State of Emergency (9 page)

'You're
what
?' Simon Gardiner almost choked on his piece
of steak.

Across the table, his elderly mother and father were smiling
serenely. They were both white-haired, deeply tanned and
wearing blue jeans, sweatshirts and sensible trainers. 'You
heard me, Simon,' said Nancy Gardiner. 'We're cycling to
the speech.'

Simon pushed his chair back and paced to the window,
glancing at his wife, Maureen, who looked a little lost. He
was a senior partner at Gardiner & Feinstein, one of the
fastest-growing law firms in the city, and he was not used to
being overruled – even by his parents. Those days had long
gone.

'But you can't,' he insisted, spinning away from the
vista of Wilshire Boulevard, a hundred or so feet below the
driveway of the house.

'Why, Simon?' Marty Gardiner retorted sharply. 'Back home,
we cycle everywhere. Since we had the RV converted to ethanol
it's good for long distances, but we're not about to mess up our
carbon footprint now . . . are we, dear?' He turned to his wife
sitting calmly beside him, her hands in her lap.

Simon Gardiner was a man in thrall to his own self-image
and social status. He hated his parents' RV – it was
too big to get in the underground garage and it messed up
the lines of his garden. He didn't want to know what the
neighbours thought of the thing stuck there on his drive.
It had brought his parents down from rural Oregon the
day before, and he would be glad to see the back of it. It
was old, and a huge, ugly exhaust pipe and filter had been
added beside the cabin, making it look like something out
of
Mad Max
.

He returned to the table and leaned on it with both hands.
'Yes, Pa. But you might have noticed the roads are a little
bigger here.'

'There's no need for sarcasm,' Nancy admonished.

Simon Gardiner shook his head and straightened. 'I give
up,' he said, and walked out of the room.

Twenty minutes later the elderly couple had finished
lunch without their son and had changed into identical red
tracksuits and trainers, their cycling helmets in their hands
and backpacks over their shoulders. Their hair was so white
it looked almost as though it had been bleached with super-strong
peroxide. Marty's was cut short at the back and sides,
but swept across his head in a boyish style. Nancy still had
a weekly 'do' at her local hairdressers, a traditional place
that had changed little since the 1960s and where they still
used the huge old-fashioned hair driers customers had to sit
under.

The couple were now in their mid-seventies, and both
were slender but robust. They radiated youthful energy and
a sense of purpose. Each had dark-blue eyes that were as
close in shade as to be indistinguishable. It was one of the
things that had first drawn them together, a doorway to an
intimacy that had lasted 42 years and become stronger as
they had grown older.

Marty walked out to the RV, and Simon drew his mother
to one side. 'Mom, you can't go through with this. It's
insane.'

She surveyed her son's face with a mixture of amusement
and affection. 'Simon, I'm not going to argue with you
anymore.'

'Talk to her, will you, Maureen?' he implored his wife.

'I think their minds are made up, darling.'

'Yes, they are,' Nancy added. 'You know how passionate
your father is about the environment. Can't you just drop
it now?'

'So Dad's pushing you into this?'

'I didn't say that, Simon. I believe in the cause as well. It's
just that your father lives and breathes it.'

Marty strode back through the front door. 'You ready,
hon?'

Nancy snapped shut the clasp on her helmet and gave her
husband the thumbs-up.

'Dad, before you go, I just wanted to give you something.'

'Heck. Can't it wait till we get back?'

Simon was already marching off down the hall to his
study, so Marty followed him. Simon closed the door.

'What is it?' Marty Gardiner said in a rougher tone than
he intended.

'Is there anything I can say to stop you doing this?'

The elderly man sat down in a leather chair facing his
son's impressive mahogany desk. 'Look, son. I'm not a child.
I understand what I'm doing. You forget that I grew up in
this city.'

'Yes, Pop, but that was 50 years ago. It's changed just a
little.'

Marty took a deep breath. 'Simon, your mother is a
committed environmentalist. She totally believes in doing
this.'

'So you're saying you're doing this for Mom? Because if
you are –'

'No, not at all.'

'Look. How about I take you there? I don't give a fuck
about my carbon footprint.'

Marty was shaking his head. 'You just don't get it, do you,
son?' When Simon said nothing, his father went on. 'Look
at yourself. You're overweight and overworked. You don't
give a damn about yourself, let alone the world we all share.
The way you're going, you'll be dead long before me.' He
gave his son a stony look. 'Take heed, son, take heed.' And
with that he walked out.

The Dragon parked the Toyota outside a four-storey apartment
block in Glendale. It was a scruffy red-brick building in a back
street. It hadn't been painted since it was built in the 1960s,
and the garbage bins were overflowing onto a potholed
alleyway running alongside the block. It smelt bad.

He took the stairs. There was no one around, but there
was more garbage in the stairwell, and urine stains up the
walls. It smelt worse than the alleyway. The man he was
looking for was called Dexter Tate and he lived on the third
floor. The Dragon had been here before, a week earlier, to
make the offer.

Dexter was expecting him and opened the door before the
Dragon knocked. A narrow hallway painted in a repulsive
pinkish purple led to a tiny lounge with a couple of ripped
armchairs, a low table covered with bottles and cigarette
packets. In the corner stood a massive TV. A football game
was in progress, Chargers versus Broncos.

Dexter threw himself into one of the chairs and nodded
to the other. The Dragon ignored the invitation to sit. Dexter
lit a cigarette.

'I would rather you didn't,' the Dragon said and snatched
the cigarette, crushing it to pieces. Dexter sat to attention
and started to protest but thought better of it.

'I assume everything's in order?' the Dragon asked, his
Russian accent breaking through on the word 'assume'.

'Of course. So, you got the second payment?'

'All in good time, Mr Tate, all in good time. I would like to
see the schematic. Talk me through your work . . . please.'

Dexter shrugged and pulled himself up from the chair.
An IKEA cupboard that looked as though it hadn't been put
together properly stood against one wall. Two of the shelves
sloped. Dexter opened a drawer and pulled out a large roll
of paper. He walked over to the table, pushed everything
onto the floor and opened the roll. It was covered in
lines, labels and typed numbers. It was a schematic of the
California Conference Center in downtown Los Angeles.
Dexter picked up a couple of bottles and placed them on
the corners of the schematic to hold it down. Then he
pulled one of the chairs up close to the table. The Dragon
looked over his shoulder.

'The complex is huge.' Dexter ran his finger in a broad
circle. 'This is the ground floor,' he said, pointing to one of
the horizontal lines. 'Reception is here. There are entrances
here, here and here, and four more at the other side of the
Main Concourse.' He stabbed at the paper. 'The ground floor
has two large auditoriums, Hall A and Hall B. One at each
end. Tonight's event is in Hall A, over here to the west of the
Main Concourse.' He paused for a moment to look up at the
Dragon, who was staring at the schematic.

'There are three levels above the Main Concourse and
Reception. A gym, indoor pool, small meeting rooms. There's
a bar and restaurant on first. The whole place is bottom-heavy,
though – there are six levels below ground, B1 to B6.
B1 is administration: offices, storage facilities. B2 to B5 is all
car park. B6 doubles as part car park, part major storage area.
That's where they keep everything from spare light bulbs to
twelve-foot-high video screens. There's a service lift at the
back of the complex.

'Across the road from the CCC is a small mall with a Kmart,
a bank, a cinema, a couple of eateries and a gas station. One
thing you might find useful. A buddy at the local planning
office got me the architect's plans for the complex and the
buildings nearby. Not many people would ever have seen
these. The shopping mall and garage across from the CCC
were built at the same time as it, and they're all owned by
the same company. Turns out there's a service tunnel from
the Kmart that links up with B2 of the CCC.' He ran a finger
across the paper. 'It's narrow, just big enough for a man to get
through, and it's used to access electrical system nodes for the
entire area. The main boards are just inside the CCC, here.
I got in through the tunnel to position the devices, avoiding
the security checks upstairs on the main level.'

The Dragon nodded. 'And where have you placed the
devices?'

'One here.' Dexter pointed to a cupboard close to
Reception on the Ground Floor. 'The other, larger one is
here on B1, directly under Hall A.'

'I see. And security?'

'As tight as you'd expect, but the devices are well concealed
and shielded, so no chemical leaks for the detectors to notice,
and no smells. The dogs will pick up diddly-squat.'

'What about cameras? How did you . . .'

Dexter touched his nose. 'I have a friend who's a gifted
cinematographer,' he smirked. 'Fucker should be working
with Spielberg. He ran me off a DVD of empty corridors which
I keyed into the system for the cameras covering the drop
sites. The security guys were watching a movie for the whole
30 minutes I was in the building. Never knew I was there.'

The Dragon couldn't help smiling his approval. 'Very
clever.'

'So,' Dexter said. He turned to look up at the Dragon. The
barrel of a silencer attached to a Smith & Wesson Model 500
Magnum was two inches from his face.

'Up.'

Dexter's face was suddenly very pale. 'But I –'

'Not a word, please. Into the hall.'

Dexter Tate was rooted to the spot. 'The hall?' In a daze,
he got up from the chair and began to walk towards the door.
'I don't understand,' he said, his voice fractured. 'What –'

'I use people only once. Dead men can't tell tales.'

'But, I wouldn't –'

'Stop.'

The Dragon walked past him towards the front door and
turned. Dexter stared imploringly at the man in front of
him. The Dragon felt nauseated, raised the Magnum and
shot Dexter between the eyes. His head exploded, sending
blood and grey matter to the ceiling and in great plumes
along the walls.

The Dragon stepped over Dexter's body. He paced back to
the tiny table and rolled up the schematic. Then he ripped
the DVD player from under the TV and pocketed an iPod he
saw lying on the IKEA cupboard shelf. He spotted Dexter's
jacket slung over a stool in the kitchen just off the lounge.
He yanked the wallet from the inside pocket, deliberately
ripping the lining. Finally, he threw the low table at the TV
screen. The image of the football game flicked off with a dull
thud just as the Broncos quarterback took a snap.

With the scene left looking like a regular armed break-in –
the sort of thing that happened a dozen times a week in this
part of LA – the Dragon pocketed his gun, walked calmly
back along the hall, left the front door ajar and headed back
to his car. No one saw him leave.

The Dragon cut from Glendale Freeway south onto Hollywood,
hitting the traffic full on. Cops were everywhere. A hundred
yards ahead was a checkpoint. The Dragon glanced through
his rear window. It was bumper to bumper, and there were no
slip roads off the freeway before the checkpoint. He pulled
the gun from his pocket and put it next to the Yarygin PYa
in the metal box under the seat. He twisted the key and
slipped it into the glove compartment. The other weapons
he had already deposited at the lair opposite the CCC before
visiting Dexter Tate.

The car in front of him was waved over to the hard
shoulder by two motorcycle cops, and for a second the
Dragon thought he would be allowed to drive on. But
then he too was asked to pull over. A cop went to each
car. One of them stood by the door of the Toyota and
signalled to the Dragon to lower the window, then asked
for his license. Without a word, he handed over the piece
of plastic.

'Could you step out of the vehicle, please, sir?'

The Dragon complied. The cop frisked him.

'Pop the trunk, please.'

The Dragon leaned into the car and pushed the button.
The trunk lock opened and the lid swung up. The cop walked
round and glanced into the empty compartment.

'Are you carrying a weapon, sir?' the cop asked and stared
straight into The Dragon's eyes.

The Dragon met his stare with just the right measure of
nervousness. 'Er . . . no, officer.'

The cop went to search the inside of the car. As he ducked
inside, he flicked a glance at the streams of traffic. 'What
the –' He took a step back and saw his colleague running
towards him, yelling into his radio as he went.

Passing the checkpoint, weaving between the cars, were
two elderly people on mountain bikes. Each of them had
signs attached to the backs of their saddles. One said '2
Wheels Good, 4 Wheels Bad', and the other 'Dump The Car
– Take The Bike'.

In a moment, both cops were on their motorcycles,
revving them up and pulling into the lines of traffic. The
Dragon was as stunned as the policemen, but he found it
much funnier. Beaming, he lowered himself into the Toyota
and nosed back into the traffic.