by J. K. Kelly
“Billy, let me pour us something to drink. He won’t be here for bit.”
Rogers shook his head and waved the gun in the direction of the kitchen. “Just leave the knives alone back there,” he called out, not bothering to watch as Matt opened the refrigerator door and removed two bottles of beer. Rogers heard the caps pop as he watched Matt’s every move.
Walking back toward his seat, Matt put the opened beer down on the coffee table in front of Rogers and noticed the pistol was now lying on the cushion on top of the passport and money. He kept moving and sat down, raised his beer, and offered a toast.
“Here’s to those who wish us well, and all the rest can go to hell,” he said with an expression of sadness on his face. He could see this former military man was devastated. His legs, his head, and now his heart were damaged.
“Okay, I’ll take the deal. But I told you I would kill for you if you killed for me, so we’re not square yet,” Rogers stated, his eyes focused on the London Wheel turning in the distance.
The two men sat there quietly for ten minutes, and then Matt unlocked his cellphone and hit record. He slid it across the table to Rogers, who picked it up and reiterated the story they had just gone over. Rogers named names and left enough information on the recording to set London on its ear once the trials began and the news started to flow. Lastly, Rogers stated his full name, the date, time, and location of the recording, hit stop, and slid the phone back across the table to Matt.
Within minutes, Rogers was unconscious, the Walther still at his side.
Matt took back the phone, sent a text, and then stood up. He walked around to collect the pistol, the money, the passport, and the plane ticket. He took both beer bottles into the kitchen, drained and rinsed them, rubbed them clean with a paper towel to remove any fingerprints, then threw them in a waste bin under the expensive marble counter. Any trace of the knockout drug he’d attached to the ring on his right hand went down the drain and would be gone from his victim’s system within an hour. Good stuff, Matt thought as he checked on Rogers.
When he heard a knock at the front door, he took the pistol, confirmed there was a bullet in the chamber, and then headed down the hallway. He peered through the peephole and then opened the door, tossing the pistol to an unsuspecting visitor.
“Damn it, Matt,” Charlie yelled as he awkwardly caught the gun, checked to see that the safety was on, and then followed Matt back into the living room. Billy Rogers remained unconscious on the sofa, his back to the men and the front entry door. Matt reached into his pocket and tossed Charlie’s phone back to him. In turn, Charlie returned Matt’s phone.
“It’s all there, ready to finally take down Sinclair and the others involved in the crime and the cover-up.”
Charlie smiled and then looked to Rogers. “So, what are your thoughts on the killer lying before us?” he asked.
Matt thought for a minute and then put his hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “I think you have two options, or at least that’s the way I see it. You can put this poor soul out of his misery here and now, and frame Sinclair for Billy’s murder. Or, you can take him into custody when the knock-out meds wear off and charge him. You’ve got the confession.”
Charlie smiled. “No Matt, there’s an even better one.”
CHAPTER TEN
“The view from up here’s a bit different from the one you have of your neighbor’s cottage,” Matt remarked. Charlie shook his head in agreement. He had already come to the same conclusion.
“And his will be of bars and prison walls,” Charlie said in a sad tone. “For the rest of his bloody life.”
“With the confession, regardless of his condition, he’ll be forever tagged as a serial killer, a mass murderer. This is sad but he’s a broken man. I feel a bit guilty lying to him the way we did but justice needs to be served.”
*
“Okay, we know the old man keeps a Glock G30 pistol in a drawer back there in his office. My team found the .45 in there when they scoped the place yesterday. Sinclair’s prints are on it. Do the job, drop the gun, and then have someone dial 999 to get the police up here. They find the body, Sinclair’s gun and fingerprints, and we have the confession Billy left on my cell.” Charlie walked into Sinclair’s office, used his pen to slide open the desk drawer, saw the pistol in place, and then pulled a black latex glove out of his pocket. Returning to the living room, he extended his right hand to his American friend and thanked him for his help with this very delicate case.
“I don’t know how you do it every time, Matt, but you do,” Charlie said in a serious tone. “Best get going to Heathrow now. I’m sure there’s a bird perched at the bar and a plane you can catch in the morning. I’ll take it from here, my friend.”
*
Matt shook his hand and smiled. “Give Lois a big kiss for me when you get home.” He walked over and stood in front of Rogers, still out cold on the sofa. He looked at the fallen young man for a minute or so and then headed for the door.
“That’s not a tear I saw in your eye now, was it, mate?” Charlie called out.
“Fuck you, Charlie,” Matt responded as he opened the door and entered the hallway. “It’s for the girls they killed,” he called out as the door slowly closed behind him.
He headed back down the stairway, this time to the seventeenth floor, and then took the elevator to the basement garage. He took a moment to appreciate the expensive assortment of Range Rovers, Jaguars, Mercedes, a black Ducati, and an emerald green Lambo that were parked in numbered spots. He continued through the pedestrian tunnel to the garage under the adjacent building and then out an exit door and into the alleyway he and Billy Rogers had been in earlier. He walked a block and then onto the sidewalk that led him to a busy street corner, where he hailed a cab.
“Heathrow Hilton, Terminal 4. Please,” he directed the cabbie. As the car passed the front of the building where Charlie and Rogers were together on the nineteenth floor, he noticed a familiar face exiting a black Bentley sedan. Matt sat back in the seat, pulled his cellphone from his pocket, and texted his friend.
999. SINCLAIR ON HIS WAY UP
He waited for a response during the long ride to the hotel, but none came. He knew his friend was more than capable of wrapping up the case and handling Sinclair. But did he finish the job, drop the gun, and get out of there before Sinclair typed in the keypad code to enter the residence?
Matt considered everything that could have happened up on 19 and wondered if he should have the cabbie take him back to see if he could help. But the situation was complicated. The one thing America or the United Kingdom didn’t need was an American sporting an FBI badge helping MI5 kill a British politician. He continued on as planned.
After having dinner and three tall beers at the hotel’s lobby bar, he nodded his approval as the BBC’s Breaking News headline screamed across the flat-screen TV behind the bar.
SINCLAIR DEAD IN APPARENT MURDER-SUICIDE
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Back at the ticket counter, Matt opted for an expensive business class seat on a non-stop flight departing for Washington, D.C.’s Dulles airport at 7:30 a.m., arriving just before noon. As the flight took off, he watched out his window as Heathrow and the hotel he had called home for nearly a week grew farther and farther away until the Boeing 757 cut through the bumpy rain clouds. Blue skies seemed the order of the day as the plane crossed the Atlantic. Matt couldn’t have been happier. Two killers were no longer a threat to anyone, his friend had taken out an enemy, and he was headed home. He’d expected all morning that Claire would text with an assignment but nothing came so he shut off his phone and settled in.
A slight bit of turbulence as the plane passed over Northern Ireland caused the elderly woman sitting beside him to grab his hand.
“It’s okay,” he assured her, “this is nothing. It’ll be smooth sailing from here.” A few minutes later, the woman pulled her hand back. A look of embarrassment on her face caused Matt to assure her once more. “No worri
es. I was going to grab yours, but you beat me to it.” She smiled and nodded her thanks once again.
The flight attendants passed through the cabin serving a choice of morning newspapers – The London Times, Wall Street Journal – Early Edition, The Sun, The Economist, and The Daily Telegraph. Matt settled back into his wide blue leather seat, pulled a blanket up over his legs, and waited for the two cups of coffee he’d ordered along with a spinach omelet and French toast. He was starving.
Dubai, Kathmandu, Doha, London, and now finally on my way home, he thought to himself as he paged through the Journal. The early edition of the paper had been printed and distributed in London before news of Sinclair’s apparent crime and suicide could have been added to the headlines. Matt had watched the detailed story on the BBC morning show in his room before checking out.The bodies of the deceased men, Rogers and Sinclair, were wheeled on stretchers in black body bags out the front door of the high-rise and into the city coroner’s van parked at the curb. A simple text had come through to his phone hours earlier from Charlie. It bore only two symbols – a raised middle finger alongside a smiling cartoon face wearing sunglasses. He knew Charlie could take care of himself, better than most, and the text brought a smile and then a laugh from Matt.
Having managed to sleep through most of the flight, Matt woke up just 20 minutes before landing when the flight attendant gave him a slight nudge. She handed him a warm, moist facial towel to help him get his senses going once again. Flashing his FBI identification and passport, he cleared customs and walked straight through the arrival terminal to a line of taxis idling and at the ready.
He was finally home, and Bella was there waiting for him. His body was still on London time, and he pictured the crowd lining up at St. Stevens’ for happy hour. He slipped the key into his fifth-floor condo at Buzzard Point on the Capital waterfront, walked in, dropped his bags in the hallway, and headed for the balcony. From there he could see her, and it brought a smile to his face. His five o’clock would come in a few hours, but he needed to sort through his email, check in with his manager, and then change into shorts and a t-shirt.
Before he had the chance to even begin his list of chores, his cell rang. It was Claire Dale calling, and that meant something was up.
“Matt, welcome home,” she said. “I’ve scheduled a meeting for you in an hour.”
Frustrated, Matt tried his best. “Long flight, Claire. Can’t it wait until morning?”
“Nope. There’s trouble brewing up in the Great White North, Matt,” she responded. “The DNI suggested you’re the best one for the job, and you know what that means.” He delayed answering, slowly walking back out onto the balcony overlooking the water to catch a glimpse of her.
She’s not going anywhere, I guess, he thought. “I’ll be there.”
After a quick shower, at long last a full shave, and fresh black t-shirt, jeans, and sport coat, he pulled on the Merrill hiking shoes he so desperately wanted to put on a hillside rather than in a cab. When his aunt suggested he was the man for the job, Matt knew it had to be important. After all, Helene Coleman, the former senator from the great state of Wyoming, and now the Director of the National Intelligence Service – a cabinet level position, was a very serious, very busy woman. Matt was devoted to her.
The ride took much longer than he had expected. The Nationals baseball game had just ended, and Matt’s condo was within a few blocks of the park. People were heading to the subways and the waterfront attractions while Matt’s yellow Toyota van taxi crawled with the traffic.
At the J. Edgar Hoover Building, the FBI’s headquarters on Pennsylvania Avenue not far from the White House, Matt handed the driver $30 and stepped out into the late afternoon summer heat of Washington, D.C. He passed under the American flags waving above the entrance, stepped through the first security checkpoint and then the second. Matt affixed his identification card to the lanyard an FBI special agent tossed to him, and he headed for the elevator bank and Dale’s office.
Not coming as any surprise, he was greeted as he exited the elevator and escorted to a different office, that of Linda Capri, special counsel to the director. Born and raised in the Italian section of Chicago, Capri was smart, very smart, with degrees from Northwestern and Harvard, and she was on a fast track at the FBI. Waiting inside to greet him were two men he didn’t recognize.
“Safe trip, I hope,” Capri offered as a greeting, and then she immediately got down to the introductions and the matter at hand.
“Mr. Leclerc and Mr. Mercier are from the Canadian embassy.”
“Ay!” Matt said with a grin and then sat down at the conference table, the Canadians across from him, and Capri took her seat at the head of the table.
“I warned you about him,” she said apologetically to the visitors. “Now, let’s get to it.”
The Canadians began the briefing by thanking the Americans for their cooperation. Leclerc continued, directing his attention squarely at Matt.
“As you may know, we are hosting a North American Environmental Summit in a few days in Quebec City,” he said. “Do you know the city?”
Matt delayed his response while one of Capri’s aides poured coffee and placed small plates of cookies in front of each of her guests.
“Yes, the Chateau, great crepes, great beer, the ferry that crosses the St. Lawrence,” Matt responded. “Nice place, winter or summer.”
“Merci beaucoup,” said Leclerc, at Matt’s compliment. “So here is the problem,” he continued. “There is an assistant undersecretary from your government, John Tilton, who has attended previous conferences in Banff near Alberta. He has caused some behind-the-scenes problems in the past. Since he has gotten away with it before, we think his behavior might be even worse in Quebec.”
Matt looked at Capri and gestured with his hands as if to ask, “What the hell’s this got to do with me?” She smiled and looked to their guest to continue.
“Tilton has no real interest in the environment but loves attending conferences where the buffets are endless, the alcohol flows freely, and he can prey on the young staffers. Because of his relationship with the White House, he uses it as a lure and then behaves as if he’s untouchable.”
Matt grew frustrated and showed it without hesitation. “I have many areas of expertise listed on my CV,” Matt said. “But bouncer, or fixer for that matter, isn’t one of them. What the heck do you think I can do to corral this asshole?”
The Canadians seemed surprised by Matt’s frankness and by his language. Both looked to Capri for input.
“The undersecretary is the cousin of the first lady and you, of all people, Matt, understand the two-edged sword that nepotism and this sort of behavior can bring,” she said in a tone that was softly explanatory.
“I get it,” Matt said with a smile and then turned his attention back to the Canadians. “I’m connected and you probably got that by now, but the difference is, I use my connections to lock up bad guys. This prick is using his for, well, his prick.” Matt watched as Capri tried to hold in a laugh. He called things as he saw them.
“Like I said, what do you want me to do?”
“I… we want you to go to Quebec,” Capri said. “Be present, stay close to the man. If anything does get out of hand and you can intervene, do it. You will be the first person these gentlemen go to hopefully before the media or any lawyers get hold of any of his antics. We need discretion. If the White House isn’t going to keep this guy in check, then we’ll use assets like you to save our country,” she paused to look at their guests, “and them, the embarrassement.”
Matt got up and walked to the credenza. He poured himself a glass of water, then gestured to Capri and her guests to see if they wanted some as well. Once he’d gulped down the drink, he placed the glass back on the serving tray and returned to his seat.
“This would be so much more fun if you had the damn conference in Vegas, or even Toronto, for that matter. The Russian strippers are fresh off the jet in Toronto!” Mercier
laughed out loud and then promptly stopped when Leclerc glared at him with a shocked expression.
“Just kidding, guys,” Matt laughed. “But I am surprised you are having this event in Quebec during tourist season. The streets will be packed. Security will be a nightmare.” He looked at Capri. “It would be better if you slid me onto his team for the weekend so I could really be close to him.” Capri shook her head no.
“Tilton’s surrounded by his own band of men behaving badly, and they’re impenetrable. Just do the best you can with the cards we’ve been dealt,” she suggested.
“Security won’t be an issue,” the Canadian responded. “We hosted the G8, and it went perfectly.” He paused. “Plus, the planners believe staging it now will help deliver the message to so many more people who will be in the city and the region.”
“I know your city well, as I said,” Matt pushed back. “But you put Bush at the Loew’s up high on the hill at the top of the Grand Allee. The Chateau is down in the heart of the old city, and the biggest chokepoint, the spot where things can get weird, is right in front of the damn Chateau. Always take the higher ground.”
The Canadians looked impressed with just how much this Matt Christopher knew about their city and its history.
“You clearly have assigned the right man for the job, Linda,” Leclerc stated. “But he’s made a mistake. The Loew’s is now the Le Concorde. And, of course, there is the lower city beneath the Chateau.”
“Touché – but so have you. Right person, my friend,” she responded with a tone not lost on her guests or Matt. “The right person.”
“Excusez-moi,” Leclerc stated, placing his right hand to his chest and bowing for forgiveness.
“Okay. Just give me all-access credentials, a schedule, a nice hotel room, and one of your cellphones. I’ll be there, on-call, to jump in if anything gets weird.”