When Brad arrived at the archway of Los Angeles
Memorial Stadium, he saw no sign of Baker and he first
realized what Ralston had meant about him. He had said that
Baker lived for UFO's and spy movies. The latter explained
the deal with the payphone, and his late arrival. Baker
was, without a doubt, watching at a distance to ensure that
Brad hadn't been followed and was alone.
Baker arrived ten minutes late, driving a Mercedes
convertible. He parked next to Brad's Firebird, and turned
his radio's volume as high as it would go. He scanned the
area, and stepped out of the car. "Good afternoon, Mr.
Dartmouth," said Baker, staring passed Brad at the damage to
his front end. "What happened to your car?"
"You mean you don't know? You knew what kind of car I
drove!" yelled Brad over the blaring radio.
Baker smiled. "You must understand that I have a
reputation to protect: I ran some checks on you to make sure
you were not trying to set me up."
"So, you trust me?"
"No-- I just don't think you're writing a piece for the
gossip column. As a matter of fact, my sources tell me that
you and the Herald are not on the best of terms at the
moment. Furthermore, your credit ratings and financial
statements are not good enough for you to be a conman."
"Hey! I don't recall asking you to write my
biography!" yelled Brad hotly.
"Don't get your shorts in a wad. I've got a present
for you." Baker pushed the driver's seat forward and
removed a padded, brown envelope from the floorboard. "This
is the first five thousand dollars."
"Five? I only needed two," stated Brad as he reached
for the envelope. Baker withdrew the package from Brad's
reach.
"You haven't got three thousand dollars: I've checked
the balances of your bank accounts. Since you have things
charged on your credit cards, you can't get but twenty-two
hundred dollars. I decided the most prudent coarse was to
give you the whole five. There is a catch or two, though."
"Like what?"
"First, I want to know the details of your plan."
Brad saw his dream of success crumble before his eyes.
He didn't have a plan. All he had was an idea. "I don't
have all the details worked out-- that's what I'm paying the
mercenary for. We're going to take a look at how heavily
the camp is defended and plan it from that."
"Good. A good recon of the objective is essential to
the successful completion of any operation. Do you have any
experience at this kind of thing."
"No, but Asher does." Brad hadn't asked Asher that
question, so he didn't consider his answer a lie.
"Asher is your man?"
"Yes. He's comes highly recommended."
"By who?"
"One of the other reporters: Terry Johnson."
"Okay, now your talking! Is Johnson in on this?" asked
Baker, excitedly.
"No," stated Brad, flatly. He enjoyed watching Baker's
face loose its enthusiasm. "Johnson used the guy in
Afghanistan; and I thought you said you didn't read the
Herald."
"I only read it when Johnson's reporting on something
big. I guess if Johnson recommended him, he must be good.
Two last details: I participate in the exercise. You can do
the recon, but when you go in to get the aliens out, I
expect to be there. That's why I'm willing to pay for the
operation."
"No problem."
"Good, second point. If the mission fails, and you get
caught, my name is not to be mentioned. If it is, I'll deny
everything. The money's all in used twenties and can't be
traced. Even if we do rescue the aliens, the government is
going to want to crucify you. I'm sure you know that the
worse that can happen to you is prison. I guarantee you
that I can make the time you do a pain in the ass, if you
know what I mean."
Brad wanted to tell Baker to take a flying leap. Not
only was the man eccentric and arrogant, but he believe he
had so much power he could threaten a man of the press. The
problem was, no matter how much he despised Baker, he needed
the money. "I'll use my rights under the First Amendment,
and refuse to disclose my resources."
"Good." Baker handed him the envelope. "When are you
going to recon the objective?"
"I'll have to talk to Asher, maybe we can do it in the
next few days. I think we may need to move kind of fast, a
few of my witnesses have disappeared."
"Disappeared! What do you mean?"
"This family in Las Vegas suddenly moved to New
Hampshire at the Air Force's expense. They didn't leave a
forwarding address with the landlord and didn't ask for a
refund on their rent."
"Did the Air Force know you had talked to them?"
"Sort of."
"Shit. What do you mean sort of?"
"Well, I didn't use my real name."
"Good."
"I used another report's name. He was... arrested last
night by the FBI."
"Damn, man! Didn't they teach you how to cover your
tracks in reporter school?"
"They taught me that how to uncover deceit-- not create
it."
"Great, a million reporters, and I got the one pursuing
the story for ethical reasons." Baker kicked at the ground,
and stared into space. "Okay. Espionage 1101. First rule:
Don't make the enemy's job any easier for him. Don't go
home tonight. Find Asher, leave right away, go to a hotel;
but whatever you do, don't go home."
"I think your over-reacting. They think it was
Fletcher."
"How long do you think it's going to take for them to
realize they've got the wrong man?"
"Fine. They realize they have the wrong man. They
still don't know who I really am."
"Rule number two: Don't underestimate your enemy's
intelligence gathering capacity."
"Okay! I'll call Asher tonight."
Baker gave Brad the number of a 'secure line' where he
could be reached for updates. A moment later, his Mercedes
roared out of sight, leaving Brad alone with the money. For
a moment he thought about all that five thousand dollars
could get him, then he thought about the millions he'd earn
from the story. He was definitely better off using Baker's
money for its intended purpose.
As long as he didn't get caught.
|
Go to Story Index |
Email Douglas Bunger | Go to Home Page |
Go to Next Chapter |