by William Cook
“Of course. I’ll be right here with you. I’ll just take Dallas to our place so he has a bed for the night, and I’ll come right back.”
Dallas returned, a look of despair darkening his face. “They’re gone. Nobody knows where.”
Whitehorse cursed. “Volkov is tying up loose ends, making sure there are no connections back to him. No links.” He stood up, clenched both fists, and gritted his teeth. “I think I’ll pay that sonofabitch a visit tomorrow.”
In Orlando, Florida, three time zones away, a woman in a black evening dress was giving final instructions to the college student who would be babysitting that night. The TV droned in the background. “I don’t call it ‘babysitting.’ Carla is eleven years old and takes offense at that term. You’re just ‘keeping her company’ while her father and I go out to his firm’s party. We’ll be late, probably not home before one o’clock. There’s popcorn in the cupboard over there and Rocky Road ice cream, her favorite, in the freezer. Don’t let her stay up past 9:30 because she does have school in the morning.”
“Got it covered, Mrs. Arlington. Carla and I will get along fine. We’ll probably just watch a movie.”
“Thank you, Deanna.” Just then, she was distracted by a picture that appeared on the TV screen. It was the face of a handsome young man. She dropped her sequined clutch and ran to the TV.
“…Police are asking anyone who has any information about him to call the number you see on the screen…”
Her eyes went wide, and her jaw opened in shock. “Dennis! Dennis! Hurry! It’s Ethan!”
Her husband came running into the room, still worrying his Windsor knot.
“Something about a woman being kidnapped and living on a yacht. The police don’t know who he is. There’s a number to call.”
“Easy, Jill. I’m sorry, but we’ll have to deal with it tomorrow. We’re late already. I hope you understand. I can’t miss this. We have to get going.” He slid into his suit coat and motioned toward the door.
She turned to Deanna. “Would you please look up that phone number on the network’s website and leave me a note?”
“Sure. You know that guy?”
She exhaled a long breath. “He’s my son. I haven’t seen him since I sent him to live with his father ten years ago. His father tried to protect him by faking his death.” She grimaced and sighed again. “Ethan assaulted a girl in his freshman class at high school. I didn’t want him to go to jail. And I didn’t want him around my new baby.”
“Holy crap! Who’s his father?”
A whimper escaped her lips. At first, it looked as though she wouldn’t be able to bring herself to answer, to make her mouth form the words. When she finally spoke, the words struck Deanna like the shrill of the violin from the shower scene in Psycho.
“David Steele.”
“The David Steele? Presidential candidate David Steele? Oh, shit!”
“Yeah. You said it. Oh, shit.”
44. A Game of Chess
SUNDAY, JANUARY 5, 2014. The restaurant sat high in a Douglas fir forest overlooking the Willamette River. Its enormous bay windows provided panoramic views of the river and the skyline of Portland in the distance. The sun had broken through the fog, which had shrouded the valley earlier, and gleamed off the moving water below like flashes from a disco ball.
The two men sat facing each other in a private suite on the floor above the main dining room. Curtains of red brocade were tied back along either side of the sliding glass doors, which allowed access to the small deck high above the river. The table was covered with a white tablecloth and set with fine china and silverware. A server in a black tuxedo entered with a bottle of Dom Perignon. He showed it to the Russian gentleman, who signaled him to open it and pour it into two crystal flutes.
“I have to confess, Mr. Volkov, I’ve never had the pleasure—or the pocketbook—to indulge in champagne of this caliber.”
“Please call me Vas. And may I call you David?”
“Of course.”
“Then let me toast to your brilliance—and your ambition!”
As they sipped the bubbly liquid, David cocked his head and furrowed his brows. “What are you referring to, Vas?”
“You are too modest. The success your company has had with that special printing technology. Of course, I wish your company had an easier name. Northwest Advanced Artificial Neural Networks is quite a mouthful, especially for someone who finds English less than intuitive.”
“Your English is perfect,” David said as he took another sip of the sparkling wine. “But how do you know of my business?”
“I read all the journals, follow the weeklies. The piece that Forbes did on you last month was superb. Now I understand you have your sights set on becoming the mayor of Portland.”
“You’re well-informed. As you know, I’ve begun fund-raising for the 2016 election. I was more than a little surprised when your agent contacted me about your wish to provide such generous support.”
“Ah, yes.”
Just then their server returned. “Is the champagne adequate, Mr. Volkov?”
“Indeed, yes. Thank you.”
“Are you ready to order?”
Volkov turned to his guest. “Any food allergies? Things you despise?” When the other man shook his head, Volkov said, “May I order for us, then?” Steele nodded. “Geoffrey, we will have the lobster.”
“Excellent, Mr. Volkov. It just arrived.”
“And may we have some Kumamoto oysters for starters?”
“Of course. I’ll have them for you in a moment.”
When the man left the room, Volkov lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “They fly the lobsters in from Maine for me. And the oysters will prepare our palates.”
“I’m impressed, to say the very least. But why? Is the Portland election so special to you?”
“Hardly. Rather, I see it as a launching platform to greater things.”
“Such as?”
“Dream big, David. Then dream bigger. You see the state of our country. Our economy. You could do so much better for us.”
The man was shaking his head back and forth. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You do not have to say anything. I can see it in your eyes. Your ambition. Becoming the Mayor of Portland will give you some political credibility and prepare you for the 2020 Presidential Election.”
“I’ve just begun campaigning. There’s no guarantee I’ll win.”
Volkov dismissed his objections with a wave of his hand. “I have deep pockets. I have some…machinery in place that you can use. You are well-spoken, intelligent, handsome, a decorated hero of the war in Iraq, and you have a disability that you have overcome. You are the perfect candidate. You will win. Trust me.”
The oysters arrived with a flourish from Geoffrey, and not long after, the lobsters made their appearance. The men ate and drank with abandon. When their server returned to check on their progress, Volkov ordered another bottle of champagne.
David dabbed at his mouth with a large white napkin. “I’m not sure I can eat another bite. That was magnificent.” He chuckled. “It reminds me of a favorite saying of my mother’s when we sat down to dinner. ‘I wonder what the poor people are eating tonight?’ she’d say, and we’d all laugh.”
“Meal times were not so pleasant for me as a child in Russia. I was hungry often. My father would steal to feed us.” He paused, as if embarrassed by his revelation. “But this country has been good to me.”
Geoffrey entered with the Dom Perignon and opened it with the efficiency of much practice. He filled their flutes and left promptly.
“Are you sure I cannot get you anything else? A tiramisu perhaps? Or a crème brulee? A platter of fruits and cheeses?”
“Thank you, but I’m afraid I’d burst. The champagne is just right.” He looked over the top of his glass at his host. “Why me? Why am I the beneficiary of all this splendor?”
“I thought I had explained. I feel you are t
he perfect candidate.”
“But what do you get out of it?”
“Ah, that is the question. Actually, you have something I want very much.”
Steele leaned forward, his attention riveted on the Russian.
“Your new printing technology. I have some uses for it.”
“It’s still in research and development. It’s not for sale yet.”
“Even if it were for sale, I would not buy it. I want you to give it to me.” He shook his head. “Buying it would leave a paper trail. I cannot allow that.”
The man stiffened. “That’s absurd. I may be CEO, but I can’t just give away company secrets.” He stood up, his jaw set, lips pursed. “I haven’t meant to mislead you, but we may not be understanding each other. I’ll be giving up my post as CEO as soon as my campaign gets into high gear. Until then, giving you the printing tech is out of the question. It’s called ‘theft of intellectual property,’ and it’s a felony.”
“Please sit down. Let me explain. I will give you a blank check for your ambitions. In a few years, you will be arguably the most powerful man on the planet, and you and I will have a special relationship.”
“No. No. You can’t just buy the Presidency of the United States.”
“Nor can you win it with a son like yours.”
Steele looked as though Volkov had sucker-punched him. His jaw went slack, and he loosened the top button of his shirt as though desperate for air. “W-what? H-how?”
Volkov waved off his concerns. “Your secret is safe with me.” He chuckled. “Faking his death was brilliant. Very well done. But I worry that he might not be content with the small-town identity you have given him once he sees how famous you will become. He will want more. And he is a boy of dark desires.”
“You don’t know anything about my son. Leave him out of this. Don’t even think about hurting him.”
“Of course. I do not want to hurt him. I want him to stay happy. I have a well-appointed yacht in Roche Harbor that you—or rather a shell company of yours—can lease from me. That way neither of our names will be associated with it. He can live very comfortably there—all the amenities and far enough away from any potential exposure of you.” Volkov sipped his champagne and smiled, knowing, as all Russians do, that life is a game of Chess. And he prided himself on being a master player.
“And what if I say no?”
“Ah, that would be most unfortunate.” He took a deep breath. “The mother of that young girl in the park? She was willing to accept a cash settlement from you in payment for her silence, but your son’s next victim may not be so—shall we say ‘accommodating?’ He needs to be contained!” Volkov made a fist and pounded the table, nearly upsetting their champagne glasses. “Contained before he ruins all of your political ambitions. I can do that for you.”
Steele sat in stunned silence, his complexion the color of the tablecloth. Volkov could see the perspiration beading his forehead, his hands trembling. Check, he thought. Mate is a move away.
“I-I…”
“Please, David. It is all right. We are partners. I have your best interests at heart. The Chinese have invaded many of our hardware and software companies. Let them take the fall for the printing technology. The sooner you can deliver it to me, the sooner we can advance our agenda.”
Steele looked as though he might be physically ill. He stood and walked to the glass doors. “I need some air,” he managed. He opened the slider and walked out onto the small deck. The air was cool and redolent with the orangey fragrance of the Douglas firs that surrounded the restaurant. He took several deep breaths, inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth. The river sparkled below him, winding toward the skyline in the distance. Lowering his head, he turned and re-entered the suite.
Looking his opponent in the eyes, he whispered, “You win.”
Volkov stood and offered his hand. Mate, he thought.
45. Nostrovia
WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, FEBRUARY 20, 2019. Whitehorse drove past the guard at the steel gate and parked in front of the carved oak doors that looked as though they would be more at home on a Medieval church than on a residence high in the West Hills over Portland. Another guard admitted him inside and handed him off to the man in the vestibule, who escorted him to Volkov’s study. Although he was initially captured by the view of the city through the bay windows, he was drawn to the bookshelves and ran his fingers over the spines of several.
“I was just admiring your collection of Russian literature,” he said as Volkov entered. “Some of these look like first editions.”
“I see you are a man of some refinement. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” Volkov offered his hand, but Whitehorse did not accept it.
“Alyosha Preobrazhensky.” The policeman spat the words as though they were a curse.
“Excellent pronunciation, but is that name supposed to mean something to me?”
“Please, Volkov. Don’t insult my intelligence.”
“You may call me Vas, and I have no intention of disparaging your intelligence.”
Whitehorse’s next response was an accusation. “You sent your man to hurt my fiancée! You went after my family!”
“I can assure you I have had nothing to do with Alyosha for years. What has he done?”
Whitehorse threw up his hands in frustration. “You sent him to Driftwood to hurt Chloe. She’s in the hospital because of you.”
“Will she recover?”
“Yes, but that’s beside the point.”
“Is it? My business partner, Abram Sokolov, will not recover. Nor will two other good men who were in my employ. And that was last year.” He frowned. “Recently my two dear friends, Oleg and Pavel, were brutally murdered in your dermo little town.”
“None of those had anything to do with me!” He tried to keep himself from shouting. “The killings last year were the work of Sterling Friese, and he’ll rot in prison for the rest of his life. And I’m sure you know that your dear friends were murdered by Paul Drake, another of your employees. They found parts of him in Wyoming.”
“Perhaps if you were a better policeman…”
“Don’t give me that, you…” He restrained himself from expressing the curse that almost burst from his lips. “You know I’ll get you, Volkov, don’t you? I’m not giving up.”
“Nor am I. Moscow did not get me. Are you stronger than a Russian winter?”
“No, but are you willing to let your wife, Anastasiya, go down with you? After all, she’s a softer target. We could get her on being an accomplice to murder, kidnapping, conspiracy, a whole laundry list of things.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I’ll be a detective full-time in the next few months. No distractions with traffic stops, school disturbances. I’m going to devote every minute of my working life to taking you down.” He paused and clenched his teeth. “But unlike you, I won’t go after your family. I can leave your wife out of the investigation altogether if you give me something I want.”
“And what would that be?”
“Give me Preobrazhensky.”
“I told you—”
“I know what you said. Just tell me where he is, and we’ll keep our relationship professional—just you and me, just business.”
“I wonder what your superiors would say to an arrangement like that. It hardly sounds…legal?”
“You let me worry about that. I want the man who hurt Chloe.”
A broad smile creased Volkov’s face. “You are a worthy opponent, Officer Whitehorse. We must play Chess sometime.”
“Poker is more my game.”
“Then Poker it shall be.” He walked across the study to the liquor cabinet behind his desk, where he withdrew a lead-free crystal decanter of Scotch and two glasses. “I know you are on duty, but we must seal our little gentlemen’s agreement with a drink.” He poured a finger of whiskey into each glass and handed one to the policeman.
He raised his glass toward
Whitehorse. “Nostrovia—as they say in poor English.”
“Nostrovia.” Whitehorse tossed off the liquor in one gulp, surprised at how good it tasted. “That’s settled. Now where is Preobrazhensky?”
Volkov was laughing. He picked up a pen from the desk and wrote something on a small piece of paper. “Why, he is in Driftwood, waiting for you! Here is his address!”
Whitehorse took the paper and grimaced. Why do I feel like I’ve just been beaten by pocket nines? He turned and called over his shoulder, “I’ll show myself out.” He gestured to the man waiting outside the door.
As he reached the vestibule, his phone rang. “Yeah, Chiara. What have you got?” His eyes grew wide. “Yes! Yes! That’s the missing piece. Now it’s beginning to make sense. You’ve just made my day.”
He ran back toward the study. The guard came to attention, reaching his hand under his sports coat, but let him pass.
“Hey, Volkov. Got some news for you.”
Volkov had poured himself more Scotch and was sitting behind the desk. “You are still here?” he said dismissively.
“I am. Just between you and me, I know we’ll never see your boy Ethan alive again, but the good news is that he’s been identified. Yep. Seems like his mother saw his picture on TV last night and called it in. Ethan Steele, son of none-other-than David Steele, presidential candidate extraordinaire. The guy I bet you’ve been bank-rolling. Yippee-Ki-Yay!”
Volkov blanched. He stammered as he struggled to find a retort.
Whitehorse turned on his heels. “Aces full of Kings, motherfucker.”
46. On the Dark Side with Mr. Rogers
WEDNESDAY EVENING, FEBRUARY 20, 2019. “What have you got for us, Laurel?”
The young woman looked earnestly into the TV camera, the red beret positioned perfectly on her head, the matching scarf glowing in the lights. “Lester, I’m here at the Stay-a-While Motel, just outside of Anacortes, Washington, where our mystery man checked in yesterday after being released from jail. As you know, social media have been on fire today as one bombshell revelation after another has exploded over the internet. Earlier today, Jill Arlington, a woman in Orlando, Florida, identified our mystery man as Ethan Steele, son of the charismatic presidential candidate, David Steele.