The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum

WEDNESDAY
I am stood at the window of my attic room, silent and immobile, looking down at the street below. Night has given way to dawn. I observe and record, ever vigilant, a witness to all that occurs outside the safe house.

At 6.03 the lawn sprinklers at numbers six, nine and thirteen switch on, sending irridescent fans of water spray across plants and parched grass alike. The sprinklers are automatic and will switch off in precisely one hour.

At 6.17 the joggers begin to appear. These are humans who run for recreation and fitness. They are predominantly female and dress alike in trainers, spandex shorts and cotton singlets. One woman carries weights, small dumbells in each hand. Possibly she imagines she is so thin she will float away if not weighted down. She has obviously never heard of Isaac Newton or gravity.

At 6.35 the couple across the street, Frank and Marge, discover fresh dog excrement deposited on their porch step. Their voices, loud with indignation, carry across to me on the still morning air.

"Holy cow, will you look at the size of that!"

"Oh dear lord, that is so gross!"

"It's that SOB Kowalski from number nineteen."

"Are you sure, hon? It looks like a dog to me."

"Of course it's a dog! It's his freaking Alsation. You don't honestly think Kowalski came over here, dropped his pants and did a steaming one, do you?"

"I didn't know what you meant!"

"I know he's Polish but even they know how to use toilets. It's definitely his Alsation."

"It's just awful!"

"I bet he laughed his head off."

"Can dogs laugh?"

"Not the dog! Kowalski. Get a grip, Marge."

"Me? I'm not touching it!"

"Not that kind of grip! Know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna post it to him."

"Don't be absurd, Frank. You'll never get a stamp on it."

"Not through the mail! I'll scoop it up and pop it in his mailbox. See how he likes it."

"I don't know, hon. This is a nice neighborhood. I don't want you starting a Poop War."

"I'm not starting a Poop War. But this will not stand, Marge. This will not stand."

Frank and Marge go back inside their house still squabbling, their voices receding with distance. Humans are an aggressive species and can enter into conflict over anything, even poop apparently.

At 6.46 the paper boy enters the street on his daily route, weaving across road and sidewalk on his Schwinn bicycle. He delivers newpapers by flinging them at the porch doors. Sometimes his aim is accurate while other times the papers fall short, land in the bushes or on one occasion on top of Mr Gomez's porch roof requiring him to climb a stepladder to retrieve it, all the while cursing in fluent Spanish.

At 6.58 Mr Cabot from number seven kisses his wife goodbye and sets off for work. He is dressed in an immaculate suit and tie and drives an immaculate silver BMW. He works for the aerospace industry. Mr Cabot also steals underwear from washing lines in the middle of the night. I have observed him doing so. He steals only female underwear, presumably for his wife. I don't know why she can't steal her own underwear, or buy it for that matter since her husband earns a large salary from his job in the aerospace industry.

Mystery upon mystery. The daily warp and weft of human life played out before my eyes. Fascinating yet puzzling in so many respects.

At 7.09 I hear John get up in the room below mine and enter the bathroom. At 7.15 the toilet flushes. Good. It is important to be regular.

Ask Mr Kowalski's dog.

NOON

John and I sit across from Chola in the back of the limo. It is my third time here; John's first. Nothing much has changed. She seems as smug as ever.

"Why don't we get down to it and you tell us what you expect Cameron to do."

"Forceful. Like your mother."

Chola opens a black attache case and removes a glossy colour photograph of a tall apartment building.

"This is Regent House in Bel Air. A man lives in the penthouse. Let's call him...Vladimir. Vladimir has a wall safe in his study with an attache case similar to this one locked inside. I want her to steal it for me."

"That's it? You think we're common criminals? Why don't you do it yourself?"

"Because if Vladimir thinks I'm involved he will have me killed. Very slowly. And this isn't a common crime. It is an exceptional one."

"What's in the case?"

"I can't divulge that. And if you open it the deal's off."

"So we've got to trust you?"

"If you want the names of the people seeking you."

"What makes you think we can do this stuff?"

"I think she can do anything she pleases."

"And why d'you think that?"

Chola shrugs. "Call it a woman's...intuition."

John sighs. "Okay. Deal. But if this is a double cross you're gonna be one very sorry lady."

Chola produces a small mirror covered with thin lines of white powder. She offers it to John.

"Refreshment? To close the deal."

John knocks the mirror from her hands, spilling the white powder over the carpeted floor.

"You have a pretty nose. Don't ruin it."

PLAN

Home. It is late but no one feels like going to sleep, least of all me of course.

John has spent an hour researching online facts about Regent House and 'Vladimir', the mysterious penthouse occupant.

"This is what I've discovered," he tells us. "Vladimir is actually Oleg Kristov, a Russian oligarch living here in LA. Billionaire, naturally. He's an arms dealer, so he's no babe in the woods. Oleg has a Howard Hughes complex; he hasn't left his Bel Air apartment in two years. Anything he wants he just orders in. He owns the top two floors of Regent House, where a duplex will set you back around three million dollars."

"I have a question," I announce.

"Yes, Cam?"

"Do I have a pretty nose?"

"Huh?"

"You told Chola she had a pretty nose. Do I have a pretty nose?"

"Uh - sure, it's fine."

"Fine but not pretty?"

"Okay, you have a pretty nose. Are you done?"

"Yes. Please continue."

Sarah Connor smirks but says nothing. John appears slightly flustered.

"Ah - where was I?"

"Oleg Kristov?"

"Right. The problem's going to be getting Cameron inside to bust the safe. The guy has a small army living in the apartment below the penthouse. There's a private elevator strictly for Kristov's use only. Anyone who turns up uninvited is probably going nowhere fast."

"What about women?" Sarah Connor asks. "Does he order them in too? We could disguise her as one of his paid sluts."

"Won't work. Kristov has a mistress, a Russian model named Katerina Markov. She's six feet tall and weighs like 95 pounds. Cameron could never pass for her."

Did John just suggest I'm fat? And short!

"What d'you suppose is in the briefcase?"

John shrugs. "Money? Drugs? I don't think it really matters as long as we get the names."

"What do we do now?"

"As soon as it's light Cameron and I will go and check out Regent House, see if there are any weaknesses we can exploit."

"Why can't I drive there, go inside and get the briefcase?" I ask. "There's nothing they can do to stop me."

"Firstly, you'd get shot up pretty bad, I think. And there are security cameras all over. The cops and maybe the feds would get involved. We don't need to advertise we're still alive. I think stealth is the way to go on this one."

"I agree with John," Sarah Connor states. "You obey his orders, understand? I don't want the police, the FBI and Russian mafia on our trail because you got trigger happy."

"I have another question," I announce.

"What is it, Cam?"

"Is Katerina Markov prettier than me?

John groans, shuts his eyes and pushes his fingers through his hair.

Yes, definitely something I said.

FRIDAY

Noon. A hot day in Bel Air. John and I are sat in airconditioned comfort inside the SUV, parked in a gymnasium parking lot which affords a view of Regent House. John has been holding a pair of binoculars to his eyes for 16 minutes.

"Two guards on the front desk. No guns I can see but they're built like Ferrigno."

"Ferrigno?"

"The Hulk. Green skin, huge muscles."

"The guards have green skin? Are they sick?"

"I...uh, forget it. Let's test how good the security is."

He takes out his cellphone and dials.

"Hi, Domino's Pizza? Yeah, I'd like to order a pepperoni pizza, extra cheese extra olives hold the anchovies. My name is Oleg Kristov. K-R-I-S-T-O-V. I live at Regent House, Bel Air. Top floor. If you're here in fifteen minutes there's a fifty dollar tip."

Ten minutes later a pizza delivery van pulls up outside the building. The delivery guy enters the vestibule.

"Oops, looks like Oleg doesn't like pizza."

As we watch the delivery guy is physically lifted off the ground and flung out the door.

"No way we're going in through the front entrance. Let's check out the roof."

ROOF

"We are very high up."

"Fifteen stories. Scared of heights?"

"No, just wary of falling."

"Join the club."

"There's a club?" I ask, surprised.

"Just an expression."

"Humans have a lot of expressions. It is hard to keep up."

John and I are on the roof of the apartment block opposite Regent House. The security here is lax; I only needed to break three locks and reroute a simple alarm system to access the roof.

"No sign of life over there."

We have the perfect vantage point to observe the penthouse. Its tinted windows are dark and even my optical sensors cannot see inside. There is a flat paved area on the roof's south side. Tables and chairs suggest it is used for entertaining.

"Hot up here. No shade."

John is perspiring profusely. The roof is bare; nothing but pipes and ventilation shafts over an asphalt surface. It is close to 100 degrees fahrenheit. John will not be able to stay long without suffering dehydration. I will not suffer that problem. Nothing to dehydrate.

"See that flat area? That would be a good place to go in from. If we could get there."

"We could fly a helicopter over and land," I suggest.

"Two tiny snags. One, no helicopter. Two, no pilot."

"I can fly a helicopter."

"Since when?"

"Since you taught me, remember?"

"Not so much."

"Twenty years from now you---Oh."

"Right. Oh. Future John teaches you. Anything else he - I - teach you?"

"Fly-fishing."

"Fly-fishing?"

"I'm a natural, apparently."

John is silent, staring across the rooftops. He hates to be reminded of Future John. I am the same person but he is not that man. Yet.

"See that railing over there? If we had a grappling hook and some rope d'you think you could throw that far?"

I activate my targeting graphics. A grid overlays my HUD. I run simulation software.

"The range is 109 yards. Headwind 9 knots. Probability of success: 89 per cent."

"Good odds. You could slide down the rope and be in and out before the muscle even knew you were there."

"Sounds like a plan."

John grins. "It does, doesn't it."

-000-

Shortish chapter. In Rome for the rugby. Froze my butt off. Dolce vita, my ass!