“While I support the Second Amendment, I understand the need for stronger background checks, addressing mental health issues, and the importance of passing laws to ban bump stocks. Now, whether Congress and the Senate will work with me to create legislation that addresses these issues remains a question. My hope is that the voters will make their voices heard when Congressmen and Senators are up for re-election. We all serve the people of this great nation — not the other way around. In recent months we’ve seen how ugly the world of politics has become, and frankly, how intertwined selfish ambition is with political power. Believe me, I have heard the voices of the American people, which is why I’m fighting the swamp of Washington daily to move the people’s agenda forward.”
Simon Adams stepped forward off camera and whispered into the producer’s ear, then he approached Bouchard and Reyes.
“I’m afraid we’ll need to cut this short.” Adams shot a look at Reyes, one that communicated her access to the President was short lived. “Mr. President, an urgent matter requires your attention.”
“Angela, I must apologize for this,” Bouchard said ready to escape. “I hope you understand.”
“Of course, Mr. President.”
Bouchard and Adams slipped away from the crew and walked into the adjoining room before closing the double doors behind them.
“Well, that was a cluster,” Adams fumed. “I’ve confirmed your meeting with Randall.”
“He better have a damn good explanation.”
FIFTY-FOUR
BEL-AIR COUNTRY CLUB
Mid-Wilshire skyline was a perfect backdrop to the fifteenth hole. A white, arched bridge crossed a ravine to connect the tee box with a lush fairway. The beauty of the course was also an argument to the severity of California’s water shortage.
I drove a golf cart over the bridge and waited. Uncle Randy pulled a driver from his bag and nonchalantly walked over to his ball perched on a tee. A few practice swings, then he drove the ball two hundred yards down the center of the fairway. He turned around and waved me over.
“You missed our lunch,” he called out. “I was getting worried.”
“Sorry about that. It’s been hectic.”
“Leave the cart.” He dropped his club into a bag strapped to the back of his cart and got behind the wheel. “Trying to finish my round before a meeting.”
I left the golf cart I’d been driving and joined him. The last time I was with Uncle Randy was the night we sold his Mercedes Roadster to Prince Azim. I thought I’d hit the jackpot, but like Vegas, one spin too many and you’ll leave with empty pockets. We cruised along the fairway with the brisk air piercing my cheeks.
“I spoke to Agent Kelley,” he confessed. “And I told her about Sarina.”
“I was with them both in Scottsdale.”
Uncle Randy stopped the cart. “Will Sarina help with Kasim?”
“Why didn’t you tell me she was hiding here?”
“Your dad and I thought it was better you didn’t know.” As he drove, he waved at several other golfers along the course. “We didn’t want you trying to track her down.”
“Did you know Fatima has a sister — Tama?”
Uncle Randy climbed from the cart and grabbed a five iron. He stepped up to his ball, eyed the flag, and swung low and steady. Dirt and grass lofted into the air, leaving a divot as the ball hooked to the left. He cursed under his breath as he got behind the wheel.
“We hoped she was at the compound too,” he admitted. “Intelligence reports failed to give us a definite answer, but we didn’t want to miss our shot at Fatima.”
“Sarina swore it was Tama in the photo you showed Laney.”
“Chase, that’s news to me.”
He drove up to the ball, then parked the golf cart off to the side of the green. He grabbed a pitching wedge and putter. Walking alongside, I waited for him to speak, knowing he and Dad only told me what they needed me to know. Nothing more, nothing less. Was it to protect me? That’s what I’d always believed. If he knew about Tama and never told me, there was a reason.
“Your Dad wanted you focused on finding the artifacts,” he said matter of factly. “He asked me to leave Fatima, and his family to the Agency and the SEAL team. In the end, it didn’t matter because you were the one who killed him.”
I almost told him about facing Fatima in Malibu, but hesitated.
“What else was taken from the compound?”
“Not sure what you mean,” he replied.
“We left with the Artifacts of Exile. What did the SEAL team take?”
“Whatever they could get their hands on — including Fatima’s dead body.”
Uncle Randy dropped his putter, then stepped away and hovered over his ball with a pitching wedge. With finesse, he lobbed the ball gently onto the green and watched as it rolled within a foot of the hole.
“Was there an electro-disruptor there?”
He strolled over and picked up his putter. “What’re you getting at, Chase?”
“Did our government supply weapons to Fatima’s militia?”
“Not to my knowledge. An electro-disruptor is Russian.”
“Sarina said Fatima had US weapons.”
“Ask her again,” he retorted. “Where is she?”
I pulled the flag from the hole and tossed it on the green. “Gone.”
“Your dad was right.” He dropped the wedge, leaving the putter in his hands, then dropped the ball into the hole. “We used her — she can’t be trusted.”
“Uncle Randy, Fatima is alive.”
“Impossible.”
“Last night, I stood my ground with him.” I put the flag back in the pin. “He was after Marcus Nicholson — who wrote the Level 10 malware program.”
“How do you know this?”
“Nicholson told me. And now it’s about to be sold on the dark web.”
“Chase, that program is highly destructive.”
“Prince Azim is the broker.”
Uncle Randy stood shocked. “Who else knows about this?”
“You and Dax, that’s it.” I should’ve told him about Laney, but I didn’t. “Who gave you the photo of Fatima’s body at the wreckage?”
“McIntyre was in charge of the raid,” he admitted. “She sent me the photos.”
“Then she knows where Fatima’s been hiding the last two years.” Again, I held back from Uncle Randy and didn’t tell him about McIntyre at the private skyscraper auction. “Fatima being alive puts the pieces of the puzzle together.” We walked back to the cart, picking up his pitching wedge along the way. “If he had an electro-disruptor, then that explains the plane crash.”
“Chase, if that’s the case…” His fingers ran through his grey hair. “Everything we believed about Fatima’s death is wrong.”
“Laney and the Feds tracked down Brian Wilkins, the SEAL team commander. He said when the SEALs left the compound Fatima had a pulse. Wilkins was killed by a truck bomb in San Diego. Then Laney and I track down Sarina at the house in Scottsdale, and we’re ambushed.”
The tension in his voice gripped every word. “You believe it’s the Prodigal.”
“That’s why I came to you — someone on the inside is helping Fatima.”
“You mean within our government?”
“My guess is it’s either from inside the Bureau or it’s McIntyre.” I crossed my arms hoping that he believed me. “Dad died because of Fatima, and whoever is helping him. Laney and the Feds are at a dead end with Kasim. Uncle Randy, you’re the only one I trust to move the mountain.”
He put his arm around my shoulder. “Consider it done.”
FIFTY-FIVE
STUDIO LOT — LATER
The last twenty-four hours left me exhausted. Facing off with a ghost. A cowboy shootout in Scottsdale. Being kicked off an episode of Homeland from a secret black site in downtown. Those who worked in Hollywood were paid a lot of money to come up with a storyline that would rival my truth.
Beside me, Dax l
imped to a rhythm a step faster than the day before. After all that had happened, I thought twice about sending Dax alone to close the deal with Levowitz. Guilt was a heavy burden which only trudged deeper into a swamp, and left me with so many regrets.
Going to Uncle Randy was my only option to escalate a threat from Fatima and Tama to the Oval Office. Why had I held back? I’m not sure. I should’ve told him about the video in London, waiting to hear from McIntyre, and monitoring the Level 10 malware. But I didn’t. In my own way, I was protecting him like he protected me. I gave him the information he needed to get the President’s attention.
“Did you keep a backup of the Prodigal drive?”
Dax removed a thumb drive from his pocket. “It’s all on here.”
“What about the malware?”
“No one’s plugged it into a computer since you dropped it off.” Dax slowed the pace slightly. “You sure Laney will keep it a secret?”
“She could’ve blown it with Vaughn a hundred times. She knows if they have a mole, this bit of intel is better kept with us.”
“You know that analyst, Yasmin, was hardcore.” Dax slipped the thumb drive into his pocket. “I’d roll the dice on her finding a thread to Fatima and Tama before we do.”
“Sounds like you’ve got competition,” I joked.
“I’m always up for the challenge, but she’s another level.”
We entered Soundstage 8, an enormous hangar-like structure where many blockbusters were filmed. A row of lights overhead illuminated a corner of the giant empty space — a shell for worlds to be created for our entertainment.
Glancing around, I made sure we were alone. “All this time I thought we gave Sarina a better life, but she’s still running.”
“You three were lucky to get out alive.”
“The timing of it can’t be a coincidence.” I thought about being with Elena at the downtown penthouse where McIntyre held the sale for the electro-disruptor and malware. “Maybe we led McIntyre straight to Sarina.”
“Then we better hope she’s more afraid of Dmitry than her terrorist friends,” Dax shot back. “If not, your cell won’t be ringing anytime soon.”
A door opened and closed, echoing off the walls. Footsteps followed as Levowitz appeared, stepping into the light as if he were walking into a scene, dressed in a suit and carrying a black duffle bag.
“Hope you haven’t been waiting long,” he said.
“It’s a bit cloak and dagger,” I mused, then introduced him to Dax.
“I’m sure you two have done deals in worse places.” Levowitz set the duffle on the floor. “You know, Marcus called about overpaying for the island.”
“A deal is a deal,” I said.
Levowitz chuckled, “At least his check cleared.”
I held the deed to Bird Street out in front of me. “As promised.”
“With all your legal problems, you sure this won’t be an issue?”
“This is the only asset I have left, and now it’s yours. We have a few things in the house that need to be picked up, but we’ll get the keys to you by the end of day tomorrow.”
Levowitz scanned the document, tucked it into his suit coat, then nodded at the duffle bag. “I won’t be offended if you want to count it.”
Dax couldn’t resist a bit of dark humor. “We know where you live.”
“Real-life gangsters,” Levowitz bantered. “You’d fit in well in Hollywood.”
“I think we’ll stick to the auction world — fewer lawsuits.”
All three of us laughed, knowing it was probably a dead heat between the film industry and the auction arena.
“We start shooting a new superhero movie in here next week. Four-hundred-million-dollar budget, investors from China, A-listers who’ve held us up six months negotiating their inflated salaries, and we’ll probably end up with a director’s cut that’s an hour too long.”
“Welcome to the world of make believe.” Before I could grab it, Dax picked up the duffle bag and slipped it over his shoulder. “What could possibly go wrong?”
“Speaking of make believe — have you found the Rossino Otto?”
“We’re hot on its trail,” I answered. “Trust me, it’ll be worth it.”
“I’ll hold up my end of the deal when you’re ready.”
“Thank you, Mr. Levowitz.”
“It’s been a pleasure, Chase. Nice to meet you Dax.”
With that, Levowitz excused himself and left us on the soundstage. Staring at the duffle bag, I knew by the end of the day every last dollar would be handed over to Prince Azim for the electro-disruptor — a cool million short.
Walking the backlot, it struck me how Levowitz wasn’t the creative storytelling genius who ran a major Hollywood studio, but a businessman whose eyes were always on the bottom line. In many ways, I respected him for it.
CLINK. CLINK. CLINK.
Dax’s cane hit the pavement as we walked between buildings back to where we parked the Mercedes. My cell buzzed with a text.
“Twelve o’clock,” I said. “I’ll drop you off on the way.”
“Does Elena know we’re crashing her pad?”
“She’s out of town for a few days.”
Dax dialed his cell and, before we reached the parking structure, had already booked a moving company for the following day at Bird Street. Most of what was left would fit in the storage unit until all this was over.
The drive over the hill from Burbank on Barham was light until Sunset Boulevard. For an hour, we inched along in traffic toward Elena’s high-rise apartment on the Westside. Dropping Dax at the front entrance, I headed back in the direction I’d just driven toward Azim’s estate.
Even in bumper-to-bumper traffic, driving had always been a way to exhale. Maybe it was from all those summers at the Brickyard, anticipating the race while we fought the masses, and then watching the Indy cars scream around the track. Something about sitting back in the driver’s seat with my hands on the steering wheel came naturally. And every time I was in control behind the wheel I thought of Dad. That would never change.
The wrought-iron gate opened.
I drove the familiar winding driveway lined with acacias, and parked in the roundabout beside the golden Arabian statue. The first time here, I was awestruck. But today, the opulence had lost a bit of its luster. Azim was already waiting for me at the front door.
He admired the Mercedes. “The Germans always build masterpieces.”
“Prince Azim, thank you for reaching out.”
“We have much to discuss. Please come in.”
Azim led me through his palatial home into a sprawling backyard with perfectly trimmed grass, desert plants, and an Olympic-sized pool. A buffet was already prepared — one that would rival the most exclusive restaurants on Sunset Strip. Beef Wellington. Roasted carrots and potatoes. An array of vegetables and greens to entice the more healthy salad connoisseur.
Azim surveyed the buffet, one that could feed a party of twelve. “I hope you are hungry.”
“You don’t have to ask twice,” I replied. “I learned a long time ago that you’re next meal’s never guaranteed.”
We each dished up a plate of food and found a patio table next to the pool. For a few moments we ate in silence, even though I was anxious to get the conversation underway. With the cash in the trunk, I was eager to finish the deal.
“Chase, I’m afraid there is a small problem.” Azim hid behind dark tinted sunglasses. “The electro-disruptor is no longer for sale.”
His words sucked the air out of me. “I have the money — most of it anyway.”
“Unfortunately, it is out of my hands.”
“What about the name of the seller?”
“That too is off the table.”
Setting my fork down, I tried to slow my mind. Not getting the electro-disruptor was devastating, but I needed to salvage the opportunity.
“Perhaps we can negotiate a new arrangement.”
“What do you have in min
d?” Azim asked.
I grabbed the chain I’d used for my military dog tags which was wrapped around my neck and slipped it off. Secured to the chain was the key I’d found hidden inside the clay mold of the Royale Bessler at Bird Street. I had Azim’s attention right away.
“You wanted proof of the Rossino Otto,” I said. “Here it is.”
Azim took the key in the palm of his hand, awestruck. “It is real?”
“Our deal was for me to help you authenticate the Rossino Otto. In exchange you were to broker the purchase of the electro-disruptor, and provide me with the seller’s name. If neither are no longer possible, I will agree to help you on one condition.”
“Name your price.”
“I need to meet with the King.”
FIFTY-SIX
President Bouchard stepped off stage to a round of applause from those who attended the Artifacts of Exile press conference. His speech was brief and fielding questions that swirled about how the artifacts were recovered was even shorter. He was masterful at addressing questions without actually answering any of them. It was a technique he fine-tuned during his first campaign, and one he’d implement during his run for a second term.
Simon Adams stood offstage, whispered to Bouchard, then ran interference with the Iraqi delegates who were headed his way. Surrounded by his Secret Service detail, Bouchard was ushered back to the private elevator and the Presidential Suite where Randall Collinsworth waited.
Bouchard stepped out of the elevator and skipped the formalities.
“Randall, time to clear the air,” he said. “Grab a seat.”
“I’ll stand, Mr. President.” Collinsworth was too rich to be scolded. “I actually have something important to discuss with you.”
“Well, it can wait.” Bouchard grabbed a Coke — one of his vices. “First, you need to tell me how those artifacts ended up in your hangar.”
“Are you sure you want an answer?”
“We need to give the Iraqis an explanation.” Bouchard gulped the carbonated fix and loosened his tie. “I won’t ask again.”
The Auctioneer Page 22