by Dave Buschi
Proportionate Response
Dave Buschi
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission from the author.
Although based on some real events, this book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, businesses, incidents and events are the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales, is either coincidental or is used in a completely fictional way.
Copyright © 2012 by Dave Buschi
Cover design by Carl Graves
ISBN: 978-0-9839150-1-0
PROPORTIONATE RESPONSE n. (1) A reciprocating action to a hostile act that is based on the principle of proportionality and lex talionis (The Law of Retaliation). (2) A military counter attack to a provocation that delivers equally damaging results upon the initial aggressor.
“Every generation needs a new revolution.”
Thomas Jefferson
Prologue
Washington, DC
Late September (six weeks till the presidential election)
THE sidewalk was full of people yelling. They lined the street, holding their makeshift signs and placards. On the other side of the roadway was a group holding signs, as well. Except their signs were nicely printed in blue and red with pictures of American flags and the face of an American man.
No authorities. Just people yelling. How strange this place was. So this was freedom, the young man thought. His hands were shoved in his pockets and his eyes were darting furtively ahead. He maneuvered through the crowd, heading towards his destination.
The backpack on his slim frame felt heavy. He hadn’t gotten sleep on the flight. He’d tried, but the nervousness never left him. When he’d landed, the entire time waiting in line, he was afraid the customs agent would sense his agitation and single him out for more scrutiny. But somehow that hadn’t happened. His student visa had breezed him through. They had checked his bags, of course, but he had no need for them. In fact, he’d already disposed of them. The only thing he’d kept was his backpack.
The rolling bags would have encumbered him. He needed to travel light. He’d been instructed what to do. What transportation to take. How to get this far. Now he was close. The Metro—take the red line… fourth stop from the end. He’d already come almost 16,000 kilometers. Only a little further to go.
The Metro station had steps leading down. Trains here were underground. More strangeness; strangeness everywhere it seemed. The man was used to crowds. Where he came from that’s all there was. But these crowds were different. It wasn’t just the ethnic differences—the faces that covered the spectrum: all nationalities, all sorts of color. No, it was their expressions: the smiles, the laughter, the anger, the emotions he was seeing, all done out in the open, as if they had no fear.
Fear. That was a feeling he knew well. It gripped him even here. 16,000 kilometers away and he still wasn’t safe. They could find him. Their eyes were everywhere. Perhaps even in these crowds.
The young man hurried down the steps.
MONSTER spoke into his hand. “He’s coming to you.” His eyes tracked the diminutive Asian youth that was going down the flight of steps leading to the Metro entrance. The backpack on the youth retreated from sight. Monster didn’t follow him. His men would be waiting below. They wouldn’t grab the youth, yet. There was a chance he would take them to her.
Her. Marion Taylor.
Monster looked at the photograph of the woman again. Client 487 had not provided an address. Only this mark now. This Asian youth. Somehow there was a connection. Make him tell you everything. See if he knows where she is.
Monster had no problem with that request. Making people talk was his specialty. He would find out what the youth knew. And then he would introduce him to the buckets. He always enjoyed seeing the eyes of his subject as he told them what was about to happen. Some here… some there. Which piece of you should I do first?
1
Bethesda, MD
The next day
The phone lit up. No sound. Just a blinking light.
“Marks.”
“Hi… is this Leonard Markston?” It was a woman’s voice.
“No,” said Marks.
“I’m sorry, the receptionist put me through. I was hoping to speak to him.”
The voice was strained, anxiousness just beneath the surface. Marks inwardly cursed. He’d need to have a talk with their new receptionist. “It’s Marks.”
“Pardon?”
“Name’s Marks. You got the right man. How can I help you?”
“My name is Marion… Marion Taylor. I’m John Claiborne’s wife.”
The name Marion Taylor meant nothing to Marks, but John Claiborne—that was different; he’d been in their outfit. Five years ago the guy had fallen off the grid. Wife? He didn’t have a wife; not when they’d known him. Marks didn’t know whether to be pissed or concerned. He and his partner, Lip, had worked with Johnny Two-cakes for ten years. There was a lot of history there; the three of them were more than just work associates, least Marks had thought so. Not being invited to a wedding? Well—not exactly a mixed message there—kind of was telling him something.
Johnny Two-cakes. As a name it didn’t quite fit him, but for some reason that’s what he was called. Man was sour and dour. All business; doom and gloom to the extent it was actually funny. World was coming to an end. US was one tick away from becoming a third-world country’s bitch. Everything was a crisis—including the fact someone had stolen his tuna sandwich.
Lip had a field day with him. Maybe that had something to do with why they weren’t invited to the wedding. Johnny Two-cakes had left the outfit right about when they did, about six years ago. The lure was better money; private sector pay. Do the same thing you did for the Shadow Factory, but get paid three times what you made before. It’s what they all did. There was too much post 9/11 money out there to not be tempted. By 2006 it was so ratcheted up, even lifers were flipping and taking the juice.
Last Lip and he had heard, Johnny Two-cakes had moved to South America. That had been five years ago. That’s all they knew. No post card. No nothing.
HALF an hour later, Lip and he were meeting the wife.
They met her at the bus depot. At first, they thought times must have been bad. Johnny Two-cakes had brought in some decent green working at the factory. Looking at his wife taking the bus made them think he’d fallen on tough times.
Not quite.
“He insisted on it,” Marion said. It was the first of several odd comments. Next one was during the ride. Marion inquired where they were going.
“Our office. Not far,” Lip said.
“Is there someplace else we can go? Someplace just to sit, where there’s lots of people… that’s what John wants me to do.”
Lip raised his eyebrow. “Sure.” He looked back at her. “Starbucks?”
“That’s fine,” Marion said.
Lip looked at Marks and he shrugged; worked for him. “Don’t turn around, we’ll hit the next one. There’s one up ahead.”
TEN minutes later, they were sitting with their overpriced beverages. Usual sugar fix for Lip: mocha cappuccino with whipped cream. Black coffee for both Marion and himself. Black coffee gal; Marks liked her already.
She was across from them in a ladder-back chair. Marks and Lip had their backs to the wall where they could eye both exits; one up front and the other down a corridor in the rear. The place was halfway full. Weekday. Times were bad, or good, depending on how you looked at it. Lots of unemployed types, but they could still afford their four-dollar cappuccinos and skinny lattes.
Marion didn’t sip her coffee. Not yet, at least. She look
ed around, visibly nervous. She was in her early forties by the look of her. Trim, like a runner. Dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt. She’d taken off her tan blazer. Her arms were well toned; something Marks noticed when she lifted her hefty purse.
She hadn’t spoken much in the car; either she wasn’t the chatty type or she was internalizing something. Lip and Marks waited her out.
“You know my husband?”
Marks nodded. “We worked together.”
She hesitated before responding. “Where would that be exactly?”
Marks and Lip frowned. Not for the first time, a little warning sign flashed in Marks’s head.
“Why don’t you tell us why you called,” Lip said, adjusting his glasses.
Marion nodded. She looked around one more time, before reaching into her hobo-style purse. It was the kind Hollywood types were sporting of late—supple leather, expensive designer brand. She opened the flap and pulled a Fed Ex envelope from the bag. She slipped it across the table.
“I received this this morning.” Marion’s eyes were light brown with speckles of honey, just slightly darker than Lip’s mocha cappuccino.
Marks picked up the envelope and examined it. It was an overnight delivery. Priority, early morning. The sender, unnamed, was from Laurel, Maryland. 11600 Springfield Road. Both Marks and Lip looked at each other, knowing the address. More surprising was the recipient’s address. It was North Arlington, Virginia.
“That’s where you and John live?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
Marks frowned. His and Lip’s office was less than an hour away when it wasn’t rush hour. They were just outside the Beltway in Silver Spring, Maryland. For the second time today, Marks felt insulted.
They examined the envelope’s contents. “Is this all that was in here?” Lip said.
Marks noticed it too. The Fed Ex envelope was faintly bent in certain places, indicating at one time it might have held more than just the manila envelope that was inside.
Marion shook her head. “No, there was also a phone. A cheap one—one of those disposable ones? I used it to call you.”
Marks nodded. Lip and he knew the deal, just like Johnny Two-cakes would. Anything and everything was heard. Your only chance at discretion was to not talk. The next best thing was to buy disposable phones and just hope you got lucky.
Marks pulled out the manila envelope. Its metal clasp he noticed was already starting to fall apart. Doubtful that was from Marion. That’d be Johnny Two-cakes. Guy hated to be wasteful. Reused everything. This manila envelope had probably held some unclassified material at one time. No red stamp on it; no date, just blank.
Inside the envelope was a sheaf of papers. A large Post-It, the tablet kind with lines, was on top of the first page. There was handwriting:
Dear Marion,
I’m sorry, Honey. I’d hoped this wouldn’t happen. You may be in danger. I need you to be careful and follow the instructions I’ve printed for you. I love you and will always.
John
It was written in blue ballpoint ink. Johnny Two-cakes favored cheap Bics, which were pieces of shit. You had to press down extra hard with those pens and they left a slight indentation in the paper.
The handwriting from a cursory view looked to be a match. Johnny Two-cakes had a shaky hand, as if all that paranoia and nervousness in his slim athletic frame was spilling out as he scrawled. His handwriting, Marks knew, would be difficult to forge. Marks doubted they were looking at a fake. No, looking at this, he was pretty certain this was the genuine article.
Beneath the Post-It were eight pages of instructions. They were printed on ordinary copy paper. Lip and he read through them. The instructions were detailed. Count on Johnny Two-cakes to be thorough. Dot the eyes and cross the tees. No spelling mistakes. Full sentences. No fragments.
The syntax was consistent with how Johnny Two-cakes would write instructions. Instructions were numbered and in the chronological order that his wife should do them.
The short of it:
Marion was to leave the house. Immediately; take no clothes, not her purse or wallet. Nothing. Except for the clothes on her back—which she was to dispose of shortly—and two other things. The first was the envelope and its contents, which included the phone. The second item was a small duffel bag she should retrieve from the garage. Steps to find the bag were included. Judging by the numbered steps, it was well hidden. It also sounded like Johnny Two-cakes was a little bit of a pack rat. It will be behind the box that is labeled Wall Street Journal (Feb. ’09 -Apr. ’09).
Not a surprise, of course. The pack rat proclivity. They knew that. Still…
He labeled his boxes and saved old newspapers.
Marks had a sudden image pop in his head of endless utility shelving along a wall in an enormous garage. All with labeled boxes. Labels printed, not done by hand. That’d be him. Probably colored labels too.
He could almost feel Lip fidget next to him. This was priceless ammunition. No wonder Johnny Two-cakes had never invited them over to his place.
The duffel bag was described as being inside another labeled box: Washington Post (Aug. ’11 -Oct. ’11). It would be under the newspaper. The duffel bag contained cash; the amount was not mentioned in the instructions.
Marion was to go to Tyson’s Corner immediately. Don’t take the car. Use the disposable phone to call a taxi. The number of the taxi service was given. Use the small denomination bills in the white envelope, not the others, to pay for the taxi.
At Tyson’s Corner she was to buy new clothes (even underwear, Honey) and a large purse to hold the money. Use only cash for all purchases. He repeated that she must dispose of everything, including her shoes and keys. The only thing she could keep was her wedding band and diamond ring. Everything else must be thrown away, Honey. Please trust me on this and do not keep anything.
After she was fully outfitted, she was to then proceed to the bus terminal. Detailed instructions were given on how to get there from Tyson’s Corner, which at one point entailed taking the Metro. The bus number, and various times of departure were listed. She was to take the bus to Bethesda, Maryland. Arrival details (all options were listed), and other miscellaneous information were included. Johnny Two-cakes apologized twice for making his wife take the bus. (Obviously wasn’t a regular form of transportation for her.)
Marks keyed back on the hobo purse she’d bought at Tyson’s Corner. That probably set her back about five or six hundred dollars. That would be a lot of cash to dispense. She had cultured tastes, or maybe she was just trying to whittle down some of that weight. When she’d lifted the purse, it obviously had some heft.
Maybe twenty-two pounds, give or take? Twenty-two pounds and two ounces. That’d be a cool million dollars.
Judging by the small bills comment, the “others” were probably hundreds. If that was the case there’d be one hundred ten K bundles in white/green wrappers. That amount would fit in that bag, just barely.
More than once Marks had seen a briefcase with a cool million dollars. That was always a sight. Never got old.
No wonder Marion was nervous. Forget the cloak-and-dagger instructions. Holding that amount of dough gave anybody the willies.
On the last page, was the final set of instructions. Marks’s and Lip’s contact info was listed with their full names:
Thomas Lipkin.
Leonard Markston.
Thomas, not Tom.
And Leonard.
Johnny Two-cakes had done that on purpose. Marks was sure of it. Getting back at him for Lip’s antics. Guilt by association. Chuckling one too many times at Lip’s pull-my-finger potty humor.
Marion was to call their business number first. If they were out of the office, she was to call their cell phones. Listed were both of their private numbers. Those were unlisted numbers, and neither Marks nor Lip had those numbers five years back when they were still in touch with Johnny Two-cakes.
The last line of instructions wasn’t an in
struction at all. It said simply:
They will know what to do.
Marks read that last line twice. Nothing else. Just…
They will know what to do.
Fuckin’ Johnny Two-cakes. Messing with them. Making up for the countless verbal beatings he’d taken at the hands of Lip.
Marks looked at Lip.
“This is your fault.”
Lip looked confused. “My fault? What are you talking about?”
Marks looked at Marion. “Was there anything aside from the phone in the envelope?”
Marion shook her head. Her bottom lip began to twitch.
Marks inventoried the Starbucks for the tenth time. Even when he’d been reading, he’d been watchful, taking brief breaks, looking out of the corner of his eyes. The more he’d read, the more watchful he’d become.
He reached over the table and put his hand on Marion’s.
“Don’t worry, it’s going to be alright.”
The words were a lie, he knew. The whole envelope—words and their tone—didn’t bode well. Johnny Two-cakes may have been a paranoid one, but he usually had good reason. Was often more right than wrong—even with his crazy man hunches. In some ways the man was friggin’ psychic.
Out through the front windows, Marks’s peripheral vision caught sight of a car parking along the curb. He keyed in on the three occupants. The red hat of the driver clicked.
Car color: metallic gray. Older Mercedes. Red hat.
That combo had been at the bus depot when they picked up Marion. The bus depot was seven blocks from here. There was a Starbucks right across the street from the bus depot, and those three decided to pick this one.
The three men got out of the car and began to cross the street.
Marks looked at Lip.
“I think we’re about to have company.”