JET, no. 3

by Russell Blake

  Yuri could handle the loose ends. And if he didn’t, there were more Yuris out there.

  ~ ~ ~

  Jet found another wireless hot spot after dinner and checked back in. Moriarty had delivered, but the result hadn’t helped. There had been no hospital admissions that matched David.

  She was now fifteen thousand dollars poorer and dead in the water.

  The hacker agreed to keep monitoring and alert her if anything surfaced, but her longshot had just gotten way longer, and she wasn’t hopeful.

  Yawning, she realized that she needed to get a room somewhere. There wasn’t anything more she could think of doing that night, so all that remained was to wait and see what surfaced the following day.

  One of the motels near the highway looked clean enough, and the manager didn’t seem to be interested in niggling details like identification – he was just happy to take her cash. She tromped up the stairs to her room overlooking the parking lot and quickly unpacked, then took a long shower and tried to decompress. There was no point staying up all night, worrying at the situation. After a decent night’s sleep, maybe something would occur to her.

  It only took five hours.

  She sat bolt upright in the bed and stared at the clock, heart trip-hammering as her mind raced, sure that she’d had a breakthrough. She reached across the end table and grabbed a bottle of water, mulling over the best way to proceed. Whether or not she was right, it was too late to do anything about it until daylight.

  The rest of the night went by slowly, and she found herself tossing and turning, trying to get comfortable, frowning at her watch’s minute hand as it inched toward morning.

  ~ ~ ~

  Rani Stein scratched his head as he exited his modest home in Haifa, moving like a man far older than his thirty-eight years. The son of an accountant and a seamstress, he’d spent his life in sedentary pursuits, and the lack of exercise was evident in his weight as well as his energy level. Rani was over three hundred pounds, none of it muscle. His main problem was that he liked to eat. A lot. More than almost anything in the world. This had interfered with his social life, resulting in his remaining a bachelor long after most of his peers had tied the knot.

  “Mrs. Veldt! Good morning!” he called agreeably to his neighbor, a feisty seventy-year-old, who was already out in her front garden trying to coax life into her sickly collection of plants.

  “Good morning to you, too, Rani. And how are you this beautiful day?”

  “Never better, Mrs. Veldt, never better.”

  Rani trundled to his sensible sedan and opened the door, tossing his briefcase into the passenger seat before wedging himself behind the wheel.

  “You go cure someone today, do you hear?” the old woman called to him.

  “I will. You can count on that!” he replied with false cheer, then shut the door and started the car.

  He backed out of his driveway with customary care, slowly, methodically, as he did everything in life.

  Rani didn’t notice the car a hundred yards down the street as it joined him on his eight-minute journey to his office building. Even if someone had pointed it out to him, he wouldn’t have been concerned. Rani was a man who bore nobody a grudge, and who had gone through life without making any enemies. The last thing he would have believed possible was that he could be in any sort of danger.

  He made it to his office parking lot in good time. As he closed his door, he sensed a presence immediately behind him, and turned as quickly as his girth would allow. Facing him was an extraordinarily beautiful woman with a neutral expression on her face.

  “Rani?”

  “Hmm. Yes? And who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?”

  “Do you have a moment?” she asked, ignoring the question.

  “Well, hmm, actually not. I have patients waiting…”

  “Then I’ll be brief. I need to know when you last saw David, and where.” Jet spoke softly, eyes roving over the other vehicles in the lot to confirm they were alone.

  Rani had a terrible poker face.

  “David? I…I don’t understand. What are you talking about?” he stammered.

  “Rani. I know David. We’re…close. I know he’s hurt, and I know you’re his friend,” she explained. “And I know you’re a doctor.”

  He blanched. “There’s no law against being a doctor…”

  “True. But David’s in trouble, and I need to find him.”

  “I told you I have no ide–”

  “Cut the shit, Rani. You went to university together, and he was your roommate. He told me about you. That’s how I know,” she explained.

  He seemed surprised, but relaxed a little.

  “Oh, that David? He – he told you about that?”

  “Like I said. We’re close.”

  Rani swallowed, his fleshy throat bobbing in a walrus-like manner.

  “He warned me not to tell anyone, under any circumstances.”

  So Rani did know where he was.

  “David didn’t realize I was going to show up.”

  He eyed her warily. “Look, assuming I knew how to get in touch with him…let’s say I could call him or something. Who would I say was asking for him?”

  She debated forcing him into the car, but thought better of it. Perhaps a little gentle persuasion would be more effective. She could always use more drastic methods later if he didn’t cooperate.

  “Tell him ‘his angel’ is looking for him. Describe me to him.” She debated saying more, but decided against it. “I’ll see you later, Rani – have an answer for me when I do. I’d hate for this to deteriorate into something unpleasant, but it will if you don’t tell me where to find him. You have one hour.”

  He nodded, beads of sweat beginning to form on his brow.

  Jet turned and walked away, Rani staring at her as she left. He shook his head and muttered to himself, then felt in his jacket for his cell. He dialed a number then spoke in a hushed voice as he slowly approached his office.

  Chapter 14

  Terry Brandt swiveled his Herman Miller Aeron chair around and leaned back, rubbing his face with both hands before groaning softly and rising, his prosthetic leg making a small clicking sound as he did so. He needed to get it adjusted again, he decided as he surveyed the maudlin decorations of his office. The linoleum under his feet popped in the loose spot that always annoyed him, and he made his one thousandth mental note to have it repaired, then scooped up a folder on his desk and pulled his tie tight before setting off for the meeting room.

  The air was always a perfect sixty-eight degrees in this section of CIA headquarters in Langley, day or night, summer or winter. It made his wardrobe easy – medium-weight suits, one hundred percent cotton long-sleeved shirts, wingtips. Terry prized consistency and simplicity, and derived satisfaction from the thought that he had his entire career’s clothing already purchased, and could put that chore behind him for the rest of his life.

  Oliver Cummins was waiting for him when he strode through the door with his signature lopsided gait and sat at the oval cherry wood table. Oliver was dressed carefully, as usual, in a tan suit and pale blue shirt with yellow tie, his curly black hair graying, giving him a vaguely Denzel Washington look absent any of the good humor or charm. An analyst sat on either side of Oliver, who took every opportunity to trumpet his position in the hierarchy by dragging personnel around and forcing them to sit through hour-long conferences that could have been knocked out in an e-mail in minutes.

  Terry did his best to maintain a neutral expression while he waited patiently for Oliver to begin his questions. Of course, it was never that simple. There was inevitably a lengthy oration that rehashed all known facts before he got to the point.

  Surprisingly, this time Oliver varied from the predictable script.

  “Terry. The Belize situation – the assassination. What do you make of it?” Oliver began without any of the usual pomp. Terry was momentarily taken aback, but qui
ckly recovered.

  “We’re still trying to figure out what group is responsible. It’s unclear since nobody’s taking credit, but the suspects are all the usual ones. Disgruntled business interests. Criminal syndicates. Political enemies.”

  “Other than it could have been anyone, have we been able to make any progress narrowing it down?” Oliver countered.

  “I’m afraid not. I have someone working it, but as you know, the death of a minor functionary in a fourth world Central American backwater hardly justifies a full-court press.”

  “What about assets on the ground?”

  “We have a few friendlies that gather information for us from time to time, but nobody permanent. Again, it’s a question of priorities and strategic value.”

  Oliver glanced at the analyst on his right, a birdlike young woman with hair the color of wet straw and darting, slightly bulging eyes that belied a thyroid issue. She cleared her throat.

  “Malcolm Foxweather was the assistant petroleum minister for Belize. The current administration appointed him almost four years ago, and he looked good to hold the position for the duration. He had no known affiliation with any criminal factions, and was an unremarkable bureaucrat, with the notable exception that he had a reputation for honest dealings – something all too rare in that area of the world, I think we’d all agree.” Oliver made a hurry up gesture to her with his hand. “His murder is currently listed as unsolved, and the local police have no leads. No replacement has been named.” She closed her manila folder and sat back.

  Terry didn’t like how the meeting was shaping up. Why the hell was Oliver having his staff dig around in this? Was he missing some larger play here?

  “Yes, he was the world’s last honest man,” Terry agreed. “None of which affords us any illumination on why he was killed, or who pulled the trigger.”

  “Terry, you know I try to take a hands-off approach,” Oliver began in his best reassuring tone, “and I don’t want to be backseat driving on your turf, but I’ve been receiving pressure to take a harder look at the shooting. Belize has no history of this sort of violence, and certain factions in our power structure have expressed concern that this could be some kind of a move by the Mexican cartels to destabilize the government so they can make inroads there.”

  So that’s what this was all about. Laurel Rodgers, Oliver’s superior, had a thing for the cartels and saw Mexicans conniving behind every palm tree in Central America. She had nothing to do this week so the trickle-down effect of wild goose chasing was making itself felt.

  Terry slowly shook his head. “I’m extremely sensitive to any possible cartel involvement. But this has none of their signature on it. This was one bullet, no clues, clean. When the cartels target someone, they generally go in and mow him down in a hail of lead. There’s no subtlety to it. Or he shows up beheaded by the side of the road. No, while we’re keeping our eyes open to that possibility, this looks more like some sort of an internal power struggle. Or it could be something more mundane – a jealous husband with a hunting rifle, or someone who tried to bribe him but got rebuffed. The truth is that we have no idea what’s going on down there, but nothing has changed politically since the shooting, so it’s a non-issue from that standpoint. Besides which, it’s not like Belize is Saudi Arabia. Their oil reserves are tiny compared to Mexico or Venezuela, and they’re dwarfed by ours…”

  “Again, I’m not trying to get into your sandbox here.”

  “May I ask why you’re devoting some of your staff’s considerable talents to a parallel examination of this event?” Terry asked, eyeing the blonde as he did so.

  “I want to be able to say that I have full confidence that no stone’s been left unturned, Terry. Nothing more. I’m not questioning your group’s diligence or competence.” Oliver had started down the more familiar political-speak Terry was used to. Reassurances and deflection – the tools of the career bureaucrat.

  “Very good, then. I’m on it, we’re focusing on the developing situation and are actively working every angle. I’ll ensure you’re kept in the loop as we move forward. I didn’t want to bury you in minutiae, but if you’re interested in the case, by all means…” Terry offered.

  “Do that, Terry. I’m sure this will blow over in no time, but I’m getting heat, which means more pressure on you. No hard feelings.”

  Terry’s stomach churned as he made his way back to his office. Out of all the possible things that could have drawn Oliver’s interest, why did it have to be this? The man was a boob, but a dangerous one. He had the reputation of being a snake, and Terry had seen firsthand how that could manifest as trouble for his rivals and subordinates.

  Terry had thought he had the situation under control, and now Oliver stumbles onto the scene like a bull shopping for chinaware.

  He’d have to be disarmed, but delicately.

  When he got back to his office, he shut the door, activated his scrambled phone and dialed a number from memory.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Doctor Stein? You have a call on line one.” Rani’s secretary always used a modulated voice, conveying tranquility and calm.

  Rani frowned and put down his pen, pushing the small pile of examination notes and patient files to the side. He punched the intercom button.

  “I’m kind of busy right now. Who is it?”

  “She said to tell you Golda was on the phone.”

  Golda was his late mother’s name.

  Rani picked up the handset and depressed the blinking line. “Yes?”

  “Gabe’s. Five minutes,” Jet said.

  Gabe’s was a delicatessen two blocks away.

  Rani began sweating. He hated deadlines of any kind. Had since he was a child. He always felt like someone was imposing their will on him, controlling him, when he had a deadline, and it rankled.

  Rani had spent two years in therapy exploring this and other issues, with no clearly defined resolution. He still hated them, still got anxious, and had added self-loathing to the mix now that he fully apprehended how silly hating deadlines was – another reflection of a fatal flaw in his character to accompany his inability to control his appetite. He abandoned the comfort of his desk and moved his considerable bulk through his office door to the reception area.

  “I’m stepping out for a soda. You want anything?” he asked his pert young secretary.

  “Thank you, Doctor. No, I’m fine. Remember you have Mister Solberg in fifteen minutes.”

  “How could I forget Artie? I’ll be right back. Like lightning. Like Ali.” He threw a few air punches that looked more like a bear swatting at a beehive than the famous boxer.

  She returned her gaze to the computer screen without comment.

  Rani reached his car and unlocked it, taking care to fasten his seatbelt before backing out of his reserved stall. After pulling out of the parking lot, he coasted to a stop at a light one block away and tried some of the self-talk his therapist had recommended. There is nothing to be anxious about. You have all the time in the world. This is your movie, and everyone else is just a spectator.

  The light changed, and he rolled forward, careful with the gas. Within another minute, he was at Gabe’s.

  He waited outside, wondering what was expected of him, and then decided that he might as well get a snack. A guy had to eat. No point in letting his energy wane.

  Inside, he was browsing the chip selection when Jet sidled up beside him.

  “Rani. What have you got for me?”

  “He’s not in great shape, but he wants to see you. Here’s the address. It’s a cottage in one of the suburbs. Been in my family for years. He said to knock on the door the same way you used to.” He slipped a small piece of folded paper to her in what he imagined was sterling spycraft, eyes roving around the empty deli as he did so.

  She wordlessly took the paper and unfolded it.

  “Got directions? How do I get there from here?” Jet asked as she read the note.

 
So much for Rani’s vision of how a clandestine rendezvous would work.

  “Head to the main boulevard three blocks north and make a left toward the sea, go down until you hit a big supermarket on the right, make a right at the next street. It’s three blocks down. Can’t miss it.” Rani paused, studying her face. “It was nice meeting you. I wish it was under better circumstances.” He tried a smile.

  “How badly hurt is he?”

  “Gut shot. I had to do some fast and complicated surgery, but he should recover, with a little luck. All I had was local anesthetic in the office. The pain must have been incredible…”

  “He’s always struck me as brave about things like that.”

  “Not always. If he cut himself shaving when we roomed together he’d cry like a newborn.” Rani hesitated. “That was a while ago, I guess.”

  “You’re a true friend. Now do yourself a favor, Rani. Forget you ever met me. Don’t tell anyone about me, or about David. Your life depends on you knowing nothing. Whoever shot David is still out there. You don’t want any part of this.”

  And then she was gone, leaving only a lingering fragrance of clean, sweet skin.

  Chapter 15

  The little house was unremarkable, one of countless bungalows in the neighborhood, close enough to the beach to smell the salt air. She found a parking place on a side street and performed her customary stealthy perusal of the area to ensure there were no obvious threats – no suspicious vehicles, no questionable loiterers. This kind of area was a nightmare for counter-surveillance, with few places to hide and a lot of single and multi-story buildings with plenty of windows, any of which could hold a watcher or a sniper. She adjusted her new sun hat and oversized dark sunglasses, and ambled slowly down the sidewalk, past the cottage and to the corner, where she ducked into a market and bought a half-liter bottle of mineral water. When she emerged, she took her time drinking it, eyes methodically scoping out the block from behind her colored lenses.

  Satisfied that the area was clean, she approached the front door, taking note of the tiny all-weather camera mounted under the eave. Two soft knocks. A pause. One louder.