Baksheesh (Bribes)

by D S Kane

  Shit! Greenfield fed me a Bug-Lok. Gault nodded. “What now?”

  The man wearing scrubs pointed to the operating table. “Lie down. We’ll fix this.”

  * * *

  The large man smothered Cassie with his heavy body. She felt his penis touch her crotch and she cringed, bracing herself for the pain she was sure would follow.

  She heard a soft pop, followed seconds later by a loud boom and closed her eyes, anticipating the flash to follow. Her hearing suddenly shorted out, and even with her eyes closed she felt the intense brightness of the flash-bang grenade, blinding her. When she opened her eyes, she was unable to see anything beyond bare outlines. Her kidnappers would also be totally blind and just as deaf as she was. Must be one of Ben-Levy’s toys. That meant Shimmel and her mercs had arrived.

  Her vision cleared slightly and she could see Flannel-shirt reach behind him for her Beretta, in a pocket of his pants lying on the floor. Hunting-jacket drew his knife. Oh, shit, I’m going to die right now.

  Cassie pulled tight on each of the ties binding her arms and legs to the bed. Not enough slack for her to avoid a headshot or a knife to her neck. She tried to buck the bed and shake Flannel-shirt off her, but he was too heavy. With one hand behind him, he removed the gun. Timing her last desperate move, she lunged to one side, hoping to roll him off. It worked. Flannel-shirt fell to his side on the bed as he fired the gun three times, each shot missing her.

  She lunged again as Hunting-jacket lunged toward her from the doorway. Hunting-jacket plunged his knife toward her, but as the bed skittered around on the floor, Flannel-shirt’s head moved where hers had been an instant before. The knife pierced Flannel-shirt’s neck. His blood-spray arced across the room, coating her torso. The smell made her gag, and once again she steadied herself.

  Armed men entered the room. They pulled Flannel-shirt’s bloody corpse off her. Hunting-jacket dropped the knife. Beard-and-jeans was naked from the waist down, hands up in the air. Mary Jo Castleton, one of the snipers, hit Beard-and-jeans with the butt of her rifle. She removed Cassie’s gag, cut her cuffs, and dropped a towel over her crotch. Shimmel asked if she was okay, but she couldn’t hear him. She nodded, and pointed to her ears. “I’m deaf. Tend to Jacob.” She couldn’t hear her own words. She pointed to the old man, whose bindings were being cut.

  The smell of blood on her torso made her feel queasy. “I need to clean this bastard’s stench off me.” Jacob pointed to the bathroom. She wiped the blood off and threw the towel to the floor. Rising off the bed she saw Avram running to her. He hugged her and walked her to the bathroom, shielding her naked body from the mercs.

  She turned and stared at the captives, unable to contain her rage. “Please don’t do anything to the two survivors. I want to question them myself.” She closed the door and turned on the shower, thinking of how useful these two prisoners would be. And, after all, turnabout was fair play.

  * * *

  The top of his nape throbbed non-stop. It felt like he’d been hit at the base of his skull with a hammer. Bob Gault blinked his eyes open and shut until he could focus. His stomach erupted and he turned his face to the side and barfed. Ainsley held a bedpan under his mouth, catching the expelled contents of his stomach. Bob saw that Ainsley had changed into a black zippered hoodie and jeans. Gault opened his mouth to speak. “Arghh. Feel so sick. What’s going on?”

  “It’s the anesthesia Dr. Gorman uses. As you know I had one of these extracted after you alerted us. Mine was the beta version. Congratulations. You have one of the first production units.” Lee pointed to a lead container. “In there. And you’re alive, Bob. So be happy.”

  “Thanks. Saved my life.”

  “Yeah. We’re even. When I had the surgery, I felt pain in the back of my neck for a week. But no scar. And you’re lucky. Had you said anything on our way here to indicate your predicament, Greenfield might have noticed and pressed the kill-switch on his Bug-Lok remote.”

  “Yeah, lucky. Gotta send the agency a thank-you note along with my resignation. Can’t even do it in person.”

  Ainsley handed him a typed note. “Here’s one based on mine, ready for your signature. Claims credit for unused vacation and sick days. We can have a messenger deliver it for you.”

  “How did you know—”

  Ainsley held up a Bug-Lok remote transmitter in one hand and a receiver in the other. “Mossad issue. We tried every ID they sold to the agency, scanning until we heard your voice. You told McDougal you’re gone from there just as soon as your—”

  “Okay, okay. Yes. But now I won’t even get the increase in my retirement annuity from the boost in pay grade and promotion to management. Shit.”

  “We can help. Come work for Swiftshadow. You’ll make more than twice what you did at the agency. We sorely need management-level people.”

  “Huh?” He tried to rise off the gurney but wasn’t up to it. His eyes blinked tears. “I feel so sick. Listen, Ainsley, I’ll need a chance to absorb all this.”

  “Sure. I said the same thing. Took me almost, uh,” he looked at his watch, “seven minutes. You still have two to go. But take as long as you want.”

  * * *

  Gilbert Greenfield nodded to his secretary as he breezed into his office. He shrugged off his raincoat and hung the dripping mess on a hanger on the back of his door. Looked out the window to the snow flurry outside as he sat behind his desk.

  His meeting with Mastoff left so many unasked questions. But he’d managed to drop a Bug-Lok into the man’s coffee while they talked in the sitting room at the President’s suite. He smiled, knowing the answers would be forthcoming. He rubbed his hands and tried shaking the cold out of them.

  What a boon Bug-Lok was. Ainsley’s had stopped functioning after a few weeks, but that was the beta test version. Mossad claimed all the problems and kinks had been worked out of the production models. He had almost five hundred of them in packages in his desk drawer. His first real test was the one he’d deposited into Gault’s coffee three weeks ago.

  He punched a few keys on his computer’s keyboard to see what Bob was doing. But the monitoring program reported, “ID Number 67D-2B11: Non-Functioning Node.”

  His hands froze. He felt a bolt of panic surge through him. Clicked the “Computer-Transcribed Conversations” page. He read the transcribed conversation between McDougal and Gault. First his eyebrows arched, then his face reddened. He drew open his unlocked desk drawer and grabbed the Bug-Lok remote. He entered “67D-2B11” and slammed his thumb against the kill-switch, breathing a sigh of relief.

  His computer responded with the “processing…” message, went on for several seconds, finally replying, “Target out of range.” But that meant Gault wasn’t anywhere on the planet. Or that Gault’s unit was defective and had stopped functioning.

  He muttered a single word: “Rats!”

  Gault was now beyond Greenfield’s ability to kill.

  * * *

  Gault’s hand felt numb. He’d entered information on seven pages of forms. He massaged his fingers. But this was it. The last page. Now he scrutinized the final line of the page. His signature. For the first time, he stalled. Was he really doing this? After over twenty years working for his government? His country. He sighed. And signed.

  He scanned the waiting area.

  Across the other side was an enormous man with thick, curly black hair. The pen he held looked like a toothpick in his hands. He looked up, saw Bob, and smiled. “Je m’appelle Simon Pascal.”

  Bob rose and extended his hand. The other man grasped it, and they shook. Gault felt the heavy calluses and strength of his grip. He smiled at the giant. “I’m Bob Gault. Do you speak English?”

  The man smiled sheepishly. “Oui. Ah, so impolite. You are joining zees company also?”

  Gault’s face was impassive. After all, he still couldn’t believe he was doing this. “Uh, yes. Uh, why are you?”

  The other scratched his face. “My mentor works within. Monsieur Dushov.
You know of him? Yes?”

  Gault shook his head. “Nope. Never heard of him. What’d he do for you?”

  Pascal’s hands moved in arcs as he spoke, as if speaking in English wasn’t as expressive as his native French. “I am chef. Army must eat before they fight. Lester teaches me the poisoning. Dead army can no longer fight.”

  Gault gulped. Then shrugged. This was his new world.

  CHAPTER 21

  February 21, 4:46 p.m.

  Jacob Mahee’s cabin, Evergreen, Colorado

  As she rinsed her hair in the shower, Cassie heard someone enter the bathroom. Mary Jo Castleton said, “Fresh towels.”

  She heard the door close and was once again alone. When she’d done her best to scrub Flannel-shirt’s blood from her torso, and had scrubbed the spot where his penis had come in contact with her crotch, she picked up a towel from the rack.

  As she covered her torso, her legs buckled and she slammed to the bottom of the tub. She couldn’t hear herself wailing but she knew her mercs could.

  Castleton entered the bathroom. “Ms. Sashakovich, can I help you?” Cassie lay shivering on the floor of the tub, sobbing uncontrollably. She shook her head but Castleton sat on the toilet and took Cassie’s hand. The sniper said nothing more but smiled softly and gripped her hand.

  * * *

  In the evening she could hear an orchestra of creaking floorboards in the cabin. Cassie walked to Beard-and-jeans and Hunting-jacket, bound into the chairs where, just two hours ago, Jacob and she were. Her left hand held Hunting-jacket’s knife, her right hand a cup of Jacob’s coffee. She asked, “Which of you wants to live?” No answer. “Mossad trained me in methods of torture, and they have no rules regarding what can’t be done. Guys, I’m an artist. What you planned to do to me is a picnic compared to what I want to do to each of you.” She swallowed some of the coffee and put it aside. “Rape is about power. So is castration.”

  She decided to work on Beard-and-jeans first, and ripped the side of his pants from waist to the thigh. She smiled at him, using the knife to slice off his underwear. “You’re way too big but I can fix that.” She put on a pair of surgical gloves. Held the head of his penis with one hand and plunged the knife’s point hard and deep into its eye, humming as he howled. “Who sent you?” But he only whimpered. She smiled. “You know, this is more fun than I’ve had in a long time.”

  Her smile turned rancid. “In five more seconds I’ll slice it in two from stem to stern. You’ll have nothing. That what you want?” He remained silent, fear and pain evident on his face. “Who sent you? Okay, I tried to be civilized. Five seconds and I’m turning you into a girl. Four, three, two—”

  “Okay,” he yelled. We’re NOCs. Sent by someone called Mockingbird. He told us the new President wants you dead. Mastoff wants you dead.”

  Cassie was startled. She knew the former President hated her. But what had she done to Mastoff? Why would he also want her dead, bad enough to buy the services of private contractors? She turned to Avram. “They’re all yours. Use the chemicals and videotape their confessions.”

  * * *

  After she returned to Chevy Chase, Cassie remained in a panic following her trip to Evergreen. She was unable to sleep and when she finally fell into a state of total exhaustion, nightmares made her fears even more vivid. Dreams of the bloodshed at her wedding, the death of her mother, and the men sent to murder her. It was too much.

  Dr. Gorman visited the house several times and dropped off some strong tranquilizers and sedatives, but that left her feeling stupid and drowsy when she finally left bed.

  When she looked in the mirror, she saw shadowy black rings and deeply furrowed wrinkles around her eyes. Worse, she couldn’t stare straight ahead, every noise had her eyes darting around to see if she was still safe.

  She was argumentative with Lee, unable to control her emotions. Even Ann stayed out of her path. As for Gizmo, the cat sat under their bed in the bedroom, mewing, but unwilling to get close to her.

  Lee failed in his attempts to jar her from her anxiety attacks. After several days, he frowned over their early dinner and, his voice just above a whisper, said, “I’m calling your father.” She frowned, about to protest when he kicked back from the chair he sat in. He walked from the kitchen and exited into the back yard. She could she him talking into his cell.

  * * *

  Lee would need to be careful with her father. The man had just witnessed the murder of his wife. He held his breath in thought.

  Three thousand miles away, Kiril answered. “Lee? My phone shows your ID. How are you?”

  Lee saw Cassie staring at him through the kitchen window. He turned away so she couldn’t see his face. “I’m okay, but your daughter isn’t.”

  “What now?”

  “Kiril, she had another close call and it’s given her panic attacks.”

  “Then I will come visit. Be there tomorrow.”

  He shook his head, although her father couldn’t see it. “No. I want to take her to see you. She needs to get away from here. Can we? Please?”

  “Da, sure. Bring entire group. Your guards and all. I’ll clean out extra bedrooms.”

  “Thanks.” He breathed a sigh. “Thanks, dad.”

  “You are most welcome, my son. But listen. I know my daughter. She will resist any suggestion. You must find way to cause her to have idea you had. Understand?”

  Lee frowned. outmaneuvering Cassie would take care. “Yes. Yes, I do. I’ll have her call you after she decides to visit.”

  * * *

  Cassie strained to hear him as he paced at the back of the yard, but the traffic rolling down the street outside the compound made it difficult. And he kept walking and turning, with his hand covering the phone’s speaker and mike. Kiril. What was he saying? Damn, she clenched her fists. Didn’t I make myself clear?

  She met him at the door, her arms akimbo as he walked inside. “Okay, Lee, what were you doing?”

  “You’re being unreasonable. And worse, you’re gonna get sick if you can’t sleep. Dr. Gorman thinks you have post-traumatic stress disorder. If we can’t figure some way to fix you—”

  “I’m fine. Fuck off.”

  Lee stepped away from her as if she was about to strike. “Cass, you aren’t behaving normally. Even when we were evading the Houmaz assassins, you weren’t this, this, uh—”

  That’s when she hit him, her palm aimed at his nose. He’d expected it, provoked it. Moved his face three inches so her palm pounded his cheek instead of his nose. “Ouch! You trying to bust my face? Why? What did I do that deserves physical punishment? And who are you to punish me?”

  She froze midway through a kick to his groin. Her mouth fell open and her knees buckled. Tears welled and fell. He caught her as she fell, tumbling into his arms. “Oh, Lee, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened to me. Please, forgive me. Please?”

  He whispered. “You need help. Not some therapist. You need someone who understands you, but isn’t as involved as me or Ann. Someone just a bit more distant. Someone who can be soothing. Smarter than Gizmo, but just as willing to listen. Who could do that for you?”

  The tears stopped as she realized she’d been set up. But instead of anger, the logic of her mind triggered thought. “Okay, call my dad and tell him we want a visit. You do think that may help me. Right?”

  “Yeah, sweetie. Glad you thought of it.” Lee smiled and handed her his cellphone. “You make the call. He loves you, sweetie.”

  * * *

  Highway 1 north of Highway 92 is a twisting country road. There, ocean waves pound into the sand beach right below the road, as fog drifts in below the sunset.

  Kiril stood on one side of her, Lee on the other. Ann watched from behind, her hand on Cassie’s shoulder. At the Montara Lighthouse, at the very spot where Natasha had been murdered. The old man shook his head. “So peaceful a place. It should have been a wonderful spot for you two to get married. But now it’s a place of loss. And forever will be for me.”
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  Cassie hugged her father. “Oh, Daddy, it makes me so sad standing here. Can we leave?”

  He faced her, shaking his head. “Nyet. I come here every day, to be with her. I talk to her here. Now, I want you to talk to her. It’s what you must do, to become whole and healthy again.”

  She felt her pulse race. Tears fell so fast they were a roiling stream against her face. Talk to my mother? She didn’t believe in life after death. She believed in… in nothing!

  But she felt something here, calling to her. Maybe it was just her imagination. But whatever it was, somehow it made her feel warmer against the cold fog. She held her breath, trying to decide what to say. And nothing came to her. Suddenly beyond control, the words left her in a rush. “Mama, please forgive me.”

  Kiril shook his head. “Nyet. Only you can forgive yourself. She has no power over you anymore. I sorely miss her and tell her that. I still love her. If that’s how you feel, then tell her so.”

  Cassie fell to her knees and wailed. “Mama, I love you. I miss you.” And then, she felt a presence which no amount of logic could explain. The conversation she had with herself was brief. But when she got up on her feet, she felt a sense of peace she’d missed for over a year.

  * * *

  That evening Kiril made dinner for the family and Cassie’s bodyguards. He barbequed beef ribs with Stubb’s sauce he’d bought at the Safeway in Half Moon Bay. He grilled potatoes and ears of corn, which they ate at the table in the back yard, as a heat lamp warmed them.

  Kiril rose. “Time for after-dinner drinks. I’ll get from kitchen and be right back.”

  As her dad headed off, Cassie looked around. This was where she’d grown up. When she was a teenager, the sense of peace she’d gotten here bored her. Now it had cured her. She tried to force a smile, but it came out more as a grimace. Lee squeezed her hand. Ann smiled at her.

  “Can I getcha somethin’, Ma?” Ann bore a worried expression.

  “No.” A random thought took root in her mind. She smiled the way she figured Einstein had when he’d discovered relativity. “Tell me, Ann, would living here be something you’d consider?”