THE POLITICS OF PLEASURE (19 page)

'Just take it,' Turner barked, jabbing the radio at him. 'It's pre-tuned to mine.'

'Okay, okay, let's get this crummy show on the road then.' Armstrong grabbed the walkie-talkie and paused. His eyes narrowed and he ran a fingertip along the knife-scar on his cheek. 'Sure you don't want us to rough up the ladies, or anything?'

'For God's sake, no! Just send them out. Once they drive off, I'll call for the backup units. Radio me when you're about to bring the chemists down and I'll have cars pull up out front. Just get the chemists into the goddamn vehicles.'

Armstrong nodded and studied the walkie-talkie's controls. He put the radio in his trench coat, nudged his offsider and pointed to the van's back door. 'This won't take long, general. Apartment six, right?'

'Number six. And don't mention my name, we want the women to think you're part of a criminal drug-ring. Just make sure you get the
goddamn cassette-tape!
'

'Okay, Alex. Jesus!' Armstrong shook his head as if trying to dislodge Turner's overpowering voice. After the briefest of nods, he clambered from the van, bag and gun in hand. Cold night air struck the general's leathery face before the backdoor shut. Turner hunched forward on the stool, plowing again through each detail of his hastily prepared plan.

After releasing the Cuban sisters, Armstrong would plant MPA, amphetamine and a bundle of cash in Goldman's apartment, and more of the same in Haslow's house once the chemists' bodies were weighted down in a watery grave at the bottom of Chesapeake Bay. Earlier in the evening, Turner had authorized a 100 grams of MPA from Silverwood Centre's stores, while Armstrong had raided his own supply of amphetamine and cash for the venture (Turner would reimburse the mercenary, dollarwise, for what he'd contributed to the last-minute venture).

General Turner would get technicians at the Defence Intelligence Analysis Centre to splice together parts of conversation at Goldman's dinner party. Namely the part where Goldman admitted smuggling MPA from out of his workplace; and the part where Haslow admitted giving a woman-friend a classified drug formula. The legal recordings would further Turner's claim the chemists were suspected of selling classified drugs on the black market, as well as illegally making amphetamine at their workplace.

Truth be told, Belize Cheraz was responsible for the audio-surveillance of Goldman's residence. After a weekend stay-over at Scott's, Belize gave MPA capsules to her workmate Sandra Gonzalez. Gonzalez was a twenty-three year old party hound who dealt drugs on the side to maintain her indulgent lifestyle. Shortly after getting the capsules, Gonzalez was busted for cocaine and marijuana. The young woman had been sly enough to cover Belize's ass from the law, but not sufficiently on top of things to steer attention away from the gelatin capsules found inside the Nepalese jewellry box atop her hand-me-down television (Gonzalez had just finished smoking Hawaiian kush before the unexpected knock on her door). She'd told the DEA agents crowding her low-rent drug pad that the crystalline powder had come from some army lab. Well, so she'd been told by “... this hot-looking guy who came on to me in
Secret Hours
. You haven't heard of it? It's a new nightclub on Sixth and ...”

The DEA handed the capsules over to the army for analysis. The DIA pegged contract-chemist Scott Goldman as the likely source of supply. Instead of questioning the chemist outright, they opted to monitor his home and phone to learn what threat he posed.

Now, huddled in the van, Turner believed the Cuban sisters' statements to police would only back the premise the Silverwood chemists had got in over their heads with a dangerous drug-ring. Turner was confident the sisters would prove too inarticulate to convince authorities of another scenario. He was also confident the Towson apartment would be empty by the time police arrived. Turner didn't want the chemists' bodies found as a missing persons investigation would be far less rigorous than a double-murder investigation. The chemists would be missed at first, particularly at their workplace, but Turner was confident the cover story would hold.

In any case, Turner knew the chemists were expendable in more ways than one. Aware of new shifts in neuroscience, the military was outsourcing research work to civilian laboratories. Detailed topographical maps of the human brain were coming to light. Large doses of synthetic molecules derived from 2-oxo-pyrrolidone carboxylic acid had opened up new realms of cognitive and emotive enhancement. The “fight or flight” neurotransmitter noradrenalin could be controlled or disengaged with drugs like Propranol, making the drugged subject vulnerable to outside influence. Turner knew about this and more from a report outlining military applications in this promising new field of pharmacology.

Furthermore, neither Goldman nor Haslow had much family to speak of, let alone family with political or financial clout. The unsuspecting chemists were well and truly in Turner's web. The silver-haired general checked his walkie-talkie and waited for Armstrong to make contact. He wanted a cigarette badly, but more than anything wanted the last-minute operation over with. In any case he had little choice but to wait, tense and cold, in the instrument-packed confines of the surveillance van.

'Well that fixes that.' Belize glared at the dumbbell at her feet, then grabbed her stiletto from off the carpet. '
Madre de dios!
There'll be more than just one bug. Whoever put them here can probably still hear you.' She remembered the tiny Radio Frequency bugs hidden in her Havana apartment, as well as in the Finance Ministry office of her illegally moneyed lover who'd provided her lavish lifestyle. Evidence from such listening devices had been instrumental in sending her and her lover to jail. Such memories now spurred her to quit Goldman's apartment before she got roped into some intrigue from which there was little or no chance of escape.

'
Christo!
' She threw up her arms in frustration and stopped at the record player. She dropped its stylus onto the black disc on the turntable, then cranked up the volume. A loud crackle and hiss came from the speakers before a Doors song blasted the eardrums of everyone in the room.

'That ought to fuck up any other bugs!' She hooked her thumbs into the front of her jeans and looked sharply at Goldman. 'As for me, I'm going.'

'Hang on, Belize.' Goldman stepped forward.

'No. I warned you before, and now I'm leaving.' For all her bravado she was growing more fearful by the minute. She knew Scott had been stealing stuff from his work and hadn't thought much about it. Of course she'd never imagined it coming to anything like this. But now she knew different. She looked at the crushed listening device on the carpet. Obviously authorities weren't treating the matter lightly. State or federal agents could be stationed nearby. Could make an abrupt entrance at any time.
Madre de dios,
did she need this type of trouble in her life? Hell no, and she didn't want to get on the wrong side of American government, particularly over a security-related matter. She couldn't entertain the notion of being deported back to Cuba, if such a thing were possible in this freedom-championing democracy she called home. Who knew how long the listening device (and others like it) had been in the apartment? Not wanting to think about it, she threw on her jacket and grabbed her bag. She stared expectantly at Manuela.
'Oye!
I'm going.'

Manuela edged closer to Haslow and shared an unspoken intimacy. Unimpressed, Belize sighed and headed for the door. She strapped on her high-heels and called out to Goldman over the blaring music: 'You should leave too, Scott. Call me later from a pay phone.
Buena suerte.'
She air-kissed him and looked again at Manuela: letting her sister know it was her final call. Manuela pressed against Haslow and gripped her stomach as if still sore from being punched. She didn’t look back at her impatient sister. With a “suit yourself” attitude, Belize stormed from the room.

Armstrong unzipped the leather case of his Lock Pick Set and extracted a stainless steel hook and a lightweight tension tool. He had pair of mini-bolt cutters in his trench coat to take care of the door's safety chain should it prove engaged, or should it become engaged by anyone resisting his entry. However such measures were not needed tonight, for the door to Goldman's apartment opened before Armstrong could even pick the pin tumblers of the lock.

Haslow clasped Manuela's hand. He couldn't get over this wonderful woman who already seemed a partner-in-the-making. Possibly she could travel abroad with him. He became giddy from the thought. He looked down at her and shouted over the music, 'Hey, we should leave.'

'Together?' she asked, her accented voice ringed with hope. He squeezed her warm brown hand. 'Sure, let's go somewhere more private.' He scrunched his face at the overpowering music. Goldman looked stuck to the spot, wholly dumbfounded, and made no attempt to turn down the stereo.

Haslow felt genuinely sorry for his workmate. But like Belize he wanted to get out of harm's way. 'Yeah, let's get away from all this,' he said with a wave of his hand. Manuela looked up at him and smiled. She pressed against him, signifying her willingness to follow his lead.

But where? Haslow thought. Was his home a reliable retreat, or was it also bugged? And where exactly did he stand in all this? Scott had obviously drawn unwanted official attention to himself, and hadn't Haslow warned him repeatedly about this kind of thing happening? Now it had happened just like he said. Well he wouldn't get dragged down with his workmate. He wanted no part of the mischief Goldman was embroiled in, especially now Haslow's heart was set on travelling abroad. Of course he hoped Goldman would get through this shadowy business unscathed. But now he wanted to distance himself from his foolhardy colleague. He had to find somewhere safe to lay low for the weekend. Should he go home? Again he didn't know. Everything was unfolding so fast and there wasn't a flashing sign pointing him in the right direction.

Should he take Manuela to a motel? Possibly, but it seemed a bit tacky. A hotel seemed more appropriate, but what kind? Too posh a hotel might make him look like a womanizer. He had to find the right balance. He was confident things would fall in place once he got behind the wheel of his car. He motioned for Manuela to grab her things, and sensed her excitement was equal to his own over their leaving together.

Armstrong manhandled Belize back into the living room. Much to the astonishment of Goldman and the others. 'Well, well,' Armstrong shouted over the loud music, 'seems like we found a nice party to crash.' The other gunman gripped a silenced submachine gun and nodded, his visage decidedly grim.

Manuela whimpered at the sight of strange men brandishing guns and grabbed Haslow's arm for support. Armstrong glared at the panicked couple and was flooded with a rush of indomitable power. A runaway freight of amphetamine had rocketed through his brain not an hour before. A cutting edge for the night's work.

Armstrong turned to the other man in the room. The rusty-haired fellow had to be the target of the operation. The fellow's dismayed look (due undoubtedly to Armstrong's silenced gun and tight-fitting military gloves) only bolstered Armstrong's sense of overriding authority. It was a worried expression the mercenary knew well. Another room of frightened victims, huddled lambs awaiting their fate.

'Yeah, nice little party,' Flip agreed. The sandy-haired gunman looked too handsome and clean-cut to be part of Armstrong's world. He would have looked more in place in a tailored suit sipping a boutique beer in an inner-city bar favoured by urban professionals. But Armstrong and boyish Flip had history. And in Flip's case, looks were deceiving. He was a hard man who'd found his place in the sun being, among other things, Armstrong's capable offsider.

Overwhelmed by Ray Manzarek's frenzied keyboard-playing, Armstrong shouted, 'All the same, I think the music's a touch too loud.'

Flip smirked and fired his weapon. A muffled burst of bullets slammed into the Sony Casseiver at Goldman's side. The 15 watts per channel amplifier splintered and sparked, with bits of metal, plastic and inner workings dropping haphazardly at Goldman's feet. The turntable's Perspex cover, along with the Doors record, shattered smartly from the assault.

The room fell eerily quiet. Goldman appraised his damaged property, then glared at Flip who seemed genuinely pleased by the destruction he'd wrought.

'That's better,' Armstrong said with a diabolical grin.

Manuela whimpered again. Haslow squeezed her hand and stood beside her like a devout bodyguard.

With a crooked grin, Armstrong jabbed his gun at Haslow, gesturing for the middle-aged chemist to stand beside Goldman, who stood ashen-faced by his shot-apart sound system. Haslow stared back with open defiance at the gunman. But soon saw the folly of it. He squeezed Manuela's hand and gave her a reassuring look before taking his place beside Goldman. Belize put a comforting arm about Manuela in an effort to contain her sister's growing alarm. Even so Manuela couldn't get a handle on the roller-coaster of panicky emotion racking her frame.

Armstrong's eyes gleamed from the pills he'd taken and the frightened sisters filled him with a perverse passion. Flip moved closer to the men, the better to cover them with his compact submachine gun. Manuela was now beside herself with fear and Armstrong was getting off on it. Seeing her as such reminded him of a recent time in Pakistan, of a woman he'd encountered there ...

Armstrong and Flip were part of a four-man guard on a truckload of heroin bound for Karachi from Peshawar in the North-West frontier. The truck's illegal cargo disguised as UNICEF bags of rice. The five men in all had stopped for a tea break in a backwater town near Panjinad. Armstrong was doing up his fly from a side-alley leak when he heard gunfire. Pistol shots. Close range. He reentered the dusty thoroughfare and looked towards the truck. Its two Pakistani guards lay sprawled on the ground, blood pooling from mortal wounds. A dark-haired man pointed a handgun at the truck's driver, motioning him to quit the wheel. A stocky woman of Mediterranean extraction stood on the far side of the truck, exhorting Flip to quit the passenger seat. She was armed with a Kalishnikov assault rifle and seemed as determined as her partner.