Carlos had been leaning back in his chair, listening with eyes half closed. Now he sat up and leaned toward his computer, his fingers pecking. He accessed ITT's public-access listing of private security and investigation firms in Ensenada, a hundred kilometers south of the border on the west coast of Baja. There were three firms listed that did investigations—a lot for a town that size. A phone call to a contact and friend in the PEF—the "federales," the Mexican national police—established that all of them were one- or two-man operations, probably operating out of one-room offices. That sort of thing.
"So," I said when he'd disconnected. "Where does that leave us?"
Carlos grunted. He can put considerable meaning into a grunt, but it's not always apparent what the meaning is. "Back before La Guerra de Octubre, there was an outfit in Ciudad Juarez, with branches elsewhere, that called itself a travel and transportation service. A charter operation. But their main activities were smuggling weapons and drugs, and sometimes they took on a murder contract. The cover allowed them to operate aircraft and trucks without making anyone curious."
His fingers moved again, calling up transportation and travel services in Ensenada. Aside from the usual travel agencies, there was an outfit that called itself SVI—"Servicio Viajero Internacional." Then he called up the public-access records on its ownership and management. It was a partnership, the listed partners being an Aquilo Reyes, a Eustaquio Tischenberg-Hinz, and a Kelly Masters.
"Carlos," I said, "call the Data Center and get McCarver's social security number. Use the Boghosian bombing case ID for access." To our surprise, they actually had a Leo McCarver listed as employed by Yitzhak's. His SocSec number was 1487-23-8765.
"Now see if he's been in the military."
He keyed up the Pentagon, went through three connections, then made his request, listing the contingency contract we had with the LAPD regarding the Boghosian bombing. He was referred to a captain, who asked enough questions to satisfy himself that there was at least some connection between the request and the case, then let it go at that. After all, we weren't asking for access to national security secrets.
He didn't show us a readout. He read from it, apparently editing out things he considered irrelevant to our needs. McCarver, it turned out, had been in Special Forces, and discharged without prejudice in November 2007, in the middle of an enlistment.
Carlos thanked the captain and disconnected, then turned to me. "So?"
"I'm not sure. But McCarver was in Special Forces, and Steinhorn supposedly in the Rangers. Steinhorn left in February '08 and McCarver, what? Three months earlier? Let's say that both of them were connected with SVI. So how did they get recruited?"
Carlos nodded, turned back to his computer and keyed up another Pentagon office. This time he asked for the Criminal Investigation Division, and did something illegaclass="underline" Citing a contract with Sonoma County, regarding smuggling, he asked for access to a name-and-number-coded list of army personnel separated since 2006, with final postings. There had been no Tischenberg-Hinz. A Captain Aquilo Reyes had resigned in August 2007, last duty post Fort Bragg, Kentucky, which would fit both the Rangers and Special Forces. And the name could hardly be a coincidence. There was also a Spec 2 Kelly W. Masters who'd taken his discharge in 2010 at Fort Benning, an unlikely match.
Carlos looked like he does when he's on a roll though. His fingers jabbed again, calling up directory assistance. The guy he wanted was listed, and he keyed the number. While it rang, he told me what he was after. "There's an engineer I've heard of," he said, "a spook freak, who's researched and compiled a list of ex-OSS personnel. As complete as he could . . ."
The guy answered. Yes, he'd compiled such a list, including ex-Special Projects personnel from the CIA, before Haugen had split it off and reconstituted the old OSS. All in all, he said, his list included probably half its retired or otherwise terminated operatives. Why, he wanted to know, was Carlos interested? Carlos explained without being specific, and said he was interested in just two names: An Eustaquio Tischenberg-Hinz, and a Kelly Masters. He spelled the first. The guy's list had a Kelly Masters, but not a Tischenberg-Hinz. Masters had taken an early retirement in June 2007.
Only two months before Reyes had resigned his commission! Something was starting to take shape. We might have been looking at coincidences, of course, but it felt unlikely. And while it still might have nothing to do with me or the Christman case, we'd work on the assumption that it did.
Carlos decided he'd go to Ensenada and investigate SVI on the ground. He wouldn't be conspicuous. He speaks fluent Spanish in three dialects: the chicano patois of Colorado's Rocky Ford-LaJunta Irrigation District, where he grew up; the somewhat different patois of L.A.'s Mexican barrios; and the proper Spanish of educated Mexicans. And his appearance wouldn't be a problem; there's a sizeable Japanese colony in Ensenada.
He also had a friend he'd worked with a couple of times, an inspector in the PEF in Mexicali, the capital of Baja Norte. Presumably the guy would be willing to provide him with credentials for liaising with the PEF in Ensenada, if necessary.
My Spanish, on the other hand, was merely functional, so I wouldn't go with him. I'd be recognized as a gringo right away. Instead he'd take one of our junior investigators, Miguel Vasquez. Until they got back, I could fill in for Miguel, helping Ernie Johnson on a case of trespass and illegal dumping. I'd be doing legwork, that sort of thing. If anything further broke on the Christman case, I was to go back to it. Ernie's was a case with its main features well worked out. The job was to fill in the details for litigation and prosecution. It sounded restful, compared to the Christman case.
* * *
That evening I called Tuuli again, at the Diaconos'. Someone named Debbie answered. Tuuli, she said, was off to some place called Sipapu, with the Diaconos and a couple of other people. I got the impression it was some sort of test. I hoped she was having a good time. Meanwhile I took advantage of the opportunity to feel sorry for myself because I couldn't talk with her.
28
HARLEY SUK O'CONNELL
A couple of days later I went down to the parking lot to grab a company car and check some things for Ernie. As I started east down Beverly, a small maroon sedan pulled out of the lot across the street. So why not? A lot of cars pull out of parking lots behind me, and don't mean a thing. But this one rang an alarm in my mind, so I called Ernie and told him. He said he'd be right down.
I hoped to hell it wasn't a false alarm. At the stop light at Sweetzer, I could see the car and driver in my outside mirror, a few cars back. I couldn't actually see his face very well, but it could have been the face I remembered from a few weeks earlier, when I'd been followed two or three times. I'd almost forgotten about that. This time I wouldn't try to throw him off. To give Ernie time, I pulled into the parking lot at the Big Ekon between Fairfax and Grove, and hurried in as if to buy something. When I came out, I couldn't see my tail anywhere, but I continued east. Sure enough, he'd jogged south a few blocks, then circled north and pulled in behind me again at the intersection with Genesee. I told Ernie, who by that time was in a car and on the phone only a couple of blocks behind us.
I also told Ernie what I had in mind, so he peeled off north on Highland. Keeping it down to the speed limit, I stayed on Beverly a ways farther, then turned north on Rossmore. When my tail and I came to the intersection of Melrose, where Rossmore becomes Vine, Ernie was only a couple of blocks west. Probably by crowding the ambers or even the reds. I stopped for a stoplight at the corner of Sunset, and took the opportunity to snap the silencer onto the Glock 9mm the firm equips each car with. When the light turned green, I continued north to Franklin, then east to Beachwood Canyon and north to Mossydale, a little goat-trail street that hairpins its way up a ridge in the Hollywood Hills. My tail had dropped a little farther back on Beachwood, as if he hadn't wanted to be noticed. The traffic had been light. I couldn't see him at all, and wondered if he'd thought better of it, but at the upper switchback I glimpsed his maroon sedan a couple of switchbacks lower, still coming.