Read Online 24 Declassified: 03 - Trojan Horse by Marc Cerasini - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marc Cerasini
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Media Tie-In, Thrillers, Action & Adventure, Espionage, Terrorism, Computer viruses, Award Presentations
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computers, just like me. His name’s Richard Lesser and he owes me a lot of money. If you can steer me in Lesser’s direction, I can promise you a piece of action.”
Dobyns stared at Tony through watery green eyes. “How much cash are we talking here?”
Tony pretended to consider the question. “I guess it’s worth a grand up front. Ten more if you lead me to Lesser.”
Dobyns blinked. “This guy must be into you big time. You got a deal, Navarro.”
Tony reached into his chinos, pulled out a thick wallet. He peeled off ten crisp one-hundred-dollar bills, stuffed them into the man’s sweaty hands. Then he pushed Ray Dobyns toward the door.
“I’ll be right here, waiting,” said Tony. “But only for a couple more days. Locate Richard Lesser and tell me where he’s hiding, and there’s more bills just like those coming your way.”
8:46:18 A . M .PDT South San Pedro Street Little Tokyo
Lonnie snapped up the receiver on the first ring. “This is Nobunaga. Speak.”
“Up and at ’em, samurai. I can’t believe you’re still at home. You’re burning daylight, dude. This is your big day, and opportunity only knocks once.”
Lon greeted his editor by name. Even if hadn’t recognized Jake Gollob’s voice, he’d have recognize the man’s style of discourse. Gollob spoke fluent cliché.
“Been up for hours, Jake,” Lon replied. “Getting ready to go now.” He pulled another delivery uniform out of the closet—this one from Peter’s Pizza—and tossed it, hanger and all, on top of a pile of shirts and overalls already on the bed.
He caught sight of his own reflection in the full-length mirror. At five-eleven he was tall for a Japanese-American. Thin, bordering on scrawny from lack of sleep and a lousy diet. Black hair askew. By his own assessment, Lon didn’t really look much different than he had during his sophomore year at UCLA—the year he’d dropped out.
“The cameras are all packed and I’m heading downtown in fifteen minutes,” Lon told his boss, “just as soon as I settle on the appropriate camouflage.”
He yanked a pair of overalls out of the closet. The tag read Pacific Power and Light.
“What do you think?” Lon asked. “Should I go with the Peter’s Pizza delivery man outfit, or stick to House Dynasty Chinese Restaurant disguise?”
“You got a Singapore Airline uniform in your closet?”
Lon paused. “What’s up?”
“A stringer for Reuters spotted Abigail Heyer boarding an airplane in Singapore.”
“Yeah, so? She’s giving out an award at the Silver Screens tonight. It’s on the schedule, man.”
“Listen, Lon,” Gollob was almost whispering now. “My guy said she was pregnant. Maybe six months or more. She was showing, for sure.”
Lon dropped the overalls on the floor. “No shit? Do you think the father’s that Tarik Fareed guy, the Turk she was dating in London? Or that Nikolai Manos guy she was seeing on that last movie shoot in Romania?”
“How the hell should I know?” Gollob shot back. “I just found out the bitch was knocked up five minutes ago. I know something else, though—”
Oh shit.
“I want a picture of Ms. Heyer on next week’s cover.”
“Jesus, boss. Wait ten hours and you’ll have photos from every wire service to choose from.”
“If I pay a wire service for my cover photo, why the hell am I paying you ?” Gollob barked.
“Good point.”
“Listen, Lon. Abigail Heyer’s flight lands at LAX in an hour and a half, if it isn’t delayed. Get out there and get me a photo.”
“Come on, boss man—”
But the line was dead. His editor had hung up already. Angrily Lon punched the phone number of Mid night Confession magazine on Sunset Strip. Then an idea sprang into his mind and Lon cancelled the call.
Why the hell should I drive all the way out to the airport, get into a shoving match with fifty other pa parazzi, all to get essentially the same freaking shot as everyone else? That’s just nuts, especially when
Dobyns stared at Tony through watery green eyes. “How much cash are we talking here?”
Tony pretended to consider the question. “I guess it’s worth a grand up front. Ten more if you lead me to Lesser.”
Dobyns blinked. “This guy must be into you big time. You got a deal, Navarro.”
Tony reached into his chinos, pulled out a thick wallet. He peeled off ten crisp one-hundred-dollar bills, stuffed them into the man’s sweaty hands. Then he pushed Ray Dobyns toward the door.
“I’ll be right here, waiting,” said Tony. “But only for a couple more days. Locate Richard Lesser and tell me where he’s hiding, and there’s more bills just like those coming your way.”
8:46:18 A . M .PDT South San Pedro Street Little Tokyo
Lonnie snapped up the receiver on the first ring. “This is Nobunaga. Speak.”
“Up and at ’em, samurai. I can’t believe you’re still at home. You’re burning daylight, dude. This is your big day, and opportunity only knocks once.”
Lon greeted his editor by name. Even if hadn’t recognized Jake Gollob’s voice, he’d have recognize the man’s style of discourse. Gollob spoke fluent cliché.
“Been up for hours, Jake,” Lon replied. “Getting ready to go now.” He pulled another delivery uniform out of the closet—this one from Peter’s Pizza—and tossed it, hanger and all, on top of a pile of shirts and overalls already on the bed.
He caught sight of his own reflection in the full-length mirror. At five-eleven he was tall for a Japanese-American. Thin, bordering on scrawny from lack of sleep and a lousy diet. Black hair askew. By his own assessment, Lon didn’t really look much different than he had during his sophomore year at UCLA—the year he’d dropped out.
“The cameras are all packed and I’m heading downtown in fifteen minutes,” Lon told his boss, “just as soon as I settle on the appropriate camouflage.”
He yanked a pair of overalls out of the closet. The tag read Pacific Power and Light.
“What do you think?” Lon asked. “Should I go with the Peter’s Pizza delivery man outfit, or stick to House Dynasty Chinese Restaurant disguise?”
“You got a Singapore Airline uniform in your closet?”
Lon paused. “What’s up?”
“A stringer for Reuters spotted Abigail Heyer boarding an airplane in Singapore.”
“Yeah, so? She’s giving out an award at the Silver Screens tonight. It’s on the schedule, man.”
“Listen, Lon,” Gollob was almost whispering now. “My guy said she was pregnant. Maybe six months or more. She was showing, for sure.”
Lon dropped the overalls on the floor. “No shit? Do you think the father’s that Tarik Fareed guy, the Turk she was dating in London? Or that Nikolai Manos guy she was seeing on that last movie shoot in Romania?”
“How the hell should I know?” Gollob shot back. “I just found out the bitch was knocked up five minutes ago. I know something else, though—”
Oh shit.
“I want a picture of Ms. Heyer on next week’s cover.”
“Jesus, boss. Wait ten hours and you’ll have photos from every wire service to choose from.”
“If I pay a wire service for my cover photo, why the hell am I paying you ?” Gollob barked.
“Good point.”
“Listen, Lon. Abigail Heyer’s flight lands at LAX in an hour and a half, if it isn’t delayed. Get out there and get me a photo.”
“Come on, boss man—”
But the line was dead. His editor had hung up already. Angrily Lon punched the phone number of Mid night Confession magazine on Sunset Strip. Then an idea sprang into his mind and Lon cancelled the call.
Why the hell should I drive all the way out to the airport, get into a shoving match with fifty other pa parazzi, all to get essentially the same freaking shot as everyone else? That’s just nuts, especially when
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