The Shield of Darius

by Allen Kent

  His lungs screamed for air. He had let the car slip too deep into the lake before he escaped. When he knew he was drowning, that he could no longer force motion from his deadened limbs, the water parted across his face and he felt the warming touch of night air across his cheeks. Like a newborn, he blinked blindly up into the half-light of the Finnish summer night and gasped life back into his air-starved body.

  Though only thirty feet from shore, Ben could not force himself to swim and rolled heavily onto his back, inching his nose and mouth above the water. Focusing his strength into his right shoulder, he threw his arm up and over his head, wind-milling the water and hauling himself backward. The motion floated his left arm upward and he shifted the energy surge, throwing the left arm over, then the right in a slow laboring backstroke. He felt a pull in the stitched opening in his side but the water numbed any pain and he threw the left arm up and over again.

  His head ground into the loose rock of the bank and he rolled onto his stomach, flailing and clawing at the shale slope. Half pulling, half rolling from the water, he clung against the steepness of the bank like a rock climber pressed against a cliff face and let the warmer air lift the numbing chill from his muscles. When able to move, he crawled along the water’s edge to the trees and brush that marked the end of the cutaway. Grasping the first branch that came within reach, he dragged himself hand-over-hand, bush-by-bush to the road and rolled onto the flat surface, drawing additional warmth from the stored energy of the black asphalt.

  For five minutes he sprawled on the roadway without moving, testing each limb for its ability to answer mental commands and wondering what had happened to Falen. He must have had another car parked in the trees farther along the road. When feeling returned to all but his toes, Ben struggled to his feet and hopped slowly up and down, pumping blood back into his extremities. No traffic moved on the forest road and he stared in both directions, then instinctively turned back toward Kouvola, struggling up the hill from which he had plunged into the lake.

  As he reached the top, Ben sat to pull on the water-soaked shoes and tried to give reason to his instinct. Though he knew he was closer to the station where he had met Falen than to Lahti, he sensed without knowing why that the man had not turned back, but gone on toward the larger city. He remembered too what looked like a vending machine in the Kouvola station that held Nokia phones. He had thought fleetingly about asking to purchase one to call Kate, but had again remembered the Russian’s warning. One of those phones might now be his link to help that would not take him to the police, or put his picture in tomorrow’s paper. He was dead, and until he figured out how to deal with Falen, he had to stay that way.

  They had exited the station parking area in the Volvo at 12:55, a fact noticed only because the clock on the dash seemed unusually bright when they first started the engine, but dimmed when Falen turned on the headlights. Ben had also noticed the clock just before Falen directed his attention toward the lake. 1:06. Eleven minutes. He hadn’t seen the speedometer, but the road was narrow and snaked through forest that pressed close against the pavement. He guessed Falen hadn’t exceeded a hundred kilometers an hour – just under sixty. He had probably averaged closer to fifty. That would put Kouvola less than nine miles away and it was probably 1:30. At three miles an hour, a steady walk for a man in his condition, he could reach the station by five.

  He made it by 4:40, walking the final thirty minutes into the city in a light rain and arriving at the station shivering and exhausted. The streets and station of the Finnish town were deserted, but a platform clock gave him the time. To his great relief, the vending machine holding the phones provided instructions in Finnish, Russian and English and he found a pre-paid option for 40 Euros and fumbled in his pocket for the money Ushokov had given him. Again to his relief, he hadn’t lost it in the lake.

  The phone’s instruction booklet was also in three languages and he sat on a bench beside the station building and called the activation number, entering the 15 digit identification code. Within seconds the lighted display showed that he had 200 pre-paid minutes and thirty days in which to use them. Thumbing through the multi-lingual owner’s guide, he found instructions for reaching an operator and punched in the numbers, holding his breath until a male voice answered in Finnish.

  “Do you speak English?” Ben asked.

  “A little. Yes.”

  “I would like to call the United States.”

  “Thank you. Please wait while I connect you to an international operator.” The phone clicked unnervingly and Ben feared he had lost his connection.

  A woman answered, speaking flawless English.

  “You would like to make an international call?”

  “Yes. Can I call collect overseas?”

  “Call collect?”

  “Yes. Reverse the charges.”

  “Do you have the number and name of the party to whom you wish to speak?”

  Ben recited Peter Koka’s number from memory and gave the woman his uncle’s name.

  “Do you wish to speak only to Mr. Koka?” she asked.

  “He lives alone. If anyone answers, it will be him…. And could you stay on the line until I get an answer? This is something of an emergency….”

  “I will need to see if the party accepts charges for the call,” the operator reminded him. “May I have your name?”

  “Yes. It’s….” Ben paused for a moment. If Falen were to learn he had escaped the Volvo and came after him again, there must be no footprints.

  “Tell him I am calling from the RPA,” he said. “Tell him an RPA representative is calling.”

  “One moment, sir.”

  He heard the phone ring distantly four times, then the clear rasping voice of his uncle.

  “I have an overseas call from a gentleman who says he represents the RPA. He would like to reverse the charges. Will you accept?”

  There was a momentary silence and Ben smothered the urge to call out to Peter through the phone.

  “Of course,” Koka said.

  “Go ahead, sir. Is there anything else you will need?”

  “No. Thank you very much for your help.” The operator left the line.

  “Uncle Peter. This is Ben.”

  There was another silence.

  “Ben?”

  “Ben Sager.”

  “I…am I hearing this right? This is Ben?”

  “In the flesh, more or less, “Ben laughed with nervous relief. “I’m in a heck of a spot and need your help.”

  For the next twenty minutes, Ben talked while Peter Koka listened. When he’d finished the account of his abduction, escape and betrayal by Falen, his uncle spoke pointedly.

  “Do you have money?”

  “The Russians gave me about a hundred Finnish Euros. I spent forty for this phone but I think the rest will keep me for a few days if I can find a cheap place to stay.”

  “Where are you – exactly?”

  “A city called Kouvola. East of Lhati.”

  “Find a place, and call me in exactly twelve hours to let me know where you are. I’ll have something worked out by then.”

  “Isn’t it night there? That doesn’t give you much time.”

  “The people I need to call don’t care what time it is. Twelve hours will be enough.”

  “I can’t come back to the States under my own name. Some people are pretty anxious to make sure no one learns there were Americans in those buildings.”

  “I realize that. Have you talked to anyone else?”

  “No. I knew you could help and called you first. I’d like you to call Kate. Tell her I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.”

  “I don’t think that’s wise. They may be watching her. Wait until I find out what’s going on.”

  Ben looked again at the large platform clock. “It’s five-thirty in the morning here. I’ll call at six this evening. Thanks, Uncle Pete.”

  “You called the right person,” the old man said, and the line clicked dead.

/>   By the time Ben hung up the phone, the station platform was beginning to stir and a station attendant directed him to a hostel a short walk from the station where he could get a room for 20 Euros. Because of the rain, the young woman behind the reception counter was not overly concerned about his damp and wrinkled clothing but was surprised that he had no luggage.

  “I stayed at the station until things opened, and left my bag there while I looked for a place to stay. I didn’t want to be carrying it around in the rain. I’ll pick it up later,” he told her.

  She showed him to a small room on the second floor and directed him to the common bath at the end of the hall. He took a long, warm shower, hung his clothing beside the gas heater, plugged his phone in to charge, and set the clock radio on the side table for 4:30. Ben didn’t remember another thing until the radio burst forth with Finnish music.

  At 6:00 p.m. he placed another collect call to his uncle.

  “I’ll have documents and money to you by tomorrow,” Koka said. “Don’t move until the courier gets there, and don’t call anyone. There are complications here. I’ll send instructions with your documents. Will your money hold out?”

  “I don’t need to pay the balance for the room until I leave. And what I have should take care of today and tomorrow.”

  “I’ll send you plenty. Don’t go anywhere you don’t need to.”

  “You say there are complications. Does Falen know I survived?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. But there is still a lot I don’t know about your situation. It has a wrinkle I need to work out before we know what to do with you.”

  “Pete – I need to know what’s happening.”

  “You will Ben – as soon as I’m sure it won’t make things worse for you.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The buzz of his cell phone drew Falen’s attention away from the collage of beautiful faces and bodies that lay before him on the table beside his computer. He’d found that he looked at them much more often than the case warranted. They were Washington’s finest; women whose seductive faces and sensuous figures brought a groan from deep down inside every time he opened the file. They were professional girls whose prices were going up daily as the file on each of their clients became thicker and more bizarre. Falen knew that some of the old farts up on the Hill who were buying their favors would sell their souls before they’d let any of this stuff go public. Des Moines and Omaha weren’t quite ready for mixed doubles and other assorted kinkiness. Looking at these women, he could see why this extortion scheme was working.

  Like the DWAT operation, the blackmail scheme had initially appeared to be a collection of disconnected occurrences. High level government officials had become involved with beautiful women, all apparently after chance meetings. In two cases, the partners had been attractive young men, but eventually the professional lovers broke off the relationships, complaining that because of the officials’ careers, families, and reputations, nothing could ever come of it. That’s where the possibilities of coincidence ended. Within two weeks of the breakup, each man received a hand-delivered brown envelope containing photographs and taped conversations of the official in most indelicate situations. A week later, the blackmail began. No money. Just requests that key votes or committee decisions fall a certain way. This wasn’t anything new to Washington, but Fisher – and whoever Fisher worked for – were concerned about the scale and organization of the extortion.

  Though the lovers all seemed to disappear from the Washington area as soon as the relationships ended, Falen had managed to locate four of them. One in Miami. One in New York. Two in Los Angeles. Women with faces like these were easy to find. They refused to keep them hidden. All four had convinced Falen they didn’t know who they’d been working for. The contacts and arrangements were all made by phone by a woman who offered lots of money, and bonuses for particularly compromising encounters. The only condition was that the girls had to relocate after each was told to end the affair. It had been easy money, and difficult for Falen to trace. But Miami had given him a break. She was a stunning brunette who had a very restricted client list in Washington, had dropped one of her regulars after he began getting too rough, and had changed her unlisted number. Only six men had her new one, and Falen was systematically working his way through the six, knowing that one would lead him to a link with the blackmailer.

  The Miami brunette always reminded him of Kate Sager and he walked to the kitchen to check the incoming call, hoping it was from Baltimore. His postcard from London must have reached her several days ago, but he wasn’t going to make the first call. It had to come from her, and he now had time to be patient.

  The cell phone showed no incoming number – just a series of pound signs. It was Fisher. Falen listened to the voicemail.

  “We need to talk. Call me as soon as possible.”

  It was not one of the standard messages and the uneasiness in Fisher’s aged voice irritated Falen. Or was it that it was Fisher’s voice and not Kate’s?

  Falen walked to the crowded DuPont Circle and called from the front of the building that housed the fifty-plus higher education associations in Washington.

  “What’s so pressing?”

  “Some very interesting things have been going on the last few days. Very hush-hush. Even inside. But I’ve learned someone is trying to background you.”

  “I thought I didn’t have a background.”

  “You don’t. But whoever this is wants very much to find out why.”

  Falen scowled. “You’re well connected. Run this down and find out where it’s coming from.”

  “I’ve tried. My sources say this is coming from very high up. They asked if Christopher Falen was a name I was familiar with, and of course I said no. All they have is a name to trace. They’ve got no idea who you are. But they’ll find you. Have you stepped on someone I don’t know about?”

  “You know about the Tehran raid, and the escape problem. I can’t see how that can be coming back on me. Everything was cleaned up according to plan.”

  “Did you cross the Israelis with that deal? They don’t take kindly to being used.”

  “I was straight with them. I know not to mess with Ishmael. Plus, he knows how to get in touch with me if he needs to.”

  “I’m not sure when they’ll locate you,” Fisher said, “but I think you need to disappear for awhile.”

  “I’ll relocate and give you a new contact number until this cools down,” Falen said. “Can you get me a new identity and documents? I’d like to stay on this hooker thing….”

  “You’re not hearing me,” Fisher said with open irritation. “When these people are looking for you, you can’t just change addresses. I’ll get the documents by this afternoon, but you need to disappear quickly. Check in with me in a few weeks. Your numbered account should be secure so I’ll put enough in there to keep you awhile.”

  “Don’t make it too long,” Falen said. “I’m starting to get somewhere with our blackmailers.”

  He walked back to the apartment reviewing again the Finland operation. It had been clean, he was sure of that. As he’d ridden the bicycle back to Lahti he’d been passed by only two vehicles and had managed to pull safely into the woods before either saw him. Even if he’d been seen and Sager’s body found, he was too removed to be connected. The Volvo in the lake belonged to John Bateman and Sager was without identification. Any trace of the gas would be gone by the time they could autopsy him. If by chance someone had seen Falen at the Lahti inn or train station with a silver Volvo, a good man might be able to trace it to the rental agency and to Christopher Falen, but not beyond that. He’d turned the car back in just like any tourist would. And as far as the world’s official identification files were concerned, Falen didn’t exist. They couldn’t be onto him, unless….”

  He thought of the tall, thin-faced Russian with the rimless glasses. Why would Ushakov care about this? Getting rid of Sager was as much to his benefit as Falen’s. No talk of hostages. No re
port of civilians being killed in an air raid. And he doubted the Russians would – or could – work the system from that high up. There was still too much distrust.

  That left this call girl thing. He must have touched a hot button with one of the Miami whore’s six clients. Whoever was running the stable was a heavy hitter and may have gotten to somebody in the Company with an order to stop the investigation. If that was the case, they were out of luck. The hooker deal had much of the intriguing appeal of the DWAT case, and he was going to stay on it until he nailed someone’s ass to the wall – or they nailed his. He would disappear, but not far enough away that he couldn’t get to whoever was after him.

  His cell phone vibrated in his pocket as he entered the apartment. It was a message left while he had been on the phone with Fisher.

  “Chris, this is Kate. Call me when you have a minute.’

  Falen smiled. At least one bit of good news. The week away had done some good, and oh, how he wanted that woman. He punched his phone to life, hesitated, then tapped it back off, retrieving a cheap disposable cell from a drawer in the bedroom to dial the Baltimore number.

  “Hi. This is Chris. I just came in and got your message. It’s good to hear from you!”

  “Sorry it took so long for me to get in touch. Did you try to call earlier in the week?”

  “No. I thought I’d wait on you. You know how I feel – so it’s sort of been your move.”

  “Well – this isn’t really a move. But I almost sold the company, then backed out. I’m having a hard time dealing with all the uncertainties, and just wanted to talk.”

  “Any time. What would work for you?”