Favors and Lies

by Mark Gilleo

  The man rolled from the bed, naked, soldier at half-mast, and threw a left elbow. Dan stepped back a few inches and the second hardest bone in the body flew by harmlessly. Dan kicked the back of the man’s leg and the man went down in a pile of flapping flesh onto the floor.

  “Relax,” Dan said.

  “Fuck you,” the man replied, grappling at Dan has he stumbled to stand. Dan grasped an outreached hand and twisted the thumb back and upward. The man rose to his tiptoes. They were now face-to-face, one with a distinct situational advantage.

  “Are you Alex?

  The man grimaced, his weight at the mercy of Dan’s grip, his thumb stretched to its natural limit.

  “Yes, and you are?”

  “Trouble, for you. If I don’t hear what I want.”

  The blond exited the bathroom as presentable as an office secretary on her lunch break. The brunette turned away from the corner, her display of professional speed dressing complete.

  Dan looked over at the women near the dresser. “Ladies, if you don’t mind, Alex and I have some business to attend to.”

  The women gathered their pocketbooks from the dresser and Sue moved from her position in the doorway, edging into the room in the direction of Dan, keeping her boss between her and the man in the nude. Over his shoulder, Sue continued to take pictures until Dan said, “I think you have enough.”

  Dan nodded at the women as they silently slipped out the door.

  Dan changed his grip on the man’s thumb, moving to manipulate the wrist. He kicked the man’s pants off the floor and onto the bed. He noticed a wedding ring on the man’s finger and motioned towards Sue. “Looks like you would have won your bet.”

  Dan released his grip on the man’s hand and pushed him onto the bed, next to his pants.

  “It’s not what it looks like,” Alex said.

  “I’m sure it’s not. But I’m not so sure your wife will see it that way.”

  “My wife?”

  “For starters.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I need your help. And obviously, you need mine.”

  Alex muttered something under his breath and Dan’s eyes widened.

  “You speak Russian?” Dan asked in Russian with a Muscovy accent.

  “I am Russian,” the man replied in his native tongue.

  Dan felt the air rush from his lungs. “Russian?” Dan asked, switching back to English.

  “Yes, asshole,” Alex answered.

  A silence fell over the room. Dan stared hard at the man for a moment. The man’s barrel chest heaved, his blue eyes measuring. “Betty, you need to leave,” Dan said.

  Sue didn’t move.

  “Betty, you need to leave,” Dan repeated.

  Again Sue didn’t move.

  Alex interrupted. “Young lady. I think the gentleman is referring to you by a cover name. You are Betty. I think he would like you to leave.”

  Dan didn’t flinch. “Leave now. I will catch up with you later.”

  “I assure you, the girl is in no danger in this room,” Alex said coolly.

  “Out,” Dan said forcefully, and Sue hurriedly exited.

  Dan stepped back towards the dresser and reached back for the man’s wallet without taking his eyes off the target seated on the bed. He pulled the license from the wallet and held it up between himself and Alex, looking back and forth at the man and the photo. “Alexander Stoyovich.”

  “Not who you were expecting, I take it,” Alex said somewhat gleefully, pants still lying next to him on the bed.

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “A fishing expedition, perhaps,” Alex said, more relaxed.

  Dan’s mind raced back to Haley and the conversation they’d had—before the throes of passion, the heated clutches of lust intensified by the illumination of the city lights in the distance.

  “Perhaps you would care to share a drink?” Alex asked, motioning towards the round table near the wall. A vodka bottle was open, three glasses neatly arranged near the center of the table.

  “Put on your pants, then stand, then move,” Dan said. “Slowly.”

  Alex did as he was told. “In the chair,” Dan ordered as he stepped towards the man’s rear.

  Alex sat.

  “Arms straight out,” Dan said. From his vantage point behind his target, he looked at both of Alex’s arms briefly. “Left arm across your chest.”

  Alex again followed orders and Dan quickly pulled several zip ties from his pocket. He grabbed Alex’s left hand and attached it to the right armrest of the chair, crossing Alex’s arm across his body.

  Dan stepped back and moved deliberately to the chair on the other side of the table. He positioned the chair far enough from the table to react quickly to anything his new comrade may try.

  Dan poured a glass of vodka for Alex and motioned for him to drink first.

  “You don’t trust me?”

  “I see lipstick on one of the glasses here, but not on the other two. There were two women here, one of them with thick red lipstick, so it is possible that someone hasn’t been partying. I’m just being cautious.”

  Alex downed the large shot of vodka with his free right hand. “You are not a professional.”

  “I’m sorry?” Dan asked, pouring another shot for Alex and one for himself. He swapped glasses with Alex and gave the man one of the other two on the table.

  “You have been trained, but you are not operations. Not officially sanctioned.”

  Dan nudged the edge of the large shot glass with his finger. “How can you be sure?”

  “Nothing is for certain in this life. Probably not in the next life either,” Alex replied, sliding his glass towards his side of the table. “You move as someone who has been trained. Yet you lack the air of a clandestine operative. You pay attention. Make the suspect drink first, then use the suspect’s glass as your own in case the other glass has been compromised. The use of zip ties, which you applied to my dominate hand.”

  “There was a faint tan line on the right wrist, and few people wear watches on their dominate hand.”

  “A basic trick of the trade.”

  Dan raised his glass and gave a traditional Russian toast.

  Alex responded in kind and both men downed their glasses.

  “The girls work for you?” Alex asked.

  “No. They don’t.”

  “But they knew you were coming. The blonde left the door unlocked. Very sloppy on my part.”

  “She knew I was coming. But I have never met her before.”

  “I think I’m going to have to take this up with the girls’ management.”

  “The girls are sole proprietors now. Their employer is dead. Passed away earlier this week.”

  “And she was a friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the reason you speak Russian?”

  “No, I knew Russian before I met her.”

  Alex nodded towards the vodka bottle on the table and Dan filled two more glasses.

  “To your friend, and a fellow Russian,” Alex said, pouring the vodka into his mouth.

  “You work for the Russian embassy?” Dan asked.

  “And if I said yes . . . ?”

  “Then perhaps you can still help.”

  “Why would I help you? You just ruined my afternoon. My only true enjoyment all week. Afternoon vodka and female entertainment.”

  “Perhaps we can help each other.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Information.”

  “On what?”

  “Let’s say intelligence-related information.”

  “Ha. You barge into my room, chase out my entertainment, and then think I’m going to turn over information on my country? Certainly you cannot expect me to hand over intelligence wit
hout some form of reciprocation?”

  Dan filled both glasses with another round of vodka. “Who said anything about your country?”

  Alex leaned back in his chair, as far as his restraints would let him. Then he began to laugh, his hairy chest bouncing up and down with each bellow.

  “Now you are the one with his pants on the floor!” The laughing reached a crescendo and Dan almost thought it was an act. “I see. I see. It is all clear to me. Yes! You came here based on information that you would find an intelligence officer in a compromising situation. But you didn’t know you would find a Russian intelligence officer.”

  Alexander began laughing harder, which turned into deep-rooted gasps.

  “That is correct,” Dan said, relenting.

  Alexander downed another shot and motioned for a refill. “You know, many years ago, on my first tour of duty here in DC, before your country allowed us to build our Embassy on the highest spot in the entire city, I met another American with a request similar to yours.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. She was a high school student.”

  “I can hardly wait for the punch line.”

  “There is no joke, so there is no punch line. We received a letter from a high school student who was doing a report on the CIA. This girl was trying to find information on the Agency, and well, before the Internet and FOIA requests, this information was hard to come by. It was quite a surprise, I must say, the request from this girl. We sent an agent out to follow her for a few days, to verify that she was indeed just a high school student doing a report. Her mother was a housewife and her father was an architect for Fairfax County Public Schools. I met with my supervisors at the time, we went over the letter and decided to help the girl out. To have a little fun with our adversaries.”

  “About a month later, the girl sent us an article from her school paper. Prominently displayed on the front page of the school paper was her article on the CIA, complete with the stats we had provided. The general structure of the organization. The major subgroups. The estimated number of employees. The annual budget. Square foot of the headquarters. Associated buildings.

  “We all had a laugh. It was good for business. I mean, there was no real harm being done. The CIA had to know that we knew this information, or at least that we could make an educated guess.”

  “A good story.”

  “Indeed.” Alexander caressed the shot glass with his free hand. “This is not about my country?”

  “No. This is personal.”

  “Personal with the CIA?”

  “Yes.”

  “You realize the CIA is not a person.”

  “I am aware of this.”

  “How does a person who is not in intelligence get involved with the CIA?”

  “I lost someone very close to me. I have reason to believe the CIA is involved.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “I have told you enough already.”

  “I will decide when you have told me enough,” Alex said, gaining confidence and growing more at ease. “You want information, you provide information.” Alex raised his chin and slightly flicked his middle finger against the side of his throat, indicating he wanted more vodka. Dan filled the glass.

  “Now, tell me who did you lose?”

  “My nephew.”

  Alex looked at Dan, approximated his age, and did the math. “A teenager?”

  “Yes.”

  “How old was he, exactly?”

  “A sophomore in college. Nineteen.”

  “Where was he killed?”

  “Here in DC. It was made to look like an accident.”

  “Hmmmm. The Central Intelligence Agency involved in the killing of a nineteen-year-old US citizen on US soil . . .” Alex stared off into space and hummed to himself. A moment later his mind returned. “And what leads you to believe the CIA is involved?”

  “A missing phone call.”

  “Phone systems are imperfect. In Russia, outside the large cities, more often than not.”

  Dan didn’t reply.

  Alex continued. “There is something else to your story. Something you don’t want to tell me.”

  Dan paused and slowly rotated the shot glass on the table in a circle. “My nephew was rare.”

  Alex closed his eyes and hummed the opening of a traditional Russian song. He opened his eyes slowly at the end of the first verse. “Your nephew . . . this young man . . . I have two questions about him.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I am without my weapon.”

  “Funny. Ask your questions.”

  “My first question is this: How rare was he? How rare was this nephew of yours?”

  “Exceptionally.”

  “Unquantifiably rare?”

  “Some have said.”

  “And should he have already been dead?”

  Dan froze. “Sorry?”

  “Statistically speaking, had he exceeded his life expectancy?”

  Dan swallowed. “That is my understanding. But there is no way you could have known that.”

  “Ha! Americans! You think you have a monopoly on knowledge and good ideas.”

  “I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

  “Let me offer you some advice. Free advice. I want nothing in return. Perhaps you should focus on celebrating your nephew’s life, not being consumed by his death. I doubt I will outlive my life expectancy. And given your mere presence here, and your inquiry, I highly doubt you will outlive yours.”

  “I will celebrate my nephew’s life when I am done with the task at hand.”

  Alex stared intently at Dan, who returned the glare. Alex spoke first. “There is something enjoyable about watching your enemy writhe in agony, even if it is not at your own hand.”

  “Then you will help?”

  “It is not in my best interest to provide direct assistance.”

  “What if your wife were to find out what transpired here in this hotel with your pay-by-the-hour friends?”

  “My dear comrade. My wife passed away many, many years ago. Before you started to shave. My only wife now is a cover wife, and my only marriage is to my country. I can retire at any moment. There is nothing you can threaten me with here.”

  “You said you cannot not directly help,” Dan said, changing tactics, carefully reading the agent and repeating his choice of words.

  Alex stared at the light coming through the crack in the curtains. “I have spent most of my life recruiting Americans to spy on America. It is not hard. Particularly if you can identify an American without religion. Atheists are fertile soil. Agnostics even work in most cases. No fear of retribution. No fear of hell. Not scared by damnation. They are only concerned with this life. Money. Power. Thrills.”

  “I am looking for revenge.”

  “What else do you know about the people you pursue?”

  “I know one of them is white. My height. Maybe a little taller. Well dressed. Perfect teeth, hair, shoes.”

  “You have met him.”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me see the sketch.”

  “How do you know I have a drawing?” Dan asked, his hand subconsciously moving slowly towards the envelope in his cargo pants pocket.

  “Experience.”

  Dan removed the envelope and pulled out the sketch. He placed it on the table and took another shot of vodka. Alex stared at the drawing intently, slowly digesting the possibilities of the face on the paper. He mentally removed the glasses and shaved the goatee. He altered the hair color and imagined smaller teeth. “Appearances can be changed.”

  “Indeed. But he cannot alter everything. And regardless of what he looks like, he cannot discard his core. This guy likes order. He is anal. His dress, hygiene, demeanor.”

  “You are describing half of the espio
nage world. Order keeps agents alive.”

  “I will know him when I see him.”

  “And all you need is to know who he is.”

  “Or where he is.”

  Alex thought hard. “Very well. I know someone who can help your particular situation. But you are going to have to work for it. I am not going to just hand everything over to you on a silver platter. You want to play the espionage game, time to lose your training wheels. Everyone you are playing this game with has a head start.”

  “So I am learning.”

  “And another thing. This person you are going to meet, he will not come cheap. He will cost you. As he costs us.”

  “How do I reach this person?”

  “Pen and paper.”

  Dan glanced around the room and retrieved a small motel pad and pen by the phone on the dresser.

  “Ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “His name is Benny. He works at Langley. HQ. On weekends and some weeknights, he can be reached in the trailer in the rear parking lot next to the Sears in Seven Corners. He can point you in the right direction. Be sure to ask him about his skydiving adventure. It was most insightful.”

  Dan scribbled.

  Alex smiled ear to ear. “But before we go, one more drink. To your enemies’ enemies!” Both men threw their drinks back.

  Dan stood, the liquor robbing him of some sharpness. “I assume you will be able to get out of your constraints,” Dan said, moving towards the door without taking his eyes off Alex.

  “I will be free before you reach your car,” Alex replied. “But I may sit here for a while. I have the room for another hour. Maybe there is a European hockey game on cable.”

  “Goodbye, Alex.”

  “Good luck.”

  Chapter 27

  —

  Dan drove through Bailey’s Crossroads, once home to a circus as designated by a small historical sign in the parking lot between Old Navy and Office Depot. Bailey’s Crossroads, a simple intersection in a former life, had long since been replaced with a concrete overpass and an octopus of on-ramps. The stables for the circus animals were now a string of funky strip-mall shops hosting a selection of ethnic restaurants unseen outside of Brooklyn. As Dan drove, hundreds of hopeful but illegal immigrants swallowed the land around the Culmore Post Office, the threshold to the neighboring sea of brick apartments unsafe for US citizens without employment opportunities to offer.