Not the End of the World (45 page)

‘Sergeant, this is Peter Steel here. I appreciate that the designated month isn’t up yet, but I thought you should know—’

Larry reached over and picked up the handset. ‘Hey, Agent Steel, you got me live in concert now. Couldn’t sleep. I was thinking about going in to work, maybe you can talk me out of it. What’s the deal?’

‘Well, it wasn’t any gas explosion in Glendale. I think we found our bomber.’

‘Who is it?’

‘House belonged to one Daniel Corby, sole occupier according to neighbours, so we’re assuming he’s one of three bodies – all male – pulled out of the rubble.’

‘Three?’

‘Oh yeah. The good news is Corby sounds like our man. The bad news is this is a long way from over.’

‘Who are the other bods?’

‘Ah‐
ah. All in good time,’ he said drily. ‘Let me tell you about Corby first, get you some perspective. He’s some kind of computer nerd the Kennedy guy called that right – does freelance work on the Internet, setting up other people’s websites or something. But here’s the juice: we ran his name through the system; he doesn’t have form but he’s in there, innocent bystander victim of a car‐
bomb at an abortion clinic in Pocoima in ’ninety‐
five. Lost some fingers, massive scarring down the left side of his face and body. Looking through the retrospectoscope it seems possible he was blown up by his own device that day and was better at covering his tracks than he was at bomb‐
making. But recently he’s been pretty good at both.’

‘How so?’

‘I’ve seen the guy’s picture: he had a face – or half a face – you wouldn’t forget in a hurry. Sent a copy down to AFFMA and had somebody go through all those passport shots one by one, figuring a match wouldn’t be hard to miss. He’s in there after all, under a false name, ID mailed out to a box number in Glendale. But the sneaky son‐
of‐
a‐
bitch applied under the same name as an executive from one of these B-movie companies – better yet, an executive who wasn’t attending the market. Must have hacked AFFMA for the list of participants then looked up Variety or something to see who else worked for each outfit. Picked a name that wouldn’t stand out as unfamiliar on any list.’

‘Including the list we asked AFFMA to check through yesterday.’

‘That’s right.’

‘So you got a computer‐
nerd pro‐
Lifer, probably a Jesus‐
freak and definitely a stereotypical quiet loner – except he had company today. What gives?’

‘Well, here’s where it gets interesting. There’s a Pontiac Grand Prix out front, not belonging to Mr Corby. Plates‐
check said the owner was one Terence Nately of Millyard, Orange County.’

‘Who he?’

‘Resumé as follows. Born San Francisco nineteen fifty‐
six. Joined US Marines nineteen seventy‐
four. Two tours of duty in Vietnam. Left the service ’seventy‐
nine, taking his skills freelance. Pops up hither and thither in various Central American hell‐
holes over the next few years, before returning to Uncle Sam’s embrace and joining the Southland Militia.’

‘Oh shit.’

‘Oh shit is right. Now, we don’t have a third name to go on yet and we don’t know for sure which corpse is which, but the smart money says Corby’s is the one with the noose.’

Larry almost choked on his coffee. This was getting more horrible by the second. ‘Noose?’ he spluttered.

‘Yeah, when I say corpse, I mean, well, assembled … bits. We’re not sure which limbs belong to … Anyway, one head and torso was found with a rope tight around the neck, other end attached to what’s left of a wooden beam. Autopsy won’t be through for a while yet, obviously, but I doubt he was wearing it as a fashion statement.’

‘No, nooses were just so ’ninety‐
seven.’

‘Quite. But my guess is the Militia were there to suicide Corby, and either he’d already arranged to suicide himself or they set off a booby‐
trap. Either way, whatever it was must have been linked to the detonator for the bomb on the boat, because it’s looking a lot like they went off simultaneously.’

‘So what do you figure? They were in this together somehow?’

‘I haven’t got a clue what to think, Sergeant, to tell you the truth. The Southland Militia do have Christian fundamentalist sympathies, but other than that I can’t work out the connection. See, he did this. Corby’s the one with the AFFM pass so that he can plant the bomb at the Vista. Corby’s the man with the computer know‐
how to send off all those little messages, all that shit. This was all his show, including the twin firework extravaganzas at the end. Where Nately and his buddy fit in I don’t see. The Militia wouldn’t hire someone else to plant bombs for them, certainly not a guy like this, and it doesn’t look like he hired them either. I mean, unless they were involved in planting the device on the Duckling, but why would he contract that one out and do the hotel one himself? The hotel was by far the trickier of the two.’

‘So you don’t know what put them together and you certainly don’t know what made the Militia want to break it up again.’

‘No. But that connection’s just the supporting feature. You ain’t heard what’s top of the bill.’

Larry finished his cup. ‘Do your worst,’ he said.

‘We opened the Pontiac’s trunk. Found four Calico 9mms in there, preferred assault weapon of the Southland Militia, plus a canvas bag full of Archimedes‐
wheel coil‐
tube mags, a hundred rounds a time – snap right into the breach. Single‐
point laser sighting, Cutts compensator, muzzle break to keep her steady. Compact, deadly, state‐
of‐
the‐
art and, most importantly, an all‐
American gun. Wouldn’t find these guys using Uzis any more than you’d catch them driving a Toyota.’

‘So we got bad‐
ass guns for bad‐
ass guys. So what?’

‘I’ve seen the Ballistics report on that shell from the science boat. It was CCeed to me this morning, and there’s a copy waiting on your desk. Guess what?’

‘Shit.’

‘Right again. The report says the shell was fired from an automatic assault weapon, quote, “most probably a Calico”, unquote. Accepting the fact that the Southland Militia are not the only people on this planet who own or use Calicos, it’s still hard to escape the conclusion that they were the ones who fired that shell – plus a shitload more – on the Gazes Also. Especially as these four lab‐
rats wouldn’t have been the first oceanological scientists the Militia ever took a homicidal interest in – remember the late Professor Biscane. And if they were on board the Gazes Also, then it’s a distinct possibility that they are now in possession of the missing submarine, a thought that’s scaring the shit out of me.’

‘Unless they stuck the bodies in it and sank it to cover the murders.’

‘That’s possible, yes, but I’d have to be in a far more optimistic frame of mind to believe it. If I was being slightly less optimistic, in light of our previous discussion, I’d ask myself whether they might be planning to do a little drug‐
running to help keep the wolf from the door.’

‘But you ain’t that optimistic either, I’m guessing,’ Larry said.

‘Not hardly. These guys have been building up to something for a while. We’ve tried to infiltrate them, but they’re tight as an ass in a bucket of maggots. Ask too many questions and you’re made, and if you’re made … We’ve lost two undercover agents already. The foot‐
soldiers don’t know dick, they just know what they’re told – and they’re being told to get ready. There’s been contact with other militia groups, but again, nothing more elaborate than a nod to get geared up.

‘So I started to ask myself what they might want with a submarine – a submarine nobody knows they have. What might they be planning to import that they can’t buy, build or steal in the US?’

‘You got me.’

‘Well, let me give you a clue. I ran some names through Immigration’s computers to check movement in and out of the US. Arthur Liskey, the Southland Militia’s founder and commander‐
in‐
chief, has flown back into the country from Frankfurt six times in the last year, most recently less than a month ago.’

‘What’s in Frankfurt?’

‘Nothing. That’s just his point of entry and departure. It’s where he might have been in between times that worries me, like Eastern Europe. Like the former Soviet states. Like Kazhakstan, for instance, or some other shithole where you can buy ex‐
Soviet nukes on the black market. I’ve contacted the German immigration authorities to see if they got records of where Liskey arrived from on his way back to the US. I should hear from them—’

‘Wait a second,’ Larry interrupted. ‘These guys are crazy, but surely they ain’t that crazy. I can understand them taking out a government building here and there, like in Oklahoma City, but a nuclear weapon? Radioactive fall‐
out snowing all over their beloved Uncle Sam’s lawn? Why would they want to do that?’

‘Because it’s nineteen ninety‐
nine, Sergeant. Every crazy asshole in this country got ten times crazier on January first because the Judeo‐
Christian mileometer’s about to click round to three zeroes again. It is not a good time to be ruling things out on the grounds of rationality, because there isn’t much going around.’

‘Yes, but what would these guys want—’

‘What wouldn’t these guys want with a nuclear weapon? At the very least they could hold the country to ransom. But if they really want to dance they could take out Quantico or Maryland or Capitol Hill, or the goddamn White House. Three or four of these things at once and they could cripple the entire infrastructure and stage a full‐
scale coup. Plus think about this: that sub’s been missing for a week and a half – they could already have used it for whatever they’re up to. What if that’s what the Corby thing was about? Contracting him to pull off a stunt that keeps all eyes focused elsewhere while they bring a cargo of MIRV 6s or CHIB 4s on to the beach?’

‘Sounds to me like you’ve picked up a mild strain of nineteen ninety‐
nine syndrome yourself, Agent Steel. I think you should get some sleep. Ask someone to wake you when the Germans come through on Liskey. Meantime, let’s not start shitting our pants before we need to, huh?’

Steel had been on the Southland Militia’s tail for who knew how long, poor bastard. He knew they were up to something, he knew how dangerous they were, knew what they were capable of, but didn’t know what the hell they had in mind. It was inevitable that in such a vacuum he would start imagining all kinds of horrendous possibilities, especially if he suddenly had something tangible to latch on to, like this goddamn submarine.

One thing he wasn’t imagining, however, was the Ballistics report. Larry had little doubt over Steel’s conclusions regarding who had been on the Gazes Also, and what they’d done to its crew. A military‐
style night assault on an unarmed and unsuspecting science vessel. Wouldn’t be too difficult to get everyone at gunpoint, march them on to one of the decks and execute them, then hose away the blood and shells. Maybe do the thing on a plastic sheet or tarpaulin – Christ, a sail would do the trick. Weigh the bodies down, drop them overboard (or stick them in the sub and let it go glug‐
glug), then split. Voila Mary Celeste.

Steel was too hung up on the bad guys to be thinking about the victims, and Larry couldn’t help but wonder whether that was really where the clues lay. What if, forgetting all the peripheral circumstantial crap for a second, this was principally a hit? The Militia took out Sandra Biscane, then a few months later they take out four other rock‐
bashers. Maria Arazon hadn’t believed the two incidents were a coincidence even when the latter looked like an accident, and Larry had asked whether the two unfortunate parties could be connected through more than just a shared academic field. Well they could now: they had been murdered by exactly the same people. Question was, why?

‘Ah, shit,’ he muttered, remembering. Zabriski had left a message on his desk two days ago, asking him to return a call from Arazon. He’d been planning to phone her back yesterday morning, but it was fair to say he’d been a little busy.

He figured a trip to CalORI was long overdue.

Madeleine was sitting on the sofa in a hotel bath robe when Steff emerged from the shower, finally having left him to complete his intended ablutions. The TV was on, Madeleine pointing lazily at it with the remote, surfing the channels. Steff leaned over and kissed her, her hand reaching up and tugging his T-shirt from his jeans so that she could place her palm on his bare chest beneath. It was just about worth getting blown up for.

Steff felt a fleeting moment of disloyalty to an old cherished cause (and one over and above the international male solidarity of emotional imperviousness), but he had to admit it: the ’91 Cup Final had been dislodged from his Greatest Moment In My Life pedestal. Tommy Boyd would, he was sure, understand, especially if he could have seen Madeleine Witherson’s face and the look in her eyes in that bathroom. But it wasn’t the sex. Not just the sex anyway; steam and soft‐
focus love‐
scenes notwithstanding, showers and bathtubs are not entirely conducive to comfortable, contortion‐
free shagging. It was in the way she looked at him, the way she touched him, the way she held him. It was in everything they’d been through, everything they’d been afraid of, everything they’d imagined, everything they’d hoped for. When she climbed into that tub and reached for him, it hadn’t just felt like they were coming together it felt like they’d finally found each other.

‘Ah, shut up ya big poof,’ he tried to tell himself, but he wasn’t listening. This was for real. If he could handle explosions, mad bombers and hostage crises, surely he was growed‐
up enough to handle love.

‘I thought I’d check out what everybody’s got to say about the late Miss Witherson and her ultimate sacrifice,’ Madeleine said, indicating the TV. ‘Discover what a wonderful citizen I’ve suddenly become through the simple act of not being a citizen any more. I hope somebody’s taping all this shit so I can quote it back to these assholes.’

‘Fuck,’ Steff muttered. ‘Does that make me a necrophiliac?’

‘No. Far as I remember it wasn’t me who was the stiff one. Oh shit, here he is. The main man. This I have to hear.’

Steff looked at the TV. Luther St John was looking back at him, outdoors somewhere sunny, microphones around him like spines on a sea‐
urchin.