by Kyle Mills
“I never had any intention of going after pot,” Hobart stated. “But could you be more specific about the warning?”
“Large ads in three or four major newspapers ought to do it. Say, three days’ notice.”
Three days. Hobart wondered if the time frame had a biblical origin.
“No, I don’t think that’s a good idea. It’s going to complicate an already complicated operation and increase my exposure. I strongly advise against it.” Hobart leaned forward, punctuating his words by locking eyes with Blake across the office. The Reverend looked unimpressed.
“Nevertheless, that’s the way it’s going to be, John. If you don’t think you can handle the added risk then maybe you’re not the right man for the job.”
Hobart didn’t let his anger show in his expression. Someday he’d take a knife and carve that smug look right off Blake’s face.
“I’m going to have to research how much ads like that cost and increase my estimate.”
“Just take two million—that ought to cover it. I assume that I can afford it?”
Hobart nodded, knowing that the church could probably afford ten times that amount.
“Is there anything else?” Blake was obviously anxious to end and forget this conversation.
Hobart nodded. “Only one thing—my termination.”
4
Washington, D.C.,
November 1
Mark Beamon waved wildly at Tom Sherman, associate director of the FBI. Sherman stood nearly motionless at the entrance of the bar, carefully scanning the crowd. Understandably, hè was unable to see Beamon, who had effectively hidden himself behind two half yards of beer balanced precariously on the table. Beamon stood, crossing and uncrossing his arms over his head. Sherman spotted him and began weaving through the tables.
“Nice place, Mark.” They shook hands warmly.
“Oh, don’t be coy. The bartender tells me they have to roll you out of here most weeknights,” Beamon joked, taking his seat and sliding one of the half yards to his friend. “So how was it?”
Sherman had just returned from New Mexico, where he had attended his daughter’s college graduation.
“Not so good. She’s staying. Sprang it on me just like that. An accounting firm in Santa Fe made her a pretty good offer.”
“So what’s not so good? Getting a job’s tough these days, Tommy. It’s not like when you and I were kids. The competition out there’s pretty bitter.”
Beamon watched his friend take a long pull from the beer. He knew what was bothering him. Sherman doted on his daughter—always had. Having her a thousand miles away for four years was one thing, but having her that far away permanently was another.
“It’s a lot of miles, you know.”
“Yeah.”
Sherman looked like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. He began scanning the bar again, looking at the young faces that surrounded them. “Did you get us any food or are we on the Mark Beamon beer diet?”
“I got some of those mozzarella sticks and a plate of nachos—oh, and buffalo wings.” Beamon ignored the pained look on his friend’s face. Sherman had been an insufferable health nut ever since he’d quit smoking. “I might’ve gone a little overboard, but I figured you’d be bringing Leslie. She must be pretty worn out from the trip, though, huh?”
Sherman shook his head. “No. I thought just you and I could have a talk.”
Beamon wrestled his glass out of its wooden stand.
“You really did it this time, Mark.”
The waitress intruded on their conversation, sliding the platters of junk food onto the table. Beamon assured her that they weren’t quite ready for another round of beers as he eyed the food guiltily. The roll of fat around his midsection—popularly known as the Bureau Bulge—was expanding at an alarming rate. Worse yet, the extra weight was spreading to his face, making his eyes look like they were sinking into his thickening brow. But what the hell, too late for a career in modeling anyway. He reached for a wing.
“C’mon, Tommy, the press made half of that stuff up.”
“Mark, you called the war on drugs a waste of time right in front of Calahan and two guys from the Post. And you did it so loud, half the room heard you.”
Beamon grimaced at the name of the current Director of the FBI. He had met William Calahan for the first time at a retirement party for the outgoing Director, and Beamon had taken an instant dislike to him. It had been only three days since the announcement of Calahan’s appointment, and the new Director seemed to have already sized up the entire organization and found it wanting. He had talked at Beamon nonstop for fifteen minutes about what he saw as the Bureau’s numerous failings, keeping the distance between their noses at less than two inches. Following this discourse, which left Beamon thinking that the new Director was dangerously ignorant and conceited, he had immediately changed the subject to his rebirth as a Christian in the mid-seventies, and the fact that he felt that most of the Bureau’s senior staff were alcoholics.
When Calahan had finished his little speech, Beamon had taken one step backward and drained the full bourbon and water he’d been holding. After a quick “nice meeting you,” he had turned away and rushed off to find Tom Sherman and a few more drinks.
The Director had never forgotten this inauspicious first meeting, and his initial disdain for Beamon had turned to dislike, then to hatred. It had been hovering in the loathing stage for the past year.
“I can handle Calahan,” Beamon said. “Jesus, Tommy, I’m the best investigator the Bureau’s got. What’s he gonna do? Get rid of me?”
“Goddam right. You pushed him too far this time, Mark. Calahan spent half the morning in my office literally screaming at me.”
Beamon reached for another buffalo wing and submerged it in ranch dressing.
“What’s the worst job you can imagine, Mark? How would you like to spend the next five years in charge of a task force reviewing the Bureau’s filing systems? I’m not making that up—he actually suggested it.”
The table next to them broke out into a drunken rendition of Happy Birthday, serenading an embarrassed girl who must have just turned twenty-one. Beamon watched them for a long time as they swayed happily to the tune. Finally he turned back to his friend. “What’s the bottom line here?”
“Houston.”
“Huh?”
“Houston, Texas.”
Beamon stared blankly at him.
“You know. That big state near Mexico.”
Beamon broke from his trance. “What’s in Houston?”
“Assistant special agent in charge. A slot just opened up. You’d be Steve Garrett’s number-two man.”
Beamon leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. His entire career was flashing before his eyes. He’d been known as a miracle worker. Impossible case? Call Beamon. He’d devoted more of his life than he liked to admit to the Bureau, taking on the cases that most people ran from—investigations that would take years of legwork to solve. And instead of fading into anonymity toiling on an unsolvable case, he had, with a few notable exceptions, successfully concluded them within six months.
And now his reward. A demotion and banishment to Texas. He’d always known it was coming, but the reality of it, sitting there in the Tibre Creek Inn, was more than he’d bargained for.
“Fuckin’ hell, Tommy. An ASAC? You know I don’t work and play well with others. Give me a shitty office, but for God’s sake put me in charge.”
Sherman shook his head sadly. “You know I can’t do that Mark. Special agent in charge would make you too high-profile. You’ve gotta disappear or you just won’t survive. You knew this was coming, Mark. You had to. You never gave an inch your whole career. You refused to play the game and now it’s time to pay up.”
Beamon drained the enormous glass in front of him in under two seconds, eliciting a sincere round of applause from a group of college students sitting at the adjacent table. Beamon smiled and nodded in their direction. He wav
ed at the waitress and held up two fingers. “Right back where I started,” he said, turning back to Sherman. “I grew up near there.”
“I know.”
Beamon took a thoughtful drag on his cigarette. “Houston, huh.”
“Houston,” Sherman agreed.
“What did Garrett say?”
“He was excited to get you.”
Beamon frowned. He didn’t know Steve Garrett well, but he knew him better than that. “What did he really say, Tommy?”
Sherman waited for a moment before answering. “He asked if you were as big a prick as your reputation.”
“And you said?”
“Bigger.”
Beamon laughed. “Oh, thanks, bud. Go ahead and put in a good word for me.”
“But then he asked if you were as good as your reputation.”
“And you said?”
“Better.”
John Hobart brought his new Jeep Cherokee to a stop, and watched a thick knot of people disperse across the road. The sun was shining for the fourth day in a row and the temperature had risen to a near record sixty-two degrees. It was lunch hour, and the Inner Harbor was crawling with local business people, sightseers, and well-dressed conventioneers.
Hobart knew from his former place of employment that a national Baptist conference was in town for the entire week. Thirty thousand holy rollers had descended upon Baltimore, along with their three hundred buses, which were having a disastrous effect on downtown traffic.
The light changed and Hobart stepped lightly on the gas, eliciting dirty looks from the last-minute stragglers hurrying across the street.
He would never get used to the new Inner Harbor. Baltimore had turned its downtown into a gleaming example of urban renewal. The streets were well lit, and the buildings were tall, clean, and modern. Street performers juggled, sang, and joked in front of glass shopping malls and food courts. Across the water, he could see the strangely angled roof of the National Aquarium. A tourist attraction extraordinaire, it was constantly engulfed in a sea of humanity impatiently waiting to get inside.
Fifteen years ago, the Inner Harbor had been infested with rats and old rusting cargo ships. Back then, anyone unfortunate enough to work downtown ate their lunch in their office and left as soon as the bell rang.
The only noticeable holdover from that era was the garbage floating in the murky harbor water, and the hordes of homeless men begging for money from families that hailed from places like Kansas and Iowa.
Hobart couldn’t help glancing in the rearview mirror as the building that housed the church’s offices disappeared from view. He had spent so much time there over the years that his spacious office had started to feel like home.
It was funny how things worked out. He had taken the job with Blake as a short-term arrangement; the money was good and the security work wasn’t particularly demanding. As Blake’s focus moved away from pure religion and toward politics, though, the job had become more and more interesting. Using the church’s finances to pull the strings of some of the most powerful men in America was a hell of a lot more stimulating than protecting Blake from a bunch of overzealous Bible bashers.
Hobart had spent the first three days after his meeting with Reverend Blake tied to his computer, shifting and manipulating the church’s accounts. Money had been deposited across the U.S. and in a number of foreign countries under various individual and corporate names. In all, Hobart had siphoned exactly two million dollars from the church, mostly in the form of payments for phantom services. Unless an accountant was willing to travel across the third world verifying various purchases, construction projects, and donations, the money would never be missed. Hell, even if a Big Six firm was hired specifically to look for wrongdoing, it would take them at least six months and a million miles to sort things out. And when they did, the police would show up at someone else’s door, not his.
When he had been completely satisfied with the financial stability of his new organization, tentatively called the Committee for a Drug-Free Society, or CDFS, he had made his way back to the office for the last time.
Blake had been perfect. And why not? He did this type of thing for a living. Hobart had slammed through his office door, “accidentally” not getting it entirely closed. They had argued loudly, Blake making vague accusations, and deriding his attitude. Hobart had constructed an equally vague defense. Finally the Reverend had told him to get out. Hobart had slammed the office door behind him, getting it closed this time, and walked quickly past the four people waiting in Blake’s outer office. He had felt their eyes on him as he strode purposefully down the hall.
When the elevator doors opened into the lobby, the front desk guard was standing directly in front of him, blocking his exit.
“Reverend Blake called down and asked me to take your elevator key,” he had said nervously. His right hand shook slightly as he held it out in front of him.
Hobart silently complimented his former boss on his thoroughness as he slid the key off its ring and placed it in the guard’s outstretched hand. He forced his way around the man and walked through the sunlit lobby. As he opened the first set of glass doors, the guard called after him. “The Reverend told me to tell you that he’d have your personal belongings sent to your house.”
Hobart left the building shaking his head. He’d make a covert operative out of Simon Blake yet.
But now that part of his life was over and a new chapter had begun. He gunned the Jeep through a yellow light. He had an appointment in less than two hours, and he had at least an hour’s worth of work to do at home first.
Hobart jerked the wheel right, almost missing the narrow side street. He was nearing Canton, about two miles east of the Inner Harbor. Recent years had seen the transformation of this waterfront area from a poorly maintained warehouse district to a yuppie haven. He was a few blocks north of the water, though, and the neighborhood was typical Baltimore. Narrow brick row homes and crowded, potholed, car-lined streets. Elaborate Catholic churches adorned street corners, recalling another time.
Hobart scanned the streets as he drove. It seemed that every other doorstep held a dull-looking chain smoker taking advantage of the unseasonably warm weather. Shouted profanity floated through his open window as women yelled at their children or at the dogs running loose in the street.
He continued on, glancing back and forth from the street to a small Post-it note stuck to his dashboard. Cresting a hill, he could see the blackened metal roofs of the city as they melded together into a black and silver tapestry.
Only a few blocks from the waterfront, he found what he was looking for—a small brick warehouse with a professionally dressed woman in a wheelchair gliding back and forth in front of it. He swung his car into the nearest available space and jogged across the street. Hearing him coming, the woman turned and gave him a practiced smile.
“Mr. Severen, I presume. I’m Karen Styles.” She held out her hand, keeping the other one firmly around the chair’s left wheel.
He took it. “Please call me John.”
In between bouts with the church’s various bank accounts, Hobart had managed to contact an old acquaintance who had a talent for forgery. He’d provided four different identities, complete with passports, driver’s licenses, birth certificates, and even library cards. The license in the name of John Severen pictured him as having sandy brown hair and a thick mustache. Hobart had made the appropriate changes to his appearance with the help of a well-stocked theatrical makeup shop. He still wasn’t used to the change. It was disorienting to look in the mirror and not see his closely cropped black hair and smoothly shaven face. Worse yet, the mustache itched mercilessly.
“Let’s take a look,” the Realtor suggested, using the key in her hand on the heavy metal door to the warehouse. Hobart reached over to help her. She found the lights and he followed her in.
They entered a small outer office. The walls had been painted yellow sometime in the distant past but had faded to an uneven tan
. Hobart walked across the stained carpet and through a door at the back. It led to a nearly identical room. Two large windows had been cut into the wall to the left of him. Judging by their crooked appearance, the work had been done long after the sturdy brick building had been erected.
“If you walk back around here, you can see the bathroom and the entrance to the warehouse section.” He followed her, examining her thin neck as she maneuvered the wheelchair through the narrow hall. It would take less than a second to snap it. She’d never know what happened. He frowned. Too dangerous. She was a loose end that he would have to tolerate.
The bathroom was small and basic. A sink, toilet, and mirror. It had the same faded yellow walls but they were stained by mildew, causing wide black streaks that at first glance looked like wallpaper. Karen stopped at another formidable-looking door and tugged at it with all her might. It didn’t budge. She looked at Hobart who, finished with his examination of the bathroom, pulled it open. She wheeled through with a grateful smile.
It was just about the right size, close to fifty by fifty feet, with a twenty-five-foot ceiling height. The walls consisted of old brick, occasionally obscured by dirty wooden shelves. At the far end was a tall garage door. It looked large enough to back in a semi. Hobart wandered around aimlessly, stirring up the brightly colored sales flyers littering the floor and ignoring the Realtor’s sales pitch.
“Until two weeks ago the warehouse was occupied by a T-shirt company.” She reached down and picked up one of the flyers. “That’s where all these flyers came from. Obviously, it will be broom clean if you decide to take it.”
“And there are apartments above?”
“Two. I confirmed that they’re both available, but I hear that they’re not that nice.”
“You said eight hundred dollars for the warehouse?”
She nodded.
“How much for the entire building?”
She chewed her bottom lip. “Probably double that, sixteen hundred. Keep in mind that there’s no access to the upstairs from here.”
He took another quick turn through the space. “I’ll take it for a year with a one-year option. It’ll need some work, though. I assume that the owners wouldn’t mind if I made a few improvements—at my own expense, of course.”