by Jeff Abbott
‘Spies work for governments.’
‘Not Jargo. He buys and sells data to whoever pays. Companies. Governments. Other spies. Highly dangerous.’ Gabriel licked his lips. ‘I suspect it’s CIA data that Jargo wants.’
Evan frowned. ‘You’re suggesting, with a straight face, that my mom stole files from the CIA. That’s impossible.’
‘Or your father stole the files, and he gave them to your mother. And I didn’t say the files belonged to the CIA. The CIA simply might want the information, the same as Jargo does.’ Gabriel looked as if admitting this possibility was causing him a heart attack. His face reddened with anger.
‘The CIA.’ It was insane. ‘How would my mother be involved with this Jargo?’
‘I believe she worked for Jargo.’
‘My mother worked for a freelance spy,’ Evan repeated. ‘It can’t be. You’re mistaken.’
‘A travel photographer. She can go anywhere, with her camera, and not raise suspicion. You live in a nice house, Evan. Your parents had money. You think freelance shutterbugs make that much money?’
‘This can’t be true.’
‘She’s dead and you’re shackled to a bed. How wrong am l?’
Evan decided to play along with the man’s fantasy. ‘So did my mother steal these files from Jargo, or from someone else?’
‘Listen. You wanted to know about Jargo, I told you. He’s a freelancer. People need information stolen or a pain in their ass dead, and the job needs to be off-the-books, he’s the man. The files are about Jargo’s business. So he wants them back. So does the CIA, I imagine, because they’d like to know what he knows. There. You know more about Jargo than any person currently alive. Open the system.’
‘Can’t unless you unlock me.’ He rattled the handcuff.
‘No. Type.’
‘Where am I gonna go, Gabriel? You’ve got a gun on me. You have to unlock me sooner or later, if you’re taking me out of the country. Handcuffs set off metal detectors.’
‘Not yet. Type it one-handed.’ He jabbed the gun into Evan’s cheek. ‘I’ve waited years for this, Evan, I’m not waiting one more goddamned second.’
Evan typed the password.
9
‘I t’s empty,’ Evan said.
After digesting the password, the hard drive’s icon appeared on the screen. He searched through the system. Other than basic files, the drive was cleaned out. His video footage, his installed software programs, all were gone. The system appeared to have reverted to a factory default level. He opened the electronic trash can – empty. ‘Everything’s gone.’
All gone, the voice in the kitchen had said while the gun had dug into the back of his head.
‘No.’ Gabriel put the gun down, grabbed Evan’s throat, pushed him up against the headboard of the bed. ‘No, no, no. He wouldn’t have had time.’
‘I don’t know how long I was unconscious.’
‘This can’t be. I have to have those files.’ Gabriel’s voice rose. ‘Those bastards erased them.’ He bent back over the computer.
Evan squirmed away from him. Toward the lamp. He may not get this close to you again. Make him think you want to help him. ‘A recovery program might restore the data.’
Gabriel didn’t answer, tapped at the keyboard, searching for files. He looked at the empty screen as if it were the rest of his life. He kept the gun at his side, loosely aimed toward the bed. Evan crouched against the headboard, his left hand still handcuffed. The lamp was close to his right, the unplugged cord still in a neat loop on the floor.
Evan snatched the wrought-iron lamp with his free hand. It was a heavy monster, but he lifted and swung it in one awkward sweep.
The lamp’s base smashed into Gabriel’s arm. He fell forward and Evan pinned Gabriel with a leg over his waist. Evan brought the lamp down into Gabriel’s face. Blood welled, the base’s edge cutting Gabriel in the mouth, in the chin. He howled in fury.
Evan aimed the lamp downward again, but Gabriel deflected it with his arm, threw a fist, connected with Evan’s jaw. Evan dropped the lamp, snaked his arm around Gabriel’s neck, wrapped both legs around Gabriel’s waist. His left arm, shackled to the bed, twisted as if it would break as Gabriel struggled.
The gun. Gabriel had the gun. Where was it?
‘Let go, dumbass!’ Gabriel said.
‘I’ll bite it off if you’re not still.’ Evan closed his mouth around Gabriel’s left ear. Bit down. Gabriel screamed.
‘Don’t,’ Gabriel gasped. Evan bit down again, let his teeth grind. Blood seeped into his mouth.
‘Stop!’ Gabriel yelled, and went still.
Evan saw the gun. Just beyond the reach of both of them, twisted in the white sheets where they rucked the bedcovers in their fight. He couldn’t reach it, but if he eased up on Gabriel, the older man could. Gabriel saw it, too; his muscles strained with sudden resolve, trying to break free.
Evan bit down on the ear again and jabbed his fingers into Gabriel’s eyes. Gabriel shrieked in pain. He twisted to fend Evan off, but Evan’s legs kept him locked in place. Gabriel squirmed toward the gun, pulling Evan’s body with him. Evan’s wrist wrenched in the cuff.
He’ll sacrifice the ear to get that gun, Evan thought. Bite it off. He couldn’t.
But instead Gabriel grabbed the lamp’s cord, dragged the lamp to him. He seized the lamp’s body, swung it backward at Evan, the base striking Evan on top of the head, and Evan, dizzy with pain, let go of the ear. A sliver of skin stayed behind in his mouth.
Gabriel released the lamp and lurched forward. Caught the gun’s barrel with his fingertips. Evan kept Gabriel’s other arm pinned with his leg, pivoted – his arm twisting as if it were a centimeter away from breaking – and clutched the gun’s handle as Gabriel pulled it forward. Evan wrenched the gun free and jabbed the barrel against Gabriel’s temple.
Gabriel froze.
‘Where’s the key?’
‘Downstairs. In the kitchen. You bastard, you tore my ear off.’
‘No, you still got an ear.’
‘Listen, new deal,’ Gabriel said. ‘We’ll work together to get Jargo. We’ll-’
‘No,’ Evan clubbed the gun into Gabriel’s temple. Once. Twice. Three times, four. The fifth time Gabriel went limp, his temple cut and bruised. Evan jabbed the gun against Gabriel’s head and waited. Counted to one hundred. Gabriel was out.
Holding his breath, Evan put down the gun. Gabriel didn’t move. He jabbed his hand into Gabriel’s left pants pocket, fumbled across coins, fingered the shape of keys.
‘Liar,’ he said to the unconscious Gabriel. He pulled out a ring that held a small key and a larger key for the bedroom door. Evan kicked the man away from him, worked the small key into the handcuff lock.
The cuff sprang open. Evan rolled off the bed, his arm afire with pain. He held it close to him, unsure if it was broken or dislocated. No. Broken would be serious agony. He was sore but unhurt. He dragged Gabriel to the headboard, snicked the cuff over his wrist. Checked Gabriel’s pulse in the throat. A steady beat ticked beneath his fingertips.
Evan trained the gun, with shaking hands, on the door. Waited. Steadied himself to shoot if anyone charged to Gabriel’s rescue. Told himself he could do it, he had to do it. He knew how to shoot, his father had taught him when he was a teenager, but he had not fired a gun in five years. And never at a living human being.
A minute passed. Another. No sound in the house.
He noticed a small card on the bed, next to the South African passport. Forced out from Gabriel’s shirt or pants in the fight. It was an ID card, government issue, worn with age and fingering. Gabriel looked fifteen years younger.
Joaquin Montoya Gabriel. Central Intelligence Agency.
Jesus, the crazy asshole was telling the truth. Or a partial truth. But if he was CIA, why was he operating alone?
Deep breath. He slipped the South African passport and Gabriel’s ID into his back pocket. Evan went out the bedroom door, then stopped in the dar
kened hallway. Be cool, be cool for your mom. His arm and hand ached, his head hurt like hell, and now, the fighting done for a moment, in the darkened house, the fear rushed back into his chest.
A dim light shone from the open area downstairs; Evan was on a second floor of what appeared to be a spacious house. Thick pile carpet covered the hallway; more high-end art on the walls. The air conditioner purred a blanket of noise. From below, he heard the thin whisper of the television, its volume inched low.
He crouched, the gun out in front of him, listening.
He fortified himself with two deep breaths and crept down the stairs. What do you do next? Keep fighting. That’s the choice you made.
But now he had nothing to bargain with, to save his life. Jargo – if he was one of the men at the house – had stolen or destroyed the data. The files – if they had ever existed – were gone.
Evan reached the last stair when he thought, You dumbass, you should have gagged Gabriel. He’ll wake up and shout for help while you’re sneaking up on any buddies downstairs.
But he had gone too far to turn back, knowing in his heart that he wouldn’t hesitate now, he could shoot anyone who tried to stop him, and hoping he could remember to aim at legs. Unless the other guy had a gun, and then he would aim for chest. Chests were big, he could hit a chest. Remember to take a second to aim, squeeze, prepare for the kick. If he had a second. No practice target had ever shot back at him.
Evan entered the den, gun leveled to fire. A widescreen TV stood in the corner next to an ornate stone fireplace. A commercial announced the latest pharmaceutical that you couldn’t live without, as long as you risked at least ten side effects. Then the CNN theme played and the anchor started a story about a bombing in Israel.
He moved along the wall, peered into an elaborate kitchen. Empty. A lunch sat on the counter: a ham sandwich, a glass of ice water, a pile of potato chips, a Snickers bar. Lunch for himself, probably, if he’d cooperated with Gabriel.
He checked the back of the house, stopping at a marble-topped bureau with a smattering of family photos. Gabriel posed with two girls young enough to be his grandkids.
No one around. The only sounds were the air conditioner and CNN beginning a story about a bizarre homicide and kidnapping in Texas.
Evan ran back to the den and saw his face was on the TV. His Texas driver’s license photo, not a bad one and true to how he looked: shaggy blond hair, high cheekbones, hazel eyes, thin mouth, the single small hoop of earring. The crawl under his face read MISSING FILM-MAKER. The news announcer said, ‘Police investigators are still searching for Evan Casher, the Oscar-nominated documentary filmmaker, after his mother was strangled to death in her Austin, Texas, home, and an armed gunman kidnapped Casher from a police cruiser, assaulting two officers.
‘Casher, the director of two acclaimed documentaries, first gained attention with Ounce of Trouble, a biting expose of a corrupt police officer who framed a former drug dealer. Joining me is FBI special agent Roberto Sanchez.’
Roberto Sanchez looked like a politician: perfect haircut, immaculate suit, an expression that said, I am the most competent person on earth. The newscaster went for the bone: ‘Agent Sanchez, is it possible that whoever kidnapped Evan Casher was responsible for Donna Casher’s death? I mean, Mr. Casher was the only witness and then he’s grabbed, right from the police.’
‘We’re not prepared to speculate as to motives, but we are concerned about Mr. Casher’s safety.’
‘Is there any possibility that this wasn’t an abduction, per se, but that Evan Casher was taken from the police because he was a suspect in his mother’s murder?’ the anchor pressed.
‘No, he’s not a suspect. Obviously, he’s a person of interest to us because he found his mother’s body, and we have not had a chance to fully talk with him, but we have no reason to believe that he was involved. We would like to talk to Mr. Casher’s father, Mitchell Casher, but we have not been able to locate him. We believe he was in Australia this week, but I can’t share further details.’
A picture of Mitchell appeared next to Evan’s on the split screen. His father, missing.
‘Why has the FBI taken over the investigation?’ the anchor asked.
‘We have resources not available to the Austin police,’ Sanchez said. ‘They asked for our assistance.’
‘Any idea of a motive as to the murder?’
‘None at this time.’
‘We have also police sketches of the man who allegedly assaulted the two Austin officers and took Evan Casher,’ the newscaster said, and the display shifted from Evan and Mitchell Casher to a penciled drawing of Gabriel.
‘Any leads on this man?’ the anchor asked.
‘No, none yet.’
‘But the Austin police found the car he used to kidnap Evan Casher, correct? A report leaked from the Austin police that the blue Ford sedan matching the description of the kidnapper’s car was found in a nearby parking lot where another car had been stolen. Evan Casher’s fingerprints are reportedly on the radio in the kidnapper’s car. If he’s selecting music, he hasn’t been kidnapped, has he?’ Now the anchor was trying to rewrite the news, spice it with innuendo.
Sanchez shook his head and looked dour. ‘We cannot comment on leaks. Of course, if anyone has details on this case, we’d like for them to contact the FBI.’ The license plate of the stolen car and an FBI phone number popped up on the feed below the photo of Evan.
‘In case Evan Casher has been kidnapped, what would you say to the kidnappers?’ the newscaster asked.
‘Well, as we would in any situation, we’d ask the kidnappers to release Mr. Casher unharmed and to contact us with any demands, or if Mr. Casher is able to contact us directly, all we want to do is to help him.’
‘Thank you, FBI special agent Roberto Sanchez,’ the newscaster said. ‘Our correspondent, Amelia Crosby, spoke with the former drug dealer who was the focus of Evan Casher’s Oscar-nominated film.’
The camera shifted to a young black man, around thirty, looking uncomfortable in a suit and tie. The subtitle read JAMES ‘SHADEY’ SHORES.
‘Mr. Shores, you’ve known Evan Casher ever since he did a film about how you were unjustly accused and railroaded by a corrupt narcotics investigator. What do you think could be behind Evan Casher’s bizarre disappearance?’
‘Oh, shit,’ Evan said.
‘Listen, first of all, that other guy – your anchor, with that freeze-dried hair – suggesting that Evan Casher could be involved in his mama’s death, that is straight-out bleeeeeep.’ The censor swooped in for the last word.
‘What motive could anyone have to hurt Mr. Casher or his family?’ the reporter’s voice asked. ‘He upset a lot of people in Houston law enforcement with his documentary about you.’
‘No, he pointed out one real bad apple, but it’s not like he indicted the whole criminal system or nothing.’
‘Do you have any theories on what might have led to his disappearance?’
‘Well, I would think whoever killed his mama didn’t want him talking about what he saw. My worry is that the Austin police done let Evan down, letting him get kidnapped. I think they ought to be looking hard at those officers, and how they let a bleeeeep take Evan, because a lot of police don’t like to have dirty laundry aired, even when it ain’t their department, and…’
The reporter started trying to talk over Shadey, to no avail.
‘… that’s all I’m saying is, the police got to show they’re serious about finding Evan.’
‘Evan Casher saved your life, didn’t he, Mr. Shores?’
‘Look, Evan succeeds because he can be the biggest pain in the bleeep in the room. Evan Casher got a lot of fame and money out of my misfortune. He didn’t share none of them movie proceeds with me. He made promises to me, I was gonna be famous, I could get a music career out of this movie, and that’s all bleeep. I’m still working as a security guard.’ Shadey shook his head at the injustice of it all.
‘You goddamned i
ngrate,’ Evan said. Using his family’s tragedy as a platform for his complaining.
‘He’s making a new movie about professional poker, and he was supposed to introduce me to people who could help me get into that line of work, and he never did, so I’m thinking he got involved with illegal poker money, he done got himself in trouble.’
Shadey started to air his next grudge and the reporter briskly thanked him and shifted to the New York studio to introduce Kathleen Torrance, as another prominent young documentary film-maker. She was also Evan’s ex-girlfriend from his student days at Rice, but the reporter didn’t note that particular relationship, simply saying ‘a colleague in film.’ Their affair had cooled when she’d moved to New York, ended when she’d acquired another film-maker as a boyfriend. He had not talked to her in six months, after exchanging friendly but awkward hellos at a Los Angeles film festival.
‘Ms. Torrance, you know Evan Casher well,’ the reporter began.
‘Yes.’ Kathleen nodded. ‘Very well. He’s one of the top ten young documentary film-makers in America.’
‘What do you think has happened?’
‘Well, I have no idea. I don’t think this could be related to Evan’s work, as your previous guest suggested, because despite what people think, documentary film-makers aren’t really investigative journalists. Evan’s films have focused on individuals in extraordinary circumstances – not on political or hot-button issues.’ Prompted by the reporter’s questions, Kathleen gave brief descriptions of Evan’s films and works. ‘I just hope that if whoever has taken Evan can hear me, they will let him go. He’s a great guy, I can’t imagine him being involved with anything that is illicit or harmful to anyone.’
The reporter thanked Kathleen and went back to the anchor, and the coverage shifted to a murder-suicide at a New Hampshire truck stop.
Evan stared at the screen. His life was being dissected on national television. His father was missing. The FBI wanted to talk to him. He hurried to the phone, picked it up, started to dial.
Then put it back down on the cradle.
Gabriel was a CIA operative, and he had put two cops in the hospital and kidnapped Evan. If he was working on the CIA’s orders, and Evan went to the police… what happened next? The CIA wasn’t supposed to beat up cops or chain citizens to beds. So whatever had befallen his family wasn’t a story that the CIA wanted in the public eye.