by Slaton Smith
“Thank you Brian,” Sean said, after they left.
Brian smiled, but couldn’t figure out what to say.
“Why am I not in handcuffs?” Sean asked, in disbelief.
“To them, the case is officially closed. Plus, you are the victim. You were kidnapped. The woman at the hospital is a ghost – she doesn’t exist.”
Sean shook his head. Naturally! It was closed! How convenient!
“I think I am going to get something to eat at Doc’s,” Sean said.
“I’ll meet you over there. Your wallet and watch are on your dresser upstairs. You might need them.”
XX
Rock Bottom
Shadyside - Doc’s
Thursday Afternoon
Sean went into his room and his eyes were drawn to the smashed phone. He would clean it up later. He picked up his wallet and realized that he had exactly three bucks. He looked over at the backpack and dumped it out. The roll Sandy had given him was still there, but three thick stacks of hundred dollar bills fell out as well. He did a quick count − there was $75,000 sitting on his bed.
“Fucking Russian bastards!” he screamed. Sergei had stashed the cash in there. He knew Sergei meant well, but Sean did not want the money. Not this money. He stood staring at the money on the bed. It was more than he had ever seen in one place. He definitely needed it. He barely had any money in his account and few, if any, job prospects.
Now, he did have to go to the bank. He needed to put all this in his safety deposit box. He took out three $100 bills, put them in his wallet and pushed the roll Sandy had given him into his sock drawer. The rest of the money and IDs he stuffed into the backpack. He threw it over his shoulder, went outside to the garage and opened the door. The keys to the Jeep were in the ignition. Nobody would think of stealing it. If they did, the joke was on them. He turned the key and was greeted by the clicking sound most associated with a dead battery. Definitely, not being stolen.
“Come on!” he shouted and slapped his hand on the dash. He got out. He simply couldn’t win. If the Jeep had had doors, he would have slammed one. He shut the garage door, put the backpack over both shoulders and started down the driveway. His bank was on the far end of Walnut Street. He had a safety deposit box there. He only had it because he received a free IPod for opening a checking account and renting the safety deposit box. All that was in the safety deposit box was an autographed Roberto Clemente baseball. “I probably should put it in the house, where I can enjoy it,” he thought.
At the bank, he was escorted to a private area where he could open his box. The ball was there, rolling around in the metal box. He dumped everything from the bag into the box, placed the ball in his backpack and left the bank. The whole thing made him sick. Next, he checked his bank balance at the ATM outside of the bank. He looked at the screen, fell to his knees and put his head in his hands. He was speechless. People walked past him on the street and stared. The money he had in his checking account was gone. Well, almost gone. He had less than $700. Someone had wiped his account of all but a fraction of his money. He assumed it was Waters. He got to his feet and logged out of his account.
“No wonder Sergei was hell-bent on giving me that cash,” he said to himself.
He went back up Walnut Street and into Doc’s. It was empty. After all, it was only 2 P.M. on a Thursday. He sat at the bar.
“Hey Sean. I haven’t seen you in a couple days.”
“Afternoon Flynn. Been traveling.”
“What can I get you?” Flynn asked.
“Two cheese burgers, a beer”
“What kind?”
“Whatever is on sale,” Sean responded. Flynn laughed, and slid a beer over to Sean.
Sean sipped the beer and watched the afternoon reruns of SportsCenter. The food came and Sean decided to eat upstairs.
“You mind if I eat on the deck?” Sean asked.
“Sure. Go ahead.”
Sean took the burgers upstairs and sat facing the roof top bar. The sun felt good. He sipped his beer and took a bite of his burger. It was just good, not great. He needed the calories right now. Taste was secondary. He leaned back, slowly eating fries and looking at the clouds. He was lost in thought. He was pissed about Sandy or Ana or Andrea, whatever the hell her name was. Talk about a nasty woman. At least she was not pregnant! That was a relief. He was also thinking about his dog.
Two guys came upstairs to the deck carrying a pitcher of beer. They had on jeans and t-shirts, one bearing an orange University of Tennessee logo. Sean noticed it since you didn’t see many Vols in Pittsburgh. The two guys sat behind Sean and were carrying on about their last golf game. He quickly forgot about them until he felt a hard object shoved into his back.
“Sean, please put your hands on the table. Palms down,” one of the men said calmly. The second man circled around and pointed a gun at Sean’s chest.
“Can I finish chewing?”
They didn’t respond and Sean did what they asked.
“We just want to talk. That’s all. My name is Jack, by the way.”
Sean was silent. How could his day, his week, his year get any worse?”
“I know you are fast and that you might be able to spin, grab this gun from me and kill me and my partner. Please don’t do that. Take a look at the roof top to your left.”
Sean looked slowly to his left.
“Mike, wave to Sean.” A man from behind a rifle waved.
Sean looked back at his burgers. They were getting cold.
“Mike will cut you in half if you try anything. Please don’t.” Jack walked over to the side of the deck, peered over the roof’s edge and looked down at Walnut Street.
“Clear,” he said. He was wearing an earpiece, similar to what Sean had worn in Washington. Sean saw it now. Jack walked back behind Sean. Sean kept his hands on the table and did not move a muscle. Twenty seconds later, two black Suburbans pulled up in front of Doc’s. Four men got out and walked inside. One was a good forty years older than the other three. He stopped at the bar.
“I’ll have what my friend upstairs is having.”
Flynn poured him a beer. The man left $10 on the bar and made his way across the bar to the back stairs. He was dressed casually, but he exuded a subtle confidence. He had on boat shoes, khaki pants, a golf shirt and a navy windbreaker. He was carrying a briefcase in one hand. His hair was a shocking white and he wore a pair of round glasses. Two men walked ahead of him up the stairs. The last man stood at the bottom of the stairs.
Sean saw him as he came to the top of the stairs. The man looked around and tried to get his bearings. He smiled, walked over and took a seat opposite Sean. He put his beer down on the table.
Sean remained with his palms flat on the table. Inside he was seething. What now? How was he going to escape? He couldn’t. He was trapped. Trapped in his favorite bar. “There are worse places to die,” he said to himself.
Sean looked at the man seated in front of him. He looked familiar, but Sean could not place him. Now, four men had guns trained on him, plus the sniper. Naturally, this was distracting.
“Sean. You have been very busy,” the older, white-haired man said, taking off his glasses and placing them in a worn case that he pulled from his breast pocket.
Sean remained silent. He didn’t know if these guys were going to shoot him or haul his ass off, or both.
“I’m CIA Director David O’Connor. I would shake your hand, but my friends here advised against it for now.” He looked over at Jack as he spoke.
He took a sip of his beer and made a face.
“Sean, this beer is awful.”
“It was on sale,” Sean replied.
O’Connor smiled slightly.
“I’m not here to talk about drinks, but you probably guessed that.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“Price and Waters were an immoral cancer. I only became aware of their activities over the last eight months.” O’Connor said, not wasting any time.
> “Aren’t you their boss?” Sean asked, flippantly. Jack walked around and stood behind and to the right of the CIA director. His gun was leveled at Sean’s head.
“True, but they were very clever. They operated in complete secrecy.”
Sean looked at him with skepticism. O’Conner took another sip of his beer.
“Where’s Waters, by the way?” O’Connor asked, really to see how Sean reacted.
Sean, hands still flat on the table still, shrugged his shoulders. His expression was blank.
“Some bad news, Sean. Apparently, George Price died in his sleep. Tragic. I was really hoping to see him testify in front of a Senate sub-committee.”
Sean didn’t know what to say so he stared straight ahead. O’Connor was silent as well. The four men on the deck kept their weapons trained on Sean. The only sounds came from the traffic down on Walnut Street and a pile of leaves that had collected in a corner of the roof were swirling around. O’Connor took another sip of his beer and spoke.
“How do you like Sergei?” O’Conner inquired, knowing it would illicit a reaction.
Sean sat up a little straighter. He knew his expression gave him away. The pieces were falling into place in his mind. Not quite an epiphany, but close.
“I have known Sergei for years. I was the one who facilitated his defection. I was stationed in Russia for a spell. I bumped into his future wife at the consulate on the last day of her visit. She told me all about him. I saw the opportunity to make true love a reality and at the same time pull a real asset out of the U.S.S.R. He does work for me from time-to-time. From what I am told, he still looks like he’s thirty.”
“Thirty-five tops,” Jack added.
“The duplicitous little honey trap you guys put together was something else,” Sean jabbed.
“That was their plan. Not mine. I have known Ana since she was a baby. I was very unhappy when I learned how Waters had manipulated her. I provided Sergei and Ana the funds for their plan and assistance when they needed it.”
“Like calling off the cops in D.C.?” Sean said, his voice full of indignation.
“Exactly.”
“What about this Nazi doctor?”
“Very accurate description, Sean. McFarland is in Argentina and as we speak, in the process of trying to sell technology that could be damaging to this country and our allies. He represents a tremendous national security risk and needs to be dealt with,” O’Conner answered, taking another sip of his beer. He winced after he swallowed. The beer really was quite bad.
O’Conner knew Sean was aware of at least some aspects of the situation. After all, he had first-hand knowledge of the evil that was Seamus McFarland. O’Conner took a long look at Sean and could tell the young man was hurting. It was written all over his face.
“Am I going to jail?” Sean asked naively.
O’Connor laughed slightly. Jack smirked and chuckled.
“No. No one knows what really happened here. The Pittsburgh police have closed the case. The people who blew in here were ghosts who were technically already dead. Waters pulled depraved souls out of the military that were on their way to long prison sentences and faked their deaths. He was repugnant. The assassinations overseas were so clean that INTERPOL has no leads and frankly, does not really care. Neither do the local authorities. The men you killed were unsavory types that no one will miss.”
O’Conner paused.
“In addition, it would appear that Waters simply disappeared. People like him just do that,” O’Conner said, turning to Jack.
“Jack, please remind me that we need to find Robert Waters. I think we need to have a conversation with him,” he added, sarcastically. Jack just nodded.
Sean stared straight ahead − silent. O’Connor opened his briefcase and slid an envelope across the table.
“What’s that?” Sean asked, looking down.
“Compensation.”
“I don’t want it.”
“You have $651 in your checking account. You don’t have a savings account and you have a safety deposit box with a Roberto Clemente baseball in it. Unless, of course, you removed it when you went to the bank just now. I would say you need the money.”
Sean was not the least bit surprised by O’Conner’s reply. He was now certain the man knew the date of his first kiss and the type of deodorant he used.
“Why are you giving me this? To shut me up?”
O’Connor laughed again.
“Sean, do you think anyone would really believe you if you did start running your mouth? Besides, you’re much smarter than that.”
“Then, why?”
“You cleaned house. We had some internal issues and you took care of them. Plus, we owe you a little bit for the other work you did for us. Like it or not, in this envelope, there is a number to a bank account located in the Cayman Islands. Funds were wired to the account this morning. What you choose to do with it is up to you.” He finished the beer and looked kindly at Sean.
“I really wanted to talk with you again, Sean. I think we might be able to work together,” he said.
“Not a chance,” Sean answered, abruptly. “Again?” Sean thought. He was really confused and racking his brain to figure out who this guy was and where he had seen him before. How did he know him?
“We’ll see.” O’Connor paused. “Oh, I nearly forgot. I have something else for you. I had him sign it for you.” He took out a copy of Theodore Rex by Edmond Morris and pushed it across the table.
“You sat next to me on the plane,” Sean said, finally putting it together and remembering the conversation.
“Yes. Ana convinced her father and he convinced me that you were worth saving. I wanted to see for myself before committing. Obviously, I agree with them.”
Sean wanted to scratch the scar on his neck but was afraid he might get shot in the process.
“How did it go with Jennifer, by the way?” he asked, as he stood up.
“Nowhere, Ana beat her up.”
“That sounds about right.” He turned to leave.
“I’ll take care of McFarland,” Sean blurted out. He felt that he needed to finish this. Director O’Conner turned around.
“Oh? I thought you didn’t want to work with me?”
“I need a favor first,” Sean said. The director stood where he was. Jack looked over at the O’Conner, slightly surprised. Only the President makes demands on the director – nobody else.
“I just handed you an envelope. That should cover it.”
“My friend has been trying to get into the FBI. He’s a good cop. If you . . . .”
“Ippolito. I know who he is. I am CIA . . . .”
“Come on. It’s not like you work in the mailroom. You can at least make a call,” Sean pleaded.
“I will take care of it. We’ll be in touch,” he said, turned and walked away.
Sean left his hands on the table. All of the men, except Jack accompanied the director. Jack stood looking at Sean. He kind of felt sorry for him. Jack tucked the gun into his waistband, took the pitcher off the table behind Sean, brought it over and sat down.
“I’m Jack Taggert. I think we are going to be seeing a lot of each other,” he said extending his hand. Jack was a couple inches shorter and about twenty pounds lighter than Sean. He had a stubbly beard and blonde hair that was about a month overdue for a cut. Coupled with the orange t-shirt, he looked like a regular guy. Of course, he was far from regular. Sean now recognized him as one of the men that met O’Connor at the airport.
“Can I move?”
“Yeah, you can move.”
Sean shook his hand.
“Where’s your gun?” Sean asked.
“We’re friends here. I put it away,” Jack answered, holding up his hands.
“I guess.” Sean said, exhaling.
“So you met Sergei?” Jack asked, taking a fry off of Sean’s plate.
“Yeah. Help yourself, by the way,” Sean said sarcastically.
“Thanks! I h
ave not really eaten today. They never let me eat,” he said, grabbing another fry.
“He’s hard core. We trained with him. I thought he was going to kill us all,” Jack added.
“Probably would, if given the chance,” Sean replied.
Jack stood, looked down at Sean and snatched another couple of fries.
“You’re a good guy, Sean. Enjoy the beer today. It’s on Delta.” He turned and started to walk away and quickly spun around.