CHAPTER 6
6a
Eva Karg paced back and forth across the marble lobby of the hotel; her man was late and he was never late. Her phone buzzed in the pocket of her short black riding jacket.
“Where the hell are you?” she asked, after checking the screen. “Well okay, told you to be careful … Did she see you? … Good, anything else … No? Email me the pictures. I will be back later this afternoon … None of your business, but if you care, I’m riding.” She hung up.
If there was one thing that Eva Karg could pull off without much difficulty, it was the head bitch effect. She stood on the hotel’s hard stone floor dressed in a full-cut white blouse with open bodice, a large collar and tight cuffs. Her tight, ass-enhancing riding britches disappeared into her polished black riding boots. A small cap tried to contain the mass of blond hair she was known for; an honest-to-God riding crop finished the look. She tapped the crop against her boot, making a hollow tapping sound, expressing her impatience.
She didn’t have to wait long. The elevator opened and a dark complexioned male with a three-day beard walked into the lobby, his riding outfit was similar, but masculine. He didn’t wear a cap, his black ponytail made enough of a statement.
“You’re late,” Karg said.
“We’re going riding, not catching a plane. The car’s out front, you’ll be on your horse in an hour. Patience.”
“Patience my ass, Bobo. And he’s a better ride, too,” Karg said as she turned toward the doors, her black BMW waited in the courtyard.
“Bitch,” Bobo said under his breath, as he followed her through the double doors.
The riding stables were located in a valley snuggled between one of the low foothills at the base of Mt. Diablo. Riding trails extend up to its summit as well as encircling the whole mountain. Some claim that from its peak you can see more of the America than anywhere else in the United States. Eva Karg could not have cared less.
Her ride was a palomino mare; Bobo’s was a chestnut mare. This was her third ride on this horse; she liked its seat and was thinking of making an offer to buy her.
“Why the hell do want to own a horse, Eva. They’re just a double pain in the ass, money-wise as well as ass-wise,” Bobo said as they started up the trail.
“Very funny,” Karg answered. “Always wanted a horse since I was a kid in South Africa. But we never settled down long enough. We moved from one mining town to another. I learned to ride but never stayed in one place very long.”
“I rode all over the hills behind Aix,” Bobo said. “I grew up in the country but we were just a few kilometers from the sea. During the summer, we would sail in the morning and ride in the afternoon.”
“You were rich. We had almost nothing.”
“Sure we had money but we were hardly rich.”
“Yes, all the rich people I’ve known have said the same thing.”
“I’ll bet Ellis doesn’t say that.”
“She doesn’t have to, I know her roots.”
“She’s made a point of letting everyone know her roots, her biography leaves little out of the picture. Must have pissed you off when she outed you.”
“Couldn’t have cared less, was out long before that, and you don’t seem to mind how I go. Boys or girls what’s the difference?”
“I don’t care who you screw but just don’t wrap me up in one of your little sick games,” Bobo said.
“Games, I don’t play games,” she answered. “Games are for children. Mine are for real; there are real winners and real losers. And I would suggest that you stay out of my way. Besides, you didn’t mind being selected as Ellis’s new driver. I would say that when the opportunity presented itself, you were there to grab the line and hang on tight.”
“Yes, I was. And it’s a damn shame about Catherine Voss. I liked her.”
“Yes, just like I like this horse,” Karg said as she tapped the flank of the palomino with her crop and set off on a trot, Bobo followed. He knew then that he wanted Eva Karg riding in front of him, not only was it easier to watch her ass but it was also easier to cover his own.
They rode for another hour before turning back to the stable. They crossed the old span of the Bay Bridge in the dark; the new bridge span that flanked the old one was scheduled to open about the same time that the America’s Cup races began. This old eastern structure would be demolished and shipped off somewhere, probably to China, where it would be melted, rolled, punched and eventually come back on a container ship under this same span’s ghost, as a million washing machines.
6b
“Next week, Sharon, I can’t get any of the results until next week. The lab’s already backed up and even though this is important, there are other cases that have top priority - political priority,” Kevin said.
“I understand, let me know as soon as you can,” Sharon answered. She was disappointed but the state lab was good, pushing it might cost her and Kevin their only leads. If his captain found out, he’d pitch all the samples and then they would have nothing.
Her phone rang again, a few brief bars of La Marseillaise were heard, she smiled.
“Good morning Jean-François, how are you?” she asked.
“It’s afternoon here,” JF said. “And I don’t have good news.”
“What happened?”
“It’s missing.”
“What’s missing?”
“Catherine’s boat, the hydrofoil. The container never made it to the railhead.”
“Railhead, I’m confused. I thought that Mike was going to send it by boat.”
“Yes, it was going by boat. But first, it was going by rail to Newark, New Jersey then by boat to Marseille. I just got off the phone with Mike; it never got to the railroad. After it left the dock, it disappeared. That was yesterday. Mike didn’t learn about it until this morning. He never got confirmation from Union Pacific. They said it never arrived. This is not good.”
“No, it isn’t, I’ll call Mike right now and find out all I can. I will get back to you.”
“Call me no matter what time it is.”
She sat the phone down on her desk and thought out the logistics of the problem, she had a lot of experience with the Port of Oakland and its attendant rail facilities. There were millions of boxes coming and going at the port, it would be easy enough to lose one or two. But she was fairly certain that JF’s box never even made the port. It could be in a million places; the box would just disappear in the visual clutter of the many highways and warehouses.
“Mike,” she said after Stroud answered. “Just got off the phone with JF, what else do you know?”
“Not much, the driver has also disappeared, a Latino fellow, Julio Flores, according to his boss. Never late, has driven for him for five years, Lived near Stockton, no union card. The company says he was one their best drivers, never lost anything and never had an accident. Now this happens and he’s gone.”
“What time did the box leave?”
“Yesterday at two; slated to be transferred in Oakland to get on a railcar to leave this morning at 5:00 AM. I got the call at 11:00 last night. Said they were holding a spot, couldn’t wait for the box. Shit, I should have followed the damn thing, but Turner showed up all pissed about something and I couldn’t get away. And you know she’s not too thrilled about my association with the Voss’s anyway.”
“So it was either high-jacked or this fellow, Flores, is a part of the deal. I’m leaning toward the container being high-jacked. Whoever wants the boat has the means to get what they want.”
“It’s just a goddamn boat, O’Mara, who the hell would want to go through all that trouble for a boat?”
“Mike, look around you, how can you say that with a straight face? Hell, the millions, maybe billions being spent just to ride around in the cold ocean - racing each other. No Mike, there’s a lot more to this than just a boat, there’s something else going on. I’ll call you later.”
Basil snuggled his wet muzzle in her lap, she scratched the hollow behind his ears.
“An enigma inside a mystery, inside a shipping container, déjà vu all over again, right old boy? But mama’s got to get to the gym and then to the range. Then we’ll see what we can find out.”
She found out on the ten o’clock morning news while watching the screen positioned over the elliptical trainer.
“The driver, Julio Flores, was found dead in the cab of his truck,” the blond anchorwoman said. “The truck was found parked along a side street in the warehouse area of West Oakland. The Oakland police believe that he may have been a victim of a high-jacking. He was reported missing by his company early this morning; Flores had worked for the company for many years. The investigation continues. Now, the weather with Carmelita.”
6c
Green Zone, Baghdad, Iraq, 2005
“Lieutenant, we may have something about those girls,” Sanchez said as he hung up the phone. “Seems that an Iraqi patrol found a house near Karbala that may have contained the girls. They found some of our posters in the house along with a teenage kid. The boy says he was given the poster by some American soldiers. The men in the house wanted it so he gave it to them.”
“Smart kid,” Sharon said. “But how does he know they had the girls there?”
“Said he saw them and watched them leave in an old Mercedes,” Sanchez said. “The two girls were wearing black clothes, like chadors, so he’s not positive; but they were smaller than him and he saw tennis shoes under the clothing. Four other men with guns had circled the girls. They left in a hurry.”
“What else did the Iraqis find?”
“They had been there a while, left a lot crap and food lying around. No weapons. But there was a torn road map of the al-Kufah neighborhood where we were ambushed. Can you believe it was a fucking Google Earth aerial photo, maybe shot from before the war, but an aerial none-the-less? Whose side are those high tech assholes on? The Iraqis dropped it off with the kid; one of the soldiers said he had the balls to ask for a reward.”
“Nothing changes here, that’s for damn sure, we use them too,” Sharon said.
“Yeah, I know Lieutenant, but shit, they’re supposed to be on our side.”
“Is the kid here?”
“Yes sir, they transferred him to us when I suggested it was in our best interest to have him, not theirs.”
“Good. Not sure what the locals would do to him? I don’t trust them any more than a Wall Street banker.”
“Yes sir. You want to talk to him?”
“Did the fucking sun come up this morning, Sanchez?”
As she waited for Sanchez and the kid, she wondered about why al-Qaeda might want the girls. The obvious reason was to control the village and al-Jamil, but there had been a lot of ransom kidnappings recently; they needed money and this was one way to get it. It didn’t matter how poor the village was, families would find a way to get the money together. She knew of two instances where families became kidnappers themselves just to get the money. What a lovely country.
Sharon could see that the kid was about thirteen and he needed a bath. He stood proud and defiant in front of her and Sanchez. The interpreter stood off to one side; he said something to boy. For a moment Sharon could see a slight change, even with all the bravado, this was one very frightened young man.
“Ask him about his family,” she said to the Corporal Habib.
The man asked him a string of questions in Arabic.
“Lieutenant, he says that he doesn’t have any, lives on the street. Says he’s a tough guy. Nobody messes with him.”
“Tough guy? Ask him if he wants some ice cream.”
The kid’s grin said it all and also that he understood some English.
“Sanchez,” Sharon said.
“Already on my way, you want one too?”
“You come back with only enough for the kid, you better not come back at all and I’m sure Corporal Habib would like one also.”
Habib’s grin confirmed Sharon’s assumption.
“Now, tough guy, what made you think the girls were the ones we are looking for?”
“How much is it worth to you?” the kid said in a mauled form of Arab accented English.
“You speak English?”
“No, American, learned it from some people at the school. I want to go to America - that’s my price. I’ll tell you what I know, then you give me a plane ticket.”
“Well, tough guy, that won’t be that easy. We are mighty particular about who we let into our country.”
“Not that particular, my uncle lives there and he’s an asshole.”
“No fucking swearing,” Habib said.
Sharon looked at the man and cocked her head.
“What sir? What?”
Sanchez came through carrying ice cream bars.
“What’s your name?” O’Mara asked.
“Abdul,” the boy said as he watched Sanchez cross the room.
“Well Abdul, tell me everything you know about the house,” Sharon said as she handed Abdul a chocolate-covered ice cream bar.
“They took over the house about two weeks ago, it was empty.” The ice cream, in the heat of the trailer, had begun to run down Abdul’s arm; he licked the bar and his arm as fast as he could. “They kept to themselves but everyone knew they were bad guys.”
“No one said anything?” Sharon said.
“Why? If anyone said anything they would be dead or worse. So everyone ignored them. I made a few dollars from them, getting them some food and rice; I only take American dollars. They seemed okay, not old, but nervous.”
“Why were they nervous?”
“Not sure, but everyone in the neighborhood is nervous, so I’m not surprised. Then they disappeared for two days, that was the end of last week then they slipped back into the house. That’s when I saw the girls the first time.”
“Why didn’t you say something then?”
“Didn’t want my throat cut and it was before the pictures were handed out. After that I started wondering. Maybe it’s the girls they’re looking for, maybe Abdul can make a dollar or two and maybe I can get to America.”
“Then what?”
“Stood on a stack of boxes outside one of the windows and looked in.”
“That was a very bold move,” Sanchez said.
“I needed the money. Anyway, I saw them sitting on the floor, very pretty for girls. One man sat on a chair with a rifle. They didn’t see me. They left a few hours later in the Mercedes. Didn’t think much more of it until the American soldiers came through; I told them what I saw. And, Allah be Praised, here I am, going to America.”
“Not so fast, Abdul, a lot more has to happen and your chance of getting to America is smaller than a grain of sand.”
“The soldiers promised.”
“Iraqi or American?”
“Iraqi,” Abdul said, then raised his eyes the ceiling. “The bastards, they would tell me anything, wouldn’t they?”
“Seems so, but here you are and now we have a little more information than we did before,” Sharon said. “What color was the Mercedes?”
“Silver, dirty with bullet holes on the driver’s side. The windows were all dark.”
“Did you see a license plate?”
“Yes, but I don’t remember anything about it. But one of the lights in the back was gone.”
“Do you mean it was burnt out?”
“No, I mean gone. Looked like it had been ripped off or something, you could see into the trunk. One of the men threw a long box in the trunk after they put the girls in the backseat. Then they left.”
“You getting that, Sanchez?”
“Yes sir, I’ll let our road blocks know about the Mercedes, maybe something will turn up.”
“Well, Abdul, you’ve been a big help. You want some dinner?”
Sharon could see that the tough guy was very hungry, the ice cream lasted one minute, at best.
“Got burgers and fries?” Abdul asked.
“Absolutely, then tomorrow you can take us back to the house so I can look around. Maybe they left something that was overlooked.”
“Maybe yes and maybe no. Everything is maybe, maybe I get a reward, maybe I go to America and maybe I get my throat cut. Maybe, maybe, maybe,” the Iraqi teenager said.