by David Stever
The dress-down stopped and Keira removed two envelopes from her car and handed each man one.
“Payday?”
“Yeah, or instructions, or both.”
Keira got into her car and we all ducked down until she was out of the lot. The two men checked the contents of the envelopes as they went back to their motel room.
Quade nodded toward the motel.
“Job for our hacker boy.”
“Say no more.”
***
We dropped Quade off at the Hilton and Katie and I argued about her involvement in the case. I wanted her out of the field from this point forward. The Russians get one look at her and she was as good as dead—after they used her as a sex toy. Not to mention my demise as well.
She did not speak to me when she got out of the car. I waited until she drove off. She now had standing orders to text me as soon as she was home, and I even cooked up a code name she was to use to make sure she was not texting me out of duress. I would take a quiet and mad Katie over a dead one any day.
A bottle of merlot was already open on the counter in my condo. I poured a glass and gulped it down—not too sophisticated, but it got the alcohol on the fast lane into my system. After a shower, I downloaded eight pictures of the Russians, and one of the license plate of the van, from my camera to my laptop, and emailed them and the sound recording to Quade.
I finished a second and now sipped at a third glass of wine. I put Sinatra on the CD player. I needed Frank to mellow out the evening as I stretched out on the sofa. Photographing cheating husbands was one thing; photographing members of Bratva took the work to a much higher level, a level I did not expect on this case.
The clock clicked to 2:00 a.m. My meeting with Ainsley was at 7:00. He was still an unknown entity and I worried for his safety more than ever. I feared he was in way over his head. The night was now short; my mind was racing, and the wine bottle empty.
“Fly Me to the Moon,” took me away for a minute, but sleep would not come that night.
24
Nancy’s Diner did a brisk breakfast business but I called ahead and had Nancy reserve me the table in the front window. George Ainsley agreed to meet at 7:00, so I arrived at 6:30 and made a few trips around the block to make sure we did not have any unwanted company. After last night and the revelation of Keira working with the Russian mob, I worried about Ainsley. He had access to everything at BST, and it would take about ten seconds for someone like Vlasova to ply information from him.
It was important for George to stay the course, not react to anything he saw or overheard at the company, and to relay pertinent information back to Quade and me in the manner we dictated. We did not want him to initiate contact, I told him we would contact him and only by the disposable phone. We had to assume Keira had people watching and listening to everything he said and did, and if she was as smart as I thought, it would be business as usual at BST and George would not have any information to report.
She was sharp enough to not give George any reason to challenge her, but the affair with Tom Bellamy was a miscalculation. If she used sex to infiltrate the company, as Ainsley claimed, she made a mistake by allowing him to fall in love and want to divorce his wife. Rule number one in spy tradecraft: do not get emotionally involved with a target. She now had a jilted spouse and an angry co-worker on her plate. If it were not for the late-night meetings with two known members of Bratva, I would leave the whole mess to a love affair gone wrong, take my pictures, and go on to the next job.
Nancy brought me a coffee and I told her I wanted to move to the back table as soon as Ainsley arrived.
“Something has you bothered. I can tell,” she said.
I shrugged. “You keep an eye out. For anything.”
She patted my shoulder and went to another table. Seven o’clock came and went and my stomach started to crawl. A young man walked into the diner and sat at the end of the counter. He had dark hair, a short scraggly beard, and wore jeans, sandals, and a hooded sweatshirt. He glanced around and then ordered a coffee. I had one eye on the street and one eye on him. Every minute or so, he would turn and scan the restaurant.
My phone beeped. A text from Ainsley. “Sorry. Traffic.” At the same moment, the door opened and a young woman with green and pink streaks in her blonde hair entered. The man at the counter broke into a smile and stood to greet her, and I was furious I allowed my paranoia to control me.
Five minutes later, a white SUV pulled to the curb and an older man with silver hair got out. I looked at the car and the man again, and it hit me as if I had been shot between the eyes by a solar-powered, space-based microwave beam.
I called Emmanuel.
***
Lulu’s Café was one of those fancy, new age vegan places located at the Port City Towne Center, a new retail-dining development a few miles from BST. I took a table in the rear of the restaurant, giving myself a clear view of the door. A menu was on the table and it featured everything tofu. Tofu burgers, grilled tofu, salad with tofu, and a tofu dessert. I was tempted to crack a joke and ask for a cheeseburger and a beer.
A rather large girl—with a round, pimply face, “Brenda” on her nametag, and the personality of a chunk of tofu—came to take my order. She did not greet me, smile, or look me in the eye, and by her appearance, I do not think she ate what she served. I ordered a salad with Italian dressing.
Approaching Keira was a risky move but one I was willing to take. Although I had apprehension about the case and the possibility of innocent people being at risk, my adrenaline pumped hard and heavy.
Ainsley told us Keira and Bellamy ate lunch here every day at 12:30. I hoped his intel was correct. At 12:15, the girl delivered my salad without saying a word. I should have tried the cheeseburger joke to make sure she was alive. I picked at the salad to kill time and after a long fifteen minutes, my phone chirped. “They are here.”
Bellamy and Keira came into the restaurant and took a table near the front. The same waitress went to their table with two glasses of sparkling water and did say hello to them. I guess there were advantages to being regulars. I laid a pen recorder on my table and aimed it toward them. I clicked the record button, but did not expect much. Two other couples were at tables and the pen would pick up all the extraneous conversations and noise.
A tall girl with short brown hair came in and stood in the doorway for a moment, scanning the restaurant, then announced, “Does anyone drive a Range Rover?”
Bellamy perked up. “I do.”
The girl went to his table, said something, and Bellamy got up, threw his napkin on the table and followed her out. I laid some bills on my table to cover the salad, put the pen in my pocket, and then went to Bellamy’s table and slid into his seat.
Keira Kaine’s blue eyes went wide. “Excuse me—ˮ
“Ms. Kaine, please don’t say a word. My name is Rhodes. You do not know me, but I know you. I have a business proposal for you, and you only. Meet me tonight at eleven at Club Cuba. I will be at the end of the bar wearing a black ball cap.” I stood. She began to speak but I interrupted. “Club Cuba. Eleven. Make sure you’re alone.”
I made a quick exit and passed Bellamy as he came back in. I scurried one block, turned right, and hopped into the backseat of the waiting Taurus. Quade pulled the car into the street.
“Well?” Katie said.
“You were perfect. Now take off the wig before someone sees you.”
“You think she’ll show?” Quade asked.
“Definitely.”
25
“Didn’t show up?” Mike asked, as he dealt out—thank God—cheeseburgers and fries. I needed immediate corrective action on the salad from Lulu’s.
“No, I waited an hour, sent messages to the phone. Nothing.”
The three of us had convened in my condo to discuss the now missing George Ainsley, and the pending meeting with Keira Kaine. Quade had files spread out on the kitchen table while Katie fumed downstairs in McNally’s. Someon
e had to work.
“We verified he did not go to work?”
“Yes. Did not answer his desk phone or cell phone, and we cannot get close enough to the building to search for his car. He did not meet me this morning, no call, no answer at his apartment, and as far as we can tell, did not go to work.”
“Can we get in his apartment?”
I pulled the platter of fires in front of me. “You and I can. I doubt Special Agent Quade would object.”
Quade put down his pen and took a draw on his beer. “I don’t want to ask for a warrant to enter his apartment because that will raise questions and I want this as quiet as possible. If our blonde friend got wind he was working against her, or happened to hire a private investigator, she has motive to send her flunkies to remove him from the equation. Now, if you two happen to wander by…”
“Nothing we can’t handle.” Mike nodded to me, and then focused on Quade. “Tell me again about the Russian connection.”
Quade held up a picture of the tall, skinny Russian. “First, facial recognition came back confirming this one to be Maxim Vlasova. The second guy came back with a possible ID—name of Makarov. Nothing conclusive, though.”
He pulled up a file on his computer and opened a picture of Keira sitting at a table at an outside café, plus dozens of other photos of her out in public, shopping, walking on a city street, and standing in line at a bank. “She came on our radar five years ago, I was new out of the academy and assigned to New York. The Russians were doing a lot of business in the city and we had an angle on a couple of players. They operated from behind an import company—I know, cliché, these guys were never ultra-smart, just ruthless—and controlled much of the action on the docks. Drugs held the most profit, and they constantly battled the cartels for their slice.”
“Cartels reach to New York?” Mike asked.
“Been retired awhile, I guess.” Mike raised an eyebrow and Quade got the message. “They reach all over the world. The cartels have more money, more guns, the best electronics, cars, planes, you name it, and no problem getting drugs across the border and selling. The problem is what to do with the cash.”
“Launder?”
“Yep. I’m a rookie agent and I got the grunt work. Which meant following and photographing a married couple who would launder money for the Sinaloa cartel. The Delgados, Alberto and Carletta. They would make their rounds through New York, collecting cash from drug wholesalers, and then make small deposits, less than ten thousand—”
“To keep it from being reported,” I said.
“Right, in eight different banks in Manhattan. Did this for years. You could set your watch by them.”
“Why didn’t you move in?”
“We were building a case against the wholesalers, suppliers, runners, and wanted to follow it backward to intercept the drugs coming into the city. But, politics ruined the fun. When there is that much cash being tossed around, someone is always looking the other way, and nothing happens. Everyone is on the payroll.
“Anyhow, one day we are following the Delgados and they meet a Russian, Dmitry Orlov—no stranger to us. The Russians and Mexicans never play nice, so we thought that was interesting. I make Orlov my priority. Turns out he worked a side deal with the Delgados to hustle cash for him. They would meet at a coffee shop on West Fifty-Fourth Street every Wednesday morning at nine.
“The arrangement goes on for about four months when, low and behold, one fine spring day in New York City, Orlov does not show up to deliver the cash, but this tall blonde supermodel walks into the shop and drops a package at the feet of Alberto. The same thing happens the following week and we have no idea who she is. Some babe recruited by Orlov. We put a tag on her and find out her name is Keira Kaine. Had a Long Island address, studied engineering on a scholarship at Fordham, and now a money runner for Orlov? I’m sure Orlov paid well, but something about it did not fit.”
“Got to trust your gut,” I said.
“Yes, exactly. My gut told me to keep looking and two weeks later, she disappears. Dropped out of sight, never to be heard from again. Until six weeks ago.”
“Yeah?”
“The NSA picks up chatter between the Washington rezidentura and some woman in Port City unknown to them. Around the same time, the Department of Defense receives a report detailing inappropriate behavior by the owner of Bellamy Space Technologies. Keira Kaine’s name pops up and we confirm she’s been working there for about two years.”
“George Ainsley sent the report?” I asked.
“Yep, and here I am.”
“Our research had her going to college at Cal State Fullerton.”
“Yes, after Fordham and her time with Orlov, she went to California and into the aerospace industry, then batted her eyes at Bellamy.”
Mike got up and came back with a round of beers. “Why was she working the money laundering and why do I think another shoe is about to land?”
Quade opened his beer and toasted Mike. “My theory is the laundering gig was part of her tradecraft training. My bigger theory is she is a sleeper.”
“Sleeper agent?” I asked.
“We can’t confirm her existence in this country before Fordham. There are no records of her going to elementary or high school on Long Island or anywhere in the US.”
“You think they brought her into this country for the purpose of infiltrating Bellamy?”
“Yes, Bellamy and Ainsley made their breakthrough on the solar power thing four years ago. So the timing is right, plus she’s the perfect package, with the education and looks.”
“Talk about a playing the long game,” I said.
“Long game times ten. However if she pulls it off, well worth it. The Russians would love a peek at those plans.”
“Pick her up.”
“For what? She didn’t do anything illegal—yet. I want to wait and nail her on espionage and lock her away. But, the pussies in our government will send her back to Moscow with a slap on the wrist. Enough of my commentary.”
“Let move on to tonight,” I said.
“Stick to the plan. Gauge her reaction. Let her make the next move.”
“She might run.”
Mike grabbed a handful of fries. “Not with your charming personality.”
***
Mike and I drove to Ainsley’s place and found what we expected. Nothing. It was a small one-bedroom garden apartment and it took Mike less than thirty seconds to jimmy the lock. The living area was neat and tidy with a sofa, television, and one wall lined with bookshelves. He had a laptop on a computer stand and on a small sideboard table sat a bottle of Macallan 12 and one glass.
“Decent taste in Scotch,” Mike said.
We checked through the kitchen and bedroom and found more of the same. Clothes hung in a walk-in closet, all coordinated by color. The top of his dresser was bare and he only had a lamp on a nightstand. Not one picture in the place. No family photos, landscapes, nothing.
“Jackpot,” Mike said. Engineering manuals and books on history, government, and politics jammed the bookshelves, except for Mike’s discovery. “I think this is a complete collection of every Playboy magazine ever published.” Each one was encased in a plastic sleeve.
“Wow. Is the first one there, the one with Marilyn Monroe?”
He pulled one from the shelf and started to open the plastic. “Yup.”
“Don’t do it. You might rip a page.”
“You’re right. Hate to ruin the collection by stealing a centerfold.”
“A smart, simple man who enjoyed Scotch whiskey and pictures of naked girls. Nothing wrong with that.”
“Nope.” Mike picked out random copies and examined the front covers. “Just disappeared, huh?”
“As far as we know.”
“File a missing persons?” he asked.
“The niece has to. She’s next of kin.”
“No sign of foul play?”
“No.”
He tucked a magazine back in its p
lace on the shelf. “Imagine that.”
Sometimes having a person in your life who can read your mind and finish your sentences is a blessing, and sometimes that person can be damn infuriating.
26
Leah Love was the mastermind behind Club Cuba. She was also the woman I fell in love with on the day I arrested her for operating a high-end escort service. She beat the rap in record time and we maintained a cozy relationship ever since. It was not an everyday deal, but a comfortable knowledge we were there for each other. She had a life running her business, and I had mine and one day in the future, the two would merge.
She carried an Ivy League education, an off-the-charts I.Q., and a talent for turning ideas into gold. She immigrated to the States from a Caribbean island and worked on Wall Street for a few years before succumbing to her entrepreneurial spirit. After the escort service closed, and it only folded because of an argument with one of her female escorts who blew the whistle—what is the saying, women are smarter than men, but they can’t get along?—she launched herself into the restaurant business with the spice and flair of a seasoned restauranteur.
Club Cuba was her latest creation and it was the place to see or be seen. Live music five nights a week, a four-star menu, and a bar scene that bucked the trendy joints and stayed hot and fashionable, and all with an Afro-Cuban vibe. Any other person would be satisfied with her dose of success, but Leah had to keep moving, scheming, and dreaming. She was a restless soul and I understood years would pass before she would want to settle with me.
She concocted a lucrative side business employing a stable of “strong arms,” as she called them—all former Army Rangers, turned mercenaries, turned security experts. Most of the jobs they take were personal protection assignments for high net worth individuals: foreign travel coordination, security consulting, site safety assessments, and surveillance. They also kept an eye on the club when not on assignment. Leah could supply help for almost any predicament or situation—legal, lethal, or otherwise. Example: Emmanuel Blackmon worked for Leah and she owned the beach safe house.