Deadly Odds

by Allen Wyler

  “Yeah, sure, no problem.”

  Arnold paused to blow a long, slow breath, slowly shaking his head. “Jesus, I hate this. Getting squeezed from all sides. You would, too. Besides, I just gave Fisher something so that should make him happy for awhile.”

  “Only if it helps prevent another bombing or killing.”

  “Shit,” Arnold mumbled with another glance over his shoulder. Karim was holding a white paper sack in one hand and a soft drink container with a straw poking out the top in the other, waiting for a break in traffic. “Long as we’re talking taxes, what’s the statue of limitations on income tax evasion?”

  Davidson raised his face to the sun and closed his eyes. “Three to six years from the commission of the crime, meaning from the date the return should’ve been filed. If no return was filed, which is the case with you, the statue begins to run from April 15 of each year taxes weren’t paid. Meaning that you’re still fully exposed on multiple counts.”

  “We’re done, Karim’s coming.” He leaned closer to Davidson. “I need more time. Fucking Jahandars know exactly what I’m trying to do. That makes it much more difficult. If getting inside were so damn easy, Fisher’s geeks would’ve been there months ago. Pass that on to Fisher.”

  Standing up from the bench, Davidson nodded. “I’ll tell him, but remember one thing. They’re under pressure, too. They know an attack is imminent. They need to know where and when it’s going to happen. And then they need to know how to find these bastards. Who knows how many lives depend on that. And I’m not being a drama queen when I say this.”

  “I know.”

  The gut ache was back.

  27.

  With the sun warming his back, he watched in envy as Davidson walked away from him with the easygoing stride of a man with few pressures, certainly not even remotely close to the pressure he was feeling bear down on him now. Arnold realized he was holding his stomach again and popped another Tums from a half-eaten roll in his pocket. Karim was standing ten feet away, facing the shore, toes of his shoes over the edge of the concrete sidewalk above the sand, his left hand holding the grease-stained cardboard boat while his right hand shoveled catsup-coated fries into his constantly chomping mouth. Karim turned to him. “You are right. Very good.” He tossed the empty grease-soaked boat into a trash can, licked his fingers clean, wiped the glistening saliva on a paper napkin before bending down to unlock the handcuffs. “We go now.”

  Arnold stood, massaging the redness the steel cuffs caused from his wrist. If he were bigger and stronger, he would try to take those cuffs from Karim and stuff them down the bastard’s throat. But he wasn’t, and couldn’t, so just shook his head and followed.

  Arnold backtracked the Jetta along Harbor Avenue South West to the onramp of the West Seattle Bridge, crossed over the tip of Harbor Island to where he caught the Alaskan Way viaduct heading north. As they approached the Battery Street Tunnel, Karim said, “Take the exit.”

  “What?” That exit would not take them north on Aurora to Eightieth, where he planned to cut east toward Greenlake.

  “Take the exit!” Karim waved repeatedly at the off-ramp.

  Arnold slid over to the right lane, turned on his blinker and headed down the off ramp, the uneasy feeling amping up in his gut. “Why? What’s up?” Trying for an unconcerned tone that was exactly opposite his present state of mind.

  “Go straight.” Karim pointed, as if there were other options here along Western Avenue. A half-mile later Western Avenue forked into Elliott Avenue, a row of eight-story office buildings buffering them from the harbor to the west, a string of various trashy businesses between the road and Queen Anne Hill to the east, some of the small buildings in the process of being destroyed to make way for concrete foundations destined to become taller, view-obstructing buildings. Urban progress at its finest.

  Having received no explanation the first time, Arnold asked again. “Where we going?”

  Ignoring the question, Karim used his little fingernail to pick at something between his front teeth. Finally satisfied, he closed his mouth, swept his tongue over the teeth, but remained mute.

  He pissed Arnold off. Then again, most things Karim did pissed Arnold off. Unable to stand it any longer, he asked, “Karim, where the hell we going?”

  “You will learn. Up ahead. The ramp, take it.” Referring to the Garfield Street Bridge on-ramp.

  Once on the ramp only two options remained: continue up to the Magnolia neighborhood or take the exit down to the Smith Cove docks that service cruise ships and ocean-going fishing boats. Soon as they blew past the down-ramp without a word from Karim, Arnold realized Magnolia had to be their destination. But why? Magnolia was a residential area with one small village-like shopping area of two or three blocks.

  Wait a minute… what about Discovery Park? The 534-acre parcel of land occupied most of what had once been Fort Lawton, an army installation originally built in the late 1800s to protect the Seattle harbor from naval attack. The government gifted a substantial chunk of the fort to the city for a park that now contained large, desolate fields and woods along the high bluffs overlooking Puget Sound. But with the park so immense, there were vast areas where no one ventured…

  Karim pointed for him to turn onto Magnolia Boulevard, a curvy street running the cusp of the bluffs on the way up to the south entrance of the park, making their destination a certainty. What’s there? A drop of sweat seeped from his armpit to slither down the side of his chest. Shit! At the moment, he couldn’t think of a better place for Karim to kill him. If that were the reason for the visit. Dump a body over the cliffs and no one would find it for weeks, possibly never. Coyotes would dispose of the bones within days. Or as the body rotted, the smell would be totally obscured in the obnoxious odors wafting up from the tide flats.

  Up ahead, the south entrance of the park came into view.

  “Where to?” Arnold asked, hoping Karim would tell him to take a right or stop, or turn around and go back.

  “Straight. Into the park.”

  Aw, Christ! Could he talk him out of it? Or was he getting cranked-up over nothing? He nosed the car past the entrance in the cyclone fence, followed the asphalt road through a right-hand curve into a spacious parking area containing only three other empty cars and an increasingly desolate vibe. This being a workday for most people, the area would likely remain relatively empty except for an occasional dog walker probably from the nearby neighborhood.

  “Park,” Karim said, waving at no particular space.

  As they stepped from the car, Karim pointed to the road they’d just traveled. “We go that way.”

  From the few sketchy details Arnold remembered, the trail would take them west to a crest of the property where a series of two-story peaked-roof officers’ homes looked out over overgrown grasses and blackberry vines rolling down past the now-empty parade fields and on out to the high, Dover-like bluffs above the saltwater of Puget Sound. Arnold started walking, Karim on his left, matching his pace, neither one speaking. What was there to say? Arnold casually glanced around to see if any other person was nearby, perhaps even a park maintenance worker, but saw no one, not even a dog. The park was so huge the occupants from the empty cars could be anywhere. And if he saw someone, what could he say? Hey, this guy is going to kill me?

  Another wave of gut pain rolled through him, causing him to press his stomach as they walked. They were cresting the hill now, exposing the expansive view to the west, out over the fields where he imagined troops once marched in formations, drilling, preparing to fight the war du jour. He thought he could even hear the ghostly clanking of tank treads grinding up the clayish dirt but knew it was only his racing mind playing tricks, maybe the result of wind blowing through the massive blackberry tangles bordering the expansive field.

  They started down one of three dusty paths heading west with diverging angles toward the cliffs. Several hundred yards to his left the southern border of the property was defined by a ten-foot cyclone fence h
idden by a row of tall pines. The path Karim chose curved northward, through one particularly high tangle of blackberries, toward a clump of dense forest. Arnold stole a glance at the smelly bastard, checking to see if the gun was in his hand. No, both hands remained empty, swinging in concert with his long lumbering gait, but this meant nothing. The gun could easily be hidden in the small of his back by the shirt he never bothered to tuck in. Precisely for that reason, probably.

  They continued in silence, Arnold’s legs growing more wooden and less willing to move the closer the tree-line grew. Unable to tolerate the suspense any longer, Arnold asked, “Where we going?” Better question, he realized, would be why are we even out here? Might as well hear what the steroid-bulked Iranian had to say.

  “You will see.”

  He considered a quick cut to the right and then simply running flat out, fast as he could to lay down as much distance between them as possible before Karim could draw the gun, aim, and squeeze off a shot. The greater the separation the more room for error, meaning the less chance of being nailed by a bullet. He’d done it once, so he could do it again. How quick was Karim with that gun? What kind of accuracy did he maintain? But as sensible as that option seemed, Arnold couldn’t build up the nerve to act on the urge, to actually learn the answers to those questions. Chickening out like this made him think of all the Jews passively allowing the Nazis to herd them into humiliating showers and mass graves. Was he now demonstrating his heritage?

  The path entered the woods and continued for another twenty feet before it teed into another path paralleling the edge of the cliffs. Ahead was a small clearing with a protective railing that allowed visitors a 120-degree westerly view of Puget Sound. Karim led him to the railing and stopped. The terrorist stood, three hundred feet above the crashing waves, shielding his eyes from the sun with both hands. This it? Arnold stood behind the large man, thinking, now is the time. Run! But once more, he couldn’t will his body to act on the urge. Something, perhaps a curiosity about why the terrorist had brought him to this secluded spot, caused his hesitation.

  Karim turned to him. “The money, what do you plan with it?”

  Huh? Of all the possible topics… The hell’s he talking about?

  Karim’s eyebrows scrunched together. “You are making good money with us. What are you planning for it?”

  I was making even better money before I started working for you bastards. So what? “You mean, how will I spend it?”

  Karim nodded before returning his attention to the view.

  “Huh. Hadn’t really thought about it.” True, he’s had other things to think about, like how the hell to extricate himself from this mess. “Why do you ask?”

  Karim turned his back to the panoramic view and sat on one of the rail supports and crossed his massive arms. “This life I am living. Is not my whole life. Soon, maybe, five years, I will retire.” A distant look settled into the man’s eyes, a thousand-yard stare.

  This conversation was making Arnold edgy. Why all the questions? What could his possible motive be? He licked his lips, glanced around again for other people. And saw no one. This some sort of diversion so someone, Firouz perhaps, can sneak up behind me when I least expect it to send a bullet through the back of my head? He licked his lips and wiped his palms on his jeans and ignored another butt-puckering urge to run.

  “There is a place,” Karim turned back to the view. He leaned forward, holding onto the rail, and faced the southwest sun shimmering off the water, the Olympic Mountains in bold relief in the horizon. “Is on the Black Sea. You know this Black Sea?”

  “No.” Arnold turned his back to the view to keep an eye on the path behind them just in case… This sudden buddy-buddy brotherhood shtick of Karim’s was making him twitchy.

  Karim hawked up a ball of phlegm, sent it sailing over the railing in an arching trajectory. “By then, I will have money for dacha, a house. You know this term, dacha?”

  “No.”

  “I live there, fish, maybe find a young woman who needs husband.” He shrugged. A who-knows, anything-is-possible shrug. “This,” pointing at the water, “makes me think of it.”

  Only the rustle of the breeze through the trees and an occasional distant screech of a seagull could be heard.

  For a split second Karim’s confession—so seemingly heartfelt and human—evoked a momentary warmth toward him. But just as quickly Arnold reminded himself, this is the man who shot Howie to death in cold blood. He stifled the urge to shout, “Where the fuck do you get off? We supposed to be buds now? This supposed to be a male-bonding experience now that we’re playing on the same team? Well, fuck that.” Instead, he said nothing.

  Karim remained standing, both hands stuffed deeply in his pockets, facing the view with a look of reverence in his eyes. “Where will you go with your money? You will stay here?”

  As if he simply assumed Arnold wanted to be someplace other than his life-long home.

  A warning bell rang in the back of his mind. Had Nawzer uncovered his secret bank account? Probably. He might just have burrowed far enough into his system to realize Arnold was moving the majority of his funds to hidden offshore accounts. Perhaps they assumed Arnold planned on disappearing before they could kill him. After all, he and Nawzer were playing the deadly game of winner takes all. If the terrorist could steal Arnold’s system before Arnold could steal his, they’d kill him. So this trip to the view-spot could be nothing more than a tricky way of interrogating him for information, to give them a head start in tracking him down if he fled.

  Interesting question, the one about staying or leaving. A question Arnold had repeatedly considered these past sleepless nights while tossing under the blanket. Leaving would mean abandoning all hope of ever finding out what might happen between Rachael and him. Also, Seattle was home. Always had been, and he loved it here. But the house and the neighborhood had been his home as long as his parents and a best friend lived. Now that Mom and Dad and Howie were gone… but what about Rachael?

  “Would you leave?” Karim asked.

  “Yeah. I’ll go to Tampa Bay in a blink. Anything to get away from the weather here.”

  “Tampa Bay? Why?” Karim asked with what appeared to be genuine interest.

  “Our family spent a vacation there a few years back. Loved it. All the boats, the nice weather, the sun.” All bullshit, of course. “Fell in love with the area. Wanted to live there ever since. Maybe get a fishing boat for the Gulf.”

  “You want a boat? To fish?”

  In for a pound… “Yeah, deep sea fishing. Marlin, fish like that.” In fact, he hated fishing, felt sorry for them. Catch and release seemed especially cruel. Anyone ever ask the fish what they thought about it?

  “I like to fish, too.” Karim mimed casting then stood very still, gazing at the water, sun sparkling off ripples, the breeze fresh and salty. After several moments, he stepped away from the railing and turned to head back up the path. “We go now. Just wanted to show you this.” There was a tinge of resignation in his voice that gave Arnold pause. By now Karim was ahead of him, not seeming to care whether Arnold remained there or was following, the distance between them increasing.

  Arnold expelled a deep breath and hurried to catch up. What did all this tell him, he wondered. And mulled that over as they walked. Well, for one thing, it meant Nawzer must be further ahead than he thought. Time was running out faster than he had predicted. He would have to finish his plan in the next day or two.

  28.

  They drove back over the Garfield Street Bridge in the opposite direction. At the bottom of the ramp, Arnold turned north onto Fifteenth, then immediately pulled into a parking lot in front of a single-story industrial-looking building with a sign across the top that read “Albert Lee Appliances.”

  Soon the hand brake was set and the ignition off, Karim clamped onto his right wrist. “Why this stop?”

  Arnold tried to pull free from the vise-like grip. “Jesus, Karim! Let me go.”

  “Answ
er me.”

  Arnold glanced around for help. No one. He jerked his arm again. “Let go and I’ll show you.”

  Karim studied him a moment before releasing his wrist.

  Arnold snaked a finger into the front pocket of his jeans, fished out a folded paper that he handed to Karim. “Here.”

  The Iranian unfolded it, stared blankly at the series of letters and numbers before returning it. “What is this?”

  Arnold turned the paper so they both could read it and pointed to the letters he’d printed in ballpoint. “This is my stove model,” and thought about how that might sound. He added, “My cook top, you know, the burners I cook on? The starter for one of the burners doesn’t work, so I have to replace it.”

  Karim seemed skeptical and suspicious. Arnold didn’t know what else to say, so simply reached for the door handle. This time Karim didn’t object and climbed out the passenger side. “I go with you.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Arnold walked out of the appliance store with a new igniter.

  29.

  Arnold drove the Jetta slowly along the narrow alley, bouncing over potholes. Ten feet from the garage door he braked, clicked the garage opener, and waited for the door to slowly rise in a screeching protest of metal against metal. Jesus, I really need to oil that puppy. Which only brought to mind the myriad other chores he never seemed to get around to completing. The door was going to have to wait and now might never get oiled.

  Seriously, what do I do all day?

  Easy answer: write software, play video games, watch porn and old movies.

  I should read more.

  For some reason he couldn’t quite identify, he’d lost interest in reading, both fiction and non-fiction. Now he read only emails and text messages, a routine that had started on the heels of his parent’s murder. Used to love crime fiction in particular, authors like Michael Connelly, John Sandford… but then, considering… Nope, he doesn’t read anything anymore.