Spin Move

by David Lender

Ducasse waved his hand. “Bemelman is an idiot. This Rudiger is a real financial man, and I’ve just seen how our demure Mrs. Conklin operates as a sharp-witted attorney, a side to her I never knew about.”

  Father laughed. “She can’t be that sharp-witted. She’s in for $30 million, funded up front.”

  Ducasse felt a tremor of annoyance. He’s not getting it. “Put Mrs. Conklin together with Rudiger and it’s a dangerous combination. Rudiger is way too financially savvy to fit our profile. If he looks closely at our numbers, we may have a problem. And as I said, Mrs. Conklin is no shrinking violet. You should’ve seen her negotiating with us in Morocco. I swear it’s a different person than the one I’ve known here in Geneva.”

  Father said, “So retreat.”

  “I can’t. As you said yourself, she’s in for $30 million and the two of them are very close.”

  “Retreat and declare victory. Figure out a reason and give her back her money. Be done with them both.”

  What? Give it back? “You must be joking. That’s the last thing I’m going to do. No, I think the solution is to fund Rudiger’s project, keep his mind on that and off of us.”

  “Buy him off?”

  “So to speak.”

  Father said, “I’m glad it’s not our money you’re throwing around.”

  “Me, too. But I’m not thinking about that. I’m thinking about how much we could stand to make in this deal if it works as planned.”

  Father reached for his wineglass, took his time picking it up and sipping it. He said, “People in our position can’t afford to get too greedy. Taking a moderate amount from time to time is tried and true. Taking too much, reaching for the stars, will get us caught. Remember that.”

  Later that afternoon Katie smiled as she watched Daddy walking on the crowded streets of Oujda, gesturing and laughing with Rudiger. Rudiger had Daddy’s iGo in a backpack, Katie walking Styles on a leash. Katie looked around. Oujda was a continual surprise, a mix of 12th- and 13th-century Arab buildings of sandstone, with their curves and domes, and modern steel-and-glass skyscrapers. Seeing Daddy enjoying being out among the people on the street made her wonder if it might be a suitable home now that staying in Cape Verde no longer seemed safe.

  “Styles! Stop pulling,” she said.

  “He’s not used to being on leash,” Rudiger said. “You want me to take him?”

  Katie shook her head, kept walking.

  Most of the passersby on the street either gave Styles a wide berth, or approached to pet him as if they’d never seen a dog in the city streets before. “He’s friendly,” Katie would assure them, and then Styles would sit, his tail wagging, mouth open and tongue hanging out with his pitbull smile, loving the attention.

  When they got back to the hotel after their walk, Daddy sat down in a chair and fell asleep almost immediately. Styles curled up at his feet. Rudiger and Katie went next door and closed the door that connected their adjacent rooms.

  “Hi,” Rudiger said and kissed her.

  “Hi,” she said and eased him backward onto the bed, sat him down and then climbed on top of him, started taking off her shirt, then her bra. She lay down on top of him and kissed him again, more urgently.

  They made love.

  Afterward, Katie pushed her hair out of her face, said to him, “You think we have a chance?”

  “A chance at what? You still concerned about our deal?”

  Katie stroked his chest. “No. I mean us.”

  Rudiger turned to look her in the eye. “We seem to be doing fine.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “A chance for us to be together, for something more than a week or two of . . .”

  Rudiger smiled. “I’m here, aren’t I? Cape Verde is a long way from Antigua.”

  “Yes, but are you here for your $30 million or for me?”

  “Both. And for an apology. But I already got that. Put it this way, I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.”

  His words warmed her, then she thought for a moment. She was still uncertain. She said, “Are you sure?”

  Rudiger rolled onto his back and looked at the ceiling. He said, “I have this perspective that people don’t always know entirely what they’re doing, at least on the surface. You sent me the $10 million in bearer bonds without concealing the return address in Cape Verde. Whether you knew it or not, I think you wanted me to know where you were.” He turned to look at her.

  Katie felt her face burn, a wave of anticipation course down her body.

  Rudiger said, “And as for me, why would I come here if I wasn’t looking for you, even if I told myself it was only about the money?” He paused. “But I never told myself that.” He leaned over and kissed her. “So if you’re asking me if we have a chance, I don’t know. But I know what I’m doing here, and I’m pretty sure you want me to be here.”

  Katie stroked his cheek, then pulled his face to hers and kissed him.

  “Yes, I want you to be here, and I don’t want you to leave,” she whispered.

  Stone had been sitting in the lobby of the Hotel Babel Nador for four hours. He was ready to switch off with Kaminsky for the next surveillance shift. The team was rotating through five hotels each day, 12 to cover in all from the list Stevens had gotten from HQ. Stevens plus five teammates at five hotels each day, with one floater playing leapfrog as relief so there were no coverage gaps.

  This was the second day with no activity. Stone sat up as he saw a trim, strawberry-blonde-haired woman, maybe 5'4", walk into the lobby with a brindle pitbull on a leash. He pulled the photograph out of his pocket, checked it and felt a blast of adrenaline.

  Gotcha.

  He punched his cell phone for Stevens.

  “Yeah?” Stevens said.

  “Got her. Lobby of the Hotel Babel Nador with the dog. Positive ID from the photograph.”

  “Okay. We’re all on the way.”

  Stone adjusted his earpiece so he was certain he could hear Stevens on the line.

  The radio crackled. Stevens came on. “Positive ID on target number one. Hotel Babel Nador, Stone on-site. Rendezvous ASAP in the lobby.”

  Stone waited. Twenty minutes later the full team of six had arrived. Stevens walked into the men’s room. Each of them followed at one- or two-minute intervals. Once inside, Stevens hung around until the last guest left, then locked his heel against the door to hold it shut.

  Stone leaned against one of the sinks as Stevens addressed the team. “Okay, listen up. We hang out here at the hotel, mill around, eat dinner, drink coffee, do whatever. We wait until target number two, the man, is identified, and when he enters, Stone, you ride the elevator up with him to his floor, identify the room, then come back downstairs. Then we regroup and plan our acquisition.”

  Stevens paused, looked at them, each one in turn, and each nodded to Stevens.

  Jenkins said, “I already notified our pilot and our drivers. Two units are parked outside. There’s a service entrance in the back where we can take our targets out into the alley, should be no problems. Then to the airport and the G650.”

  Stevens said, “Okay, we wait for target two.”

  Stone was in the lobby when target two entered, again a positive ID from the photograph, grainy as it was. Stone stood up and followed the target into the elevator. The target pushed the button for the 10th floor. Stone stepped forward and hit the 10th-floor button again. “I always do that,” he said and shrugged. The target smiled.

  When the door opened on 10, the target hesitated for so long that Stone felt he had to walk out first. He headed down the hall, hearing the target’s footsteps behind him, Stone waiting.

  Damn. He could see the exit to the stairwell at the end of the hall, but that was a last resort. If the target didn’t stop at his room by then, Stone would have to go
through the ruse of patting his pockets, pretending to look for his key to let the target pass.

  Lame.

  But halfway down the hall he heard the target stop, slide his card key in the lock and open the door.

  Stone counted, One Mississippi, two Mississippi, after he heard the door open, then turned back to see the door swing closed. Stone was back in the elevator in a moment and clicked the radio, said, “Room 1012.” When the elevator doors opened, he walked through the lobby to the revolving doors, crossed the street into a tea salon. He sat down and waited. Stevens was the first to arrive, said, “Good work. Now we go live.”

  Upstairs, Kaminsky was positioned in front of the targets’ door, wearing the outfit of one of the service staff, God knows where he got it. Stone would make sure he gave Kaminsky megatons of crap about how cute he looked in it. Kaminsky held a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket and two glasses in his hand.

  Stone, Harris and Jenkins converged and pressed their backs against the wall near Kaminsky. Golub and Stevens came out of the door to the stairwell at the end of the hall, approached with their hands in the pockets of their jackets, live weapons in them.

  Kaminsky knocked on the door. After a moment it opened a crack, the chain on it. Kaminsky said, “Champagne.”

  The woman’s voice said, “I didn’t order champagne.”

  “Compliments of the management.”

  Kaminsky drove his shoulder into the door, snapped the chain and pushed inside, dropping the champagne and glasses, pulling his dart gun out.

  Stone was the first in behind Kaminsky, his dart gun drawn. He saw the dog, a pitbull, leap for Kaminsky’s arm as he grabbed the woman and she yelled, “Hey!” The dog gripped Kaminsky on the wrist above the hand he held his dart gun in. The dog spun his head back and forth, snarling, all four feet off the ground. Kaminsky howled in pain and went down. Stone heard the snap of Kaminsky’s wrist breaking as the dog brought him to the floor.

  Stone aimed his dart gun and fired, hit the dog square in the side and it went limp in an instant. The woman stood looking at his gun with her mouth open. She inhaled and Stone knew she was going to scream, so he raised his gun and shot her in the chest. She went down like a sack of potatoes.

  Harris and Jenkins by then had run to his right, grabbed the man, target number two, already unconscious with a dart sticking in his chest, and held him up. They dragged the man out. Stevens and Golub carried the woman out, each one supporting her under an armpit as if she were too drunk to walk.

  Stone turned as an older man in a wheelchair with oxygen tubes in his nose rolled himself through the doorway from an adjoining room. He was shouting, Stone couldn’t tell what; it was unintelligible. Stone aimed his dart gun at the man and shot him in the chest. His head slumped to the side.

  Stone headed out of the room, his heart pounding.

  CHAPTER 7

  Holden was just finishing up a meeting in one of the conference rooms, discussing the final draft of a complaint on an insider trading case he’d been working on for 18 months. The attorney general was on the speakerphone from DC. The room was full of about a dozen of Holden’s staff members and smelled like burnt coffee. Five minutes ago when he saw the meeting winding down, Holden had turned around, called Stephanie on his cell phone and asked her to have Johnston and Shepherds join him in the conference room when this broke up.

  “Alright, guys, great job,” Attorney General Martin said.

  Holden said, “Thanks, Dan.” He heard the AG click off the line. “Okay, guys, that’s a wrap. We’re on our way. We break this one on Monday.”

  Holden’s junior attorneys stood up, headed through the door. Holden saw Johnston and Shepherds standing outside. He stood up, gave them a big smile. “My men of the hour. Snatch-and-grab Johnston and irregular rendition Shepherds. Come on in, guys.”

  They sat down across the conference table from Holden, Johnston eyeing him.

  “What’s wrong, Johnston?” Holden said.

  Shepherds laughed. “I don’t think he’s ever seen you smile like this before.”

  Holden smiled more broadly. “Get used to it, Johnston, you’re one of my stars now.”

  “Yes, sir,” Johnston said.

  “And quit calling me sir.”

  Johnston squirmed in his seat, like it was impossible for him to do it.

  Holden shook his head, saw Shepherds laughing again. Holden said, “Okay, so are the Brits playing ball with you guys? If not, I can call Commissioner McPherson again.”

  “Everything’s going as we’d orchestrated it,” Shepherds said. “The Brits have released to the press that two U.S. fugitive felons have been positively ID’d in the UK and are believed to be attempting to leave the country. Conklin’s and Dolan’s photos have already been submitted to the press, soon to be on TV screens throughout the country, hopefully before the arrest.”

  Shepherds looked over at Johnston.

  Johnston said, “We’re monitoring them where we dropped them. The plan is to wait for them to wake up, and then apprehend them with a combined team from Scotland Yard and the London police. They tell us it should be a photogenic moment.”

  “I love it,” Holden said. “They gonna get this on TV, too?”

  Johnston nodded. “That’s the plan. The Brits will leak the impending bust to the press, and there’ll be TV crews on the scene.”

  Holden said, “The whole British Empire coming down on them—the Ruler of the Queen’s Navy, Her Majesty’s Secret Service, Scotland Yard and all that, splashed across all the networks and CNN. That’s even better than dragging them out of their apartments in handcuffs at 6:00 a.m. in front of the cameras, then having them do a perp walk into the courthouse for their arraignment. Great work, guys. So now we wait, right?”

  Shepherds said, “It shouldn’t be long.”

  “Then we push through the extradition papers,” Holden said, “fly them home and roast them over an open fire.”

  Rudiger heard a voice echoing in his head, like it was coming from inside a tunnel. He tried to open his eyes but couldn’t.

  Take it slow.

  He remembered the sensation, from when he was in college and drank tequila. His mind worked but his body didn’t. Brain telling muscles to walk, muscles and bones like rubber.

  He waited, breathing. He smelled peanuts. His mouth tasted like garlic and metal.

  Now he heard people talking, British accents.

  He was able to open his eyes. He was in some kind of lounge, people milling around, nice cushioned chairs, classy. What the hell?

  He could move his head now. He inhaled and exhaled. That helped. He looked around. It was an airline lounge. He looked down, saw he was sitting in a wheelchair. Now he remembered. Morocco. Who were those guys?

  Where’s Katie? He looked to his right, then left, saw her sleeping with her head slumped to the side in another wheelchair. He sighed, relieved.

  He tried to lean forward to stand up, couldn’t do it. He glanced to his right, saw a copy of an American Way magazine, picked it up and squinted at the sticker on the bottom.

  American Airlines Admirals Club Lounge, Heathrow Airport.

  He sat back and breathed, trying to will his body to work. After a minute he was able to push himself to a standing position. The woman across from him in a cushioned chair said, “Are you alright?”

  “Never felt better,” Rudiger said. At least his brain said it, but he wasn’t sure what came out of his mouth.

  The woman looked at him with her lips parted, her brow furrowed. He sat back down. He reached over and shook Katie’s shoulder. She didn’t respond. He waited another moment, then pushed himself to a standing position again. This time he was able to walk to the chair next to the woman who’d spoken to him. He sat down with a grunt, looked over at her and smiled.

  He said, “A red-eye, that’s all,” sur
e the words came out intelligibly.

  The woman smiled back. “Ambien,” she said. “It gets me through every time.”

  Rudiger looked over and saw Katie opening her eyes. He waited until they stopped looking glassy, then walked over to stand in front of her.

  “You okay?” he said.

  She didn’t respond, just looked around, running her tongue over her lips. “Thirsty,” she said.

  Rudiger turned and walked over to the food counter, carried back two bottles of water. He opened one and lifted it to Katie’s lips. Only about half of it went into her mouth, the rest down her chin, but she responded with a smile. He opened the other one and drank it in a few glugs. Katie was blinking her eyes now, looking around, much more alert.

  Rudiger sat down in the wheelchair next to her. She looked over at him and whispered, “I remember now. Where are we?”

  Rudiger whispered back, “London Heathrow Airport, American Airlines Admirals Club.”

  “Where’s Daddy? And Styles? They shot Styles! I saw it!”

  “It was a dart, same as the ones they shot us with.”

  “He’s so small, it could kill him.” Her brow wrinkled with anguish.

  “He weighs about 80% of what you do, and he’s tough. He’ll be fine.”

  “Oh my God, what about Daddy? He’s so sick. If they shot him with one, it could kill him.” Now she looked panicked. “Where are they?”

  Rudiger shook his head. “I assume still back there.” He rested his hand on Katie’s arm. “I really think they’re both okay.”

  Katie nodded but didn’t look convinced.

  Rudiger’s mind was waking up. He felt in his pockets. His wallet and passport were gone, but his iPhone was still there. He looked over and saw Katie’s handbag hooked over the arm of her wheelchair.

  What the—?

  He said, “All my ID, money and credit cards are gone, but I still have my phone. Check in your bag, see if you still have yours.”

  She reached in, came back up with her phone in her hand. “No money or ID, but the phone’s still here.”