The Great Game

by D. R. Bell

  Sunday, 4/24/2022, 11:08 a.m. PDT

  David parked his Honda at SMPD’s offices. It was Sunday morning and the place was not too busy, but both Megrano and Chander were waiting for him at the reception desk. They headed inside to an already familiar office. David told them about sending a file to “acegik” this morning.

  “Any response?” asked Chander.

  “I haven’t been at a computer for about three hours.”

  Chander pushed a keyboard over to him. “Please check.”

  The account was projected on a big screen. No response. Megrano and Chander read earlier e-mails and had David open Julia’s antenna document and explain it in simple terms.

  Megrano said, “OK, all we can do is wait for these guys to respond. At least we made a connection. Meanwhile, there was a shooting in Seattle two days ago, and we think it might be related. There was a witness who was taking a run around the lake that morning, and he recognized the person who was killed in the restroom by the N gates as one of the people running away. A man involved in the shooting is still alive. He’s at the UW’s hospital under twenty-four-hour police protection.”

  “Were any of the people involved in the shooting Chinese?” David asked.

  Megrano nodded. “The three who died were. The one in the hospital is not.”

  Chander added, “A person by the name of John Simptson had purchased a ticket for Alaska Flight 422 on Friday. But he never boarded the plane or went through security, at least not with the 422 boarding pass. The name and the credit card are not leading anywhere. It was probably your Thomas Mann. Speaking of the plane, we tracked the 737 that did that flight. It left Seattle at nine thirty this morning and should be landing in LAX in about twenty minutes. Why don’t we take a drive to LAX and check to see if we can find that US News and World Report?”

  They got into Megrano’s Crown Victoria, with David in front and Chander in the back, and headed to the airport. Megrano parked at the curb and flashed his badge to the indignant LAX officer.

  Must be nice to park anywhere you want, David thought.

  They got to the gate as Seattle’s passengers almost finished disembarking. Megrano’s and Chander’s badges got them on the plane. They made their way to aisle 16. Chander reached into the back pocket of seat 15A and pulled out a magazine with the “Et tu, California?” headline. Then the three of them sat at a table in the nearest bar and went through the magazine page by page. There were no marks, nothing that would distinguish the magazine from one just purchased from a newsstand.

  Megrano got up. “OK, let’s take it back for analysis.” From the tone of his voice, it was clear that he did not expect much.

  They drove back to the station, and Chander made David log into the e-mail account again. Still nothing. Chander wrote down the account and the login. They obviously did not want to depend on David to see the response.

  “How can we get in touch with you?” asked Megrano.

  David pulled out the disposable cell phone he got from Oleg and read them the number.

  Sunday, 4/24/2022, 1:42 p.m. PDT

  When David left, Chander said, “Well, that was a dead end.”

  “Not entirely unexpected. Had to check it out.”

  “I hate it when all I can do is wait.”

  “Wish they would let us go to Seattle,” Megrano said. “Meanwhile, I better get home. My wife is sick and tired of all this work on the weekends. Especially now that the kids are out of the house. She reminds me how I promised her that we’d travel when the kids were in college. Instead I work more than ever.”

  “Why don’t you take time off and go somewhere together?”

  “As a matter of fact, I just booked us tickets to Italy for June. Expensive, but she always wanted to see Rome and Venice and Florence, and we just never had the chance. I’ll take two weeks off.”

  “Good for you! I wish I could head to Europe, but with two little kids and one detective’s salary, I’ll have to wait.”

  “How is your better half?”

  “OK. Thanks for asking. Joan is worried about her parents. Their savings have been wiped out, and you can’t get far on Social Security these days.”

  “That’s for sure. And the kids?”

  “About what you can expect from seven- and four-year-old boys. Turning the house upside down, wearing Joan out. I promised to play some basketball with them today.”

  “Well, you better get home then.”

  Sunday, 4/24/2022, 2:28 p.m. PDT

  David drove his Accord back to Andrei’s house. He figured he’d return Andrei’s things, say good-bye, and check into a hotel. He did not want to risk going home yet, but he’d go to work tomorrow. He would have to explain that his work computer had been stolen. Then he’d probably get RIF’d anyway.

  When David got to the house, the street had at least half a dozen police vehicles with flashing lights and a medical emergency van in the driveway. A police officer tried to stop him, but Andrei—who was talking to another officer—waved him through.

  Oleg was sitting on front steps with his head in his hands. David asked, “What happened?”

  “There was an attack,” Oleg said. “I was away at lunch with Andrei, Tamara, and Petr. Alex and Maggie were in the house. They killed Alex and took Maggie.”

  David walked past him into the house. He saw a covered body on the floor, with blood seeping from under the cover. Police were milling around taking pictures and talking. Nobody paid attention to David. He went up to the second floor, to the room that Maggie stayed in. Maggie’s computer was on the nightstand, with the green cat-eye glasses sitting on top. David grabbed the computer, put the eyeglasses in his shirt pocket, and went back downstairs.

  As he was walking out, Oleg came to him. “I have the number of your new phone. I will call you tonight. I have to get these bastards. For Alex.”

  David nodded and snuck out the door.

  PART 2: TAKEN

  “[T]here is nothing heavier than compassion.

  Not even one’s own pain weighs so heavy as the pain one feels with someone,

  for someone, a pain intensified by the imagination and prolonged by a hundred echoes.”

  — Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being

  Sunday, 4/24/2022, 3:12 p.m. PDT

  David drove to a coffee shop on Ventura Boulevard. He had not eaten since the morning’s bagel, and he didn’t believe in thinking on an empty stomach. Something his mother had taught him in childhood and the habit stuck. While driving, he remembered about Andrei’s clothes in the trunk, he’d meant to return them, but it didn’t seem to be relevant anymore. Another person dead because of an association with him.

  He bought a large coffee and a sandwich and opened Maggie’s computer to take advantage of the free Wi-Fi. Thankfully, the computer did not use biometrics. Maggie clearly did not bother with security. Feeling guilty about snooping, he checked her e-mail. There was a message from James Bowen to contact him. David checked his own e-mails, but there was nothing of significance. He went back to Bowen’s message, thought about it, typed a reply: “This is David. They took Maggie.”

  He worked on his coffee and sandwich while trying to think. Bowen’s response came quickly. “Why don’t you come over? Here’s the address.”

  David’s plan had been to go check into a hotel, but he figured that could be done later. Maybe Bowen had some new information. Schulmann’s name was still the only lead David had; clearly the antenna files did not help. He stopped at a computer store to buy a power supply for Maggie’s laptop, since he hadn’t thought of grabbing the one in Andrei’s house. Then he continued to Brentwood.

  Bowen opened the door even before David had a chance to knock. They sat in the living room, and David recounted the events of the day. Bowen got up to get them both water.

  David asked, “How long have you known Maggie?”

  Bowen said, “It must be at least five years now. I met her when she was a senior taking a class about economics
of the early United States that I taught at UCLA. Aside from attending classes, she would often come see me during my office hours to discuss subjects. She was older than most of my students and more serious. We’d become friends and would try to meet for lunch at least once a month. She took a couple more of my classes while in graduate school then asked me to advise her in her research.”

  Bowen sipped his water, looking past David as if replaying the events in his mind. “Maggie has a quick mind and real curiosity. Most of my students would memorize a sequence of dates and consider it history. But Maggie instinctively understood connections between economics and historical events. I never could get her interested in current events, though. She always seemed more comfortable with things of the past. She chose the Civil War period for her research.”

  Bowen’s eyes focused on David. “As I said, my wife and I did not have kids, and I would occasionally ‘adopt’ one of my students as a surrogate son or daughter. Maggie’s been my ‘adoptee’ for the past few years. So, what are you we going to do about her?”

  “What do you mean? We have to get her back!”

  “David, you’ve only met Maggie two days ago. Police already know about her being taken. It’s a dangerous situation, and the safest thing for you might be to lay low or even disappear. People go into hiding all the time. You probably can’t help her in any case. You should just let it go.”

  David had not really thought about disappearing. Maybe James was right. He could go into hiding until things blew over. He imagined himself driving to New Mexico and living quietly in Taos, away from prying eyes. He wasn’t sure why Taos came to mind. He’d never been there but liked pictures of red adobe houses he’d seen in movies. For all he knew, they may have killed Maggie already. They killed Jim and Alex. In his mind, David saw himself sitting in a small bar, having a drink in memory of Jim and Maggie, asking for their forgiveness. The feeling that went through him was that of loathing. He felt bad for Jim, but there was absolutely nothing he could have done to save him, since he had not even known his friend was in danger. But with Maggie … she was in danger and he could try to do something about it. He knew that he would live knowing he’d had a chance to help her and did nothing, that his mind would keep going back to this decision, haunting him with disgust and shame.

  David’s body physically shuddered from this image. He looked up to see Bowen watching him intently. “Yes, James, I guess I could let it go. But I won’t.”

  The moment the words left his mouth, he felt awkward, thinking it sounded pompous and silly. One legacy of his childhood psychology treatments was a distaste that David had developed for important-sounding words like “compassion” and “empathy” that well-meaning therapists kept training him to practice. An ex-girlfriend had once told him he was not compassionate enough because he would not march to collectively express his feelings for a group of people or animals. But for David compassion was an individual act. And although he barely knew Maggie, the thought of her being threatened and helpless felt literally painful. She was in danger because of him. Could he really do anything? In any case, the statement was out; it hung in the air; it was now real.

  Bowen brought him back. “OK, then. I am sorry I had to ask that question. I told you before that I’m aware that this is a dangerous situation, but I didn’t realize how dangerous. Before I go further, I wanted to know if I’m with someone I could trust to not leave me behind if things go bad. Now, we know that the engineering file you sent them most likely did not solve the problem. They want something else, and the only real clue we have is the name Schulmann.”

  David said, “Before we start solving puzzles, I want to give them a reason to keep her alive.”

  “Forgive me, you are absolutely right. Please go on.”

  David felt that he finally was able to logically think through the options, rather than react to what was going on. It gave him a slight sense of control and confidence. “I think they—I mean the people that got Maggie—went to Andrei’s to get me.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Because I left after 9:00 a.m. saying only that I was going to pick up some clothes and come back soon. That’s all I said to the people in Andrei’s house.”

  “This makes sense.”

  “They did not get me, so they took Maggie, thinking she would either know something or lead them to me or to the Schulmann file they think I have.”

  James added, “So you have to convince them that you have what they want, while at the same time that Maggie does not know how to get it, and if they harm her they won’t get the file.”

  “Exactly. We don’t want them thinking that she knows anything. I offer to trade her for the file.”

  “No, no, no! First of all, it’s too simple and possibly quick, and you don’t even have anything to trade. Second, you are supposed to be a mercenary, not someone willing to exchange information of great value for a girl. Last, it’s inconsistent with you meeting Maggie only two days ago, as she has likely confessed.”

  “OK, what do you suggest?”

  “A slight change in the message. We don’t offer anything yet. We communicate that we have the file, that their attack was a bad mistake and will raise the price. That grabbing a low-level operative who knows nothing is not going to help them. But we protect our own no matter how lowly they are in the organization, so if they harm her the price will increase again, and we will shop the file to someone else. Keep them guessing and communicate from a position of strength. What do you think?”

  David didn’t feel anything even close to being in a position of strength. But he liked the professor’s strategy. “OK, let’s do it your way.”

  Opening Maggie’s computer, David searched for Wi-Fi and then asked, “What’s your Wi-Fi password?”

  James laughed. “My dear chap, you are trying to log into the neighbor’s network. I am afraid I don’t have anything like that, but there is a cable plugged into my computer in the study.”

  David shook his head, and they moved to the study. The message to “acegik” went out.

  Bowen said, “Let’s hope now that Maggie plays her cards right. You do realize that whoever let our adversaries know that you were staying with Andrei also picked the time when most of the people were out?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I doubt they would have attacked the house with a number of armed men in it.”

  “They could have been waiting outside until most people left.”

  “Possible, but not likely. From what I understand, it’s an expensive neighborhood patrolled by private security. They wouldn’t go there expecting to be able to sit for hours. Too dangerous.”

  “So it was someone on the inside tipping them off?”

  “Most likely. And since there are not many people there, it gives us the advantage of knowing that someone from a small group is working with our enemies.”

  David was pleased to hear Bowen say “our enemies.” He didn’t feel so alone. The professor continued. “That’s one line of inquiry to pursue. There are a couple of others: investigation into Schulmann’s work and death, the mysterious Thomas Mann, and the wounded person in Seattle.”

  “I still don’t quite understand why they think I know anything,” David said. “Is it because of my conversation with Thomas Mann, or whatever his real name is?”

  James smiled. “I think I might be able to answer this. When you described the events yesterday, I first thought it was a case of mistaken identity. But this Thomas Mann connection was too much of a coincidence. Then I remembered that a long time ago there was a funny French movie—that Hollywood had to remake, of course—where a spy approaches a man he picks out of the crowd in order to send his adversaries down a wrong trail. In the movie, hilarity ensues. In real life, things are not quite so funny.”

  “You mean he picked me at random?”

  “I doubt it was completely at random; these people are trained. He bought a ticket to LA, so he was looking for someone
likely flying to LA. He may have seen you checking the gate. He also wanted someone who would look like he could be an operative, so he picked a tall male, young but not too young.”

  David rubbed his forehead. “Wait. You’re saying that jerk set me up? Just like that, out of the blue?”

  “I think so. Didn’t that detective tell you how an operative from China was killed in the terminal? Approaching you may have been his way to split the pursuit.”

  David was seething with anger. His life had been turned upside down, his friend had been killed, two others either killed or kidnapped—and all because of being picked at random? But it did make sense. These people didn’t want anything that he actually had, they wanted some mysterious Schulmann file instead, and Thomas Mann led them to believe that David had it. Bastard!

  “But speaking of operatives,” Bowen said, “who can we trust to share this information with?”

  “What? You want more people involved?”

  “My dear David, I was in the Royal Welch Fusiliers back in the ‘70s, but I am sixty-eight and I don’t even own a gun. And I’m sure you are in good shape, but—please don’t take offense—you are no James Bond. To quote Anton Chekhov, “Nothing can be accomplished by logic and ethics.” You are not a little hobbit that can quietly slip into the enemy territory. We need information, and we need firepower. We are dealing with people that have both. Who can you think of?”

  David didn’t take offense, figuring he was more like anti-Bond. “I think we can trust Oleg.”

  “Oleg? Is that the chap who was here last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am very happy to hear that, because if he is the traitor in Andrei’s household, we’ll likely be dead soon. But why do you believe you can trust him?”