by saw nothing unusual as the pair leaned against the van next to Graham’s car.
They appeared interested in the front page of the Los Angeles Times.
But occasionally they spoke in low tones as they ignored the paper to scan the interior of Graham’s rental, looking for anything to answer their questions.
Who was he? Why did he visit Maggie Conlin? Why was she taken to hospital?
The taller man, Faker, was a doctoral student at UCLA visiting from Amsterdam. He was studying re
Six Seconds 289 ligious philosophy. Faker, a U.S. citizen, had lived largely in Dubai, Bahrain and Doha with his father, an oil executive from Houston. When Faker rejected his family, he wandered the world in search of answers to life.
He found them in the extreme anti-West movements of European campuses.
His friend, Sid, was raised in Brooklyn, New York. A deeply introverted young man, Sid had been aban doned as a young boy and raised in foster homes where he’d been abused. As a teen, he sought solace in a number of storefront religious groups before he ulti mately left for Afghanistan, where he joined the Taliban.
Faker and Sid were believers.
They were also security agents for the network’s most important project. Their job was to ensure nothing threatened its success.
“Sid, there. See?”
On the passenger seat, under a corner of an open map, luggage tags from Graham’s carry-on bag peeked out, offering them his name and address. Quickly, they made notes, including the letters RCMP-GRC, which framed one of the tags.
The men then vanished into their vehicle some distance away but within sight of Graham’s car.
Behind the darkened windows of their vehicle they worked very fast on laptop computers, using search engines, news databases and Web sites.
Within minutes they learned the stranger who had visited Maggie Conlin was Daniel Graham, a corporal with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police in Canada. Graham was from Alberta and, according to news reports, part of the investigation into the sudden deaths of Ray Tarver, the reporter from Washington, D.C., and his family.
“They’re getting close,” Faker said. “We should alert our uncle.”
Faker reached for their satellite phone and in seconds his call bounced off satellites orbiting miles above the earth to a secured series of relays in Istanbul, Vienna, Prague, Casablanca, Lagos then to Addis Ababa.
The scrambled signal remained beyond the immedi ate reach of the NSA security net. When the call was answered in Africa, it was followed by a cryptic con versation in an ancient language.
“Hello, uncle, this is your nephew in California.”
“Yes, and how is the family?”
“They’re fine for now, but we have some news. We may not be able to go forward with the event. A stain has been found on Grandmother’s carpet.”
A few moments of silence passed before Faker con tinued.
“Uncle, we’re getting close to the event, Grand mother would be disappointed if something went wrong. We suggest we attempt removal of the stain.”
Several beats of silence passed.
“Uncle, do you agree?”
47
Riverside, California
Graham wheeled into the Chrome Coast Truck Center near the edge of the interstate with his duty and in stincts at war.
He was torn.
Maggie’s pain had got to him.
It obliterated the distance that should be kept between a cop and a victim and led to his promise to help her. Graham put in a call to Novak with the D.C. police, asked him for a favor with a check through NCIC. Novak came through for him.
Now, as Graham sized up the truck center, he wondered if his sympathy for Maggie had blinded him. Was he sticking his neck out, becoming entangled in a domestic case because he felt sorry for Maggie Conlin? Or was he here because he couldn’t leave the Tarver case with so many questions unanswered?
Either way, he’d defied orders.
The center’s service office door opened onto repair bays with air smelling of rubber and diesel, and echoing with the clank of steel tools and compressors. Some where a radio was playing “On The Road Again.”
A tanned, bald man wearing a smock with Bruno Krall, Manager, embroidered over his heart, ended a call when Graham stepped to the counter.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Mac Sullivan.”
“Mac, Mac,” the manager said, squinting at his computer screen. “He’s on a job. Can I help you with anything?”
“A buddy told me Mac had a line on a truck I was interested in. I’m only in town for today. Just needed a minute or two with him.”
“Charlie!” the manager called through the doorway to the repair floor.
“Yo!”
“Tell Mac to clock out and come to the counter.”
The radio had started another song, “Wichita Line man,” by the time a man with a Vandyke, red bandana and wearing grease-stained coveralls arrived.
“This guy’s looking for you.”
Intense blue eyes carried a question to Graham.
“Hey, Mac. Dan Graham. A friend told me you might have a line on a rig I’m interested in.” Graham nodded to the lot. “Can I show you some information I have on my laptop in my car?”
Sullivan looked at his manager.
“Ten minutes, Mac. Go.”
In the car, Graham showed Sullivan his badge and photo ID.
“What’s this? You’re a cop? A Mountie?”
Six Seconds 293
“That’s right. Your boss doesn’t know. Yet. You help me and I’m gone and he never needs to know.”
“Help you with what? You’re from Canada, right? I don’t know nobody in Canada.”
“You know Jake Conlin.”
“What about him?”
“Four Americans were killed in my jurisdiction. In my review of the case, Jake Conlin’s name came up.”
“You think Jake killed people in Canada?”
“I didn’t say that. But I’m pretty sure you know where he is.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Let’s shift gears for a bit.” Graham opened his notebook. “I did some checking and I understand you’ve got a stolen truck parts beef in Texas?”
“That was put on me and that was ten years ago.”
“Mac, I need you to understand that I don’t have time to waste. I have four deaths. I’ve come to you for help. Are you going to obstruct me in my duty?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Conlin’s name came up. I need to locate him. Now, you can help me the easy way, point me anonymously and truthfully in the right direction. Or I can ask the county sheriff and the FBI to help me with warrants for your personal phone records, computer records, includ ing work here, the whole deal. Say we find you’re involved in extracurricular action. We get another warrant. Gets kinda unpleasant.”
