Chimera (27 page)

 
Smith stepped inside, immediately followed by a pair of uniformed Redmond police officers who entered with drawn pistols held down and away in both hands.

The uniformed sergeant instantly took in the sight of a glowering Rightmore sitting on the floor in the far corner of the room; the still-purple-faced and intermittently moaning gunman lying glassy-eyed — but breathing steadily — on the floor; the two semi-auto pistols on the table; the Sig and a federal agent’s badge case lying next to Bulatt’s right hand; and then stepped over to the side wall where he could watch the entire room.

The uniformed lieutenant smiled and holstered his pistol.

“Everything okay here, Ged?” the lieutenant asked, thereby providing Smith and Rightmore with just about everything they needed to know about their current situation.

“Everything’s fine here, Al,” Bulatt said, as he stood up from the table and extended a welcoming hand, “just a little misunderstanding about jurisdiction; typical Federal fu-bar.
 
I think we’re about to get it all straightened up.”

“Glad to hear it.”
 
The lieutenant nodded, his eyes twinkling with amusement as he glanced down at the now-only-slightly trembling figure on the floor.
 
“Accidental discharge?”

“Something like that,” Bulatt agreed.

“You do realize we have rules about discharging firearms within the city limit?”

“Absolutely,” Bulatt nodded, “and well you should; but I think if you dig deep enough, you’ll discover this place is actually federal property, in a vague sort of way.”

“Really?”
 
The lieutenant looked over at the grey-haired man, who answered with a non-committal shrug.
 
“Interesting.”
 
The lieutenant continued to look around the shop for a few seconds before returning his attention to the groaning man on the floor.
 
“What about this fellow; is he okay?”

“More or less,” Bulatt said, “but I don’t think he’d object to some medical attention right about now.”

The lieutenant nodded at the sergeant, who reached up to his shoulder with his free hand, activated and then spoke softly into his shoulder-mounted radio mike.

Moments later, a pair of EMTs entered the electronics lab with a stretcher and quickly transported the groaning man out of the room.

“And about that blue van you called in about,” the lieutenant said after the EMTs had departed, “it seems the driver was in a hurry to get a couple other guys some medical attention, so we’re giving them a full escort to the hospital.
 
Want us to take any statements while we’re there?”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”
 
Bulatt looked quizzically over at Smith who shook his head.

“In that case, I guess we’ll just leave you fellows to your federal ‘un-fu-baring’ business,” the lieutenant said, motioning to his sergeant who backed out of the door with his gun at his side with one hand, still keeping an eye on the room.

“Glad you could stop by, Al,” Bulatt said, smiling.
 
“Dinner’s on me, next time I’m in town.”

“Definitely going to take you up on that,” the lieutenant replied as he took one last look around the room, visibly taking the time to memorize the grey-haired man’s face, and then departed.

“Mind if I sit down?” Smith asked after the swinging doors grew still.

“Be my guest,” Bulatt said, motioning him to a nearby chair.

“Was it really necessary to work those guys over like that?” he asked as he settled into the chair and stared at Bulatt curiously.

Bulatt reached into his jacket pocket and tossed the sap out onto the table.
 
“You tell me.”

Smith looked at the lethal sap, winced visibly, and then nodded his head.
 
“Okay, I understand; some of these snake-eater types do tend to get a little carried away, every now and then,” he acknowledged.

“Probably the steroids; always an unfortunate side-effect,” Bulatt commented as he glanced over at the remaining man on the floor.
 
“So how’s our Mr. Rightmore doing down there?
 
You figure he’s still thinking about that gun in the drawer?”

Smith looked over at the glowering supposed-electronics-expert.

“Yeah, probably,” he said.
 
“Come on up, Bill; I think he’s got us stalemated for the moment.”
 
Smith extended a hand and helped Rightmore into an adjoining chair where he sat and continued to glare sullenly at Bulatt.

“Just for the record,” Bulatt said to Rightmore, “There never has been a biologist named Rainier who worked for Washington State Fish & Game; I know that because I called and checked this morning.
 
There is, however, a Phil Rainier who happens to be the resident agent in charge of our Bellingham office; but he doesn’t have any kids, much less grandkids, and I seriously doubt that he would recognize a modern tracking device if he tripped over one.
 
Never was much of a technical type.
 
You, of course, would have known most — or all — of that if you’d been working as closely with wildlife law enforcement around here, as you said you were; or if you’d bothered to flesh out your cover with some local cross-references.”

Smith glared at Rightmore, who now looked more chagrined than furious.

“Okay, gentlemen,” Bulatt said, “short and sweet: why do you care about a couple of your tracking devices that may or may not be linked to a violation of federal and international wildlife laws?”

“Short and sweet, we don’t care … about the wildlife violations,” Smith said calmly. “I tried to explain that to Major Preithat.”

“Good, glad to hear it.”
 
Bulatt nodded.
 
“But if I were to tell you those devices are
definitely
linked to the death of Major Preithat’s five Thai Rangers; the near-fatal assault on the Thai Interpol Colonel in charge of those Rangers — one of whom was his son; the downing of a Thai Army helicopter; and an assault on a Federal wildlife agent, not counting the deaths of a few assorted crooks and civilians who got caught in the cross-fire, what would you say to all of that?”

“Fuck,” Smith said with an exasperated sigh.

“Yeah, I’m sure all of that complicates your situation a bit,” Bulatt agreed.
 
“So, let’s get to the basic questions:
 
one, who are you guys?; two, who are you?; three, who are these people — the ones who did all the shooting in Thailand?;
 
and four, why are you looking for them?”

“Like I told you in Phuket, I can’t answer any of those questions,” Smith said matter-of-factly.

“I do recall you saying that,” Bulatt acknowledged.
 
“But, at the same time, I have to assume that you don’t want my investigation or my interactions with the local police to reveal the fact that Hood Electronics is, in fact, an Agency asset that provides you guys with state-of-the-art electronic devices — as well as some interesting intelligence info on outside users of those devices — instead of just being ‘vaguely federal property.’”

Rightmore’s eyes widened in horror.
 
He started to say something; but Smith waved him off.

“If any part of what you just said was even remotely true, then no, we wouldn’t want that to happen.”

“And I don’t have any particular desire to cause you guys any more grief than I already have; but I’m not going to back off on my investigation either, so we’re going to need to find a compromise acceptable to all sides,” Bulatt went on as he slid one of his business cards across the table.
 
“Here’s a contact number on the back for the cell phone of the agent in charge of our special ops branch, who happens to be my immediate supervisor.
 
Why don‘t you call your people and have them contact him, see what they can work out?”

“Mind if I step over to the far side of the room to make the call?” Smith asked after briefly glancing at the Blackberry screen.

“No, not at all; just as long as you’re willing to leave that back-up gun here on the table.”

“Oh yeah; forgot about that one.”

Bulatt smiled.

Smith stood up, unclipped a cell phone from his belt with his right hand, and then — in a slow and deliberate manner — reached down with his left to carefully removed the hide-out pistol from his boot and place it on the lab table.
 
Then, at Bulatt’s nod, he walked over to the far side of the room and began working the cell phone.

As he did so, Bulatt busied himself by removing the magazine from the grip — and the round from the chamber — of the hide-out pistol, emptying the magazine, and dropping all of the loose rounds into his jacket pocket.

Thirty seconds later, Smith walked over and sat back down in the chair.
 
“You should be getting a call from your SAC any moment now,” he said.

Another twenty seconds later, Bulatt’s Blackberry began to vibrate.

Bulatt glanced at the screen, then brought the rectangular device up to his ear and said: “Bulatt.”

He listened for approximately two minutes, nodded, said “I understand,” disconnected the call, re-holstered the Blackberry and his pistol on his belt, slide the hide-out pistol and empty magazine back across the table toward Smith, and then sat down in a nearby chair.

“Mind if I call you John?” he asked the grey-haired man who was busy returning his empty back-up weapon to its boot holster.
 
“It seems to go well with Smith.”

Smith looked up and shrugged agreeably.
 
“Sure, why not.”

“Okay, John, I’m Ged.”
 
Bulatt said.
 
“And now that we’ve got all the niceties out of the way, what exactly can you tell me about three former snake-eaters and some Russian smugglers they may or may not be working with?”

*
   
*
   
*

“I can’t tell you much about your three primaries,” Smith said after sending Rightmore out for some fresh coffee and telling him to take his time, “other than the fact that all three of them were in the Australian Special Air Service Regiment for a few formative years — where they performed their assigned tasks with what we might describe as a great deal of competence, intensity and enthusiasm — before they decided to free-lance their skills.”

“With you folks?” Bulatt asked.

Smith shrugged as if to say he wasn’t taking the question seriously.
 
“They worked a few assignments in Afghanistan — long range recon and as a four-man hunter-killer team — came close to nailing bin-Laden with a long-shot at least once, possibly twice, before they lost one of their team to a lucky Taliban ricochet; and then, in some manner that we still don’t fully understand, they tripped across Gregor the drug smuggler.”

“Are you talking about Gregor the infamous Chinese Medicinal smuggler?” Bulatt asked, his eyebrows rising in surprise.

“Among his many side operations,” Smith acknowledged. “Gregor was a highly-regarded specialist in the movement of merchandise across unfriendly borders with minimal losses, and at a reasonable cost.”

“Was?”

“His operation suffered a collective fatal accident,” Smith explained.
 
“Every one of his associates died in a sudden and extremely violent aircraft explosion.
 
And Gregor himself; well, let’s just say he died more slowly and painfully.”

“How do you know this, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“We had an asset on the plane,” Smith said matter-of-factly.

“Ah.”
 
Bulatt was thoughtful for a moment.
 
“You knew about Gregor, and probably used him to move things from ‘A’ to ‘B’ on occasion; so you couldn’t have been all that concerned about his other extracurricular activities.”

“Individuals or agencies who hired Gregor for a job would quite naturally assume he always had other irons in the fire,” Smith said obliquely.

Bulatt suddenly blinked in understanding.

“So your asset was actually looking for them — the three Australians, not Gregor and his men?”

Smith nodded silently.

“Stupid question, I’m sure, but I’ll ask it anyway. Why?”

“I assume you’re familiar with the means by which an internal affairs division keeps an eye on full-time permanent government employees?”

Bulatt nodded slowly.
 
“I understand the basic process.”

“Then I’m sure you can also understand why — and how — a similar but substantively different division might be set up to deal with the hired help; which is to say, the extremely dangerous hired help?”

“Sounds like a tough way to make a living,” Bulatt commented.

“It can be … but there are two things you need to understand about these men, Agent Bulatt … excuse me, Ged,” Smith said.
 
“The first being that we consider them to be terribly dangerous, because they are quite good at killing whoever or whatever gets in their way; which they will do without the slightest hesitation or emotional concern.
 
Secondly, that in any civilized context, their leader would be categorized as a brilliant, ruthless and amazingly stable sociopath who also happens to care much more about his men than he does himself.
 
That makes him — if possible and from our perspective — even more dangerous.”

Bulatt thought about the patrolling Rangers — led by Colonel Kulawnit’s son — who’d had the misfortune to run across these three professional killers, and shook his head sadly.

“And finally,” Smith finished, meeting Bulatt’s gaze squarely with his dark eyes, “you need to understand that you and your Interpol associates are in our way; and that’s not going to be acceptable.”

Bulatt thought about that for a few moments.

 
“I don’t doubt what you said is true: that these men are perfectly capable of hurting or killing a goodly number my Interpol friends and associates if we try to confront them; and that it makes perfect sense to have them hunted down by some of their peers,” he finally said.
 
“I’m assuming, of course, that you have capable people available for such an assignment.”