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The Greyhound bus pulled into the Harborview, California terminal promptly at 6:20 pm, its weary engine rumbling to a halt. With a hydraulic hiss, the door swung open, revealing a motley crew of passengers, their faces etched with exhaustion from the long journey. Among them were Mexican migrant workers, identifiable by their worn boots and sun-beaten faces, clutching their belongings tightly. Some carried weathered suitcases in their hands, while others strapped them over their shoulders with frayed straps, their burdens a testament to their nomadic lifestyle. As they disembarked, a sense of weariness and anticipation hung in the air, blending with the evening shadows descending upon the terminal.
Amidst the crowd of passengers, Dragov and Zoltan blended in effortlessly, their worn attire and stoic expressions allowing them to seamlessly merge with the diverse group of travelers. However, their attempt to remain inconspicuous was abruptly interrupted when a local policeman approached Zoltan, casting a suspicious gaze upon him. Mistaking Zoltan for a Mexican migrant worker, the officer questioned him about his origins and legal status, his tone tinged with suspicion.
"My apologies, officer. I'm from around here," Zoltan replied smoothly, his voice steady and convincing. "Just returning home after a trip. Here are my papers, everything's in order." With practiced ease, he presented the cop with a set of meticulously forged documents that suggested legal residency. The documents bore official-looking seals and signatures, crafted with enough finesse to deceive a cursory inspection. Sensing the cop's skepticism he maintained a polite smile as he awaited the verdict. After a moment's hesitation, the officer scrutinized the papers once more before reluctantly conceding, allowing Zoltan and Dragov to proceed without further interrogation.
Dragov walked through the seedy bus terminal, a desolate skid row for junkies and alcoholics. He hurried after a nondescript man who had traveled in their compartment and tapped him on the shoulder.
"I think there's been a mistake over our suitcases," he said.
"Of course," the man replied promptly. "I'm sorry."
Dragov gave him an envelope. The little man quickly checked the contents and was well pleased. He had some beard stubble on his cheeks and bright, foxy eyes He slipped the money into his pocket.
"If find that you should need friends in this town," he said, "call me here in Barrio Esperanza, on the south side of town." He picked up Dragov's suitcase and walked on.
Zoltan came ambling up as Dragov opened the case in a sheltered spot by a wall.
"It's cool," he said. "There's nobody following. Man," he added bitterly, the wind blowing his long, blonde hair around, "that bastard scared the shit out of me."
"You have a knack for attracting attention to yourself," Dragov replied dryly.
He took two duffel bags and handed the larger, bulkier one to Zoltan. Zoltan undid the zip, checked his weapons, took out a small two-way radio, and put it in his pocket.
"There's something else," he said as he slung the bag over his shoulder.
Dragov rummaged around in the case. "This?" He lifted out a small package.
"Yeah."
"What is it?" Dragov asked, tossing it to Zoltan.
"It's a flyer," Zoltan replied, catching it deftly. "For some music event, I think." He paused, considering Dragov's question. "Ah, the Balkans, my friend. The Balkans. That's where you'll find the finest hashish, what I call 'Black Gold'."
"You know I don't smoke it. Find us some places to use as safe houses," Dragov said, closing the case and standing up. "Then drop out of sight and watch my back, O.K.?"
"Don't worry, Viktor," Zoltan promised. "Each way you turn, I'll be there. I'll keep you alive."
He said it lightly, almost as if he were teasing him. But there was something in Zoltan's eyes that worried Dragov. He watched Zoltan turn and stride away until the darkness consumed his lean figure.
Dragov went to another small hotel in the back streets behind the Harborview Lighthouse. He knew that area of Harborview now and he took a room where he could see down into the street. He unpacked the weapon that Zoltan had secured for him. It was a Walther 9 mm automatic, a well-balanced gun with good stopping power, shaped after the style of the old German Luger. He raised his arm a few times, dry firing the automatic, refreshing his knowledge of its balance. It had a big magazine and the butt fitted comfortably into the palm of his hand.
He stripped the weapon and laid the parts out neatly on the bed, oiled and cleaned them, reassembled them, and stripped it again and again, getting the feel of it, getting to know the gun so well that he could strip it, clear a jammed bullet from the chamber and reassemble it in the dark if he had to. No matter how well designed, automatics were more prone to jams than revolvers, and he didn't want this one to let him down.
He shrugged on the soft leather shoulder holster, adjusting it until the automatic lay flat against his side. He looked at himself in the mirror, satisfied that the outline of the weapon hardly showed in his jacket. Then he stood at the window, the room behind him in darkness, and looked down over the street. He couldn't spot a tag but he knew it wouldn't take them long to get onto him.
Nights like this, alone in hotel rooms, were the worst times for Dragov. He watched the people moving below him. He tried to clear his mind, to think of the contract; instead, he kept seeing Kathy and he knew that was dangerous. It was safest for him to have no future beyond surviving each day. The moment he cared about someone, and hoped for something, he became vulnerable.
The next morning he phoned the Harborview Police Department officer who had helped Kathy when she was here. A deep voice boomed back at him over the receiver and they made a date to meet that evening.
The bar where Dragov and Officer Tom Dade meet was a dimly lit establishment tucked away in one of the quieter corners of Harborview. The interior exuded a rustic charm with its wooden furnishings and dim lighting, casting warm shadows across the patrons huddled around the bar. The air was thick with the scent of cigarette smoke and the sound of muffled conversations. The clientele was a mix of locals and passersby, with a few regulars nursing their drinks at the bar. The bar served a selection of beers on tap and a modest range of spirits, catering to the tastes of its diverse clientele. The service was friendly yet efficient, with the bartender offering a nod of acknowledgment as patrons entered. Officer Tom Dade sat at the bar, his sturdy frame and weathered features reflecting years of experience on the force. He fit Kathy's description closely, with a rugged appearance and an air of authority about him.
"Officer Tom Dade?" Dragov said and the cop swung around.
"Dammit," he said in a deep voice. "It's good to see you, any friend of Kathy's is a friend of mine. Sit down, and have a drink. What can I get you?" He signaled the bartender. "Three whiskeys, he ordered. "Another man's joining us," he said to Dragov. "I hope you don't mind----Kathy is some girl," he remarked. "I chased her clear across Harborview for the two weeks she was here and never got as far as first base, but I liked her," he shook his big head wistfully. "I honestly do like that girl. She something special to you?" He glanced up shrewdly and Dragov shrugged.
Dragov felt, rather than saw, someone slip into the seat beside him.
"Special Agent Reed-Henry," Dade said.
Reed-Henry raised the whisky that awaited him. "We know each other," he said. "Welcome back."
"Well, I'll be damned." The cop feigned shock at the coincidence, but Dragov knew he'd been set up.
"You want to know why I drink here?" Tom Dade asked, trying to take the edge off the atmosphere. "It's because our town's chief of police doesn't like his cops to smoke, drink, or even consort with women. He thinks it's bad for business, but I figure if I'm off-duty, I should be able to unwind a bit, you know?" He then raised his voice to address the bartender, asking if there was a problem with a cop being in the establishment.
"It's when you don't pay your bills that I worry," the bartender replied.
Dade and Reed-Henry were old friends and they made a strangely assorted pair, one big and assured with a booming voice, the other small-boned and diffident.
"You ready?" Dade said, sliding off his seat. "Come on, we'll show you our town."
Dragov followed them to Reed-Henry's car.
"Hop in," Dade said. "What do you want to see, the cultural life in this town or the vulgar side?"
"I'll go along with anything you suggest," Dragov said.
"Take the vulgar side," Reed-Henry urged. "Tom Dade knows the best, he's never seen the cultural side, only heard about it from the chief."
"You leave our chief out of this," Dade growled. "I hate to even think of that man."
They visited a good number of the gaudy, neon-lit transvestite bars and strip joints out back of Harborview Lighthouse, and around 2:00 in the morning, Tom Dade, who'd been drinking heavily, said, "O.K., it's time for Salambos."
He led the way to a club 5 miles away from the lighthouse. They stood in the foyer while Reed-Henry argued with a dwarf in the ticket office over the admission prices.
"We are tourists," he insisted. "Don't you offer any special discounts?"
"Don't waste your breath," Tom Dade said, spilling out a handful of dollars. "These folks can spot a cop a mile away, pay the man."
A woman, completely naked except for a gold chain around her ankle, had come up quietly to stand by Dragov and was fixing her hair in the mirror.
"That's what I like about my town," Tom Dade said. "None of the arty-crafty sassiness of L.A. When this place is vulgar, it's vulgar."
"Lead on," Reed-Henry said, clutching the tickets.
They pushed through some red velvet curtains and entered a large, high-ceilinged room. All around the sides were sheepskin-covered couches and to one side a huge wheel of fortune with a large arrow lit by colored bulbs. Around it, like the numbers of a clock face, swung twelve very pretty naked girls on sheepskin-covered swings. With a raucous fairground fanfare their seats revolved, the arrow spun and when it came to rest the compere shouted out the lucky ticket number that had won the girl. A blue film was showing soundlessly against another wall. Through some bead curtains to the right of the entrance, there were blue-lit jacuzzis with girls and men splashing around in them. Halfway up was a mezzanine floor furnished with Roman-style couches on which couples were making love. Most of the men were dressed or half-dressed, but the girls were all naked.
"This is the only place in Harborview where I can be damn sure who I'm dancing with," Dade growled. "If they wear clothes, no matter how good they look, I'm suspicious."
The three men found a vacant corner and a waiter brought them a drink. Dragov was glad he wasn't paying: the prices were exorbitant. A tall, blonde girl came up and claimed Tom Dade, throwing her arms around him like a long-lost lover, leading him away. Reed-Henry lost interest in the blue film and turned to Dragov.
"I'm sorry about this," he said, "but it's Tom Dade's favorite club and every time we go on the town we always seem to end up here."
One of the girls came up. "I'd like to, sweetheart," Reed-Henry smiled, "but I can't afford it."
"Listen," Dragov said impatiently, feeling ridiculous fully dressed and sober in a brothel, "you and that local policeman set me up, now what do you want from me?"
Reed-Henry looked at him for a moment. He spoke quietly. "I hear that you're trying to get Mischa Barton out of Pescadero, is it true?"
Despite his reserve, the agent kept catching Dragov off-guard and he shrugged, trying to give himself time to think.
"Is that a serious question?" he said.
"Yes," Reed-Henry answered. "Very serious. In certain circumstances, I might even be ready to help. Don't worry," he continued, "we can talk freely here, with all the noise and naked bodies it's one of the few places around here that's hard to stake out. You've had a good look at Pescadero, I take it."
Dragov nodded.
"I'm not just a CIA agent, Dragov. I'm also a trained psychotherapist, and I've had some experience working at Pescadero a long time ago," Reed-Henry explained. "While it's true that the place is notoriously difficult to breach, I've often pondered on potential strategies for a rescue mission. Unfortunately, I've never had the opportunity to test any of these ideas. However, my experience and access to insider information could prove invaluable in planning such an operation."
"Are you saying you're willing to help me, Mr. Reed-Henry?" Dragov asked suspiciously. "Why would you do that?"
"Perhaps my actions are semi-official," Reed-Henry said carefully. "I've witnessed horrors at Pescadero that would chill your soul. Patients are treated like mere commodities, subjected to archaic drugs and treatments that belong in the goddamn Dark Ages. The orderlies are recruited from the darkest corners of society, and the atmosphere is nothing short of a nightmare. That's precisely why I left. But it doesn't end there. I knew some people there, Dr. Franklin Grimes and Nurse Marjorie Turner, two of the most despicable figures you'll ever encounter. Patients vanish without a trace, and the death toll is staggering. If you can liberate Mischa Barton, it could have far-reaching political ramifications. It would expose the atrocities perpetuated within Pescadero, forcing a reckoning with the powers that be. It would demonstrate the resilience of justice over tyranny and bring closure to the families of those who've vanished or perished within those walls. The urgency of shutting down Pescadero cannot be overstated; every day it operates unchecked, more lives are lost, and more souls are condemned to suffer."
"There must be more to than that," Dragov said dryly. "Is there some personal vendetta driving you? Or perhaps you're angling for a promotion, using me as your pawn? I've learned the hard way not to trust those who claim to have noble intentions, especially when they come from the ranks of government agencies. What's your angle here, Reed-Henry? What do you stand to gain from all of this?"
"I understand your skepticism, Dragov, but believe me when I say that my motivations are purely altruistic. I've seen too much suffering at Pescadero, and I can't stand idly by while innocent lives are destroyed. As for what I stand to gain, it's simple: justice. Justice for those who have been wronged by the system, and a chance to right the countless injustices perpetrated within those walls. And Mischa Barton's case is particularly troubling. She suffers from a rare neurological disorder that requires some specialized care at L.A.'s Cedar Sinai Hospital."
"I'm aware of it."
"Well, transporting Mischa Barton to Cedar Sinai Hospital involves a meticulously planned operation designed to safeguard her and maintain the utmost discretion. She is accompanied by a team of armed guards, ensuring her security throughout the journey. The vehicle chosen for the transport is unmarked, blending into the traffic flow along the Pacific Coast Highway, a route carefully selected to minimize the risk of detection, specifically paparazzi. While Barton herself may not be physically restrained, the security measures surrounding her are robust, leaving little room for any attempts at escape or external interference. Moreover, considering the delicate nature of her condition and the potential risks involved, the security detail is thorough and vigilant. Any breach or disruption in the transport process could have serious consequences, not just for Barton's safety but also for the medical professionals and patients at Cedar Sinai Hospital. With the hospital's proximity to a children's facility and the presence of lighter security compared to the fortress-like environment of Pescadero, any frontal assault or rescue attempt would undoubtedly escalate into a chaotic and potentially tragic situation, putting numerous lives at risk and complicating any chances of a successful outcome."
"Tell me," Dragov inquired, his tone measured and probing, "what does this unmarked vehicle look like? And is it occasionally escorted? By whom?"
"The unmarked vehicle," Reed-Henry began, his voice steady and authoritative, "is a sizable, nondescript van, discreetly armored to withstand potential threats. As for the occasional escort, it typically comprises two state police cars, unmarked but readily identifiable to those in the know. They maintain a calculated distance, ensuring surveillance without being overtly conspicuous. Additionally, there's a decoy vehicle strategically deployed to divert attention, particularly from any lurking paparazzi."
"Thank you for the information," Dragov acknowledged, his voice resonant with determination. "I'll be in the vicinity of Pescadero the day after tomorrow, as you suggest." With that, he drained the last of his drink, a grim resolve settling over him as he prepared to depart.
"Not so fast," Reed-Henry interjected firmly, his gaze fixed on the mercenary. "In return for my assistance, I'll need to know and approve every stage of your plans." He paused, considering. "I'll be out of town for a few days, attending a conference in San Francisco. I won't be back until the end of the week. If you need to reach me in the meantime, contact Tom Dade. He's aware of the situation and will relay any messages to me."
Dragov rose to leave.
"I'll come with you," Reed-Henry said. "I haven't got Tom's sense of exhibitionism."
"Hey, wait!" Tom shouted from the dance floor. "Gina here says she's going to put on a private show for us!" Reed-Henry spoke to Dade who shrugged and went back to his girl.
"I'll give you a lift," Reed-Henry offered as they reached the street. "Tom will make his way home when the girls have fleeced him, he always does."
"How are the chilblains?" Dragov asked.
"Much better, really," Reed-Henry said gratefully. They drove in silence down Harborview Lighthouse Road.
"Have you seen anything of Mr. Kazakov?" Dragov asked. Reed-Henry knew what was on his mind.
"He's been in the Barrio Esperanza," he answered, "taking a course of injections. He's got cancer of the bowel, you know, not much longer to live, but we'd like to keep him around for as long as we can. He used to be one of the world's best spies but now he's making mistakes and it's affecting his employers. Our side doesn't want some younger guy to come along and rectify them so we're leaving him a pretty free run at the moment."
The car pulled up. "Will this do you?" They were parked at the end of the street, just a few yards from his hotel. "I would like to think we can be partners, Mr. Dragov," Reed-Henry said. He paused, looking at Dragov with a serious expression. "Before you go, there's something you should know about Harborview. It might seem like a quiet little town on the surface, but there are hidden dangers lurking beneath. With your background, you might attract unwanted attention here, even more so than the others who arrived on the bus. So, be cautious. I'll be in touch soon to discuss your plans further. Good night."
Dragov watched the exhaust smoke curl as the car moved away. He made sure that he was alone in the street before going into his hotel.
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