The Broken Chase

by Cap Daniels

Until then, Anya hadn’t made a sound, but when she saw the stacks of bills piling up on the counter, she let out a little squeal.

  Jack asked, “Is there anything else we can do for you, Mr. Fulton?”

  “We could use a bed and a shower. Oh, and a rental car if you could arrange one for us. Something sporty would be nice.”

  “Of course. Stephanie will take care of everything you need, and if I can be of service to you, please don’t hesitate to call on me, day or night.”

  He handed me his card after writing his private number on the back. I thanked him and saw Stephanie printing our paperwork.

  She slid a pair of keys with decorative green chains across the desk. “How long will you be staying with us?”

  Anya squeezed my arm.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have a honeymoon suite available, would you?” I asked.

  Anya’s eyes lit up.

  “Absolutely,” said Stephanie.

  She snatched the keys from the counter and replaced them with an even more decorative set.

  I signed for the room. “We’ll be here a few days if you have room for us. Maybe three or four nights, if that’s okay.”

  “Of course,” she said. “I’ll show you as here for four nights. Let us know if you’ll be staying longer.”

  “By the way,” I said, “we need to keep our boat at the dock while we’re here. It’s the fifty-foot sailing catamaran tied up at the end.”

  “No problem. Your boat will be fine right where it is.”

  I picked up the keys, the cash, and the remaining envelope from the counter. “When can we expect the car?”

  “I’m sure it’ll be here by lunchtime. Enjoy the honeymoon suite, and congratulations.”

  * * *

  The honeymoon suite was exquisite.

  “Oh, Chase. It is beautiful. I love this place. I will never want to leave.” Anya danced around the enormous room.

  “You never want to leave anyplace we go,” I said.

  She leapt onto the bed and rolled over onto her stomach, her chin perched on top of her hands. “I want to have honeymoon forever with you, my Chase.”

  I kissed her forehead. “I’m going to take a shower and a nap. We’ll play honeymoon later.”

  She stuck out her bottom lip, pretending to pout, but I could see in her eyes she needed sleep as much as I did.

  * * *

  When we awoke, we discovered an envelope someone had slid under our door. Inside it was a futuristic-looking key on a Porsche key ring. I tossed it onto the dressing table and carried the two stainless steel cases and the sealed envelope back to the bed. I sorted through the items inside the cases, lifted a small purse from the first case, and tossed it to Anya.

  “I’m pretty sure this one is yours. It’s not my color.”

  She opened the purse and pulled out a driver’s license and social security card. “Chase, what is this?”

  “I have no idea. I didn’t pack it. This is all your father’s doing.”

  “It is Florida driving license with my picture, but name is Ana R. Fulton.”

  I laughed. “Well then, maybe this is our honeymoon after all.”

  As I continued to dig through the cases, I found a pair of passports for Chase and Ana Fulton that were dated eighteen months earlier. I also found a pair of matching Walther PPK pistols and an assortment of holsters. Along with the pistols were two boxes of Plus-P, Talon, hollow-point ammunition, so I loaded each magazine and handed one of the weapons to Anya. She took it from my hand, racked the slide, and watched a round smoothly seat into the chamber. She then re-holstered the pistol and placed it on the nightstand.

  There were a few papers pertaining to the boat as well as a satellite phone and a pair of cell phones. I supposed it was time I had my first cell phone. After all, it was 2001, and I was already behind the technological power curve.

  I opened the envelope from the bank in the Caymans and found two black credit cards with my name embossed on the bottom of each. I tossed one to Anya. “You might need this. It’s a card linked to one of the accounts in the Cayman Islands that you insisted I open.”

  “You do listen to me sometimes,” she said with a wry smile.

  “Yes, sometimes I do.” I slid the case and remaining contents aside and grabbed her around her waist. “So far, you’ve never steered me wrong.”

  “It is now time you take me for shopping. I need new dolphin shirt.”

  “Okay, we’ll go shopping and get you a Braves hat and a Bulldogs shirt. No more Miami Dolphins for you.”

  “Aww, Chasechka, you not love me now? What is Braves and Bulldogs?”

  I scoffed. “You’ve got a lot of work to do if we’re going to pass you off as an American girl anytime soon. The Braves is the baseball team from Atlanta, and the bulldog is the mascot of the University of Georgia. It’s where I played ball.”

  “And they have chili dogs there, yes?”

  “They have the best chili dogs in the world. In fact, I need a phone.”

  Anya or Ana, as the state of Florida seemed to think, pointed toward the phone beside her Walther on the nightstand. From memory, I punched in the numbers.

  “Georgia Bulldogs ticket office,” came a lady's slow Southern drawl.

  I cleared my throat. “When’s the next baseball game?”

  “Just a moment, sir. Let me take a look.”

  I heard her typing and humming.

  “We’re playing Alabama tomorrow afternoon at one o’clock here in Athens,” she said.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” I said in my best Southernese. I rolled back over to face Anya. “Looks like you’ll be getting that chili dog before you know it. We’re going to Athens tomorrow to see my Bulldogs kick the stuffing out of Alabama.”

  “What does this mean, kick the stuffing? I do not know baseball much, but I do not think kicking is part of game.”

  I chuckled. “Let’s go find you something to wear.”

  * * *

  We picked up a pair of sandwiches from the dining room of the Jekyll Island Club and headed out in search of our rental car. We didn’t have any trouble finding it. Parked near the curb in front of the lobby was a gorgeous red Porsche 911 convertible. I pushed the unlock button on the key fob to make sure it was ours. The lights flashed and the door locks popped open.

  I opened Anya’s door and she slid into the leather seat. She snatched the key from my hand and leapt across the center console into the driver’s seat. Knowing I’d never win that argument, I slid into the passenger side and buckled my seat belt.

  “Do you even know how to drive?” I asked.

  She smiled mischievously. “I have Florida driving license. Would you like to see?”

  “No, you don’t,” I said. “Some chick named Ana Fulton has a Florida driver’s license.”

  “Yes, this is me.”

  Arguing with a woman is exhausting, and arguing with a Russian woman is little more than an exercise in masochism.

  We left the parking lot as if we’d robbed a bank. She was a maniac behind the wheel, but a maniac in control. Her command of the powerful sports car was astonishing. She took ninety-degree curves at eighty miles per hour and never strayed an inch from the center of the lane. The speed limit on most of the island is thirty-five, but limits didn’t seem to be a concept she understood.

  We arrived at a stop sign beneath the shade of a two-hundred-year-old oak tree dripping with Spanish moss, and I finally relaxed my grip on the door handle.

  “Is nice car, but needs more power,” Anya said.

  “You’re a maniac. Now slow down and pull into that parking lot on the left.”

  She pulled into a parking space at approximately the speed of sound and brought the car to a stop perfectly centered in the space, six inches from the curb. I didn’t know who taught her to do it, but Ana Fulton could drive.

  “Where did you learn to drive like that?” I asked with obvious admiration.

  “What do you mean? This is first time for
me driving.”

  * * *

  Shopping with a woman can be one of the most frustrating endeavors imaginable for a man, but Anya was no ordinary woman. We spent a total of twenty-seven minutes shopping, during which time she picked out four dresses, six pairs of shorts, two pairs of blue jeans, fourteen shirts, a windbreaker, and three pairs of shoes. I bought a few things for myself and two University of Georgia Bulldogs baseball hats. Our shopping was complete, and I wondered if Anya was ever going to let me drive the Porsche.

  We spent the afternoon at the beach on the Atlantic Ocean side of the island. It was nice to pretend we were just normal people out for an afternoon where no one knew we were a pair of deadly assassins. We met several other couples, most of them forty years our seniors, walking hand in hand. Anya seemed to pay particular attention to the older couples who were doing what we were doing—digging their toes in the sand, picking up shells, and holding hands.

  She smiled at me. “We will be like them someday, yes?”

  “No! We’re never going to be old.”

  We watched the waves crash on the beach, and we savored our quiet afternoon together.

  Dinner was in the Grand Dining Room at the Jekyll Island Club after another hair-raising ride back with the Russian Mario Andretti. Her appetizer of crab cakes and mine of fried green tomatoes came, and Anya stared, mystified by the contents on my plate.

  “They’re delicious. Try a bite,” I said. I cut a small piece from one of the tomatoes and offered it across the table.

  She tentatively took the fork from my hand, smelled the tomato, and placed it in her mouth. Her eyes lit up with delight, and she made a sultry, seductive sound.

  “I told you they were delicious.”

  Without a word, she slid her plate of crab cakes to me and took the rest of the fried green tomatoes for herself.

  With a mouthful of food, she said, “This will be in American cooking book you will buy for me, yes?”

  “Absolutely. Maybe you’ll make them for me since I’m obviously not getting any of those.”

  The entrees came, and once again, she eyed my plate. It was fun watching her discover Southern American food.

  “Have you ever tried grits?”

  She shook her head no, so I offered her my fork loaded with grits and a beautifully grilled shrimp. She took it, surveyed it closely, and touched her tongue to the grits. Soon, my plate was in front of her, and I was having the short ribs.

  Before she could ask, I said, “Yes, that will be in the cookbook, too.”

  It occurred to me that in my life I’d eaten two meals in the Grand Dining Room at the Jekyll Island Club, and both meals were with people who would dramatically change my life forever.

  The first was with Dr. Richter, Ace, Beater, and Tuner, the four men who recruited me into the service of my country . . . or, if not my country, at least some group claiming to represent my country.

  This time, across the table from me, sat a former Russian SVR officer turned defector, carrying several pieces of identification bearing my last name.

  Who would’ve believed a baseball playing psychologist and son of missionaries would end up an American assassin in love with a Russian spy?

  6

  Southern Hospitality

  I couldn’t believe she let me drive. I agreed with her assessment of the car except for the need for more power. We left on the Jekyll Island Causeway, the only road onto and off the island. We wound through eastern Georgia and a couple dozen quaint, southern towns.

  Anya was fascinated by the town squares and picturesque courthouses. “Is all of America like this?”

  “No, not all of it,” I said. “Only the good parts.”

  An old man riding by on a bicycle waved at us and showed a toothless grin.

  “Everybody knows you and waves. You are very popular here, yes?”

  “No, none of these people know me. They’re just friendly and wave to everyone.”

  “That is silly, but I like,” she said. “I think I will also wave to these people.”

  That became her game for the remainder of the drive to Athens. She waved to everyone, and most of them waved back. It’s not every day people get to see a gorgeous Russian in a Porsche 911 convertible waving at them on the town square.

  It was after noon when we arrived at Foley Field, the University of Georgia’s baseball stadium. I wasn’t prepared for the emotional experience of seeing the stadium again. I’d become a champion in that stadium. I’d caught uncountable pitches crouched behind home plate. I’d sweat, cried, bled, cheered, mourned, and most of all, I’d found my home on that field. I’d never felt more at home than when I was there, hot and sweaty, and playing in the dirt. I’d dreamed of someday wearing the uniform of the Atlanta Braves and catching at Turner Field. I remembered the elation and agony of my last game when we beat Oklahoma State to win the nineteen-ninety-six College World Series; the game in which I broke my right hand so badly that my dreams of becoming a major leaguer went up in smoke. I couldn’t help but tear up.

  “What is wrong, my Chase?”

  “This place just brings back a lot of old memories. You know, I used to be pretty good at this game. But that feels like a lifetime ago.”

  Perhaps she didn’t know what else to say, so she tugged at the bill of her cap. “I like our matching Bulldog hats.”

  “Me too, but what I really like is your ponytail hanging out the back. That’s way sexy.”

  She grabbed my hand, and we started for the ticket window.

  “Do you have two seats behind home plate, ma’am?” I asked the lady behind the heavy glass.

  “Let me see.” She went to work searching for available seats, then she stopped and stared at me. “You’re Chase Fulton, aren’t you?”

  I was a little embarrassed, so I didn’t answer.

  “I knew it! You are Chase Fulton. You wait right here. I’ll be right back.”

  “I think she is going to get chili dog for me,” Anya said.

  I laughed and appreciated her unique way of making everything all right.

  Still behind the window, the ticket lady returned with Bucky Buchanan in tow. Bucky was the longtime pitching coach and one of my mentors when I was a player.

  “Well, I’ll be darned if it ain’t Chase Fulton. It sure is good to see you. Come around to the side door, and I’ll let you in,” said Bucky.

  I led Anya back out of the stadium and toward an inconspicuous door around the corner. It swung open and Bucky hugged me as if I were his long-lost brother.

  “Damn, it sure is good to see you, Chase. Where in the hell did you run off to? Ain’t nobody heard a word from you in nearly three years. How’s that hand?”

  Bucky always talked faster than I could listen and never failed to ask more than one question at a time.

  Before I could begin answering him, he caught sight of Anya. “Well, who might this be? She surely ain’t with you. She’s way too pretty to be an ugly old catcher’s girl.”

  He stuck out his hand. “Hey, ma’am, I’m Bucky Buchanan. How you doin’?”

  Anya appeared dumfounded. Bucky wasn’t easy to take at first. It took a few minutes to get used to his energy, but I was proud to see Anya stick out her hand and smile.

  “Hello, Bucky. I am Ana, Chase’s driver.”

  “Driver? Ha! That’s a good one. That accent of yours sure ain’t South Georgia. You ain’t from around here, are you?”

  “No, I am from east of here,” she said. “About ten thousand kilometers east.”

  Bucky grinned and slapped me on the shoulder. “You done got you one of them mail-order brides from Russia, ain’t you, boy? Good for you, Chase. Good for you. Now come on with me. Bobby ain’t never gonna believe you’re here.”

  Bucky galloped down the hallway the way he always did, expecting us to keep up, but keeping up with Bucky was never easy. We wound our way through the maze of the stadium and ended up in the dugout where I saw Coach Bobby Woodley, the man who turned me f
rom a decent high school catcher into a champion.

  Coach Woodley lifted his head to see who’d wandered into his dugout and locked eyes with me. “Where the hell have you been, Chase?”

  “Hello, Coach. It’s been a long time.”

  Coach Woodley was the verbal opposite of Bucky Buchanan. He never said much, but what he did say was powerful. In an uncharacteristic show of affection, he hugged me as if I were his own son. The embrace lasted a few seconds before he stepped back and saw Anya, who still appeared overwhelmed with the whole scene.

  Unlike Bucky, he didn’t ask, but I introduced her anyway.

  “Coach Bobby Woodley, this is Ana Fulton,” I said proudly.

  Coach Woodley smiled at Anya. There was a sadness in his eyes that I had never seen in the years I’d played for him. His trademark smirk, quiet confidence, and game-day intensity I’d come to know and love were missing. Something was wrong.

  “Are you okay, Coach?”

  He cast his eyes down at his cleats and spit a long stream of tobacco juice onto the floor of the dugout. “It’s good to see you, Chase. You two can sit down here with us and watch the game from the dugout if you want.”

  “Thank you, but we’ll sit up there behind home plate. You know that’s the only place where I understand what’s going on out there on the field. Besides, I promised Ana I’d buy her a chili dog. If you don’t have plans this evening, I’d like to talk with you after you show Bama how the Bulldogs play baseball.”

  He forced a smile. It hurt me to see him like that, and I had to know what was going on.

  He said, “How ’bout we meet at Milly’s when we wrap this up?” He turned and walked up the steps of the dugout and onto the field where the team was warming up.

  Former catchers always like to watch games from behind the plate, so Anya and I hiked our way into the stands and found seats directly behind the plate, about six rows up. I noticed a sign at the top of the stairs that read, “Chase Fulton Section, 1996 College World Series MVP.” I didn’t know they named a section of the stadium after me. I was honored. And I was thankful Anya didn’t notice the sign.

  The field was perfectly manicured, the grass was a vivid green, and the bright white of the bases and home plate shone like beacons against the red-brown sand and clay of the field.