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126 CANTON DRIVE,
LEMON GROVE
12:33 PM PDT
AFTER PUTTING JIM CABRAL temporarily in charge at Base Camp card table— according to Cabral, Rose had yet to leave Mobile Command— Pope rode with Decker over to Lemon Grove. Al came along, talking all the way.
AL WORE HIS ‘EARNEST’ LOOK: “I swear to you, Gideon, that is Black Molo back there in the closet.”
Pope frowned. “Molo is supposed to be hiding in South America somewhere. Peru, last I heard. Or maybe Chile.”
“Yeah, well now the Colonel’s hiding in a closet in Market Park. Guess that’s globalism for you.”
Decker looked over at Pope. “Who is this guy, Molo? And why’s he so important.”
“Major-Colonel Molo Balcotez, also known as the Butcher of San Gabriel. Molo was head of North Guyana’s security forces, the Black Guard, during the country’s civil war in the 90s. Molo earned his nickname when he finally located the rebel’s home base.in a small, border town known for its sympathies for the Guyanese National Front.”
“With all do respect, puh-leeze," Al said with a sneer. "Those Marxist pieces of shit committed way more atrocities than the Black Guard, I mean, need I remind you of the GNF’s habit of cutting people’s hearts out? That’s just to go with all the routine café’ bombs, ministry blow-ups and mass shootings the GNF pulls on day to day basis, so if you ask me . . . ”
Which no on was . . .
“ . . . I’d say those people got a lesson about sympathizers. That’s all I am saying.”
Decker looked to Pope. “You were saying?”
“I was saying, one of San Gabriel’s citizens notified the rebels, who escaped Molo’s men. Molo decided to make a point by executing 332 men, women and children. By himself.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah," Al said, "and he reloaded the gun 16 times while drinking mint juleps and listening to Bolero, we’ve all heard the story, but the fact of the matter is, the stadium bomb killed more, if you want to go purely on the numbers. You got 562 vs. 332, you tell me who’s the bad guy here? Okay, so Molo used a Luger instead of a bomb and shot them at close range in the forehead, even the babies . . .”
See? Just like that, you get sick of Al’s voice.
Now try it for almost 20 years.
You know you’d need a vacation, too.
THE BODY HAD BEEN DISCOVERED floating face-down in a backyard swimming pool; fished out, it now lay waterlogged on a gurney preparatory to being loaded in the back of a van.
A cop spotted Decker and came over, a water-drenched wallet in a latex-gloved hand.
“We found this on the body, sir. Texas ID says the guy’s name is Leonard Finch, out of Plano. Inside the wallet was a soggy business card casting Finch as a consultant for a company called Jones-Richards Exports, out of Dallas. Also contained within the wallet was a key card for the La Jolla Imperial Hotel and 4000 cash.”
Mr. Finch wore a dark suit and an empty Sam Brown holster-rig.
“We found this gun in the pool, too. Doesn’t fit his holster and it’s been recently fired. You can smell smoke, even after being in the water. Makarov.”
It was a sleek black pistol equipped with silencer.
Al said, “Can I see that?” Examining the pistol, he grunted in astonishment. “Well I’ll be. Makarov K6-B.” Handing the gun to Pope, he said, “The big boys have come to play.”
“Meaning?” Pope said.
“Well, back in the day, the K6B was made exclusively for top Soviet intelligence operatives and the GRU in particular. Light, powerful and it takes a beating. A very nice piece.”
Pope looked over at ‘Finch’, laying there on the Gurney, waterlogged and disheveled. The right pant leg was up, revealing a holdout pistol, a Colt .380 from which Pope ejected the magazine to find Teflon-coated slugs.”
“Cop killers,” Decker said. ”
There was a second magazine in Finch’s ankle holster, this one containing rounds Al claimed were explosive, like tiny grenades. Very hi-tech, Al claimed, James Bond super spy. Pope took him at his word, not because he believed James Bond was out there, but because he wasn’t gonna fire the gun to find out.
Decker said, “All right, we got some guy dead by what appears to be strangulation, judging from the bruises on the neck. What the hell’s going on?”
Al shook his head. “Dead South American colonel, missing Frenchman, some guy with a Russian spy pistol, a Russian bar owner, Greeks and a jogger, to go along with one dead American homeless. There’s gotta be a joke in there somewhere. Or add in some Turks and you’ve got world war three. Hey,” he grinned, “you gotta postpone a fishing trip, it might as well be interesting."
Pope looked to Finch and back to Decker. “Hey, lemme see that hotel key card.”
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