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"The Roacherian Effect" A novel by John C. Delavan
Chapter Three
Harried travelers crowded the terminals at Los Angeles International Airport. Some pushed their way through the throngs of milling people, while others sat patiently on their luggage or in the rows of identical, attached chairs waiting for flights to be called or for friends and relatives to arrive from faraway places.
Two businessmen sat in one of the small, concourse cocktail lounges overlooking the flight lines and runways near the gate from which their Japan Airlines flight 61, nonstop to Narita International Airport in Tokyo, would leave. They discussed nothing, each working over papers from his own briefcase.
The two men visually melted in with the other business travelers around them. They didn't, however, escape the notice of a rather hawk-nosed, thin man in an ill-fitting, gray, tweed jacket at the far end of the bar. He surreptitiously checked the slip of paper he'd been given containing their descriptions.
The first was described as being six-foot-four, weighing in at 210 pounds. His contact for this job had described this one as having, "...sandy blond hair and a pockmarked face that looks as though somebody beat him for several hours with an ugly-stick."
The other was described as being about five-foot-ten, weighing about 185 pounds. "He's got dark hair, and there isn't really anything else I can tell you about him. He kinda looks like everyone." Great. Well, no doubt about it, he couldn't miss Peterson, so the shorter, dark-haired guy must be Arnburg.
Sharky had seen them arrive at the terminal and observed them while they checked the monitors for their flights and entered the lounge. He was very interested in these two. He had a date with them at 35,000 feet, somewhere over the Arctic Circle between Los Angeles and Tokyo. It was to be a business date, one he hoped would prove more profitable for him than for them. Nervous about the complexity of this job, he felt reassured by the hard shape of the nearly indestructible plastic knife in his sock. A friend had told him one of these wouldn't set off the metal detectors at the airport; still, Sharky had really sweated as he passed through the security check point earlier. Sharky felt he was pretty good with a knife. He'd even killed a drunk one time down on skid row just to see how it felt to cut someone's throat. Holding the power of life and death in his hand gave him a massive rush... excitement beyond anything he'd known before. His friend had told him the plastic knife was hard enough to hammer through wood, so he knew he could kill this man if he could get him alone.
He didn't really know anything about the two men he'd been sent to meet, and didn't think he needed to. After all, they couldn't be very tough -- they were wearing suits. Just a go-between as far as his employers were concerned, Bobby Fister, known to what few friends he had as "Sharky," wasn't very bright. But he was going to score big on this one -- he could feel it. He'd worked out a plan.
The way he figured it this had to be a drug deal. Sharky believed his employers were stupid because they'd given him a nicely wrapped "present" to put in his carry-on bag, which he was supposed to give to these two when the flight was halfway to Japan, in exchange for something they were supposed to give him to deliver to his employers. He'd looked in his package earlier and found it contained lots of cashier's checks and a safe-deposit box key attached to a card with the name of a Hong Kong Bank and the words "No signature required" handwritten on the back, along with some kind of oriental stamp. His employers told him to deliver the present to these guys, they would give him what he believed would be the drugs, which he was to take to a contact in Osaka. Sharky would get a lousy $500 and these guys would go on to Hong Kong with at least ten grand (although he couldn't be sure because he hadn't counted it) plus who knows what the safe deposit box contained.
Now, any fool could see that whoever showed up at the bank with that key and the card wouldn't be asked any questions, so what was to stop him from keeping the money, relieving these two stiffs of the drugs, going on to Hong Kong, relieving the safe deposit box of its burden and living like a king for the rest of his life? It all made perfect sense to him.
Unbeknownst to Sharky, he'd been chosen for this simple task specifically because he had never shown signs of being overly bright, and had a reputation for always following simple instructions to the letter. He had to. Complicated things confused him. Sharky was very proud of the way he'd figured this out. He wished he could tell his parole officer about it; but he knew she wouldn't understand because she'd told him not to leave the state without telling her, and here he was about to get on an airplane and leave the country. She might get mad and put him back in prison. They'd always done that to him, so he didn't tell them anything anymore.
He began laughing out loud, and turned away from the man next to him who was looking at him like he'd gone crazy. He'd just thought of something else. He could sell the drugs and have even more money. Sharky was truly excited about his future, things'd be different for him from now on because he'd gotten smart. He could figure things out for himself now, and no one could get him into trouble anymore. He'd even planned how he was going to get the drugs from these guys. He'd . . .Uh, oh. They were walking past him. Realizing the flight had been called, he got up from his seat and joined the line waiting to board the plane. His new life was about to begin.
* *
Arnburg had noticed the man at the end of the bar watching them so intently. Without appearing to, he'd looked around and observed everyone in the bar several times. The third time he saw the man looking directly at them, he jotted a cryptic note and pushed it across the table to Peterson.
"Hawk-face -- end of bar -- watching -- our man?" the note read.
When they heard their flight being called over the loudspeaker, they got up to leave. In doing so, Peterson was able to observe the hawk-faced man who had been behind him in the lounge. As they turned the corner toward the gate they saw him gather his bag and coat. Peterson gave Arnburg a slight nod and the two continued through the gate and took their seats on board. It would be a long flight, so for now they'd wait.
Sometime during this flight they'd be contacted by someone who had a package for them, but ever since he and Peterson took their seats in first class, they'd neither seen nor heard from "Hawk-Face". Arnburg would have been surprised to see him take a seat in first class. He was pretty seedy looking, and didn't have the "class" for a first class passenger.
In the package they were to receive was $250,000 in cashier's checks made out to "bearer," and a key to a safe-deposit box in Hong Kong which would contain the remaining $750,000. They had already received $50,000 for expenses prior to doing the job.
The movie had been over for an hour. Arnburg was beginning to wonder if he could have been wrong about Hawk-Face being their contact.
"Duh!" he said audibly, smacking his forehead with his palm, aggravated at his own stupidity. Only first class passengers are allowed in the first class section.
Sharky was getting nervous. He hadn't foreseen the possibility that the two men he was supposed to contact might travel first class, and no one had told him how to handle this situation. He'd tried entering the first class area, but was stopped by the flight attendant who politely informed him that coach passengers weren't allowed in first class. He'd returned to his seat next to the snoring fat lady in the Iowa Touring Group jacket, and sat in the dark, thinking as hard as he could about what to do now.
"Freddy," Arnburg whispered, "I have to go slumming in coach. Let me have the 'insulin kit,' just in case."
Peterson slipped the insulin kit from his coat pocket and handed it to Arnburg. Part of the planning for every job included the possibility of a double cross. One didn't arrive at their high level in this profession without being thorough.
Peterson had assumed the identity of one "Thomas Alan Goodwin," a diabetic who took insulin shots, and so naturally carried his insulin with him in a small insulated kit. No one was likely to do a chemical analysis of Mr. Goodwin's insulin. But, if they did, they'd find it to be virtually pure heroin. A single injection into a vein would be enough to kill a strong man several times over. Arnburg had reason to borrow the kit now, just in case. He got up from his seat and went "slumming" in the coach section of the big 747.
Sharky thought his prayers had been answered when he saw the smaller one of the men he's been sent to contact enter his section of the airplane. The man was walking toward the rear of the aircraft where the coach class lavatories were located. Seeing him, Sharky almost jumped from his seat in order to get there first. He stopped, bent over, and pretended to tie his shoe so he could make sure he still had the plastic knife he'd stuck in his sock.
Grabbing the package from his bag, he hurried to the rear of the plane. Sharky's heart beat faster -- the contact also had a package with him. His great new life was almost here. These men didn't know who he was, so he only had to kill one and the other would never know who did it.
Arnburg saw Hawk-Face out of the corner of his eye about halfway down the other isle. He'd missed him at first when he'd scanned this section of the plane, but when the guy jumped out of his seat, looked straight at him, then bent down so quickly, he might as well have been wearing a neon sign. Sizing the guy up once again, about all he could tell for sure was that the guy was a few inches taller than himself, considerably lighter in weight, and had a jailhouse tattoo below the cuff of his partly rolled up shirtsleeve. Not much, but Arnburg felt the warning signs go up.
In this model of the big 747 the two aisles came together at the rear in a U-shape between two rows of lavatories, somewhat secluded behind the passenger area. There was only one man waiting to use the toilets. On of the doors opened and an elderly, oriental woman emerged and disappeared from view around the curve.
Sharky'd never tried to fight anybody fair before, and he wasn't about to try now. He quickly sidestepped so the open door prevented Arnburg from seeing him draw the knife from his sock.
Arnburg is sure now that Sharky's the contact and didn't like the way he deliberately stayed out of his line of sight behind the open door. Arnburg had another one of those gut feelings he'd learned to listen to, and was positive the old Hawk-Face was going to try to take him. He quickly slid back against the wall and sideways one step.
The man waiting for the toilet stepped inside and closed the door behind him, and Sharky leaped forward, swinging the knife, point first, in a hard, chest-high arc.
Arnburg saw the black blade of the knife and the arm swinging it before the door between them was half way closed. He knew he was out of range, but reacted instinctively anyway. His opponent was off balance in this attack. Catching the arm with a trapping forearm block, he stepped behind him and applied a choke hold, pushing him face first against the wall. Sharky struggled, but froze for a second when Arnburg touched a pressure point, causing excruciating pain.
Quickly Arnburg whispered in his ear, telling him not to struggle, that he wanted to make a deal that would make Sharky richer than he'd ever dreamed possible. Sharky heard the words and in the time it took him to understand them, was unconscious, slumped in Arnburg's arms. Arnburg looked quickly to both sides and seeing that no one had observed the struggle, slipped his head under Bobby's arm and supported him like a sick or drunken friend. A small girl came out of a nearby toilet and looked at him quizzically. Arnburg winked at her. "I think my friend had a little too much to drink, don't you?" The little girl giggled and ran down the isle out of sight. Arnburg stepped into the lavatory, dragging his burden in with him, and shut the door.
Sharky started quivering into consciousness, and saw the dim, hazy figure of Arnburg standing over him. He seemed to be disconnected from his body and couldn't make it move the way he wanted to as a hand reached for his throat -- and everything went away again.
Arnburg released his hold on the carotid arteries as he felt the body go limp again, carefully trying not to bruise the throat.
Stepping out into the corridor he retrieved the lethal plastic knife and the two packages dropped in the scuffle. Back inside the toilet, he pushed Sharky's sleeve up and unfastened his belt. Pulling the belt free, Arnburg looped it around Sharky's arm, forming a tourniquet, then pushed the end into Sharky's mouth, forcing the teeth together, biting into the leather. Taking the "insulin" kit and finding a vein in the exposed forearm, he injected the drugs and wondered what thoughts or dreams the man would have as he died. But he wasn't interested enough to think about it long. Wiping everything he'd touched with a handkerchief, then placing Sharky's own fingers on the syringe dangling from his vein, Arnburg left him sitting there on the toilet for someone else to find -- the tragic victim of a drug overdose.
Resuming the role of "Daniel R. Goldsmith," Arnburg stepped into the corridor, shutting the door behind him. A small oriental boy ran past him going in the other direction. Calmly he made his way back to his seat in first class. As he sat down, Peterson gave him an inquisitive look, but said nothing.
Arnburg handed Peterson a package covered in blue gift wrap with a large pink bow; then handed him the package they were to hand over to the contact, and shrugged his shoulders. They'd discuss the situation later, up in the first class lounge. Right now they watched as a flight attendant walked quickly to the spiral staircase leading up to the lounge and the flight deck. She appeared to be very upset. Arnburg had a sardonic smile on his lips. Peterson had drifted off to sleep.