Chapter 4

The chalk room was crowded when Hutch walked in. Whatever conversations being held quickly ended and he became the focal point. Agent Jim Jones greeted him warmly, "Detective Hutchinson, have a seat."

Hutch sat down between Dobey and Starsky, leaving Jones to hold the back of an empty chair. Shrugging it off, the agent said, "Now that we're all here, let's begin." Phillips switched off the lights while Green turned on a projector. The first image was of a dark-skinned Middle Eastern man donning a long white beard and white head turban. "This is Mustafa al Sadr, an international player with more money than God. What he wants, he gets. Right now, he wants that file." Green hit the button and another face appeared, "This is Omar al Rafi, another international player and a rival of al Sadr. He has almost as much money as God and he too wants that file. These two just might kill each other trying to get it. At any other time, that wouldn't be such a bad idea, but right now, the international theatre is too unstable to withstand such an act." Green hit the button and said, "This is Mohammed Ahman, an international runner. Loyal only to himself; he'd sell out anybody as long as there was enough money in it. His specialty is moving merchandise. The file, we believe, is currently in his possession."

Hutch rubbed his forehead, an action that brought about some consternation from Miller who accused, "Are we boring you, Hutchinson?"

Phillips hit the light switch. Exasperated, Hutch demanded, "Just what in the hell do you expect me to do?"

Miller was almost too quick to answer, "That's for you to figure out, Detective! We just supply you with the intelligence; it's up to you to decide how to use it."

"That's enough!" Jones interrupted.

But Miller wasn't going to be silenced. Grousing back at his superior, he argued, "I told you he wouldn't be able to do it! He's nothing but a two bit thief turned beat cop. We're wasting valuable time on him!" Rather than wait around for a reply, he stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Jones apologized, "I'm sorry—"

"He's right, damnit!" Hutch shot back. "I am just a cop working a city beat! What in the hell do you expect me to do!"

"You'll do what you do best: steal!"

Hutch glared at the character assault, and Starsky jumped up and stood between his partner and the agent. "Listen Jones, what Hutch did, he did a lifetime ago."

"Maybe, but I'm guessing it's a lot like riding a bicycle." This time Starsky moved aggressively and Phillips and Green had to run interference.

"Starsky! Hutchinson! Take it easy!" Dobey barked. "In fact, everybody just relax! We aren't going to get anywhere like this."

Dobey waited until everyone made their way back to their seats, then continued, "Hutchinson is right. Just what exactly do you expect him to do?"

Jones took a deep breath, adjusted his attitude, and replied, "I expect him to steal that file."

There was a long pause, where no one moved. Not so much as a chair creaked. The focus was on Hutchinson and everybody studied his every movement and facial expression, no matter how slight. Green, Phillips and Jones sat on their side of the table while Starsky, Hutch and Dobey sat on theirs. The silence lasted a full five minutes.

During that time, a flutter tickled his insides as Hutch allowed his mind to remember. At first, he tried to suppress it, but he discovered that it felt too good and was way too easy to float back to that period in his life and remember how he felt, the patience he needed when casing the place, the thrill of breaking in, the satisfaction that came from viewing the forbidden merchandize, and, most importantly, the feeling of utter control and sheer power that resulted from a successful heist. Reluctantly, Hutch asked, "When is the file due to arrive on the West Coast?"

A collective yet inaudible sigh was released and Green and Phillips exchanged smiles. Because of his experience, only Jones seemed to know that this was the first step of many and he garnered his enthusiasm. He answered, "The day after tomorrow."

"And who's handling it?"

"Mohammed Ahman, the international runner. At least as far as we know."

"Where's he staying?"

"We don't know. But we think he's going to pass it off while he's here."

"To who?"

Jones shrugged.

That was the information that Hutch wanted to hear. A smile crept to his lips while his mind formulated a plan. As he turned fantasy into reality his spine tingled and his lip twitched. The taste of power was again within his reach. He looked at Jones but clearly didn't see him. Miller returned to the room and took everyone's attention except the blond's. Hutch was churning out his plan, framing the ideas around people and events, pulling on knowledge that may or may not help him.

Each man watched this physical metamorphosis occur in the detective. His eyes deepened in color and intensity, his hands curled into fists and his thumb rubbed over his index finger, back and forth. The wheels were in motion, and the federal agents silently congratulated themselves on this new development. Even Miller found some sort of morbid satisfaction in it, but not everyone shared the moment. The ominous and foreboding feeling in Dobey's gut defied explanation. When he looked up, Starsky was already staring back at him, obviously sensing the same thing.