The Export

by J. K. Kelly

  “That’s it?” Matt asked, surprised. “You don’t want to yell at me about Tilton?”

  “That was you?” Miller asked, pushing aside his notes and looking to Matt for more.

  “And that’s a wrap,” Dale stated, “and that’s classified.” Dale’s facial expression had changed from casual and unguarded to intense and frustrated.

  “If you need anything else, Mr. Miller, just give me a call,” she added. “And Matt, we’ll meet back here in an hour. You can wait or just come back.” Her tone let the men in the room know that she was clearly disappointed and unhappy that her contractor had mentioned the name Tilton. Matt stood up and watched as Miller and Dale shook hands.

  “I’ll be back in an hour. Time for some caffeine!” Matt said with a smile. As they left the office, Matt told the assistant he’d be back in 45 minutes, and then he caught up to Miller as they both headed for the elevator.

  Behind them, Dale watched as the two exchanged small talk while waiting for the doors to open. She then walked 20 feet to the fire exit and took the stairs up one level to meet with an assistant director on unrelated business. All the way up, she was fuming and intended to unleash her frustration on her best friend as soon as they met again.

  Matt watched as Miller handed back his visitor’s pass at the security checkpoint while Matt gestured to the uniformed guard that he’d need his for a return visit. Outside, the two men regarded the mid-day heat, shook hands, and headed in opposite directions. Minutes later, coffee and toasted, buttered bagel in hand, Matt was back through security and headed upstairs for the next meeting.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” Dale asked sternly as she slammed her office door behind him.

  “Wait, is this one of those hostile work environments I’ve heard so much about?” he asked, hoping to diffuse her mood. It didn’t work. She walked around her desk and sat down abruptly, staring at her friend for a long minute.

  “Want half?” Matt asked, passing part of his bagel across the table toward her. “Come on, Claire, you do look great in that dress.” That was it. He knew her well enough to keep at it until she broke, and she did. She took her part of the bagel from him, her angry look slowly changing to a much softer one.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “I know that look. It’s the one you used to give the dog when she peed on the rug. You loved her and just couldn’t stay mad at her any longer.”

  Dale’s demeanor changed completely, and Matt realized he had taken her back to something she wanted to avoid at all costs. Her rock-hard mind and body changed ever so slightly. She looked to her left, out the window just for a moment, and then got down to business.

  “Okay, moving on,” she said in a tone that confirmed it was time to change the subject. She asked for a formal debrief on the events that had transpired in Quebec City involving the deaths of Tilton and the head of his security team. Reaching across her desk for a familiar button, she pushed it and said, “Start recording.”

  She listened as Matt related the details and then pushed the button to pause the recording. Leaning back into her high-backed brown leather chair, she stared at him and he returned the look.

  “Look,” he assured her, “I can figure out just about anything and be a fixer as well, but this was a cluster. In hindsight, I should have been put on his security detail.”

  She sat there, considering what he had just suggested.

  “God, remember when you used to be able to smoke in these buildings,” Matt asked, drawing in a deep breath of air. “It’s as if I can still smell your predecessor’s pipe.”

  Dale smiled and took in a breath as well. “Yes, the wood-paneled walls must have absorbed some of it over the years. The facilities manager has wanted to strip them down and paint it away, but I won’t let them.”

  “Reminds you of your dad, doesn’t it?” Matt suggested. There was a scrap of bagel left on the napkin he had passed her. She threw it at him, hitting him squarely on the forehead. He knew he deserved it, so he hadn’t tried to block, catch, or knock it back at her.

  “You still love me, don’t you, Claire?” he asked with a laugh. She began to reach for a thick briefing book that was alongside her desk phone, but Matt put up his hands. “No mas!”

  Dale’s expression changed yet again. Yes, she did still love him, and he knew it. She just couldn’t – wouldn’t – give up her career in law enforcement unless he did as well.

  “So, let’s finish this up pretty quickly, young man,” she said. “First, yes, it’s a new dress. And, yes, the guns do look incredible, don’t they! Miss them and all the rest now, don’t you? Second, you know better than to discuss an assignment like Tilton without reading someone in first. Third, you brought me a bagel. And fourth, you bring up my dad and the dog, all in a matter of minutes! You’re driving me crazy!”

  Matt smiled at her, noticing the tear in her eyes, and he felt one forming in his.

  “Crap, you’ll just work out another twenty minutes tonight to burn off the carbs. I was just screwing with the CIA guy. If anyone brings up Tilton or the trigger-happy dead guy, we’ll know Jules can’t keep a secret. I miss your father, not as much as you do, of course. But every time I smell a certain pipe scent, it reminds me of all the great times we spent in Lake George together.”

  Set deep in the Adirondack mountains off Interstate 87, halfway between New York City and Montreal, the summer resort area had grown in popularity over the years. On the outskirts of the village many of the small, quaint cabins had been replaced by million-dollar lodges similar to those found in cities like Aspen and Vail.

  The monied from the Big Apple had taken a liking to the region and if they wanted to snow ski in winter, Lake Placid – the site of the 1980 Winter Olympics – was just a short ride further north toward Canada. The Holiday Inns and the other chain and local hotels of the town still existed. It just cost a lot more to stay in them these days. Matt’s late father had a summer home there on the east side of the lake. The family had always preferred the mountains and the lakes to the crowded beaches of the Jersey shore.

  “Yeah, and the dog? Are you trying to use some psych technique on me to get me to come over and cuddle or something?”

  Matt sat quietly and just stared at her.

  “Someone got something going, didn’t they?” she exclaimed, as if a light bulb had just appeared over her head.

  He continued to look at her without flinching.

  “You son of a gun, you met somebody, didn’t you?” He smiled. “I knew it! Someone got into your head, or maybe a little bit into your heart, and now you’re missing some of the warm and fuzzy that goes along with caring about someone, aren’t you?”

  Matt laughed. “No, I was just thinking about that damn dog of yours,” he continued. “I spent a fortune on that carpeting, and that little shit crapped all over it – relentlessly!”

  *

  Dale pictured the dozens of times she had come home to their condo only to find Matt cringing at the land mines her Yorkshire terrier had left for him. She smiled, but then her mood changed again. She thought of how hard it had been two years ago, breaking up with Matt, losing her dog, and then her father, all in the course of six short months.

  She’d had enough and stood up. “Okay, that’s it for the ride down the emotional memory lane,” she declared.

  Matt knew how busy her typical days were, and he had already taken up a great deal of her time. He stood up and walked around the desk to give her the bear hug they both missed tremendously. She walked him to the door, but before opening it, she stopped and looked him straight in the eyes.

  “Whoever the girl is, you’ll have to tell me about her sometime,” she said softly. “Just not today, I’m too busy saving the damn world!”

  Matt leaned in and kissed her cheek. Opening the door, she had one last thing to say to him. “By the way, you have a two o’clock at Langley. This one is going to be a real challenge for you.” She paused. He hadn’t seen this expression in her eyes in q
uite some time. “This one could be very dangerous and it involves the abuse of women.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  He was hungry and the Old Ebbitt Grill would suit him just fine. Since he hadn’t worked out much recently, he decided to pick up the pace and make it a quick walk toward the White House. The city had more history packed into it than any other in the country, with the exception of Philadelphia, and he preferred to work, play, and dine where the ghosts of past presidents might still wander. Matt calculated his timeline and was sure he had enough to enjoy some good food and then catch a cab to Langley.

  He texted Charlie, simply asking, How’s Lois? and thought of what Dale had suggested at the end of their meeting. Was he craving the emotional warmth she had suggested that a new woman might have ignited? He laughed to himself and laughed again when he realized he’d said, “God, I hope not,” out loud.

  Once inside the restaurant and seated at the bar, he bypassed the grilled bone marrow and other specialties on the menu and ordered a medium-well cheeseburger, well-done fries, and some mayo for the both of them. Coke Zero, no ice, would be the drink of the day. He’d need to be ready for whatever was waiting for him at the CIA so a meal and a mind check would set him. But he soon found himself surrounded by the noise of a lunchtime birthday celebration that included deep dives into alcohol. His personal space at the bar was suddenly invaded with the subtlety of a bull in an elevator.

  “Shit,” Matt declared loudly as a drunk partygoer bumped not once but twice into Matt’s back, spilling his drink and disrupting his thought process.

  “Excuse me,” the young man slurred as he waved for the bartender. “Why so serious?” Matt turned to look at the offender. He was just a kid, fresh out of college. Probably a tech for one of the agencies or banks that occupied the district. Clumsy, but harmless.

  “I don’t want to be rude, but get on back to your party, okay?” Matt said as he stared directly into the bumper’s eyes.

  “God, you’re good looking,” a young woman responded, stepping between them and returning a much friendlier gaze. Another tech no doubt, Matt thought as he sized her up. Beach girl from the valley, he bet. Blonde hair pulled back in a pony tail, blue eyes, great tan, great skin, and the eyeglasses topped off the look. The blue blouse, black slacks, and black heels dressed her perfectly. The designated sober of the group, she extended her hand and introduced herself as “Michelle, from California by way of Wharton.”

  “No offense,” Matt responded, “but I’m prepping for a meeting. Please do me a favor. Go back to your party and take him with you.“

  Not deterred, Michelle called out to the bartender and ordered another soda for her new friend and another one for herself.

  “Did anyone ever say you look a lot like George Clooney?” The free drink and the flattery went nowhere with Matt.

  “Yes,” Matt said sternly. “I get that all the time. Sorry, but I need to focus.”

  “That’s cool,” Michelle responded. “Good luck with your meeting!”

  When Matt’s food finally arrived, he devoured the burger but noticed something happening behind him through the mirror at the bar. The young man who had spilled his drink on Matt had headed to the toilets, but a much larger man, one with a sinister demeanor, lots of muscle, and not much hair, had left his stool at the far end of the bar and followed him. The sensors in Matt’s mind were screaming. Damn it. This kid’s in trouble.

  Matt looked to the bartender, gestured he wasn’t finished with his meal, and then left the bar as if to take a leak. Once inside the men’s room, it was clear his sensors were dead on.

  “What’s this?” he said to the thug who was now holding the drunk against the wall by his throat.

  “Piss off, buddy boy,” the aggressor snarled, glaring at Matt and then returning his attention to the captive.

  Matt looked around the room. They were the only ones in it. He swept the room again, looking for potential weapons he could use if needed, or ones the perp could turn on him if the confrontation escalated that far. Well I could shove the urinal cake down his throat, Matt thought with a grin.

  “I don’t know what this is,” Matt stated, giving the now terrified victim a look Matt hoped would let the young man know he’d be okay soon. “But you need to get your hand off that kid’s neck, or I’m going to break it off and shove it up your ass.” The man squeezed the neck tighter and looked to Matt’s left and right.

  “You didn’t bring any friends,” he stated. “Last call to get lost!”

  Matt smiled and, in an instant, had lurched toward the man, driving a hard kick against the side of the man’s knee. He grabbed the man’s free hand with his left and delivered a right-handed throat punch that released the drunk and dropped his assailant to the bathroom floor.

  “Get out of here,” Matt commanded in a calm voice, never taking his eyes off the perp.

  “But…” he started to protest.

  “You must be hard of hearing,” Matt said, now giving the victim the same look he had given the man on the floor. With that, he quickly left the bathroom.

  Matt knew he would only have another minute or two before the restaurant manager or the police entered the room and ruined his party. He had to act fast.

  As the man tried to get up off the floor to try to fight, Matt delivered another hard kick to the man’s ribcage, knocking the air and the fight out of him. He reached down and pulled the man’s wallet from his jean’s pocket, removing his driver’s license, and employee ID card.

  “Okay now, shithead,” Matt shouted to make certain he was paying attention. “I know who you are, and I know where you live and, oh yeah, where you work. One sound out of you to the police or anyone else, and I’ll be back in your face faster than you can blink. You got me?” Without a response, Matt drew back his foot again.

  The man cowered, and after a few seconds’ delay, he finally nodded.

  Matt threw the cards into a urinal basin, washed his hands, dried them, and then left the room. To his surprise, he found Michelle waiting for him outside the doorway.

  She hadn’t called for help and had told a patron the room was out of order.

  “Go back to your friends, Michelle, the show’s over,” Matt advised, then walked to the bar and dropped two twenties for the server.

  Back out on 15th Street, he decided to walk off the adrenaline until he could catch a cab for his next meeting. He hadn’t gone far, though, before he realized he was being followed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Matt had made it three blocks when he suddenly heard Michelle call out, “Wait up!” The frustration on Matt’s face was clearly evident to the young woman, but that didn’t deter her from approaching the hero who had just saved her friend from a beating. Just as she began to speak, a large delivery truck was cut off by a speeding motorcycle and the driver blared his deafening air horn, causing Michelle to jump as Matt cringed. In the distance, sirens could be heard getting closer and closer. No doubt from one of a hundred daily motorcades of one dignitary or another rolling across D.C.

  “I wanted to give you my card,” she said, handing one to Matt, who took it quickly and read the information out loud. “Michelle J. George, Research & Analytics, United States Treasury.”

  “A numbers cruncher, I see,” Matt said, acknowledging the woman’s role within the department. “Better you than me. That crap puts me to sleep.”

  Michelle laughed. “They’ve always come naturally to me since I was a kid. I can compute just about anything you throw at me without a calculator.” Matt looked back to the front entrance to the grill. There was no sign of the attacker, which surprised him.

  “I just wanted to let you know how to reach me. We all work at treasury,” Michelle said. “If there’s anything I can ever do, any of us can ever do to help you, don’t hesitate to ask. We owe you big time.”

  “Stay out of trouble, kid. And always be aware of your surroundings.”

  “Will do.”

  Matt che
cked his watch and saw it was time to grab a cab and head over to the CIA for the meeting Dale had scheduled for him. He waved down a taxi and gave the driver instructions, then turned back and extended his hand to shake Michelle’s.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Mathew Christopher,” he responded. “Friends call me Matt.”

  Michelle let go of the door and watched as the cab pulled away, disappearing

  into the sea of cabs and cars that flooded Washington’s streets every day.

  *

  “CIA, I knew it,” she whispered to herself, as she headed back to the party.

  When Michelle returned to the grill, she saw the man who had assaulted her friend sitting at the far end of the bar and holding a cloth napkin full of ice to the left side of his face.

  “Guy slipped in the bathroom,” one of Michelle’s buddies commented as she rejoined the celebration. Michelle checked her friend, who was still a bit shaken from the experience, and then looked back to the bar to make sure the man was still there. Their eyes connected through the reflection in the mirror. The man glared angrily at her, but his drooped shoulders indicated the fight was out of him, at least for today, and he went back to nursing his wounds. Not enough, she thought, he’ll just beat up someone else, probably worse now, after all this. She pulled her phone from her pocket and dialed 911.

  *

  Matt had been waiting for nearly 10 minutes in a small conference room admiring the framed photos of the last six CIA directors when two men entered and introduced themselves. Everything in the room was grey. The walls, the chairs, the table, the vinyl floor tiles. The only color came from the round CIA insignia mounted on the far wall. They were mid-level staffers – Josh Wilson, a CIA intelligence officer, and Thomas Adams, a specialist in Russian affairs. These two need to get out in the sun more, Matt thought, they could use some color, too.