down. “Motherfucker, Matias! Look at you, you cock!”
There’s an awful moment of vacancy, Gabriel looking at this man, this person he knows he knows, unable to remember him, to place him. Then the language clicks, the memory locks, and Gabriel laughs, genuinely surprised to see him, this brother in arms, here, in this place, at this time.
“Vlad! You son of a bitch!”
They’re down in Laguna Beach, another business park, but no hotel this time. The recession is still a deafening echo here, and driving in tonight, Gabriel passed storefront after empty storefront, sign after sign offering lease and rental. It’s a good place to hide, a good place to stage, the spaces big and private and nondescript, and maybe this one they’re in now was used for gymnastics or something like that, because aside from the darkened front office, it’s nothing but a great cavern here, a giant cube of poured concrete with rubber mats covering the floor, six long folding tables set against one wall. Rucksacks, sleeping bags, and the smell of pizza and beer to round it all out.
Along with Vladimir and the Uzbek, there are another fifteen, all of them with the looks of hard men from back home. It’s been six years, but some of the faces, Gabriel thinks he recognizes them, men on the periphery of his old crew, perhaps, or men he’d crossed paths with somewhere along the line. All of a kind, and even Vladimir’s got it, too, and Gabriel realizes they’re soldiers, every last one of them.
Vladimir himself, damn if he doesn’t look the same. Maybe a little older, a little harder, a little more muscle. He stands relaxed, and there’s a difference to his posture, too, not the cocky in-your-face-I-dare-you stance of youth, but now it’s more controlled, as if he’s proven everything he needed to prove to himself, and in so doing has proven it to others. All that, but the grin on his face, the eager expression-that’s the same.
Vladimir jerks a thumb back at where the Uzbek is standing, watching them. “He didn’t say anything about you, Matias! This is your thing? This is what you’ve been doing all this time?”
“It’s my thing. It’s good to see you, Vladimir.”
The Uzbek clears his throat. Gabriel, Vladimir, the rest, all of them turn their attention to him. Then the Uzbek makes them wait, removes his glasses, begins cleaning them. Holds them up to check the lenses in the weak light. Puts them back on. Then he looks at them, taking his time, eye contact with each in turn, all but Gabriel, until the end.
“Gabriel-Matias-has command,” the Uzbek says. “You are now operational, and on the timetable. From this moment forward until conclusion, you follow his orders without question, without hesitation.”
General assent from all the voices, and Vladimir is beaming, happy.
“There is a plan in place, this much you know. You know your parts within this plan, but you do not know the whole. Gabriel knows the whole. Remember this: his decisions are my decisions, and my decisions come from…”
The Uzbek grins, letting the statement dangle. A ripple of laughter, the joke understood. We do not speak of That Man, the One to Whom We All Now Answer. The Shadow Man, the Man of Silence, and it’s not a long walk from such names to call him a demon, an agent of darkness, or, worse, the Devil Himself. Gabriel hears these men laugh, Vladimir and fifteen other hard men, and he hears the truth behind it, too. These are powerful men, dangerous men, and this man whom-as far as he knows, at least-none of them have ever met can make their balls climb into their bellies and their cocks shrink to nubs.
Gabriel sometimes wonders if this man the Uzbek works for exists at all, in fact. If the Shadow Man, this Lucifer, isn’t some fabrication, a blind for others to hide behind. But knowing what he knows, knowing what lies in the metal case on the table behind the Uzbek, Gabriel doubts this. Whomever the Uzbek answers to, he is real enough, and Gabriel knows with the certainty of a penitent’s faith that as much power and as much strength and as much skill as stands in this room now, the Shadow Man must hold a hundred times again that much, if not more.
The Uzbek motions Gabriel over to him, turns to the metal case. The other tables have weapons and equipment arrayed upon them, almost twenty pistols and eight submachine guns, ammunition for all of them-radios, NVGs, MREs, binoculars, flashlights, gas masks, and white Tyvek suits. This case sits on a table alone, a gunmetal gray cube with a handle at the top. It is the kind of case one uses to transport camera equipment, perhaps; used for the movement of something delicate, sensitive, precious. The Uzbek uses a key to unlock it.
“Sourced from Iran,” the Uzbek murmurs as he lifts the lid. “Two ounces. Assemble it once you’ve secured your perimeter, placement as discussed.”
Gabriel looks at the tiny lead-lined container, the symbols and red-painted warnings. He nods, raises his eyes to meet the Uzbek’s. The other man has never been easy to read, and this time is no different, but Gabriel thinks he sees, perhaps, the hint of a question, the touch of doubt.
“No change?” Gabriel asks the Uzbek.
“No, as we discussed.”
Gabriel looks back at the contents of the box, this seed that can be watered, coaxed to bloom and spread a pollen of illness. Carried by the wind to leave its touch wherever it might fall. Right now, only potential-and it is that potential, more than anything else, that has concerned him, confused him. The instructions here are clear, and yet, through their clarity, indecipherable. Gabriel does not understand.
The Uzbek senses this, puts his mouth to Gabriel’s ear. “Place. Do not arm.”
“Place, do not arm,” Gabriel echoes.
The Uzbek straightens. “Do not concern yourself with the reasons. Concern yourself with the execution.”
The Uzbek shuts the box, locks it once more. Gabriel feels the eyes of sixteen men on him as he takes the key. He turns to Vladimir, asks, “You’ve been briefed?”
“We’ve all been briefed.”
Gabriel Fuller looks at the box holding the makings of a very dirty bomb. He looks at the Uzbek, and at the sixteen men once more.
“Let’s go over it again,” he tells them.
Chapter Seven
The first thing Bell does is argue with himself. He tells himself that WilsonVille is a popular vacation spot, that people come from all over the country, all over the world, even, to meet there. Family reunions and birthday parties and wedding anniversaries and, yes, of course, school trips to celebrate graduations or team victories or even the end of another year of education. He knows this, it’s not open to debate, it does not require someone to convince him. Summer, too, sees the highest number of visitors to the park, and again, school trips are often scheduled during the summer vacation for all the obvious reasons.
All these things are true, but still, he cannot bring himself to accept his daughter’s impending visit at face value. Whether he’s being paranoid or simply cautious, he doesn’t know, but at the least, due diligence is required. So Bell checks with WilsonVille reservations, asks them to look up the Hollyoakes School for the Deaf, and a bright- voiced woman named Vitoria confirms it for him within minutes; the Hollyoakes school has had their reservation and deposit down for almost twelve months now. Well in advance of his own placement in the park.
That should do it for Bell, that should satisfy, but it’s not enough, and now he knows he’s being paranoid, thinking that the reservation could be backdated. He needs a harder confirmation, and that’s easy enough to find in his position as the deputy director of park safety.
Tuesday morning, he collars Shoshana Nuri as soon as he’s in the office.
“Have a job for you,” he says.
“Sure.”
“Verify a school trip this weekend, the Hollyoakes School for the Deaf, based out of Vermont.”
“Should be in the database.”
“It is in the database. I want a verbal, I want you to call the school.”
“And say what?”
“Whatever you like, I just want the verbal confirmation. I want a confirmation on the dates, when they made the plans. Tell them you’re double-checking, whatever you like. Do it now.”
