by Mark Gilleo
“I’m not so sure she understands.”
“She’s smart enough to understand. She is a doctor—an OB-GYN. That means she practices medicine all day at the office, she delivers babies at all hours of the night, and performs surgery in between. People may stumble into medicine and find themselves working as a shrink, but people don’t stumble into a surgical field. She is a hell of a lot smarter than I am. She knows exactly what is going on.”
“And you repay these favors?”
“All of them. Twofold.”
“Well, if you survive this mess, you are going to be very busy.”
—
Dr. Cathright returned fifteen minutes later.
Dan stood and swiped Sue’s keychain off the desk and reached for the doorknob. Sue interrupted him first. “Where are you going?”
“To run some errands. Find the people on the plane. Resolve this.”
“You are going to need help,” Sue added.
“No, I am going to need your car,” Dan replied, jingling Sue’s keys in his hand.
“Sure. Take it,” Sue said, offended.
“Thanks. My main goal here is to keep you safe. Don’t use your phone, even though reception in these rooms is awful. Stay off the grid. You have seventy-two hours of safety here. After that, we are both in real trouble.”
“You know we are going to talk about you while you are gone,” Sue said. “I’m going to grill Dr. Cathright here. I am going to ask her everything I can think of.”
Dan looked at Sue and then locked eyes with Dr. Cathright. “Tell her anything you want. I trust her.”
“Must have hurt to say that.”
“More than I imagined it would.”
Chapter 31
—
Sue pulled her leg up to her chest and wrapped her arms around it, leaning back into the recliner as Dr. Cathright lay on the bed.
“Dan gave me the green light to ask you about him. I have more than a few questions.”
“You have more questions than I have answers.”
“What’s he like?”
“More than anyone I have ever met, what you see is what you get.”
“I’m not sure what I see. I’ve only been working with him for a short time. I don’t get the feeling the last week has been indicative of normal, or any version of normal.”
“There may not be a normal with Dan.”
“Honestly, at first I thought he was a little crazy. Someone in deep mourning who could probably benefit from depression medication. He was obsessed with clearing the names of his nephew and sister-in-law. Consumed with finding who was responsible for their deaths. I wasn’t sure what to believe. I thought maybe he was wishing for a bad guy, hoping there was one, so he could validate a reason for his relatives’ deaths. So he could prove their deaths were beyond a drug overdose and a suicide.”
“And now?”
“I see someone who is relentless. Someone who has a long line of people—friends, acquaintances—whatever you want to call them, who are willing to help him.”
“He has charm. He is honest. He helps people who are in trouble. He has good karma.”
“He also hangs out with marginal characters. Hackers. Call girls.”
“You mean Haley Falls?”
“You know her?”
“I know about her. I don’t think Haley Falls was a call girl. I think she was a madam.”
“Do you have any idea how that sounds?”
“Crazy, probably. But no more crazy than a bomb blowing up the art gallery beneath his office. A drug-sniffing dog. With Dan, you get honest, and you get crazy. But that’s from an outside perspective. Dan spent so much time overseas during his formative years, he isn’t like you and me. I think when you grow up all over the world, your definition of crazy changes. Or maybe your definition of normal widens.”
“Maybe. He is a little paranoid. And secretive. I asked him where he lived once and I never got an answer. He has a car, but he doesn’t drive it to work. He never talks about commuting, which, let’s face it, in this town, is a popular conversation. His official address, the one on his driver’s license, is his office. But I know he has a house because he mentioned it.”
“So you’re not sleeping with him?” Dr. Cathright asked.
“No. He is my boss.”
“And you work in his office?”
“Yep. The one with all the security. The cameras. The locks. The special bulletproof glass.”
“He likes his security. He says he has made some enemies.”
“Like federal judges. Politicians. Powerful people.”
“I never wanted to know, so I never asked. I knew if asked, he would tell me. And some things you can’t unhear. Unknow. Unlearn.”
“Is he wealthy?”
“When Dan’s parents passed away, Dan and his brother received some inheritance.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know, exactly. A couple of million between them is my guess. Life changing but not enough to buy an island and retire. Enough to allow him to do whatever he does.”
“I only mention it because he has spent a hell of a lot of money the last week or so.”
“His prerogative. After his parents died, Dan decided he was going to do something meaningful. He had graduated from law school and had passed the bar. Already he was disenchanted with the legal profession. The way he put it, it seemed like the job was predicated on preying on others. A job that was always performed at someone else’s expense.”
“So he quit?”
“Before he really got started. He took his money and bought some property in Alexandria.”
“I found some real estate records with his name on them. He owns the entire office building. Two floors. The gallery downstairs. It’s the whole side of a small block.”
“He owns more than that. He also bought the old Stonewall Jackson House. Built in the 1850s and on the historical registry. Dan bought it through a trust. A half acre right in the middle of Old Town Alexandria. He used his inheritance to purchase it as well as refurbish the residence and the grounds. He lets the Alexandria Historical Society use the place in exchange for maintaining the house and for tax purposes. Dan has full access whenever he wants, but he rarely goes in the main house. He took me in one night. Showed me around.”
Dr. Cathright blushed and Sue noticed.
“The public can take tours of the property once a week. Historically, the house was used for lodging and rumor has it Woodrow Wilson enjoyed staying there. Dan lives on the property, but not in the main residence.”
“He bought a historical house through a trust and he doesn’t live there?”
“He lives in the carriage house behind the main residence.”
“Once again, the only adjective I can come up with is crazy.”
“For you and I, maybe.”
“What is it like?”
“Beautiful. The carriage house is a couple thousand square feet. Completely renovated. Gorgeous views of a garden. On a fabulous piece of property that is professionally maintained. When Dan sells that property, I will know he’s in financial trouble. Until then . . .”
“How far from the office is this house?”
“Down the sealed-off alley in the back. Through an old cast-iron door in a brick wall. He can walk from his house to work without going onto a public street.”
“What about his car?”
“He parks in the Union Street public parking garage. Pays for a spot. Monthly rental. Open twenty-four hours a day.”
“So this guy who grew up all over the world lives a hundred yards from where he works?”
“He does.”
“Crazy. What else?”
“He speaks a few languages. I could never pin him down on an exact number. His French is native level. His Spanish is flawless. I have hea
rd him speak Russian and he seems to do it fluently, though I don’t speak any Russian so I can’t really tell you. He speaks Thai. Some Farsi. Portuguese.”
“Jesus.”
“And he can fight.”
“And lose.”
“Not very often. He learned how to fight as a kid overseas. Started out innocently enough, or so he says. Says he was practicing some karate forms he had seen on a video and an ex-special forces soldier working security detail at some embassy invited him to train. Started showing him things. Kill and maim techniques, as Dan put it. As Dan bounced around from country to country, he moved from teacher to teacher. His family would arrive at a new destination and Dan would be practicing with the marines and diplomatic security personnel before he unpacked. He joined local dojos wherever he went. Trained in a bunch of martial arts and learned to fight with knives, sticks, and swords. Evidently, he had a reputation for being quite a handful as a teenager.”
“Interesting. But a little childish for a grown man.”
“Not if people are trying to kill you.”
Sue nodded.
Dr. Cathright yawned and turned away. “Anything else you want to know?”
Sue parsed through the thousand questions flashing across the screen in her mind. She settled on a less personal one. “You ever meet this nephew of his?”
“Conner? Yes.”
“What’s so special about him?”
Dr. Cathright fell silent, closed her eyes, and began to snore.
Chapter 32
—
Bent at the waist, looking backwards through her legs, the woman thrust her hips to the music. With her hair dusting the floor of the stage, she smiled at the barrel-chested Russian. When the song changed, she stood, spun, and threw one leg around the silver pole in the middle of the stage. Alex loosened his grip on the wad of cash in his hand and the dancer swooped in for another payment. The Russian had already financed three dances and was looking for an invite into the VIP room. On the house.
Like every good establishment where the bills are paid with disrobing booty, there were two main factors determining the success of the business. First, the place needed waitresses who were quick enough to fill drink orders before a patron realized a Bud Light cost fifteen bucks. Secondly, the dancers needed to smile. They stripped everything else. It was the only thing they had left.
Good Guys held residence in the second to last row house on upper Wisconsin Avenue, a block from Glover Park and adjacent to the Naval Observatory. The Observatory—an outdated scientific agency that had since moved its working bits to other parts of the country—was now home to the vice president of the United States. Rumor had it there was a secret path from the residence to the alley behind the club.
Next door to Good Guys, heading downhill towards the Potomac, was a sushi restaurant. The location of the sushi restaurant—with the strip club next door—was the butt of running jokes for customers of both establishments with regard to unwanted odors. While the owners of both businesses pointed fingers at one another during the summer months when the scent was strongest, the true culprit was two-hundred-year-old sewers that ran through Georgetown.
—
Dan walked into the bar and the bouncer stepped away from his stool to block the doorway. Dan flashed his driver’s license and located Alex by the time the bouncer read his date of birth.
Dan scanned the room as he approached the black t-shirt and jeans bartender on the midday shift behind the bar. “A bottle of Standard Vodka. And two shot glasses.”
“Two hundred dollars,” the tattooed bartender responded, reaching into an unopened cabinet behind the bar. Dan peeled off a stack of twenties and put them on the counter. He grabbed the glasses and bottle and turned into a topless waitress buzzing by with a tray lifted above her head. The waitress performed a pirouette and Dan admired her rabbit-tailed derriere in addition to her balance.
A moment later, Dan slipped into the empty upholstered chair next to Alex. They were both facing the stage, within sweat-dripping distance. Dan put the bottle and the glasses on the table. The dancer was focused on Alex, providing a full view of the goods and a lesson in centrifugal force.
“I wondered if this was where you were heading,” Dan asked.
“You followed me.”
“I did.”
“You’ve come to ruin another form of entertainment?” Alex asked without looking over.
“To share some drinks.”
“I am technically working.”
Dan pointed to the beer bottle on the table.
“Beer does not count,” Alex retorted, his eyes on the stage.
“At least you didn’t come far.”
“It is 703 paces from the rear entrance of the Russian Embassy to this table. More or less.”
“More or less,” Dan repeated sarcastically. He poured two glasses of Standard and held one in the air for Alex. “To your health,” he offered in Russian.
“To our health.” Alex took a sip, licked his lips, and put the glass on the table. “You know your barber is dead.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Frankly, I’m surprised you’re still alive.”
“I’m a little surprised you’re still breathing as well.”
“Me? I am Russian. I am official. There are rules. In the intelligence world, you don’t kill another operative unless you have reason. Merely indentifying a counter operative is one thing. This alone makes the operative ineffective. Once a cover is blown, well, it is time for a career change. Killing one? This is not good business. Kill one and you will lose one of your own.”
“What about the barber? He was not a professional.”
“I did not kill the barber. My guess is the same people who tried to kill you, got to him. Loose lips sink ships, I believe is the saying.”
“But you have talked to me. Probably told me things you shouldn’t have.”
“I have told you nothing about what is sacred to me. My allegiance is to my country. My fellow countrymen. Mother Russia. Have I betrayed those?”
“No.”
“Exactly. No, I have not. Nor would I ever. What I told you, well, it was not professional per se, but it was calculated. Perhaps I would get a slap on the wrist, but nothing more. Besides, at my age, I am in the position where I do more of the slapping, rather than being the one who is slapped.”
Dan filled both glasses again.
“You did not find what you were looking for?” Alex asked.
“I learned there is a plane being used out of the Manassas Airport. It has no flight records. No history. I know the size of the plane. The make of the plane. Yet, it still doesn’t help me find my man.”
“If you wait long enough, your man will find you. Just stop running.”
“You are the second person to suggest that. You know there is a tactical disadvantage to that strategy.”
“Indeed.”
“I have questions for you.”
“As do I, for you. Tell me about your trip to the barber.”
“He was not helpful.”
“But yet, he told me the same story he told you. And the information he provided me was useful. Very useful, in fact.”
“Maybe he withheld the good part when he told the story to me.”
“Possible, but unlikely. At least not intentionally.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m quite sure the barber did not recognize the good part.”
“How could that be?”
Alex took the full shot glass, nodded to Dan, and poured it through his lips. “As I said, you are not an operative. You are not in operations. You are not a spy. You are something in between. You fight better than a spy. My wrist still hurts from our encounter in the motel room. But what you do not do is spy better than a spy. Quite simply, I listen better than y
ou.”
“I still need your help.”
“Why should I help you?”
“Because you tried to help me before. Whatever that reason was, it is still valid.”
“Your failure is not a motivating excuse.”
“But you offered to help for a reason. You knew more.”
“And once again, you show you are something more than citizen Joe.”
“The average Joe.”
“Ahh. Even after all these years, sometimes those stupid idioms catch me.”
“Go on.”
Alex smiled. “You are learning. When someone is talking, or willing to talk, you listen.”
Dan nodded.
“As we mentioned before, the barber provided us with information we deemed useful from time to time. He was good with faces, remarkable actually. We used him to verify faces, identities. Generally speaking, when people come to a barber shop, they are coming to get their real hair cut. And of course, we have a good idea who is a CIA analyst and who works in human resources for the agency. I, as you can imagine, am only interested in operatives. Or identifying operatives. And I will use whatever information we can get.”
“And there was something more than his ability to remember faces and identify a toupee.”
“Indeed. As you are aware, our barber friend ran numbers.”
“A standard flipping opportunity.”
“People at the CIA should not gamble, but they do. The barber cut thousands of peoples’ hair at the agency. But if you are an average Joe and you can’t get to the barber during the work week and, let’s say, your barber had hours elsewhere on Saturday or Sunday or on a weeknight, you might go and get your haircut at an off-site location.”
“And you might learn there is an opportunity to make some bets . . .”
“Standard flipping opportunities, as you put it. Low-level stuff, but not without reward. You find a gambler, you find a drinker. You follow him and you find a stripper. A call girl. You try to determine what he knows that could be useful to you, or what he doesn’t know that could also be useful to you.”