The Export

by J. K. Kelly

  “I think he may have just said, and please excuse me – his words not mine, ‘Fuck Qatar,’ or something to that effect.”

  As they boarded the jet, a female flight attendant with a face right off the cover of Maxim and dressed in a tan-and-maroon airline uniform welcomed Matt aboard and escorted him to the front of the plane, where his massive first-class seat and all the entitlements were waiting. Leaning in, she said, “If there’s anything I can do for you, anything at all, please don’t hesitate to push my button.”

  Charlie, on the other hand, was given with a much less enthusiastic greeting and then pointed to the rear of the plane and his much smaller and less comfortable seat in economy class.

  “Never a dull moment with you, mate,” Charlie said with a laugh before the two headed their separate ways.

  Nearly eight hours, three movies, and two meals later, the two travelers reunited once off the plane and took the nearly 10-minute walk to customs clearance within Heathrow’s Terminal 4. Charlie led the way to the express entry used by diplomats, VIPs, and flight crews. His biometric passport, the one discreetly different than most other UK citizens, was quickly scanned and returned. Matt, right behind him, presented his U.S. diplomatic services passport – a perk that came with his arrangement - and was waved through to proceed to baggage claim, duty declaration, restaurants, bars, shops, transportation, and the airport exits. Charlie and Matt had spoken briefly on their long walk to customs, but now that they were in-country and free to move about, it was again time for them to part company.

  “Absolutely sure you won’t stay with Lois and me?” Charlie asked his chum. “She’d love to see you after all this time, Matt.” It was just past nine in the evening London time, but Matt’s body clock was still in Doha and reading midnight. Despite the extravagance of his first-class accommodations in flight, Matt had dropped his carryon bag at his feet and was using both hands to rub some life back into his tired face.

  “I’ve seen that face before,” Charlie said as he smiled. “I’m sure you’ll be off to a bar and a bed shortly, but please come into the city in the morning. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  “You know me a little too well, Charlie,” Matt said with a laugh. “Thanks for the invite. Tell Lois I promise to join you for dinner, maybe tomorrow night if that works for you.”

  Charlie laughed and extended his hand, and Matt, not wanting to be rude, rubbed his right hand on his jean leg, and then grabbed Charlie’s grasp and shook it firmly.

  “I’ll be down in the morning, but let’s say elevenish if that’s okay,” Matt suggested. “But first, you’re going to have to tell me who, why, and where you want me to meet, so I’ll know how to dress.” Finishing the handshake, Matt watched his friend’s smile slowly change to a more somber look.

  “Dude,” Matt said, expressing concern. “Why so serious?”

  “While we were in the air, I received clearance from HQ to bring you in on something.”

  “An operation?”

  “Depends on how it all plays out, mate,” Charlie said, his British accent always in full bloom. “The latest rage in lone wolf terrorism here in London has been random knife attacks.”

  “Yea, it’s scary. I’d prefer a bullet to a blade if I had my choice of how to go out. Less intimate. But from what I’ve read, there’s one slasher who’s almost like a Jack the Ripper. Cut and run. Must be a smart cookie.”

  “He is, Matt,” Charlie offered. “We have a suspect. We’ve interviewed him to the fullest extent allowed. We’ve not been able to bring a case against him.”

  “And?” Matt asked.

  “He’s not some angry vagrant left out in the cold, Matt, he’s one of ours and he’s been a tough one for even me to read. Much easier than the killer of cats who drove you to action back in the states.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Matt first realized he had an innate talent for reading people as a teenager in central Pennsylvania. The town of State College was located dead center in the Keystone State and was home to the main campus of Penn State University. The rolling hills of the Nittany Mountains were where Matt first developed a love for hiking and aside from high school and college football, there wasn’t much else going on that interested him. The hiking gave him the escape, the distraction he sought when his home life wasn’t as safe and secure as it had once been. High school was also where Matt first acted out his intolerance for bullies of any kind, regardless of who they were. He and four other boys had been picked up by the State College Police for questioning regarding the abuse of cats in their neighborhood.

  He had watched as they were all interrogated, individually and then as a group. The local police detectives, and even a special investigator from the state police barracks in nearby Bellefonte, had been unable to identify the perpetrator of the heinous acts. Lacking any physical evidence or witnesses, they had little to go on. He had never studied human behavior or the behavioral “tells” exhibited by people who were lying or had something to hide, but he detected them, ever so subtly that day, and had bested the local and state police. It was at that moment he knew what he wanted to do with the rest of his life.

  I knew that prick, the new kid from Jersey, is the one who screwed with those cats, he remembered thinking to himself after the police released the boys to their parents’ care. The most subtle changes in the Jersey boy’s breathing and a shift in eye focus, from a gaze to an erratic focus and then back to a gaze, had blown the kid’s innocence, at least to Matt.

  He could have shared his thoughts with the police or his parents, but he had no proof that would stand up in court. Two nights later, while most of State College focused on the Friday night high school football game, Matt delivered cold, swift justice.

  “Hey, I know you’re the one screwing with those cats,” he told the animal abuser, who exhibited the same behavioral tells again, only this time standing face to face with a young Matt Christopher.

  “You don’t have to admit it, I don’t care,” Matt had insisted. “Just let me go along with you the next time. I want to watch.”

  As the cat killer’s expression changed again, taking the bait, Matt saw a devilish joy enter the boy’s eyes. Perhaps the new kid, up until now a loner, had found a like-minded partner in crime.

  “And that’s a bingo,” Matt said as he slammed his right fist hard into the kid’s left temple, watching as the facial expression changed yet again. This time from joy to shock and then to an unconscious daze, in an instant. What Matt also learned that night, but kept to himself, was that he enjoyed delivering the punishment.

  It took a split second for Matt to agree to help, and Charlie knew that meant it would be in any way he could. That was his friend’s Motus Operandi, his “M.O.” He’d contribute his time, his unique talents, and wealth, if needed, to help law enforcement find and disable predators, particularly if they had preyed on defenseless women or animals.

  “Okay, Charlie,” Matt said, “I’ll be at your office at MI5 HQ on the Thames at eleven o’clock sharp and ready for whatever you’ve got in mind. Dinner with Lois to follow, yes?”

  “And let me guess, I’m buying?” Charlie said in a thankful tone. “Brilliant! Now I’m off to the car park, and you’re off to?”

  “The Hilton, just a 10-minute walk that-a-way,” Matt said, smiling as he pointed toward the pedestrian tunnel that led the way to food, drink, a bed, and perhaps something soft and warm to keep him company.

  The front desk staff called out hello as he spun through the revolving doors that led to the cavernous interior of the Hilton Hotel, but the allure of the beer and burger that would be an even better welcome drove Matt right past the front desk and straight to the lobby bar.

  After ordering, he walked back to the check-in counter, presented his passport and black American Express card – one requiring a minimum expenditure of $250,000 per year, and received his plastic key card and a “Welcome back, Mr. Christopher.” Matt smiled at the large group of Singapore Airlines
flight attendants that were also concluding their check-in. He was back to the bar just as his food order arrived.

  Halfway through the meal, his phone vibrated in his jeans pocket.

  “Always happens,” he laughed, almost choking on the mouthful of burger he had quickly swallowed. Wiping his hands and then taking a swig of beer, he eventually pulled the phone out and smiled at what he saw.

  The text read simply, 309.

  Checking his watch, now at nearly 10:30 p.m. local time but 1:30 a.m. Doha time, he was officially finished for the evening, and the king-sized bed in his room on the fourth floor was all he wanted at this point.

  Sorry, luv, got a call to duty with an early wake-up, he texted back to the flight attendant he had hit it off with somewhere between Qatar and the U.K.

  Sweet dreams.

  The next morning, after drinking four cups of coffee and as much water, showering, and dressing while catching up on the BBC News on the massive flat-screen TV in his room, Matt was dressed in a pair of blue jeans, a blue, collared, button-down dress shirt, and black Merrell slip-ons. Affixing his TAG Heuer watch, FBI identification, and a slim blue wallet both tucked into his back right pocket, money clip in left front and cellphone in right front pockets, he looked one last time in the bathroom mirror and headed out for downtown London. The jet lag that he had learned to live with as a globe trotter for the last ten years was merely a slight fog. He knew the fresh British air waiting for him outside would clear the last remaining remnants.

  “Oops,” he said out loud as he pushed back the room door just before it latched closed. He grabbed his black fleece jacket from the back of the chair and then plucked two facial tissues from the fancy box on the counter, folded them, and slid them into his left rear jeans pocket.

  He’d learned all sorts of ways to deal with endless travel, days on the job without a break trying to solve a crime, and the exotic and not-so-interesting foods he’d encountered in his business and personal trips around the world. He’d been to every one of the continents except Antarctica. Through it all, the one thing that had eluded him was how to avoid catching a cold.

  A brisk 10-minute walk back through the pedestrian tunnel to Terminal 4 got his heart pumping. He purchased a round-trip ticket on the Heathrow Express train and within 30 minutes was in downtown London at Paddington train station. Trains, buses, black taxicabs, fast food restaurants, coffee shops, and a sea of commuters and tourists flowed in and out of every opening in the place. Very familiar with the layout of the city, having worked and played there more times than he could remember, he opted to take a taxi down to the Parliament building. From there, he got his metabolism and mind pumping with another brisk 10-minute walk, this one along the Thames River to the bridge that would connect him to the MI5 headquarters. HQ stood downstream from Big Ben and England’s version of America’s U.S. Capital building. As he crossed the bridge and approached the building’s right side, he recalled the scene in a recent James Bond 007 film where someone blew up the place. Not today please, he thought with a smile.

  Once cleared as a visitor on official government business, Matt placed the visitor badge and lanyard over his head, emptied his pockets to pass through security, collected his belongings on the other side, and was then greeted by Charlie’s assistant, who would escort Matt to Charlie’s office on the third floor. Charlie had been with MI5 for nearly 20 years. Although he had a remarkable CV and was liked by nearly everyone within the building, his rank and stature afforded him a small office with a window view of the train station rather than the coveted and more prestigious offices with the river view.

  “Weren’t you on a higher floor last time I was here?” Matt said through a broad smile.

  Charlie’s assistant, unsure of how to process the apparent insult, clumsily asked the guest if he wanted a coffee or perhaps a tea.

  “Coffee, lots of coffee, extra cream and some sweetener, please.”

  “Be sure to use the clotted cream,” Charlie called out to the aide, who now seemed even more confused by the banter.

  “Never mind the American,” Charlie assured him. “They’re all loud and outspoken like this one.”

  Matt smiled as he pulled a leather chair closer to the front of Charlie’s desk.

  “And the bastards revolted for some bloody reason – what was that again, Matt?” said Charlie, hoping for something entertaining in response.

  “I think it was taxation without representation,” he called out for all to hear. After a few minutes of small talk and additional banter, the aide delivered the coffee to Matt, steaming hot tea to his boss, and then closed the door behind him as he left them to their meeting.

  “So, is that our killer?” Matt whispered jokingly.

  “I’d check your coffee for glass slivers, my friend, or perhaps a whiff of drain cleaner. He doesn’t like many Americans. From the look on his face, you’ve endeared yourself as you always do.”

  “I can teach him some self defense moves, how to throw a knife, whatever it takes to make us buds,” Matt suggested.

  “No Matt, not again,” Charlie protested. “You did that to my last assistant and he wound up with stitches and a bloody settlement to boot.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Charlie’s office always fascinated his American friend. Despite the modern look of the building’s exterior, this office, like the rest of them on the floor, was oak or mahogany from floor to ceiling and the desks were made of wood and heavy and massive as an army tank. “I’d be safer under the damn thing than in a bunker if we ever get bombed again,” Charlie would always joke.

  As a matter of protocol, Charlie made the meeting official but also highly confidential by informing Matt that he was there to work in partnership with the United States National Security Agency and the United Kingdom’s Intelligence Services. He would act in an official capacity at the direction of his manager, Ms. Dale of the FBI, as a consultant. His purpose was to aid in the apprehension of an intelligence services employee suspected in five murders, all females, all stabbings by knife, in the greater London area over the previous three weeks. Charlie spun his computer screen around for Matt to view and then played a four-minute BBC video that showed the victims, the crime scenes, eyewitness accounts, and a summary that begged the question by the commentator, “When will London be safe again?”

  “I’m surprised ol’ Claire let me come. Thought for sure she’d offer me something juicy like an undersecretary’s suspicious death in Abuja or Mogadishu. The flies are particularly annoying there this time of year.”

  “She loves you, Matt, and only wants the best for you,” Charlie said with a wink. Both men laughed until Matt felt his phone vibrate as a text arrived.

  “Well, would you look at that,” Matt stated. “That girl’s good.” He held up his phone for Charlie to read the message. It was from Dale.

  HOPE YOU ARE HAVING A GOOD TIME FIGHTING CRIME YOU BOYS BEST NOT BE TALKING TRASH ABOUT ME!!!

  Charlie nearly choked as he sprayed his tea across his desk. Both men laughed hysterically for a bit until they regained their composure.

  “Dude, I think she’s got a bug in here,” Matt said with a wink.

  “No mate, she’s just that good,” Charlie said. “One day you should marry that girl.”

  Matt shook his head no and placed his right index finger to his lips, whispering, “Shhh. She might hear you.” Both men smiled and then Charlie set to mopping up his desktop and handed Matt a confidential personnel file and notes on the suspect.

  “Damn, boy!” Matt said after reading the bullet points of the person’s CV. “He’s connected to some powerful people over here. Even if we bust the guy and he confesses, even come up with a knife in his bloody hand, you know someone will get him off.

  Charlie got up, walked around his desk, and sat down in the chair alongside his guest. He took a moment, smiled at his friend, and then reminded Matt that this suspect’s situation wasn’t necessarily that much different than Matt’s back in the S
tates.

  “Come on, mate, you’re connected in one way or another to senators, governors, a few Wall Street bankers, and you look like a damn movie star. It’s all incestuous – power, money, politics, fame, and power.

  *

  Charlie had hit one of Matt’s buttons, although not intentionally, and he knew it. He watched as his friend tried to calm himself down. Matt slowly breathed in through his nose and held his breath for a moment before exhaling. He felt his elevated heart rate drop more and more using the controlled breathing technique he had been taught at Quantico and Langley. Quantico taught him to be an FBI Special Agent; Langley had taught him much more. They taught him how to work for the CIA much like MI6 had done with Charlie. As Matt’s expression encouraged Charlie to go on, he continued.

  “You know the way the world really turns. You’ve chosen to use it all for good, God bless ya mate. I wish I could say that for the rest of the bastards.”

  Matt sat quietly. He’d been a rising star in federal law enforcement by his own merits and accomplishments. But those jealous or envious of his fast track to stardom often claimed to his face, but more often behind his back, that his relatives were behind his successes and advancement. It was that conflict, one he rarely spoke of, that brought about his official “retirement” from employment within the federal government. But due to his unique abilities, and in this case, his connections and his desire to track down bad guys, he became an independent contractor for the government. That had put a smile on his face, a raised middle finger to his detractors, and even more of a target on his back by the naysayers in and around the Washington beltway.

  “Let’s not go down that road again,” Charlie suggested. “At least not without a Scotch in front of us.”

  The two sat quietly, each left to their thoughts, and then it was time to get back to it. Charlie patted Matt on the knee, returned to his desk chair, and began a review of the investigative report, bullet point by point. The assailant only attacked women, always from behind. He would grab their mouths with his right hand and cut their throats right to left with his other hand, always in areas where the CCTV cameras were down for repair or had been vandalized. No DNA left behind. No weapons were ever found, no eyewitnesses could describe the man other than average height and weight, dark clothes, scarf hiding his lower face, glasses, and a wool cap covering his head. Oh yes, and a bit of a limp. The incidents always occurred so quickly that before most bystanders could react to the horrific scene, the assailant had disappeared into the crowd, and panic and confusion disrupted the average person’s senses.