by Slaton Smith
Waters got out of his car on the street and was met by members of Price’s security detail. The agents walked Waters up to the front of the house. The door opened and he was led inside. The agents frisked, wanded him and searched his briefcase. He was clean. He was led down the hall to Price’s study. The study looked more like cigar lounge than a study, and indeed it smelled like it. The back wall featured a large maple bookcase that covered most of the wall. Over the fireplace was a portrait of Price’s grandfather who was a congressman from Florida. Photos of Price and various heads-of-state were displayed on the other walls. A well-used bar was in front of a window that overlooked the gardens in the rear of the house. There was a chestnut leather couch on one side of a round Persian rug and a circular coffee table in the center of the rug. Near the left side of the table, a large cigar was burning in a thick crystal ashtray. Directly across from the couch were two matching club chairs. The room was completely silent except for the cracking of the ice in Price’s drink.
Price, as usual, did not get up to greet Waters. He remained seated, sipping an old, single-malt scotch from a glass that no doubt was cut from the same glass as the ashtray. He had on a white untucked button-down and tan pants. He was barefoot.
“Where’s the wife?” Waters asked, taking a seat in one of the chairs. He knew full well she’d had been dead for three years.
“She’s dead,” Price said, taking a sip of his scotch and glaring at Waters. Waters loved pissing him off.
“I am here because the wheels have come off our Patriot initiative.”
“Your initiative,” Price responded, instantly correcting him.
“That’s where you are wrong,” Waters said, with a nasty smile, reaching into his briefcase and pulling out a thick file.
“I think the Senate will see it differently when I hand them this,” Waters continued.
“You bastard,” Price said, leaning forward.
“Count on it. Your fingerprints are all over this,” Waters stressed, tapping the folder with his finger.
Price did not say anything else.
“Now, George. We . . . “
“It’s Deputy Director, or Mr. Price.”
Waters ignored him.
“George. We have two problems. The two best men from our program are loose, and what I mean by that is, we no longer can control them.”
“Why not?”
“The triggers are broken. The doors are shut. Number One is in Europe. He killed the entire team assigned to him, but not before torturing the team leader. He basically knows everything.”
“Shit.”
“He is not an immediate threat. His personality profile suggests that he will not come back to exact revenge. There is a high probability that he will try to market his new skills. Now, he will not think twice if there is a price tag on our heads. He is a mercenary, pure and simple.”
“So, we send a team after him,” Price offered.
“He’s not the greatest threat. Number Two, Sean Garrison, is here in the eastern United States and could end both of our lives with a level of brutality that you do not want to contemplate.”
“Wait, is this the man you people were calling the Garm?”
“Yes. We called him that for the way he eliminated his targets. Bloody. Personal. Gruesome. The Garm was the most ferocious and violent creature in Old Norse mythology and Garrison is the personification of that nasty animal. He has threatened to kill me and everyone connected to this program,” Waters paused, “Including you.”
“And this man is potentially outside our door? How did he even find out who you were?”
“He is being assisted by Anastasia Molotov. You know her as Sandy. I believe she is involved in a relationship with Garrison,” Waters said.
“Ah yes, the girl you are blackmailing. That is working out splendidly for you. And now she’s fucking your asset. Great work, Robert.”
Waters could hear McFarland’s voice warning him about assigning Sandy to Garrison. As usual, McFarland was right.
“They have killed two of my best teams. Four men. Garrison, like his profile predicted, is taking this personally and I do not think he will let it go. Two of my men were gunned down in a hospital in Pittsburgh. The second . . . “
Price cut him off.
The cigar was burning down.
“Jesus! In a hospital? The local police have got to be all over this.” Price said, running his hand through his thin, grey hair.
“I have it contained. However, there is one cop still poking around,” Waters said, looking for the answer he wanted.
“Eliminate him,” Price said, without even a moment’s thought.
Waters nodded. It was what he needed to hear. He would contact John.
Price leaned back expecting the meeting to be concluded, eager to get back to his drink and cigar, but Waters was not finished.
“I think she has help. It is my assumption that she has help from her father.”
“Her daddy?” Price chuckled.
“I would not laugh. He’s a former Spetsnaz officer.”
“JESUS! ” Price screamed, slamming his drink down.
Waters did not react.
“You purposely kept this from me? The daughter of a Spetsnaz officer is working for you and you neglect to tell me? Isn’t that kind of important?”
“It was not germane.”
“I THINK IT IS!” Price screamed.
“He’s a defector. I held exposing him to some unsavory people in Russia over her head along with the threat of her conviction in the assault of a classmate at Yale.”
“Anything else?
“He’s Alfa.” It was true. He was hoping everything he was saying would kill Price. He was getting overly worked up. Waters would love to see him topple over and off of that $15,000 couch and die on the expensive rug covering the ninety-year old hardwood floor.
“That’s just great.”
“He has to be nearly sixty,” Waters added.
“I don’t care if he’s a hundred. Do you understand who these people are? Shit! The girl’s father could kill me, you and the bodyguards in the blink of an eye. I don’t share your lack of concern.”
“I have a solution.” Waters said, calmly.
“It had better be a goddamn good one. You have the father, your best agent and her manufactured, blood-thirsty, assassin boyfriend mounting an assault against us.”
“It is a solution, but it is a bit unsavory.”
“Lay it out there. It can’t be any worse than what you just told me,” Price said, suddenly exhausted.
It was.
“We turn Oscar Pasco loose on Sandy and Garrison.”
“Who?”
“Number One,” Waters answered.
“I thought he would not enter this fray?”
“He will if he’s paid,” Waters said smiling. He had completely sucked Price into what he wanted. “Stupid redneck,” Waters thought to himself.
“We can’t risk contacting him directly. Way too risky.”
Seamlessly, a lie rolled off Waters’ tongue. “We won’t. We will leak the information regarding Garrison to a man that wants to see him dead and has the means to accomplish the task. Garrison killed plenty of powerful men. Men with families who want retribution.”
“This idea is against every principle the program stood for. No. There has to be another way,” Price said, shaking his head.
“The alternative is that Garrison shows up here early one morning, kills your bodyguards and slaughters you like a spring pig.”
Price swallowed hard.
“Who do you have in mind?”
“Prince Saeed Abdullah al Saud, the son of the man Garrison killed in August. He is more unstable than his late father. He has the money and motivation to hire Pasco.”
Waters walked over to the bar and picked up the decanted scotch.
“I don’t believe I offered,” Price said, looking over his shoulder at Waters.
“I don’t believe I
asked,” he said, pouring three fingers. Neat.
“Your insubordination is. . .” Price said, raising his voice.
“Cut the shit, George. I think we are way past that now.”
Price was thinking, “How can I eliminate Robert Waters?” Now more than ever, he wanted him six feet under.
“George, I need your contacts to pass the information to the Prince’s people specifically Ahmed. He was the father’s right hand and I assume he has taken the same role with the son.”
Price rose without speaking, walked over to one of the bookcases and removed several books, exposing a small safe. He entered a code, pressed his thumb against a small scanner and the door to the safe opened. He removed a small book, flipped through it, found what he was looking for, returned the book to the safe, locked it and replaced the books. He sat back down on the couch and looked at Waters.
“[email protected]”
Waters nodded.
“You have it Robert?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then we are done here.”
Waters stood up, finished his drink and looked down at the file on the coffee table.
“Oh, George. Please keep the files. I have a copy.”
He turned, left the room and was escorted to his car by the security detail.
He told his driver to take him to Ronald Reagan International. The charter flight would not do this time. The car dropped Waters off at the Delta terminal. He got out of the car without saying a word and walked inside. The car pulled away, but Waters knew it would not be that easy. He was certain there was someone else watching him. He went up to the Delta counter and purchased a ticket for the last flight out that night to Boston. He walked over to security, presented his identification and boarding pass to the TSA agent and moved through security.
“Mr. Price. He’s heading back to Boston. He just went through security,” a woman said into a cell phone. She watched Waters head into a newsstand inside security and pick up a newspaper.
“Good. Please have the second team ready in Boston to keep an eye on him.”
“Yes sir,” she said and hung up. She lost sight of him, turned and walked out of the terminal to a waiting car. The car left the airport and did not bother to circle back around to see if Waters came back out. Nor, did they leave a team to see if he got on the plane.
He didn’t.
Waters had a snack in the terminal, sat down and read his newspaper, then walked back out of the terminal and picked up a red Toyota Camry from Hertz – it was about as plain as you could get. There was no way he was going back to Boston. If Garrison was going to kill him, he would have to find him.
What Waters did not expect, was a second surveillance team. This team was not sent by Price. It consisted of one man, one who had decided to stick around the airport. He was prepared. He followed Waters as he made his way down Pennsylvania Avenue to The Willard Hotel.
Waters pulled up to the front of the hotel and was met by a valet, who took his car.
Seconds later, Waters’ tail pulled up and watched him walk into the hotel. The watcher decided that Waters was there for the night, so he let the valet take his car, something he normally would have avoided. The valet opened the door and a short man of nearly sixty years of age got out of the Nissan Altima. He used an old wooden cane to help him walk. He took the ticket from the valet, handed him a $20 and made a special request.
“Please keep this close by. I will have a second $20 for you when I pick it up. I would greatly appreciate the help,” the older man requested with slightly accented English.
The valet, who could not have been more than nineteen, seeing a chance to make an easy $40 under the table, smiled.
“That will not be a problem, sir. Here’s my cell phone number. Please call me when you are ready and I will bring it right up,” the kid said.
“Thank you,” the man replied, as he turned towards the hotel entrance.
“Excuse me, sir.”
“Yes?” the man said, turning to him.
“You wouldn’t happen to be Russian would you? I recognize the accent. I am studying Russian at GW,” the valet said, nervously.
The old man smiled.
In Russian, he quoted an old, Russian proverb that was also popular with Ronald Reagan, “Trust but verify.”
The valet was moving his mouth trying to say the phrase and translate it.
Then, again in Russian he said, “Tell me the meaning when I return and I will give you a fifty.”
As the old man passed through the doors, he saw Waters standing in line to check in. Limping slightly, the Russian walked up behind Waters. He used the cane to help him with his progress. He was dressed in a tweed jacket, brown pants, a tan shirt and well worn brown shoes that looked like he might have picked them up in St. Petersburg forty years ago. Waters did not notice the old man standing behind him.
The old man looked harmless. That was the idea.
Waters checked in using an alias and as he turned to go to his room, he bumped into the old man. Waters dropped his briefcase and the old man bent over to pick it up. He handed it to Waters, who did not say so much as a thank you and proceeded to his room.
What Waters did not notice was that in the collision, the old guy pricked him quickly with a small, specially designed needle. It delivered a microscopic tracking devise just under Waters’ skin.
As a bonus, the old man heard Waters’ alias and got his room number.
The clerk at the front desk saw what had happened and leaned forward over her desk.
“Are you ok?” she asked him.
“Yes. Yes. I am fine,” he responded, pretending to catch his breath.
“Welcome to the Willard. Are you checking in?” she asked.
“Yes. Thank you.” He felt for his wallet and a look of concern came over his face.
The clerk watched him.
“Oh, no. I am afraid my wife has my things. She will be along shortly. She’s coming from a party. Do you mind if I wait for her in the lobby?”
“Not at all sir. Would you like some coffee? I can have some brought over to you.”
“That would be very kind. Thank you,” he said.
He turned and made his way slowly to one of the wing back chairs. He leaned the cane against the side of the chair. “This certainly is more comfortable than Afghanistan and Chechnya,” he thought to himself. Exquisite marble columns supported the hotel’s soaring gilded ceilings. Antique urns filled with small palm trees created a soothing effect on the lobby. The hotel had done a fantastic job of creating luxurious warmth.
A waiter brought over coffee shortly after he sat down. He thanked him, gave him a nice tip and then waved at the clerk behind the reception desk. He took a sip of his coffee and then pulled out a phone from his breast pocket. He began typing.
1000: He is at the Willard. Room 612.
1001: Good. The devise?
1000: In place.
1001: I see. It is active. Thank you old friend.
1000: I can take care of this for you now.
1001: I know you can, but this is my responsibility.
1000: I will be ready when you arrive.
1001: Thank you.
The old man looked at his cane as he placed the phone back in his pocket. Hidden inside the cane was an eight-inch blade that he would not hesitate to plunge into Waters’ heart. He was going to have to wait, however.
He took a couple more sips of his coffee and pulled his phone back out. He dialed the valet’s number to bring the car around. He picked up his cane and hobbled towards the front of the hotel. The valet was waiting for him.
In Russian, the man said, “Well? What do you have for me?”
The valet smiled.