Chapter 3
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Los Angeles, April 20, 2011
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James Ellison rubbed his hand across his eyes trying unsuccessfully to banish the fatigue that was causing the print in the report to blur. The stack of unread documents that had greeted him at 6 AM had been reduced but a stubborn remnant still hung on at – – what time was it? The dial on his wristwatch gave him no comfort. Ten after eight and there was still work unfinished.
With a heartfelt groan Ellison raised his arms over his head, feeling cramped muscles in his back and neck stretch for the first time in hours. Lifting himself up from his chair he walked over to his office window to watch as the last rays of the sun faded in the West. Daylight savings time had deceived him. He had assumed that it was earlier even as his tired body had argued otherwise.
The view was hardly inspiring. The mostly empty parking lot below and a few nondescript buildings in the distance did not stir any aesthetic appreciation. The new Ziera Corporation headquarters downtown would be more pleasing but the completion date was continually being pushed into the future as one construction problem after another seemed to arise. While those delays were not strictly his concern, he still worried. Of course, he worried about everything now but the new building might ease some of his worst concerns. Once all of the Los Angeles operations were again consolidated, overall security could be improved. At least, he hoped that would be true.
There was a click behind him as his office door opened. He turned to see the short, sturdily built gray-haired woman of indeterminable age and sensible shoes enter with a cup and saucer in her hand. Without acknowledging his presence, she walked purposefully over to his desk and placed the cup in front of his empty chair.
Turning toward him now, the woman adjusted her steel-rimmed glasses as if noticing him for the first time." I thought you would like a cup of tea."
"Thank you, Helga."
"You are welcome." Her voice was clipped and measured with every word precisely enunciated.
Ellison realized that he could have told her he didn't really want any tea but that would have been useless. She would have only replied that he needed it at this time of the evening and left it anyway.
Helga Van Damme, his secretary, administrative assistant, general factotum and mother hen ran his professional life with the same precision as she operated her own. Ellison had long concluded that in addition to her other skills, Helga possessed a special type of clairvoyance where he was concerned. No matter what time he arrived in the morning she was always there waiting. Trying to persuade her to leave before he did in the evening was a futile exercise he long ago abandoned.
Helga had reputedly worked for Zeira Corporation since time immemorial. As the senior secretary her word controlled all administrative disputes. Younger secretaries trembled in her presence. The sight of her stalking the halls in her unfashionably long black skirt, white blouse, flat brown shoes and long dark gray hair wrapped tightly on her head sent lesser humans scurrying for cover. Although diplomatic types referred to her as " the cast iron lady" some of their more irreverent counterparts used a word that rhymed with Witch. Never in her presence.
Helga had been assigned to Ellison when Catherine Weaver hired him to head security, much to the relief of her former boss who was terrified of her. From the first day she had taken Ellison on as her special project. Every file he needed was on his desk before he was even aware he needed it. All correspondence, all communications were handled precisely and always without error. When he worked past lunch, a sandwich and a bottle of water would materialize on his desk. Unscheduled intrusions by individuals without appointments faced ferocious resistance. Ellison still smiled at the memory of Helga intimidating then FBI agent Philip Aldridge. Even he now called for appointments.
Sometimes it surprised him that as Chief of Security how little he knew of Helga's private life. Some claimed she didn't have one. He only knew that she never mentioned anything happening outside the office nor did she ever ask him about his home life. But then he didn't have one either. Or at least he hadn't until recently.
Choosing the path of least resistance, Ellison sat back down at his desk and took a sip of the tea. Earl Grey, one sugar. Helga never made mistakes.
"Do you have anything stronger to drink than that?"
Ellison looked up at Matt Murch leaning wearily against the doorframe. Behind Murch, Helga appeared over his shoulder and shook her head helplessly. Even the formidable cast iron lady was not going to confront the Zeira Corporation's Chief of Daily Operations when he made an unannounced appearance.
"I am sure we can find something." Ellison grinned and gestured reassuringly at Helga who eased back out of sight. With the detailed knowledge gained from other visits Murch walked over to a file cabinet, opened up a middle drawer and removed a bottle of scotch. Ellison retrieved a glass from another shelf and handed it to his guest.
Pouring three fingers of liquid into the glass Murch took a deep sip before sinking into the chair in front of Ellison.
"I don't know why a man who doesn't drink keeps 18-year-old single malt scotch in his office." Murch said eyeing Ellison's tea with obvious disdain.
"I do it so the boss will come by once in a while."
"Well, it worked." Murch said as he raised the glass in salute.
Poor Matt, Ellison thought. It looks like the weight of the world has been settling on his shoulders. When they had first met, Ellison had quickly categorized Murch as just one more technocratic geek. Those darting eyes under a balding pate, a smirking nature largely lacking in social graces had all cried out IT specialist. But with the heavy responsibility for daily operations, Murch had gradually assumed a hitherto absent sense of dignity, of gravity. Somewhat to his surprise Ellison had found himself liking Murch far more than he ever expected.
"How are things going upstairs, Matt?"
Murch smiled knowingly as he waved at the files stacked on Ellison's desk.
"Same as down here, James. More work, not enough hours. I'd say we are both burning the candle at both ends and we are running out of candles."
Murch pushed his glasses back on to his forehead and loosened his tie. He wore more expensive suits now but this one appeared every bit as rumpled as the off the rack attire of earlier times. His day had clearly been as long and demanding as had Ellison's.
"Maybe you ought to give yourself a break, Matt. Take off a couple of days."
"What about you James? When was the last time you took any time off?"
"Been a while, I'll admit but I'm not the boss."
"I don't think I am either" Murch replied." I got another long e-mail today from her High... ahem... From Mrs. Weaver. There are at least three new projects she wants us to undertake."
"And she wants measurable progress on all of them yesterday." Ellison's tone was sympathetic and understanding.
"Pretty much" Murch answered." If anything, her patience seems to have gotten even shorter."
Was it her patience getting shorter or was it John's Ellison wondered. Was it Catherine Weaver or John Connor who most felt that grasp of time closing around them? The distinction really didn't matter. Whether the driving impetus came directly from John or indirectly from Weaver, it served the same goal. The war was already raging and they needed weapons.
Looking at Murch, Ellison could plainly see worry lines etched on his face that had not been there only a month earlier. He had the same fixed stare that was becoming common on the faces of many of Zeira Corporation executive officers. The candles truly were burning at both ends. Some would burn themselves out without ever knowing the real importance of their labors.
Perhaps that was the worst thing about his job, Ellison reflected. He had to watch people like Matt, people he increasingly regarded as friends drive themselves beyond the limits of endurance without telling them the truth. Matt could not know that Catherine Weaver wasn't actually a human being. The extraordinary talent Ellison had assembled in the Zeira security branch could not be told that they were really working for a man wanted for domestic terrorism. Every day, Ellison thought, every day I have to lie to them all. The hardest task had become trying to remember what lies had been told whom.
Murch and Ellison let their conversation drift away into topics unrelated to work. They eased into that casual banter used to reaffirm friendship and preserve personal ties without disclosing anything truly confidential or raising any issue of genuine substance. Man talk.
Draining the last drop of scotch from the glass, Murch pushed himself up right." I think I'll head home and see if my wife remembers what I look like. I'll see you on... What the hell day is it?"
"Tuesday, Matt" Ellison smiled comfortingly.
"I'll see you on Wednesday then. Good night James."
Ellison stared at the door to his office as it closed behind Zeira Corporation's Chief of Daily Operations. The files on his desk were forgotten as he mentally counted the seconds and minutes. Fifty-three feet down the hall to the elevator, 1 min. 10 seconds as it descended to the first floor, then approximately 2, maybe 3 minutes more. Murch was tired so he would walk slowly across the lobby to the private executive entrance on the side of the building. That exit was directly below Ellison's office, he should be there right about... now.
Ellison walked back to the window and looked down to the pavement below. The company limousine was waiting, the driver and the security guard standing together by the vehicle. Right on schedule, Murch emerged from the building. His two daily security escorts flanked him as the driver opened the passenger door. Gripping a briefcase that suggested he wasn't really finished with work for the day, Murch vanished into the limousine's interior. The driver and the guard both got into the front seat and the vehicle pulled away.
The new building would have a subterranean garage. Ellison liked that. The exposed nature of the parking lot here had always made him nervous. Sometimes you just had to play the cards as dealt. Turning away from the window he felt his cell phone vibrate in his shirt pocket. Retrieving the phone Ellison looked at the caller ID and smiled.
"Hi."... ." Yes, I know but I've been very..." " Okay, okay, I'm always busy but..."
"Are you sure you want me to do that? I could be late."
Ellison's voice softened into a low whisper." I will be there. Yes. As soon as I can. I promise."
Ellison allowed himself a brief moment to savor the call and to anticipate the promise he had made. Then he mentally filed it away, turning his mind back to the next task. Pulling a set of keys from his pants pocket, he unlocked the lower drawer on his desk. Since his departure from the FBI he had stopped carrying a weapon even though he had a permit that allowed him to do so. The pistol was never far away, however. He extracted the gun and holster from the drawer and clipped it to his belt.
"Helga." His tone was briskly certain.
Helga's head appeared instantly at the door." Yes Mr. Ellison."
"Have my car brought around."
Ellison slipped on his suit jacket. Helga was disconnecting her computer as he entered her domain.
"Put all the files on my desk in the safe and go home." Ellison did not wait for an acknowledgment as he hurried toward the hallway door. At the last moment he turned to make one last comment. " I might be a little late coming in tomorrow."
His secretary nodded and for a split second he thought he saw her smile. Ridiculous, Ellison thought. Helga never smiles.
The man with the binoculars did not see James Ellison enter his BMW and speed off the Zeira Corporation parking lot. He had already abandoned his observation post on the roof of an aging office building more than a quarter of a mile away. Ellison had never been his objective, Matt Murch was.
His name was Xavier Carranza but he liked being called Big X probably because according to the women of his hometown he wasn't big in any way. Humberto had taken him off the streets of Tijuana thinking that a nondescript little mestizo might make a good lookout and a better informer. No one really noticed Xavier so he regularly picked up street information at useful rate. Humberto's rivals in the border drug trade never really figured out how their private dealings made it so quickly to a competitor's ear.
For the last 15 hours he had occupied the nest prepared for him on the roof, urinating into an old water bottle, munching on candy bars and staring at the Zeira Corporation headquarters with his binoculars – – really nice binoculars, he hoped Humberto would let him keep them. At last, Murch came out. Nice of him to have such a shiny head that reflected the light. When his car began to move Xavier punched the number into his cell phone.
"Hola" the voice on the other hand was terse.
"He is leaving now. Only two men with him – driver and one guard."
"Excellente. Go now and wait at the motel."
A more careful observer might have gathered up the residue of his stay. That never occurred to Xavier. He had done his job and he wanted a drink or two or three. He had time before the others dealt with the bald gringo and gathered back at the motel. In another day he would be safely back in Mexico. Cleanup here would be a waste of his time. He cased his binoculars and moved stiffly to the elevator. Being an observer was harder than it looked.
Westgate Heights sat high in the hills overlooking Los Angeles. A gated community catering to those with money and a fetish for privacy, it offered the protection of its own security force as well as a well-developed link to the LAPD. At Ellison's insistence Murch had moved to the Heights the month after he assumed the position as Chief of Daily Operations. Within the confines of Westgate, Murch had the protection heads of state might envy. The challenge was to get him there.
Two different roads led up from the city each ending at one of the two gates into the upscale development. At different points both roads snaked around a sparsely settled brush covered hillside. With a steep slope on one side and an increasingly constricted shoulder on the other, room to maneuver vanished quickly. The road could be blocked by one automobile turned askew. There were only two questions . Which road would Murch use that night and when would he be there?
Humberto Estevez was confident he had gotten answers to both questions. It had actually been even easier than he expected. Posting one of his crew on each road, he had soon discovered that Murch was a man of habit. His car had come the same way every night for the last week. Even the small town Mexican city officials Humberto usually stalked knew enough to vary their routines. Not that it had ever helped them, Humberto recalled with a twisted grin.
Now with Xavier's call, the time was set. Allowing for traffic Murch's car should be here within 20 to 25 minutes. He and Carlos would block from the front and the other four would come up from behind in the SUV. Any attempt by the limousine to back away would be cut off. Six men were probably more than he needed but this was his first job in the United States and he wanted it to go smoothly. The gringo who had hired them seemed to have a lot of money. There might be other jobs and more money.
"Berto", Carlos pointed toward the goal open coaching headlights coming up the road towards the blue sedan where they were waiting. Estevez checked the Mac-10 resting on his lap before nodding to Carlos and the car began to roll forward. Carlos was a good driver with a lot of experience at this sort of work. This was going to be easy.
The outline of the limousine became clearer as the distance lessened. And right behind the limo was the SUV with the rest of the crew. Murch could not know it but he was already in the bag. Humberto had offered to bring their new employer Murch's head when they were done. The people he worked for in Mexico liked that grisly little touch but the gringo had said that a photograph would be sufficient. The man had money but no cajones.
Completely unaware of the trap about to spring, the limousine was only a few feet away. The driver undoubtedly expected the old car coming down the hill to pass by like every other bit of traffic on this narrow road. He was about to learn differently.
"Hold on!" Carlos yelled as he spun the steering wheel and simultaneously jammed his foot onto the brake. The sedan fishtailed across the road blocking both lanes and skidded towards the limousine. The driver of the larger car wasn't completely asleep since the limousine brakes squealed and it rolled to a stop just short of impact. Before the driver had the chance to reverse , the trailing SUV raced up from behind. The trap had slammed shut.
Humberto sprayed the front of the limousine with a sustained burst from his Mac 10. The bullet resistant windshield held but both the driver and the guard dove frantically for the floorboard. Humberto hadn't really expected any of the shells to penetrate but they still had an emotional impact. The occupants of the limousine knew now that they were in deep trouble.
The four men leaping out of the trailing SUV knew their work. Jaime, brandishing his two precious 45s moved to the right. Eduardo stood directly behind the blocked vehicle with his rifle resting loosely in his arms. Manuel and Arturo came up to the passenger door. Manuel had lived in San Diego for five years until the INS caught him so he spoke the best English and he could be very persuasive.
"Mr. Murch, you need to unlock the door and get out now," he said letting the force of his words settle." We don't want to hurt you if we don't have to. We just want your company to pay us to get you back. Do as we say and you'll get out of this alive."
The voice from inside the car muffled but still shaking with emotion answered. " You are lying! You want to kill me.
"No" Manuel actually sounded sympathetic. Humberto enjoyed the performance." If we hurt you , we don't get paid. So just open the door."
There was a long silence. No response came from inside the trapped car.
"Mr. Murch, we can blow the door open if we have to. You really don't want us to do that." Another long silence." Now or never Mr. Murch. Do you open up or do we get the plastique?"
"All right all right. I'll unlock the door. Please don't hurt me. Please."
Manuel looked over at Humberto who smiled broadly in appreciation. Switching to Spanish he whispered to Manuel "Pull him out. I want to see who were getting paid so much to kill."
There was a sharp metallic click as the lock on the limousine door released. With a broad grin, Manuel seized the door handle and pulled it open. If he had had the time for reflection, he might have wondered why the automatic interior dome light did not illuminate when the door swung back. But his time for reflection came to an abrupt end as the shotgun blast struck him squarely in the chest, lifting his body off the ground and hurling him backward.
Arturo had another second, a cruel allotment, since it allowed him an instance of terror but no time to react. The roar from the second shotgun was almost an echo of the first. The heavy shot shredded Arturo's , neck and head. He was dead well before his body hit the ground.
"Hijo de puta!" Humberto cursed in a feral snarl. What the shit was happening? He had run this type of operation several times and it always worked. Why was it going wrong now? Then it was going even more wrong. The front passenger door of the limousine swung open as the chatter of new gunfire added to the echoing cacophony. The driver and guard supposedly cowering in terror had rolled out of the car and swiftly dispatched Jaime. He had not even gotten off a round from his prized pistols.
"Let's get the hell out of here" Carlos screamed as he turned to run for the car. Humberto was about to follow when the searchlight beam blinded him. The converted Humvee had coasted down from somewhere back up the hill. It had come with its headlights off gliding into position while all their attention had been focused on the limousine. It had, indeed, been a perfect trap Humberto thought but they were the ones caught in it.
The voice boomed out of the darkness behind the blinding light."Drop your weapons. Get on the ground, now!"
Before Humberto could react a second searchlight stabbed out of the night. Another Humvee had come up the hill sealing off that route of escape. Two shots and a scream of pain told him that Eduardo had not complied with the shouted order. Now he never would.
"Don't shoot me, I quit." Carlos was not going to emulate Eduardo's doomed resistance. Humberto weighed his options. Fire a burst with the Mac 10 and then try to dive over the hillside. In the dark he might get away. They might miss. They might not.
"I won't say it again! Drop your weapon."
No, he thought, being willing to kill did not imply any willingness to die. Humberto threw his gun disgustedly onto the pavement and raised his hands. Within seconds he felt the hard shove of another hand in his back driving him forward and down on his knees. His options were gone.
In the unrelieved darkness of the hillside overlooking the scene of Humberto's abortive ambush, Caleb Brontë sat motionless watching the drama unfold below him. A biological creature in his position might be experiencing disappointment – an emotional response to a failed enterprise. The absence of that sensation, not to mention the unique ability of a non-biological sentient to remain patiently motionless for an indefinite period were continuing proof of the superiority of the non-biological entity. It was why they would win, Brontë concluded. Not tonight perhaps but they would still win.
He would certainly have preferred that Humberto and his companions had succeeded in dispatching the human, Murch. In their failure were valuable lessons. The forces deployed by Zeira Corporation were formidable and by human standards, clever. Dealing with them would require more specialized assets than those simpleminded street assassins he had hired no matter how vicious or experienced they might be. Those assets would be assembled, he would see to that. In the interim, he would turn his attention to other less well protected targets. Mr. Fischer's efforts must have identified a number of such individuals by now..
The BMW pulled up behind the Humvee on the lower end of the road. Brontë watched as the driver, a tall fit-looking black man emerged. The aura of authority surrounded this new arrival. The dark-clad men who had dispatched the Mexicans so effortlessly stepped quickly aside to let him pass. In another portion of his programming, an analytic capacity that operated continuously, Brontë matched the man with stored photographs. James Ellison, the head of Zeira Corporation security.
Even with no humans to deceive, Brontë maintained his life-like visage complete with biological expressions. He smiled bitterly now and reflected that Ellison was going to be a competent adversary. Perhaps he should be the next target. The possibility required further analysis.
Ellison nodded at the two security men as he walked past. Sharp and aggressive in their black clothes, Kevlar vests, helmets and automatic rifles, they were both the type of confident professionals Jake Duquesne picked to staff his personal security branch.
Duquesne commanding his men from the front as always, was standing over by the two prisoners. Humberto and Carlos were blindfolded and their hands cuffed behind their backs. Swirling around them in a purposeful pattern of movement so smooth as to appear choreographed, Zeira Corporation operatives were cleaning the site. The dead Mexicans were tossed unceremoniously into their SUV. Stray weapons were being gathered and all obvious signs of battle concealed. Duqesne's authoritative voice spurred his men along.
"Move it, move it. You have three more minutes before we roll."
"Well done, Jake" Ellison reached out to shake hands with his carefully chosen associate. Even in his early 50s Jake Duquesne still had the hard body and fierce demeanor of a former Navy seal. To Jake Duquesne protective services were always an offensive activity and never merely a matter of defense.
"Praise from the Chief is always appreciated." Duquesne responded with a fully satisfied grin.
"It doesn't look like there is much for the Chief to do here." Ellison watched as the two Mexicans were jerked to their feet and pushed brusquely toward a waiting Humvee.
"That's why you hire us isn't it?" Unlike his men, Duquesne wore neither a helmet nor a protective vest. He didn't need to Ellison thought. Bullets would probably bounce off him.
"You get them all?"
In a rare flash of emotion, Duquesne actually looked mildly offended." Of course, my people downtown picked up the lookout in a bar about ten minutes ago. Nobody got away here."
"What about Murch?"
"Sitting at home caressing his wife or his martini or both. We did the handoff in the underpass and took him straight up the back way."
"Is Elliott set to do interrogations all all of our guests?"
"Yeah", Duquesne replied," but I doubt we will get anything useful out of them."
"Why not?" Elliott asked. Like Duquesne, Elliott Shaw was the best in his line of work. The Chief of Data Acquisition understood that nuances of questioning as well is anyone in the world.
"I suspect that they don't really know much. My impression is that these guys are just drug cartel thugs. Killing a few small-town police chiefs made them think they were tough. They are really nothing more than interchangeable street scum . I wouldn't be surprised if they can't even say who hired them."
Ellison had learned to trust Jake Duquesne's instincts. It had been his men after all who picked up on the Mexicans's clumsy surveillance from the very beginning." You're probably right Jake, but give Elliott a shot anyway."
"You got it." Duquesne was brisk and all business now. What constituted a lengthy chat for him was ending.
"You might as well head out Chief. We're about finished here. By time LAPD responds to a 'shots fired' with their usual blinding speed, there won't be a sign anything has happened here."
Ellison grinned and nodded. " I want reports on my desk from you and Elliott by 10 AM tomorrow."
"No problem."
From his covert perch Brontë watched Ellison walk back to his car. Within seconds the BMW pivoted on the narrow road with the ease achieved by a skilled driver. The other vehicles began to move even before Ellison's taillights had vanished down the hill. In less than a minute the road below was dark and empty. In the far distance Brontë could discern the screech of an approaching siren but the police would almost certainly drive right by this spot oblivious to anything that might have happened here.
Caleb Brontë rose from his seated position and climbed easily up the hillside. His analysis had not changed. The operation had not been a total failure. If Zeira Corporation was really a threat to the leader's plans they had just been giving two poison pills, nervous concern and overconfidence. He needed only to decide how best to exploit both.
Ellison pulled into the driveway. The outside light over the front door was gleaming in a sign of welcome to an anticipated guest. Like the other houses on the street, 207 Wanderers Lane was solid but not lavishly built. Actual families lived in these homes and not just overpaid yuppies waiting to trade up in the next housing bubble. A family had once lived here.
As he eased his weary frame out of the car, Ellison could feel the watching eyes. These unseen observers did not disturb him, however. He knew who was concealed in the darkness because he had put them there. He also knew that his time of arrival would be precisely noted. Tonight's activity log would pass across his desk in a day or two. In the skilled professional surveillance of Zeira Corporation security he found a rare feeling of peace.
The front door opened even as his hand hung suspended in the air about to knock. In her early 40s she was not beautiful. She probably had never been conventionally pretty even in her youth . But there was a regal quality in her demeanor – a queen in exile appearance that drew him to her. In another life she might have been a ruler of Nubia, her glistening black skin shielded from the African sun by servants holding parasols as she sailed her barge on the Nile.
Ellison spread his hands in apologetic gesture." I'm sorry it is so late. I had..."
She silenced him by leaning forward and lightly pressing her lips against his. James Ellison felt the day's burdens, the never-ending demands of his position all fade away.
"Tarissa", he whispered." You know we are being observed. Security is watching the house."
She grinned, a look of youthful mischief, and wrapped her arms around his neck." Then let's give them a thrill." Ellison was aware that times he might seem stiff, even a touch pompous. At this moment, however, he dismissed all thoughts of dignity as he pulled her tightly against him. Thrills were definitely being given.
As they slowly separated, Tarissa Dyson gently took James Ellison's hand and led him inside. The security log would note the closing of the door and the extinguishing of the outside light. The time of Ellison's departure was for some reason not recorded. Even the best security sometimes gives way to discretion.