Just Run

by Culver, Chris

  “If this Fortunatov guy is such a big arms dealer, why would he own an online poker site?” she asked.

  Patrick sighed and focused his attention on her.

  “Money,” he said. “It’s his payment processor. The CIA can shift twenty or thirty million dollars a day to him through thousands of bank accounts, and no regulator even bats an eye.”

  They dropped into silence again. The story didn’t sit right. Trent shifted on his feet, shaking his head.

  “This doesn’t make sense,” he said. “If Fortunatov is using the website to launder money, he wouldn’t cheat his customers. It calls too much attention to himself.”

  Patrick nodded again.

  “We found out two months ago that Arman has lung cancer. He’s got a year or two left. Evidently his son Gregori has been taking over the family business. The kid’s reckless, and we don’t trust him. We think he’s rigging the games to squeeze as much money as possible out of the site. As soon as Arman is dead, the US government will seek a new supplier, and Gregori will probably have a car accident or a heart attack. He’s too dangerous to keep around.”

  Renee glanced at Trent.

  “So what was your part in this?” she asked, turning to Patrick.

  “Brad wanted to expose the whole thing. The deals, the finances—everything. He thought it’d win him a Pulitzer.”

  “But why did you tell him in the first place?” asked Renee. “If it hadn’t been for that, he’d be alive now.”

  Patrick cast his eyes back at the ground. Trent’s gaze narrowed as it hit him.

  “He told Brad because his boss asked him to,” said Trent. “Senator Breningham wants to be President. If she can tie the sitting President to a scandal like this, he’ll be impeached, making her the front–runner for the party’s nomination in a couple of years. Is that about right?”

  Patrick didn’t look up, but he nodded slightly.

  “Yeah. That’s close enough,” he said, his voice so soft it was almost imperceptible above the wind. “We didn’t think anything like this would happen.”

  “But why did you warn me about my paper if you just wanted a scandal?” asked Renee.

  Patrick didn’t meet either of their gazes.

  “Brad did that at my request,” he said. “If you had published, AbbotPoker would almost certainly go down, Fortunatov would have to disappear for a while, and the arms market would be thrown into disarray. Worse than that, there’d be a lot of reporters looking into it, and Fortunatov had a lot of important contacts who were sending him money. My office wanted a scandal, not an inquisition.”

  Renee’s shoulders dropped.

  “Where does that leave me, then?” she asked. “Are people from the CIA going to be looking for me now?”

  Patrick shrugged, but Trent shook his head no.

  “The CIA’s charter precludes it from working on US soil,” he said. “Their field assets are overseas.”

  “That’s a relief, at least,” said Renee.

  “From what you know, can we reason with Gregori?” asked Trent.

  “No,” said Patrick. “The old man, maybe, but not the kid. He’s stupid, ruthless, and has every reason to want you two dead.”

  “What can we do, then?” asked Renee.

  “Just run. That’s what I’m here to tell you,” said Patrick. “As long as Gregori thinks you’re a threat, it’ll be open season on you. And for good or ill, I doubt the government will be much help, either. Too many people have too much to lose. Someone will probably take him out eventually, but in the meantime, you need to disappear.”

  Trent sighed.

  “‘Probably,’ ‘eventually,’ ‘someone,’” he said. “Bottom line, you don’t know what’s going to happen. Is that right?”

  Patrick nodded slowly.

  “No, I don’t,” he said. “But I know that if you stay put, he will kill you.”

  Renee looked at her hands. She spoke first.

  “I’m tired of running,” she said. “I don’t want to live like this.”

  Trent nodded and glanced at Patrick.

  “Me, either,” he said. “I appreciate the meeting, but we’re going to stick to our plan. We’ll find her laptop, publish her paper and crack the story wide. Nobody will touch us for fear of confirming the whole thing. Your boss be damned.”

  Renee glanced up, her eyes grimly determined. She mouthed “thank you.” Patrick shook his head.

  “You still don’t get it. Gregori won’t go down without a fight,” said Patrick. “If you expose him, he’ll kill you and your entire families just for spite. That’s what you’re up against. Even if everything goes as you want it to, you’re still dead.”

  “What if he goes to jail?” asked Renee.

  Patrick shook his head.

  “It won’t matter,” he said. “This is the sort of guy who can reach through walls. As long as he’s alive, you’re on borrowed time.”

  “Then our situation hasn’t changed,” said Trent, glancing at Renee. “If we stay put, he’ll kill us. If we run, he’ll kill us eventually. If we expose this story, he’ll try to kill us from jail. You’re not giving us a new option. The outcome is always the same.”

  “If you run, you’ll live to see another day. That’s the payoff,” said Patrick. “That’s the option I’m giving you. If you give us enough time, our people might be able to shut Gregori down permanently.”

  “We don’t have time,” said Renee. “This guy killed my friend, and I don’t know how many other people. If he’s going to kill us no matter what we do, I say we cause as much damage as we can before we go.”

  Nobody said anything for a moment.

  “Tell us one thing if you can,” said Trent. “Does Gregori have a house on the Potomac River?”

  Patrick nodded, his eyebrows furrowed.

  “His father does. How’d you know?”

  Trent glanced at Renee.

  “Your laptop is at Gregori’s house. I think we should get it.”

  Monday, September 16. 3:53 p.m

  Washington DC.

  Renee cocked her head to the side, her brow furrowed.

  “I’m all up for taking it to this guy while we can,” she said. “But I don’t think we’re at the point where we have to consider a kamikaze run.”

  Trent held up a hand.

  “That’s not what I’m planning,” he said. “Gregori expects us to show up. What if his father shows up, instead?”

  Renee shrugged.

  “They have a family heart–to–heart talk?” she asked. “My father gambled professionally. I was raised by the TV and a hotel maid. I don’t know how most families work.”

  Patrick shook his head.

  “From what I’ve heard, Arman Fortunatov is more likely to settle his family squabbles with a shotgun than a speech,” he said, glancing from Renee to Trent. “If he finds out what his son is doing on AbbotPoker, there will be blood.”

  Renee nodded slowly.

  “So we let them kill each other?” she asked.

  Trent nodded.

  “And after they do that, we get your laptop. You said it has a GPS transmitter on it; we should be able to track it within a few meters.”

  Renee’s insides twisted. On the one hand, she liked the idea of actually doing something rather than running, but Trent’s plan seemed just one step removed from stupidly dangerous. Even overlooking the very real possibility that it would get one or both of them killed, though, there was one practical issue Trent hadn’t mentioned yet.

  “How do you propose we convince Arman to go to the house?” she asked.

  Trent glanced at Patrick.

  “We don’t,” he said. “Patrick will do that for us.”

  Patrick shook his head and put his hands up defensively.

  “I’ve never met the guy,” he said. “And I have no idea how to get in touch with him.”

  “I bet you know people who do, though.” />
  He scratched his head and furrowed his brow.

  “Maybe, but I don’t think you understand what you’re asking,” he said. “The people who can contact Fortunatov aren’t the sort of people willing to do favors out of the goodness of their hearts. They’ll want something, and I don’t have anything to give them.”

  “Sure you do,” said Trent, crossing his arms. “You’re the aide of a very powerful Senator on the board that appropriates the intelligence community’s budget. Offer face time with your boss. I can almost guarantee you that you’ll have takers.”

  Patrick shook his head, his eyes distant.

  “My boss is going to be President one day. She doesn’t give appointments to whoever happens to do her a favor. It doesn’t work like that.”

  Trent took a step forward, cocking his head to the side, looming over Patrick.

  “I don’t care how it usually works,” said Trent. “Dr. Carter and I are in this mess because your boss and her coworkers did nothing while the people you were supposed to be watching did whatever the hell they wanted. If you don’t work with us, we’ll march to The Washington Post’s headquarters and tell the first reporter we can find everything you’ve told us.”

  “But you gave me your word,” said Patrick, a disbelieving look in his eyes.

  Trent cocked his head downward.

  “And you and your boss swore an oath to defend the constitution,” said Trent. “Looks like we’re all liars.”

  The two men stared at each other for another moment.

  “We gave you our word, and we won’t go back on that,” she said a moment later. “But Trent’s right. We’re in this mess, at least partially, because of you and your boss. Please help us.”

  Patrick’s nostrils flared as he breathed. He looked away, clearly pissed.

  “Fine,” he said. “I’ll do what I can.”

  “That’s all we’re asking,” said Renee, her shoulders relaxing. She breathed deeply and took her hand from Trent’s chest as he took a step back. Eventually, Patrick sat down and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

  “Assuming I can set up a meeting,” he said. “How are you going to get into the house?”

  “We’ll figure it out,” said Trent, glaring at him.

  “I’m doing you two a favor,” said Patrick. “I don’t need the attitude.”

  Trent rolled his eyes.

  “Bullshit,” he said. “This isn’t about doing us a favor. It’s about you soothing a deservedly guilty conscience.”

  Patrick closed his eyes.

  “Do you want my help or not?” he asked.

  Before Trent could say no, Renee stepped forward.

  “We definitely want it,” she said. She glanced at Trent. “Trent and I have been through a lot lately. We don’t mean to be rude.”

  Trent opened his mouth to say something, but she stepped on his foot and glared at him, stopping him. He nodded.

  “She’s right. I didn’t mean to be rude,” he said. “And I apologize if it came off that way.”

  He looked at Renee.

  “Renee and I have had a rough couple of days. It’s been stressful.”

  Patrick’s face softened. He looked down.

  “I can imagine,” he said. “Look, I appreciate what this means to you two, but if I do this, I’m probably going to lose my job. Before I try setting up a meeting without my boss’s permission, let me drive you to the house. We can see if your plan is even possible.”

  Renee glanced at Trent. He nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “It’s a deal,” she said turning back to Patrick. He nodded and started walking down the trail without saying a word. She and Trent followed a few feet back.

  The parking lot was still nearly empty, but it was the beginning of rush hour and traffic had picked up. Taxis, cars and buses jostled for position on a street that was entirely too small for the surrounding area’s population.

  Before buckling his seatbelt, Trent leaned forward and barked out Fortunatov’s address. Patrick entered it on the SUV’s in–dash navigation system, and they were off. If they had left an hour earlier, that drive would have probably taken them fifteen minutes. Since traffic was heavy, though, they drove about forty–five before pulling onto a side street running parallel to the Potomac River. Historic houses that probably cost more than Renee could hope to earn in five lifetimes lined the side closest to the river, while trees and smaller homes lined the other.

  Rather than drive around aimlessly, Patrick pulled into a park about a block from Fortunatov’s neighborhood. As soon as she got out of the car, Renee could hear the rhythmic squeal of a swing set somewhere nearby. She glanced at her watch. It was a little after five, and the sun was fading into orange as it began to set. She crossed her arms, hugging herself to hold in what little warmth she could as she looked around.

  “So this is what our tax dollars illegally pay for,” she said.

  Patrick nodded and pointed across the street.

  “Ten thousand square feet and a view,” he said. Renee’s gaze followed Patrick’s outstretched hand to a brick, vine–covered fence across the street. She could only spot one house from her vantage point, but it was easily the size of one of the classroom buildings at Bluffdale. Evidently, Russian gangsters lived well.

  “What do you know about the house?” asked Trent.

  Patrick looked at the neighborhood, his eyes distant, before he turned back to Trent.

  “The address,” he said.

  That wasn’t what Renee had hoped to hear. She swept her gaze along the fence line. Four guards, each of whom had a firearm at his hip, manned the gate. A pair of hydraulic lifts held a solid–steel plate at an angle in the front drive, stopping traffic from entering. If a car tried to ram it, the plate would cut into its grill like a knife. The White House had a similar security system. The only way they’d make it through that unscathed would be if they stole a tank, which probably wasn’t going to happen.

  “If we can’t get through the gate,” said Renee, turning to Trent, “do you think we can climb the fence along the side?”

  Trent shook his head.

  “Look at the vines closely.”

  She did as Trent suggested and focused on the plants. It was hard to see amid the greenery, but she saw the fading sunlight glimmer off something steel.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  “It’s called ‘razor wire,’ ” said Trent. “It’s used to secure military bases. I saw a deer try and fail to jump some once. It got torn to shreds.”

  Renee shuddered.

  “Is there any way to distract the guards and just walk in?” she asked.

  “Maybe one or two, but not all of them,” said Trent. His gaze panned across the street and stayed for a moment before turning back to her. “How do you feel about canoeing?”

  Monday, September 16. 11:24 p.m

  Washington DC.

  A cold breeze blew across the river, sending a chill down Renee’s spine as they bobbed in the water. They had gotten things together quickly once they had a plan. Patrick made five phone calls and a handful of promises before getting Arman Fortunatov’s handler at the CIA on the phone. That’s what got the ball rolling. Arman was enjoying his beach house in Cape May, New Jersey, but Patrick’s contact was able to convince him to get a flight to DC. That part of the plan had been amazingly easy. If things went as they expected, Arman would arrive sometime between midnight and one in the morning, giving Trent and Renee their window of opportunity.

  Renee rubbed her arms. The river was silent, save the sound of small waves lapping against the shore to her left. Lights popped into and out of existence across the horizon like fireflies as people tucked their children into bed, made midnight snacks and watched television. It almost seemed like something from a dream. She shuddered and swallowed. Several million people lived within a twenty–mile radius, and she felt more alone than she had ever been. It welled in her g
ut and left a gnawing, empty feeling in her soul.

  She swallowed back the emotions that threatened to overtake her and tried to focus on what was about to happen. She and Trent were in a canoe they had stolen from an outdoor recreation facility a few miles up the river. She felt a heavy weight on her ankle that she didn’t want to think about. It was a revolver. Trent had insisted she wear it.

  Under most circumstances, she was comfortable with firearms, but this one felt different. It was more real somehow. Her revolver at home was just as solid, just as hard, just as deadly, but it represented an ideal of safety and protection. It never even saw the light of day except when she cleaned it once a month. The weapon on her ankle, though, carried far more weight. It was there to kill someone, an act she very well might have to do before the night was over.

  “Do you think we’re going to make it?” asked Renee. She shifted in her seat, rocking the canoe as she peered over her shoulder. Her body still hadn’t adjusted to the small, flat–bottomed boat, but at least she wasn’t seasick. She shivered again as the breeze whipped through the clothes she had purchased a day earlier.

  “We’ll do our best,” said Trent as he dipped his paddle back into the water. Renee’s end of the canoe lifted slightly, and the boat seemed to jump forward with every one of his strokes. Trent winced every time he put the paddle in the water, but when she tried to help, she ended up throwing them off course more than propelling them down the river. Even without her, though, Trent’s strokes combined with the river’s natural current to carry them swiftly through the water.

  They would do their best.

  It wasn’t the pep talk she had been hoping for, but at least it was realistic. The cold night breeze sapped whatever strength she had carried with her onto the boat. Patrick hadn’t said it when they departed, but he thought it was a suicide mission. He probably wasn’t very far off, but she didn’t care anymore. She just wanted to stop running.

  Renee put her hands on her lap and stared at the passing scenery. Some of the houses they passed were large enough to be hotels. When she was a little girl, she used to wonder what sort of people would even want to live in houses like that. Back then, it had been hard to imagine settling down. Now it was all she wanted. She watched silently for another few minutes as the houses passed.