The Third Rule Of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (31 page)

“Okay,” I said. “I want you to hang back a little, if you can. I’m not sure what we’ll find. And I’d rather not be seen.”

“Will do,” Sam said.

I assessed the rumpled terrain below. No roads. No houses. No obvious signs of civilization. No easy way in or out, except by chopper.

An idea niggled.

“Sam, do you happen to know if your company has recently contracted with any major new corporate clients? Like GTG Services, for example?”

He shrugged. “Not my area of expertise. But Jack’s a part owner. He mentioned there might be something big in the works. He’s hoping that means they can get another couple of birds, maybe the new AW169 ten-seater, plus a second aeromedical chopper. I have no idea who the deal’s with, though. I just fly these things. If I was any good at business I’d be running my own charter company, and my kids would be in private schools, you know?”

“You have kids?”

“Two. Boy and a girl. He’s six, she’s eight. Both already much smarter and better-looking than their dad, thank God.” Sam’s wide smile transformed his face, and I was exposed to another example of what unconditional fatherly pride looks like.

He pointed to two o’clock on the horizon: “Look. Over there.”

In the distance, a white building shimmered; it was the size and shape of a medium-sized warehouse. Two pristine concrete helipads, marked with bright yellow circles, sat a short way beyond the building. The helipads were brand new, the cement barely dry.

Sam hovered the chopper in midair, keeping his distance. The spinning rotors caused the sandy terrain to riffle out in gritty waves right below us.

I fished for my binoculars and scanned the surroundings.

The building looked as if it had been dropped from the sky, right in the middle of a vast cactus- and mesquite-riddled wasteland. Two narrow, rutted dirt roads angled out from the building into acres and acres of flat desert.

I focused on a tall, three-pronged saguaro by one corner of the building. I sharpened the image, a memory tugging. Was I imagining things, or was this cactus the twin of the tall, three-pronged saguaro in Culver City? Another memory twanged: a third visual of a third cactus next to a third warehouse, in San Diego.

This cactus wasn’t a twin, it was an identical triplet. I zoomed in for a closer inspection, and the bright sunlight emphasized some oddities. Each “limb” of the giant saguaro had a horizontal seam midway through it, as if it had been manually attached. The “skin” of the cactus was waxy and roughly ridged to look real, but free of any actual spines. The limbs themselves were too perfectly asymmetrical to be natural. This saguaro and two more like it were both masterfully camouflaged and clearly man-made. But what purpose were they man-made for?

I recalled the mysterious electronic hum I’d heard but been unable to identify at the Culver City warehouse. And then the answer strummed loud and clear, an unmistakable chord of truth. The cactus was not a cactus at all, but a cell tower disguised as a succulent. Three cell towers, in three separate locations. Chaco Morales had built, and now controlled, a personal, covert telecommunications network. Which also answered a second mystery: why Mike hadn’t been able to link Sofia’s, Clara’s, and Mark Goodhue’s cell phones to any known service providers. Our hydra had a secondary set of tentacles—invisible, wireless ones. Who knows how far they reached.

“Oh, my God,” I said.

“What?” I’d forgotten that Sam could hear me.

“Nothing,” I said. “Just, I think I figured something out.”

I swung my lenses back to the main structure. The row of narrow windows winked at me in the afternoon sun, as if to say, “The joke’s on you!”

How does one even begin to challenge such a man? I shook off the feeling of hopelessness threatening to engulf me.
You got this far, didn’t you? Take advantage.
I continued my risk assessment. A lone Hummer and a smattering of four- wheel-drive jeeps dotted a narrow parking area along one side of the structure. No security cameras. No barbed wire. No armed guards, at least none visible. This didn’t have the feel of anybody’s command center. So why was this building constructed here? Not to mention, how? And what were Mark Goodhue and Bets McMurtry doing inside?

“Can you move just a little closer, Sam? I’d love to know what that thing’s made of. I can’t imagine anybody trucking heavy materials across this terrain.”

“Oh, I can tell you that,” Sam said. “You’re looking at one of those instant buildings from China. They ship the modules over in containers and then basically just bolt them together. All you need is a foundation, and you can have yourself a warehouse in under a week.”

“No kidding. I’m surprised I haven’t seen one of these before.”

“You can’t build them in California.”

“Why not?”

“Earthquake codes.”

“They don’t have earthquakes down here?”

“Oh, yeah, plenty of earthquakes,” Sam said. “Just no codes.”

I snapped a series of pictures with my digital camera.

I took a closer look at the scrubby surroundings. Other than the insta-building, there wasn’t much to see, certainly no paved roads suitable for ordinary vehicles. I didn’t see any airstrips for landing small aircraft, either. Helicopters were the only practical way to bring people in and out—
practical
being a relative term.

“What do you want me to do?” Sam asked.

An idea shoved its way to the front of the line. I could have Sam drop me off at the nearest village. I thought I’d spotted one about 15 miles north of here. Perhaps I could find the local law and get them to talk about Chaco, with the help of my greenback persuaders.

Good sense pushed back. This was a very bad idea. I’d never heard of anyone speaking fondly about doing time in a Mexican prison. If Chaco had the clout necessary to build something out here in the middle of nowhere, as well as outfit it with his own personal cellular network, he was likely to own the local law enforcement authorities. He was a drug lord, with an army of illegitimate and legitimate soldiers. I was an ex-monk with a .38 and a 17-pound Persian cat.

“Let’s go home,” I said.

Sam nodded and executed a 180-degree turn so that we were facing north. We flew in silence for some time.

“So what are you, exactly?” Sam’s voice broke in.

Good question.

“I’m … I’m just a man,” I said, “trying to do some good.”

Sam twisted around to look at me. After a moment, he returned his gaze to his console.

“Cool,” he said.

We flew steadily for an hour or so. I was actually growing accustomed to the experience of acres of ground rushing beneath my feet. With a pang, I realized how much Heather would enjoy this slight inner shift. During one long night of pillow talk early on, trading professional war stories, Heather had described to me in some detail insights she’d gleaned from her Psych rotation, specifically, the wonderful results of “exposure” therapy in treating people with phobias. I had been skeptical at the time, but now I was a believer. After several hours of intense chopper-exposure, I was actually able to lean my head against the plush leather headrest and fall into a light doze.

“Crap.” Sam’s voice broke into my nap, followed, oddly, by the word “Brown.”

“Wha … ?” I pushed upright.

He motioned to the right of the curved window. A second helicopter, army green, was keeping pace, maintaining a soccer field’s distance between us.

“What’s the problem?”

“Feds, I’m pretty sure. That’s a Bell 407. Probably just took off from Brown. It’s close.”

“Brown?”

“U.S. Customs checkpoint, at Brown Field Municipal Airport. Shit. Look at that. He’s definitely tracking us.”

“Why? You aren’t doing anything illegal,” I said.

He glanced at me with something less than warmth. “I know,” his voice rang in my earphones, “but how do I know you aren’t?”

He switched channels and proceeded to hold a tense conversation with someone on the other end. He didn’t speak again until he had set the helicopter gently down on one of three small helipads just southeast of the Brown Field control tower. He cut the engines, and we watched as the ATF chopper settled on a helipad adjacent to ours.

“Showtime,” Sam said. He moved behind me, swung open the door, and stepped outside. By the time I had my own feet on the tarmac, a man and woman were striding toward us, wearing black ATF windbreakers and grim expressions. The woman was sturdy, with strong shoulders and a crop of curly brown hair. She was a few inches taller than me and a few years older. The male agent was well over six feet and lean, sixtyish, with a gray comb-over that wasn’t faring well in the whipping wind.

Behind them, a uniformed pilot descended the steps and started spot-checking his machine.

The male agent flashed his badge, and I caught a glimpse of a Glock G22 holstered to his waist. “Agent Willard, Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. This is Agent Gustafson.” Neither offered their hand.

Sam handed Agent Willard his card. “I’m the charter pilot,” he said. He motioned toward me with his chin. “He’s the customer.”

Willard waved Sam inside. “Go do your thing,” he said. “I’ll talk with you in a minute.”

Sam hurried off, avoiding eye contact with me.

Agent Willard turned toward me. “Now then, who the hell are you?”

I explained who I was and pulled out my P.I. license as supporting evidence. Willard grabbed it and squinted at the print, before returning the license.

“Ex-LAPD,” I added.

“How long were you with the force, Detective Norbu?” Willard asked.

“Eight years. Two on patrol, six as a detective, Robbery/Homicide.”

“What were you doing in Baja?”

“Um,” I said. “Fishing?”

“Good enough for me,” Willard said, shooting a look at Agent Gustafson. “I’m outta here. I need to take a piss.” He turned and strode away. The pilot, inspection completed, followed. Gustafson stayed put.

“So you were with the force for eight years?”

“Yes, I was. And before that, I was a Tibetan Buddhist monk, teaching meditation.”

“Sure you were.”

“I was, actually.”

She looked at me a little more closely. “Okay,” she said. “Got it. You’re one of the good guys. Do you mind telling me what in the holy hell you were doing in a helicopter circling that site in Baja California, Mexico? And do me a favor? Don’t say fishing.”

Personal intentions and new rules aside, I’ve found it to be generally unwise to lie to or stonewall a Federal agent, especially if she already knows that’s what you’re doing. On the other hand, I wasn’t about to give this woman the whole story. I’d be kicked to the curb so far and so fast I might never find my way back. This was my mystery to solve, my killer whale to land.

Yeshe’s voice pleaded with me.
You are weakened by your attachment to winning. Let this one go, Tenzing.

I couldn’t.

I resorted to the time-honored practice of not exactly telling the truth while not exactly lying.

“I was fishing but for information, not for, you know, fish. I’m putting some pieces together in an investigation. That building in Baja is one of the pieces.”

“You mind being a little more specific?” Gustafson’s gaze was steady. Huh. One of her eyes was blue, the other brown. Contact lenses or nature?

I reeled in my wandering attention and tried a different tack. “Mind if I ask a question or two of my own first?”

She waited.

I pointed to the ATF insignia on her windbreaker. “Does your interest in the building concern alcohol, tobacco, or firearms? I’m guessing firearms.” I couldn’t picture the ATF sweating over, much less Chaco Morales smuggling, tequila and smokes.

“You guessed right,” she said, after a pause. She’d chosen to be forthcoming, so I did the same.

“Well, if it matters, my investigation has nothing to do with them, at least not directly.”

She continued to observe me closely, her mismatched eyes alert to any sign I might be lying. She apparently decided I wasn’t. She nodded.

“Sorry I can’t be more helpful,” I added. “But I’m in a bit of a hurry. I need to get back to L.A. Any chance we can wrap this up?”

Gustafson’s mouth tightened. “So you’re not going to tell me what your investigation
is
about?”

“I’d rather not,” I said, keeping my voice mild.

“And I’d rather not run you in on an obstruction charge, but I will if I have to.”

When people with authority dangle a threat, I am usually struck with the overwhelming urge to tug on it and see if they’re serious. As a child, my reactive behavior resulted in more missed meals and mandatory kitchen duty at the monastery than I care to mention. But as a grown man, sometimes calling a bluff worked. I hoped this was one of those times.

I turned my back to Gustafson and crossed my wrists behind my back, ready for the handcuffs. I waited two long inhales and exhales.

I heard Gustafson sigh. “Turn around, Norbu.”

I faced her, relaxing my arms. Gustafson’s own were crossed, protecting her chest. She slowly lowered them, a conscious gesture of reconciliation. Her eyes were ever so slightly amused. “Let’s be on the same side here, Detective.”

That was fine with me. I didn’t have any personal argument with the ATF. I just didn’t want them trampling over my investigation, not when I was getting close to some answers. From my LAPD days, I had firsthand knowledge of their deservedly bad reputation for obstruction, miscommunication, and generally making boneheaded decisions they later denied. Operation Fast and Furious was a perfect example, when they allowed weapons to be passed into the hands of suspected drug smugglers under the misguided assumption that the weapons could then be traced to cartel leaders. The ATF officials in Mexico hadn’t even known the score from their American counterparts. Speaking before Congress, one of the ATF’s own deputy attachés later called the entire gun-walking fiasco a “perfect storm of idiocy.” Bill and I had shared a laugh over that one. And for every exposed Federal blunder like Fast and Furious, 20 more dumb decisions remained safely barricaded behind unbreakable claims of national security.