectual in a bright red jogging suit, arms pumping twice as fast as his legs. He sprinted about thirty yards, just far enough to be out of sight of his bodyguard, then pulled a cell phone out of his jacket, walking now as he punched in the number.

Thorpe stood up, a tall, gangly forty-year-old in shorts and a hooded sweatshirt, loose-limbed and agile. No need to hurry. The Engineer's call to Kimberly would be brief, only long enough to confirm their rendezvous at the Four Seasons tonight. The big date, almost three weeks in the making. The Engineer had started running laps the day after he first met Kimberly, ordering the fruit plate at lunch, to the guffaws of the rest of Lazurus's crew, mostly suety, barrel-chested Ukrainians forking in meat and cheese. Any day now, Thorpe expected the Engineer to begin touching up the gray in his hair.

The park was quiet midweek, filled with new moms in color-coordinated workout clothes, pushing high-tech running strollers, their hair in braids and pigtails. Thorpe must be getting old; mothers didn't use to look so good. In a grassy field, a couple of college guys tossed a football back and forth. One of them had an arm, too, a real cannon, arcing tight spirals forty and fifty yards. Under other circumstances, Thorpe might have asked if he could play, too, give them a surprise; instead, he trotted onto the dirt running path.

The Engineer sat on a wooden bench, his call finished, staring into space. He was in his mid-thirties, with sensual, thickly lidded eyes, and thin, ascetic lips. A face at war with itself. Right now he would be thinking of Kimberly, imagining how the evening might go, deciding on what to order from room service. There had been no bodyguard with him the day he had bumped into her at the mall. Some men might wonder how they had gotten so lucky, this chance meeting with Kimberly, a shy, pretty college girl who had commented on his cute Italian accent. Not the Engineer. He and Kimberly ordered lunch in the food court, exchanging lies over tacos and soft drinks, and when she said she had to go, the Engineer had asked for her phone number, apologizing for his boldness. Thorpe had watched from the second balcony, sipping an Orange Julius.

The Engineer got up from the bench, took off at a slow canter.

Thorpe gave him a lead, then started after him. It was a perfect Southern California morning, ripe with the smell of fresh-mowed grass and carbon monoxide. A great day to squeeze the Engineer. Squeeze him until he bled all his secrets.

People liked Thorpe when they met him, thinking afterward how easy he was to talk to. A Gypsy in Seattle had known better. She was a bejeweled matron operating out of a concrete rambler on Route 99, a garish place with brightly colored pebbles in the driveway and a neon sign in the window advertising ADVICE LOVE MONEY. She started to read his palm, then dropped it as though it were molten. She said his heart had more twists than a snake, and that his future was beyond all reckoning. She almost looked sad for him. The Gypsy was a rip-off, but that didn't mean she wasn't right once in a while.

The Engineer disappeared around a bend, the path winding through dense trees.

Thorpe ran faster now, his footfalls barely making a sound. He waited until the Engineer approached a cutoff, then raced abreast and tripped him, sent him tumbling. The Engineer scrambled up, running suit streaked with dirt, but Thorpe was on him, pushing him backward down the cutoff until they were out of sight of the running path.

"You want money?" panted the Engineer, eyes wide.

"I'd rather have some thermal lenses," said Thorpe. "I'm putting together an over-the-horizon radar receiver, and Wal-Mart is out of stock."

The Engineer stiffened, braver now that he knew he wasn't being mugged. "There is a fellow waiting for me. You should try your joke on him. He likes to laugh."

"Gregor?" Thorpe loved the look on the Engineer's face when he used the bodyguard's name. "I don't think that tub of shit has a funny bone in his body."

The Engineer's hooded eyes made him look sleepy, but Thorpe knew better.

"Lazurus should have stuck with dope and tax-free cigarettes; you start exporting microswitches to Belarus, people wonder what you're up to."

A thin film of sweat gleamed over the Engineer's upper lip. "You are FBI?"

Thorpe shook his head. "The Bureau still has a dress code. You believe that?"

The Engineer pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Tapped out an unfiltered Marlboro, hands shaking slightly. He watched Thorpe as his gold Zippo flared. "CIA?"

"Too macho. My shop, we're more like Boy Scouts with a really sick sense of humor."

Smoke trickled from the Engineer's mouth. "You do not look like a Boy Scout."

"Kimberly isn't going to make it tonight, so you can save yourself a trip to the hotel. See, there's my good deed for the day." Thorpe saw the Engineer's eyes harden. "It must be disappointing, all that foreplay and no payoff. The roses were beautiful, by the way. I dropped some of the petals in my bubble bath, kind of a sensual experience after a long day." Thorpe could feel the rage and the electricity in the air. He loved moments like this. Billy said the best operators had a cruel streak, and Thorpe was as good as he had seen. "I hate to tell you, but those calls you made to Kimberly didn't go to her directly; they rang first in an office downtown and were rerouted to her cell phone. The number that appears on your billing records is a cubicle in the federal building." He let it sink in. "Could be a problem for you with Lazurus."

The cigarette dropped from the Engineer's open mouth.

"Later today"-Thorpe checked his watch-"Lazurus is going to get word that someone is talking to the feds. Someone close. How long you think it will take him to pull the phone records of everyone in his crew?"

"I told Kimberly nothing. This is not legal, what you are doing. There are rules-"

"Actually, there aren't. The FBI has rules, even the CIA has rules, but my shop, we make it up as we go along. It's part of the fun of working there." Thorpe saw the Engineer hesitate. "Hey, you want to leave, be my guest. I won't stop you. I'm sure you can convince Lazurus that you're a team player. I bet he's a good listener."

The Engineer was rigid, hands clenched, trying to decide what to do.

Thorpe watched him but didn't interfere. The Engineer was smart; he would make the right move. A successful squeeze only worked with someone intelligent enough to realize that cooperation was their only option, full cooperation. "I have a car parked nearby, and a safe house waiting. We want to know what merchandise you've bought for Lazurus, who sold it, and what he's got you looking for next. Or you can finish your run, and tell Lazurus all about the bad man who tried to turn you."

"Kimberly…" The Engineer's voice cracked. "She will be at the safe house, too?"

Thorpe nodded. The Engineer smiled, grateful at the news, and Thorpe almost felt sorry for him. Then he remembered what the Engineer did for a living. Death row was filled with men who sent valentines to their mothers, and drew pictures of kitty cats playing with balls of twine. Thorpe would gladly throw the switch on all of them.