The Spy Devils

by Joe Goldberg

  A moan came from the darkness.

  “This one is still alive. Tough fucker,” a man reported, raising a pistol to finish the job.

  “Wait. Leave him,” the team leader said. When his team was clear, he took out a flare, lit it, and tossed it on one of the gas-soaked beds.

  They disappeared into the darkness of the streets as flames illuminated the night sky behind them.

  The moment she entered her apartment, Anna Malinov went to her kitchen, found a bottle opener in the back of a drawer, grabbed one of three bottles of wine from her cupboard, a locally produced sparkling white, and started to drink.

  Two hours later, she tilted her head back as far as it would go, opened her mouth wide, tipped the glass, and in one swallow finished the last drops from the third bottle. She stood up, wobbled, then fell to the floor, where she passed out. The empty wine glass was still in her hand when she hit the floor. It shattered in her palm. Blood spread from under her fingers.

  Still unconscious hours later, she didn’t hear the lock on her door being unlatched, hear the door open slowly, or see two people, a man and a woman, quietly slip inside her dark apartment. They each pulled a mini red LED flashlight from their pockets and clicked them on. The rays flashed around the room. Expecting her to be in bed, when the beams found her on the floor, they stood shocked and motionless for several seconds over the body.

  The woman reached down and felt for a pulse. She looked at the pool of dried blood under her hand.

  “She’s alive.”

  The man pointed his light on the empty wine bottles.

  “She is drunk. Passed out drunk,” he said with a chuckle.

  “At least she enjoyed herself.”

  They each reached under an arm, lifted her, and dragged her toward the balcony. Her feet caught the rug, and they gave a little extra effort to free her. They stood briefly on the balcony and looked at a fire burning in the distance. They eyed each other and smiled.

  The pair of intruders grabbed her legs and tipped Anna over the edge like they were dumping out the garbage. They heard a soft thud a few seconds later.

  They calmly walked out of the apartment, took the elevator to the third floor, then used the stairs the rest of the way.

  Exiting by the back door, they heard shouts echoing down the street.

  Reclining on a sofa in her bedroom lounge, Ira received the call telling her both missions were successful. She leaned over to a side table and picked up a champagne flute. She raised the glass in the air and thought of an appropriate toast.

  She took a sip, enjoyed the taste and pleasant feeling of the bubbles in her mouth, and set the glass down back on the table. Traces of blood-red lipstick remained on the rim of the crystal.

  Here is to me, the only real Bondar left.

  24

  The Capital Grille

  Lombard, Illinois

  At 11:45 a.m., Bridger sat at one of four tables in the private State Room dining area in the Capital Grille restaurant, located in the western Chicago suburb of Lombard. The decor included English riding club mahogany, accented by hues of reds and greens, oil paintings, and racks of wine bottles behind glass doors. Bobby Darin’s Beyond the Sea filled the air, mixing with whiffs of meat, bread, and money.

  Patrons huddled in hushed discussions in dimly lit rooms. Leather chairs and couches were on top of plush carpets. It offered discreet three martini dining surrounded by small lamps on cloth-covered tables—and Bridger was craving a genuine medium-rare slab of American corn-fed beef.

  Movement in this peripheral vision distracted him.

  “I’m Peter Schaeffer. Are you…Mr. Palmer? Arnold Palmer?” Bridger looked up to see a man who looked a few years younger than himself. Bridger chuckled inside when he saw him wearing a blue blazer, striped blue button-down, and khaki pants. Bridger felt a genuine friendliness radiating from his eyes and manner. Bridger also sensed concern and skepticism.

  “Peter, so good to finally meet you. Glad you could make it. Call me Arnie.” Bridger stood and shook his hand like they were old friends.

  Firm. Confident.

  “Okay…Ar-nie,” Peter said in a skeptical voice.

  “Here is my card.” Peter reached in his pocket, pulled out his Kirkwood business card, and handed it to Bridger. Bridger glanced at it. There wasn’t any information he didn’t already know.

  “As for me," he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a black card with a red pitchfork and slid it across the table, “have you ever heard of the Spy Devils?”

  Peter raised his eyebrows in total shock as he stared at the card.

  “Spy Devils? You are with THE Spy Devils? Greetings from the Devil. That’s you?”

  Bridger turned and nodded his chin to his chest like a Shakespearean actor acknowledging adoring fans.

  “You’re telling me you are associated with the Spy Devils? The gang on social media who exposes all the criminals and spies?”

  “We are not a gang, thank you very much, but I grasp your meaning and respect.” Bridger stopped, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and looked at Peter with deadly seriousness. “I lead them as we journey down into the lowest realms where the worst of mankind think they can act unabated.”

  “Tell me—,” Peter looked around at the empty room, his voice lower, “—who are you? CIA?”

  “There is a member of my team—you may meet him. He summed up who we are and what we do in a succinctly crude but surprisingly accurate way. We are the fuckers who fuck with the people who fuck with other people.”

  “Catchy.”

  “He thinks so.” Bridger sat back, keeping his eyes on the company man. “For the sake of some transparency, I will say we don’t usually help U.S. companies. Never, actually. This is an unwelcomed exception, in all honesty.”

  Peter absorbed the comments. “Why me?”

  “I don’t know. Your good looks and charm?”

  Charles, their waiter, appeared at the table, introduced himself, explained the specials, and took their order. Streak for Bridger. Salad for Peter. Both declined desserts. Charles nodded and retreated.

  “Say, Peter. I was wondering. Has anyone mentioned China or the word Hillcrest?” Bridger grabbed a flat bread from a basket and took a bite.

  “China? Hillcrest?” Peter was confused. “No. Nothing like that.”

  “Figures. Ask about it. See what happens.” Bridger sat back and folded his arms across his chest. “Now, tell me everything that has happened so far. Who asked you to do this, etc.?”

  Peter took ten minutes to explain the events of the last few days. He listed off the Kirkwood executives and what they asked him to do.

  “Danforth Chapel is involved, also,” he added.

  “Chapel?” Bridger asked.

  Peter flinched at a ding signaling he had received a text message. He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and checked. It was from Sandy Boyd.

  “It is from an internal Kirkwood source I have on the executive floor,” Peter said to Bridger. “She is looking for any messages and documents that might be useful.”

  “Good job, Peter! What does it say?” Bridger happily rapped the top of the table with his fingers.

  Peter squinted at the screen. He read out loud.

  Peter: I recalled something. Not sure if interesting. George was desperate to see Gilbert Street before he left. He had me call and tell him to get the case ready. He was taking it to Ukraine. They met before he left. Will send more soon.”

  Peter set his phone on the table. With his elbows on the arms of the chair, he interlocked his fingers in front of his chest. Bridger could tell he was thinking—he was biting the inside of his lip.

  “Well, I know where I need to go next,” Peter said, as he slid his phone back into his pocket.

  “Where?”

  “A group inside Kirkwood. KRT stands for Kirkwood Research Technologies. It is a classified, limited access, Applied Research team. It means MacLean stopped there before he left. I want to
know why.”

  “Sounds like my kind of place. Let’s get going. Time is fleeting.”

  “But you can’t get in. As I said, it is a secure facility.”

  Bridger laughed. “No problem. I make a living getting into secure facilities. It is a trademark of the Spy Devils.”

  25

  The Mole Hole

  Kirkwood Headquarters

  Clinton, the thick-necked security guard, was dressed in a black shirt with the familiar Kirkwood gold “K” on his chest and a Smith and Wesson M&P 9 in a black leather holster around his waist. He checked the flat screen to make certain Peter’s name was on the limited access employee list.

  “Here you go, Mr. Schaeffer. Good to see you again,” Clinton said, handing Peter his badge.

  “Thanks, Clinton.” Peter took the badge and concentrated on keeping his hand from shaking. He felt sick to his stomach and was sure his face was as white as a wedding dress.

  He could not believe the man with him looked calm—almost bored.

  “Identification?” Clinton asked the stranger in his imposing security voice.

  The man handed over his license and government identification. The guard took it and looked at the screen. Then he looked at the document—then the screen again. He handed them back.

  “Thank you, Mr. Palmer. Have a nice day.”

  Peter didn’t realize he had been holding his breath. He let it out slowly as the metallic sound of a lock releasing granted access through the secure door. It opened quickly and closed behind them just as fast.

  Their feet clicked on the pale green tile floor, but acoustic foam tiles covering the walls and ceiling quickly swallowed the sound. They reached an identical set of stairs and secure door on the other end in less than a minute—the secret entrance to The Mole Hole.

  “How the hell did you do that?” a shocked Peter whispered, feeling the blood rush back to his face.

  “I told you. I am cleared. Relax, will you? You were so pale, I thought you had died. Just do whatever you do. I will do the rest,” Bridger said.

  “But—"

  “Stick with the plan.”

  During the ride over, Peter was adamant Bridger would not get into KRT. Peter was sure he would be discovered trying to bring in an unauthorized person. He would be detained, arrested, fired, or all of the above.

  “I can’t be the first visitor to this place,” Bridger said, when they pulled into the parking lot.

  “No, but they are pre-approved. The first guard will catch you.”

  “No, he won’t. I have been pre-approved. Have some faith.”

  “What about security cameras? They record everything.”

  “I think they will discover a malfunction about the time we are there.”

  As they approached the next door, he had to admit Bridger was correct on all counts, so far.

  “Could you have picked a worse alias?” Peter said, holding his right hand on a biometric pad attached to the wall by the door.

  “It is perfect. Who would use such a known name if they wanted to avoid attention? And what? You don’t like Arnie?”

  A warm red glow turned calm blue on the display under Peter’s palm.

  “Access granted” appeared in block letters across the top of the screen. In a few seconds, there was a sustained buzzzz on their side of the door, followed by a hard, metallic click. Peter pushed the door open and waved at the armed security guard eyeing him and his guest. They walked into a division few within the company knew existed—Kirkwood Research Technologies or KRT.

  Kirkwood Research Technologies was born in 1938 during the simmering days leading up to World War II. Twentieth-century industrialist and visionary founder Jacob Kirkwood clandestinely assembled engineers from all disciplines—electrical, mechanical, and chemical. KRT had complete autonomy to experiment, develop, build, succeed, and fail.

  KRT was hidden below an unremarkable two-story building fifty yards to the east of the Kirkwood headquarters. Since the group worked in a windowless subterranean home, where they rarely came up for air, those that knew about their existence christened their workspace The Mole Hole. The engineers were understandably referred to as “Moles.”

  The present-day interior of KRT was unlike any other unit at Kirkwood. They had a sleeping room, video games, fake plants, and a full kitchen. There was a guard station to the left and a wall of lockboxes next to that. Another imposing cipher-locked door covered in red warning signs was across from the guard station.

  NO ELECTRONICS BEYOND THIS POINT.

  NO CLASSIFIED CONVERSATIONS IN THE BREAK AREA.

  Peter walked up to the guard and entered his name and social security number into the computer, which tagged the time and date. The guard gave him a look and handed him a label with his name and picture on it.

  “Here you go, Mr. Schaeffer. Please wear this at all times.”

  Bridger gave the guard the same info.

  “Welcome to KRT, Mr. Palmer. Please wear this at all times.”

  “Thank you.” Bridger took the label, peeled off the back, and slapped it on his chest over his heart.

  “And please remove all electronics and place them in the lockboxes.”

  They nodded, turned, and took the few steps to the small numbered boxes lining the wall. The boxes had a key with an orange grip with an elastic band in them. Peter opened one door and tossed in his cellphone and car remote. Bridger set his phone next to Peter’s. Peter slammed the box shut, twisted the key in the lock, pulled it out, and wrapped the elastic band around his wrist.

  Peter heard a click and turned to see the secure door to his left start to open.

  “Hey, hey, hey.” Gilbert Street, Vice President, Kirkwood Research Technology, shouted the words with excitement. The King of the Moles. The cheery triple “Hey” was Gilbert’s signature greeting and part of the charm that drew and kept a loyal staff of engineering geniuses. They had a motto: A day without three “heys” is a day without sunshine.

  “Hello, Gilbert.” Peter walked toward him, hand extended, preparing for the energetic pumping that was certain to come when you were greeted by Gilbert.

  “This is Mr. Arnold Palmer. He is from—the government.” He pointed to Bridger with his free hand.

  “Which one?”

  “No comment!” Bridger laughed as he shook Gilbert’s hand. “Call me Arnie.

  “Hey, if you don’t tell me you don’t have to kill me! Right, Arnie? A friend of Peter is a friend of mine. Come on in.”

  Peter saw an irritating ‘I told you so, why were you worrying?’ look in Bridger’s expression.

  Gilbert held the heavy metal door open, and they walked into the most secure area in Kirkwood. Just inside the door, a red warning light rotated from the ceiling, casting a strobe firework effect across the area. It was an alert—uncleared personnel in the area.

  Peter was sure Gilbert’s parents never had to buy him a Halloween costume. He was a human-sized owl, but still half a foot shorter than Peter. His perfectly round head was accented by pointed tufts of fading black hair above each ear. Gilbert’s sharp beak-like nose separated puffy smooth cheeks. Thin lips formed a line below the beak. A head angled out of slightly stooped shoulders as if the owl was sitting in a tree scanning the forest for his next mouse dinner.

  They walked down a long beige hallway lined with a few doors, discarded or broken chairs, desks, metal filing cabinets, and trash.

  “I like what you have done with the place, Gilbert. It looks like a Goodwill Store barfed in here,” Bridger said as they closed ranks to dodge the debris.

  “I have been meaning to complain to the front desk about the maid service. Just haven’t gotten around to it.” Gilbert rapidly snorted air in and out like a donkey’s hee-haw, as his head bobbed with each blurt.

  Gilbert opened a door on the right near the end of the hallway. They walked into his office.

  It was small—much smaller than a vice president was entitled at Kirkwood. It barely fit a recycled me
tal desk, two torn hand-me-down guest chairs, a few overstuffed bookcases, and two cabinets with combination locks on each drawer. Any free surface was covered with space memorabilia. Detailed models of a timeline of NASA rockets. Mercury. Gemini. Apollo. Space shuttle. Lunar landers and Mars rovers. A two-foot-long model of the International Space Station hung from the ceiling tiles by paperclip and string tethers.

  Diplomas on the wall showed he held Master’s Degrees in Electrical and Computer Engineering and Mechanical Engineering. He was as smart as they come at Kirkwood.

  “So, what can I do you for you, gentlemen?”

  “We don’t have a lot of time, so tell us about Hillcrest,” Bridger said.

  Peter saw that just mentioning Hillcrest struck a nerve. Silence, followed by more silence.

  “Hillcrest? What do you mean?” Gilbert asked.

  He was talking too fast, Peter thought.

  “Gilbert. I need you to answer some questions Right now,” Bridger said with all seriousness. “Hillcrest.”

  Peter knew a little about interview techniques. He learned them during his brief time in CIA training. He had adapted them to use in his intelligence collection at Kirkwood. It was exciting to see them put into play by an expert like Bridger.

  Control was necessary, he knew. There were a few dozen methods with unique names—bracketing, flattery, confidential bait, assumed knowledge, and denial of the obvious—that were meant to appear like any normal conversation between two people. In actuality, they were there to manipulate.

  “I know about it, Gilbert. Hillcrest. I know it is important, but I am not sure I have all the details, exactly,” Bridger started.

  Feigned ignorance.

  “Where did you hear about that? I’m not saying—”

  “I heard it might be related to the death of the CFO. Any ideas?”