Circle in the Square - CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The following morning Michael stayed behind as the others were leaving for the training area.

"Why isn't he coming?" Flynn demanded.

"I told him to stay put," Dragov said.

Flynn understood. "O.K., chickenshit professor," he jeered. "If you're scared of getting hurt with the men, then you do my share of the cooking tonight." He blew Michael a kiss as the vehicle moved off. "Make something a real man can eat, eh?"

Michael worked through the day on the papers that Dragov had provided.

In the evening, when the others returned cold and tired from the day's training, they found supper waiting for them.

"Now, university boy," Flynn said as he sat down at the table, "you're doing something to justify your living here, just when I was beginning to think you were useless."

"In our kind of life, it's not good to interfere in another man's affairs," Ferdnand said to Michael afterward. "But if it gets too bad, let me know."

The others avoided Flynn. The only person who seemed to get on with him was Zoltan.

That night Dragov waited until the rest of the men were asleep, then he went to Michael's room and woke him up. "Get dressed and come with me," he ordered. Michael obeyed. They went to the garage and pushed the little hired Monaco out of earshot along the street before Dragov started it.

"Where are you going?" Michael asked, climbing in beside Dragov.

"To the Barrio Esperanza. A cunning old Mexican lives there. He's reputed to be the best fixer in California. We need his help."

Dragov drove in silence for a while, weighing up something in his mind.

"Michael," he said finally, "I can take care of Ms. Barton and everything relating to that up to the time of the accident, but I need your help to plan our escape from California. I've thought most of it through but I'm going to need you to attend to the details. It's very important for us all that you make no mistakes. Can I trust you for that?"

Michael nodded. Dragov, when he wished, could make a man feel special, vital to himself. In those few words, he restored some of Michael's self-respect.

They parked the car on Gorlitz Street and walked to a small, steamy-windowed ground-floor bar. Dragov pushed open the door; it was like entering a hothouse. A small of spit alcohol, rich tobacco, and spicy food struck Michael with an almost physical force. At first, he didn't think his stomach could take it, but after a few moments, he managed to will it to quiet down. Mexicans, many of them small thin men, with brown eyes and sharp, work-worn faces, hunched on hardbacked chairs over small tables. A few were spending hours away from their overcrowded tenement playing cards, others were engaged in "Tavil," a game akin to backgammon.

Dragov walked through the haze of cigarette smoke and oily cooking fumes to an empty table by the wall. Soon after he was seated a small, hunched man in his sixties with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair and beard stubble sprouting from his hollow cheeks, left his place by the bar and joined them. His left eye was covered by a patch.

"It's been some time since we made that bus trip into this one-surfboard town," he said to Dragov. "Until you contacted me yesterday I was hurt to think that you had no use for a man of my talents." He clapped his hands for the barman. "You are my guests here. Relax, drink, tell me what you want, and we can discuss the fee later."

"What happened to your eye?" Dragov asked. "You didn't have that patch on the bus."

"A little matter," the Mexican replied, making light of the injury. "Unfortunately I moved too slowly and an enemy was able to introduce the point of his knife to my eye. I'm told that I'll never see out of it again."

"What little matter could cause a thing like that?" Michael asked, horrified.

The Mexican was amused. He smiled and showed his yellow, broken teeth. "It's no longer important," he said. "The man who cost me my eye died a short while later and I don't wish to speak ill of the dead." He changed the subject. "Is this the man you want me to work with?" he asked Dragov.

When Dragov nodded the Turk ran his remaining shrewd, bright eye over Michael's face and seemed doubtful.

"Have you ever been involved in this kind of work before?"

"No," Michael said. "But I learn fast."

"We'll see," the Mexican reserved judgment. "Your name?" he asked.

"Michael Lakas."

"I have so many names that I sometimes forget which to use, but if you call me Pepinillo Dorado, that'll be fine."

"There's a baseball game scheduled for February 3rd at the Harborview Ballpark," Dragov said. "The Harborview Sharks will be playing Os Onças, a Brazilian baseball team."

"That's right," the Mexican confirmed.

"Do they expect big crowds?"

"Baseball's very popular in this town, I follow it myself."

"I'm told," Dragov continued, his tone authoritative, "that the Harborview Regional Airport will be ferrying in fans for the game."

"It depends on which part of the state they come from, but the Brazilians would probably use Harborview Regional. There's a tour company at the lighthouse that handles all the package tours that come up from Central and South America. Our colleague," the Mexican indicated Michael," could easily check that out with them, but be careful how you do it," he warned. "The tour company is believed to have connections with Communist Cuba."

"Very good," Dragov said. "Next, we'll need seven top-quality and foolproof passports."

"What nationality?"

Dragov looked at him. "Brazilian---we'll supply you with photographs."

"Of course," Dorado was mad at himself for not having understood more quickly.

"We'll need passport stamps from Harborview Regional, dated on the day of the baseball game."

The Mexican nodded.

"Will you have any problems with our requirements so far?" Dragov asked.

"No worries, amigo," Dorado reassured with a confident grin. "As long as you pay the fee, there'll be no problems. Southern California's become a Mecca for forged documents in recent years because of the diverse population and the thriving underground economy. With the right connections, I can get you almost anything you want of the finest quality. Just name it, and consider it done."

The liquor was burning its way down to Michael's stomach and the Mexican ordered more.

"Seven Brazilians who come on the tourn to watch the match will have to be persuaded to stay in Harborview and later make their way home. You might have to visit Brazil to interview them and secure their cooperation. We'll need their documents and airline tickets to match the names on our passports."

"Of course," Dorado said. "But a visit to Brazil will not be necessary. I have friends there who will attend to that. Now, if that's all we can discuss...."

"I have one last favor to ask of you," Dragov interrupted him. "I want you to find me the body of a woman in her twenties. I know that in death very young people tend to look alike, but find me a woman with the same hair color and physical characteristics as this one." Dragov handed the Mexican a description sheet.

"What about teeth and identifying marks?"

"You'll find it all in there. Give this description to a mortician that you trust and tell him to find me as clean a corpse as possible; if we need a particular mark he can put it on for us. The corpse won't have to pass a very intense scrutiny," Dragov said. "We just want to avoid dissimilarities."

"In that case, why bother with a mortician? For a few dollars more I'll pick out a prostitute who'll suit you and wring her neck just before you need her. When a woman goes into that kind of a profession she is no use to her family, it'll be a service to them."

"Just do as I say," Dragov ordered. "Give this description to a mortician and tell him to let us know as soon as he has a body that will suit us. I want him to keep it frozen until I see it. That's all for now," Dragov said, getting up. "Michael will discuss your fees when you contact him."

"How much do you pay for a body?" Michael asked as they drove back to the safe house.

Dragov shrugged. "Not much, bodies are cheap. It's the forged papers that are costly."

"What did you mean when you said the body wouldn't have to pass a very close scrutiny?"

"Once Ms. Barton is pronounced dead on arrival at any of several nearby hospitals, no one is going to touch that body until the pathologists are ready to do the post-mortem, and when that happens nothing is going to disguise the fact that the corpse isn't Mischa Barton."

Michael leaned back in his seat, staring out at the streets.

"What about Kathy?" he reminded Dragov. "The telephone call is due soon. Which one of us is going to speak to her?"

"You will," Dragov said. "The men have to have absolute trust in me if this is going to work and they must think I've got nothing on my mind other than the operation. but when you speak to her," he added, "I want you to listen closely to her voice, tell me if she seems very scared, as if someone's holding a gun on her. You'll be able to tell from the way she speaks if she's reading from a prepared speech. Make sure you ask her questions and listen carefully to how she responds, I want to know everything she says and how she says it."

Dragov stopped the car and switched off the engine at some distance before the safe house.

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Michael dialed the number Dragov had given him from a phone booth just outside of the Pavilion Coffee Hut. The phone at the other end rang a couple of times, then someone lifted the receiver.

"I want to talk to my sister," Michael said. "I'm Michael Lakas."

"One moment, please," a voice replied.

Michael heard the sound of a door slamming in the distance, footsteps drawing closer, then a muffled command, and the receiver was picked up.

"Kathy?" he said. "Kathy, is that you?"

"You have two minutes," the voice cut in.

"You O.K., sis?" Michael asked worriedly. "How are they treating you? Tell me, we haven't got much time."

"I guess I'm all right," Kathy said, struggling to keep any fear she felt out of her voice. "They've put me in a little room and I'm going crazy there all by myself not knowing what's going on, but they leave me alone and treat me well. How's Dragov?" she asked.

"He's fine."

"Is he still going to get Mischa Barton out?"

"Yes."

"Tell him not to worry about me."

They both knew they didn't have much time left.

"Michael," Kathy asked hesitantly, "It's going to be all right, isn't it?"

All along she had sounded defiant, but Michael guessed she was scared half to death.

"Yes," he said, putting as much conviction into his voice as possible. "Kathy, trust me, we've got a deal with Kazakov, everything's going to be all right." Then in the seconds remaining Michael tried a stupid gamble. "Where are you, Kathy?" he asked. "Do you know?"

Before Kathy could reply she was cut off. An icy voice said, "No, Mr. Lakas, that was foolish of you to attempt to break our agreement," and then the line went dead.

Michael had never heard Kazakov speak, otherwise he would have recognized the voice.

Michael made another call to Officer Tom Dade, identified himself as Kathy's brother, and demanded a meeting. He waited in Pavillion until the big guy showed up.

"You Michael Lakas?" he asked, recognizing the description.

Michael nodded. "Join me in coffee?"

"Hell no," Dade boomed. He had a buff, honest, instantly likable face. "I'm going to drink. Beer, please," he called to the waitress "Now, tell me, what can I do for you?"

"Remember Kathy?"

"Sure do."

"A man called Kazakov has kidnapped her. You're a cop, so what're you going to do about it?"

"Hell, what do you expect me to do?" Dade said, surprised. "I dated her two times, that's all. If you have evidence take it to the sheriff's office, not me. I'm just a traffic cop in a hick town and that ties my hands real good."

"Stop giving me that line of bullshit," Michael asserted in a voice firm with determination. "I know all about the web of intrigue surrounding Dragov and Mischa Barton. I'm aware of the CIA involvement, the surveillance by Harborview PD and the FBI, and Lord Barton's influence with OPEC. If he can't get his daughter back the legal way, he could talk them into turning off the oil spigot, and American drivers get stung with another gasoline shortage.. But right now, I'm a crime victim. I need help, and we're supposed to be on the same side." Bringing the focus back to Kathy, Michael continued, his tone urgent. "I had a phone exchange with Kathy. She's frightened and her only hope is a cop. We can't afford to let politics or jurisdictional boundaries get in the way of doing what's right. Kathy's life is on the line, and I need your help to bring her home."

The cop was suddenly uncomfortable in Pavillion. It was too crowded and Michael had no concept of security. He got rapidly to his feet.

"Let's go for a walk," he said.

They left the coffee house and made their way along the broad pavements of the harborfront past Big Eddie's, the best motel in Harborview.

"You got us into this, you let the CIA use us," Michael began again. "Now you've got to get Kathy out."

"Listen up, son." All the bluff good-naturedness had gone out of Dade's face and suddenly it was hard and barren. "You and your sister are up to your necks in a pile of shit of your own making. You despised your own country's law enforcement and intelligence agencies, but now that you're in trouble you're the first to cry for help. But why bring me in? You've got your friend Dragov to help you."

"That's why I've come to you," Michael said wretchedly. "Dragov doesn't give a damn. He's got the money, we're no use to him anymore. Kazakov thinks he can control Dragov with Kathy and Dragov's encouraging him to believe that, but when the time comes he'll hand Mischa Barton over to Reed-Henry and the hell with Kathy. I know he will. He thinks his future work lies with America."

"Well, I don't blame him," Dade said. "The Russians have all the battalions of Cubans they need, our side can use any good mercenary it can get."

They walked on in silence for two paces. Dade sighed. "I guess I'll help you all I can but you're going to have to help me in return. You tell me, not the CIA, nor anyone else, just me, everything that goes on amongst those men you're with, right up to the time they strike. Keep close to Dragov, I want to know his every move, hell, I want to know what he's thinking even before he does."

Michael shook his head. "Nobody can tell you that. Dragov talks to no one, he just gives the orders when he's ready, but if you'll protect Kathy, I'll pass on everything I can."

"Tell me," the cop asked as they turned back and walked towards his car, "what in hell are you going to do with Mischa Barton if you do get a hold of her?"

Michael paused, a determined gleam in his eyes. "Start a revolt against all unjust entities that should not exist in the United States of America. Foster homes, mental hospitals, prisons—we'll tear down those walls of oppression. No one should be held captive by a system that's supposed to protect them. It's time for a change, and we're going to be the ones to make it happen."

"Sweet Jesus!" Dade exclaimed, shaking his head in exasperation at Michael's naivety. You don't seriously think you can do that with her? Are you so hung up on what you learned in school that you're totally out of touch with reality? Don't you understand that, yeah, the system stinks, but it's the only one we've got until something better comes along? I've seen super bad judges. I've seen what happens to people who appear before them, to lawyers who dare question the policies of their courts. You need to understand that nobody cares about these things until THEY end up on the business end of the broken system. Face it, my friend: it's not going to make any difference just because Mischa Barton got rescued by the goddam 'Dirty Dozen'."

Michael's frustration boiled over at Dade's response. "Damn it, Dade," he snapped, his voice tinged with anger. "I understand what the CIA wants her for, but why is 'Harborview's Finest' interested in her? What's their angle in all of this? There's something rotten going on here, and I'm not going to sit back and let it happen. Kathy needs our help, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let politics or corruption stand in the way of doing what's right."

"All right, if you insist," Dade replied with a sigh, his expression weary. "Mischa Barton was high on a new, highly addictive cocaine-based drug called 'Crystal Mirage' when she was apprehended. It's been tracked for months, and there's reason to believe it's being manufactured right here in town by some chemistry students at the local community college. The Feds are considering offering her a reduced sentence in exchange for information about the drug's production and distribution network. If she agrees, she'll receive treatment at a minimum-security facility, not at Pescadero. There's a chance she'll agree to it, but we haven't asked her yet. We'll need to approach her carefully and make sure she understands the consequences of her decision."

Michael raised a valid point. "If she likes the stuff that much, she'll probably be tight-lipped," he remarked, his tone skeptical. "Why are we interfering in this, Dade?"500Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡsxmuirSdVT

"The Feds know more than they're letting on," Dade said with a grim expression. "And they've got a way of appealing for help that's just about irresistible. More than that, they've come up with the idea of killing two birds with one almost brilliant stone. Kazakov's half-crazy with pain and going down and they want to use Ms. Barton as bait to collapse the whole of the Shadow Syndicate around him. That will severely disrupt the supply of weapons, money, and safe houses to all of the left-wing urban terrorist groups operating in the U.S. and it'll give them the chance to break them up. The stakes are high," Dade said as he opened his car door. "The Feds aren't going to concern themselves with Kathy, and they'll stop you if you get in their way. If Dragov's no use then I'm about the only hope you've got of getting her out alive, so you just keep the information coming."500Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnd0qFJgTzr

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

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