by Neovictorian
“Okay, Jack, let’s start it off with the basics: Who the hell are you and what did you mean when you said it was a ‘hit’?”
He checks the mirrors again, rear right left, before he replies.
“I’m Jack Crawford, Cal. That’s the name on my birth certificate.” He looks over at me again, no smile, not angry but serious.
“I know that’s not what you mean, so here’s the short version. I came to work at the Senator’s office three months ago, undercover. You’ve figured that out already.”
“No sh—“
“Let me finish the preliminaries and then you can ask all the questions you have. Like I say, we’ve got an hour. More if we need it. I made sure the tank was full.
“To answer your next question, I’m with what used to be called the Office of Special Investigations at the Department of Justice. It was set up back in the ‘70s to find and prosecute war criminals, that is, Nazis in the United States. OSI had great independent powers, more than anything else in Justice—investigation, litigation, subpoena, negotiating with foreign governments, right on through prosecutions. Hell, greater independence than just about anything else in the whole federal government. Because Holocaust trumped everything, back then.
“They caught a few Nazis over the years, but they also had some problems, got a little too chummy with the Soviets during the 80s, screwed up a couple of cases. Eventually, the Nazis were almost all dead. So a few years ago they merged OSI with a couple other specialized divisions into something called the Special Prosecutions Section. Supposedly, the main thrust of the office is to go after our newer generation of war criminals, African warlords kidnapping child soldiers, that sort of thing.
“The reality is that the SPS is pretty much a cover for something else. There are eight career prosecutors who spend most of their time documenting human rights abuses in 100 and something countries. All of them are mediocrities from the bottom half of their tier-two law school classes.”
He chuckles. “They’ve gotten in one successful prosecution in four years, some sociopath who worked his child slaves to death mining diamonds in an African shithole. He was dumb enough to get arrested in Greece for beating up a hooker and extradited over here. Aside from reports, that’s what they’ve managed to accomplish, but nobody in Congress looks too close because, human rights!”
By now we’re on to the 66, headed over the Roosevelt Bridge to Virginia. He changes lanes to find an opening in the traffic and speeds up, looks over.
“The real work is me, two other guys, and the Section Chief. She’s ex-CIA. The three of us are the ‘investigators.’ None of us are lawyers.
“In fact, Cal, we’re all ex-Special Operations Command. One Air Force, one Green Beret and me; I was in the SEAL Teams for eight years.”
He smiles, showing some teeth this time.
“I hope the Marines don’t mind too much that I used them as cover. Fools think ‘Marine’ and ‘not too bright’ go together somehow. Anyway, it was something no one would pay special attention too, like they do SEALs.
“We have no name, no special place on an org chart, and as far as anyone knows we’re assisting the investigation of human rights violations around the world. It gives us good reasons to travel when needed. Sometimes we’re called on to eliminate threats that are imminent, that can’t be taken care of through normal channels. No memos, no paperwork, no email, no phone records. You’re a smart guy. I know I don’t need to say more.”
He pauses, and it’s for me to speak. “All right then—that’s quite a story. I’d be happy to believe it, with some evidence. But you know what I want to know, first. What exactly were you investigating at Miller’s office? What the hell could be going on there of interest your, umm, ‘section?’”
He goes quiet for a while, but I’m willing to wait him out. We’ve crossed the bridge and we’re officially in Rosslyn, Virginia. He’s only about six feet off the bumper of the car ahead, and he keeps his eyes front as he replies.
“Again, I’d bet my house you’ve figured it out already Cal. Four months ago, someone at Homeland Security flagged you to our chief. I didn’t have need to know, so she didn’t tell me who. I went in to investigate you. You were alleged to be a member of an organization that we’ve only had the slightest hints of over the last few years, part of the shadow world that no one knew, or knows, much of anything about. I was to evaluate what you were up to, whether there was any imminent threat.”
Despite the fact that he’s still riding the ass of the car in front, he looks over at me again and smiles, and there’s real humor in it.
“I didn’t find a goddam thing in three months that made me think you were anything but your public persona—a summa cum laude Stanford engineering grad who dabbled in reactionary politics and campaigned for an obscure right-wing Nevada district attorney who won an open Senate seat in a huge upset. Everything in the public record, everything we could dig up, was 100 fucking percent straight arrow; almost too much so for me to believe. You work out most nights, drink good whisky, but moderately. You’ve had four different women on the carousel in the 16 months you’ve been in DC, all of them conservative Hill staffers, all of them, in my professional judgement, extremely attractive, none of them serious or exclusive.”
It’s taking all my skills to keep a poker face at this, but I manage.
“Okay, what else?” I ask. I know the kicker is coming.
“Five years ago last week you took down Mahmoud Al-Rachman, the San Jose Mall shooter, with a whisky glass and your bare hands. You didn’t give interviews, you didn’t go on the talk shows, you were on the national news for a couple of days, a name and a picture and then…nothing. No one could find you and the reporters lost interest pretty quick. You dropped out of sight for almost three months, no trace, not even any credit card purchases. And almost no one remembers it now—Miller knows, a couple of the older staffers remembered something about it. That’s it.
“I remember when it happened; I was still in the Teams. We reviewed it as an example of what to do in that kind of situation. The right thing. We thought you did a helluva job.”
I can’t hold it in any longer.
“And what about James, Jack? Did anyone notice his name? Godammit, it’s not that I avoid thinking about the thing, that I won’t talk about it, but whenever anyone brings it up, they never fucking remember James’ name!”
“James Stark,” he says calmly. “Your best friend, I think. Died with a knife in his hand. He was a man. I told you we studied the fight in the Teams, Cal. Police diagrams, Homeland Security background reports, all of it. You came at the shooter from two directions, absolutely the best you could have done with no planning, no time. Al-Rachman happened to be turned in his direction. The last shot he fired killed your bud.”
“Yeah. It just as easily could have been me, it was pure 50-50. Sometimes I think if it was me that took the bullet, it would have been best. James would have ripped open the motherfucker’s carotid arteries, and he would have bled out, he would have known his terrorist ass was finished by a guy with a fucking steak knife. Instead he’s sitting in Florence on federal death row, still. I read they spent $100,000 on surgeries trying to fix his face.”
I take a couple of deep breaths. My shoulder is throbbing, the last Vicodin they gave me at the hospital is starting to wear off, there’s more in my bag but I welcome the pain now, it’s time to think clearly, to find out a lot more from Jack and figure out what to do next.
“I’m really glad to hear that SEALs know James’s name. But let’s get back to now. Who the fuck shot me, Jack?”
35. Today, Office, Third Street, Reno, Nevada May 27, 8:44 am
“Our family and the Strauss brothers are friends. From way back.”
I look confused. “Who?”
There’s a visible physical reaction. Her shoulders move back an inch her head comes up and her eyes widen.
“The, umm, the Strauss brothers,” with a hint of emphasis that she hop
es will penetrate. She’s played her hole ace now and she’s trying to cover but she really hasn’t played all that many hands in her young life.
“Strauss brothers? Who are they?”
Just the slightest hesitation and to her credit, she comes up with something.
“I’m sorry, I must have misunderstood. The Strausses are family friends, I thought you knew of them but obviously I was mistaken. Anyway, um, let’s get back to the issue of finding my mother.”
“Okay, but I thought I made it clear that this wasn’t really our kind of job,” I say. “Your security guy surely knows of some professionals who do this sort of thing all the time.”
I hit her with the other hand: “So you’ve gone to the police, right?”
“Um, no. We have a good reason not to.”
“Really? And what would that be?” The bizarre and interesting aspects of this setup intrigue me, but the mystification is far beyond what I’d normally put up with. Still, I can’t help myself, I need to know, badly, why the hell she’s here. I make a decision.
“Well, bec—“
“I’m sorry to interrupt. Ms. Hart, but let’s cut through the bullshit now and save a lot of time.” The mild obscenity doesn’t move a single muscle in her face.
“This was an unscheduled meet that I showed up for because you made a weird, wired-sounding early-morning phone call to me and you and your family and your security chief laid out something that I found interesting. You did this precisely and deliberately.
“I don’t know what’s going on, what’s in the background here, but if you want my help finding your mother, here are the conditions: First, contact your Mr. Anders and find out the name of the person or organization that got him the number you called. Second, have him or someone compile a one page brief, where your mother was and what she was doing for the last seven days before she disappeared. Third, my fee for this job, if I do it, is $10,000 a day, plus a $25,000 non-refundable upfront payment, starting today. So you get me the first two pieces, and a cashier’s check for $35,000, and I’ll be back here in this office at noon today. That’s a little over three hours from now.”
I stand, give her a nod.
“You seem sharp and mature for your age. I’m not sure why the family, or the company, if there’s a difference, sent you over here by yourself to hire me, but I suspect that it’s because you’re a very attractive woman who has a sad family story and happens to be heir to a few billions.”
I smile. “I do appreciate the effort. I’ll be back here at 11:59. If you have the three things I require, you have my word that I’ll start looking for your mother at noon.”
“But—“
I take the three steps, open the conference room door and turn my head.
“If you can’t meet those conditions, don’t waste your time and mine by showing up. If you’re not here, by 12:01 I’m gone.”
I nod again. “I’m sure you can find your way out. Auf Wiedersehen.”
I don’t rebutton my jacket on my way to the office entrance. The weight of the .45 on my right hip is comforting.
36. 3 years ago, Rosslyn Virginia April 25 8:31 am
Jack checks the mirrors again before he says anything.
“The one who shot you went by Muhammed Ghasini, formerly D’Nasi Stoats of Baltimore and the US Army. He had a decent career going until he overdosed on heroin and got discharged. Before a year was out as a civilian he was on his way to Maryland Max on drug and weapons charges. Three years there, converted to Islam, he got out 8 months ago and had been clean and sober ever since, as far as I can find out. Showed up every Friday for prayers. The other two were nobodies—low-level dealers with long records.
“Here’s the thing Cal; after spending three months around you, in person, while my chief ran all your records back to junior fucking high school, I still wasn’t getting a handle on what was up with you, why the hell they had me spending six days a week on you. So I decided to invite you for drinks, see if I could get you loosened up and talking, war stories, whatever, some kind of hint, a break. But you were adamant about only having two neat whiskies and heading home.”
“Yeah, that’s always been my limit since one night back in college.” I chuckle briefly at the thought of telling him what had happened that night. I’m sure it’s not what he thinks.
“So let me continue the story for you, Jack. You have two drinks with me and I want to head home early and sober, by DC standards. Five minutes later three dudes are holding guns on us. Just so happens that you’re there with your nine millimeter. Just happens that you’re one of the most highly trained people on God’s green earth with weapons. The cops told me all three took two in the chest, and one had another ‘right in the mouth.’ That was pretty memorable. I thought I heard six or seven shots. Did you miss any?”
He takes a few seconds to answer, I wonder what he’s thinking about. Going back over the details? Thinking up a good lie?
“Actually, it was a .40 caliber, Cal, to be accurate. Sig-Sauer, a beautiful piece of machinery. I put two in the center man’s chest right away, he was the active threat, the other two were raising their weapons and I shot each one twice, center of mass, and the one on the right wasn’t down so I went to a head shot. It was all training, we trained that scenario and every scenario you could imagine. I still shoot around 500 rounds a month with my pistols. Not as much as in the Navy, but enough to keep in practice.”
He looks over at me and smiles, and I see the wolf in that smile, the wolf that is happy with a good job of hunting. I wouldn’t want to be on the bad side of that smile, no. A picture flashes in my eyes, for a fraction of a fraction of a second, but it leaves a clear after-image, a picture of my arm holding a gleaming short-sword, looking down the edge of the blade to make sure it’s combat sharp.
“Look Jack, I have a lot more questions, but there’s one thing I need to know right now, before anything else. Those guys were acting like it was a robbery, but before D‘Anisi or whoever the fuck he was shot me, I got a flash, hell, I knew that something wasn’t right, that he was going to shoot. Did you get that flash, too?
“Yep.” He checks the mirrors again, jumps to the right lane to pass a slow mover and gets back left. The traffic has thinned out now and we’re going at least 15 over the limit. “The distance and the way they were standing gave it away. Robberies are almost always closer up. I gave you that look hoping you’d get it and you did. I didn’t know who they were, or what, but I knew as soon as he spoke that it stunk.”
He sighs quietly.
“You haven’t asked the question yet that I thought would be the first one, but then you’ve been surprising me for four mon—“
“You mean who they were after,” I interrupt. “I wasn’t sure until I went over it, ten, twenty, times, laying in that hospital. The hit was on me. Like you said there and then, the bullet would have got me in the heart if I hadn’t moved. I’m wondering if they were waiting for an opportunity to make it look like a robbery and take someone else with me, for cover, to make sure it didn’t look like an assassination.”
I blow a little burst of air between my lips. “Jesus, they may have waited to move until I was with someone else. Ha!”
I’m suddenly laughing hard, and my shoulder really hurts now, but I don’t care.
“They may have waited to try and kill me until I was with a Navy SEAL with .40.”
He thinks it’s funny, too, but only smiles.
“Whoever ordered it, whoever wanted it, Cal, knows damn well that it didn’t work as planned. Remember when I said we’d work together again? That starts now. In a few minutes we’re going to change vehicles, then we’re going to a safe house and get you healed up and work on finding where the imminent threat came from. Then we’re going to neutralize it. Together.
“Do you know how to shoot a Smith and Wesson revolver?”
“Sure, I’ve shot one a few times. Done most of my handgun shooting with the 1911 Colt but,” I glance ruefully at my l
eft arm in its sling, “it would be pretty hard to work the slide right now.”
“There’s a .357 in the glove box. I’m almost certain we’re clean, but just in case, why don’t you take it out and check the cylinder. I put six high-velocity hollow points in there. But of course you’re going to want to see for yourself.”
37. Today, Office, Third Street, Reno, Nevada May 27, 11:59 am
I walk through the door and Lisa Hart is standing there, in almost the same spot as the first time, maybe three feet farther away from the door. I’m sure she wants more reaction time.
The look on her face is studied cool, trying a little too hard not to show me anything, this time. She has a manila envelope in her hands.
“Here, you are, Mr. Adler, everything you asked for. I expect you to keep your end of the bargain.” She holds it out to me.
“Of course, Ms. Hart,” I say. The envelope is sealed and I pull out my pocket folder, flick it open one-handed and carefully slit the top. I slide the single piece of paper, which is densely covered with small print, up and out. A check is clipped to it.
I unclip the check, fold it, put it into my shirt pocket and start to scan the paper.
I don’t look up at her, and I’m curious about how long it will take her to start fidgeting. She hasn’t been acting like a rich bitch so far, but I can’t imagine she’s used to being ignored for long, either.
May 27 1100 PDT
Private cell phone number for Cal Adler was obtained by Alexandr Svoboda, aka “Mephisto” a resident of the Czech Republic, who the Company has under contract for high-priority short-notice security assignments. Svoboda was tasked 26 May approx. 1400 his local time (0400 PDT), and delivered information approx. six hours later. The Company has previously not released Svoboda’s name publicly, or acknowledged his use for Company assignments. The Company offers Svoboda’s name as a token of good faith. The Company requires that Svoboda not be contacted, nor his involvement in this matter be publicized.