The Puppet Master

I went to Carlos' office and told him what I'd learned. Then he called Joe, and I went over it again. We didn't have anything either the police or Haugen could go to court with, and none of us could see any prospects, but you never know. So Joe applied to the Justice Department for a contingency contract, on the basis that the Defense Department's William Harford might have been the victim of a criminal conspiracy.

The department's regional director for California, along with the head of the FBI's LA office, arrived the next morning to examine the evidence. We didn't show what we'd learned from Innocenza, which might prejudice them against us. Even as it was, they acted as if we were shrink cases, but two days later, Washington faxed Joe a contract. Prudential's reputation had come through again. There was nothing in it for us, of course, unless we came up with something that contributed to an arrest, indictment, or conviction.

10

Charles Scheele sat back in his chair and stared at the monitor. When his picket had intercepted the bogie, his beeper had alerted him, and he'd sent out a highly advanced bot of his own design, which he called 'the snake.' Through it he'd learned not only that he was being investigated, but by whom, and even who the agent was.  

The name Martti Seppanen had been vaguely familiar, and a brief search in the Web told him the man was sharp, very sharp. And clearly Seppanen knew something, but how much could it be? Ballenger didn't know much. How many targets had Seppanen found, besides Innocenza? Only Innocenza could have identified the customer, unless Harwood . . . Harwood would explain the Justice Department's interest. 

It seemed to Scheele he needed to find out just what Seppanen knew, and where he'd learned it, making no mistakes. Then do whatever he needed to do.  

He felt pumped. He loved challenges, and this one was unlike any he'd dealt with before. 

11

The next couple of days I tried every approach I could think of to get a lead on how someone might do what Scheele had seemingly done. I talked to half a dozen big-name theoretical physicists, including a couple with a reputation for being over the edge. Telling them only that my interest was part of a criminal investigation. I even visited Winifred Sproule at the Hypernumbers Institute.

No one had anything to suggest.

Next I phoned Ballenger, again identifying myself as Mr. Smith. He seemed unlikely to know much, but anything would help. And whether he knew anything or not, he'd probably call Scheele again, which might break something loose.

Ballenger sounded wary, but didn't complain about my standing him up. We agreed to meet at the same place—Leon's, at Marina del Rey—this time at 9:00 p.m. When I asked why so late, he said he'd be in Santa Monica doing a television interview from 7 till 7:30.

I went armed, of course. Ballenger might be more dangerous than he seemed, and according to Misti he had a bodyguard who probably served as all-purpose muscle. But a public place like a restaurant was a poor choice for a hit.

It was a miserable evening, with soggy air rolling in off the ocean. As I drove down Santa Monica Boulevard, it began to drizzle, and by the time I reached Marina del Rey, it was thick, if fine, blowing in off the Pacific. Late in the year for it, but in L.A. you take your rain when you get it. Through the murk, the argon sign marking Leon's glowed fuzzy blue, and as I ran from my car to the restaurant, I thought what this was going to do to the press in my suit.

Leon's had a nautical motif, the aisle ropes rough manila instead of velvet. Pictures of yachts and racing sloops were scattered over the varnished walls. There were only two couples in the room; given the weather, I wasn't surprised. The host who met me wore a jacket you might find on the steward of a third-rate cruise ship. His name tag said Adolphe.

'Good evening M'sieur,' he said, 'smoking or nonsmoking?'

I hadn't heard enough Frenchmen to know if his accent was genuine. 'I'm supposed to meet Reverend Buddy Ballenger,' I told him. 'He said he'd have reservations.'

'Ah! M'sieur Ballenger! Of course. If you will follow me, please . . .' He turned away, and I tagged along down a short hall, where he showed me into a room maybe 15 by 20 feet in size, with a table that might seat six, set now for two. The floor was wide gray planks that looked like sand-smoothed driftwood, but the throw rug looked like a rice-straw mat from a dojo. On the walls were large pictures of nudes, eighteenth- century style, but showing more. The nudes were being carried off by large grinning satyrs, or over the shoulders of soldiers. One was disporting with a stallion. Along two walls were backless couches upholstered in velvet, too wide for comfortable sitting. I had no trouble at all understanding why the good reverend liked this place.

Adolphe gestured at a chair. 'If you'd care to be seated, I expect Reverend Ballenger shortly. He phoned to say he would be a few minutes late.' Then he left me with the menu.

This wasn't the situation I'd expected, so I rechecked my shoulder holster; its clip released easily as I drew. There was a side door that opened onto a dressing room with rods, hangers, and hooks. Connected with it were a shower room at one end and a toilet at the other. The shower room had wooden benches and four showerheads. Interesting restaurant.

I went back to the table and sat down. My chair was close to a window overlooking the marina, and through the thick drizzle, sloops and cabin cruisers were vaguely visible at their moorings. I wondered if anyone would be boating on a night like that. The menu was limited, featuring seafood and Mexican. Nothing was French but Adolphe, and I wasn't sure about him.

Ballenger arrived ten minutes later, led by Adolphe, who announced he'd be our waiter. Ballenger's suit was dry and neatly pressed, even the trouser legs, which raised my antennae right away. He asked if I'd eaten, and when I said it had been a few hours, he recommended the taco salad and tawny port. I took his advice.

Adolphe said it would be about five minutes, and missed by only two. Meanwhile Ballenger was in no hurry to talk business. Instead he told me how much he loved boating and the sea. I avoided asking if that included the Sea Islands. I could bring that up later, after we'd eaten.

Then Adolphe returned, put our salads and wine glasses in front of us, poured, and left again. The taco salad may or may not have been good, but the salsa was almost hot enough to numb your mouth, which may have been deliberate. After one bite, I turned to the wine, and hadn't much more than wet my upper lip when I realized two