The Price of Time

by Tim Tigner

  Lars’s little bit of boldness faded. “Understood.”

  “Good. Please remember to collect the receipt. Meanwhile, enjoy the cake. Spies might need to watch their backs, but they don’t need to worry about their waistlines.”

  10

  Twists of Fate

  LARS LOOKED AROUND Berret’s Taphouse as Tom rose from the table. The bar was now packed with a professional-looking crowd. Happy hour. He wondered how many of them were his new peers.

  Tom didn’t display the swagger one might expect from a master of the clandestine universe now off the clock. He just came across as a tough-as-nails guy in an expensive suit.

  As the CIA recruiter pressed through the throng near the door, one of the people he brushed shoulders with caught Lars’s eye. It was a guy Lars knew well. A guy Lars had discussed just hours ago during the polygraph test. One of his five best friends. One of the people he’d expect at his funeral.

  Zachary Chase had been Lars’s roommate at Princeton and a member of the same eating club. After graduation, Chase had stayed on the East Coast, whereas Lars had gone West. Facebook kept them in touch, as did the alumni network, but they’d shared space only twice. Once when Chase crashed on his couch for a week during vacation, the second time more recently at their ten-year reunion. On both occasions, the two had slipped back into their groove with comfort and ease.

  Lars stood and waved like an air-traffic controller.

  Chase wasn’t looking in his direction.

  “Chase!”

  His fellow Ivy Club diner turned, recognized his old friend, and walked straight over with open arms. “What are you doing at Berret’s?”

  “Like you don’t know.”

  Chase pulled back from the backslapping hug. “Did I miss an email?”

  “That’s how you’re going to play it?”

  Chase scrunched his face but didn’t respond directly. “It’s great to see you, man. I was just thinking about you. You got time for dinner and a drink? The sea bass here is killer.”

  “I just ate, but you go ahead.”

  As Chase took the seat Tom had just vacated, Lars decided this was either a terrific coincidence—or a convenient test. “What brings you to Berret’s?”

  “I’m in the mood for a drink, and they have a great selection of microbrews.” His voice sounded edgy, and his face was fraught with mixed emotions.

  “Tough day at work?”

  “Last day at work, actually. I just got fired. After ten years.”

  This was a recruiting tactic Lars didn’t see coming. “Seriously? The CIA let you go?”

  “State Department,” Chase corrected.

  “If you’re fired, I don’t have to pretend not to know any more, right? Besides, Camp Peary isn’t State Department, it’s CIA.”

  “Actually, it’s DoD.”

  Chase flagged the red-haired waitress and said, “Two Fierce, please.”

  Carla nodded but didn’t break stride. This was prime tip time.

  “Let’s forget my woes. What brings you to this little corner of the East Coast?” Chase asked.

  Lars decided to go with the vague answer. “I’m auditioning for an interesting role.”

  Chase sat back and began nodding to himself. He almost started to smile. “Makes sense. Your analytical skills plus your acting talent.”

  Convincing as Chase was, Lars didn’t believe he’d been fired. This was clearly an act to show him how it was done. A live lesson from an expert in his prime. Were they also giving him a chance to ask candid questions? One way to find out. “Why did they let you go?”

  Chase rubbed his temples. “There was a go-along-to-get-along situation about six months back. I wouldn’t go along. Firing me would have been awkward, so they pulled me out of the field and parked me at Camp Peary while investigations were conducted. I kept my nose to the grindstone and hoped the political winds would change or the better angels would prevail, but they fired me.”

  “And you can’t fight it?”

  “No point. Even a win would be a loss. My career could never progress, and I’m too young for that. I need to know I can grow. And I want to be appreciated. Fortunately, it’s not unusual to move on from government service after ten years.”

  Carla brought the beers. Frosty mugs sloshing foamy heads onto cardboard coasters.

  They clinked glasses and sipped while Lars wondered if Chase had just delivered a message. At worst, this opportunity was a great stepping stone. “So what’s next? Your résumé must be killer. Pun intended,” he added with a wink.

  Chase didn’t chuckle. “I really don’t know. Something very different. You still have the place near Venice Beach?”

  Lars had a rent-controlled apartment two blocks from the sand. It was small and old, but the location was prime and the rent was less than half the true market price. He wouldn’t give it up until he hit Hollywood’s A list. Or at least the B. “I sure do. Why?”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’m seriously considering renting a Harley and riding the Pacific Coast Highway. The idea has been in the back of my mind for years. Thought I’d crash on your couch for a few days before heading out. Would that be okay?”

  “You, on a Harley?” Lars had trouble picturing that scene. Chase was as straitlaced and clean-cut as they came. A star rower who skipped the parties to study and went to church on Sundays.

  “As I said, I want to try something very different. Might even let my hair grow longer than an inch if it still can.”

  Lars had always worn his hair long, Chase always short. “I gotta see that.”

  “Well, all right then. I’ll text you when I have my ticket. You still have the 7007 number?”

  Lars thought about his phone’s current whereabouts, and his pending disappearance. For a moment he wasn’t sure how to handle this situation. Then he realized that he wouldn’t have to. Chase wasn’t really coming. This whole run-in was an acting for espionage lesson. An excellent lesson. “I sure do.”

  11

  Missing Person

  One week later

  Venice Beach, California

  MY KNOCKING TURNED TO POUNDING as my frustration grew. Lars wasn’t answering his phone. Not my calls, not my texts. I wasn’t sure what I should do now that he wasn’t answering his door either. Should I try to sweet-talk the landlord into letting me in? Should I camp out on the doorstep and wait? Or should I give up and go to a hotel?

  I could pick my way into his apartment, of course, but then I’d be a sitting duck if someone spotted me and called the police.

  This sucked! I wanted to see my buddy and I needed to save cash. I also preferred not to begin my great getaway in jail.

  I decided to start with a note. I’d leave it on the door, then take the Harley on a tour of Venice Beach. If Lars hadn’t returned by the time I got back, I’d settle down across the street at his favorite bar and grill to wait. If Lars still wasn’t back by the time it got dark, then I’d pick his lock.

  But first, I’d stop by the landlord’s office and hope to get lucky. I could show the picture from Berret's that was still on my phone and offer a driver’s license and credit card as collateral in exchange for a key.

  I pulled a pen from my backpack and wrote a note on my used boarding pass. I’m here with the Harley! Tried texting and calling, but -7007 appears to be an old number. Give me a call or come find me at Foxy’s. Chase.

  I wondered if Lars would do a double take, finding me in biker boots and a black leather jacket rather than my habitual polo shirt and sneakers. The image brought a smile to my face.

  Free from government service, I’d decided to stretch my boundaries and expand my horizons. Escape myself as much as my old world. Now I understood why Harley-Davidson’s marketing focused on finding freedom.

  While crossing the courtyard, I spotted Lars leaving the apartment office. Thank goodness! Spreading my arms in a welcoming gesture that would turn into a hug, I said, “It’s about time!”

/>   Lars didn’t react.

  At least not as expected.

  As we closed the gap, I detected panic on my friend’s face. Once that distance dropped to a few paces, I saw that it wasn’t Lars—just someone with a very similar face, hairstyle, and build. He was even wearing a faded funky-logo T-shirt and old jeans, as was Lars’s predilection.

  I dropped my arms.

  The doppelgänger walked past with an obvious effort not to look me in the eye. They have all types out here on the fruity fringe.

  I continued to the apartment office, where I found a twenty-something employee stapling papers. “I’m looking for Lars de Kock.”

  The young manager looked up. “You just missed him.”

  “That wasn’t him. Did look like him though. I’m supposed to be staying with Lars for a few days but haven’t been able to contact him. Was hoping you might let me in. I’ve got pictures and ID.”

  The manager looked left, then right, a promising start. Apparently satisfied that they were unobserved, he rotated his freshly stapled stack of papers around so I could read the header. “No, that was him. I saw his ID. Mr. de Kock just surrendered his apartment.”

  “Lars wouldn’t do that. It’s rent controlled, right?”

  The manager smiled. “It was. The next guy will be paying three times the price.”

  I focused on the signature. It sure looked like Lars’, with the framing L and violent Ks. This was one slick impersonation.

  I immediately understood the scam. The landlord had figured out how to repossess his rent-controlled units and was using his minimum-wage employees as unwilling accomplices. Shameless bastard. “Do you happen to know where Lars went?”

  “I know he didn’t go to his room. I’ve got the keys, and the movers have come and gone.”

  Of course they had. Lars was in for one hell of a surprise when he returned from whatever acting gig was keeping him away. It couldn’t be the CIA. Could it? No way. Their recruiting process took months, and it had only been days.

  I sprinted for my Harley.

  Given the price of real estate, resident parking in this neighborhood was almost always underground in tight, assigned spaces you needed a key card to access. Like most, Lars’s place also had limited visitor parking at the top of the ramp. I had successfully snagged a spot there, given that my vehicle only had two wheels.

  The first car exiting as I approached my ride was a BMW i8, the German automaker’s $150,000 luxury plug-in hybrid. I would have ignored it had there been movement elsewhere, knowing that neither Lars nor anyone hired for an impersonation gig could afford such a ride. But the driver’s nervous sideways glances attracted my attention, and I met his eye.

  It was the impostor.

  He immediately turned onto the side street and accelerated with a tire screech.

  I hopped on the Harley and slammed on my helmet. Ignoring both my bent ears and the dangling chin straps, I hit the keyless ignition, grabbed the handlebars, and screeched out in pursuit.

  As the rental company’s advertisements had described, the Harley-Davidson Iron 883 was an appealing amalgam of old and new. The poster bike of the anti-chrome movement, it had a black-powder-coated 883cc engine, with chopped fenders and a short suspension. The low seat was tuck and roll and the handlebars drag-style. Even though I was still getting a feel for the beast, I doubted there was a production car on the planet that could outrun me. Certainly, there’d be no escape in L.A. traffic.

  The BMW headed north on Pacific toward Santa Monica. I started off three cars behind but split the lane and soon eliminated the gap. I figured it was best to put the pressure on and eliminate any chance of red-light interference.

  I had no way to force the impostor off the road. Not with only two wheels and no weapons at my command. But I could stay on his bumper for the next 170 miles or so. My Harley had a full tank of gas.

  I used a red light to adjust my helmet and snug the chinstrap. Adding to the mystery, the impostor made quick use of his cell phone to snap my picture while my helmet was off—as if I were the one committing the crime.

  When he shot me a furtive mirror glance at the next light, I gave the engine a rev. The cackle was glorious.

  His expression was miserable.

  He didn’t look again for quite some time.

  As Pacific became Neilson Way, he launched into an animated phone conversation. I hoped it was a 911 call. Getting the police involved was one way to resolve this. With the impostor instigating, I could then insist on a police escort back to the apartment complex where the fraud could be documented.

  I knew that tactic would be much less likely to work if I made the call. The impostor could say I was a nut job and refuse to go anywhere. No doubt the police in these privileged ZIP codes would favor a resident in his new luxury import over an outsider on a rented bike. Nonetheless, I resolved to place that call if we reached the 100-mile mark.

  But that was still a long way off.

  Neilson turned into Palisades Beach and then into the Pacific Coast Highway. The impostor returned to eyeballing me in the mirror, although ever less frequently as the city gave way to the meandering cliffside coastline for which California was famous. He also seemed to be talking on occasion, although whether cursing to himself or into the hands-free phone, I couldn’t tell.

  As the traffic thinned, the impostor became emboldened and began playing with me. Accelerating and braking for random distances and at odd intervals, testing both the limits of the i8 and my ability to handle the rental bike. Through it all, I stuck behind the BMW’s bumper as if attached by a string. Did this guy really think he could outmaneuver a motorcycle? Or was he just burning off nervous energy with a bit of gorilla posturing?

  As if in answer to my musings, the i8 turned off PCH and headed up a two-lane road that didn’t look like it had been resurfaced since the Eisenhower administration. We added altitude quickly as the snaking asphalt repeatedly lost and regained its view of the shimmering Pacific. Within a minute, we were well off the beaten path.

  My CIA instincts flashed a warning.

  Suppose my assumption was wrong. What if this was more than the grab of a rent-controlled apartment? That would explain why Lars wasn’t answering his phone. What if I was being led to a house in the hills with trigger-happy security guards or hicks with shotguns? Furthermore, just because the impostor had initially been frightened didn’t mean he couldn’t grow a pair, stop the car, and step out shooting. Up here, the only witnesses would be the birds. The same birds that would then pick my corpse clean to the bone.

  I began working defensive scenarios in my mind.

  The impostor floored the gas as we took the next tight turn, going from south of 40 mph to north of 80 mph in the span of a second. I kept pace, resolving not to allow him to slip out of sight and into a firing position.

  I remained so focused on the i8’s rear bumper that I never saw the black SUV accelerating from its hiding spot on the shoulder of the road. It wasn’t until I was flying over the guardrail two hundred feet above the canyon floor that the tactic registered and everything clicked. The hands-free calls. The winding routes. The erratic driving. The impostor had summoned assistance to orchestrate an ambush.

  12

  Close Call

  BY THE TIME David reached Lisa’s estate, his grip on the BMW’s leather-wrapped wheel had almost returned to normal. He wasn’t entirely certain that his nervous system ever would. He knew he’d never forget the image of the menacing motorcyclist and his monstrous Harley careening off the road and plunging into the canyon. Why did it have to be a motorcycle? Cars were so much more anonymous.

  David checked his watch and did the math. He could have looked at the dashboard clock, but he wanted to see if his hand would shake. One hundred and fifty minutes had passed since he’d U-turned toward San Clemente while Tory Lago waved from his Range Rover. Those two-and-a-half hours had passed in a blur.

  David parked his blue BMW between Allison’s white Merce
des and Ries’s red Ferrari.

  Ries opened his door as David’s sneakers scrunched onto the crushed stone. “What’s with the hair and outfit?”

  David had forgotten about his hair extensions. Funny, since they’d bothered him so much at first. He unclipped and tossed them back into his car while answering his brother researcher. “My doppelgänger leads a very different lifestyle. I was just impersonating him and haven’t had the opportunity to change. Or shave,” he added, rubbing the stylish stubble that these days passed for a beard.

  “You look flustered, my friend.”

  “It’s been one hell of a morning.”

  “Love to hear about it later, but we better get inside. Lisa is anxious to get started. I just came out to get my old phone for the exchange.”

  David felt his pants pocket, confirming that he had his. The Immortals had begun using anonymous VoIP burner phones to communicate once the replacement process started. As a further security measure, they had agreed to swap them out for fresh ones at every meeting. “What’s there to be anxious about? We have plenty of time.”

  “Funny. You know as well as I do that with Lisa it’s an indelible personality trait.”

  “One can always hope.”

  As David grabbed his medical bag, Ries said. “Hey, there’s no tissue sampling this time, right? We agreed to stop after twenty years of negatives.”

  “For the tough guy, you’re quite the wuss. Yeah, I remember. Just the treatments plus a blood test. But don’t expect a lollipop.”

  David dropped his bag in the den, where he’d later administer their semiannual Eos injections; then he headed straight for the grand room.

  “Are you all right, David?” Aria asked as he entered.