Run, Girl, Run: A Thriller

by Alex C. Franklin

  Parker backed out of the driveway and edged closer to Dromel’s house. The key was where Stella had said it would be, but it was not needed. The door yielded to a slight push. Parker looked at the lock; it had been crudely broken. Brazen, he thought.

  Inside looked like a tornado had landed. Books, CDs, magazines and newspapers were scattered across the room. Shelves and chairs lay overturned. The sofa had been shredded.

  In the kitchen, all cabinet doors were open; all drawers had been pulled out and dumped on the floor, along with their contents.

  Parker stepped cautiously among broken cups, glasses and plates and stood in front of the tall, solid refrigerator. Its doors were left open, and its shelves were bare with a mound of food at its base.

  Thankfully, though, it appeared not to have been shifted out of place.

  Parker kicked aside the rubble in front of the fridge. He rocked the massive box from side to side and pulled it forward, out of its slot between the wall and a cabinet.

  He knelt on the floor and began to wonder if Stella had got her information wrong. All the laminate stone tiles seemed normal.

  He picked up one of the knives from under an upturned drawer and ran it along the grooves. At last, one tile shifted. He stuck the knife further in and prised up the laminate square.

  The cigar box he found held a packet of small white pills, a bunch of photos, some banking information, a couple of envelopes with foreign stamps, and a pen. No ordinary pen, this, according to Stella. On its tiny internal circuitry was a conversation so dangerous, it got its owner shot.

  The first envelope he picked up was postmarked Sanibel Island, Florida. Parker pulled out the one-page letter, which was little more than a hastily-scribbled note. It was dated early December.

  “Can’t survive here,” it said. “Too expensive for me. I’ll be heading to the mainland soon. I’m going by the name of Josh Taylor these days.”

  The letters “JT” were printed below.

  Parker snatched up the second, unopened letter, which had another Florida stamp. He tore it open and unfolded the small sheet of paper, which looked like a page that had been ripped out of a ring binder notebook. The letter started off with apologies for the delay in writing.

  “Not settled yet and I don’t have a phone over here,” it ended. “Planning to move around the middle of next month to a cheaper place in Daytona Beach, if I can get it. I should be able to copy the video and mail it when I settle in.”

  This note also carried the initials “JT” and was dated late January, but the postmark showed that it had been actually mailed only about nine days after it had been written.

  Parker frowned. Based on the timing, it was more than likely that the goon from earlier had pocketed a letter from JT. Maybe even one that contained a copy of the recording he was after.

  Just as he stuffed the items back into the cigar box, he heard the sound of creaking metal outside the front door.

  He shot to his feet and his entire body snapped erect. His gears shifted into fight mode. He would not wait inside like a sitting duck to see if the goons were back to further their search.

  He picked up a knife and stole through the rubble toward the front door.

  He pressed his body against the wall in position to pounce on anyone who entered.

  The seconds ticked away, and no one came. No further sound came from outside either.

  With the knife concealed behind the length of his hand, he eased open the door and stepped out on the snow-covered porch.

  The brown sedan was not there. The street was empty, except for the figure of a postman, laden with two carrier bags, sliding along the sidewalk, a couple of doors down.

  Parker dipped his free hand into the mailbox. He dashed back inside with a half dozen envelopes.

  He tossed the bills and the junk mail onto the ripped-up sofa. The last envelope bore a Florida postmark.

  He ripped it open. One page again. Signed “JT.”

  “Scrap the Daytona Beach address I sent the other day,” it said. “I couldn’t last even a week in that hellhole. The landlord was a psycho. This new place is much better. Hoping this is the last move so I can finally settle down.”

  Parker collected the cigar box and stuffed the new letter into it. He stuck the box under his coat, slipped out the door, and headed for his car.

  “Destination, Ft Lauderdale,” he said to himself as he turned the ignition.

  Chapter 85

  Spike Simmons entered Sarah Cohen’s office carefully balancing a large plastic tray in each hand.

  “Your sushi’s here.”

  “Thanks, Spike.” Cohen spun around in her chair and reached for a handbag atop a cabinet behind her. “How much do I owe you?”

  Simmons laid the platters on the desk and waved off the question. “Got some news about a big break in the case. Turns out that our Canadian–”

  He stopped mid-sentence and craned his neck to read the webpage on Cohen’s computer screen.

  “You’re hooked on the director’s big day before the cameras, too, aren’t you?” He dropped into a chair and shoved a seaweed-wrapped roll of rice and avocado into his mouth.

  “I watched the live feed online this morning,” Cohen said in between nibbles on raw salmon.

  “I caught it on television, upstairs, with a couple of guys from the office.”

  “Can’t say how many times I’ve replayed that clip of the clash of the century. I’ve never seen a senator behave like that new guy did. What’s his name?”

  “Lovell. Or, maybe, Lovelace. Something like that.”

  “Well, that one. He was all over Hutton this morning about that Texas student bomber thing. It was brutal.”

  “He’s just a loudmouth, no-name rookie trying to get attention at the director’s expense. Very un-statesmanlike.”

  “I thought Hutton handled himself well, though; took the blows to the chin, but remained on his feet. Still, I don’t envy you having to face him after that. When’s your meeting?”

  Simmons dropped his chopsticks on the desk. He pulled up his sleeve and looked at his watch.

  “In one hour, twenty-two minutes.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Sarah, I need more than luck. Did you get the goods on that company I asked you to look into this morning?”

  “Yeah. What’s the deal with that?”

  “That’s my good friend Bruce Coswell’s little find in Belize. Seems that Canadian official, Dromel, skipped the snorkeling and went and opened himself a secret bank account under some business name. Unluckily for him, but lucky for us, he chose to open it with Vincent Gratino.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “A shyster from New York who was within a hairline of being indicted for racketeering and mail fraud some years back. Can’t remember what exactly happened, but Gratino quietly disappeared off the scene after a while.

  “Needless to say, Coswell couldn’t have been happier to have a reason to come down heavy on Gratino. Threatened to haul his tail stateside to make those old charges stick if Gratino didn’t cough up some info. Turns out Dromel netted a tidy sum from that company I asked you about.”

  Cohen shrugged. “It’s a three-year-old shipping outfit owned by another company out of Kazakhstan.”

  “It’s not a Magrelma entity?”

  Cohen heard the disappointment in Simmons’ voice. “Sorry, but no. The directors are all from former Soviet Union republics. There’s nobody there that’s remotely on our radar.”

  Simmons put down the chopsticks and sighed.

  “But hang on, let me check someth
ing.” Cohen tapped on her keyboard.

  Simmons looked at his watch again and thought of Hutton. He pushed the sushi tray away. His appetite was gone.

  “Check this, Spike,” Cohen said after a while. “I think you’ll find this interesting. That company ships ores out of the former Soviet republics into China. From their manifests, it looks like sixty to seventy percent of all of their shipments have been for Magrelma subsidiaries.”

  “That’s some strong Magrelma ties.”

  Cohen nodded. “So those directors could very well be cronies of the Magrelma guys.”

  “That’s a good enough link.” Simmons’ voice was brighter. “They thought they hid that payment, but they didn’t hide it well enough to fool us.”

  His mobile vibrated and he jumped to his feet to fish the phone out of his pants pocket.

  “Simmons,” he said into the cellphone.

  Cohen watched as Simmons listened to the voice on the other end. The hint of a smile that had been on his face vanished completely.

  “What? Damn!” He kicked the chair. “Damn! Damn! And where’s the girl now? Okay. Call me as soon as you have an update.”

  He slipped the phone into his jacket pocket and slammed his right fist into his left palm.

  “Damn!”

  “What’s up, Spike?”

  “It’s Dromel. He’d been taken to hospital earlier this morning in Trinidad, after the police found him with a gunshot wound.”

  Cohen raised her eyebrows.

  “That’s the news I had to share with you. When our guy down there first called me about it, earlier today, I thought, ‘Great! Finally we’ve got a break in this case.’ I figured we could use Dromel’s weakened state to pump him for information. Find out what’s his connection exactly with Syron Lake Resources, and, hopefully, get some answers on how Mahler’s death figures into all of this.”

  Simmons fell silent.

  “And?” Cohen said.

  “He’s dead, Sarah.”

  “No!”

  “Died not too long ago on the operating table.”

  Chapter 86

  The bedroom door of the private suite at the Huxton nightclub flung open and two buxom, young blondes spilled out into the anteroom. Nadia put down the Hello magazine she’d been reading, and pulled two thick rolls of fifty-pound notes from her purse. She walked over to the women and shoved the money toward them.

  “That bloke’s a bloody, rough bastard,” the older of the two said.

  “But you’re well paid for your services,” Nadia said dryly.

  The older girl snatched the money with a grunt and led her companion toward the door. Nadia marched ahead of them, opened the door and let them out. They walked past two men who stood in the corridor. Nadia nodded to the men and closed the door again.

  She found Greene in the bedroom, shirtless and bent over a side table with a straw to his nose. Bruised and still aching from his encounter with Hans Verhoeven, Greene had been in a permanently foul mood. Nadia waited until he had done the line, then approached him, holding out his shirt for him to slip into.

  “Nazarov and Lashenko are outside. Said they need to see you urgently.”

  “Well, tell them to buzz off. I’ll see them when I need to speak to them, not the other way around.”

  “Already told them as much. Nazarov said they’re not leaving until they see you.”

  He yanked the shirt out of her hands and shoved his arms down the sleeves, holding his breath to stifle a groan of pain. Not bothering to button up, he marched to the door and flung it open.

  Nazarov, who’d been leaning against the wall, stood upright and pushed past Greene into the room. “It’s about time,” he said. “We need to talk.”

  Lashenko followed. Greene glowered in silence.

  “We’ve heard nothing from you, lately.” Nazarov’s jaw muscles moved up and down as if in a spasm.

  Greene said nothing.

  “We won’t sit around waiting,” Nazarov said. “It’s time to act. Either you release the funds to our company to get this project going, or–”

  “Or what?” Greene snorted.

  “Or you can forget about ever touching the files again.”

  The Russian’s mouth snapped shut and his entire body stiffened.

  Greene walked around Nazarov toward a decanter that sat on a table, and poured himself a drink.

  “I wouldn’t be too quick to make threats like that if I were you.” Drink in hand, Greene walked back to face Nazarov.

  “See, knowing that your friend over there,” Greene said, tilting his head toward Lashenko, “knowing he’s on the run is very useful to me. If anything happens to that Syron Lake file, I’m going to make damn sure that I find out who’s pursuing your friend and give them every scrap of info I have on you. No doubt you two will either be found and strung up in no time, or you’ll have to crawl into the ground and remain deep in hiding for the rest of your sorry lives.”

  Greene stood erect. “I’m in charge here and we’ll do this on my terms and on my timetable. Now get the hell out of here.”

  Greene and Nazarov faced off like two bull moose about to butt heads.

  The shrill cry of a ringing phone cut through the chilly air.

  Nadia rushed to the sofa and grabbed up the phone from where it lay, then walked to Greene and handed it to him.

  He would take this call: the ringtone had been assigned to the Iraq vet he had hired to get that Canadian official under control.

  “Yes,” Greene snapped. He walked toward the bedroom, then stopped. “He’s what? How the hell did that happen? Wait a minute. Just hold on a minute.”

  Greene spun around and hurled the glass he’d been holding in the direction of the Russians. It whizzed within an inch of Lashenko’s face.

  “What the hell are you two still doing here? I said get the hell out!”

  Nazarov clenched his teeth and stared Greene in a way that made it clear he had murder on his mind. He exhaled heavily, then slowly turned to Lashenko and nodded slightly. The two exited quietly.

  Greene kicked over a coffee table on his way to the bedroom, then slammed door behind him.

  Nadia heard his muffled shouts as she went about picking up broken glass and straightening the room. The fragments she heard told her all was not well.

  Someone who was only supposed to have been threatened had ended up being killed. Some girl saw it, and had been tracked down at an airport, but then lost. A car had been stopped at the Canada/US border and the men in it couldn’t complete their mission. Someone else had to take up the slack.

  “Get your asses to Florida right now and get that tape, even if you have to kill the guy to get it,” Nadia heard Greene say. “And find back that girl and get rid of her. I don’t care how you do it. Just do it.”

  The sound of more crashing glass erupted from behind the door. Nadia sank down onto the plush, leather sofa, picked up the Hello magazine again, and flipped through the pages to find where she’d left off reading.

  Chapter 87

  Robert Hutton stabbed a button on his computer keyboard with his index finger. A darkened screen replaced the CNN website and the director let his head fall back onto the headrest of his chair. He rocked back and forth with his eyes closed.

  He thought of the unimaginative sameness of all the news websites. They all ran virtually the identical clip of the morning’s Congressional hearing: an angry exchange between him and a first-term senator who’d got under his skin. The Bureau had lost focus and discipline, and perhaps it was time for a change at the top, Senator James B. Lowell had sugg
ested. Perhaps what was needed was new blood that better understood the challenges of the heightened threats faced today in a world overrun by terrorists, Lowell had said.

  The young runt was running around in diapers when Hutton had taken up his first diplomatic appointment and began on the long road into the corridors of power. Lowell was just a whippersnapper blowing hot air in order to make the headlines. And yet, the pipsqueak had got to him.

  Hutton wasn’t thinking of the blow-up in front of the cameras. His thoughts were of the walk away from the hearing room.

  He’d felt all eyes on him in the hallway just outside the chamber and he had walked with the erectness his military training had ingrained in him. But further on, away from the busyness and clatter of the hearing room, he’d felt a tightening in his chest, as if a cold hand had gripped his heart and had begun squeezing the dear life out of him.

  His attendant, who carried his briefcase, had been too far ahead to hear him gasp for breath. Hutton had staggered past an open door into an empty room. Alone, unseen, he’d allowed himself to groan as he’d clutched his chest and doubled over as searing pain overtook all his senses. He’d sucked in air slowly and, after about a minute, when he’d gotten his breathing under control, he’d stood up again.

  The worst had passed. A sharp sensation had lingered in his chest, but if he walked at the right pace and held himself slightly forward, he could ignore it.

  He contemplated revealing all of this to Valerie and was recoiling at the domestic commotion it would stir up when his secretary buzzed him.

  Simmons was outside for his appointment.

  “Send him in.”

  As soon as Simmons’ foot entered the door, the director started on him.

  “Why the devil is this Mahler case not wrapped up yet?”

  Simmons walked to the front of the director’s desk and looked at the empty chair but was not sure he should sit.“I’m sorry, sir, but–”