Chapter Ten

 

          Carter was pumped. He sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and going over his notes from the previous afternoon. His mind kept drifting away from the papers in front of him, seeing himself in his future life, flying planes, disarming atomic bombs, beating the shit out of Steven Segal. Not the real Steven Segal, of course, he was a loyal American, it was clear from his movies, but somebody who looked kind of like him, swarthy, Arabic, and just as tough. It was great, just thinking about it. He didn’t mind the downtime, the boring part, the bullshit, as Brightman had called it. It was real, that was the thing. Real bullshit. No phony James Bond stuff.

          He looked at the clock. It was almost four-thirty. Derek would be getting up soon, to eat and get ready to start the first surveillance shift at six. He and Teddy would have the day shifts the first week. They knew the least about guns, and it would give Colonel Daniels a chance to take them to the range. Carter and Frank would be working graveyard, the night shifts, and sleeping most of the day. Carter didn’t mind staying up, waiting to hit the sack at nine. He was too excited to sleep now, anyway.

          He got up and wandered into the operations room, still holding his coffee cup. He could hear the rest of the men snoring as he passed the bedroom window. One was definitely louder than the rest, probably the Colonel. He was an old guy. But tough. That was for sure. You could tell he’d seen a lot of action. Didn’t even talk like a Colonel. More like a Sergeant. Said fuck a lot, like a real guy. And Derek. He was pretty tough, too, you could tell by the way he held himself. Tight, always under control, never relaxed. He always sat straight up in his chair during the lectures. And he didn’t like anybody coming up behind him. Even if you were just passing accidentally, on your way to the bathroom, or getting coffee, he’d turn around real sudden, all primed for action, and say “tryin’ to sneak up on me, eh?” or something like that. And quick, cobra-like, like Brightman had said. Hadn’t had much to do with guns, never needed one, he said, but got the hang of drawing right away, fast as hell.

          Carter liked the way his felt, in the shoulder holster he was wearing. Beretta nine millimeter, same one he’d learned about in the Army. He’d wanted the Glock, real space age, but Daniels had said that could wait until his next assignment. Stick with what you know, he’d said, and he was probably right. Carter only really knew how to clean it, never actually shot one, but that was something. He felt like practicing his draw now, but he didn’t want to take the chance of waking anybody up. He’d dropped it a few times, that afternoon.

          The room was dark, that was SOP for operations, and he walked over to the window, where a little light was filtering in through the louvers from the street lamps. He opened one of the louvers a bit, took a look across the street at the target.

          There was a light on in one of the rooms, one of the windows in the mystery guy’s part of the apartment. Pretty early for any normal person to be up on Sunday. Suspicious. He could already feel his terrorist spotting instincts improving. He was pretty sure he’d seen at least a couple of sleepers in Fresno, and that was Fresno. San Francisco must be packed with them.

          The lights went off, and then came on again, in one of the other windows. Movement! Blinds were all pulled down. That was pretty normal, he guessed. But anybody doing shit this early on a Sunday morning had to be up to something, for sure. He thought about waking up the Colonel. Maybe not. Official surveillance didn’t start for another hour, and Daniels seemed like he could probably be pretty testy, if you bothered him for nothing. When in doubt, follow procedure. That was a good rule.

          The light went off. Carter watched for a while, but nothing else happened. Checking his watch, he got out his notebook and wrote 04:31 – Light seen in window D. 04:35 – Light extinguished in D, light turned on in window C. 04:37 – Light extinguished in C. That should be enough. He would report it when everybody got up. No need to overreact.

          Decisions, decisions. But he could handle it. Hell, just another day in the life of a Special Agent.

 

 

 

          “Oh-six hundred hours, Sunday, October seventeen, two thousand four. Derek Cosak, code designation Twister one, going on shift. Recorders are active. Beginning surveillance.”

          “Very good, Mr. Cosak,” said Colonel Daniels, looking over Derek’s shoulder with his hands clasped behind his back. “Put the recorder on standby and check the scope.”

          Derek hit a button on the recorder and swung the telescope into position. He adjusted the focus, looking serious. But then, he always looked serious. Carter and Teddy were huddled over on either side of Daniels, watching the action. Frank was snoring in the bedroom.

          “Now take a picture, make sure your equipment is working properly.”

          Derek snapped the remote for the camera, making quick, robot-like movements. But then, he always made quick, robot-like movements.

          “Look sharp, gentlemen,” said Daniels, moving his gaze back and forth between Carter and Teddy. “Mr. Cosak is doing everything right.”

          They watched as a picture came up on the TV monitor, one of the house windows, still dark.

          “Alright, kill that one, keep your disk clean for something important. I suggest you keep the scope trained on Window D when nothing is happening. This is where we’ve seen Arab One in our drive-bys. Normal surveillance protocol will be naked-eye.”

          Derek swung the scope a few degrees to the right, then stared intently out through the barely open louvers. They all did. Nothing happened. The excitement was almost killing Carter. The real thing, he was thinking. The real fucking thing. Daniels walked towards the kitchen.

          “Mr. Larsen, unload and secure your piece, eat some breakfast if you haven’t already, and get ready to go to the range. Mr. Pearls, don’t forget it’s lights out for you at nine. Until then, you’ll support Mr. Cosak here.”

          “Right,” said Carter, trying to sound bored and blasé, but still on it. Teddy was in the corner, putting his piece in the carrying case. Carter figured he should do something. Support Mr. Cosak. He walked over to Derek, who was writing something on his note pad, he couldn’t imagine what.

          “Please don’t stand behind me,” said Derek, without turning his head.

          “Uh .... sorry,” said Carter, moving to the side. “Just wanted to know if you wanted some coffee.”

          “No.”

          He decided to go get his notes in the kitchen. Colonel Daniels was sitting down, eating a chocolate covered croissant.

          “I saw some suspicious activity in the target this morning, Colonel.”

          Daniels stopped chewing for a moment, started again.

          “Oh yeah? What?”

          Carter picked up his notebook and opened it to the first page. He turned it around and put it on the table in front of Daniels, who stared at it without expression, continuing to eat his croissant.

          “What was suspicious about it?” he said, finally.

          “It was four-thirty in the morning, Sir. What could he possibly have been doing?”

          “He could have been taking a piss. And don’t call me Sir. This ain’t the fuckin’ army.”

          “Sorry, Sir – I mean, sorry. I guess I didn’t think of that.”

          Daniels rolled his eyes and put his hands behind his head.

          “Well,” said Carter, continuing, “at least it establishes that he hasn’t left the premises.”

          “As far as we know, he hasn’t left the premises yet. He doesn’t go anywhere. That’s why he’s suspicious. Look, Pearls, you did real good. Great, in fact. Keep up the good work. Is there anything else?”

          “No, I guess not.”

          “Alright.” He leaned over and called through the door. “Mr. Larsen. Are you ready to go?”

          Teddy appeared in the kitchen doorway, wearing a windbreaker and holding his pistol case.

          “Ready.”

          “Then let’s get the fuck out of here.”

          They left. Carter felt a little intimidated. He walked over to the window again, being careful this time to stay to one side.

          “Anything happen yet?” he asked.

          “Nothing,” said Derek.

          Carter sat down on the couch, watching Derek, who hadn’t seemed to move a muscle in the last ten minutes. He closed his eyes and leaned back.

 

 

 

          He was in a hurry. He was bent over, doing something important with his hands, but he couldn’t see what it was, couldn’t see his hands. There was something in front of him, big, mechanical. There was a light on it, a red light, that kept blinking. It was some kind of sign, it said something, but he couldn’t tell what it was. He couldn’t read the sign, he couldn’t see his hands, and he didn’t know what he was doing. But he wasn’t afraid. He was just in a hurry. Really in a hurry. He kept trying to make out the sign, finally realized that it was numbers. Red numbers, going backwards. It was an atomic bomb.

          Steven Segal was there, standing next to him. He had his hands in his pockets, that funny patronizing look on his face.

          “You’re doing it wrong,” said Steven Segal.

          It didn’t seem fair. It wasn’t fair. He was trying so hard, trying to hurry, but Steven Segal was there. He still had his hands in his pockets.

          “You’re doing it wrong,” he said again, except it wasn’t actually Steven Segal. It was an Arab. An Arab who looked like Steven Segal, with his hands in his pockets, with that funny patronizing look on his face.

          “You’re doing it wrong,” said Steven Segal again. They were both there, Steven Segal, and the Arab Steven Segal. The Arab Steven Segal kicked him in the balls. It seemed funny that he could do that, bent over the way he was. Then the other Steven Segal, the real one, kicked him in the balls also. They both stood there, kicking him in the balls, over and over.

          He was lying there, holding his balls, watching the red light with the numbers going backwards, getting smaller and smaller. The two Steven Segals were standing over him, arguing about something. They were talking in Arabic. They didn’t seem concerned about the bomb. They weren’t even looking at it. They were just standing there, arguing, and gesturing with their hands, like Italians. The red numbers were getting smaller. They were single digits now. Two Steven Segals, talking in Arabic and gesturing like Italians, and the numbers were getting smaller. Five, four, three ....

 

 

 

          He woke up. But the argument was still going on. It was light now. The whole operations room was bright with morning sunlight. The bomb was gone. The two Steven Segals were gone. But the argument was still going on. He looked over at Derek, still in the same position. The sun had come up, hours must have passed, and he was still in the same position. Was that possible? He realized then that the reels of the tape recorder were moving, and Arabic was coming out of the speaker, some kind of argument, in Arabic.

          He jumped off the couch and rushed over to the window. Derek was snapping the remote for the camera, over and over, his thumb the only thing moving in his body, his eyes fixed to the binocular sights of the telescope. Carter looked at the TV monitor. Images were flashing by, one after the other. A guy in a white jalaba and wearing a rag on his head was caught in a series of different positions, mostly with his back to the camera, holding a phone to his ear with one hand and gesturing with the other arm, like an Italian. Even when he was facing the camera all you could see was a big beard and mustache. He was wearing dark glasses. Everything else was covered by the rag on his head and the hood of the jalaba, pulled over it.

          Suddenly the conversation stopped, and there was the sound of a telephone receiver being slammed down. Carter looked at the recorder. The reels weren’t turning anymore. Derek had stopped clicking the camera remote, the last image on the screen just the phone in its cradle and an empty room.

         

 

 

          Yaro took off his dark glasses, pulled the rag off his head, and threw them on the bed. Then he hung the jalaba up in the closet. Going to the bathroom, he took a piss, carefully removed the beard and mustache, and wiped the mascara off of his neck and exposed parts of his face. Using only the light from the doorway, he put on his three piece suit and shoulder holster, grabbed his Walther, and then inched his way along the living room wall, staying close enough to be out of view of the surveillance camera. After leaving the apartment, he avoided the main entrance and took the outside wooden stairs down to the back yard, using the little service alleyway to come out on Fourteenth street, where he’d parked Derek’s Trans Am. Then he drove downtown to Sears Cafe, to grab some breakfast.

          As he cruised through the park and into the panhandle, he was humming along with the low frequency sound of the mufflers, tapping out the rhythm on the steering wheel.

          “Let’s twist again, like we did last summer

          “Let’s twist again, like we did last year.”

          There was no traffic to speak of on Sunday morning, and it was a nice, fogless, Indian summer day. He was pretty pleased with himself. So pleased, in fact, that he’d never noticed Rimone, sitting in his second story bedroom window, watching him leave.

 

 

 

          Carter lay on his mattress in the bedroom staring at the ceiling. He knew he should get some sleep, he had his surveillance shift coming up at six, and he wanted to be sharp, do a good job, especially on his first shift. But he had reached that stage of being tired, tired from staying up all night, drinking coffee, thinking about his new life, all the cool things he was going to do as a Special Agent, that he couldn’t seem to make it, couldn’t manage to fall asleep. He was a little envious of Derek. The guy’s very first shift, and he’d caught Arab One in full view, having some kind of important conversation. It had to be important, the way they were talking, the way he was waving his hands around, turning back and forth in front of the window.

          He was so tired, so exhausted from all the excitement, that he hadn’t even taken his clothes off. He rolled over on his side, and felt the Beretta in his shoulder holster like a big rock under him. He pulled out the gun and laid it on the floor, but the holster still bothered him. He rolled over to his other side, closed his eyes. He still couldn’t manage to dose off. He tried sitting up. Immediately his eyes closed, his eyelids like they had weights on them, but when he lay back down, he seemed to be wide awake again. He was too tired to sit up, and too tired to sleep. He looked at his watch. It was almost eleven. Frank would be getting up soon. He seemed to be almost awake already, kicking around under the covers. Carter rolled over on his stomach and put the pillow over his head.

          He heard the two Steven Segals arguing again. In Arabic. Just his luck, to finally get to sleep and get such a fucking shitty dream back. He couldn’t see them, but that was because he had his head down, under the pillow. He didn’t want to get kicked in the balls again, so he curled into a fetal position on his side, with the pillow still over his head. There was something funny about their argument, this time. They kept stopping and starting again. Why were they doing that? And what had happened to the bomb? It hadn’t gone off. Or maybe it was just about to go off. It started to drive him crazy. He had to find out why they were stopping and starting all the time. He had to find out if the bomb had gone off.

          He took the pillow off of his head and looked up. Steven Segal was standing over him. Except it wasn’t Steven Segal. It wasn’t the Arab Steven Segal, either. It was Frank, putting on his pants. But the argument was still going on, still stopping and starting. It was very confusing.

          Finally he realized he wasn’t dreaming. He’d never been dreaming, in fact. In fact, he’d never even gotten to sleep. Frank left the room, and he dragged himself up from the mattress and went to the door. Brightman was there, sitting in the easy chair and working the recorder. Frank and Derek were standing next to him, smoking cigarettes. Brightman had a notebook and a pencil. He would start the recorder, listen for a minute, then stop it and write something in the notebook. Carter staggered into the room and over to the tape recorder. Nobody paid any attention to him.

          Brightman turned off the recorder. He sat there a minute, reading over what he had written in the notebook. Finally he looked up at them.

          “Men,” he said, in a very serious tone, “we didn’t start our surveillance a moment too soon.”

          “What were they talking about?” said Frank.

          “Here,” said Brightman, turning the notebook on the desk so that they all could read it. “I’ll let you make your own interpretations of this.”

          They all looked at the notebook, at Brightman’s neat, legible printing.

 

 

 

          (Recording begins)        

          Subject A (Arab One): Hello.

          Subject B (unknown): Hello. This is Farmer Brown.

          A:      Talk to me.

          B:      The chicken has laid her eggs.

          A:      Good. Is she still sitting on them?

          B:      No.

          A:      Good, then they are ready to hatch?

          B:      No. The eggs are cold.

          A:      Why are the eggs cold?

          B:      The chicken has flown the coup.

          A:      Are the eggs safe?

          B:      Yes. The eggs are safe, but the hen house is dark.

          A:      You must turn the lights back on. The chicken must return to the hen house immediately.

          B:      That is impossible. The power has failed.

          A:      Then the fox is in the hen house?

          B:      The fox is at the door of the hen house.

          A:      You must keep the fox away from the door. The power must be turned back on. The chicken must return to the hen house. The eggs must be hatched.

          B:      We have decided to move the eggs.

          A:      No! The eggs will become too cold. It will take too long for them to hatch.

          B:      It is too dangerous. The fox has a red coat.

          A:      You are all sniveling cowards! If the fox had a red coat, he would be in the hen house, not merely at the door.

          B:      I have seen his coat, and it is red.

          A:      If you had truly seen his coat, the eggs would be already eaten!

          B:      I have seen his coat, but he could not smell the eggs. His nose was cold.

          A:      Idiot! If the fox has a cold nose, there is no need to move the eggs!

          B:      Don’t call me an idiot! I take orders only from the cock, and he thinks the fox’s nose is warming quickly!

          A:      I am the cook, and I say if the eggs are moved, the dinner will be late!

          B:      Even if the dinner is late, it can still be served. So says the cock.

          A:      The cock is a fool! If the dinner is late, the holiday will be past! The guest may have left the house! How many eggs are there?

          B:      One hundred and fifteen, perhaps one hundred and sixteen.

          A:      There must be only one hundred and twelve eggs! No more! No more eggs!

          B:      More eggs are better than no eggs at all!

          A:      You must be brave, Farmer Brown! Tell the cock that the eggs must not be moved, the power must be turned back on, the chicken must return to the hen house, the eggs must be hatched, and there must be ONLY ONE HUNDRED AND TWELVE EGGS! Tell him I will not cook more eggs! I will go on strike! This is the last meal that I am to cook! I will not miss the holiday! I will not cook for a new guest! I will cook ONLY ONE HUNDRED AND TWELVE EGGS!

          B:      Very well. I will tell the cock of your words.

          A:      See that you do. Goodbye.

          B:      Goodbye.

          (Recording ends)