“You wasteeng time,” Medina said in his singsong fool voice. He took down the numbers, a string beginning with “011-52-491,” and then another string. Not CONUS, continental U.S., for sure. Then, his voice husky, Medina said, “I knew it, I fucking knew it!” But he was talking into a dead phone.
Three miles away and thirteen minutes later, Medina ducked out of the Mart into the twilight with four rolls of quarters and sprinted for the phones that nested against the Mart’s outside wall inside tiny shrines to Mammon. He knew he was cutting it close and a gangling youth with the complexion of a pizza slouched next to one phone, oblivious of the swarthy man who slammed a quarter into the other machine.
Nothing; out of service. “God DAMN,” said Medina, and jerked the boy upright. “Life or death, young man. Hang up. Please!” He knew it didn’t sound much like “please,” it sounded more like “or else.”
The boy wrenched himself loose, looking down at this slit-eyed latino, donning a mask of youthful outrage. “What the fuck, man; what the fuck,” he said, and turned away to resume talking.
The youth felt himself spun completely around, dropping the receiver, this time registering true shock at this sudden attack on a Friday evening by a madman in public. Medina cradled the boy’s throat with his left hand, his right fist drawn back.
“This,” he said, letting his fist vibrate, “or this.” And he offered the roll of quarters. The boy blinked twice. Ten seconds later Medina was alone, stammering to the operator because his alloted fifteen minutes were up. And even after he got the international operator it took him twenty-six bongs, at three seconds per bong, to feed the damned machine.
But when he heard the connection go through, there was hardly any buzz at all. “Digame, seńor,” said the voice he had already despaired of hearing again.
“JesusMary, I had to mug a fucking kid for this phone,” Medina said shakily. “Sounds like amateur night, wherever you are.”
“Cantina. Speedy, just one thing. If somebody’s running you, remember: I won’t get mad. You do remember?”
“Fuck you, Mr. Depew,” Medina replied, letting the flash of anger steady him. “I’m not calling for anybody, but I feel a cold breeze blowing up my personal tailpipe. Something’s coming down, and I checked out Mr. Depew’s box a long time ago so I figured you might still be suckin’ wind, and I don’t know who else to turn to.”
Laughter from Kyle Corbett, from the far distance and the distant past. “You seem to have something for sale. Something humongous.”
Black Stealth One had spawned several pet names among the men who had designed and built her. Between Medina and Corbett, the word was “humongous” because of its great wingspan. Since both men were NSA, they knew that the agency’s equipment was incredibly sophisticated and had been for years. Voice-coded, word identifier machines could monitor hundreds of thousands of telephone lines at once, especially those that used international trunk lines. A word like “stealth,” or “CIA,” or even “hellbug” could flag a conversation for recordingeven tagging the locations of both phones. With this shared knowledge, they resorted to their own jargon. “The sale isn’t kosher, but the bird is flying, and, man, it does everything we hoped.”
Corbett: “You don’t mean the Imp?”
Medina: “Oh hell, no. That’s all assembled. Main ingredient of my own, uh, Depew kit, if I can ever get it flight-tested. I’m talking humongous, man. We made the target weight, it’s stable as a table, and I’m the only one checked out to test it. But somehow, word has got out, and there’s a buyer.”
“Who’s the buyer?”
“Nice people; they make flashlights that backfire.” The NATO designations for Soviet aircraft included the MiG “Flashlight” and the “Backfire” bomber.
“If you think I’d help you sell, you can get stuffed.”
“Not me, JesusChristno! It’s from the very top, a scam to sell, uh, Number Three, and pass it off as humongous.”
Another laugh, full-gutted and now more relaxed. “Sounds cute to me. Might even work.”
“Yeah? Listen, it’s already working for somebody, but I’m not sure it’s us. The drill is for me to ferry Number Three and hide it near, uh, let’s say Mazatlan. Then snatch our humongous bird when its wings are wet and while everybody in the country goes nuts to make it look good, I stash humongous in New Mexico, fly down and pick up the fake, and thenyou’ll love thisditch the fake offshore where they can see it and pick up the pieces. That way I don’t have to face ‘em, but I have a long swim. And I leave without even getting to see what five million worth of Swiss tickets looks like.”
“Mazatlan, you said?” Corbett’s tone was not pleasant.
“Please deposit five dollars and twenty-five cents for the next three minutes,” said a disinterested female voice.
Medina told her to count the bongs and fed the quarters in. Then he spelled out “Regocijo” using the standard phonetic alphabet, “Romeo-Echo-Golf-Oscar-Charlie-India-Juliet-Oscar” because he could think of no other way to do it. “It doesn’t smell right. It’s not our turf.”
“Plus, you could get popped, Speedy.”
“That’s crossed my mind,” Medina admitted.
“What do you want from me, a backup?”
“Honest to God, I’m not sure what I want, or what you can give. Just advice, maybe.”
“I’ll tell you what doesn’t smell right. It’s too neat a coincidence, making the switch so near where I am already. And I don’t believe in coincidence. What I do believe in is my hide. And I’m wondering whether somebody’s running you without your knowledge, to get to me. Maybe they don’t intend you to ferry Number Three down here.”
“Wrong. I’ve already done it.”
“No shit! Well, you can’t blame me for a few suspicions,” Corbett grumbled. “Right now I’m thinking the high-techs who could be listening in will already have figured out exactly where I am, but this isn’t their turf and I’ll be long gone before they could get here, so I’ll tell you. I’m in Aguascalientes. See why I might worry about the coincidence? But if you’ve already stashed one bird, all I’d have to do is verify that. Maybe take it myself,” he chuckled.
“I wouldn’t. Old guy named Julio might just put some holes in you. And I’d kiss him for it. That’s all I need, you fucking me over from that end and heavy brass from our old employer trying to run me from this end.”
Medina wondered at the pause, because it was a long one. Then Corbett said, “Our previous employer, you mean?”
“You got it. They’re coordinating this. Hell, my briefings are with a guy who’d probably love to know you’re still mean as ever. Initials Delta Whiskey; is that enough?”
“Enough. I wish you could tell him, Speedy, but you can’t. Guys like him absolutely cannot afford to take chances on guys like me. Neither can you, but it sounds like you’re hung out to dry already.”
“Feels that way, too. By the way, why did you fake that accident?”
“You mean, was I turned or just greedy? Neither. Maybe we can puzzle it out one day. Not now. Right now I need to get a feel for timing. When are you slated to start the real shitstorm blowing?”
“About a week, ten days. I’m already dealing with the buyersand as soon as we wet down the humongous wings, I’m supposed to haul ass. That’s the holdup, and I can’t delay it.” He wanted to say, My God, I’ve already done sabotage on Black Stealth One to buy this much time, what do you want from me. But if they were being monitored, that admission would have bought him twenty years in the slammer.