Pat Ruger Box Set 2, page 21
part #4 of Pat Ruger Series
“Sorry, fellas. Like to help.”
Jake changed the subject. “So, how bad is he?”
Rodman laughed. “I’m no expert — music, yes, I can tell who’s good and who ain’t — but I know squat about poetry. From what I heard …” He shook his head, letting that be the answer.
“Anyone else ask about him?” Jake asked, which was a good question.
“Nope, you guys, that’s all.”
“Well,” I continued. “I assume the police and maybe other agencies will be interested in you. Just tell ‘em what you told us. If they ask, no problem saying you spoke to us.”
“I appreciate that, Mr. …“
“Ruger. Ruger and Moore.”
“Mr. Ruger. Why are you asking about Choo? Is he in trouble?”
“Not any more. You’ll need a replacement act, it looks like.”
“Long as I get to keep my money …”
We left the old man in the restaurant and headed back to the SUV. I noticed as we approached the car that the maroon paint was fading on the hood and the driver’s side fender. We climbed in.
“Good questions back there,” I told Jake. “Very thoughtful. We did need to know those things and weren’t getting to the answers very quickly.”
“Thanks. We make a good te …”
Jake was interrupted by a thump on the hood. In front of us was a big dude, possibly Hawaiian or Samoan, in a charcoal business suit. I looked back and there was another large “businessman” standing behind us. A tap on the window startled me for a moment, but I recovered quickly and rolled down my window to see an older Caucasian gentleman who was less bulked up than the other two. He had his hand inside his lapel as if he was ready to pull a weapon.
“Hands where we can see them, please,” he instructed with authority.
Jake threw his hands up on the dashboard and I put mine on the steering wheel at 10 and 2.
“Thank you, I appreciate it,” the white guy said politely. “I’m sorry, but you just never know how people are going to act. I’m sure we’ll all be able to relax in a few minutes.” He reached in the left breast pocket behind his jacket lapel and pulled out a set of credentials. He held it out so I could read it. On the top half of the VISA-sized folder, over some light brown graphics, it read:
The United States of America
CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY
THIS IS TO CERTIFY THAT
SECURITY AGENT
Charles Arvent
The text was followed by a bunch of fine print, and Arvent’s photo was on the bottom half.
“Agent Arvent,” I said, looking past his credentials and confirming that the photo was him. “You probably already know who we are.”
“Indeed. Mr. Ruger, Mr. Moore. Sorry for the tough tactics. You’d be surprised what can happen before we can identify ourselves. Some people freak out.” He nodded to the large agents and they stood more at ease.
“What can we do for you?” I was now more-or-less relaxed at the situation, but still annoyed.
“You’re investigating a murder of a South Korean, and have been in contact with a Korean operative.”
“A South Korean agent showed up at a crime scene we were investigating,” I explained. “He showed us some government credentials, but, to be honest, I wouldn’t have recognized those from something out of a Cracker Jack box. He was … Gun-Woo … Lee, I think.”
“Yeah,” Jake added, leaning over toward me and the window. “Gun-Woo. I remember, kind of an odd name.”
“Lee is someone we’ve been wanting to speak with. Do you think you’ll see him again?”
I looked at Jake and back at Arvent. “I have no idea. What’s this about?”
“National security. I can’t read you in, sorry.”
“I have a relationship with the FBI and they won’t tell me anything either. I guess we’ll keep working in the dark.”
“Maybe not. You could work with us.”
“Work with the Agency? I don’t think that would be a good idea. We have our standards.” I smiled, but Arvent didn’t reciprocate.
“Pat, let me explain your situation.” Arvent edged closer and leaned down to the window. In a lower voice he said, “Lee is up to something and we need to know. If it has anything to do with North Korea … you can understand the concern. You might be saving thousands of lives.”
I broke out laughing. “Saving lives? Why didn’t you say so? I’m the ‘saving lives’ expert, don’t you know?” I stopped laughing. “Really, don’t you think I’ve been through enough? You know my history, I’m sure.”
“Yes, I do. That’s why we thought we could count on you.”
I sat there silently, contemplating my options. I could have said no, but I wasn’t sure that my investigation wouldn’t be over, right then and there. You didn’t mess around with the CIA, or with matters of national security. Nothing good happened when you did that. On the other hand, if I agreed, we would probably have more access than we would have, even with FBI backing.
“Well? Can your country count on you?”
“Don’t push it. I can’t move forward with you with Jacob here. He’s not experienced. It would be too dangerous.”
“Wait a minute, Pat,” Jake objected. “I’m going. How can I get experience on an op if I need experience to be on an op?”
“He’s got you there,” Arvent said with a wide smile. “I guess you’ll both be going to Seattle.”
I sat silently, going over my options. “Sure, okay, he can come, but we’re loading up with protection when we get there. Do you have a stash I can access once we land?”
“Of course.” He got out a small spiral notepad with a cyan-colored cover. He opened the cover with a flip, grabbed a pen out of his front pants pocket and started writing. He ripped the small page from the notepad and handed it to me. “Here’s the address and the lock box combo. The combination changes every day at 2 a.m., so make sure you get there before then. You’ll have everything you need. Oh, if you look up ‘Aardvark’ in your phone’s contacts, you’ll see my number.”
I took the slip and put it in my wallet. “I have a bad feeling about this,” I said under my breath.
“One more thing,” he added. “Some of the cops in Seattle are on the take. North Koreans have been paying off several agencies to look the other way. It’s been hampering our efforts there.”
“No cops, got it.” What else was wrong with this job, I wondered.
Once at the Denver International Airport, my feeling got worse. I hadn’t had the best luck on airline flights. Jake and I had stopped and picked up a few things, including my Ruger’s locked carrying case for the trip. We stopped at the airline desk and checked in the gun and went on to the TSA security checkpoint. There was a line, but only about a hundred people or so. It took mere minutes to get through the line, get sniffed by the security dogs, walk through x-ray machines and take the underground train to Concourse C. Our gate was C44 and the walk from the train stop was long, since the moving sidewalk was down for maintenance.
“Figures,” Jake said under his breath. “It’s always broken.”
“Yeah, seems like it.” And it did.
We got to the gate and waited, somewhat impatiently. I paced while Jake sat and fidgeted. “Do you need to go?” I asked, and Jake smiled and stopped squirming briefly.
I followed Jake on board and we sat toward the back of the plane. I had mentioned to my apparent protégé that the rear of the plane is where a true detective would sit, able to see quite a bit in front of him instead of nothing behind him. Jake chose a center seat next to an empty window seat, again as I had suggested. I took the aisle seat and began to buckle when I was interrupted by a male flight attendant. His badge said “Rudy Bachman.”
“Sir,” he began very quietly. “Are you Patrick Ruger?”
“Yes,” I replied, my voice level matching his. “What’s wrong?”
“The captain has asked to speak with you. It should only take a moment.” He was very young, it seemed to me. But then, the older I got, the younger everyone else seemed.
Rudy turned and walked forward in the aisle and I followed. I noticed his gait and attitude was a bit too perky, but realized that that was probably the reason he got the job. We reached the cockpit, whose door was still open. Rudy stepped aside, giving me room to enter the electronics-filled room.
“Captain?”
“Yes, Mr. Ruger. Good to meet you. Could you close the door for a minute?”
“Sure,” I said and complied with the request. “What can I do for you?”
The captain and co-pilot were both dressed in typical pilot uniforms, almost cliché. They had bright white dress shirts with buttoned flaps on the shoulders covered by stripes, four on the captain’s and three on the co-pilot’s. I could see their wings pinned on their front left pockets but I couldn’t make out what their name badges below them said.
“You’re really him, aren’t you? The one who tackled the guy on that flight to New York? I watched that video 50 times. You were great.”
I laughed nervously. “Afraid so. Not my favorite day.”
“Well, it made my day, let me tell you. Anyway, I need a favor.”
“What is it?”
“It seems that the Air Marshall for this flight didn’t make it in today. Normally we would have had the last Marshall stay on to Seattle, but he had other pressing plans.”
“Okay …“
“Well, our choice is to wait until a Marshall can be called in or give a known law enforcement officer the shift. That would be you.”
“Wait, I’m not …”
“Retired, I know. But you still qualify, since, number one, you’re current in your firearm license and training, and two, you are trusted by the captain, which you are. You’re current, aren’t you?”
I sighed with acquiescence. “What do I have to do?”
“Do you know how to shoot a Smith and Wesson 9 Shield?” As he finished the question, he reached under his seat and pulled out a belt and holster. He slipped the handgun out, checked the chamber and handed it to me.
“Yeah, standard 9-mil. I shoot a 9 now, but I checked it.”
He handed me a clip. “Take these back to your seat, keep them out of sight. When we land, wait until all the passengers deplane, then bring them back here to me. Nothing ever happens on these flights, so nothing to worry about.”
“Remember New York?” I replied with a slight laugh.
“Touché.”
I pocketed the gun in one pocket and the clip in the other and left the cockpit. Rudy followed me back with a Coke, handing it to me after I sat down. “Time to buckle up.”
“What was that about?” Jake asked.
“I’ll tell you later.”
Chapter 10
Rain pelted the plane’s window next to me as we dipped below the fog in our final approach. I could feel the wheels skid a bit as they touched the runway and we were thrown forward in our seats when the reverse thrusters kicked in. The right wing’s tip lowered and raised during the glide down the runway, but we were down … without incident. I was thankful for that.
The passengers in front of us entered the aisle one row at a time until it was our turn. I told Jake to wait for me in the gate area and moved aside so he could get past me. He walked to the front and exited into the jet bridge. When the last passenger was off, I stood up and walked past all of the empty seats. I knocked on the cockpit door, which opened quickly.
“Captain Roberts,” I said, remembering his introduction to the passengers earlier. “Here you go.” I grabbed the gun and ammo clip and handed them to him.
“Thank you for your help. If you hadn’t volunteered, we might still be in Denver.”
“Yeah, ‘volunteered.’ Glad I could help. This is probably the first flight I’ve been on where … well … nothing happened.”
“Exactly what we like. Thanks again.”
I joined Jake and we followed the herd making its way to SeaTac’s transport rail between terminals, then to baggage claim. We only had one item to grab, my Ruger 9-mil, which I picked up at the baggage security office. Fortunately, there was little hassle involved and we walked over to the nearby Redline Car Rentals counter.
“How can I help you?” asked the young lady in red and white garb that looked somewhat like a candy-striper uniform. I don’t think she was of drinking age, and her light red hair pulled back in a pony tail made her look even younger.
“I need a car for a week, maybe two.”
“What size? We have a nice upgrade to a Malibu I can get you.”
“A Malibu is an upgrade?” I said with a smile. “Yeah, we’ll take it.”
“License and credit card, please.” She was too chipper.
I handed her the license and card. Her computer screen was embedded in the counter top in front of her and she stared intently at it as she typed in the information. Eventually she handed my stuff back and asked about insurance.
“I don’t usually buy the insurance.”
“Well, we have a new offer. For just $125 we cover everything, bumper-to-bumper, no matter who’s at fault. Even vandalism is covered.”
Knowing the luck I have with vehicles, and knowing darn well that we might get into a scrape or two, this seemed like more than a bargain.
“I think we should take it,” Jake suggested. “You never know.”
“My thoughts exactly. Give us the insurance, full coverage, please.”
She seemed excited to have made the sale, not realizing the mistake the company had just made in this instance. I got the feeling not too many people take the coverage.
“The total is $988.75 for two weeks, Mr. Ruger. Just sign here, and here, and initial here,” she instructed as she pointed out the blanks on the contract.
I signed them as requested, and she pulled the paperwork back, folded my copy and handed it to me.
“Go through the double doors to the left, here, and follow the signs to the Redline lot. You can pick any Malibu there and drive it to the attendant stand.”
I thanked her and we followed her directions, throwing our bag in the trunk. As an afterthought, I grabbed two or three GPS ID tags out of the bag and pushed them into my right-front pocket. I slammed the trunk and joined Jake in the rental. I was surprised by the intensity of the rain as we exited the rental lot and hit the street. I told Jake to look up a police supply shop and I drove to one in North Beacon Hill, just off I-5 on the way to Seattle.
Porter’s Law Enforcement Supply was in an older whitewashed building that had no windows. Jake and I walked up to the locked double doors and pressed the button. A loud buzz ensued and then a click when the door was unlocked and popped open for us. We entered the storefront and saw a long line of glass cabinets filled with a huge assortment of accessories and tools of the trade. I was in the market for some surveillance equipment and a couple of 007-type goodies. I wasn’t 100 percent certain I needed the devices, but better to be safe than sorry, I figured.
Next was to get some added firepower. I fished the hand-scrawled note out of my wallet and read the address aloud. “1427 Broadmoor, Seattle, Washington 98101.”
As I spoke, Jake entered it into the navigation app on his phone. “Thirteen miles from current location,” the female voice said. “Turn right and drive 5.6 miles to Echelon Street.”
I pulled out and had a hard time seeing signal lights and street signs in the fog and rain. It wasn’t just the rain, I thought. It was the cold dampness of the air. After four more turns and about a half-hour of city driving, we arrived at a fairly modern building. I parked in the entrance loop in front of the two-story building. It looked like a specialty storage unit.
“Wait here,” I instructed my cohort and hopped out of the car. I leapt over two large puddles and over the curb, then hurried through the glass door into the vestibule floored in industrial gray tile. I opened another door made of heavy gray steel, and found myself in a room with several orange mini-garage doors encircling the space. Florescent lights lit up the moment I stepped in. Only one door had a high-tech lock, A-15, and I walked to the 10’ by 6’ door. Again grabbing my note, I entered the combination the agent had written, but nothing happened. I looked over the lock and noticed what appeared to be a fingerprint scanner. I mentally shrugged and rolled my finger over the scanner’s roller and the lock snapped open. “Don’t ask,” I said to myself when I wondered how it recognized my print.
I rolled the steel cache door up with the expected loud clanking and flipped on a wall switch to illuminate this room, which did not have automatic lighting. The space went back 20’ and both side walls were lined with an assortment of rifles, assault weapons, handguns and an open-faced cabinet of ammunition. Knowing that I could return if necessary, I didn’t want to load up the car with weapons, so I grabbed three 9-mil handguns and a couple of shotguns. I went to the front door and leaned out to ask Jake to join me. I had him grab some ammo and a canvas tote bag that was among a half-dozen sitting on the floor.
We exited the room, turned out the light and closed the louvered door. As I was setting the high-tech lock, a female voice startled me.
“Ruger, I thought I’d see you here.” It was a high, soft voice, almost juvenile.
I turned and was surprised to see a woman, definitely not a teenager, but in her 30s. She was tall, maybe 6’, and thin, sporting a dark pixie haircut and an athletic body. She was in white and amber athletic garb, like she had come from a gym, with a light gray plastic poncho, which was slightly dripping onto the tile floor.
“You have me at a disadvantage,” I said, sensing that we weren’t in danger. Not having weapons pointing at us was reassuring.
The woman chuckled. “I guess I do.” She put out her hand. “Agent Freeley … Amy.”
We shook hands and her strong grip matched her look.
“This is …”
“Jacob,” Freeley cut in. She reached her hand to Jake and they also shook.
“Pleased to meet you,” Jake said nervously. “An agent for who?”
“Whom, you mean. I’m with the Company, of course.”
