Broken English

CHAPTER 13: SUNDAY, ACT II

8:42 AM, Monterey

         "Excuse me," Benson said as the phone rang, and Kitfox stopped in mid-sentence as she picked it up.
         "Station twelve, this is Kathy Benson," she said, then, "Yes... yes... yes."
         Kitfox had his notebook out, jotting down what she had told him about the headboard speakers and their range of sound effects, and the first clue he had that she was through talking was when she hit him On his already bruised eye with the bulky telephone receiver.
         "God damn!" he shouted, holding his eye with one hand while the other went up to fend her off. Through the blurred vision of his remaining eye, he saw her grab the paper spike and slam it through Zamora's right hand. She pounded the base with her fist, driving it into the wood and pinning Zamora to the podium.
         Before he could think about recovering, she swung back in his direction and kicked him in the nose with the front edge of her wooden platform shoe. She was only a hundred-and twenty-pound woman, but pain exploded in his face as her cyclist's leg delivered a blow beyond George Foreman's best haymaker. He felt the back of his head hit the wall nearly as hard as her shoe had hit his face. Blood was already falling down his shirt as he lost his footing and fell to a seated position against the wall. His vision blurred to match the ringing in his ears as the girl vaulted over him and sprinted like a track star into a side corridor.
         "Hold it!" Zamora shouted, pulling at the paper spike. "I said hold it! God damn it to hell!"

8:43 AM, Monterey

         Kitfox struggled to clear the cotton from his head. He had come within an ace of being knocked out, and for an insane moment he thought about shaking his head. He settled instead for pushing his chin down on his chest and rubbing the back of his neck.
         "Leon!"
         A voice in the distance prodded him.
         "Leon, get this fucking thing out of my hand!"
         He started to focus then in earnest, fighting his way onto wobbly legs, taking out his handkerchief to staunch his bleeding nose, then inspecting the brass rod holding Zamora's hand firmly to the podium.
         "Jesus Christ," he said. "What did we run into?"
         "A trained killer. Get me loose, God damn it. I'm going to wring her fucking neck!"
         "Take it easy," he said, testing the strength of the spike's bite on the wood.
         "Yeow, God damn it!" she howled as the spike moved inside her hand. "Don't you 'take it easy' me. That was round one. Round two's going to be different."
         "You have to calm down," he told her, bending down to look underneath her hand. "You can't just run off with a gun in your hand like some kind of vigilante."
         Without warning, he suddenly grabbed the base of the spike and yanked it straight up out of the wood, her hand coming with it.
         "Ah, Jesus!" she hissed, pulling the long, thin rod out with her left hand and throwing it backhand against the wall. Then she danced around in a backward circle, her left hand wrapped around her right, chanting, "Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck!"
         "I'm surprised at that language coming from a nice girl like you," he said, kneeling back down and putting his handkerchief to his nose.
         "Shut up. Harley!" she shouted to an officer who had stepped around the corner to investigate the commotion.
         "Yes, ma'am?"
         "Find your sergeant and send him down here, then bring one of those paramedics from out front. Chop chop!"
         "Yes, ma'am," he replied, wiping the confused look from his face and running back toward the lobby.
         Zamora reached under the tail of her light jacket and drew her pistol. Transferring it to her left hand, she aimed it clumsily down the hall, then laid it on the podium.
         "Now, bitch," she muttered, "come to me."
         "Remember, Inez, this isn't her fault."
         "It's a little hard for me to hold onto an objective viewpoint right now," she said, holding up her bloody hand, the hole through the palm blackening as the blood began to congeal.
         "Lieutenant?" a voice called from down the hallway.
         "Yeah, here."
         A moment later a uniformed sergeant came around the corner and took in the scene.
         "Jesus Christ, what happened to you guys?"
         "We were Pearl Harbored by a suspect we were questioning," Zamora said.
         "She didn't become a suspect until after this happened," Kitfox corrected. "Better seal the building."
         "Who are we looking for?"
         "Kathy Benson, female cauc, five six or seven, one-twenty, auburn hair medium length, in a hotel uniform."
         "Simple assault?"
         "For now."
         While the sergeant was broadcasting the description, two paramedics arrived carrying their portable hospital in five canvas bags.
         "You'd better sit down, ma'am," one of them said to Zamora. "You could go into shock unexpectedly."
         "I don't think so."
         "Humor me."
         "Just put a band aid on this," she said, holding up her hand. "Sergeant, I want you to organize a flying squad and start a room-to-room search. I want that woman. Ow, God damn!"
         Both refused transport, Kitfox promising they would report to the local ER for follow-up. His own treatment completed, he stepped to the phone, went through the procedure of getting an outside line, and punched in a number. It being Sunday morning, he waited patiently for it to ring almost a dozen times before his party answered.
         "Hello."
         "Harvey, it's Leon."
         "Leon! You must be sitting on a powder keg to be calling me at home on Sunday morning."
         "Not anymore. It just blew up in my face. Our killers are John and Jane Does who vacationed at a place in Cabo San Lucas called Casa de la Playa. They're activated by telephone. One got activated while we were talking to her, and the paramedics think she broke my nose. The cop I'm working with has a perforated hand."
         "How'd you come up with this de la Playa connection?"
         "By bringing all the separate reports together. It just jumped out at us. There's a fax waiting for us at the lieutenant's office that I'm going to send you as soon as I can get over there. It shows a guy named Uberoth, probably an alias, who's a good candidate for the mastermind."
         "Mastermind's a strong term, Leon."
         "Not strong enough. You had to be here. I also need access to an expert on brainwashing."
         "Now, where the hell am I going to find that?"
         "Look in your Rolodex under B."
         "Leon—"
         "I can't talk right now, boss. The person who attacked us is loose in the hotel, and the cops are organizing for a room-to-room. I'll get back to you."

8:51 AM, San Francisco

         "Hello."
         Connection made; no turning back now.
         "Mr. Krieger, this is Harvey Dixon. I've just heard from Kitfox."
         "And?"
         "He's still in Monterey. He and that cop he's working with have apparently had a confrontation with one of his remote-control assassins, or whatever he thinks they are."
         "Really, Harvey?"
         "So he says."
         "What, exactly, did he say?"
         "That they were talking to someone, a female I gather, and as they were talking, she answered a telephone and was somehow activated at which time she attacked them and did considerable damage from the sound of it."
         "Is that it?"
         "No, sir, he's... well, he's using the word 'mastermind.'"
         "Mastermind?"
         "Yes, sir. He's sending a fax to the office; some lead he and this cop have dug up. I think he's supposed to be their mastermind."
         "Any idea who it is?"
         "The name he has is Uberoth. Yeah, like the sports magnate. Almost certainly an alias, so we can't tell anything from that."
         "No. I've got half a mind to... No, you know what? Call the office and tell the duty section to give top priority to running down whoever this individual turns out to be. Have them get back to you the minute they have anything. If he's onto something, our database should tell us, but if he's hot on the trail of some pizza delivery guy or something, you pull him out of there if you have to send the Marshals to drag him back in irons. This wouldn't be the first time he's made a laughingstock of the Bureau, but by God, it will be the last."
         "Nobody's laughing yet, sir. We'll have a better idea once we get the fax."
         "When will that be, did he say?"
         "No, but I gather there will be some delay. Apparently, he is assisting the police in searching for this woman who attacked them."
         "Great? Who is this broad, anyway?"
         "He didn't say, sir."
         "Well, he said she did them both some harm, a police officer and an FBI agent, and still managed to get away so effectively that a substantial number of police are now involved in a search, now he did say that, didn't he?"
         "That is substantially what he imparted, yes."
         "Uh huh. Just keep him aware of the fact that finding one violent perpetrator doesn't prove a conspiracy. Seattle taught us what kind of sociopaths are attracted to these economic summits."
         "Yes, sir. Let's also remember that he's found nothing to disprove a conspiracy, either. I'd prefer to withhold judgment until we get that fax."
         "Fine, Harvey, I've got no problems with that, only he's down there right now playing Adam Twelve. Call him up and remind him that the cops know how to run a dragnet without FBI supervision. Tell him we're waiting on pins and needles for his fax. Play up the importance of it. That ought to get him moving."
         "Yes, sir. I'll also need to alert the duty section. What are you going to do?"
         "I'm going to play a round of golf. This is Sunday. You deal with it."

8:58 AM Monterey

         Kitfox stood behind the two uniformed officers as they knocked on the door of 137, a knock no one could mistake for the friendly tap of room service.
         "Who is it?" asked a pleasant female voice from behind the door.
         "Police Department, ma'am," one of the officers replied in a deep, commanding voice. "Could you open the door, please?"
         "Police Department?" The door opened on a young blonde woman, short hair, tourist's pallor, obviously caught in the act of preparing to go out. "What is it, what's wrong?"
         "Sorry to disturb you, ma'am. Has anyone entered your room in the last few minutes? A young woman, member of the hotel staff?"
         "No." She looked confused. "What's she done?"
         "Do you mind if we take a look?"
         "What do you think, I'm— No, all right, come in."
         She stood aside from the doorway and the police entered. Kitfox waited in the hall, and the woman studied his battered face until he frowned at her.
         "I'm sorry," she said, looking down. "Did she do that to you? Is she dangerous?"
         "Probably not to you," Kitfox told her. "I'm with the FBI, and that's why I was targeted."
         "Oh." She looked around, embarrassed, and for want of anything else to say, joined the police inside her room. They came out soon after.
         "Sorry for the inconvenience, ma'am. Thank you for your cooperation."
         "You don't really think she's hiding in a guest's room, do you?" Kitfox asked as they moved to the next door.
         "It's like this, sir," the senior patrolman said. "We don't know which of these rooms are occupied. Being on the hotel staff, she could gain entry on a pretext, and Lieutenant Zamora said room-by-room. She didn't sound to me like she was playing around."
         He knocked on the next door.
         "Police Department."
         Kitfox patted the man on the shoulder, nodded, and walked on down the hall.

8:59 AM, Monterey

         And two floors above the slow-moving search, another man spoke softly into his satellite phone.
         "Fish ride bicycles in long lines of curvature."

9:13 AM, Monterey

         The temporary command post on the third floor had taken on a solid permanence since Benson's attack. The hotel staff hadn't noticed the signs yet, but they were about to be in for a long visit from law enforcement. Zamora stood before a hastily commandeered visitor's map of the hotel, highlighting out blocks of rooms as search teams reported in. A captain was on the way from the station, and she wanted everything to be orderly and up to date when she handed over control.
An attractive young woman in a hotel uniform stepped into the doorway and waited for Zamora to notice her.
         "Are you in charge?" she asked quietly.
         "For now. Lieutenant Zamora, MPD. What can I do for you?"
         "I've heard you're looking for Kathy Benson."
         "That's right. Do you know where she is?"
         "No. I just wanted to ask you not to hurt her. She's not a violent person."
         "No?" Zamora asked, holding up her bandaged hand. "I'll reserve judgment on that."
         "Kathy did that?"
         "Yeah, and I didn't get the worst of it. Step over here. What's your name?"
         "Carmen Medina."
         "How do you know Kathy Benson?"
         "She's my friend."
         "Did you first meet her here through the job?"
         "Yes."
         "How long ago?"
         "About two years, give or take. There must be some mistake about her attacking you."
         "There's no mistake, I'm afraid. Did you go to Cabo San Lucas with her?"
         "No. I wanted to, but I didn't have the time on the books, and they wouldn't advance me any."
         "Count yourself lucky. What did she tell you about her stay there?"
         "Let's see. Not too much. She stayed in a quaint little hotel, dining and dancing every night. No sex, though," Medina assured her. "Kathy's quite the prude, you know."
         "I'm not really interested in her sex life. What did she say about the hotel?"
         "Let's see, just that it was real quiet, sort of like part of the background. Oh, and she said there were nature sounds that played through the headboard, and she didn't want the sounds of her having sex to interfere with that. Can you imagine? It must have been the voice of God!"
         "Maybe so. Is there any place in the hotel—"
         "Lieutenant a uniform interrupted her as he pushed past Medina, "Sorry. Telephone. It's Agent Kitfox's supervisor."
         "Just a moment." She took the phone from him. "Zamora."
         "Lieutenant Zamora?" the voice at the other end asked.
         "Yes."
         "Lieutenant, it's Harvey Dixon. I need to talk to you about Agent Kitfox."
         "Just a moment. Are you on duty today, Miss Medina?"
         "Yes, ma'am."
         "All right. I'll find you if I need anything more. Excuse me for now. I have to take this."
         "Of course."
         "Sorry, Mr. Dixon. Now, what can I do for you?"
         "You sound busy."
         "That's an understatement."
         "Well, I won't keep you long. I'm not sure how to broach this."
         She waited without offering any help for him to figure it out.
         "I should preface this by saying that anything we discuss is FBI business, and goes no further, is that understood?"
         "I understand. What is it you want to discuss?"
         "I'd like your professional assessment. Leon has a history of reaching for the, what would you say, the unconventional solution. Last year up north he distracted a small-town police force with a bizarre science-fiction theory, and while they were looking the wrong way, an extra victim was taken unnecessarily by a serial killer."
         "That would be at Sausalito, right?"
         "He told you?"
         "I read the papers. When a serial killer's involved, Sausalito's in my back yard."
         "Quite understandable. Well, here's what I want to clear up. Leon has made several reports to us involving his search for what he calls a mastermind behind these economist killings, and I'm getting some pressure from my boss on this. You see, we can't quite follow the train of logic that led him to this mastermind theory, and my boss naturally wants to avoid another Sausalito down there."
         "As do I."
         "Of course, you do. So, my question is, what's your candid assessment of his effectiveness on this case?"
         "Do you want me to tattle on him behind his back, is that what you're after, Mr. Dixon?"
         "I want to know whether he's helping or hindering you, Lieutenant, nothing more nor less."
         "Mr. Dixon, another delegate to the conference was killed here six hours ago. Special Agent Kitfox and I were questioning a potential witness when she got a phone call. Somewhere in the middle of that call, she turned from a charming, bubbly meeter-and-greeter type to a stone-cold assassin. She put both of us down using the phone as one of several weapons for the purpose. I'll need a tetanus shot, and your agent will probably need treatment in the ER when this is over."
         "When what's over?"
         "We're involved in a room-to-room search for this young woman. It's only too obvious that someone at the other end of that phone said something to her that changed her whole personality, and that says to me 'mastermind.' Thanks to Agent Kitfox's leaps of intuition, we're weeks ahead of where we would have been otherwise. Is he helping us? We wouldn't have a case to work on without him. Was there anything else?"
         "Could I speak to him?"
         "I'm afraid not. He's involved in the search. You might call the front desk and have him paged."
         "No, I'll go with your assessment for now, Lieutenant. Thank you for your candor. He did suggest that he had a fax to send us that was supposed to have an important bearing on this case."
         "Yes, that would be the mastermind."
         "Well, next time you see him, ask him to expedite that, would you? We're standing by to give it top priority."
         "I appreciate that, Mr. Dixon. Anything else?"
         "No, that will do for now. Thank you very much, Lieutenant."

9:23 AM, Monterey

         Ikhelivich, back in the main lobby, watched the crisis he had orchestrated unfold. Dapper in his three piece blue pinstriped suit, a folded newspaper under his arm, he lounged casually by the telephone bank, virtually invisible in the sea of bankers.
         This was going well. He had lost track of Benson, but she would continue attacking cops until they killed her, and that would make the remainder of his unsuspecting commando force that much more effective. He would soon unleash a third of his young tigers. They would take down as many as two dozen of the world's top financiers. This afternoon, after the capitalist police tracked them down and thought they had a lid on things, he would activate the next third. The final group would be waiting outside when the convention began to break up. Genius. That was how you got the best jobs, by being the best man.
         He became aware that he was seeing more police entering the building, but not many leaving. Apparently, Benson had rattled them even more than he had hoped for. There was no point in him staying at the scene. Everything he had left to do could be managed by telephone.
         He took a casual walk across the lobby to a table holding a stack of cards stating, "Hello, my name is;" a box of clear plastic holders and a cup of grease pencils. Taking a card, he wrote "Mikhail" in the space provided, put it in a holder, and pinned it to his lapel. He turned to find himself eye-to-eye with a uniformed police officer.
         "Good morning, Mikhail," the man said. Was that a smirk? "I need to ask you to step over here for a moment."
         Ikhelivich's stomach tightened, and a warm flush spread over the back of his neck. Had Dave sold him out?
         "Vat iss wrong, pleasse? My Eenglish not speek goot."
         "Just come with me, sir," the cop said, taking his elbow and pulling him toward the desk where several other cops were congregated.
         "Pleasse!" Ikhelivich whined, digging in his heels, voice rising. "I do nossink!"
         "It's all right, sir," the cop said, holding up his hands, "it's all right. George, come over here."
         Another cop detached himself from the group and joined them.
         "What's the problem?"
         "Mikhail, here, doesn't want to come to the desk. Apparently, the cops are a bit scarier where he's from."
         "Oh? Well, no problem, we can do it here. We noticed you standing around the lobby."
         "So? Iss zat ze crime?"
         "Not at all." The second cop reached behind his back, and the hand came back, not with a weapon or handcuffs, but a picture of Benson. "Have you seen this woman?"
         "Zat iss all you vant? Haff I seen voman?"
         "Yes. It's very important."
         Ikhelivich looked at the photo.
         "Ah, yes! She vork at hotel." He smiled, every inch the relieved communist official pleased with his knowledge.
         "We know that," the cop said with a smile of his own. "I mean, have you seen her lately. This morning."
         "Oh. Stupit! Ya, ya, I see her on floor two, ten and five ago." He held up his watch and moved his finger from the twelve to the three.
         "Thanks, Mikhail, you've been a big help. Steve!" he shouted to a colleague as he headed off in his direction.
         "Iss zat all. Can I be gone now?"
         "Yes, Mikhail, that's all," the second cop said with a smile. "You can be gone now."
         Ikhelivich breathed a sigh of relief. It was way past time for him to clear out of here!

9:29 AM, Monterey

         Kitfox followed the corridor toward the back of the big hotel. Its stained linoleum floors were never meant to be seen by guests, but this would represent familiar, and therefore safe ground to an employee.
         The first door he came to was marked "Employees Only." Taking the Glock from its holster and holding it behind him, he opened the door with his left hand. A tiny closet holding shelves of cleaning supplies, along with a bucket and smelly mops greeted him silently. He looked around behind the door, then pulled it closed and moved on.
         The next one was marked "Keep Out," and had a second tag identifying it as equipment maintained by Pacific Bell. It was locked, but the lock was only meant to keep curious hotel workers out, and it yielded in an instant to his Visa card. It was even smaller than the broom closet, home to a dozen junction boxes.
         The hallway turned right ahead, and louvered double doors faced down the hall, again bearing a "Keep Out" sign. Pistol in hand, he pushed one open and looked inside.
         The room was large and poorly lighted, even when he flipped on the sparse energy saving tubes. Fans and pumps for the climate control system, water heaters, and cabinets lined the room. Three no-frills washing machines stood against the wall, and something with a lot of metal tabs rattled inside the industrial dryer next to them. A catwalk crossed the room above him, and he thought he could see another in the shadows ahead.
         One of the pumps started with a low whoosh, rising quickly to a high whine. The tabs in the dryer continued to rattle, and a slow, rhythmic thumping sound began that seemed to be associated with the pump. This place was perfect. Raising the Glock to the ready position, he stepped deeper into the room.

9:31 AM, Monterey

         Ikhelivich, innocuous name tag in place, and having sent a room full of cops on a wild goose chase, smiled to himself and stepped to the heavy, swinging glass doors. One gentle push, and he was outside in the vestibule formed by the pillars at the top of the steps.
         Damn! A police line had been set up out here, and a quintet of cops at the only opening was checking the ID of a man going out. This was a problem, but not a big one. After all, no one in the world suspected him. He could wait this out; unless, of course, someone tried to match him to the registry.
         One of the cops looked up and made eye contact. Uschi nodded at him and made a show of lighting up a cigarette. The cop returned his attention to the line of people waiting to be checked in, and Uschi used his smoke break to study the security procedures. After a couple of minutes of this charade, he dropped the cigarette in the public ashtray and reentered the hotel.

9:32 AM, San Francisco

         "Hello."
         "Mr. Krieger, Harvey."
         "Oh, hello, Harvey. I presume you've dealt with it?"
         "Yes, sir. I've had most informative discussion with the Monterey Police Lieutenant who's working with Kitfox."
         "And?"
         "She assured me that Leon's insight has blown her case wide open. She says she wouldn't have gotten anywhere without his help."
         "What did he sound like?"
         "I wasn't able to talk to him."
         "Why not?"
         "He was involved in the manhunt, sir."
         "How long ago was this?"
         "About fifteen minutes."
         "What have you been doing since then?"
         "Talking to my wife. This is Sunday, you know."
         "All right, all right. What about the fax of this evil mastermind, did that lead anywhere?"
         "I don't think it's come in yet. They're supposed to call me."
         "What's the holdup?"
         "Apparently, this manhunt. It sounds like a pretty substantial chunk of their police force is involved in it."
         "Oh, God damn it, that's just what I was afraid of. Don't you remember Sausalito? The whole fucking police force down in the sewer, giving that animal Iverson a free hand to kidnap and rape another student at his leisure."
         "This isn't the same, boss."
         "The hell it isn't! He's pulled some harebrained theory out of his ass and used his FBI credentials to awe some small-town cops into following up on it. I really want you to get him out of there before this becomes another Sausalito. Those cops know what they're doing. We need to let them do it."
         "And what if he's onto something? Who's going to have egg on their face then?"
         There was a long silence while Kreiger considered this.
         "All right, leave him in place then, but not on his own. I want you to get somebody senior down there. Forbes or Radicek probably. A senior agent can evaluate his case and take it over if it goes anywhere."
         "That's not a good idea, sir."
         "The alternative is for you to go, do you like that better? Harvey?"
         "I'm thinking"
         "Never mind. Just get Forbes or Radicek saddled up and on the road."
         "As you wish, sir. What about the fax?"
         "Don't worry about that," Krieger said around a derisive hiss of breath. "I doubt it's going to lead anywhere."
         "Unless it does."
         "Look, the duty section knows how to do research. Your job right now is damage control."
         "Excuse me?"
         "Leon, Harvey, Leon. You have to control the damage he's doing to the Bureau's reputation as we speak."
         "You don't know that."
         "I know the man! I'd have had him in eval right now if you and that bean counter hadn't ganged up on me. Now, you've got your orders. Don't cross me again."