by Steve Richer
Barth grinned. “And still you came.”
He bit into his pastry and chewed without hurry. Shiloh hated that he was right.
“The only reason I came is because of self-preservation. I’ll never turn down an opportunity to safeguard myself and the ones I love.”
“That’s right, you have a man in your life now. Good for you. I never found that it agreed with me.”
“Maybe you just haven’t met the right man, Barth.” His eyes snapped up at her. He appeared as if he wanted to slug her but the moment passed. He took a sip of coffee. She asked, “Why am I here?”
“You have a mission.”
“Having a mission would imply that I still work for the faction. There is no longer a faction and I no longer work for them.”
“Simply a question of semantics, Shiloh. I still have all my contacts, faction members still have my name. Nobody can keep the earth from spinning.”
“What do you want?”
He took another sip of coffee before reaching inside his tweed jacket. He pulled out a thin letter-size envelope. He set it down in the middle of the table. It was so precise that he may as well have used a tape measure.
“In this envelope you’ll find an address, a meeting time, as well as $100,000 in bitcoin private keys.”
“This whole thing is bollocks.”
“It’s also time sensitive. The meeting is set for this morning. If you choose to turn it down, as is your right, I have to contact someone else.”
This took Shiloh by surprise. “You have another asset in Toronto?”
“Redundancy is more important than ever. We don’t want another screw-up like last time, do we? It almost cost you your life.”
She eyed the envelope. Even though Rogan swore that money wasn’t important, she knew that he was taking it hard to essentially be penniless, and $100,000 would be a magnificent gift to him.
“Shiloh, this is important. This is a mission you don’t want to pass up.”
“Tell me what it is, Barth.”
He rolled his eyes. “You know I don’t know that. I just relay information from one party to another. But I was instructed to stress how important it is to you personally.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Do you remember Mother’s Day from two years ago? In Naples, Italy?”
She inhaled sharply as that incident came back to her. A colleague – someone she had only met once but still a colleague as an operator for the faction – had been taken out by a car bomb after he’d refused a mission.
“You would kill me for turning down an operation when I’m no longer even obligated to participate?”
“The prospect has been raised. As you understand, other people make these decisions. All I know is that I have to convince you to go to this meeting this morning. What do you have to lose from hearing them out?”
She stretched her hand and took the envelope. Barth was right. What did she have to lose?
Worst-case scenario, she could kill everybody and leave without a trace.
Chapter 16
Rogan was speeding through the empty Seattle streets. He couldn’t care less about being pulled over but that didn’t matter, there were no police cars around. His phone was on speaker between his legs and he gripped the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles had turned white.
“Pick up, pick up…” he mumbled as the phone rang.
Regular office hours at the FBI were between 8am and 5pm. There was an emergency number because they were required to operate around the clock. It was his first time calling at 4am and he was surprised when he got a prerecorded message asking him to select the proper option.
Screw that, he thought. It would take too long.
He hung up and scrolled through his contacts. Even though the boulevard he was on was deserted, he was still careful not to run into a mailbox. He found the entry for Wendy Patton and tapped the screen.
It rang four times and he was already thinking about his next option if it went to voicemail.
“Hello? Bricks, you know what time it is?”
“It’s time to wake up, boss.”
“Geez, you really don’t know what time it is, do you?”
He ignored her. “We’ve been had.”
“What are you talking about?”
There was a strain in her voice and he could tell she was sitting up. Good, at least he had her attention.
“Rusty Brandt, he’s not just some innocent fisherman who got away.”
“What?”
Rogan went through a red light and swerved to the left. It was insane, he already had his superior on the phone and he had nowhere urgent to go, but at this point he was acting on adrenaline.
“His name is actually Calix Hargrove.”
“Whoa, start at the beginning. I’m not following.”
“I found a matchbook when I interviewed the kid earlier. This led me to this strip club in Seattle, very fine establishment. That’s where I learned that the Crystal Goose is actually part of a smuggling operation between the US and Russia.”
“What?” she asked again.
“Then I talked to the skipper’s son. Long story short, I learned that Rusty is actually the broker for this smuggling. So I’m thinking he’s a big part of why everybody got shot. Christ, if that’s even true! Maybe he scuttled the boat himself.”
On second thought, that made no sense. No matter how much you wanted to pretend to be attacked, you didn’t throw yourself overboard in the middle of the cold Bering Sea. And there still were the two South African gentlemen who had paid him a visit in the hospital.
“So you’re saying Rusty Brandt is in on it?” the Anchorage SAC asked.
“Have to be involved somehow, boss. So you need to contact the US Marshals right away and shackle his scrawny ass until we can interrogate him.”
“I’m on it,” she said. “Keep me posted.”
“All right, thanks.”
He hung up and sighed in relief. He felt as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. The ball wasn’t in his court anymore.
He drove to his hotel, a Days Inn, and went to his room. Intellectually, he knew that he should go to bed but his mind was on overdrive. Besides, he’d gotten a little sleep earlier in the car and it would sustain him for a while.
He turned on the TV to the Food Network, and was happy that the cooking show was a rerun; that way he wouldn’t have to pay too much attention to it. He cursed that the minibar was empty though. A bourbon would’ve been a terrific sleeping aid.
Instead he stripped down to his boxers and sat on the bed, leaning against the headboard and barely paying attention to the TV.
Okay so what do we have?
Rusty/Calix was a smuggler. No, a broker. He got paid handsomely to connect a bad guy to Samuel Poehler and his fishing boat. He was the middleman.
Why would a middleman go on a run himself when there was already an expert crew involved? Rogan smiled. That meant whatever was on board was extremely valuable or significant. It explained the extra money given to Poehler. Rusty had a huge stake in making sure the job was done correctly.
That’s why he had joined the crew. By the same token, Mandrake didn’t provide any fishing certification. That slimeball had given Calix Hargrove fake IDs so he would become Rusty Brandt and stay off the radar.
So what was the cargo being smuggled?
More importantly, why was the Crystal Goose attacked because of it? A team of South African hitmen had chased after them, in the middle of the ocean. Where it stopped computing was when he thought about their means of transport: a Mark V Special Operations Craft.
A fucking Navy SEALs boat.
That didn’t only speak of great organization but of great means. So Rusty/Calix arranged for the smuggling of something notable enough to escort himself and people had gone to great lengths to stop him. Stranger and stranger.
Rogan glanced at the TV. The host was biting into an absolutely insane burger, juices running down th
e corners of his mouth. He watched the show for a few seconds, allowing himself to calm down and giving him ideas about a future meal – mushroom cooked in veal stock with some caramelized onions and Swiss cheese, couldn’t go wrong with that.
He picked up his phone, about to Google the episode to see if he could get the recipe. But when he reached the search engine, he thought about the sleek black boat once more. He searched it.
According to the stats, the boat was built exclusively for the US Navy, with a select few allowed for export to Saudi Arabia. It wasn’t available for sale to private entities. The unit cost was $3.7 million.
He sat up squarely on the bed. “They’re not hitmen. They’re mercenaries.”
His excitement growing, he began searching for private military contracting outfits out of South Africa. There were several. From his research he learned that they participated in the various conflicts on the African continent but only one company jumped out at him as having the right capabilities: South Karoo Global Solutions.
But that still didn’t explain their access to a Mark V Special Operations Craft. Shit.
Doesn’t matter, he thought. One step at a time.
He looked at his watch; it was around seven o’clock on the East Coast. He scrolled through his contacts and swore when he realized he didn’t have Jason Vanstedum’s private number. So he searched the FBI website for the Assistant Director for Counterterrorism’s page and found his e-mail.
One of his assistants would undoubtedly screen his messages and he was certain that with the right header he would get noticed quickly. So he wrote a message asking for the FBI to look into South Karoo Global Solutions and any operations they had in North America.
Rogan became sleepy at last. The thrill of the chase was winding down now that he had looked into all his leads. For the moment it was just a matter of waiting for some answers.
He got under the covers and went back to watching TV. They were now making fish tacos with a creamy dipping sauce that made Rogan lick his lips. He was about to search for that recipe also when his phone rang. It was his boss.
“Special Agent in Charge Patton, how do you do? No one ever told you it’s not polite to call people at 4am?”
“Quit messing around, Bricks.”
“Who, me?”
“I have some news, it’s bad.”
At that, Rogan swung his legs off the bed and muted the TV. “What’s going on?”
“It’s Rusty Brandt.”
“What about him?”
“I called the Marshals to check up on him in his hospital room. He wasn’t there.”
“What?”
“He escaped.”
Chapter 17
Yorkville is the most exclusive district in Toronto and home to one of the most expensive retail space in the world. Amid the trendy shops and high-end brands boutiques were luxury condo towers. Shiloh was only a little surprised that this was where her meeting was to take place.
She was escorted up to the penthouse by a man who called himself a personal secretary, but to her he had all the hallmarks of a bodyguard. It wasn’t so much in his build as it was in his eyes. They were alert, constantly scanning the area.
The private elevator opened directly into the apartment. It was an open-space concept and she immediately calculated that the home had to be close to 10,000 square feet. Before her was a living room straight out of Versailles with gilded furniture and majestic chandeliers.
“This way, please.”
Shiloh followed the man around a bookshelf and into a smaller sitting room. It was decorated in the same style although the furniture had warmer colors like taupe and crimson. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered breathtaking views of the core downtown area and Lake Ontario beyond.
“Good morning.”
She recognized her host immediately even though she had seen him only once before. “Mr. Sulkin, how do you do?”
He put down his coffee and came to shake her hand. He was in his early 60s, his hair so white that it was veering toward blue. He had a sizable potbelly which stretched his black polo shirt.
He was a real estate developer who’d made his fortune cheaply building barely affordable condominiums marketed to young professionals who didn’t realize they’d be on the hook for the next 30 years, paying for something that would need to be rebuilt in 20.
He was a former member of the faction.
“Glad you could come. I don’t even know how to call you. I’ve been told you go by many names.”
“It’s the nature of the game, sir.”
“I suppose you’d object if I called you sweetheart?”
Shiloh forced a smile. “You can call me Victoria if you need to call me anything.”
It was the name she had used when she had first seduced Rogan almost eight years ago. It felt comfortable to get into the persona again.
“All right, Victoria.” He motioned for her to sit down on the settee as he took a seat across from her. “Coffee?”
“Please.”
The secretary/bodyguard left and Sulkin poured her a cup of coffee from the gold-plated carafe on the low table between them.
“Here you go, I have the beans flown in from Turkey once a month.”
“Thanks.” She tasted the beverage and she nearly orgasmed. “It’s delicious.”
The compliment pleased him and he smiled broadly. “Happy that you enjoy. I’m also happy that you came. I was told it wasn’t a foregone conclusion.”
“I don’t work for the faction anymore.”
“So I’ve been told. Still you came.”
“It’s not every day that I’m offered $100,000 just to show up to a meeting and sample Turkish coffee.”
“And it’s not every day that I pay a hundred grand for someone to drop by. But for the sake of transparency, let me say that I’m not the one who’s out of pocket on this.”
“You’re not?” Shiloh asked, taking the back.
“I’m representing someone, acting as a go-between.”
“I already spoke to a go-between earlier this morning.”
He smiled and shrugged demurely. “It’s a complicated world.”
“I can see that.”
“You know, the faction wasn’t all bad. I know the way things have shaken out hasn’t been exactly pretty but it’s not everyone who was in it selfishly.”
Shiloh glanced around the room. She had rarely met someone as wealthy as this having become so by being altruistic. She drank more coffee so she wouldn’t say anything inappropriate.
“We did a lot of good,” he continued. “By speaking to each other, by sharing our contacts, we prevented wars. We saved lives.”
“I know.”
That was the sales pitch that had gotten her to work for the faction in the first place. To this day she still believed it because the alternative was her having worked for international megalomaniac thugs.
“Some of us still want to make this world a better place.”
“And how do I fit in all this, Mr. Sulkin?”
“Someone I know needs your expertise.”
“That’s all the hint you’ll give me?”
“As I said, I’m just the go-between. I make introductions between interested parties.”
The secretary appeared around the corner and locked eyes with his boss.
“Good, he’s here,” the old man said, standing up. “Bring him in.”
Shiloh stood as well while a man shorter than she was came in. He was in his 40s and Hispanic, crow’s feet around his eyes telling her that he was someone who smiled a lot.
“Ricardo, welcome!”
Sulkin embraced him and the new guest kissed him on both cheeks. The older man was uncomfortable with this but he didn’t say anything.
“So good to see you, my friend! Is this the person you were telling me about?”
“Yes, she calls herself Victoria.” He turned to Shiloh. “This is my good friend Ricardo Vazquez.”
“Excellent!”
His English was very good. Upon closer inspection, she decided that he was also a wealthy man. His watch was an Audemars Piguet Royal Oak Offshore which retailed starting at $25,000. His clothes – dark trousers and blazer – were tailor-made. Even his haircut looked expensive.
“How do you do?” she said, shaking his hand.
“I’ll leave the two of you to your business,” Sulkin began, making his way out. “Ricardo, I’ll see you for squash later?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
They smiled and waved goodbye to each other. Shiloh almost rolled her eyes, they acted like a couple in love.
She sat back down while Vazquez sat where their host had been before. She grabbed her coffee again, anything to gain some sort of control over the situation.
“Coffee?” she offered. “Mr. Sulkin has it flown in from Turkey.”
He grinned at her words but didn’t instantly reply.
“I was told you were fast and effective.”
She cocked her head to the side and pouted. “You make me sound like laundry detergent.”
“Well, apparently you do have some cleaning skills.”
This stopped Shiloh cold. She put her coffee down. In her line of business, cleaning meant killing.
“I’m out, Mr. Vazquez. I’m no longer associated with the faction and in reality I’m retired. Here, you can have this back.”
She pulled out the envelope of bitcoin private keys and handed it to him. He crossed his arms in defiance and so she dropped the envelope on the table.
“This is not a situation you want to walk away from, Victoria.”
She stood up. “I have some savings, I can afford to walk away from this money.”
“The $100,000 was simply to get you here. What I need to talk to you about is much more valuable.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“You need to assassinate Senator Patrick Stoll.”
“I have to give you points for candor but I don’t do this sort of work anymore.”
She started walking out of the sitting room.
“Victoria, you’re in a relationship with an FBI agent called Rogan Bricks, yes?”
This stopped her in her tracks. “What?”
“Killing this politician is the only way you can save your boyfriend’s life.”