by Don Bentley
“Haven’t had a nightmare in weeks,” I said, grabbing a roll from the bread basket in the center of the table. “Since I shattered your nose, I’ve been sleeping like a baby. Should’ve decked you a long time ago.”
Charles smiled, revealing teeth bleached alabaster white. “The thing about you, Drake, is that you’re a has-been. A washed-up case officer who cracked under the pressure. No shame in that. Men better than either of us have done the same. The difference is they quit before people got killed. But not you. You just kept on trucking. How many have you lost, Drake? Let’s see. Frodo’s a cripple. Your Syrian asset and his entire family were butchered. Your weapons scientist had his brains blown out. Am I missing any? I’m sure there’re more. With you there’re always more.”
I looked at Charles with a sardonic smile even as I gripped my pant leg underneath the red linen tablecloth. My index finger was trembling.
Finding Charles hadn’t been hard. It was Wednesday evening in DC—the time to see and be seen. Charles wasn’t the Director of the CIA yet, but everyone knew he was in the running. So where would a humble public servant who wished to increase his visibility with the senators voting on his confirmation take his dinner on Wednesday night? Sophie’s—the trendiest restaurant in the District, of course. A single call to the maître d’ had confirmed my suspicions. Charles had a table booked for seven o’clock.
My plan had been to show up unannounced, rattle Charles’s cage, and see what shook loose. But two minutes in, he’d rattled mine. Maybe I was a bit out of practice. Fortunately, a voice off my left shoulder granted me a reprieve.
“Good evening, sir,” the waiter said. “Would you like a menu?”
“I just ordered, so feel free,” Charles said. “The crab cakes are amazing.”
“Coffee,” I said, “with cream and sugar.”
“Very good,” the waiter said before retreating.
Charles tracked the man’s progress over my shoulder, waiting until he was out of earshot before leaning across the table.
“Listen to me, you little prick,” Charles said. He was still all smiles, but his jovial expression didn’t extend to his flat, cold eyes. “I came to Austin to see you in order to try to reach an understanding.”
“What kind of understanding, Chuck?” I said, ripping the roll in two and buttering one of the halves. “It was hard to understand you with all that blood pouring from your nose. I remember you threatening to deport my wife’s parents. After that, things got a bit hazy.”
“I wasn’t threatening. I was explaining. Explaining your new reality. I was afraid that you might have been operating under an incorrect assumption: that rescuing my paramilitary officer had somehow cleared your previous fuckups off the slate. But that isn’t the case. After Syria, I got a promotion and the president’s ear. You got nothing. But here you are, sitting in front of me, barking like a junkyard dog. Because I’m in a good mood, I’m going to try this one more time. Stay retired. Understood?”
“Sure.”
“Good. Consider this closure, or making amends, or whatever trendy words they call it in whichever twelve-step program you’re undoubtedly working. Go back to Austin. Grow a beard. Hang out in coffee shops. Maybe even smoke a little weed if it helps. Bottom line—forget about your old life. It no longer exists.”
“Here’s the thing, Charlie,” I said, returning both halves of the roll to the basket uneaten. “I was happy in Austin. In fact, I’d be there right now if a team of shooters hadn’t interrupted my afternoon. People who try to kill me get my attention, so now I’m here to get yours.”
“You think I sent them?”
“Please. You give yourself way too much credit. You were a shitty case officer and a shitty chief of base. If not for your college buddy in the White House, your Agency career would have been over a long time ago. Do I think you’ve wished me dead? Maybe. But do I think you have the operational chops to hire a team of mercs and send ’em to Austin? Not a chance. No, I’m here for just one reason. You fucked up. Again. This time, I’m not gonna let it slide.”
“You need help, Matt. I’m telling you this as a professional. You need to talk to someone before it’s too late.”
While old Charles might indeed have been a shitty case officer, he would have made an excellent used-car salesman. The sincerity in his tone took me aback. I almost rethought my entire approach.
Almost.
Except that for once I wasn’t the only one with a case of the shakes. The little finger on Charles’s right hand was vibrating like a tuning fork. He was scared. Terrified. His unconcerned attitude to the contrary, I’d rattled his cage. Now it was time for the coup de grâce.
“Maybe you’re right, Chuck,” I said. “Maybe I do need help. But the difference between you and me is that I don’t have to fight my demons alone. You, on the other hand, are flying solo. Once the FBI ties the shooter who tried to kill me to you, there won’t be a person in this town willing to take your calls. And that includes your supposed friend on the president’s staff.”
“What are you talking about?” Charles said.
“We’ve identified the shooter. He’s the son of the asset you thought you were running in Syria. Pretty big coincidence, don’t you think? Or maybe not, since I’m pretty sure your asset was the one running you.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“Maybe. But I’m not the one about to spend some quality time with the FBI. Good luck, Chucky. Hope you have a great lawyer.”
I got up without waiting for Charles to reply. In truth, I didn’t need him to. The deafening silence was answer enough.
TWELVE
The phone rang as I spun the card with my favorite special agent’s contact information between my fingertips. He’d shoved it into my hands as I’d left the station to meet Laila. In my rush, I almost hadn’t taken it. Now I was hoping I’d be glad I had.
“Agent Rawlings.”
“Agent Rawlings, this is Matt Drake. How the hell are you?”
The valet from Sophie’s eyed me across the darkened street. He didn’t seem too happy that I was parked in front of his restaurant, but he wasn’t doing anything about it either. Yet.
“Drake. Remember how I compared you to herpes? I was wrong. Herpes isn’t fatal. You, sir, are syphilis.”
“The investigation isn’t going so well?” I said.
“No. The San Antonio SAC wants updates twice a day, which means the assistant director in charge of counterintelligence is probably crawling up his ass on an hourly basis. We’ve kept the jihadi connection out of the news for now. But it won’t last. Something’s got to give. Soon. Where are you?”
“DC.”
“Which part of don’t leave town did you not understand? Austin PD wants a statement.”
“Austin PD can wait. I’m trying to figure out who wants me dead.”
“Any progress?”
Rawlings sounded beaten down, and I understood how he felt. All things considered, he was a good guy in a shitty situation. Rawlings was the case agent in charge of the investigation. It was his career on the line, and that was what I was counting on.
“I’m close,” I said. “But I need a favor.”
“Jesus, Drake. I shared info with you thinking I’d get something useful in return, but so far this relationship has been entirely one-way. I don’t need this shit. If I want to get jerked around, I’ll call the CIA.”
“That was below the belt,” I said. “Say bad things about my momma if you want, but don’t ever compare me to the CIA.”
“If O.J.’s glove fits, you must acquit.”
“The last time I checked, the only one dodging bullets on South Congress was me. Cut the hurt-feelings act. I’m onto something, but I can’t close the loop by myself. If you’ve got other angles to work, knock yourself out. But if you want to bag the shooters who tore up Austin and
killed a cop, I need a favor.”
For several long seconds, Rawlings didn’t answer. He was unhappy and wanted me to know it. More than that, he wanted me afraid that he was going to tell me to pound sand. But we both knew it was just an act. Rawlings had a boss who wanted answers and a story that would crash across the news like a tsunami once the talking heads discovered the jihadi connection. A drowning man couldn’t be choosy when someone threw him a lifeline, and Rawlings was going under.
“Okay,” Rawlings said, exhaling a long breath. “What do you need?”
I told him.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Rawlings said, spitting out the words. “I can’t authorize that. Nobody can authorize that.”
“If you want the rest of the shooters, you can, and you will. Get me what I need. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Take care of the rest, my ass. This has serious blowback potential. Like, getting-dragged-in-front-of-Congress-to-testify kind of blowback.”
“Save it. I’m certain you’re a damn good investigator, but trust me when I tell you that I’m good at my job too. If there’s blowback, it ends with me. Spy’s honor.”
Rawlings hemmed and hawed and cursed and threatened for another minute or two, but in the end, he agreed.
They always do.
THIRTEEN
I looked at the address displayed on my phone a final time, comparing it with the building in front of me. The numbers stenciled on the side of the brick facade matched the digits Rawlings had texted, but I was still a bit leery. Either Rawlings was messing with me, or I didn’t know Charles as well as I thought.
Neither prospect boded well.
Shoving my cell into my back pocket, I grabbed hold of a grimy door handle framed by panes of blacked-out glass and pulled.
I’d told Charles the truth at the restaurant. I didn’t believe he had the operational chops to bring a team of shooters into the country undetected. And even if he could, I had no idea why he’d want me dead. Those troubling details aside, Charles was the only link I had to Sayid’s son. With that in mind, I’d done my best to shake him in the hopes that he would lead me to the next link in the chain.
While Charles wasn’t the world’s most stellar case officer, he was still a Farm-trained operative. The chances of my running a one-man surveillance op against him without being detected were slim. I needed another way to track him.
Enter Agent Rawlings. I’d asked Rawlings to illegally locate Charles’s phone, but I must have forgotten to mention that the number in question belonged to the next Director of the Central Intelligence Agency.
Whoops.
Anyway, ten minutes after our conversation, Rawlings came through. Which was none too soon, because by then the valet had worked up his confidence. I traded Sophie’s for the parking lot of a 7-Eleven, waiting for Charles to move. Once he did, I tracked the flashing icon that denoted his phone, determined to follow the CIA operative wherever he led me. Even if that happened to be a seedy strip club on the outskirts of the District.
The things I do for my country.
Stepping into the foyer, I allowed my eyes to adjust to the semidarkness as the door swung closed on shrieking hinges.
While I am not a connoisseur of gentlemen’s clubs, it was clear to me that this particular establishment was not the high-priced kind of place lobbyists took congressional staffers. The carpet was threadbare, and sticky chunks of discolored concrete gaped in places like leprous flesh peeking through ragged bandages. Pounding music pummeled me, the thumping bass line reverberating in my chest. The smells of cigarettes and stale booze permeated the air, with the pungent odor of marijuana lurking beneath like exotic seasoning.
“Ready to party?”
The shouted question came from a waif of a girl dressed in an ankle-length faux-fur coat. She was standing behind a podium next to a darkened hallway.
Girl certainly seemed to be an apt description. Her hair was peroxide blond, and she gave me a sultry look, but something felt off. Even in the murky light with caked-on makeup and ridiculously high-heeled shoes, she looked young.
“I’m supposed to meet a friend,” I said, walking up to her podium. “Maybe you can tell me if he’s here.”
Standing closer only confirmed my suspicions. I could see the teenage acne she was trying to conceal around her nose and mouth, and her skin was wrinkle free. Only her eyes seemed old. They were a dark brown that should have been pretty but looked washed-out and hard instead.
Lifeless.
“Fuck if I know,” the girl said, her eyes narrowing. “If your friend’s here, he’s inside. If he’s not, he’s not. Either way, to get in, you have to pay the cover charge. What’s it going to be?”
“I guess I’m ready to party,” I said, reaching for my wallet. “Take plastic?”
“Sugar, we take everything,” the girl said, her attitude markedly better now that she had my Visa between her fingers. Her smile warmed her face, but never reached those cold, vacant eyes.
* * *
—
The club’s interior wasn’t an improvement over the lobby. The stage with the all-important metal pole was currently empty. The platform’s wooden flooring was cracked and uneven with warped boards reaching up like skeletal fingers. A series of plastic chairs and cheap tables ringed the stage and a pair of scantily clad waitresses worked the room, tottering on heels that made the stilettos on the girl manning the door look like flats.
The music didn’t exactly stop when I walked in, but both waitresses keyed off my appearance like a dog hungry for table scraps. Probably because I was the only customer in the place. Rawlings and I were going to have words once I left.
The two waitresses raced from either side of the room, trying to be the first to take my order. A short redhead beat out a lanky brunette by a stride or two, but the brunette didn’t look like she was ready to concede. For a moment I thought they were going to get physical, but then the brunette gave a long-suffering sigh and walked away.
“Next dancer comes out in ten,” the redhead said. She was smacking a wad of chewing gum as she talked. The noise clashed with the seductive vibe she was trying to cultivate as she sidled up next to me. “What’re you drinking?”
“I’m looking for a friend,” I said, edging around a chair so that a flimsy table separated us.
“You can look for whoever you want. But if you want to stay here, you have to buy a drink.”
“How many?”
“One every fifteen minutes unless you’re tipping the dancer.”
“You have bottled?”
“Bud or Bud Light.” The gum popped like a rifle shot.
“Bud.”
“That’ll be twenty.”
“For a single beer?”
The girl shrugged her narrow shoulders as the gum popped three times in rapid succession, moving from semi- to fully automatic.
“I’ll take two,” I said, buying myself thirty minutes. James was going to love this expense report.
I surrendered my credit card once again, and the waitress ran it through her tablet and then disappeared behind a black curtain to my left. I looked over to see the brunette eyeing me from where she was standing against the wall. I waved her over.
“Yeah?” she said.
“What’s your name?”
“Tiffani. With an i.”
Of course.
“Hi, Tiffani. I’m Matt. Can you talk?”
“If you buy me a drink.”
“I’ll buy you four. How’s that sound?”
“You must have a lot on your mind.”
Tiffani ran my card and then settled into the chair next to me. “What do you want?”
“I get nervous around pretty girls,” I said, leaning forward so that she could hear me over the pounding music. “Is there somewhere else we could go? Somewh
ere private?”
Tiffani looked at me for a long moment before shaking her head. “I’m just a waitress. I don’t do that.”
“Two hundred bucks for fifteen minutes. And I mean talk—that’s it.”
She looked at me for another beat and then held out her hand. “Three hundred. Pay up front.”
I gave her my card. She ran it, looked at the screen, and then nodded. “Okay,” she said, getting to her feet, “let’s talk.”
Tiffani led the way down a narrow hall, parted a black ceiling-to-floor curtain, and waved me through. The curtain must have been made of acoustic-dampening material, because the volume of the migraine-inducing techno-pop dropped.
Recessed lighting cast writhing shadows on the threadbare carpeting. A series of alcoves branched to the left and right of the main hallway. I glanced in one and saw what I expected—a cramped room with a worn sofa that ran the length of the far wall. Large mirrors covered the other three walls, and a disco ball hung from the ceiling.
Charming.
“I told you, I don’t do private dances,” Tiffani said, catching me looking into the empty room. “But I can find you someone.”
“Not much of a dancer,” I said. “Two left feet. But I’d like to ask you some questions.”
“You a cop?”
I shook my head. “The furthest thing from it. My wife’s friend is going through an awful divorce. Her ex isn’t paying child support. She thinks he’s spending his money here.”
“Why do I care?”
“You don’t. But I do. I told my friend I’d try to figure out if he’s a regular. What she does with that info is up to her. Being a single mother is hard enough. A deadbeat dad who doesn’t pay child support just makes things harder.”
The lines on Tiffani’s face softened. “You have a picture?”
“On my phone. Will you take a look?”
Tiffani nodded. “I’ll show it around to the other girls in the break room too. But that’s it. If something happens it’s my ass. I need this job.”