Just Run

by Culver, Chris

  “I don’t know what to say,” she said, tears threatening to form on her cheeks. “The reporter’s gone. It’s over. We might as well turn ourselves in.”

  Trent looked back over the crowd on the mall, shaking his head.

  “Who did you speak with?”

  “Some woman. I didn’t get her name. She said she would talk to some of the other reporters to see if anyone was interested in my story, but that was just to get me off the phone. She won’t help.”

  “Let’s just give it a day,” said Trent. “We’ll see what happens and try to get another plan together.”

  Renee sighed and wiped a tear that threatened to fall down her cheek. She scanned the horizon. There were probably fifty thousand people on the lawn, but she felt alone.

  “Fine,” she said. “We can waste another day on it.”

  They walked for about a block and a half and stopped at a Holiday Inn behind the Castle. Rather than get a room, Trent whistled for a cab. They climbed into the first one that pulled up.

  “You know any hotels in Anacostia?” asked Trent.

  The cab driver put his arm on the seat beside him and turned around. He had a pockmarked face and at least a day’s worth of growth on his chin.

  “You sure you want to go to Anacostia?” he asked, his eyes traveling up and down both of them. “It’s not the best neighborhood for tourists.”

  “We’re not—” began Trent.

  “What’s in Anacostia?” asked Renee, interrupting him.

  The cabbie tilted his head to the side.

  “Bunch of people you don’t want to meet.”

  She was about to ask if he’d suggest another neighborhood, but as soon as she opened her mouth, Trent put his hand on her upper arm, stopping her from speaking.

  “That’s where we want.”

  The cabbie shrugged.

  “It’s your life, buddy.”

  He took off from the curb and weaved in and out of traffic. The area started out fine. They were surrounded by office buildings, restaurants and other attractions. Things went downhill relatively quickly, though. Row houses started replacing the office buildings. They looked nice at first, but then they stopped having window boxes in front. A couple of blocks after that, there were weeds sprouting through cracks on the sidewalks and in the cracked stone foundations of some of the houses. By the time the cabbie stopped in front of the shabbiest hotel Renee had ever seen, few of the neighboring houses even had windows anymore. Most were boarded up and ugly.

  Trent paid the driver, and they stepped out. Renee saw brown glass on the street from a broken beer bottle, and an empty pill container on the sidewalk. She looked at Trent.

  “Are you sure we want to be here?”

  Trent cast his gaze around, nodding. The cabbie drove off, leaving them alone. She crossed her arms.

  “Yeah,” he said. “In this neighborhood, the police will be more interested in looking for actual criminals than us. We should be fine.”

  She bit the inside of her cheek, unsure.

  “If you say so.”

  They walked to the hotel. The lobby was barely more than a cubicle, and the attendant was separated from potential guests by a Plexiglas screen. He gave them the option of renting the room by the week, the night or the hour. They chose the night. Trent paid him a hundred dollars cash; the clerk didn’t even ask for ID. That told Renee everything she needed to know about the place.

  Their room was on the third floor. It had a single queen–sized bed and a window overlooking the street. It smelled like cigarettes and cheap, cherry perfume. Renee didn’t want to think about what usually went on in that room or when it had been vacuumed last. She walked to the window and cracked it open for a breeze before turning around.

  “What do we do now?” she asked.

  “We wait and hope to get lucky for once.”

  Monday, September 16. 2:19 p.m

  Washington DC.

  Trent lay on the bed with his eyes shut. Intentional or not, Renee was grateful for even that small amount of privacy. She leaned against the wall near the window, staring at the landscape around them. Their floor was high enough that she could see trees from a park somewhere distant, and when the wind blew, she thought she could even hear a school bell. The neighborhood might not have been as bad as she thought when they first arrived, but it certainly wasn’t home, either. That seemed farther away than ever.

  She checked their cell phone for messages, but no reporter had called yet. She opened the phone’s built–in web browser and checked out the weather. It was going to be clear but chilly for a few days. At least it’d be sunny as the police chased them. While she had she had the browser open, she navigated to the website of the security company that tracked her laptop. It was a long shot, but sometimes even long shots pay off. Renee stood still as the screen came up. For a moment, her brain couldn’t form the words she wanted to say.

  “It’s here.”

  Trent stirred but kept his eyes shut.

  “What’s here?”

  “My laptop,” she said. “It’s here. It’s in DC.”

  Trent sat up but remained on the bed.

  “Where?”

  Renee pressed buttons until she called up Google Maps and entered the address.

  “Somewhere along the Potomac River,” she said. “It looks like a neighborhood.”

  Trent rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands.

  “It’s something to consider,” he said, yawning. “We’ll watch it for a few days to see if it moves. If it stays put, we’ll stake the place out and see what’s up.”

  “Why don’t we just try to go in and get it like we did in Chicago?”

  Trent shimmied to the edge of the bed and swung his legs off.

  “If you recall, Chicago didn’t work out very well for us.”

  Renee felt a tightness grip her chest.

  “I know that, but this is different,” she said, her voice rising in volume. “There aren’t going to be gangbangers with guns watching us this time. It’s a neighborhood.”

  “That doesn’t make it better,” said Trent. “We don’t know whose house this is, what the terrain looks like, or how many people there will be. Going in without a plan would be reckless. Even for us.”

  She clenched her jaw for a moment.

  “What do we do in the meantime?” she asked.

  “We wait and we watch. That way, we don’t get shot.”

  Renee wanted to snap back with something clever, but she couldn’t come up with anything on the spot. Thankfully, she didn’t have to because the cell phone started ringing a second after Trent finished speaking. She looked at the caller ID.

  P. Kirkland

  She scrunched her eyebrows, looking at Trent as she hit the talk button.

  “Is this Dr. Carter?”

  The voice was male and slightly high pitched. She didn’t recognize it.

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “My name is Patrick Kirkland. I got a call this afternoon from Beverly Whittenbacher at The Washington Post. We should meet.”

  Renee started to shake her head. She glanced at Trent. He stood from the bed and walked toward her, stopping close enough that he could probably hear her caller’s voice.

  “We’re not doing anything until you tell me who you are,” she said.

  “I was Brad Gibson’s source on a couple of stories. We need to talk. Trust me.”

  Renee shot her eyes to Trent. He nodded slightly.

  “Okay,” she said. “When and where?”

  “The National Arboretum, ASAP. Where are you now?”

  “A hotel in some crappy neighborhood called Anacostia.”

  Kirkland paused for a moment.

  “I’ll pick you up so you don’t get shot,” he said. “What’s the address?”

  She looked at Trent. He gave her the name of the intersection their hotel overlooked.

  “I’ll be there in fi
fteen minutes in a black SUV. Stay out of sight if you can, and do not talk to the police.”

  “Will do.”

  She hung up the phone and looked at Trent.

  “He sounds more paranoid than you,” she said.

  “Let’s just hope he’s not crazy.”

  Monday, September 16. 3:05 p.m

  Washington DC.

  The hotel’s lobby was as squalid as any Trent had ever been in. The flowery wallpaper was cracked and peeling, and water stains dotted the ceiling. He felt an uneasy pit in his stomach that his sidearm did little to dissipate. He shouldn’t have let Renee set up the meeting. She didn’t know what questions to ask or what preparations to take. They should have agreed to meet their new informant somewhere with witnesses, like a park or coffee shop. Getting into a car with him alone wasn’t only risky, it was stupid. If something went wrong, it would go very wrong very fast without much room to escape.

  Trent shifted on his feet and glanced at the clerk. He was sitting behind his glass partition watching television, not seeming to pay them attention at all.

  “Did the caller say who he was?” asked Trent, keeping his voice low enough that only Renee could hear.

  “He didn’t seem like he wanted to talk on the phone.”

  Trent nodded, feeling the nervousness build in his gut.

  “I’ll do the talking until we figure out who he is,” he said. “And if I say jump, get out of the car as fast as you can.”

  Renee shot her eyes to the clerk and back to Trent.

  “I think he’s trying to help us,” she said, her voice low. “He wouldn’t have come forward, otherwise.”

  “Sometimes people have funny ideas about help. He might think turning us in to the police is the best thing for us.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Renee, shaking her head. “He already warned us not to go to the police.”

  “Just be wary until we can figure out who he is and what he wants, okay?” said Trent. “I’m not buying the Good Samaritan routine.”

  “You’re being cynical.”

  “I’m being cautious,” said Trent. “It’s one of the things that’s kept us alive.”

  Renee rolled her eyes and looked through the front door. Eventually, a black Chevy SUV pulled to a stop beside the lobby. She looked back at Trent.

  “Let’s at least hear what he has to say. If you don’t like it, we’ll get out. Deal?”

  “Fine,” said Trent, not intending to follow that deal in the least. He held open the hotel’s glass front door for Renee and stepped outside. While Renee climbed into the SUV’s door nearest them, Trent walked around the car, glancing at the license plate as he passed. It had Federal Government tags. That wasn’t good. Trent opened the door behind the driver and climbed in. If the man who picked them up had been ten years younger, he probably could have been a model for Abercrombie and Fitch. He nodded a greeting at them both and put his finger to his lips, signaling them both to be quiet.

  “I don’t think so,” said Trent, reaching into his jacket for his firearm. He jammed the muzzle against their driver’s side. “Start talking. Who are you, and what do you want?”

  “Jesus,” said Renee, turning around, her mouth agape. “I thought we were here to listen and talk.”

  “He’s a Federal officer,” said Trent. “Doubt he mentioned that over the phone.”

  Renee stiffened, but she put her hands up in a calming gesture.

  “Just take it easy,” she said. “Let him explain himself.”

  Their driver shifted on his seat. His eyes locked with Trent’s in the rearview mirror.

  “This isn’t the place for conversation,” he said. “Relax. We’ll talk when we get there.”

  Trent twisted his wrist, reminding the driver that he still had the firearm out.

  “Drive. I’ll keep you honest along the way.”

  Their driver nodded and put the big SUV in gear. They drove for about fifteen minutes before Trent started recognizing landmarks. They were moving northwest, toward the Capital and other government office buildings. Trent nudged their driver’s side with his firearm.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Somewhere safe,” he said. “We shouldn’t talk in this car.”

  The driver glanced into the rearview mirror and caught Trent’s gaze. He mouthed “bugs.” Trent wasn’t sure if he believed him or not, but he nodded as if he did. They drove for another ten minutes before turning into a parking lot beside the National Arboretum, a nearly five–hundred–acre garden just five miles from the White House. It looked deserted.

  Trent climbed out of the car and shot his eyes around the lot. The tree line was about a hundred yards away on one side, while the welcome center was an equal distance in the opposite direction. Trent could see plenty of hiding places, but as far as he could tell, they were alone. Renee joined him beside the SUV, her eyes scanning the lot as his had. She leaned into him and turned her head so their driver couldn’t see them.

  “He didn’t tell me he worked for the government,” she said. “I didn’t know.”

  “We’ll see what he has to say,” said Trent, loud enough that their driver could hear. “If he tries anything, we’ll be ready.”

  Their driver put his hands up.

  “You don’t need the weapon,” he said. “Like I told Dr. Carter on the phone, my name is Patrick Kirkland. I’m here to talk.”

  “Then start talking,” said Trent. “And forgive us if we’re jumpy. “We’ve had a rough couple of days.”

  Patrick looked around the lot.

  “Can we walk?” he asked. “I don’t like standing in one spot too long.”

  Trent nodded and followed as Patrick led them past the welcome center to an area containing plants native to areas east of the Mississippi river. Eventually, they walked into a thick copse of trees, and, after about five minutes of additional walking, the trail widened until they stood in a forest glade with benches and flower beds. Patrick sat on a bench and motioned for Trent and Renee to sit opposite him.

  There were plenty of hiding spots in the nearby woods, but Trent couldn’t spot anyone lurking about. Even still, he wasn’t comfortable sitting down. It would make him an easy target. He crossed his arms and shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet in a modified shooter’s stance. If someone came running from the woods, he’d be ready.

  “Who are you and what do you know about Dr. Carter’s paper?” asked Trent.

  Patrick looked from Renee to Trent and back. He shifted on his seat, apparently getting comfortable.

  “First of all, I’m not an FBI agent like you seem to think. I work in Senator Breningham’s office. I only know of Dr. Carter’s paper because Brad Gibson mentioned it once. We were working on a related story. I think it probably got him killed.”

  Renee furrowed her brow.

  “I thought he was in a car accident.”

  “He was hit by a car, but I’m not convinced it was an accident,” said Patrick. He stood up and started pacing, not looking Trent or Renee in the eye. “You story is bigger than you think.”

  “Start talking,” said Trent.

  Patrick stopped moving. He stared into the distance for a moment, apparently gathering his thoughts.

  “I need your word that you won’t tell anyone what I’m about to tell you.”

  “Tell us what you know,” said Trent, cocking his head to the right.

  “I need your word,” said Patrick, looking from both Trent to Renee. “Or I walk.”

  Renee glanced at Trent. He rolled his eyes but reluctantly nodded.

  “You have it,” she said. “This stays between us.”

  Patrick paused for a moment but then nodded.

  “How much do you know about the people who own abbotpoker.com?”

  Renee looked down at her feet.

  “I did some research, but I couldn’t find much. It was owned by some company headquartered in the Cayman Isla
nds, if I remember.”

  “That’s right,” said Patrick, nodding. “Did you ever find anything out about that company?”

  She paused, thinking.

  “Nothing, but Bluffdale’s business librarian said that wasn’t uncommon. It was incorporated in the Caymans, so they had different disclosure and privacy laws.”

  “I’ll fill in some gaps, then,” said Patrick. “Abbotpoker.com is owned by Arman Fortunatov. He’s a gangster who specializes in arms sales. Four years ago, he sold a supposedly decommissioned Los Angeles–class attack submarine to Taiwan. We’re also pretty sure he sold advanced guided–missile systems to rebels in Chechnya.”

  “Okay. He’s a bad guy. We get that,” said Trent. “We figured that when he sent people to kill Renee.”

  “You don’t get it,” said Patrick, shaking his head. “Fortunatov isn’t just some bad guy. He’s our bad guy. Weapon sales are a huge part of US foreign policy. If we want to develop a relationship with another country, we don’t always send a planeload of medicine; we sometimes send a planeload of guns so our allies can blow the shit out of their enemies. When Congress doesn’t approve those sales, the intelligence community goes to Fortunatov. He’s our man on the ground.”

  Trent glanced at Renee. Her back was straight, and she stared at Patrick, her eyes unblinking.

  “How do you know this?” asked Trent.

  “My boss is Chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. I’ve seen the briefings.”

  “And you’re willing to share classified information with us for no apparent reason?” asked Trent.

  “I’m telling you because I got a friend of mine killed,” said Patrick. His voice broke for a moment, and he looked at the ground. “Look, Brad was my kid’s godfather. I’ve known him since college.”

  Trent looked to his feet.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. “Telling us doesn’t change anything, though.”

  Patrick shook his head before looking up.

  “Maybe not,” he said. “But maybe it will keep you two alive. I don’t know.”

  Nobody said anything for a few minutes. Patrick’s breathing seemed to become a little more regular. He stopped pacing and leaned against a nearby tree, his arms across his chest. Renee was the first to speak. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees and looking at the dirt beneath her feet.