Chimera

CHAPTER 32

Criminalistics Examination Room, National Fish amp; Wildlife Forensics Lab

As Bulatt and Achara Kulawnit watched from the far side of the Criminalistics examination room, Donn Renwick, Steve Hager and Dr. Juliana Ferreira — who were now dressed in white lab coats and sitting across from each other at a table-height lab bench, with the shipping box bearing the red Thai Forestry Division evidence tape sitting between them in the middle of the table — began to record information from the evidence tag onto their individual examination note forms.

Once they finished their initial note-taking, all three forensic scientists put on pairs of white cotton gloves and masks. Then Ferreira picked up the colorfully wrapped and tagged box and walked over to the far opposite side of the room, followed closely by Hager and Renwick.

Stopping in front of a ‘glove box’ — a three-foot-wide-by-two-foot-deep-by-three-foot-high glass-faced box equipped with a sealable-door at one end, a double-door vacuum chamber at the other, and a pair of long rubber gloves that allowed an examiner to handle items inside the box without physical contact — Ferreira opened the side door, placed the box inside, and sealed the door shut.

Then, after slipping her arms into the long gloves, she used a scalpel to slowly and carefully cut open the box. A small manila envelope and a six-inch-square box, both sealed with evidence tape, slid out onto the floor of the glove box.

Ferreira used the scalpel to cut the envelope open; slid a clump of wrapped tissue out into her gloved hand; placed the tissue clump in a vial; filled the rest of the vial with a liquid from a squeeze bottle marked ‘PROBE DECON’; screwed on a cap; placed the vial inside the vacuum chamber; shut and locked the inside door; pulled her hands out of the gloves; made a few valve adjustments on the vacuum chamber console; pressed a button marked ‘DECON’; and waited thirty seconds.

Then, after walking around to the side of the glove box and opening the outside door of the vacuum chamber, the three forensic scientists came back to the workbench, the vial in Ferreira’s hand and the evidence box in Hager’s.

“Can we watch what you’re doing, or should we be running for the door?” Bulatt asked.

“Sure, come on over, no problem,” Ferreira said as she sat back down at the workbench and began making adjustments to a low-power dissection microscope. Renwick and Hager took chairs on either side of the microscope station.

“Was all that glove-box business really necessary?” Bulatt asked as he and Achara cautiously approached the workbench.

“Probably not,” Ferreira said as she opened the vial, removed the now-soggy white tissue clump with a pair of plastic forceps, set it into a small glass Petri dish, placed the dish under the dissection microscope, and began to tease apart the wet tissue. “The nano-probes we found in those Clouded Leopard carcasses broke down real quick under UV light, once we isolated them from the lymphatic system, so exposure to air and sunlight at the Preserve in Thailand should have sterilized the bullet and the cartridge case. But there may be some completely isolated tissue under that peeled-back jacketing, and we’re still trying to figure out what the DNA segments attached to the nano-tubes do, so we don’t want to take any chances.”

“Appreciate that,” Bulatt muttered, eyeing the now-exposed mushroomed rifle bullet that Ferreira was slowly moving into the view-field of the microscope with a whole new appreciation for its lethal nature.

“That’s also why we asked you and the Chief to take a good soapy shower and go though that decontamination procedure with the evidence box,” Ferreira explained to Achara as she carefully turned the pullet onto its mushroomed tip, “just in case.”

“Finding anything?” Renwick asked.

“Um, yeah, definitely picked up some animal hairs — looks like grey, white and light brown — and a bunch of tissue, all tucked up nice and safe under the peeled-back jacketing.” Mumbling to herself now, Ferreira began using the plastic forceps and another plastic probe to carefully remove hairs and bits of bloody tissue from under the mushroomed bullet tip, placing the recovered hairs in a small sterile capped vial and the tissue bits into a second identical vial.

After another thirty seconds, Ferreira got up, said, “I’ve got my samples,” and walked purposefully out the door of the Criminalistics lab; on her way to the Genetics lab with her vials and notes.

“My turn,” Renwick said as he moved into the chair vacated by Ferreira, and put his eyes up against the eyepieces of the dissecting microscope. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.”

As Renwick carefully manipulated the bullet under the microscope with the same plastic forceps, Hager gently slid a folded ‘C-shaped’ two-inch-wide strip of cardboard out of the small evidence box. The top and bottom ‘C’ ends of the cardboard strip were pressed against the base and mouth of a fired brass rifle cartridge casing — the casing being held in place by a twig stuck through the top end of the cardboard and into the cartridge mouth — the entire structure being held tightly together with a looping wrap of duct tape. The effect was a protective three-sided cardboard shield protecting the secured casing from any outside source of abrasion.

“Looks like a point-two-four-three casing,” Hager said. “I’ll check the base for confirmation after I finish the latent work.”

“Based on the scope reticule, the bullet appears to be a two-four-three also,” Renwick said, talking mostly to Hager who was now examining the casing under a low-powered magnifying lens. “I’ll confirm with the calipers after I make the scan.” He reached over with one hand to take another series of photos with the digital camera built into the microscope, and then made a few notations to his exam form.

“The twig’s a nice touch,” Hager said as he continued to examine the surface of the protected casing with an angled flashlight beam. “You teach him that?” he asked, looking back up at Bulatt.

“All I did was explain the basic principles of preserving evidence; he took it from there,” Bulatt said. “From what I could see, the Chief’s a natural crime scene investigator.”

“Yes, Chief Narusan is very enthusiastic, and very happy with his new assignment,” Achara added.

“Well, keep encouraging him; he does a lot better job of collecting and preserving evidence than most of our agents,” Hager said as he placed the ‘’C’ structure back on the workbench, took a series of quick digital photographs from different angles, and then began to make more notations on his evidence exam form.

“I’m going to start a NIBIN scan on the bullet,” Renwick said as he stood up with the gauze-wrapped bullet in one hand and his notes in the other.

“Sounds good,” Hager acknowledged as Renwick headed toward the door. “I’ll get the casing over to you in about a half hour or so, as soon as I finish the processing.”

Then Hager looked up at Bulatt and Achara. “This is the exciting part for us latent-print jockeys; you two like to watch?”

Latent Print Lab, National Fish amp; Wildlife Forensics Lab

In the latent print lab, Bulatt and Achara adjusted pairs of orange-tinted goggles over their eyes, and then watched as Hager first carefully fumed the cartridge casing that was now mounted inside a glass-faced fume hood, and then adjusted the beam of an adjustable-frequency light source until the brass surface began to glow.

“Oh yes,” Hager finally laughed in cheerful satisfaction as he stepped back from the front of the fume hood, allowing Bulatt and Achara a clear view of his work.

“Is that really a fingerprint?” she asked in a disbelieving whisper.

“No, my dear, that is what us forensic types call a perfect partial thumbprint,” Hager corrected.

As if responding to Hager’s words as much as the dial under his fingers, the orange-yellow thumbprint glowed even brighter, each whorl and ridge ending clearly visible to the naked — albeit goggle-aided and protected — eye.

“My god, a perfect print, how is that possible after all those hours in the sun and rain?” Achara whispered, still visibly enthralled by the glowing evidence.

“Very simple,” Hager said. “Every time you load a cartridge into a rifle magazine or chamber, you apply a perfectly identifiable latent fingerprint to the oily surface of that cartridge, which does not get obliterated when the cartridge is fired or ejected or lays around in a rainforest for several days, as this one apparently did. So, if the scene investigator knows what he or she is doing, and collects the casing properly — and gets it to the lab without rubbing it against any other casings or objects — we can usually visualize that print and make a database search.”

“And you’re going to be able to do that with this fingerprint; run a database search?” Achara asked, wanting confirmation.”

“Not a problem; we rarely get a print this nice to work with,” Hager confirmed.

“How long will it take to get results back?” Bulatt asked.

“On a print that distinct? Once I get the print scanned and coded, anywhere from five minutes to an hour, if we’re lucky.”

“And if not?”

Several hours, maybe several days,” Hager replied. “Depends on a lot of factors we don’t control. I could give it a higher priority, but you said you wanted to stay low-profile on our data runs.”

“Low profile is better,” Bulatt said, and then looked over at Achara. “Why don’t we go have dinner, check into a hotel, get some sleep, and let these guys do their work.”

“That sounds like a very nice idea,” Achara said, nodding sleepily. “I think my brain and my body are residing in different countries.”

“Already taken care of,” Renwick said from the doorway. “We made reservations for you at the Windmill Inn, a couple of miles down the road. Take one of our lab rigs.” Renwick tossed a set of keys to Bulatt. “There are a lot of nice restaurants downtown, take your pick. Be back here by nine A.M. tomorrow, and we may have something for you.”

“Any place you recommend?” Bulatt asked.

Renwick and Hager looked at each other.

“The Kat Wok?” Hager suggested.

Renwick looked over at Achara. “How do you feel about Pan Asian stir-fry?”

“Depends on who’s doing the cooking,” she said with a tired smile. “If you were eating there tonight, instead of working, what would you order?”

“Probably grilled salmon, or the beer batter shrimp, along with the saffron rice and a spinach salad,” Renwick said.

“And don’t forget the Szechwan beans as an appetizer,” Hager added. “You can make a meal out of the beans, if you don’t mind a lot of garlic.”

Bulatt and Achara looked at each other in unspoken agreement.

“Yes,” Achara said with a dimpled smile, “the Kat Wok will do just fine.”

“You guys are welcome to join us,” Bulatt said as he got up from the chair. “Special Ops is buying.”

“Appreciate the offer,” Renwick said, “but Steve, Juliana and I are going to have to rack up some serious overtime if you want — ”

“Pardon the interruption, folks,” a heavyset woman with shoulder-length red hair who looked to be in her mid-forties said as she walked into the room with a no-nonsense stride and stopped in front of Bulatt, who immediately stood up. “Hi,” she said, sticking out her hand, “I’m Linda.”

“Ged,” Bulatt said as he met her surprisingly firm handshake. “And this is Captain Achara Kulawnit from the Forestry Division of Thailand.”

“Achara will do fine,” Achara said as she also stood up and shook Linda Reston’s hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about your work, and your sons.”

“Don’t get me started on those two. I blame it all on their father,” Reston said as she took a grainy eight-by-ten photo out of a manila folder in her left hand and placed it on the lab bench. “What I need to know, right now, is if any of you recognize this fellow?

Bulatt took a quick look at the face of a man looking out the driver’s side window of a dark SUV and said: “yeah, I do. He’s some kind of federal government spook; goes by the name John Smith — at least with me, anyway.”

“And you know him from where?” Reston pressed.

“We gotten into a couple of altercations, first in Phuket a couple of days ago, and then at an electronics shop up in Redmond yesterday,” Bulatt said. “Both of us happened to be looking for the same people, and our wires got tangled.”

“You — you’re subject White?!” Reston blinked in surprise.

“One of his men referred to me by that name,” Bulatt said hesitantly. “How would you know that?”

Reston was fumbling in her manila folder, and came up with a stapled-together set of pages which she began flipping through quickly.

“Bit of an altercation?” Reston looked up from her papers, her eyes widened in disbelief. “ You’re the federal wildlife agent who beat the crap out of two of Smith’s operatives and shot a third?!”

“It sounds worse than it really was,” Bulatt said defensively. “The two goons in the parking lot wanted to walk away with my evidence, and the third guy drew a gun on me. None of them identified themselves as being a federal anything. What did they expect me to do, put my hands up, surrender, and hand over my evidence? Besides, the third guy was wearing a vest; I just bruised him up a little bit.”

“Which is presumably why he’s only lying in a Seattle hospital with his two buddies, listed as ‘out of action for an indeterminate time,’ instead of being planted,” Reston said, shaking her head. “Do you have any idea who your ‘John Smith’ is?”

“Some kind of Internal Affairs honcho from the Agency; or, at least, that’s what he implied. Can I see that report?”

“No, this report does not exist,” Reston said firmly. “And, yes, he does work for the Agency; but his name is not Smith, and that is not what he does.”

“How would you — ?” Bulatt started to say, but then remembered. “Oh yeah, that’s right, you used to — ”

“Work for the bastards when they were more civilized, and when the ‘John Smith’ teams were used sparingly and carefully controlled,” Reston finished.

“He claims to be one of the controllers,” Bulatt said.

“Yeah, that’s a funny one. Has it occurred to any of you to wonder where I got that photograph?” Reston gestured at the photo lying on the bench.

“That looks like it was taken by one of our lab surveillance cameras,” Hager said hesitantly.

“Kudos to the latent print guy,” Reston said with only a slight trace of sarcasm.

Bulatt picked it up and examined the familiar face for a moment before his eyes flicked down to the imprinted numerals at the bottom of the photo. He blinked in surprise and then quickly checked his watch. “Jesus, this was taken an hour ago?!”

“Outside the lab, on Campus Way, and hour and seven minutes ago,” Reston corrected.

“That son-of-a-bitch tailed a U.S. Marshall’s plane here — to Ashland?!” Bulatt’s eyes blazed.

“Not just to Ashland,” Reston corrected again, “to your specific hotel in Ashland. ‘Smith’ and five of his men checked in to the Windmill a little over two hours ago; probably because someone here at the lab made reservations in your real names with a government credit card.” Reston looked over at Hager who nodded ruefully. “These people have incredible resources. That’s how they work.”

“They?”

“The snake-eaters… hunter/killer teams,” Reston said. “Seriously dangerous people. You were out of your mind to mess with them up in Redmond.”

“And they’re all checked in at the Windmill in, right now?” Bulatt asked.

“All except for the guy taking first watch.”

“And where is he?”

“Behind the building, in the Campus way cul-de-sac.”

“Ah, excuse me,” Bulatt said as he got up, looked around the room, grabbed a roll of nylon strapping tape, and disappeared out the doorway.

“Hey, where the hell is he going?!” Reston demanded, looking around at Hager and Achara, both of whom shrugged their shoulders.

“My father says that Khun Ged is a man who instinctively confronts evil, because he knows no other way of dealing with it,” Achara said calmly. “Therefore, I would assume he’s going outside to confront evil.”

“Jesus,” Reston muttered as she lunged for a computer terminal.

While Reston was busy punching keys and working her mouse, Captain Achara Kulawnit calmly walked over to the lab bench, picked up the ‘non-existent’ report, and began to read.

Outside the National Fish and Wildlife Forensics Lab

The man ‘John Smith’ left on first watch in the dark blue SUV was still searching the broadband for a good AM station when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye, looked up, saw a government-licensed pickup truck pull out of the rear parking lot of the National Fish amp; wildlife Forensics Lab and turn up Campus way — in his direction — at a high rate of speed, and with all lights off.

“What the — !”

Reacting instantly, as he’d been trained, the man turned on the SUV’s engine and started to reach for his safety belt.

At that moment, the on-coming truck’s high-beam headlights erupted in a blinding burst of light that caused the man to bring his hands up, reflexively, to protect his eyes. In doing so, he never saw the truck suddenly swerve directly toward the front bumper of his vehicle.

The impact flung the watchman forward, his face and upper torso impacting the amazingly responsive air-bag with such force that his legs and lower body were driven back and then under the bag and steering wheel.

Stunned, the watchman was barely aware of being dragged out of the SUV, or of being sat upright a split second before a sharply-driven elbow slammed down into the space between his neck and shoulder joint; the resulting hydrostolic shock from the blow sending a mass of blood rushing into his brain and rendering him instantly unconscious.

Moments later, as he began to regain consciousness, the watchman was vaguely aware of being in a dark and enclosed space with his mouth loosely taped, his ankles taped together, and his wrists taped behind his back.

Minutes later, the watchman was fully aware that he was lying on his back; jammed into the rear seat floor of the SUV; effectively encased by the fully-backed-up and reclined front seats; and unable to get to his cell phone and pistol that were no longer attached to his belt.

Renwick was waiting as Bulatt drove the lab pickup back into its assigned space, got out, and then walked over to the Lab’s rear parking lot door.

“Sorry about the bumper,” Bulatt said. “Tell your boss I’ll file the accident report when I get back to the office, and arrange for a replacement vehicle.”

“I’ll tell him,” Renwick said agreeably, “but I have a feeling he’ll settle for a copy of the surveillance tape.”

“Steve and Linda tell you what’s going on?”

“Yeah, they filled me in,” Renwick said. “You special ops guys have an interesting approach to problem-solving.”

“I haven’t solved much yet, but I did learn something,” Bulatt said. “Did you know those assholes get to rent vehicles equipped with that Satellite Security system that can track their cars all over the U.S. — presumably in case they forgot where they left them — and even unlocks the damned things remotely if they lose their keys or lock them inside the car?”

“No, I didn’t” Renwick admitted as they walked down the hallway toward the criminalistics exam room. “Sounds like an expensive option. The Service makes us rent compact cars with no frills. God knows what we’d have to do if we lost our keys. Probably have to walk.”

“Exactly,” Bulatt said, nodding. “Which reminds me, do you remember that big case that one of our special ops agents — Henry Lightstone — worked last year? The one where we asked you to track back on the country and population source of a bunch of hairy-legged critters?”

“I think it’s safe to say the entire lab is aware of that case,” Renwick said, “mostly due to reoccurring nightmares.”

“You guys ever get the genetics worked out?”

“I don’t think so. Too many other higher priority issues; although I’ll bet if you took a vote amongst the lab staff — ”

“So they’re still here?”

“Every one of the damned things; in their own tanks, and locked securely in the bug room. Or at least we assume they’re all there. I seriously doubt that anyone’s gone back there to take a count, except for the university kid we hired to do the feeding.” Renwick gave Bulatt a questioning look. “Why, are you thinking about taking them with you?”

“Yeah,” Bulatt said. “That’s exactly what I was thinking about.”

Conference Room, National Fish amp; Wildlife Forensics Lab

Twenty minutes later, when Bulatt walked back into the lab conference room with a large cardboard box in his hand, he found Donn Renwick, Steve Hager, Juliana Ferreira, Linda Reston and her twin sons waiting for him. The boys were now sitting extremely close to Achara at the far end of the table, and pointing out something on a computer screen.

“Things are about to get interesting,” Bulatt said as he carefully placed the box on the floor and then sat down in the one empty chair.

“You mean more interesting than assaulting federal agents, and stuffing them in the back of a SUV?” Reston inquired.

“I think so,” Bulatt said, nodding.

“Before you tell us why that might be the case, maybe we should fill you in on a few things first,” Renwick suggested.

“Sure,” Bulatt said agreeably. “Go ahead.”

“I’ll start,” Ferreira said. “The tissue under the jacketing of that bullet is definitely from a Clouded Leopard. I confirmed that with the mass-spec a few minutes ago. I don’t know if it’s been genetically altered, like the other two; but I should know more about that by tomorrow afternoon.”

“And we’ve gotten three hits out of NIBIN on the cartridge casing,” Renwick said. “one out of Russia, one out of Alaska, and one out of South Africa; all within the last two years. No suspects, but a lot of scene evidence that we can try to link up.”

“Any hits on the bullet?” Bulatt asked.

“No, just the casing, so far.”

“Okay, that still fits the wealthy international hunting pattern,” Bulatt said, nodding. “Anything else?”

“Just one minor thing,” Hager said. “We got a match on the print.”

“You — what?!” Bulatt’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“Michael Hateley. Fifty-five year old Caucasian male, CEO of a major defense industry subcontracting firm in Denver, busted for drunk-and-disorderly and assaulting a police officer in Anchorage thirty-four years ago,” Hager said, reading from his notes. “That’s where the computer found a set of his prints. Based on his reported blood alcohol level, he probably didn’t even remember having his prints taken.”

“Are you absolutely sure about the match?” Bulatt said in a hushed voice.

“Ninety-eight percent confirmation by the system, which is as high as the software is programmed to go. I’ll have a copy of the original prints faxed to us tomorrow morning, so I can make the final confirmation under a glass; but, yeah, odds are extremely high that he’s the guy who put his thumb on that two-four-three casing. Unfortunately, I don’t think that solves your problem.”

Bulatt blinked in sudden realization.

“Shit, you can’t match the casing to the bullet with the Clouded Leopard tissue, can you?”

“No, we can’t,” Renwick said. ‘We would have some arguable degree of probability if there were bullets collected from those Russia, Alaska and South African scenes; but the only thing they submitted were cartridge cases.”

“But you can still link those cartridges — and therefore the scenes — to Hateley’s rifle, can’t you?” Bulatt asked hesitantly.

“Very possibly,” Renwick agreed, “assuming he didn’t buy it from some other internationally-traveling hunter, which is exactly what his lawyer is going to claim.”

“And even if we can prove he bought the rifle two years ago, and didn’t lend it to anyone, he still could have been hunting at each of those locations the week — or month — before; which is something else his lawyer is likely to claim,” Hager added.

“And you can’t tell when those cartridges were fired?” Bulatt asked.

The two forensic scientists shook their heads.

“Shit,” Bulatt muttered to himself. He stared down at the table, lost in thought for a few seconds. Then his head suddenly snapped back up.

“Can we get a copy of Hateley’s mug shot from that Anchorage arrest; or, ideally, an updated photo,” Bulatt asked.

“We’re already working on it,” Achara said, looking up from the computer. “The boys are digging into his Corporate website right now. If they can find something — ”

“Not ‘if’ — we will find something,” one of the identical twins said. “No doubt about it.”

“Yeah, absolutely no doubt,” the other confirmed.

“You two just be careful where you dig; you know your limits,” Linda Reston warned her sons, and received a quick pair of “yes, moms.”

“Limits?” Bulatt asked quizzically.

“There are some relevant federal rules about hacking firewalls and private databases; and, contrary to my son’s opinions, the computers they’re using can be traced,” Reston said. “Being the responsible parent, I’d like to keep them out of federal prison for a few more years.”

“Perfectly understandable,” Bulatt said absentmindedly as he looked around the conference room, grabbed a pad of paper, and began writing furiously. After a minute or so, he tore the top sheet off the pad and handed it to Reston. “Can you do any or all of that?” he asked.

Reston examined the block-printed notes. “Satellite Security?”

“The window sticker on the rental car I smacked into claims it’s protected by their full system,” Bulatt explained. “Why rent something like that for one car and not the others?”

Reston shrugged. “I can check. When do you need it?”

Bulatt looked at his watch. “Is a half-hour asking too much?”

“Yes, it is, but I’m starting to enjoy this; so I’ll see what I can do,” Reston said after a moment’s hesitation. Then she looked over at her twins. “Can you keep an eye on those two while I try to get some work done?” she asked Achara, very much aware that the hormones of her sons were finally kicking into high gear.

“As long as I can stay awake, sure, no problem,” Achara said with a tired yawn, generating a pair of wide grins among her two charges.

“Actually,” Bulatt said, “I think I’m going to need Achara for a while; but I guess I could take the boys along too,” he offered.

“Absolutely not, they get enough free-wheeling inspiration from their father as it is,” Reston said emphatically. “I’ll keep an eye on them; they can help me on the car registrations.”

The twins started to protest, but Bulatt cut in: “after that, Achara and I will be happy to take them out for all the pizza they can eat; but only if they manage to track down those links.”

“Going out for pizza afterwards is fine, just as long as their computers stay right here,” Reston reminded.

The promise of all the pizza they could eat while in the presence of an exotic woman like Captain Achara Kulawnit was apparently too much for a pair of fourteen-year-old male minds to resist. They followed their mother out of the room obediently.

Bulatt turned to Renwick. “Got another government rig we can borrow?” he asked.

“I think we’ve got a couple that are still in reasonable shape,” Renwick replied. “Truck or van?”

Bulatt looked over at Achara. “How do you feel about being in close proximity to a bunch of critters with hairy legs?”

“My father always said I was born to be a biologist, and my mother never liked to go in my room,” Achara said with a smile. “Does that answer your question?”

“I think so,” Bulatt said as he tore the next page off the note pad, took out his wallet, pulled out five one-hundred-dollar bills and handed them over to Renwick along with the page of block-printed notes. “The van will do just fine,” he said. “You think you could arrange for all of those things to happen without identifying yourself as a federal government employee?”

“Yeah, sure, no problem,” Renwick said as he scanned through the notes. Then he looked back up at Bulatt. “ Two large pizza’s?”

“Better make it three,” Bulatt said. “I’m going to need those fourteen-year-old brains well fed.”

Rear Parking Lot, Windmill Inn, Ashland, Oregon

Bulatt drove the damaged dark blue SUV around to the rear parking lot of the Windmill Inn, ignoring the thrashing and muffled cursing from the man who was still jammed into the rear seat floor space. He parked next to a trio of like vehicles — two similar SUVs and a new van — all of which sported identical warning stickers on the driver’s side windows.

“So much for covert tradecraft,” Bulatt muttered to himself as he waited for Achara to park next to his SUV. Once she was parked, he got out and walked around to the driver’s side of the lab van. As he did so, he thumbed a call number on his Blackberry.

“How did it go?” he asked Achara, looking past her shoulder at the array of fifty duct-taped glass aquariums that took up most of the floor space of the van’s cargo bay.

“Just fine,” she said, her brightly flashing eyes matching her dimpled smile. “They’re actually very cute little fellows.”

“Maybe to their mothers, or born-to-be biologist,” Bulatt replied with a grin as he brought his Blackberry up to his ear. “This is Ged,” he replied to the responding voice. “I’m looking at two SUV’s and a van.” He quickly read off the license plates, and then waited.

“Right now would be just fine,” he finally said, then disconnected the call, slipped the Blackberry back onto his belt and turned to Achara. “Are you ready to go to work?”

The Ashland Springs Hotel, Ashland, Oregon

Two hours later, Bulatt opened the door to the top-floor, two-room suite that Renwick had paid cash for; stepped inside with a hole-punched cardboard file box in his hand; turned on the light; looked around briefly; and then moved aside to make room for Achara and the two Reston boys.

“Oh, wow,” the two boys whispered wide-eyed when they saw the contents of the living room.

In addition to the stuffed couch and chairs that had been moved against the walls near the suite door, the room contained three cloth-covered round tables with pairs of chairs at each. The table furthest to the right held three large pizza boxes still nestled in warming pouch that was plugged into the nearby wall; six bottles of soda in an ice bucket; a plate holding a dozen chocolate chip cookies; and assorted plates and silverware. The table in the middle of the room, pushed up against the far wall, held a single laptop computer that was connected to a small color printer, and to a grey electronic box that, in turn, was connected to the wall by a thick white cable.

“There are more sodas in the fridge. The laptop, printer and firewall are mine, so your mother’s concerns are not an issue here,” Bulatt said as he closed the door, locked it, set the file box down, and then dragged the couch over so that it blocked the door. “There’s only one computer, so you guys will have to share.”

“Who’s the software registered to?” one of the twins asked.

“The hardware and software are registered to a covert business I set up in Redmond to work fresh water mussel cases,” Bulatt said. “According to your mother, the system’s connected up to the Ashland Fiber Network so that all routine tracking queries link back to Redmond. As long as you don’t use any of your personal passwords to access programs and data, everything you do should track back to my dummy corporation. I don’t understand how that happens, but I suppose you both do.”

“Oh sure,” the other boy who was eagerly pulling one of the pizza boxes out of the warmer said, “all you have to do is — ”

“Don’t tell me,” Bulatt said, holding up his left hand as he unsnapped his holstered pistol with his right and dropped it on the couch, “I’m not going to understand what you’re saying, and it would just make my head hurt if I tried.”

“Hey, is that a Sig-forty?” The boy paused in the middle of opening the first box.

“Yes.”

“It looks just like the one our dad carries. Can I see it?”

“No.”

“What if — ?”

“You touch the gun, I dislocate both of your thumbs,” Bulatt said matter-of-factly. “I’m sure your father would approve, and it would simplify the computer-sharing problem.”

“Oh,” the boy said, apparently intimidated by at least one of the threats as he turned his attentions back to the pizza box.

“Are you sure our mom knows about this?” the second boy — who had already set himself down in front of the computer and was eyeing the connections warily as the odor of hot pizza began to fill the room.

“She knows you’re going to be using my covert business laptop through this specific Internet connection to see what you can find out about Michael Hateley and his globe-hopping buddies, and I’m sure she’s got some clever way of monitoring what you do; but — ” Bulatt started to say.

“Did she actually turn on and operate your laptop?” the boy interrupted.

“Not as far as I know,” Bulatt said. “She just gave me the firewall box.”

The two boys looked at each other, smiled, and nodded. The boy at the computer quickly disconnected the firewall box at the wall and laptop, reconnected the computer directly to the wall, and then turned back to Bulatt. “Now she can’t monitor us.”

“At least not very easily,” the boy stacking slices of pizza onto a plate amended.

“Yeah, that’s true, she’s pretty sneaky,” the boy at computer agreed as he grabbed a slice of pizza from the plate his brother sat next to the laptop. “But, at least this way, it’s not really our fault if we go too far.”

“That’s precisely the idea,” Bulatt said.

The pizza boy started to sit down next to his brother, but then looked over at Bulatt. “Hey, you guys want some of this pizza?”

At that moment, the pungent aroma of Thai spices and garlic erupted into the room, easily competing with — and quickly overwhelming — the odors of baked cheese, crust, tomato paste and pepperoni.

“Eeew, what’s that?” the boys chimed in unison as they turned their attention to Achara, who had turned away from the computer discussion and was now busily opening up boxes labeled KAT WOK and filling plates.

“That,” Bulatt said with a satisfied sigh, “is what real food smells like.”

An hour later, Bulatt set his plate aside, leaned back into the soft cushions of the couch, and sighed contentedly, very much aware of the enticingly warm leg of Achara Kulawnit pressed tightly against his. “That was an excellent meal.”

Ten feet away, the twins continued to mutter, point at the laptop screen, and then quickly work the keyboard and mouse; just as they’d been doing for the last hour in between occasional bathroom, soda and cookie breaks.

“It was very nice,” Achara agreed with a yawn as she contemplated the last Szechwan green bean that she held casually at the end of her chopsticks, “but I can do better.”

“Really?” Bulatt’s right eyebrow rose skeptically.

“Absolutely.” Achara extended the green bean in front of Bulatt who groaned, leaned forward, bit off half, and then sank back into the cushions with another contented sigh as Achara popped the remaining bean half into her mouth. “It’s just a matter of carefully controlling the heat.”

“And you know how to do that.”

“Absolutely.”

Achara glanced over at the twins, eyeing them with an expression on her face that Bulatt couldn’t quite interpret, shook her head, and then turned to Bulatt.

“Speaking of which, I assume you do realize that we could have had a much more intimate dinner if you hadn’t brought along the chaperones,” she added in a quiet voice, her facial features shifting to an expression that was much easier to read. “Tell me you did that because you want very badly to find the men who killed my brother and shot my father.”

“Definitely because of your father,” Bulatt said, meeting her gaze. “I promised him I would find and deal with the men who killed your brother and his Rangers.”

“My brother is at peace with my mother, my father is a very understanding man, and that was an evasive answer,” she said softly.

“Yes, it was,” Bulatt agreed.

“But you still plan on sleeping out here on the couch, guarding the door all night; just in case this John Smith character figures out where we are, and tries to interfere with our investigation again?”

Bulatt glanced down at his wristwatch. “Smith isn’t going to find us, even if he’s awake and looking, which I seriously doubt; and, in about three more hours, he’s going to be much too busy to care about us at all. So, to answer your question: yes, I am going to stay here on this couch and keep an eye on those two, because they’re my biggest concern at the moment,” Bulatt said, nodding his head in the direction of the twins.

“Why, because you’re concerned they might go too far?”

“No, actually, I’m concerned they might be too afraid of their mother to go far enough.”

“Ah.” Achara considered the implications for a few seconds. “And while all of this illicit probing and data mining is going on, you really think the little ones are going to be sufficiently… distracting?”

“Not necessarily, but I do think they’re going to scare the shit out of Smith and his pals for at least fifteen seconds — and make them a lot more thoughtful about other possible consequences down the road — while they’re busy discovering that all their tires are flat, all their car-door keyholes are filled with glue, all their lock releases are duct-taped, and all the Satellite Security systems are disabled. And after that, they’re going to be very busy trying to figure out how to get their trussed-up watchman out of that SUV without breaking a window and setting off the car alarms and waking up the neighborhood.”

“Or getting bit, I suppose.”

“That too,” Bulatt agreed.

“And you’re sure Smith won’t try to hurt them?” Achara asked, looking concerned.

“Oh I’m sure he’d get around to thinking about hurting them, eventually,” Bulatt said. “But, long before that happens, he’s going to find himself confronted by a team of pissed-off special ops agents who are going to want all of their evidence back; and who are going to be very upset if a single hairy leg is harmed.”

“You’re talking about Henry Lightstone, that agent who you said couldn’t tell a dead Cat Island turtle from a live one?” Achara said dubiously

“Henry is making dramatic improvements as a wildlife agent,” Bulatt said, smiling. “And he’s actually getting pretty good at telling dead turtles from live ones. He just doesn’t like getting bit.”

“By turtles?”

“By just about anything; it’s sort of a personality quirk.”

“But you did say he’s more aggressive than you are?” Achara pressed, still sounding dubious.

“Henry is definitely more aggressive than I am, in a devious sort of way; Larry knows every bureaucratic trick in the book; Mike’s off the chart in terms of technical skills; and Dwight’s perfectly capable of ripping arms and legs off guys like Smith and his associates,” Bulatt said. “All things considered, I don’t think you have to worry about the little ones at all.”

“Well, in that case,” Achara said, making an unsuccessful attempt to mask another yawn, “I’m going to go to bed, and I’m taking our little ones with me.” She got up from the couch, bent down, and picked up the cardboard file box. She started toward the bedroom on the left, paused, looked back at Bulatt — who was in the process of stretching his legs out on the couch — lifted one end of the box top slightly, reached in, pulled something out, and then walked back to the couch. “But I wouldn’t want you to get lonely out here, all by yourself,” she added with a dimpled emphasis as she dropped a little furry bundle on Bulatt’s chest.

Bulatt and the twins all watched Achara walk into the bedroom and close the door.

“Wow,” the boy at the computer keyboard said, “she is definitely hot.”

“Classic warrior-princess babe,” the other brother agreed.

“Hey, and if you’re not interested in her,” the first boy said, glancing over at Bulatt, “we’ll be happy to — ”

Bulatt reached down to his chest, picked up the furry bundle, and placed it on his knee. Instantly, the little furry body rose up on all eight legs and scampered back up to Bulatt’s chest.

“Holy shit!” both boys screamed in unison.

“What’s the matter, I thought you guys liked to play with little spiders?” Bulatt inquired, watching with amusement as the furry creature stared at him with glistening eyes and then settled back down in the center of his chest.

“That’s not a little spider,” the first boy whispered.

“That’s not even… little,” the second rasped.

Both boys looked as if they were about ready to faint.

“No, I suppose not,” Bulatt agreed. “He’s actually a red-kneed tarantula. One of our special ops teams seized about seven hundred and fifty of these guys last year. Hell of a bust.”

“You have… seven hundred and fifty of those… things?” The boy could barely get the words out.

“More or less,” Bulatt said. “I’ve got the one here, Achara’s got fourteen more in the box, and — at the moment — we’re storing the rest out at the Windmill Inn.”

“How can you let it just… sit there?” the boy at the keyboard said, looking like he was about ready to cry.

“Just a personal preference, I suppose.” Bulatt shrugged. “Some people are terrified of tarantulas. Other people — like Achara, for example — let them wander around their bedrooms at night.”

“You mean she — ?”

“All night — ?”

“Walking around on top of her bed?”

“On top of… her?”

“Sure, why not. They won’t bother her,” Bulatt said as he picked up the tarantula again, this time dropping it gently onto the floor. “Mostly, they like to wander around on the floor looking for food.

Suddenly alert, the tarantula squatted up and down a couple of times — like he was warming up with some eight-legged knee bends — and then scampered over to the floor where one of the boys had dropped a piece of pizza.

“Don’t worry, he’s just looking — ” Bulatt started to say when both boys screamed in unison; quickly unplugged the laptop from the wall; grabbed up the laptop, the printer and the bucket of sodas; and then disappeared into the far right bedroom with a solid slam of the door.

“- for crickets and other things that like to hang around scraps of pizza,” Bulatt finished as he got up, shut off the lights, settled back into the couch, and closed his eyes with a contented sigh.

At four-thirty-two in the morning, a light tapping on the hotel room door caused Bulatt’s eyes to snap open. After a quick look through the peep-hole, he pulled the couch aside and opened the door.

“George Reston,” the tough and very tired looking man said, holding out an opened federal agent credentials case. “I believe you were the designated kid-sitter this evening?”

“Ged Bulatt,” Bulatt said as he shook Reston’s hand, motioned him inside, and then quietly shutting the door. “Appreciate the use of your boys; they turned out to be extremely helpful, once I got them away from their mom.”

“You mean you actually got some useful work out of these characters?” Reston said as he quietly opened the bedroom door and observed his two sons sprawled out on the twin beds, sound asleep. “How’d you manage that?”

“Classic good-cop bad-cop act,” Bulatt said as he and Reston each picked up one of the boys. “Had a beautiful Thai warrior princess on hand for the good cop, so all I had to do was come up with an effective twist for the bad cop.”

“I heard about your partner,” Reston said. “What did you use for a twist, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Turns out your boys like to play with baby electronic spiders, but turn pale at the sight of a bigger one that’s real.” Bulatt motioned with his head at the red-kneed tarantula squatting on the arm of the couch, apparently watching the scene with some interest.

“Really?” Reston walked over to the couch and stared down at the inquisitive spider. “You think I could arrange to borrow this little guy, every now and then?”

“I’m sure we can work something out,” Bulatt said, nodding agreeably.

A half hour later, a buzzing sound emanating from the couch woke Bulatt out of a light sleep. He fumbled around, found the Blackberry, pressed the light button, noted that it was five-fifteen in the morning, and then thumbed the ‘ANSWER’ button.

“Morning, Henry, where are you at?”

“Rear parking lot of the Windmill Inn,” Henry Lightstone answered.

“Have a pleasant flight?”

“Have you ever flown with Woeshack, at night, and during bad weather?”

“Ah, right, my apologies.”

“Tell it to Paxton, Stoner and Takahara. They just spent the last three hours discussing the best way to dispose of your body, in between watching out for radio towers and tall trees. I don’t suppose you’d care to tell us where you’re staying?”

“Tell the guys I’m hiding out from a bunch of government goons in a hotel room with a gorgeous Thai warrior-princess; a pair of very clever fourteen-year-old CIA-trained hackers; and a boxful of red-knees,” Bulatt said. “No need to add to my grief.”

There was some murmured conversation on the other end of the line.

“Larry thinks you’re bullshitting us, as usual; Mike wants to meet the kids; and Dwight says you’re not going to be of much use to the princess when he’s done ripping assorted parts off your body,” Lightstone said, coming back on the line. “Personally, I’m in favor of handcuffing you into the plane with Woeshack.”

“Which is precisely why I arranged for your morning entertainment; something special to take your minds off your troubles,” Bulatt said, and went on to describe the latest modifications to his plan.

“These are more of the hunter/killer guys you’ve already beaten up and shot; the ones that Schweer told us about?” Lightstone inquired.

“Probably the back-up team,” Bulatt corrected. “If they’re anything like the first group, and the fellow on first-watch, look for them to be heavy on the muscles and firearms, but not real alert. Personally, I’d let them all get a good look at the red-knees wandering around loose in the cars before you make contact; they don’t seem to be able to handle distractions very well.”

“And you really need us to deal with these idiots?”

“Actually, the one I’m concerned about is Smith,” Bulatt explained. “He seems to be experienced, and half-way smart; and he’s probably going to be seriously pissed when he finds out the kids cancelled all of his team’s government travel cards, and messed with their cell phone accounts.”

“No shit?”

“Like I said, they’re very clever kids,” Bulatt reminded.

“And this gorgeous Thai warrior-princess; you saying she’s real?”

“You recall that Colonel Prathun Kulawnit has a daughter?”

“I vaguely remember him showing us a photo one evening,” Lightstone acknowledged.

“Well, she’s all grown up now; and, at the moment, safely nestled in bed about twenty feet from my couch with a bunch of red-knees crawling over her very gorgeous body,” Bulatt said. “Would you like for me to make up some lurid details, or would you rather take all of your frustrations in life out on a bunch of government thugs who are trying to keep us from hunting down the assholes that killed her brother and shot her father; most likely because they want to recruit the assholes for their own purposes?”

There was a long pause.

“Okay,” Lightstone said agreeably, “how much time do you need?”

“Twenty-four hours would be nice; forty-eight even nicer. Smith seems to have a wallet-full of get-out-of-jail cards.”

“How about Smith goes down for assaulting a federal agent, with witnesses present, and I get to meet the princess?”

“Who gets assaulted?”

“Me.”

“Think there’ll be any serious bruising involved? I really don’t like these guys hanging around our lab; kinda makes me nervous.”

“Count on it.”

“Sounds like a deal,” Bulatt agreed.

“You’ll still owe the rest of the guys, though,” Lightstone reminded. “We flew the whole way under the clouds, and some of those trees were pretty goddamned tall.”

“How about I let all you guys in on the take-down?”

“What are we talking about?”

“Right now, four extremely wealthy trophy-killers, probably in-your-face arrogant CEO-types with hidden collections who like to travel a lot; three ex-Australian SASR commandos turned hunting guides who, according to Smith, are good for the deaths of an international smuggler named Gregor and his entire crew, not to mention at least five dead Thai Rangers — including the Colonel’s son — and a lot of collateral damage that we know about; and maybe a bunch of Russian immigrants thrown in for good luck.”

“And you were planning on keeping these assholes all for yourself?” Lightstone asked accusingly.

“Just trying to stay flexible until the last minute,” Bulatt corrected. “Also, there’s the minor problem that I don’t know who they really are, or where they’re at, right now… except for Smith, of course.”

“But you do have a lead?”

“On one of the CEO’s,” Bulatt acknowledged. “A guy named Michael Hateley. I should know a lot more about Mr. Hateley and his associates in a few hours, assuming I can keep Smith and his goons away from my kid-hackers.”

“Consider it done. You want to make the wake-up call?”

“Sure.”

“Adios.”

“Later.” Bulatt disconnected the call, slipped the Blackberry back onto his belt, and then reached for the cell phone he’d taken off the watchman and punched in a series of numbers.

After four rings, a sleepy voice answered. “This is Smith, what’s the hell’s happening out — ?”

“Help,” Bulatt said calmly. Then he disconnected the call, turned the cell phone off, set it aside, and snuggled back into the comfortable cushions with a contented sigh.