Headhunters

by Charlie Cole

  “I need to make some calls,” I said. “I’ll be discreet, but we need to try to find a way out of this. You mentioned the way I sit with my back to the wall and you’re right, I do that. But look at the picture above me. With the light coming in, you can see the reflection of the whole room behind you. Surveillance isn’t just about what you can see. It’s about what you can see without being seen. Watch the room for me while I make a few calls, okay?”

  Through this, Jessica’s eyes flicked up to the picture, took in the information, understood and applied it. At last she nodded and watched me work.

  I dialed a number from memory. It was a Virginia prefix. When the automated voice came on, I punched in a six-digit extension. The line was silent for a long moment, then a trilling ring could be heard.

  “Station V,” the voice came back.

  “This is Blackthorn,” I said, my voice hard. “Go secure.”

  “Authorize,” the voice shot back.

  In any other intelligence organization, my authorization codes would have been long since defunct. However, I had an ace up my sleeve, something that Randall Kendrick didn’t know. Or at least I hoped he didn’t know.

  Years before, the daughter of the NSA Director Jack Sinclair had gotten married. As time passed, the Director noticed his daughter was unhappy. Mrs. Sinclair spoke to the daughter and word came out that she suspected her new husband to be cheating on her. Director Sinclair could not directly use his resources to look into the situation, but if he could use someone disconnected from official channels, someone like me, he might be able to pull it off.

  I worked for Director Sinclair on a private basis for six weeks. It wasn’t difficult to find basis for his concerns. Sinclair asked me to rectify the problem and I did. I spoke to the husband once, showed him a digital video I had of him, explained the ramification of embarrassing this man’s daughter. He took my point well.

  His daughter is now happily married.

  During my time of private employment with Director Sinclair, he gave me my own authorization code, outside of NSA or Blackthorn channels. I used it now.

  “One moment please…” the voice said, then was gone.

  A moment later the voice came back.

  “Director Sinclair is unavailable at this time.”

  “It’s critical that I speak to him immediately,” I said. “I’ll hold.”

  “Director Sinclair is briefing POTUS right now,” the voice said. POTUS… the President of the United States. Fantastic.

  “Fine,” I replied. “Please have him contact me at this number post-haste after the briefing.” I left my cell number and rang off.

  “That didn’t sound like it went well,” Jessica said.

  “Not the way I wanted,” I replied. “But it’s a delay, not a denial.”

  I had to think for a moment, I cradled my head in my hand and wracked my brain for a number. I’ve been told that I have a photographic memory. Perhaps that’s the case. It’s always worked for me in the same way that a file drawer works for other people. I scan down through contents and associations until I can place something in context, then the information is there, right where I left it. The phone number came to me then, clear as if I was reading it. My fingers flew over the numbers. I waited for the phone to ring. The call was answered on the third ring.

  “Hello?” It was Alaina, scared and uncertain.

  “Alaina! It’s Simon.”

  “Oh thank God! Where are you?” she asked. I’d called her on the prepaid cell phone I’d purchased months before. In the background I could hear David and Melissa asking who it was and if they could talk. It still amazed me how kids could want to talk on the phone even when they didn’t know who they were talking with… that childlike trust… that trust we lose as adults… and I realized that I mourned the loss of that innocence.

  “I’m still in Chicago,” I said. “Listen, I’m going to come find you as soon as I can but you need to keep going right now, okay? Can you tell me where you are?”

  The question was out before I could stop myself. I didn’t want her to disclose her location over the cell phone. It was too easy to intercept cell phone conversations. I should know.

  “We’re half an hour away from the cabin on…”

  “Great!” I said, cutting her off. “Excellent, go to the cabin and stay there. That’s the best thing to do. You found everything I left for you at the storage locker?”

  “Sure, we’ve got plenty of money, food, gas… everything. The one thing I don’t have is an explanation.”

  I cringed.

  “I know, Alaina. I know. All I can tell you right now is that it has to do with the men that came to the house that day. But I’m handling it here. You don’t have to worry about it. Take the kids to the cabin and stay there. We’ll join you as soon as we can.”

  “We?” Alaina asked. “Is Jessica there too?”

  “Yes, she’s right here,” I said.

  Jessica reached for the phone and waved her hand in a ‘gimme’ gesture. I handed it to her.

  “Hi, Alaina? It’s Jess,” she said. I watched her, unable to speak, to stop her, to say anything. I watched her listening.

  “I’m going to take good care of him. I’ll keep him out of trouble…” she laughed then and I wondered what private joke they were sharing about me. “Give my love to the kids… yeah… give them a hug from me… okay… bye.”

  She handed me back my phone with a smile. I was dumbfounded. I lifted the phone to my ear.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “She’s so sweet,” Alaina said with real enthusiasm. “The kids want to talk to you. Have you got a second?”

  “Of course.”

  “’k, one sec,” Alaina said and I could picture her handing the phone over the seat to the kids behind her in the back.

  “Hi, Daddy!” they chorused. I could literally picture their little faces together with the cell phone between them, both talking at the same time. And I began to cry. Tears welled in my eyes and I let them fall down my cheeks. I missed them. Missed them more than anything. Jess saw my face and reached across the table to take my hand. I stayed there and let the kids talk to me, prompting them with questions, letting them cascade information over me about toys and videos and the car trip and fast food and playing ‘Punch Buggy’ in the backseat. I let them talk and didn’t bother to stop them or tell them I had to go. Eventually they ran out of steam and I told them that I loved them and would see them soon.

  “Love you, Dad!” they said and hung up trying to hand the phone to Alaina. If she needed me, she’d call back. I wiped my eyes and chuckled.

  “Ugh… Sorry,” I said.

  “You’re a good dad.”

  I smiled at Jessica and took a deep breath. I sipped the espresso and let it work its caffeinated magic.

  “I’ve got good kids,” I said at last.

  “Well, they got that way somehow,” she said.

  I shared a laugh with her and looked up.

  “What the hell…” I said. My eyes had drifted up over her shoulder to the television screen mounted above the coffee bar.

  “What?” Jessica asked, then realized I wasn’t looking at her, but past her.

  I stood, spilling my icepack on the floor. I stood and walked, unaware at the time that I’d lost my limp. My eyes locked on the television screen and I walked to it, drawn to it as if by a magnet. I heard Jess’ voice behind me but not what she said. I couldn’t look away from the TV screen and as I approached, the tension in my gut only twisted tighter.

  On the television, I saw a news report. The video feed was coming from a news chopper circling above a house. My house. I was at the television now, but the sound was turned low as a courtesy to the patrons. I glanced over the counter, found the remote and aiming it at the monitor, turned up the volume.

  “Sir, if you’d like me to turn up…” but I didn’t hear the rest, only the news report.

  “…reporting live from the scene of a grisly murder
. An anonymous tip led police investigators to this home where the body of a white male was discovered shot to death,” the reporter was narrating over the video feed, then the camera angle shifted to a reporter on the ground outside my house. The reporter was a woman, Asian and pretty. I used to watch her reports from time to time because she was easy on the eyes and professional and well-spoken. None of that mattered now.

  The camera showed uniformed officers outside the house as well as what appeared to be police detectives taking notes and talking amongst themselves. Then two men were wheeling a body out of my front door. A body covered in a sheet.

  “Police are withholding the victim’s name until notification of next of kin can be made…” the reporter was saying, but it wasn’t necessary. I turned back to Jess.

  “It’s Chris,” I said, my voice low. Her jaw dropped.

  “In your house?” she asked. “But— how— why?”

  “To make me look guilty,” I said. “The story will break soon whose house this is and then they’ll be all over us. We need to move.”

  I looked back at the TV one last time, ready to walk out the door when something caught my eye. No, not something. Someone.

  I leaned into the TV and pointed into the crowd of police officers, searching, trying to see the face again. And there he was. Ken Gibson from the Alexandria police department. He was here in Chicago. Ken had investigated the break-in at my house. Now he was here, investigating me.

  I dropped a bill at the cash register, grabbed Jess’ hand and walked out the door.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “A friend…” I said. “Someone I thought was a friend.”

  We got in the car, this time with me sitting in the passenger seat instead of in the trunk. I gave Jess the address where we needed to go and she agreed to drive. I knew she didn’t understand, but right then, she didn’t need to understand. She needed to drive. I dialed the phone.

  “Gibson,” the voice on the other end said, flatly.

  “Kenny,” I said. “How’s tricks?”

  “Jesus wept… where are you?” Gibson asked.

  “Well, I’m certainly not at home,” I replied.

  “Yeah…” Gibson voice was hesitant, unsure of how much to say.

  “Don’t worry, Ken. I saw you on the news. I know you’re at my house.”

  “You know a lot.”

  “I know the body you just pulled out of there was Christopher Swenson,” I said. “I also know that if you have the forensic examiner look at the body, you’ll find that the body was moved post-mortem. He didn’t die in my house. Someone moved him there.”

  “Someone?” Gibson asked. “Who? The boogeyman?”

  “Worse.”

  “Simon, what do you do for a living? How do you know so much about homicide investigations?”

  “I know that Alexandria cops are woefully out of their jurisdiction when they come to the Windy City,” I said. “So, what brings you to Chicago?”

  “You didn’t answer my question, but since it bears on this discussion, I’ll answer you anyway. I received a call from the Feds. This guy, he says that they’re conducting an investigation involving government secrets. Said that I’m close to a source. Someone who’s stealing documents. Selling them to the Afghans or someone. I don’t have much of a choice. My Captain tells me to catch a plane, I’m supposed to say no?”

  “This guy have a name?” I asked.

  “Yeah, it’s Special Agent None of Your Fucking Business.”

  “Classy, Kenny. Always classy,” I shot back. “Wouldn’t happen to be Randall Kendrick, would it?”

  “Now how the hell do you know that?”

  “I know people, Ken. That’s what I do. He have a couple of agents with him?”

  “Yeah, two of them. Look like a couple of steamers my dog would leave in the park…” Gibson said, aggravated.

  “They claiming to be FBI?” I asked.

  “They are FBI, Simon… for Pete’s sakes, man! Why don’t you just come in here and we’ll discuss this like a couple of men?”

  I shook my head.

  “They’re NSA,” I told him. “Watch your six, Ken. Things are not what they seem.”

  “Spooks?” Gibson asked.

  “These guys give spooks the heebie-jeebies. Just watch your back. They’re framing me and using you to do it. I never touched Chris. It was Vaughn… one of the agents, his name is Vaughn right?”

  “Yeah…” Gibson said warily.

  “He’s the doer. Shot Chris Swenson in the back of the head with a Glock.”

  “Now, how do you know that?

  I checked my watch. If they were tracing the call, they’d locate us soon.

  “Gotta go, Ken. I’ll be in touch,” I said and rang off. I could hear Gibson’s protests die as I disconnected the call.

  Jessica glanced at me. Her eyes searching for answers from me.

  “You know the cop investigating Chris’ murder?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that’s a good thing isn’t it?” she asked.

  “You would think so…”

  “Can he help us?”

  I thought about that.

  “If he believes me, he can stall Kendrick. Slow him down. If he doesn’t believe me... He might be able to lead them right to us,” I said.

  We rode silently in the car for several minutes. At last, Jessica pulled to the curb and parked the car. We were across the street from the LaSalle Bank.

  “Here we are,” she said, looking out the window at the structure. “Why are we here?”

  “I have to pick something up,” I said.

  “Should I stay here? Are you just going to run in?”

  I thought about the network of resources the NSA and Chicago Police Department could roll out to find us once word hit the streets that we were wanted. Patrol cars, police helicopters, satellite imaging, electronic eavesdropping…

  “Nah, why don’t you come inside,” I suggested.

  We exited the van and stood, waiting to cross traffic. Our eyes met for a moment and I took her hand. Our fingers interlaced and I smiled at her. Even in the chaos of the moment, we had more freedom now. We were outside of the company. We could be ourselves, be our own people without fear of reproach or reprimand.

  We crossed traffic and entered the bank. I caught the eye of a banking official and requested entrance to their bank deposit box area. After a moment, a woman approached us, and led us back to the proper area. She produced a silver key and slid it into her side of the box. I had the complementing key on my ring. We turned and the box unlocked. The woman excused herself and we were left alone.

  “What’s in there, Simon?” Jessica asked.

  I did not answer her right away. I pulled the box forward and it slid it out of its housing in the wall. I lifted the lid and looked inside. I had a realization then. Some people put the deed to their land in boxes like these. Some put family heirlooms. Others used them for diamonds or other valuables. I realized that I was not so dissimilar from those people. Because what I had hidden in that box was the most valuable thing in the world to a man in a situation like mine.

  I took the lone envelope from the bottom of the box and slipped it into my jacket pocket. Then I closed the box, relocked it and dropped the keys in my pocket. I turned to face Jessica.

  “Get ready to run,” I said.

  Chapter Eleven

  I don’t believe in gambling. Not for the ethical reasons. If you want to fly to Vegas or Atlantic City and flush your money down the casino toilet, God bless you. You make your own decisions. I’m no gambler. But I do believe in calculated risk.

  It was a calculated risk walking into the bank that day. It was a risk to walk into a federally monitored institution with security cameras when government officials are looking for you, but what was in the box made it worth it. I hoped.

  Seeing the face of the bank official over Jessica’s shoulder made me question that thought, however. Maybe the
risk hadn’t been as calculated. Maybe I’d only gambled and rolled the dice and they came up snake eyes and now we were sunk. But in the end, I think you make your own luck.

  “Get ready to run.”

  Jessica stood stock still, eyes darting.

  “Why?” she hissed.

  “The woman,” I said. “The bank officer. She knows.”

  “Knows what?”

  “She knows that we are not everything we seem to be,” I said. Then, “And I think someone told her.”

  I took Jess’ hand and started walking. I’d left the guns in the car. I didn’t want to attract attention and the metal detectors would have certainly given us away. Now we were unarmed and exposed. I led Jess toward the door and saw in my peripheral vision that the bank officer was talking to the guard.

  We were nearly to the door before I heard the guard speak.

  “Sir, stop where you are!” he said. He was a black man. Middle-aged and perhaps he’d been fit once. Shift after shift of standing in the bank had robbed him of that. Jessica hesitated, but I kept walking, keeping her next to me.

  The guard came closer, walking after us now and repeated his warning to stop. This certainly got the attention of the other bank customers, because I heard the noise level drop to nothing. The footsteps were louder, quicker now as he pursued us. Still I made as if I didn’t hear. The door was only an arm-length away. I felt the guard’s hand close on my shoulder.

  I spun and hit him in the throat with the web of my hand. He made a sharp choking sound and where his hands had been on my shoulder and the butt of his pistol a moment before, now both of his hands went to his throat. His eyes bulged as he struggled to breathe. I had hit him hard enough to take his breath away but not hard enough to kill him. It’s possible to hit someone in the throat so hard that their throat swells, even after impact, and eventually closes off their airway. I didn’t want to kill this man. I just wanted his gun and our freedom.

  I grabbed his shirt and spun him around. Off balance and out of breath, the man gave little resistance when I pulled his Beretta auto pistol from its holster. With the gun free, I pushed the guard and he stumbled toward the crowd of bank customers. They let out a collective gasp. The image of Bonnie and Clyde flashed through my head and I fought it back. This was no bank robbery. This was an escape.