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 quickly 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 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 kind 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 carefully-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, 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?”
So much for his vision of how a clandestine rendezvous would work.
“Head to the main boulevard three blocks north and make a left towards 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 sea. 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.
She listened for any sound, but heard nothing. Then a voice from inside, barely audible, but distinctive.
“It’s open.”
Reaching down to twist the knob, she took a deep breath. After three years and traveling halfway around the world, the moment of truth had finally arrived.
Jet stepped into the dimly-lit entry foyer and closed the door behind her. David’s voice called to her from the living room.
“Lock it.”
She did as instructed, then turned, moving to where he was waiting for her.
Sunlight filtered in through the translucent curtain, framing David’s silhouette as he sat in an easy chair, facing her, holding a Glock. Next to him was a computer screen with two application windows open, grainy images of the front and rear of the building flickering — Rani’s amateur security system, she presumed. She squinted and raised her hand to remove her hat and sunglasses — he motioned with the gun.
“Slowly.”
She took the glasses off, dropping them on the coffee table that sat between them.
“Nice to see you, too,” she said. “Now what?”
“That depends. What brings you to my neck of the woods?”
“I was attacked. I want answers.”
“Well, we have that in common.” He regarded the couch to her right. “Sit down.” Not so much an invitation as an order.
She did as instructed and took in his appearance. His face was pale and drawn, but other than that, he was the same David she’d last seen — a few days before she’d disappeared in a bright flash on the streets of Algiers.
“How did you think to find me through Rani?”
“I went by the safe house. Cops and army everywhere. Figured you’d need a friend.” She shrugged. “Which you do, from where I’m sitting.”
“Ah.”
“How long are you going to point that thing at me like I’m here to kill you?”
“Until I know you aren’t here to kill me.”
“David. Please. If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead. All due respect, you’re no match for me in the field.” She smiled tentatively. “So why don’t we cut the bullshit and you tell me what’s going on?”
The pistol wavered, then he put it on the arm of his chair and sighed, closing his eyes. He’d obviously used up considerable resources just holding it on her.
“You look like shit. How badly wounded are you?” she asked.
“Bad enough. Got hit in the stomach. I didn’t need those three feet of intestines anyway, I guess. Rani stitched me back up and says I’ll be good as new, soon.”
“Who did this to you, David?”
He shook his head. “A good question. I have my suspicions.”
“I was in Yemen. Rain’s flat exploded while I was standing outside of it.”
“You were in Yemen? Ah, then that’s how you knew about the safe house,” David said, calculating rapidly.
“Yes.”
“I saw on the news about your adventure on the island. Looks like you took enough scalps to make them think twice about the wisdom of coming after you, though.”
“That’s why I’m here, David. I want to know who’s after me, and why, and how they found out I’m still alive. The only one who knew was you.” She spoke evenly, no inflection, but the accusation hung in the air all the same.
He opened his eyes. “That’s true. And I have an apology to make. I was stupid and sentimental. Careless. I’m sorry. I should have known better…” His voice lost volume as he visibly deflated right in front of her. His last words trailed off, and his head sank onto his chest.
She rose and moved to his side, surreptitiously slipping her palmed knife into the back pocket of her jeans, then put a cool hand on his face.
“You need to rest. I’ll help you to the bedroom. We can talk later.”
He nodded, out of it, and she eased him up, supporting him as they shuffled to the end of the hall and entered the bedroom. She lowered him onto the unmade bed, pushing the
IV stand out of the way, and gently unbuttoned his shirt, avoiding dislodging the cannula taped in place in his left arm as she pulled the sleeves off. She hung it across the back of a nearby chair, noticing the bullet hole in the lower section of the fabric, the bloodstain obvious even after someone had tried to wash it out. His eyes opened with a flicker of pain, and she held up the end of the IV tube with raised eyebrows.
He nodded again.
She slipped the line into place and flipped the bag open. David’s eyes closed one last time, and his breathing became deeper. The stitches on the left side of his stomach were ugly, as was the discoloration around them, but his abdomen was only slightly swollen. She caught sight of a syringe and two vials and picked one up, raising it into the dim light so she could read the label. Morphine, half full. No doubt through the IV. That figured.
She returned to the front room and checked the Glock — a 23, she noted by the.40 caliber rounds in the magazine — then slipped the chain lock into place on the front door. Glancing around, she spotted a chair in the tiny dining room, which she quickly wedged under the doorknob.
The windows were the only other point of entry, but after a cursory inspection to ensure that they were all locked, she realized there wasn’t anything more she could do to secure them. She pulled the shades down, darkening the rooms, and after a survey of the refrigerator’s contents to confirm that there was enough nourishment in the flat to last a few days, she returned to the bedroom with the gun and settled into a padded chair in the corner, listening to the sound of David’s steady breathing: only slightly labored, any discomfort eased by the narcotic drip that was helping his body recover from the battering it had endured.
When David awoke, it was early evening. Jet raised her head and studied him from her vantage point in the chair.
He tried to get up, with difficulty.
“Do you need help?” she asked.
He nodded. “I want to use the bathroom.”
She disconnected the IV and supported him as they shuffled to the door. He gave her a pained grimace.
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