Gabriel's Stand (31 page)

“Senator, have you seen the last webcast from Standing Bear Lindstrom?”

“
Gabriel
? What are you talking about?” Senator Al Jacobs heaved his bulky body from an oversized desk in his Los Angeles office and lumbered into the next room where his assistant was sitting transfixed in front of a large screen.

“It looks like he made the Commission's most-wanted list and dumped his entire webcast file just before they closed in on him.”

“I'll be damned. Did you get it all?”

“Saved the whole thing. Here.” The aide stepped aside. “This is hot. I understand it is running over and over again. Lindstrom is drawing a huge audience, the biggest ever for any regular webcast.”

On screen, Jacobs' old friend, Gabriel, was standing outdoors somewhere.

“The purge has started. A treaty that was ratified over the dead body of a brave Senator, my friend, Lance McKernon of the State of Washington, has spawned tyranny. Because you are compliant, they think they have already won; this has emboldened them to attack me, to silence me. You are next. No one is safe from the reach of these lunatics.

“It is now blatantly apparent that terrorists were always in control of the Commission and that they will not stop until this country and all of its formerly democratic institutions have been brought to heel.

“But that is just the First Stage. Their ultimate objective is for the rest of us to join Senator McKernon. The Commission is controlled by the Gaia Operations Directorate and that group is controlled by terrorist fanatics who will not rest until Homo sapiens has been eradicated from the planet.

“Guard your medicines, your electronics, your very lives. They are coming…”

Jacobs hit pause. “Shit,” he said.

“It's all there,” the aide said. “The McKernon assassination, the Gaia agenda, everything.”

“Get on the phone. Find out what happened to Gabriel. We've got to hide some of this hardware. Who is the local Commission agent? Can we pay him off?”

“I'm on it.”

“And call the new Speaker of the House. T.S. Smith, Jr. is the best ally we could have right now.”

“Just like his father, Thurston Senior.”

“Yes. I have the feeling we don't have a hell of a lot of time.”

——

Thurston Smith kept his most secure items in a Salt Lake Condo under the name George W. Smith. The elevator was a glass bullet that emerged on the outside of the building as it shot upward into the rising sun. As the ground dropped away below him, Gabriel watched the city lights form a ruddy aurora in the fog. Smith's unit occupied a corner of the penthouse at the far edge of the Temple district. Somehow John's friends at World Travel Associates had come up with an empty pizza box for Gabriel and a plausible delivery uniform, along with a variety of additional disguises that fit into their standard escape parcel, designed to be carried in a satchel.
All part of the drug business
, Gabriel mused.

A minute later, Gabriel arrived on Smith's floor. He rang the bell to the unit to the right of Smith's apartment.

“Who is it?” a voice said.

“Your pizza order.” he said.

“Sorry, wrong unit.”

“Damn kids,” Gabriel said. “Who lives next door?”

“Fellow named Smith. Don't think he's home, but you might try.” The voice replied. “It's a little early for pizza.”

“You'd be surprised what people order. If nobody's home, you wouldn't want a giant pepperoni at half price, would you?”

“No thanks.”

In the pizza box, Gabriel was carrying Owen's ID packets: a Robert Hanson, George Brendon, and Frank Wolf, each with a variation of Gabriel's photo. Letting himself into Smith's apartment, he set the pizza box and satchel down on a leather couch.
Time to change disguises.

Gabriel started the shower, while calling Owen's secure number.

“So you made it in good time,” Owen said. “What's that sound?”

“Just a little rain to cover the conversation,” Gabriel replied.

“I didn't think it was that wet in Salt Lake this time of year. Gabriel, you really need to hurry. I just learned that a federal judge is issuing a warrant to enter and search Smith's apartment.”

“Thanks. I need only ten minutes.” Gabriel slipped an encrypted optical card from Smith's dresser into his pants, and pressed the “data destruct” button on Smith's writing desk. He then stepped into the shower, applied a color rinse to his hair and dried off quickly. Five minutes later, Gabriel left as he came, leaving the now-empty pizza box behind, a cap pulled down over his face.

On the second floor, he ducked into a men's room and found an empty stall. Gabriel adopted the Frank Wolf ID which matched the included gray coveralls, with a utility company logo and name tag. The remaining disguise packet contained an inflatable Santa Claus suit. Slipping the coveralls over the pizza uniform, he centered the company hat on his head and applied the facial hair, a goatee and thin mustache.

Gabriel walked out of the restroom and ducked into the stairwell. A minute later, he slipped out of the service entrance at the back door on street level. Outside, the sidewalks already teemed with workers and shoppers. Gabriel strode toward the corner, scanning the street for a taxi.

He noticed the two large men immediately as they emerged from the apartment building and fell in half a block behind him. They appeared to have been waiting for him. Gabriel slowed abruptly to study their reflection in a store window. Body language was as good as a uniform
. Agents, without a doubt.
Gabriel strode on, quickening his pace.
Some disguise
, he thought.
Once a stocky Indian, always a stocky Indian
.

“Don't bother to run,” one of them shouted through the crowded sidewalk. “There are more of us ahead.”

Gabriel pressed forward, dodging around a blind man, trying to find an opening in the traffic, a taxi, anything. Then he felt a sharp object pressing against his spine.

“One more step and we'll continue this conversation in a hospital.” Two other men closed in, one on either side.

“Now we have to get both Thurston Smith Senior and Snowfeather out of jail.” Owen looked across the table and rubbed his eyes. “And Gabriel can't be far behind.”

Bill Dornan and John Owen sat together with Ken Wang in the hurriedly organized command center on New Kona. It was a converted recreation room that had been used by the construction crews who built the new Vector plant.

“You want to engineer some jail breaks?” Dornan quipped.

“Good one, but we may need to recruit more contract muscle as this develops.”

“We still have most of the drug courier infrastructure, John. And all the muscle you can hire. I have my old contacts.”

“What
can
we do for them?”

“Right now? I'd let the lawyers handle it.”

“A fine kettle of fish. Any word on Gabriel?”

“We think he's still running, but he hasn't called us yet. That's all we know,” Ken said.

“I want to hold the Sea Mistress in Oakland for Gabriel's container, without causing suspicion.”

“Has Trans-Pack called in?” Dornan asked.

“They're waiting, but we need to hold the boat.”

“I'll work on that right away,” Ken Wang said.

“Maybe we should spread some disinformation,” Dornan said.

“Use a non-secure line?” Wang asked.

“That's the idea,” Dornan said. “Confuse them. Let them think Gabriel is leaving by air next week or something. Can we sacrifice a plane?”

“Done,” Owen said. “Just hire a pilot through an intermediary.”

“I'll do it,” Wang said.

“And we have the larger issues,” Owen said.

“I know, John,” Dornan said. “How can we fight a war from here?”

“We can't. But this is a political struggle,” Owen said. “If we can get Gabriel and Smith back in play, maybe the time is finally right to push for Treaty repeal.”

“Isn't it too late for that?” Ken Wang asked. “They have so much media power right now.” He looked at the two older men, trying to see if Owen was serious.

“We'll just have to see about that, won't we?” Owen said thoughtfully.

——

Gabriel Standing Bear stopped on the sidewalk and abruptly turned on the man who had placed a weapon in his back. “Watch where you're going, buddy,” Gabriel snarled, placing his hand right in front of the gun barrel. It was—at best—a calculated risk.
They might have identified me
, he thought,
but they won't dare shoot me in public
.
Or will they?

The agent hesitated a beat, and Gabriel smoothly grabbed the weapon by the base of the barrel, deflecting it into the window of the shop next to them. The semiautomatic pistol discharged, shattering the glass. Someone screamed. Gabriel dropped to the sidewalk, still gripping the barrel of the agent's pistol, attempting to twist it from the man's grip, while he rolled under the legs of one of the other two men. The gun went off again, striking the second agent in the leg. Gabriel released his grip on the gun, and rolled side over side. He rolled right into the street, heedless of the traffic. Tires screeched.

Gabriel bounded to his feet in front of an oncoming wall of cars. He leapt over the hood of a sedan in the lane opposite the agents, never looking back, and rolled again on the pavement to the curb. He then crawled on his hands and knees into the nearest store.

The door slid open and he looked up at a very startled clerk, a woman in her early twenties. Gabriel realized he had entered an adult toy shop. Thinking rapidly, he smiled. “Movie,” he said. He rolled to the side and pulled off the coveralls. “Stunt work,” he huffed, “can be really trying. Hope this is the only take!” Several people were watching him in fascination as he slipped on the nylon Santa suit, put on the Santa Claus hat and beard. As he stood, he pulled a small cord and the costume inflated with a satisfying pop. “Christmas comes earlier and earlier,” Gabriel said. There was a ripple of applause as Gabriel left the store.

Luck was with him on the next corner where he hailed a cab. “If you would be so kind to take me to Trans-Pack Trucking,” he said. “I have a sleigh to pick up.”

And a bottle of analgesics
, he thought. The cab pulled away instantly.
God, I need a stunt man
.

——

Santa arrived two blocks from Trans-Pack Trucking without incident. Gabriel over-tipped the cabbie; stripped out of the Santa layer and the utility coveralls linked with the Frank wolf ID that had got him busted; then he engaged the cab to personally deliver the costumes to his Aunt Tillie at a diner in Pocatello, Idaho.
I hope he is tailed—so much the better
, he thought.
I might need the time.

It feels like an early snow
, he thought. The sun was behind slate gray clouds, and the temperature had plummeted. As the taxi rolled across the gravel lot and disappeared, Gabriel was left shivering in the original pizza uniform and carrying the Hanson ID. His breath smoked as he walked briskly past two closed auto repair shops.

Doubts entered his mind as the cold penetrated his marrow.
I don't remember that wholesale toy outlet on the map!

But minutes later, Gabriel reached the front of a large, unmarked warehouse. He looked around, again doubting himself.
Where is everybody?
Did I use the wrong map?

“Hello!” Gabriel shouted. Then a worker stepped out of the nearby office and beckoned to him.

“Mr. Hanson?”

“Yes,” Gabriel said.

“We need to see your papers. Come inside where it's warm.”

The office was spare, functional and neatly organized. A space heater glowed brightly in the corner. Four men stared at him as Gabriel produced his Robert Hanson ID. Then he was immediately offered coffee and a padded jacket. Three men waited outside while a man in a leather jacket and amber sunglasses remained in the room with Gabriel. “We have to move quickly, here, so the long version of your briefing will be the recording you watch inside the box.
Box?
Your luggage is already inside waiting for you. I understand this is your first time with us?”

“Yes.”

“That is the last bit of information about yourself we want you to give up until you meet someone you know.”

“Okay.” Gabriel sipped the coffee.

“Your home will be a long cargo box, rear loaded, just like the ones you see on trains, trucks and boats. You like honey?” Gabriel shrugged. “For some reason, the Kiwis love Utah honey. This load is supposed to be a whole lot of it in twenty gallon drums, and crates of quart bottles. The interior dimensions of the cargo container, after insulation, ventilation filters, and the false cargo layer we installed at the rear door, are 6.5 feet wide, seven feet tall, and fifteen feet long. Generous for a single passenger.”

Beats the crap out of prison standards
, Gabriel thought darkly.

Ten minutes later, Gabriel was standing on top of the cargo container, next to a sturdy man in coveralls, carrying a flashlight. The container was already mounted on the back of a truck-trailer rig. “I'm supposed to go in there now?” he asked.

“That's the idea,” the cargo manager said, aiming the flashlight down the hole. “Better hurry, sir. We've held up this shipment an hour as it is.” Gabriel stared at the tiny opening in the top of the metal box. A miniature aluminum ladder descended into total blackness. “The regular door is full of cargo.”

“Okay,” Gabriel said, climbing in. “When do the lights go on?”

“Later. They are automatic. Hurry, please.” The cargo manager was standing over the hole.

Gabriel stepped in further, stealing a last glimpse of a cloudy Utah sky. As the hole slowly closed over this head, several dim red lights became visible along the floor. He stepped further down the ladder and felt his feet touch carpet. The hatch shut with a muffled thump, followed by the whine of an electric motor.

As he stepped away from the ladder, the lights in the room came on, and the ladder slowly retracted into the sound baffled ceiling. Gabriel was in the center of a narrow living room. A fold down couch lined one side, across from which a large screen glowed with a high resolution television image. Gabriel recognized the view from the top of the truck.

“Better sit down until we're on the freeway,” a voice said, “until you get the feel of the road… I've got some time to make up.”