Zero Sum

by Russell Blake

  He felt a tug at his new jacket and heard a ricochet a few feet in front of him; looked down and saw a bullet hole smoking in his jacket. No hit.

  He picked up his speed.

  His ankle radiated pure agony.

  Another ricochet, further away and behind him. Honking and squealing brakes, a collision in back of him. More honking.

  His consciousness narrowed and his focus became laser-like as he poured on the steam. One more ricochet even further behind, the accuracy diminishing with distance as he hurried to the other side of the boulevard, the claxon of sirens approaching. He kept low, dodging between the trees that occupied the island in the middle of the thoroughfare. He saw an opening in the oncoming flow of cars and propelled himself across the other eight lanes.

  Near miss.

  Another.

  Amid the blare of the angry horns he kept running, as hard and as fast as he’d ever run before.

  Three blocks up he entered a small one-way alley with no signs of further pursuit.

  Steven slowed to regroup and calculate where to go next; the optimal choice would be a hotel with a taxi stand. He jogged one more block and got lucky. Checking the street to confirm he wasn’t being followed, he jumped into the first available cab and told the driver to floor the gas all the way to the airport if he wanted a healthy tip; he was late for his plane. The car roared from the curb as Steven shivered in the back seat, soaked to the skin.

  He slowed his breathing, deliberately forcing his heart rate back under control. It appeared that he’d made a clean getaway, if you could call a gunfire-fueled chase clean. Physically, he hadn’t been so lucky, but he recognized that it could have been far worse. His ankle was swelling and he’d left chunks of his hands on the roof, but he was alive; that was more than he could say for Diego and his secretary. And now, also some poor taxi driver, no doubt with a family and life he cherished and took for granted.

  It was hazardous option, being around Steven – if you were given the choice. People were getting killed. He put his head back and closed his eyes as the adrenaline drained from his system, leaving him exhausted and shaken.

  Antonia stood waiting for him, arms folded, at the ticketing area.

  “Steven! You’re soaked. What happened?” She took in his clothes, his filthy grey pants, the hole in his coat, the bleeding hands, the thinly disguised limp. With a knowing but worried look she turned and opened his duffel, pulling out a pair of khaki pants and one of his long-sleeved pullover shirts.

  She pointed at the men’s room sign, lips tight but firm in their resolve, he noticed.

  “I’ll tell you later,” he said, and went to clean up.

  Checkmate: Chapter 14

  Griffen’s private line buzzed. He was getting ready to visit his place in the Hamptons for the weekend; summer in the city was sticky and hot, and he enjoyed the country, if you could call the Hamptons the country. He picked up.

  “Someone’s causing trouble in Buenos Aires,” the caller told him. “Hired two different PIs. Our friends almost got him. Sounds a little bit like your boy, but a different look; maybe hair dye.”

  “Fuck. What is it with this guy? All right, thanks for the heads up,” Griffen said.

  He rang Sergei and let him know their mystery man might have made his way to Buenos Aires. Sergei was noncommittal. That wasn’t good, but then again, Sergei probably had much bigger concerns than some thorn in Griffen’s side.

  Sergei asked to be kept informed.

  The conversation hadn’t played out as Nicholas had hoped; he sensed a growing impatience with the situation from the Russian. Perhaps he’d do better to lay low with Sergei for a while.

  He riffled through his contacts and selected the number of his original investors in the fund; one of the Italian groups involved in a variety of businesses, not all of which were one hundred percent legal. The Italians had a lot of contacts, old contacts established over generations, and they had a lot more pull than the Russians, who were relatively new at the game. He made a call and explained the situation; gave all the details he had, and indicated he needed assistance in solving his problem.

  The Italian agreed that the key to locating Steven was finding Antonia, and pointed out that anything could be accomplished with adequate planning and funding; that a hundred thousand dollars would handle it, and to consider the matter as good as concluded once money changed hands. Griffen assured him he’d be back in touch within twenty-four hours to arrange a wire.

  Griffen felt his spirits lifting already – things were looking up.

  ~ ~ ~

  Steven returned from the restroom looking better. He rooted around in his bag, pulled out his hygiene kit and kissed Antonia.

  “I’ve got to give myself a haircut,” he said. “They saw me, so they’ll be looking for a man with dyed black hair; I’m afraid it’s head shaving time. I hope you still love me as bald guy.”

  He went back into the restroom and entered a stall, using the sideburn clipper on his electric razor to trim all but a fine stubble of hair. When he was finished, he inspected the result in the little kit’s mirror. Not as bad as it could have been; enough sun had tanned his scalp so that he didn’t look like a chemo patient. He was actually pretty funny-looking, wearing a toilet seat protector around his neck to keep the hair off his shirt. After removing the impromptu cape he exited the stall, inspecting himself in the larger mirrors as he donned his glasses. He looked like some Euro-trash lounge lizard. Pump up the jam, call me DJ Phunky-Phresh.

  It would have to do for now.

  He approached Antonia, who doubled over with laughter.

  “Oh my God. You look like you’re in U-2, or designing clothes in Milan. That’s incredible; embarrassing but amazing. No one will recognize you, truly, caro,” she said, giggling the entire time.

  “Thank goodness for baseball hats.”

  “I still want you, you big bald Romanian love-god. Let me feel it.” She rubbed his head. “Ooh, it feels so strange. What name shall we call you now? Sven? Lars? Gunther?”

  She was enjoying this a little too much, he mused; then again, why not?

  “Let’s get me checked in,” he said, “and then I’ll tell you what happened in town.”

  As they walked through the large terminal, Steven limping from the trauma his leg had endured, he told her about Diego and the receptionist, leaving out the more gruesome details. Then he related the chase – the cab driver. She looked at his hands, and put her finger through the hole in his jacket.

  “A bullet? They came very close, Steven. Very close.”

  He removed the jacket, soaked as it was, and switched to the blazer he’d bought in Caracas. The jacket went into the garbage, along with the trashed trousers and sodden shirt he’d been wearing, and his cell phone. Suddenly his duffel had more room.

  They entered the first class lounge and relaxed, safe for the moment.

  Their flight didn’t depart for a few more hours, so he checked the web. Stan had replied that there was nothing new on Homeland Security, and the police were treating the boat explosion as an accident. Whoever had done the job had been good enough to fool the local cops. Stan presumed the HS investigation into Steven was ongoing.

  Steven asked him to scan the original file photo of Jim Cavierti and the two-page FBI summary and e-mail it to him; he wanted to start assembling the case.

  Spyder had gotten back to him and disclosed he was working on obtaining some documentation on the Ecuador cartel/Panama company and the Swiss arms group from the DEA and several intelligence agencies. Stay tuned.

  Steven logged off and gingerly held Antonia’s hand, cautious of the cuts on his. Argentina had turned out to be a near-terminal destination but he’d accomplished what he’d set out to do, albeit with a trail of bodies in his wake.

  Lost in thought, they waited for the plane that would take them to Italia. He hoped the worst was over. For both their sakes.

  Checkmate: Chapter 15

  Rome was chaotic
, a nonstop symphony of utter pandemonium. Antonia took the lead now they were on her turf, and in short order she’d arranged for transportation to the Westin Excelsior, a turn-of-the-century building near the Spanish Steps.

  The taxi drivers in Rome made the Argentines seem like they were on Quaaludes and Steven could have sworn they were going to die in a fiery blaze at least five times on the way to the hotel.

  Antonia didn’t appear to notice.

  They were both out of it after the grueling thirteen-hour flight, and their stay in Rome was going to be limited to one night. Then they were on the road; the plan was to rent a car and drive to Todi, which Antonia said would be quiet by Italian standards. Not many tourists were likely to be there, compared to the rest of Italy.

  The hotel’s façade was spectacular, and after only a few minutes at the front desk they were shown to their room. Steven unpacked while Antonia made arrangements for a car rental. It didn’t take long, and she transitioned to unpacking along with Steven.

  They agreed to eat at the hotel and get some desperately needed sleep; the flight over had been turbulence-ridden almost the entire way, so they’d only gotten rest in fits and starts. Following a lackluster room service dinner they barely made it out of their clothes before they were deeply asleep.

  At ten a.m. the alarm sounded, prompting them to pack their belongings and go in search of a cellular shop. Even on a Sunday, and with many stores closed, they’d purchased a phone for Steven within forty-five minutes and were ready to go.

  Their errand in Rome concluded, they grabbed coffee and discussed the route they’d take to get to Todi; which was in Umbria, about ninety miles north of Rome. She figured the trip would take two hours. Her travel plan sounded good to him.

  The coffee was unlike anything Steven had ever tasted; black, incredibly strong, and flavorful. So far, he liked Italy.

  When they returned to the hotel and checked out, their car was waiting outside of the lobby area – a diesel Nissan quasi mini-van/SUV. Not exactly a Ferrari, but with plentiful space for all their luggage, and it came with a map.

  They grabbed some rolls and fruit, and were on their way.

  Antonia drove, which was just as well, as he wouldn’t have had the requisite foolhardiness to conquer the bustling Roman traffic, whereas she seemed almost bored with it. Once they’d crossed the city perimeter the freeway opened up and the going got far easier. They flew through the countryside in a diesel-fueled blur. As they approached Umbria, he was intrigued by the number of castles peppering the landscape; every hill had the remains of a fortress on it, and many were the basis, the centerpiece, of small towns built around them. Not much had changed in hundreds and hundreds of years – most of the buildings were many centuries old, yet still being lived in and used exactly as they had been for generations.

  When they arrived in Todi, several things struck Steven. First, the roads were paved with ninth and tenth century cobblestone, and all of five feet wide, which barely accommodated the width of their modest little car. Second, the entire place was a hill town built within ancient fortifying walls. As they negotiated the rising, winding streets, it was like being transported back eight hundred years; same buildings, same ramparts, same streets. Eventually they pulled up to a three-story building off the main square and Antonia wedged the car up onto the sidewalk.

  “We’re here,” she announced cheerfully.

  He squeezed out of his door and looked around. It was the 12th century. He almost expected a man in armor to walk around the corner, or a horse-drawn carriage to pull up. Antonia stood on her tiptoes, stretching to find the expected house key in a dank crevice. Successful, she creaked open the ancient door and Steven followed her up the steps with the luggage. He heard her give a squeal at the top of the stairs; a happy squeal.

  “Uncle Dante! What are you doing here? I thought you were in Chianti!” Antonia exclaimed in Italian. She rushed to embrace a rotund, grey-haired man standing in the living room.

  “I thought I’d stop in and make sure you got here okay, girl.” Dante looked over at Steven, and switched to English. “You going to introduce me?” Dante’s English was as good as Antonia’s.

  “Oh, of course. This is Steven. The one I told you about. Steven, this is my Uncle Dante; this is his place,” she said.

  “Nice to meet you, Dante,” Steven said, putting the bags down and shaking Dante’s hand.

  “Likewise. Antonia’s told me a lot about you. I understand you’re having a little trouble. Let me know if I can help; I know a lot of people.” Dante looked at Steven with an expression that implied he indeed knew all sorts of people.

  “I appreciate that. Hopefully, I won’t have to take you up on it,” Steven said. Old Uncle Dante promised to have a trick or two up his sleeve. Just a feeling, but Steven had learned to trust his gut, and his gut said don’t fuck with the old Italian uncle.

  Dante smiled at him. “Hey, all you gotta do is ask, no?” He turned his attention to Antonia.

  “Antonia, you’re more beautiful than ever. I don’t see how you do it. This is one lucky guy, this Steven, a lucky guy indeed,” Dante said, looking at Steven to confirm he’d gotten the message.

  “Oh, Uncle Dante. I think we both got lucky.” Antonia was beaming.

  “Well, now I see you got here safely, I’ll get out of your hair, head back out to the country house. You call me if you need anything, eh? Anything at all. Nice to meet you, Steven. Take care of her, she’s very precious to me. You two enjoy yourselves. The time goes by quickly, you know?”

  And with that, Uncle Dante descended the stairs, waving at them over his head. The front door closed, leaving them alone in the house. Steven took in his surroundings, and was surprised by the interior; it could have been right out of the pages of Architectural Digest. Hardwood floors, stainless steel appliances, ultra-modern furniture, 50 inch LCD TV.

  “My uncle gutted it two years ago and renovated it. Everything’s new. It’s been in the family forever,” she explained.

  “I’m impressed.” He truly was. He’d pictured them sitting by the fireplace in a stone chamber as they’d pulled up the hill, and this was more like some posh post-modern hotel.

  “You can use his computer. It’s all the latest and the fastest everything. He’s a nut about that.”

  He inspected the terminal area, and indeed everything was current technology.

  “Where’s your uncle staying while we use his place?” he asked.

  “He’s got a villa in Chianti where he spends four or five months a year. He also has a big place in Sicily where he winters,” she explained.

  “Is he retired?” Steven wondered what her uncle did. Villas, apartments…he’d done pretty well for himself.

  “Mmm, sort of. He’s a businessman, is involved in many different enterprises,” she said. She didn’t seem to want to go into more detail, and he didn’t push it. Steven suspected Dante was well connected in a lot of different ways. Italian, wealthy, knew a lot of people – people who could maybe help if you were in trouble. Two plus two...

  They unpacked, and while she was hanging her clothes he gave Uncle Dante’s computer a whirl and got online. He downloaded his proxy mask, and checked on e-mails. One was from Spyder, with two attachments:

  [Ask and ye shall receive. I’m enclosing a three-page dossier on the Ecuador Cartel’s known fronts, courtesy of the DEA. Much of it redacted, but with Santa Maria in Panama clearly identified. And another intel document, one page, on the Swiss group. There’s a lot more on them, and the whole file is over thirty pages, but this should be enough to hang them. Hope you’re enjoying your travels. Spyder]

  Hallelujah. Now he had the documents for three of the four. He sent Alfred a reminder e-mail that he needed the hard copy list of investors from the bank and the brokerage statement showing the large short position.

  Stan Caldwell had scanned the photo and the FBI file and sent them to Steven, so he downloaded those. Steven saw that Gordo had also finally se
nt the summary he’d asked for. He opened the first message:

  [I have the whole thing laid out. It’s easily documented, but took some bandwidth. I’ll send it to you zipped in a few minutes. Pretty astounding they’ve gotten away with this crap.

  And I was able to get some intel on Allied’s flagship product from a little bird at the FDA, and it’s a mind blower. I included a brief summary, but the short version is it’s a vegetable oil that’s harmless if ingested orally, but has a 100% auto-immune damage likelihood in mammals if injected – and these clowns want to use it to increase supplies of rarer vaccines.

  Some of the large Pharma companies have products like it, all of which are basically poison, and many of which are banned in their current forms in the U.S. – although recently, the big companies tried to backdoor it into the U.S. during the whole swine flu hysteria. I never really understood why such an innocuous flu got such massive media attention, like it was the new black plague. Apparently that was all about money. Even if the shit destroys your immune system, they have the patents on it, and what’s a country filled with misery and increased health care costs if a few big Pharmas can make a few more billion a year from their toxic soup?

  As an example of how deadly this crap is, one was used as an adjuvant to stretch the supply of the Anthrax vaccine given to many Gulf War soldiers – there’s your simple, obvious answer to the ‘Gulf War Syndrome’ of chronic, incurable auto-immune dysfunction. The science has been around since the 1930s, which was before medicine knew much about the immune system. Short version is that it’s a killer and should never be used in humans for any reason, much less to increase vaccine supplies.

  Think I’ll short a bunch of Allied in anticipation of a change in their fortunes. Gordo]

  He opened the second message and then the attachment, and unzipped the contents. Gordo had been amazingly detailed. Like he’d promised, it was all laid out, unmistakably. Griffen and Allied were sunk. Now Steven just had to strategize how best to hang him.