by Joe Goldberg
“It helped that Demon had a gun to his head and blasted him with gas.”
Bridger smiled.
“It is all in the details.”
When Demon stuck his M1911 against Nikola’s head the night before, the Serbian slowly lowered his weapon.
“All clear,” Demon said.
Beast pushed Nikola against the wall and reached into the man’s pockets until he found his mobile phone.
“Ready,” he said. He raised the phone and took two pictures.
The images showed Bridger motionless in a puddle of blood. Makeup made him look like he had been shot in the head at close range. Blood. Bullet holes. Blank, pale face.
Beast looked at the screen and showed them to Beatrice, who nodded her approval.
“All clear,” Beast said.
Bridger’s body went from corpse to alive as it let out a deep breath.
“Thank god he didn’t want video,” Bridger said as he got on his knees. “I’m not sure I could have held in the death breath much longer. Damn, I hate contacts.” He placed his hand under each eye and popped them out.
When he rose to his feet, he took the phone from Beast and looked at the images.
“A work of art, Beatrice.”
He stepped toward Nikola, who was still against the wall with a gun to his head.
“Send these to Serge. No note,” Bridger said, as he handed him the phone.
Nikola paused, but when he felt the extra pressure on his temple from the M1911, he did as he was told.
Beatrice started to wipe the makeup off of Bridger’s face.
Beast walked to a small slit in the wood covering the window and looked down Lomina Street. Although Snake’s counter-surveillance determined none of Nikola’s men had been following, Beast took a sentry position, just in case.
“Imp?” Bridger yelled.
The response came from out of the dim light in the rear of the store.
“You’re dead, Grim Reaper. You can’t boss me around anymore.”
“Don’t make me kill you,” Bridger replied.
“Okay…well…assassin-boy didn’t contact his team in the last half hour. No one knows he is here.”
They were inside the entrance door to a boarded-up retail shop. The space was small and derelict. A dusty L-shaped counter protruded from the wall a few feet beyond where Bridger’s head was lying in a pool of blood moments ago. The rest of the square-shaped space ran twenty feet to a back wall and door to a service hall and storage. Fresh cut chains and broken locks were on the floor near a rusty metal exit door.
“Beast?”
“All clear on the street. A few people walking by. I see Snake down the block.”
“Bad tradecraft, Nikola,” Bridger said, as he wiped a makeup removing cloth over his faux bullet hole. He dropped it into a baggie as Beatrice handed him another. “I was hoping for that.”
“Do we need him? Can I kill him?” Demon asked.
Nikola’s eyes widened slightly as Bridger seemed to contemplate the question. “You know the plan. We still need him.”
“Son of a bitch,” Demon grumbled, as he removed the gun from Nikola’s head. Nikola’s body released tension just as Demon landed a left hook flush into his face. Nikola fell to the floor like a bowling pin. His face splatted and bounced into the pool of fake theatrical blood that had passed as the contents of Bridger’s head a few moments before.
“What? He ain’t dead,” Demon said to Bridger in his defense. He holstered his Kimber and picked up his Devil Stick. Flipping the dial, he held the end to the groaning Nikola’s face and released a thick dose of the Milton Gas. His body trembled, stiffened, then went limp.
“This guy is made of concrete,” Beast said, as he grabbed the man’s feet. Demon curled his arms under Nikola’s shoulders. As they shuffled backward, Demon let his arms go limp. Nikola’s head hit the thin indoor carpeting with a thump.
“Oops,” Demon said.
“You are a bad person,” Beast said with a smile.
“Takes one to know one,” Demon replied, as he grabbed the man by the wrists. They carried him to the center of the abandoned shop and dropped him on the floor.
Beatrice took a brush from her large solid-sided bag and handed it to Bridger. He combed his damp blonde-brown hair.
“How long do you need to make him look dead?” he asked as he handed her the brush. “Remember, it doesn’t have to be perfect. No one should be getting too close to him. We are dumping him in the street. Goran will keep the area clear.”
Beatrice looked incredulously at Bridger. “Not perfect?”
He shrugged.
“Sorry.”
“Now that I have seen him up close, he will be a deader-than-dead corpse in a little over an hour. Especially since jackass has already started the process,” she said.
“I heard that,” Demon said.
The mysterious events on Lomina Street led the news stories the next day, as Bridger and Beast discovered as they watched the coverage. It was front-page news in the papers they had scattered on the table.
The internet and social media piled on with conspiracy theories and rumors. It was an important person from the Serbian mafia. A clan. Arms dealers. Drug deal. A government official, or a relative of the president. No one knew.
On the morning of the second day, photographs and videos appeared on digital bulletin boards from anonymous sources. One image clearly showed a sheet over a body in the street. A video recorded a body being put into an ambulance. Press sources revealed that a Zastava CZ 99 pistol with its identifying markings rubbed off was found at the scene.
The Serbian Police deflected inquiries to the BIA. The BIA did not comment. The U.S. Embassy stated it had no knowledge of a U.S. citizen involved in any incident.
From his home, Taube knew the identities of both men. It was evident that once Nikola had killed Bridger, his Spy Devils killed his man in retaliation. Losing his security team leader was a slight inconvenience, but one of Nikola’s men was ambitious. He had already volunteered to take his place.
What bothered him to sleeplessness was not knowing who had Bridger’s phone. Would Bridger’s alleged incriminating video suddenly appear in the press? If someone had it and planned to blackmail him, it hadn’t happened yet—but it could at any time.
Taube had tapped his sources inside the police department. They knew nothing. His BIA contacts were clueless, too. That was some comfort. Perhaps Nikola was able to destroy the phone. Or he had somehow gotten rid of it. It had vanished nonetheless—as had the immediate threat posed by Bridger.
He felt the pressure of the clock ticking. He had to proceed with his plans.
He picked up his phone and dialed his first call. When it was answered, he spoke immediately.
“We are on schedule,” he said confidently.
“Are you sure?” the voice asked with a note of caution, “The Lomina—”
“There is no connection. I have no knowledge of that. Do you have any information?”
“No. I made discreet inquiries, but no one in government knows anything,” the brother of the President of Serbia answered.
“If you want to complete what has been agreed to by all parties, then we need to meet—as arranged. It would look very bad if the president backed out now.”
“We are not changing our position. My brother is committed to this—activity.”
“Good. Tomorrow night.”
Taube cut the connection before the man could reply.
The second call was short and all business. They would be at the meeting.
The third call required no effort as the Ukrainians were eager to complete the transactions. They would call in to avoid anyone noticing their presence in the country.
16
Dream Career
Kirkwood International Headquarters
What the hell am I going to do? How am I supposed to find a briefcase somewhere in Ukraine?
Peter Schaeffer, Senior Director, Corporate
Intelligence and Insights, Strategy Office, Kirkwood International Industries, had been continually asking himself those questions since he left the meeting in the boardroom three days ago.
He hadn’t eaten or slept much since then, which worried his wife, Janelle. She kept asking if she could help. He told her there was nothing she could do—and for that matter—maybe he couldn’t do anything either.
He rubbed his temples with his fingers trying to release the tension as he arrived in his office early the morning after the meeting.
Clutter was his office décor. Books. Magazines. Mounds of unopened mail. Pictures of his family. Fantasy Football championship trophies. Yellow sticky notes, charts, and PowerPoint slides of motivational quotes he liked covered his walls like fish scales, but he knew exactly where everything was.
Something felt wrong—and his feelings were never wrong. There was more to this than they were telling him. But right now, his feelings were irrelevant. He had to make some progress on this, or his ass was toast.
MacBride had already sent him a text: Working on this? We are ALL counting on you.
The clock was running fast. Patience on the 10th floor would run thin like it always did. The heel of his right foot started to piston up and down with anxiety. A family tick handed down through the DNA of generations to the point Peter stopped realizing he was wiggling.
He took pride in being the guy who always could find the answer, or at least get pointed in the right direction. He won a scholarship to Northwestern University. Graduated with honors and applied to the Central Intelligence Agency. He survived a lengthy interview process, and a few months later, to his joy, he was offered a position as a trainee into the CIA’s Clandestine Services Career Trainee program—the spy school.
After a few four-month rotational training assignments in various departments, fate stepped in.
His dream career as a CIA employee ended before it fully started due to a series of gut-wrenching family medical crises. His mother had a stroke and died. She was the primary caregiver for his father, who was suffering from Alzheimer’s. As the only child, Peter had to stay and care for his father.
The CIA understood that he needed the stability of a “job on the outside,” as the personal officer told him. Luckily, for his father’s entire thirty-year career, he was a well-respected engineer at Kirkwood International Industries. It took a few calls, but he found an opening at Kirkwood as the new Director, Corporate Intelligence and Insights. He sold his life-long dream of a career in intelligence for stability, a pretty good corporate salary, healthcare, and the promise of a pension.
Sitting at his desk, he wrote on a large yellow legal pad his ideas on where he might fulfill the task of finding the briefcase.
He knew he couldn’t involve his staff after signing Jessup’s NDA.
Kirkwood employees' brains contained eighty to ninety percent of the information he needed. The salesforce was always probing potential customers for competitive tidbits. But no one could help him this time.
In violation of Kirkwood Investor Relations policy, he called a select list of Wall Street financial analysts and third-party industry experts. No one had anything useful on Bondar. They mostly wanted to ask about MacLean’s death and who might take over.
His only success was with Sandy Boyd, MacLean’s admin assistant. Sandy was smart and tough. Peter had always gotten along with her rebel attitude toward authority. After Peter talked around his predicament, “a special project related to George,” she agreed to send him materials. He asked for any memos, travel itineraries, or meeting notes that mentioned Bondar or Ukraine. Peter also said not to tell anyone.
“If it helps to find out who killed George, count me in, and I can keep a secret,” she said.
That was something, at least.
Looking over the list, Peter came to one conclusion: he was in deep shit. He did not have any more ideas on how to move forward. A feeling of panic set into his stomach.
“Hello, Peter. Working hard I see.”
Peter looked up from his note pad. His leg immediately started to shake. Standing in the doorway was Danforth Chapel.
“Mr. Chapel, come in,” Peter said, standing. Simultaneously, he started to clear the clutter off his desk.
“Don’t worry about that. It shows you are a hard-working man.” Chapel smiled a consultant’s smile. Teeth and sincerity—real or pretend.
Embarrassed, Peter stood with a six-inch pile of magazines and mail in his arms. He looked around and dropped them on the credenza behind him. A few slid off and fell to the floor with an embarrassing fl-plop.
“I thought I would come down, pay a visit, and chat—if you have the time.”
“Of course, I am here to help. Please sit,” Peter said, motioning to the Kirkwood black steel and cloth guest chair. As Chapel sat, Peter saw two refrigerator-sized men in gray suits standing outside his door.
“Peter, I am hoping we can help each other out. You have quite a positive reputation in and out of Kirkwood,” Chapel said, his voice warm and friendly.
“I doubt The Danforth Chapel Company needs my help,” Peter said.
“Not at all. I know people and have done my research, Peter. You are well-respected for your skills.” Peter’s heart started to race.
“I do my best.”
“Good.” Chapel’s eyes twinkled brightly under the lights. “We all need help, Peter. Tell me what you have so far.”
Peter’s internal alarms were going off. He knew all about Chapel and his company. He gave Chapel a quick rundown of the situation, leaving out his conversation with Sandy Boyd. After two minutes of summary, Peter figured Kirkwood had just spent a thousand dollars toward Chapel's retainer fee.
Chapel never gave his time away for free or wasted it.
“Well, keep at it. I am sure you will find a way to make this happen,” Chapel said as he stood. He did not hold out his hand for a handshake. Instead, he handed Peter a thick business card.
Holding it between his fingers, the look and feel of the card sent one message—power. Centered on the card, embossed in gold, was Danforth Chapel, Founder, The Danforth Chapel Company, and a phone number.
“That is my direct line. Call me at any time, and I hope I can do the same for you.”
“Yes, thank you. Of course, here.” Peter took his flimsy card from the holder on his desk and handed it to Chapel, who put it in his pocket without a glance.
“Well, then. We will speak soon.” Chapel turned and walked to the door of the office. His security detail took their front and rear positions and escorted him away.
Peter collapsed in his chair. It was hard to comprehend that Danforth Chapel, one of the most powerful men in the business world, had come to him and sat in his office and offered his help. He needed to go home, throw the baseball with his eight-year-old son, James, then drink a bottle of red wine and have sex with Janelle.
He put his laptop into his backpack and slung the bag over his shoulder. His phone started to ring. Panic set in. He dropped his backpack to the floor and looked at the caller ID. He let out a deep breath. It read “Private.” Usually, he would ignore a private call as spam, but he hoped it was someone responding to his many emails and calls.
“Hel-lo?” he answered cautiously.
“Peter Schaeffer?” It was a female voice. Strong. Not a young voice. Mature. New England accent.
“Yes?”
“Hello. Peter. I am aware you need help in retrieving a case lost in Ukraine. Please, don’t ask how I know. I do,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone.
“How do you know about that?”
He heard a sigh on the other end of the call.
“Please don’t ask questions. I am fully aware of the details. If you would like help, then listen to what I have to say.”
Peter sat— immediately, his leg started to shake.
“I am listening.”
“An excellent start. On Thursday, someone will contact you. Answer his call. He is your only
hope. Repeat that, back.”
“Thursday…a call…answer it…my only hope,” he said.
“Excellent. Goodbye, Peter.”
“What?”
The call ended. Peter’s eyes fixated on his phone.
Who would call him about this? Should he tell MacBride? Is this a setup by Jessup to see if he would break his NDA? Chapel?
Peter looked at the yellow legal pad with the red lines on it. He knew when that call came he was answering it on the first ring.
He stood, picked up his backpack, and thought of one more question.
What the hell was this all about?
17
Recruitment
Shanghai, China
The successful recruitment of U.S. businessman George MacLean by Minister Chen of the Zhōnghuá Rénmín Gònghéguó Guójiā Ānquánbù, the Chinese Ministry of State Security, started when MacLean was hired by Kirkwood two years ago.
MacLean, Chief Financial Officer, Kirkwood Technologies, had been instrumental in the financial success of an alphabet soup of tech companies. AMD. HP. IBM. 3M. The fifty-seven-year-old MacLean’s everlasting cherub pink face was incongruous with his deep Texas nasal twang.
And MacLean loved to eat. Specifically, McDonald’s Big Macs and fries. His body shape was categorized politely as a “fat snowman.” Not so politely as “Obese walrus.”
But underestimating MacLean based upon his appearance was a terrible mistake. Knowing that obese stereotypes led people to think of him as just a jolly fat man, MacLean used his size as a smoke screen to hide a shrewd and brilliant business mind. During negotiations, he always found the right moment. When his counterpart misjudged him, he would strike. He won. They lost.
What he had managed to keep hidden was his all-consuming penchant for gambling. Stud poker, to be precise. It was a habit he started early in life. A few dollars during weekend-long marathon games with high school friends. His skills were honed during his undergraduate and graduate years at the University of Texas-Austin.