The Skyjacks operated as motorized trolleys, a battery pack powering a high-torque motor with an oversize pulley-wheel that ran atop the steel aviation cable supporting the four black high-voltage lines. Each of the two ERT operatives hung suspended from one of the devices in a harness that featured quick-release carabiners that allowed them to bail out one-handed and rappel via a weight-balanced recoil, falling toward the ground, if need be, like frightened spiders.
As they entered the estate’s airspace, each carrying a semiautomatic rifle slung around their shoulders, they surveyed the property with high-power night-vision headsets with wireless technology that transmitted the digital images back to the command van. The hands-free radios and earbuds allowed continuous communication between all parties.
“You getting this, Flyswatter?”
“A picture’s worth a thousand words,” LaMoia’s voice came back to the dangling operative.
In the night-vision’s eerie green-and-black, viewed alternately between the Vs of trees, they saw a small parking lot crowded with luxury SUVs, Town Cars, and two stretch limousines. A cluster of darkly clad drivers and chauffeurs, some of whom were smoking, loitered by a door to the building.
“We need more than a couple cars and chauffeurs,” LaMoia told his two men. “Keep looking.”
At each pole, the operatives were required to suspend themselves from the cross-ties and move the Skyjack past the pole to the next length of cable. Such transfers consumed three to five minutes, conducted with the utmost care, to avoid being electrocuted.
“Off-line,” announced the lead operative in a hushed whisper.
In the command van, Rotem had had his fill.
“We’re not going to get anything out of this,” he announced to no one in particular.
“Give it time,” LaMoia said. “Our guys know what to look for.”
“When that meeting breaks up,” Rotem said, speculating, “we lose what we’re after.” He had yet to explain, and never would, the loss of Laena. “By then we need legitimate reasons for stopping each and every one of those vehicles. And that’s not happening in this lifetime. If this goes down as a win, we’re going to have to take them as a group, while they’re still in that meeting.”
“It’s a catered event,” LaMoia reminded. “It’s not going to be over in a half hour. They’re probably not even set up yet,” he said, completing his argument. “Give ’em a minute.”
“There’s baggage,” Hampton advised from his uncomfortable seat.
“What about your guy inside?” LaMoia asked.
“That’s unconfirmed,” Rotem said. But then hearing himself say this, he ordered Hampton to try Larson’s cell phone again, muttering, “I’ve waited long enough.” ERT officer Peter Milton, suspended by a woven nylon climbing-strap from one of two wooden booms that supported four high-voltage electric lines, was in the midst of transferring his Skyjack to the next length of cable when he spotted a small stainless-steel box screwed into the wooden pole, and recognized it immediately. He’d moonlighted weekends for Cablevision.
Milton radioed his discovery to the command van and waited to see if LaMoia understood its implications.
LaMoia swiveled on the small stool and faced Rotem. “You may need our help on this one, Marshal Rotem-state law versus the feds, and all-but my officer just stumbled upon the unexpected. It seems someone in that compound is pirating their cable television.”
“Television?”
“A black box,” LaMoia explained. “Unauthorized intercept of a coaxial cable. It could be to steal high-speed Internet or a television signal, but state law’s the same either way.”
“Are we sure?”
“Milton knows his stuff, believe me. If he says it’s a black box, it’s a black box. And I don’t know about Washington, D.C., but in Washington state that’s a no-brainer for a search-and-seizure: ‘to confirm and record the use of the unauthorized interception of radio or television transmission,’ ” he quoted. “More to your favor is that our guys typically make such raids evening or nighttime-like right now-when people are in their homes. It’s not going to ruffle any judge’s feathers to cut us the paper this time of night.”
“Let’s make the call,” Rotem said with reservation.
LaMoia could see through to his concern. “As CO, I’m free to solicit the assistance of any law-enforcement personnel that, in my judgment, will better protect my field personnel. A couple federal marshals joining up won’t raise many eyebrows. We’ve got that license plate, that link to OC, to give us good enough reason to go in hot.”
Rotem had his phone out. He told Hampton to get word to Larson to keep his head down because they were coming in.
“I’ve tried him, like, ten times,” Hampton said.
“Well, try him again.”