The Man From Belarus (Corps Justice Book 16)

by C. G. Cooper

  There were no pictures on the walls of the office. No bookshelves. Just a desk with a bald government crony sitting behind it. His suit was so ratty Stokes sometimes wondered if the man ran over his clothes with his car before putting them on.

  “Ah, Major Stokes. You’ve gotten your wish, I see.”

  “Sorry, sir. I’m not sure I catch your meaning.”

  The bald man stood, palms pressing into bare desktop. “You, the shining star. You wanted to make a name for yourself, and now you have. Please tell me you’re not here to offer excuses.”

  Stokes was in a bind. Yes, it’d been his operation, technically. But the use of German contractors was Flap’s requirement. If Stokes pointed his crosshairs at the Germans, that meant pointing the barrel at Flap. Stokes didn’t have the clout to do that. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Despite his disdain for any but his own accomplishments, Edmond Flap had somehow secured a moat-protected career. There were ample rumors that said Flap’s career was built on the carcasses of former spies.

  Screw it, Stokes thought. He was in no mood to be politically correct. And besides, maybe it was time to get home to his wife and child. Something about losing that young woman pressed him to return to the nest.

  “Sir, I believe the German contractors gave up my contact.” He quickly ran through the details, from loading into the car to walking away and watching mother and baby get blown to smithereens.

  Flap took it all in, and for once Stokes thought that maybe that man’s humanity would come through.

  That hope was dashed faster than a jackrabbit’s twitch.

  “What would you like me to do, Major?”

  “I’d like to open an investigation, sir. I’ve developed a good working relationship with the local police. If we start now—”

  Flap held up a hand. “To what end, Major? What do you think you’ll accomplish?”

  The prick was itching every fiber of the major’s constitution. “What I think, no, what I know I’ll accomplish, is finding out who killed that poor girl and her unborn child!” Stokes didn’t realize he’d yelled it until he saw the smug look on Flap’s face.

  “If I didn’t know better, Major, I’d think you had a relationship with this woman, this—”

  “Hanna. Her name was Hanna.”

  Flap cocked his head like he’d heard something of real interest. “Maybe it’s best if I contact your superiors at the Navy Department. I’m sure they have some rifle range that needs running.”

  Now that went too far. Stokes reached over the desk and grabbed him by the collar. “Listen to me, you smug son of a bitch. I don’t care if this trail leads to the ambassador. I’m going to find out who killed that girl, and I’m going to find out why.”

  Flap didn’t budge. In fact, he didn’t look scared at all. Not good.

  “If you’ll kindly let go of my shirt, I’ll tell you what’s going to happen next.”

  For a split-second, Stokes thought about slamming the man’s head onto the desk again and again. What would that solve?

  He let go and took a step back.

  Flap coughed into his hand and leveled Stokes with a look the major would never in his life forget.

  “You’re going to pack your things, Major. I will make the call, and by this time tomorrow, you’ll be heading back to wherever it is the Marine Corps sends majors to pasture. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have your mess to clean up.”

  What else could Stokes say? He was effectively cut off. No doubt if he tried to get into his office they’d make sure he couldn’t.

  So, he did what thousands of Marines before him had done in a dilemma, and something he’d only done once in his life. He went looking for a bottle, and the answers that might just come by the time he got to the bottom of it.

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  WEST BERLIN — 1986

  If he’d been a man to sit and giggle and clap his hands like a child, Flap would have. He did do flips deep down, exultant twirls that happened every time he came out on top.

  Men like Stokes were too easy to beat. You could always use their honor against them. The only man Flap honored was himself. He had a passing love for his country, but his entire career was about conquest. He wasn’t much to look at. He’d never gotten the girls. But he had a flair for the spy business, and he knew how to win no matter the odds. And getting his hands dirty was part of winning.

  Flap pressed a button under his desk, and his assistant appeared in less than a minute.

  “I’d like for you to box all of Major Stokes’ belongings. Make sure his clearances are revoked.”

  “Where would you like his things taken, sir?”

  Flap took a moment to think. He wanted this to be as painful as possible for this Marine that the bloody CIA had dumped on him. A rookie spy! A Boy Scout!

  “Send them home to his wife.”

  “Yes, sir. Will there be anything else, sir?”

  “No. I’ll be leaving shortly. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Flap waited ten minutes, placed two phone calls, and left, telling the duty officer on the way out that he could be contacted at his primary residence.

  He selected a pack of German cigarettes, a sugary soda, and newspaper from the tiny market. The first two items would soon find their way to the trash bin. The last he would keep. Flap was fluent in German and believed in the importance of knowing the full landscape of the spy enterprise.

  He paid the cashier with a small stack of bills. The cashier went to make change.

  “Keep it,” Flap said.

  The cashier’s droopy eyes flickered with interest then went back their dull stare. Message received.

  Flap left, tossing the cigarettes and the soda in the trash, already relishing the endgame.

  The cashier extracted the stack of bills and took them to a small window set into the wall. He rapped twice. The window slid open revealing only darkness. The cashier set the bills inside a small cubby and the window slid closed.

  The man on the other side of the window sifted through the bills. There was a picture of a man in a military uniform. It took him a moment to realize it was an American Marine. Short hair. Good looking. On the back of the picture was an address.

  The man grunted. It wasn’t his job to know the why. He was just the provider.

  He shuffled his arthritic legs over to the wall-mounted telephone. It was the most expensive phone in four square blocks. Untapped, courtesy of some very well-placed money.

  He dialed a number from memory, grumbling as it took four rings for the other side to pick up. He relayed his orders in a tired drawl. The orders were repeated back to him and he affirmed his approval.

  The line went dead. The phone went back in its cradle. And the man with arthritic knees went back to watching Happy Days on the black and white TV.

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  WEST BERLIN — 1986

  He’d made every call he could make. Everyone said to let it go, that Flap was untouchable. Stokes couldn’t see how. It was only a matter of time before the bastard would cause an international scene. Not that a dead woman and her baby would even cause a ripple in American international policy.

  So, he came to the only place he felt comfortable—the Marine House. The off-duty embassy Marines knew him. Better yet, they knew what had happened and they gladly took him in. Part housing barracks and part fraternity, the Marine House had a full bar, every movie available on VHS, and a couch that called for the weary. That’s where Stokes sat now, nursing a whiskey that peppered his chest with warmth and tried to help him forget about Flap. Edmond Freaking Flap.

  Stokes wasn’t a curser. He was raised to shun all profanity, and had, up to this very point, refrained from its use. But this night he wanted to break that vow. He wanted to break every oath he’d ever taken and burn down Flap’s empire.

  “Have another, Major?” the Corporal who was tonight’s bartender called from across the room.

  “Still nursing this one. Thanks.”

&nb
sp; The Marine went back to his video games and Stokes went back to brooding. He’d searched every memory he’d had from every mentor he’d ever had. And still nothing moved the immovable barrier that was Edmond Freaking Flap.

  “Corporal, any chance you guys have a phone that calls back to the States?”

  “Sure thing, sir. Front room, the one with the desk.”

  If he wasn’t going to come up with an answer, he might as well call home. Cal was probably still at school, but he could talk to his wife. She’d like that, and truth be told, he needed it. The missus had a way of talking him down from any proverbial cliff he’d chosen to climb.

  The phone made a few clicks and squacks before he was able to dial the Stokes residence back in Camp Lejeune, North Carolina.

  His wife picked up after a single ring. “Stokes residence.”

  The mere sound of her voice was like a salve on his wounded soul.

  “Hey, Honey.”

  “Well, hello there, handsome. What time is it over there?”

  He winced. He’d kind of forgotten about the time. “About five in the morning.”

  “Marine, have you forgotten about the time difference?”

  “Yeah, jeez, I just realized. I’m sorry for calling so late.”

  He’d never been a big drinker. He had to pull himself together before he got in real trouble. No need to worry her yet.

  “Long day at the office,” he said by way of excuse. “I thought it would be nice to hear my beautiful wife’s voice.”

  “Now that’s better. You really do have a way with words when you try, Calvin. Why I think in another life you could’ve been a poet.”

  “I did win the Billy Shakespeare award in eighth grade.”

  She laughed at that even though it was a lame attempt at a joke. Knowing his wife, she understood just by his few words that he needed a little levity right about now. This wasn’t the first tough day at work for them both.

  “I miss you,” he said, his words heavy with honesty in that moment.

  “I miss you, too, honey.”

  He almost wanted her to ask if everything was okay, but they’d set that rule early on. If the end of the world was coming, he would tell her. “How’s Cal?”

  She proceeded to tell her husband about their son, the latest goings-on with the wives, and how it was looking more and more like they’d be expected at her parents’ home for Thanksgiving, something she knew her husband hated.

  When he got off the phone twenty minutes later, he felt rejuvenated and whole again. It was impossible to forget about Flap, the Germans, and the recently deceased, but at least he had something to look forward to. Who knows what Flap would put him through before being shipped home in disgrace, but like a good Marine, he would not pout. He would conduct a proper turnover and submit himself to any and all questioning.

  So it was that when he left the Marine House, thanking the still-awake occupants for the time there, his step was a little lighter—a little more carefree.

  Major Stokes, USMC, was a block from his apartment when he noticed the flickering light at the end of the street. An old sign someone had tried to make new. Half of the neon was gone, but the beacon still served.

  A bar. But not just any bar. The bar where he’d first met the young woman who was now dead. It’d been poor tradecraft, meeting at a location so close to home. It was a last-minute thing, plus he knew the place was safe. Run by a crusty German who everyone called Pops, the establishment’s name was long forgotten. It was just known, naturally, as Pop’s, or Pop’s Place, or You Know, That Joint Pops Runs.

  Stokes had spent many a night in the dive, practicing his middling German on grumpy old Pops or one of his endless supply of grandchildren. Pop’s Place was cleared by the embassy, and more importantly, it was cleared by the who’s who, the people who really knew the intelligence aristocracy of the land.

  He was in a good mood, bolstered by the Marine House booze and the fact that he’d be going stateside soon. Another drink couldn’t hurt. One last time, to say goodbye to Pops.

  The door jingled when he opened it, the sound one might hear coming off the reindeer on Santa’s sleigh. Pops stood behind the bar, scanning a newspaper under the low light. He’d go blind for sure.

  “Good night to you, Pops,” Stokes said in German. He’d at least mastered that.

  All he got was a nod in return. None of the ten-odd patrons looked up either. Slow night. No groups. Just singles and duos holding up the tables.

  Stokes went to the bar, asked for his usual beer, a small blessing he liked to treasure, and found a quiet table in the corner. Pops’s choice of music tonight was some kind of Bavarian folk, lively but not too lively.

  He’d just taken his first taste of beer when a woman turned in her seat, tilting like she’d had one too many.

  “I’m sorry, are you American?” Her English was very good. German tinged, sure. But very good.

  “I am.”

  No need to hide it. This was a mission across enemy lines. And besides, Stokes was pretty sure what the young woman in high heels and a well-fitting blue dress wanted.

  “Do you know where the nearest bus station is?” she asked.

  Right on the money, he thought. At least his instincts were still intact. He wondered how long it would be behind a desk before those were worn to nothing.

  “Sure, right down the street. Next to the gas station.”

  The woman looked around like she’d be able to see through the walls. Definitely confused.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t live on this side of the city.” She dabbed her lips with a napkin. “Actually, I don’t live in the city at all.”

  For some reason, Stokes dove headlong into the conversation. “Tell me why you’re in town. Then maybe we can see if Pops—”

  “Pops?” she asked.

  Stokes pointed at the bar. “The owner. He can call you a cab.”

  She blanched at that and fumbled for her purse. “I don’t have enough money for the taxi.” Her English was slipping along with her mood.

  Stokes put up a hand, hoping to calm her. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re doing in the city. We can figure out your way home later.”

  That did calm her. And when she spoke he couldn’t help being pulled in.

  She was from a small town thirty minutes outside the city, a name he couldn’t pronounce. She was in town for a job interview, one that did not go well. She was sure she hadn’t gotten the job and now she didn’t want to go home to her parents. They’d be disappointed. And all Stokes could think about, was how anyone could say no to those lovely blue eyes…

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  ZIMMER — AIR FORCE ONE, SOMEWHERE OVER THE WEST COAST — PRESENT DAY

  “Have you read this?” Zimmer asked, lifting the file in his hand.

  “I thought you’d want to read it first,” Haines said, enraptured by her own file. “You don’t look happy.”

  “I’m not sure this is a matter of being happy. This is a matter of telling your friend that his father was an adulterer.”

  Haines looked up, though she didn’t seem surprised. She never seemed surprised. “How bad is it?”

  Zimmer shrugged, wishing this task wasn’t his. It was one thing to throw a cheating bastard under the bus. This was Cal’s dad. Saint Calvin Stokes, Sr.

  “Let’s put it this way, whoever put this together was pretty damn thorough. There’s pictures, a signed confession, and even one from the girl.”

  “Woof. Sounds like an open and shut case.”

  That got Zimmer thinking. He leafed back through the file. “Yeah. Open and shut. That’s exactly what this feels like.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “I’ll give you the broad strokes. The CIA confirmed that then-Major Stokes was tasked to the Agency. Much of what he did in Germany has been redacted. I’m not sure there’s even an official copy. You could do that back then. But this,” he held up the file again, “this proves that someone was follow
ing Stokes.”

  “He was playing spy. Lots of spies are followed. That’s the job.”

  “I agree. But was that really the case here?”

  Haines blinked at him slowly. “Brandon, I left my Zimmer-to-English dictionary in the car, can you be a little less obscure? Just for the moment?”

  Zimmer put a hand through his hair and exhaled sharply. “I’m trying, trust me. I’m thinking this isn’t your usual cloak and dagger game. Something else is at play here.”

  “And what do you think?” she asked.

  “I think more digging is in order.”

  Chapter Eighty-Six

  PONT NEUF, SAINT-GERMAIN-DES-PRÉS, PARIS — PRESENT DAY

  The man in all-black running gear came to a stop alongside the raised gangplank of the houseboat. He took note of the bamboo growing wild on the stern, made a mental plan to have something done about that, then grabbed the key fob in his pocket. With a silent press of the single button, he lowered the gangplank, waited until it touched down, and then walked down to his vessel. To any passerby, he was one of many mid-wealthy residents of the city. He looked every bit the part, even sporting a boulangerie bag on his left wrist.

  Once the gangplank was raised again, he went through the rote process of unlocking both locks on the glass door leading into the top level of the boat—his kitchen and eating area. Not even someone with the world’s best magnifying long-scope lens would’ve notice the facial recognition scan that greeted him, emitting a soft buzz on his watch.

  The heavy glass door let out a slight sucking sound when it opened, and a muffled thud when it closed behind the man. No indication that every door and window on this thing were built to sustain heavy weapons fire, as they indeed had.

  He set the bag next to the De’Longhi coffee machine, pressing the power button and gazing across the Seine while he waited. The coffee machine purged a shot of hot water, and he replaced the dirty mug with a clean one. The day was gray and uninviting, but that rarely registered with the man who soon had a double shot of espresso in one hand and a raisin pastry in the other. He ate and drank slowly, savoring each and every mouthful. He’d just crested the seventy-year milestone but could’ve easily passed for fifty. Except for his eyes. His eyes looked like they’d seen a millennium as he scanned the deck of the tour boat that sent a few sloshy waves his way. Such was life on the river. Tours all day until just after 10 p.m. He’d learned to live with it, though in those first days it felt like living in a fishbowl. A heavily fortified fishbowl, but still a fishbowl.