Chapter Twenty
--------------

The search for Steve Cobb and Jason Moses proved futile, and the outraged members were quick to mentally connect their disappearance to the one murder that Deke was charged with. Because in the case of Otto Krueger they had a body and several willing witnesses who just couldn't wait to testify against him.

Deke drew twenty-five to life without consideration for parole. Cindy Denker and her girl friends were given probation on condition they continue with their much needed help for the seniors.

Paul and Ernie were given a letter of commendation and transferred into the narcotics division. Paul was told, in no uncertain terms, during his interview for his new assignment, but Ernie never knew. Allen Sampson, his boss had been livid,

"Gillette, you dumb son-of-a-bitch! How many times do you expect me to keep looking the other way, while you break every rule in the book? Don't look innocent and pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. Your report is full of holes and inconsistencies:

Mysterious phone tips on body locations, missing bodies, motives!! Where are the damn motives, Paul? Deke isn't just off the banana boat. He isn't about to kill off the kids working for him, ruin his business and take a fall for murder; just to cheat his second tier management out of their share. I smell a top notch frame here, and so help me -- if I ever connect you to it, I'll have your badge and you'll be playing cards with Deke up at the Greybar Hotel."

Paul asked quietly,

"Is that all, sir?"

"No!" Sampson growled, "Now that I've said everything I'm supposed to say, I just want to tell you that it was a fine bust, you probably saved a few lives and I'm proud of you -- but don't you ever, ever breath a word of how you did it to a living soul. Now get outa here and send Ernie in, so I can pump him up before I tell him he has to transfer with you."

IRRECONCILABLE DIFFERENCES
--------------------------

Paul and Ernie were hanging out at Love's Bar-B-Que on Manchester waiting to meet with an informant. The man supposedly knew Paul and had information about a huge drug shipment.

Ernie was going through Love's menu which boasted having every kind of Bar-B-Que sandwich from reindeer to moose. He glanced over at Paul,

"What the hell are we supposed to do -- just sit here and smile at the folks, while someone strips the tires off our car?"

Gillette grinned, "Just sit tight, Ernie. Try to look interested in that menu, instead of pinning every dude that comes through that door. I'm sure someone will try to contact us." Ernie grunted and went back to reading the huge menu. They were taking up seating space, and the waitress kept hovering nearby until they were forced to order or leave.

Gillette ordered a Bar-B-Qued beef and a bottle of beer. When Ernie mumbled, "I'll have the same; the waitress rolled her eyes in disgust and left.

They ate, dawdled over their beers, but eventually they had to get up and leave. "Paul, it's been over two hours. I thought you said the guy would show. What happened?"

"Shit Ernie, I don't know -- maybe he got arrested for speeding or something. Let's get out of here. We're getting conspicuous. They were quietly kidding each other about being stupid sleuths, when they opened their car door and the body fell out. Paul bent over the body and rolled it over on its back,

"Aw shit Ernie, I know this guy. It's Ken Madison. He was in my graduation class at the police academy. He joined the Feds five years ago." He bent closer then turned to Ernie,

"Ernie, he was left in our car as a message to us. Look, look at his forehead. Some bastard has carved a message." Ernie looked -- with a sharp knife someone had cut the letters D-E-A-d. His throat was cut from ear to ear. Ernie gagged, "Oh Christ, that's awful."

Paul called the precinct, made his report, and told them he was leaving the car. He and Ernie would be walking West on Manchester, and he would appreciate it if someone would pick them up. He hung up and grabbing Ernie by the arm -- he said,

"Come on, let's get the hell out of here before some black and white spots us.

That evening Paul and Ernie were informed of a meeting scheduled at eight in the morning in the office of their boss, Allen Sampson. Allen had recently been promoted to Chief of the 77th precinct.

At exactly 8:00 A.M., Paul entered the office and was waved to a seat at a small conference table. At the far end of the table sat Allen and two men in civilian clothes. Ernie was picking up the chair he had just knocked over. Paul shook his head in disgust and sat down.

Allen started, "Paul -- Ernie, I want you to meet Les Ackerman and Bill Green. Les is head of the federal narcotics division for Southern California. He will be your direct supervisor on this assignment. He has the plan and he'll call the shots. Bill will be your field contact and liaison man. He'll supply whatever you need to get the job done, but let me warn you, keep good expense records 'cause he used to work for the IRS."

Allen laughed, "Damn it Gillette, that was a joke. You can smile now." He turned to Les, "See, look at him. Now do you see why I recommended `Poker Face' as a code name for this guy?"

Ackerman nodded, "Yep, it sure fits, and Ernie's code name sorta fits, too. Ernie, how does Costello sound to you?

"You mean like in Abbot and Costello?"

"Yep, he's the one. From watching you, I'd say that you and he had a lot in common." Ernie grinned his impish grin and winked at Paul, saying,

"Okay with me -- same pay scale, too, I hope." It got the expected laugh; then Allen's face grew serious.

"Les is going to outline the plan we've come up with, and what part you are going to play in it. So I'll shut up, and let Les do it his way."

Les opened his briefcase and took out several photos. He started by handing each a 5x8 photo saying,

"Take a good look at this guy. His name is Omberto Ruiz, and he is Mister Big in the drug trafficking industry. He controls everything between Tiajuana and Juarez."

"We've been trying to nail him for over five years, and so far, we haven't even been able to give him a traffic ticket. DEA agents who have been able to infiltrate have turned up D-E-A-d. The reason I spelled it out is because in each case, that is exactly what was tatooed on their forehead with the point of a stilleto. Bill was almost killed.

Luckily, he escaped, but now he's useless for undercover work, so he'll be your field liaison man. All contact should be through him unless, of course, something unexpected happens." Les stopped to get a drink of water.

Gillette spoke up, "Chief, I've been on the streets here in South L.A. for over six years, and I've busted hundreds of people; what if some punk recognizes me?"

"Paul, most of the time you and Ernie will be working in Mexico. No one will recognize you. And if someone does recognize either of you, you'll just be two L.A. cops on vacation. What better place to vacation than deep sea fishing in Mexico?"

"The details come later," Les interrupted. He handed a four page pamphlet to Gillette and he gave one to Ernie. "This contains the general description of Ruiz' operation. Read it. We'll go over the details, and then I'll outline your part in our plan." He paused while they quickly skimmed through the four pages.

When they had finished reading and were again looking at him, he continued,

"Ruiz operates what we call a `Mule Train'. It's almost impossible to stop him and it is impossible to connect him to the operation. He has a parts cloning factory somewhere in the interior. Automotive parts are molded out of compressed cocaine and coated with plastic. They look real, are as functional as the originals and the plastic coating fools the dogs sniffing for dope.

"His people in several border towns substitute these parts for parts removed from cars owned by American tourists. While the tourists are fishing, shopping, or enjoying a delicious, Mexican dinner -- Ruiz' mechanics are installing several pounds of cocaine car parts.

"When the unsuspecting tourist comes home, it's no problem for his gangs of teen-age, car thieves to include the tourist's car in their nightly haul. The chop shops disassemble the cars, and who knows -- where the part are routed to.

"So you see -- We have no jurisdiction on one end, no traceability on the other, and that freakin Ruiz never enters the picture at all ... except that he seems to have a pipeline into my office and enjoys leaving me messages carved into the foreheads of some damn good men."

He paused, visibly angry. Gillette took the opportunity to ask,

"Les, while you're on the subject, just how many of those good men did you send down South on fishing trips, and who all knew about them?"

"Those were all bureau people, and it was a bureau operation. This is the first time we've considered using outsiders."

"Well, this is one outsider who wants his damn questions answered." Gillette was getting irritated at not getting a direct specific answer to his questions.

"Before I go charging down into Mexico to be carved up by some psycho, I want the details of each mission that ended in a D-E-A-d agent."

"But those are classified."

"So's my ass. I want names, routes, reports -- every damn thing that is in writing about those missions, and everything you can remember. That includes little chats with your kids or your mistress."

Les turned to Allen, "You recommended this insubordinate son-of-a-bitch. Will you explain to him the meaning of classified records, or get rid of him and get me someone who can follow orders."

"Sorry Les, I'm with Paul. Your by-the-book approach and working within organizational guidelines has gotten you nowhere and several men are dead. The way I see it, you have two major problems and Ruiz is the lesser evil. I'm confident we'll nail Ruiz, but priority number one is getting the traitor, whoever it is, that has caused the deaths of those good men. Maybe, you need someone to take a look out of a fresh pair of eyes."

Bill spoke out angrily, "Now wait just one damn minute. Don't be accusing us of corruption. It could be an electronic leak, a wire tap, a computer hacker -- who knows? Les and I were the only ones that knew about Ken Madison's assignment, and we sure as hell didn't blow his cover."

Gillette's lips twisted into a sardonic grin, "Are you sure about that, Bill? You and Les sure don't seem too concerned about blowing mine." He rose to his feet, walked over to Les' chair, reached under it, and brought out a miniature microphone.

"When Allen phoned me and told me about the meeting scheduled for this morning, I came down and bugged His office. I was just going to record the meeting, so that later I could replay it. In case I forgot any of the details. If anyone had my phone or Allen's phone tapped, they could have done the same and I'd be the next D-E-A-d.

"No thanks fellas, when it comes to my own personal, private ass, I think I'd rather play by my own rules than be coached from the sidelines or from Washington."

He turned to Allen and shook his head,

"Al, I think you better put me back in uniform. I can't play this game."

Ernie, who had been listening and watching with wide- eyed bewilderment, stood up saying,

"And that goes for me, too." Then he looked at Gillette waiting for the next move.

Les turned to Allen, "Can they do that?"

"As far as I'm concerned, they can. Either you work with Paul and Ernie, and let them provide their own cover or you can use your own people. I refuse to put my men in jeopardy just to satisfy your concept of confidentiality."

Les shrugged and turned to Bill Green, "Bill, transfer all of the Ruiz files onto a couple of floppies and bring them to Chief Sampson's office. Gillette can use that computer over there to read everything we have." He pointed at the IBM sitting on the table beside Allen's desk.

"When he's through, I want those disks wiped clean and then destroyed. I could get fired for even bringing records out of the main office."

Bill said, because he would have to do the work himself, it would be after noon before he would have them ready. He excused himself and hurried out of the room.

Allen adjourned the meeting until the next morning. He said he figured if Gillette and Ernie worked all afternoon and part of the night, they could get all of the background reading done and still get a couple hours of sleep before the meeting. As Gillette walked rapidly down the hall, Ernie was practically running on his short little legs to keep up.

"Paul you're not serious about going after that Ruiz guy are you? Those guys'll slice us into little pieces -- No way, buddy. I think you better leave me outa this one."

"Can't be done, Ernie. You know too much already. Those Feds will whisk you off to some federal facility, and who knows when, if ever, they'ed turn you loose."

Chapter Twenty-one
------------------

Shortly after noon, Bill Green arrived at Allen's office with two 3.5 inch floppy disks in hand. He handed them to Gillette,

"These are in plain, ascii text format. I copied every file and record that exists. We've been over the same ground several times and found nothing. I don't know what you hope to accomplish that our experts couldn't." He, obviously, wasn't very happy. Gillette took the disks, thanked him for his cooperation, and went to work. Ernie sat behind him and read over his shoulder.

It soon became obvious to Paul that the DEA was a loosely knit organization, and because of the emphasis on teamwork, there was entirely too much trust placed on individual and group discretion. Obviously, Les trusted Bill, and Bill would probably without hesitation place his safety in the hands of his boss, Les.

Gillette knew; however, that each would sell out the other, if the lives of their children were at stake, or if they were tortured properly under the influence of the right drugs, or possibly, if the price was right.

It was close to midnight when Gillette called a halt to their searching through endless files that led into deadends. He called Allen at home and suggested coffee and dough-nuts at an all night coffee-shop which they had used for private meetings in the past.

Allen grumbled, but took less than a half hour to show up, slide into the booth, and grunt irritably at Gillette,

"Paul, why in hell! can't you ever wait til morning to have one of your secret meetings? I'd just got to sleep."

Paul grinned, "You're the one trying to get me killed. I think you oughta, at least, be willing to grant me my last couple of wishes. Al, these DEA guys are a bunch of gung-ho team players, and none of them ever consider that part of the team might be betting on the other side."

"Shit, Paul, why don't I tell them we don't want any part of this? We're not obligated, you know."

"I'm going to take on this assignment because of what they did to Ken Madison. Poor Ernie here, has to go along because those stupid bastards pulled him into this by spilling their guts in front of him. He could be dead if he does or exiled if he doesn't. It's just not fair.

"I just want you to know that in the morning, I'm going to agree to their plan, but as soon as we get out of sight -- we're going to disappear. The only contact will be through you. I'll use our safe phone because I wouldn't put it past them to bug your's at the office."

They finished their coffee, and a very worried Allen Sampson returned to the warmth of his bed. Paul asked Ernie,

"Well partner, are you going to go home, Stay at your sister's place, or do you want to finish out the night on my couch?"

"If you don't mind, I'll go with you. I don't think I want to sit alone and think about this damn deal. I keep seeing Ken when I close my eyes, and if I keep thinking about it, I might just pack up and move to Colorado. I've got people up there who could hide me way back in the hills.

"Christ Paul, those bastards have already killed seven DEA agents, and now they want you and me to go into Mexico and bring them to Justice. Shit, I can't even speak Spanish."

"Neither can I." Gillette laughed, "All we're supposed to do is be observers without being spotted as snoops. I'm not about to take on the Mexican Mafia." Ernie seemed to have calmed down as Gillette pulled into his parking stall.

Paul threw a couple of blankets on the couch and told Ernie to make himself comfortable. He went into his bedroom and was sound asleep in seconds.

His dream, as usual, was eerily quiet -- the silence after the bombs. He was digging, digging through hot burning rubble. There was little left of the small Vietnamese village after the napalm attack. He knew that somewhere in this rubble was his brother, Phil.

His hands were burning, and the smoke brought tears to his eyes -- someone started playing loud music.

How could they play music in the midst of this carnage? He angrily sat up, looked around, and woke -- to the strident sound of his clock radio.

He lurched into the bathroom and looked into the mirror. As usual, his eyes were red-rimmed from crying in his sleep. He quickly jumped into the shower. He started hot then gradually turned down the hot til it was stinging cold. He turned it off. After toweling off with a rough towel, he felt almost human.

When he went out to wake Ernie -- Ernie was gone. There was a short note on the coffee table, "Sorry Paul, I just can't. Please don't look for me. Tell Allen to give my back pay to my sis, if he can." He hadn't even signed it, but Paul knew it was genuine. He put it in his wallet and left to get some breakfast before the morning meeting.

He ate a hurried breakfast because he wanted to alert Allen before the meeting. He arrived twenty minutes early and waited in vain for Allen to arrive. First to arrive was Bill Green demanding the return of the computer disks. Paul unlocked his desk and gave the disks to Green. Ackerman walked in as Gillette was handing the disks to Green.

"Where's Sampson and your partner?"

"They're not here yet. The meeting isn't scheduled until eight."

Ackerman glared at Gillette and turned to Green, "Go fire up that computer and check out those disks. If they are the same ones you gave him, erase all files and reformat both disks. Get rid of them quick, okay?"

"Okay Boss, but how do I get in Sampson's office?" Bill Green asked.

"Try turning the knob." Gillette replied with a smile, "Allen never locks his office. Says if he can't trust his own cops in his own station, then he ain't much of a supervisor."

Ackerman ignored the obvious implication and told Green to go on in and erase the disks. Allen arrived, sleepy eyed and apologetic, muttering something about being kept out too late by some inconsiderate friends. They followed him into his office and took their seats.

Allen turned to Gillette, "Where's Ernie?"

"Beats me, Boss." Gillette replied, handing Al the note, "Last time I saw him, he was asleep on my couch, and this morning he was gone." Ackerman jumped to his feet and stood behind Allen, trying to read over his shoulder.

"Damn it, Sampson, you said these guys were your best, new detectives. Green, get out an all-points on this guy, Stanton. I want him picked up."

"He could blow this whole operation, but damn it, will you erase those damn disks before you do anything." Green hurried over to the computer and quickly erased the files on the disks.

Allen took Ackerman by the shoulder and gently steered him back to his seat. His big, black hand was locked on that shoulder like a steel talon.

"Lester sit down and shut up. If your people bother Ernie Stanton in any way at all, I'll throw your butt in my jail for kidnapping a Los Angeles Police officer. As of this minute, he's on an extended leave of absence.

"Now pay attention -- Paul and I talked this over last night, and we decided that the mission had a better chance for success if it was a one man operation. Paul's going to go undercover. His secondary target is Omberto Ruiz. The primary target will be the traitor or traitors in your organization; therefore, you will be the only ones aware of his existence. He will not report to anyone in the DEA, until he has sufficient evidence to convict the traitor."

Ackerman shook his head violently, "No way, Sampson. The DEA isn't about to turn this investigation over to one smart-ass civilian. If he works on this at all, I want detailed progress reports every week. We're not about to sit on our hands waiting for Gillette to either turn up dead or come up with some manufactured evidence that will ruin the career of some fine officer."

Allen smiled, but there was no humor reflected in his smile,

"Okay, Lester, have it your way -- Gillette will report to me, and I'll pass it on to my old friend, Brad Simons."

"If Brad thinks that you can be trusted with the information, he can forward it to you through official FBI channels."

"We can leave the Director of the FBI out of this ..." Ackerman started to object when Paul stood up and interrupted,

"Ackerman, you don't seem to understand. You have very little choice in this matter -- either you kill Ernie, Allen, and me, or lock us up somewhere because we know entirely too much.

"When they killed Ken Madison, and you admitted the probability of a leak, I decided to find your traitor. So, you might as well take advantage of my offer because I'm going to do it anyway." He sat back down, glaring angrily at the two DEA agents. There were several moments of tension filled silence then a defeated looking Ackerman spoke quietly, "Detective Gillette, I know you mean well, but what do you think you can do that we haven't already tried? We have had some very experienced agents working on this, and all it got them was dead."

Gillette grinned, "I guess we'll just have to wait and see, won't we?" He stood up indicating that he was through talking, "One last thing, fellows -- what ever you do, please, don't keep in touch."

As he walked out of the office and back to his desk, he could hear Ackerman and Green arguing with Captain Sampson. The voices were loud even through the closed door.

After they had stormed out, Allen came out and sat on the edge of Paul's desk.

"Now that they're gone, what do you plan to do that they haven't thought of?" He asked.

"It was something that they said yesterday, when they were trying to suggest alternatives to there being a traitor in their outfit." Paul replied, "remember Bill Green saying,

`It could be an electronic leak, a wire tap, a computer hacker'?

Well, that got me to thinking, and what I'd like you to do is this:

"First -- get in touch with your friend, Brad Simons. ask him if he's got a real good hacker that he can loan us for about a month. Be sure you tell him that there will be no field work for the hacker. I just want to do a lot of discreet peeking.

"The second thing is to put me on vacation starting tomorrow, and give me at least ten thousand dollars expense money. I have to rent a safe house somewhere.

Allen groaned, "How the Hell am I going to explain giving you all that money to take a vacation?"

"Shit, Al, you'll find a way. You've got the easy part. I've got to go out and nail those murdering bastards. I'll go home and pack. Be back about six this evening to pick up the money -- better make it in twenties and fifties 'cause, after today, I sure won't be writing any checks or using my credit card."

They worked out a series of six public telephones to use as safe phones, and code names for each then Paul left for his apartment and Allen headed for the bank. It was Friday and after getting the money for Gillette, he still had to call Washington D.C. and try to talk Brad Simons into finding a computer hacker and loaning him to Gillette without generating any paperwork.

The money was the easy part. Simons almost went into orbit when Allen told him that the Los Angeles Police needed to borrow a FBI employee to gather evidence to convict members of the DEA of murder and conspiracy in drug trafficking. However, after Allen explained the situation and told him of the seven murdered undercover agents, Brad agreed that there seemed to be a real problem.

He told Allen that he would send one of his sharpest people, but he hoped that a thorough investigation would clear the DEA of suspicion. If not, then so be it. The agent's name was Vic Franklin, and would arrive at Los Angeles Airport, Delta flight 654 at 9:00 A.M. Monday.

When Gillette arrived to pick up the money, Allen told him of the arrangements, gave him the flight number, and the agent's name. "Great ... can you get word to this Franklin that I'll meet the flight and will be holding up a card with his name on it?" Gillette asked.

"I'll try. It shouldn't be any problem getting the message to him before Sunday night. Give me a call at six Monday morning, and I'll bring you up to date."

Chapter Twenty-two
------------------

Gillette agreed to call and hurried out of the station. He had to change his appearance and find a new place to live before nightfall. It was a seedy looking Gillette with pant legs two inches too short, pork pie hat, and dark glasses that rented a bachelor apartment in North Long Beach. He had no trouble convincing his new landlord that he'd just arrived from Nebraska to go to school at Cal. State, Long Beach.

By Monday Gillette had three days growth of beard and looked even seedier, and he had slept in his clothes every night to insure that his derelict appearance was genuine. His arrival at the Delta terminal looking bad and smelling worse caused the security guards to keep a close watch on him, but not too close.

He waited until the passengers from flight 654 were approaching before he held his sign aloft.

The word, Franklin was scrawled on the cardboard with red lipstick. He anxiously scanned each face as it approached, but no one even looked his way. Most of them took a wide path around him -- possibly thinking that he was just another panhandler. He was soon standing alone, and there were two security guards slowly bearing down on him, when he decided to leave.

He was unlocking the door of his borrowed car with the Nebraska plates, when he heard footsteps stop nearby. He looked up and saw an elderly matron standing a few feet away. She was looking at him with obvious disgust.

"Young man, if you're the best escort the Los Angeles Police could find, I think I'll just catch the next flight back to Washington. You look and smell awfull!"

"It's just part of my disguise, Mam. Where's Vic? I'm supposed to be meeting Vic Franklin -- not his mother."

"Mother indeed, look Mister Gillette, if that's who you are, I am Victoria Franklin. They said you needed a computer person, so here I am. What can I do for you?"

"You -- a hacker? Now that's hard to believe, but we'll soon find out." Gillette started to open the passenger side door for her. She backed away holding a small handkerchief to her nose. "No way Junior, I'll rent a car and follow you. I'll go see Avis and be right back, okay?" He shrugged his shoulders and leaned back in his seat to wait; knowing instinctively that argument with Victoria Franklin would be a total waste of time.

The impatient beeping of her horn disrupted his pessimistic thoughts of trying to track down dangerous killers with the help of the prim Victoria. He jammed his old clunker into gear and led the way out of the airport parking lot and headed for Long Beach.

About a block away from his apartment, he pulled into Denny's restaurant. She pulled into the space beside him. He got out, slid in between the cars as she rolled down the window.

"Would you like to go in and have some coffee or something to eat while we discuss our plan of action?"

"Only if you'll allow me to pay," she answered, "if you're going to dress and act like a bum, the least that I can do is to treat you like one."

"No problem," he said as held the door while she climbed out, and together, they entered the restaurant. The hostess met them at the entrance and asked if they wanted a table or a booth. Gillette was quick to answer,

"We gotta have a table. Mom's getting too old to be crawling in and out of one of those darn booths, Right Ma?"

If looks could kill, Gillette would never have lived to bring Ruiz or anyone else to justice. Victoria kept her cool though. She didn't reply until they were seated and the hostess was gone.

"Okay, Paul, we're even now. Shall we concentrate on why I'm here, and what you want me to do, so I can get back to Washington? I hate the West Coast." The waitress took their orders and then Gillette outlined the situation. When he finished by asking her what equipment she needed to do the research he required, she whistled softly and replied,

"Sonny, you sure got a tiger by the tail on this one. I've got to be super discreet, or I'll get us both killed."

"Do'nt you know that when I enter some of these systems, the system breach alarm goes off, and it just takes seconds to pin point the source of the intrusion.

"You want me to check into the financial records of every DEA agent working the border in California, Arizona, and Texas."

"Their total family income, their mortgage payments, how many vehicles they have registered to their families, and all credit card information.

"Gillette, it'll take weeks, and I'll have to relocate every day. It's just an impossible task, sorry."

"No it won't. I've given this a lot of thought. Now hear me out:"

"First -- you don't have to keep relocating, you've got me. I'll keep moving our computer and giving you new numbers to call. If what I've read is correct, you can access and use a distant computer using a program called, `PC Anywhere'. Right?" She nodded her head thoughtfully,

"It just might work, but you better be prepared to destroy those computers and the software, if they arrive before you can retrieve them. Those people are not amateurs.

"I've worked with them in the past tracking down hackers and credit card sharks. They've got the best equipment and the best brains in the business, and all we have are high hopes and your optimism."

Grinning, as he reassured her, Gillette's reply was, "Cheer up, Mom, I've never had a case where I didn't bring the bad guys to justice."

"You've never had a case like this one before. I can guarantee that," she replied.

"I've never had any kind of case before," he answered, "so I'm still batting a thousand."

It was well after dark by the time Vic Franklin was settled into her rooms at the Hilton. She gave Gillette an extensive shopping list and warned him not to purchase very many items at any one place. He smiled tolerantly at her words and left immediately for South Los Angeles. He found Manny Hernandez at his usual spot.

"Manny, come over here. I got some work for you." Manny looked, did a double take, and started to laugh,

"Gillette, man -- you look terrible! what happen? You get caught with yer hand inna cookie jar? Whenja get fired?" Gillette shook his head, "You got the wrong man, Manny. My name is Keeno. Who is this Gillette guy?" Manny nodded, as he slowly began to understand. He lowered his voice, "What kinda job are we talking about?"

Gillette handed him the list. He said, "I'd like 4 copies of this list by morning -- and I want them delivered in a nice, cool, quiet van. One that isn't on the hot sheet. The last thing I want is to be busted for the damn van.

"You actually asking me to steal this stuff. I'm shocked! You of all people, I never woulda believed it."

"Knock it off, Manny. How much?"

"Well for you -- how about, maybe, three big ones? It's really short notice, you know."

"You know damn well you've already got most of this stuff in your warehouse. Don't give me that shit. How about two and a half?"

"Okay Keeno, you got it. See you right here tomorrow morning, nine o`clock. Bring the money and don't bring no friends, Okay?" Gillette agreed, and they parted for the night. He made one more stop that night. He spent almost three hours drinking beer, watching football, and talking with a fellow who had spent several years in prison for making and using small, remote-controlled, explosive devices. When he left, he carried a cardboard box. He placed it on the passenger seat and drove slowly and carefully home.

The most difficult instruction on Franklin's list was finding locations where Gillette could get in undetected, while carrying the computer, monitor, and keyboard. The location had to have two phones with different numbers in the same room or office.

Because, each especially rigged computer had two modems -- one to handle the incoming call from Vic. and the other to relay Vic's probe into the D.E.A.'s system.

He got up early and after marking several locations taken from the yellow pages, he drove for a couple of hours scouting the locations. Manny arrived on time and after checking out the stuff inside the old brown chevy-van, he paid Manny. Manny had no other appointments, so he was able to talk him into driving the van to Long Beach.

They parked and locked it a few blocks from Gillette's apartment, and Gillette drove Manny back to the Goodwill Store.

It was nearly ten when he called Vic. She answered on the first ring,

"It's about time you called. I've been waiting for hours -- don't you know it's lunch time in D.C.? The day is half over. What have you been doing?"

"Calm down, mother. I've been busy. I got all the stuff on your list, but your going to have to do the modifying. I don't know from nothing about these gadgets. I'll be out in back in a brown van. Can you find my place, or do I have to show you how to get here again?"

"I know where it is. I've been by there three times this morning, and you weren't home. I'll be right over." She wasn't kidding. He barely had time to walk to the van and return before she arrived dressed in a conservative chocolate brown pants-suit. Her hair was hidden inside a very feminine looking baseball cap, and she made short work of modifying the four computers lined up inside the van.

Paul shook his head in amazement as he sipped a cold beer and watched her fingers fly, as she installed modem cards, cables, and then ran set-up programs on each machine.

"How long you been doing this?" he asked.

"Since IBM decided to punch holes in cards," she replied with a grin. She obviously was pleased by his appreciation of her expertise. Her face grew more serious and she glanced over at Paul,

"Actually, I probably owe my life and sanity to becoming involved in computer science." She shook her head angrily,

"My entire family was on a flight from Europe when a terrorist's bomb blew their plane from the sky. I almost went insane. First, I didn't want to live. Then, I wanted revenge so much that I was obsessed with tracking them down and blowing them to Hell.

"I finally came to realize that the best way to fight back was to join an organization that could fight back. So here I am. A lurker in cyberspace -- watching and listening to everything any radical group says, does, or plans to do. Doing my little part to insure that the F.B.I. gets them before they kill you."

Paul popped open another can of beer. Handing it to her, he grinned to break the mood,

"Well Vic, all I've got to say is that with motivation like that, I'm sure you'll ferret out the rotten bastard that's been getting all those men killed. Maybe a few more rotten apples, before we're through." He opened his note book,

"Now here's the way I've got it Figur..." She interrupted him in mid-sentence, "Young man, you've already explained what you need from me. Don't you start telling me how to do it. I've been in on more of these probes than you can imagine.

"Here is the procedure: First, I report to the local bureau office. They have already been alerted that I'm coming to do a system analysis and update. They will not be surprised at my working on the system during off hours."

"Here is the number that you must call after you have set up your equipment. You say nothing except the phone number of your location and hang up. After exactly fifteen minutes, disconnect everything and get the Hell out of there. Move to the next location and repeat. Any questions?"

"No Mam," answered Paul, meekly, "any other instructions?"

He was hoping she'd pick up on his subtle reproach, but Vic Franklin was obviously used to having her orders carried out without question, so he decided to keep his big fat mouth shut. He needed her, and she obviously knew her business.

They agreed on one o`clock in the morning as a good time for his first call in, and as she left the van her parting remark was,

"And Paul, try to stay sober, don't fall asleep, and don't be spilling beer all over this delicate equipment."

"Yes, Mother, I'll try to be a good boy." He yelled after her, as she backed her rental car out of his driveway. "God! what a bossy old broad," he thought, "when this is all over, I'm going to set her straight about a few facts of life."

He locked the van and went to look for Manny. Strange as it seemed, but when he needed to find someone he could trust, he had to go to the streets. Even thieves had a code of honor -- something that was sometimes rare in Paul Gillette's circle of acquaintances.

He found Manny selling Rolex watches down by the Greyhound bus terminal. He waved two, crisp, one-hundred dollar bills and Manny came running over to his car,

"Keeno, my man, what can I sell you today? Yer turnin out to be my best customer. I hope you never go back to being a plain old narc agin."

"Don't want to buy anything this time, Manny. I want to hire you and four of your friends."

"If we ain't gonna steal anything, what do ya want us for? Nothin serious, I hope, 'cause we ain't into anything violent. If ya get what I mean."

"No, nothing like that. It's almost not illegal, but what I want to do is have you help me break into several business places. We need your friends to stand lookout while we're in there."

"What we gonna do while we're inside?" Manny asked, looking more and more puzzled by the minute.

"I want to use their telephone," answered Gillette, trying not to laugh. "Use their phone!" Manny shook his head in disbelief,

Chapter Twenty-three
--------------------

"Hell man, if you want to make a phone call for free, I've got a whole case of cellular phones I can let you have at a great discount. You know, the kind with someone else's number already programed in. Whadda ya say, how about $20 bucks a copy?"

"No thanks. I don't even want to know about them. I need to get into a place of business, hook up their phones to my computer, do some hacking, and get the Hell out of there before the real, bad guys get there and shoot us. Comprende Amigo?"

Manny's eyes widened, "Hey Keeno, you never said anything about fireworks. I think I want to know who those bad guys are, before we do any more talking. Okay?"

Paul's face turned serious. He looked down into Manny's inquiring eyes and answered,

"I guess that's only fair, Manny. "'cause this could be very dangerous. My target for now is some corrupt INS, DEA, and possibly Federal Narcotics Agents who are responsible for the murders of some friends of mine. After I've got the goods on them, I'm going after Omberto Ruiz because he's the bastard who is personally responsible for their murders."

"Holy shit!" Manny interrupted, "let me outa here. You're committing suicide, and you want me to hold your hand as you jump off the cliff. Man! You're crazy."

"All I want from you, Manny, is early warning, if someone shows up while I'm busy; just buzz me on one of those hot cellular phones."

"I'll blow up my equipment, and be gone in seconds. What d'ya say? It's worth a thousand to me and no risk to you or your friends, if you can keep your mouth shut."

In the end, Manny agreed to help. He thought it would be fun to take down part of the establishment. Those weren't his words, but they were his sentiments.

Paul wasn't wrong in trusting Manny's judgement when it came to breaking into business establishments. Bypassing several that Paul thought were prime target, Manny selected an office supply company. As he skillfully nullified their security system -- he explained to Paul the practical reasons why some type of businesses install state of the art security systems; while others look at the per-item loss factor and resale viability of paper and pencils and just go with bare essentials to satisfy their insurance carrier.

At 1:00 A.M. sharp, Paul called the number supplied by Vic. When she answered, he read off the phone number of the phone that was plugged into modem number one. He hung up and waited. The phone rang and the computer screen indicated a connection. Soon, Paul was watching in complete amazement as Vic took over the operation of the computer he was watching.

She soon was perusing Federal payroll records. Evidently, she had given some search instructions because the lines were scrolling by so fast they were just a blur.

Occasionally, the screen would stabilize and a name would be highlighted. She would indicate a download option and strange numbers would flash on the screen for a few seconds. Then back to scrolling again.

It was so fascinating that Paul almost lost track of the time. At exactly fifteen minutes he pulled the plugs on the modems, gathered up his computer gear, and quickly left the store.

Manny was waiting outside. He reset the alarm system, then, they all jumped into the van and drove off into the night. "Man, that went off smooth," Manny cackled after they were several blocks away."

"So far so good," agreed Paul, "but by now, the enemy is on their way with their tracking equipment. We've got to be set up and ready to phone again in one hour. We must be far enough away to transmit for fifteen minutes and leave before they arrive. And fellows, this next time they'll already be in the field looking for us."

"What if they fly?" asked Manny. The others didn't know what was going on, but they were listening closely.

"That's the reason for the hour delay between transmissions," Gillette explained to the group. He wanted to reassure them that he was in command of the game.

"We can drive for half an hour between transmissions, so if they drive, we will have at least a ten minute head start on them after broadcasting for fifteen minutes."

If they fly, they have to make noise and land somewhere. They can't land in the street. You hear them, warn me, I blow up the equipment, and we get the Hell out of the area. If that happens, we call it quits for the night. Okay?"

Everybody agreed that it was a workable plan. By using the freeway system, they were set up and ready for business, at 2:00 A.M., in the office of a popular tax consultant company. The tax consultant service was forty miles from the office supply place and under the flight path to Los Angeles International Airport. It was restricted air space to helicopters, so they felt reasonably safe.

By picking their spots carefully, the night passed uneventfully, and Paul dropped Manny and his tired crew off in East L.A. and went home to get some much needed rest.

It seemed like no sooner had his head hit the pillow, when Victoria Franklin was gently shaking hit shoulder,

"Paul, wake up please. This is important, and I can't go to my hotel and get any sleep until I tell you. Paul, damn it, wake up!" Paul woke with a start. The urgency in her voice did more to bring him to full awareness than her words did,

"What, What's the matter? Did you get caught digging into their records?"

"No, There's no problem there. You had them chasing all over town last night. They even asked for bureau help in pin-pointing your travels and trying to anticipate your next position. Our phones have been ringing off the hook all night long. Hiding under the restricted flight path was a stroke of genius. They had you spotted, but couldn't fly in to bust you."

"Flattery will only put me back to sleep, Vic. Will you please get to the point. What's got you so upset?" Paul's eyes had already started to start getting heavy.

"It's your partner, Ernie Stanton. I thought you said they agreed to not look for him. Your boss put him on paid holiday and threatened Ackerman with jail if they bothered him.

"Well I don't think Ackerman believed your story about his disappearance because last night, both of you were named as rogue cops who were trying to plant electronic evidence to frame some top DEA and Border Patrol officials for criminal conspiracy and underworld connections.

"Paul, if you don't wind this thing up fast, you and Ernie will be dead meat. Ruiz will kill you if you venture into Mexico.

"And, from what I was able to decode, the two of you are number one on the hit list here at home. Unfortunately, poor Ernie doesn't know a damn thing about it. You've got to warn him."

Paul looked worriedly down at the floor,

"Damn it, Vic, I don't even know where to start looking for Ernie. He's somewhere in the Colorado mountains. I think the best course of action would be for me to get a message to his sister and have her warn him to hide out in a cave somewhere until I clean this up, or -- I don't even want to think about the OR. Did we get enough last night to take any action against anyone?"

Victoria beamed a small smile,

"Not enough to make any arrests, but plenty of the type of facts that justify a grand jury investigation. I've got seven regular border patrol officers who are living well beyond their ability to pay. Five of the seven are the sole support of their families, and to pay for their monthly expenses they would have to make over a hundred and fifty thousand a year. The other two are single. One owns a yacht. He paid Mister Hector Morales of Seattle, Washington one hundred sixty thousand in three installments by cashier's checks. The other is into race cars. "These are just little fish."

"Would you believe that your Bill Green owns an island? His small island is a close neighbor to one owned by Morales. Ackerman is either very careful, very clever, or Green has him completely snowed.

"The two of them have worked together for years without even a hint of scandal. The only thing unusual was Green's slow accumulation of wealth dating way back, long before he, supposedly, was almost killed by Ruiz."

"Green is obviously the Judas Goat that has been protecting Ruiz, and leading undercover agents to their slaughter."

By the time she finished her report, Paul was up on his feet, pacing back and forth, and pounding his fist into his hand. His mind was racing, but he realized that knowing and proving were two completely different things. He turned to Victoria, his voice choked with rage,

"Vic, I've got to get that bastard, but how the Hell am I going to do it. He's covered his ass all the way. I'll bet we can't even prove that he owns even the boat-dock on that island. He's already figured what I was doing and blocked me by suggesting that we are trying to create false evidence electronically to frame him.

"Shit! he don't even have to hide the evidence. All he has to do is say that you put it there. What are we going to do, Vic? You got any suggestions?"

She rubbed her chin thoughtfully and closed her eyes. When she opened them back up, she raised her eyebrows and spoke slowly,

"If you really want to hurt them, we'll have to get them to hurting each other. And the way to do that is to destroy the things they cherish the most, and have each side blaming the other. "Tell me, Paul, why do you think those DEA agents and Border Patrol guards went on the take? What corrupted them in the first place?"

"The answer to that is simple," Paul answered, "money. They sold out for fast, big money. I'd call it blood money."

"You're right. And what would hurt them the most? Losing all that nice money, that's what. And what if they thought that this Bill Green had ripped them off? Don't you think they might get a little peeved?"

Paul started to smile,

"Christ, Vic, do you think you could pull it off? Hell why not get the IRS to foreclose on Green's island for back taxes?"

"I can't mess with tax records, but I can change the registration on that yacht to show that a forty thousand dollar a year DEA agent is the new registered owner. The yacht for some reason stayed registered in the name of Hector Morales. You could leak the knowledge to your boss, and he could tell Les Ackerman. Ackerman would have to take action, and the guy would have to blame Green or Ackerman. Watching him should provide some interesting results, don't you think?"

Paul now spoke with enthusiasm,

"I think, Victoria, that I could learn to love you, if you keep coming up with these lovely, devilish ideas. How about taking some of that blood money and setting up seven trust funds for the families of those DEA agents who Bill Green betrayed and Ruiz had killed?"

"No problem," she answered, "get an attorney to set up the trusts at one of the larger savings and loans, and I'll transfer the funds."

"Now I've got to get some sleep, or I won't be worth a darn, tonight. Be careful tonight. They'll really be ready to nail your butt. Can you move any faster and speed up the cycle?"

"I'm just afraid that they'll be deadly serious, this time."

Paul grinned, "I can do better than that. I trained one helper last night and by the end of the first hour, I can have four active teams moving and setting up equipment. If you use another line for modem contact and leave the number that I called last night open; a team can call you when they are set up, give you the number, and tear back down in ten minutes. Meanwhile, someone else will call you a number, and you can start right back up again. That way, you can keep busy on the computer most of the time and won't have to wait on our setting up each time.

"We'll run those bastards in circles all night, and try to keep as much distance between calls as possible, just to be safe, Okay?" She yawned widely, "Sounds good to me. Oh yes, tell your people to wait for me to say `number please' before they give me the number; just in case I get any unexpected visitors. Now, I've really got to go -- before I fall asleep sitting here." She stood up, stretched, and left the room. Paul was sound asleep before her car left the driveway.

Chapter Twenty-four
-------------------

Ernie Stanton's sister lived in the West half of a duplex in the residential area of Hawthorne. The neighborhood had been rental residential for over forty years. Paul knew that the place would be under surveillance and the phone tapped, so the only chance he had to get a message to her was if she left to go shopping or to some other crowded place.