Sweat

by Mark Gilleo

  “Did you use that? It sounds rehearsed…”

  Jake looked around. “You better believe I used it.”

  “That’s not bad.”

  “Thanks. What do you think is going to happen to your friend in Saipan?”

  “Technically he didn’t break the law either. He lied, but he followed the letter of the law. Besides, it looks like he will come out of this smelling like a rose. He was on hand to pick up C.F Chang in Saipan. Our friend Tom may even end up with a medal pinned to his chest. Responsible for grabbing a suspect in the attempted assassination of a senator. And the beautiful thing is that we got him on U.S. soil. No red tape with extradition.”

  “We got lucky.”

  “Yes, we did.”

  Jake had beaten around the bush for as long as he could.

  “And my father?”

  “He’s still in there. But he’s not alone. He’s got the A-Team of lawyers playing hardball. His political connections are rattling cages.”

  “What do you think is going to happen to him?”

  “I don’t know, Jake. I’m sure they are up his ass with a microscope as we speak. Travel history, phone calls, emails. They are probably still investigating you too.”

  “I didn’t do anything. I told them everything I know.”

  “There may be some lingering questions about Marilyn. Those two detectives you met when the senator was shot know you were with her the night she died. They have you and the guy who shot the senator on the same tape near the scene where Marilyn died. They are still trying to put the pieces together. And they are under a lot of pressure. They are the only law enforcement officers in the city who were pursuing the guy who tried to kill a senator. They are going to need a good explanation for letting him slip by.”

  “Can’t be guilty of something you didn’t do. If they had a case against me, I would still be inside. Regardless.”

  “Yes, you would be.”

  “So where to?”

  “I need something to eat. Been on orange crackers from the vending machine for over a day. Orange crackers and Coke. I need real food. Then we can check on Wei Ling.”

  “And Kate?” Al asked.

  “What about her?”

  “You plan on keeping that promise you made to her father?”

  “Not sure yet, Al. But you know how I do like to keep my promises.”

  Al smiled as he got behind the wheel. “You’ve kept every one since I’ve met you.”

  About the Author

  Mark Gilleo holds a graduate degree in international business from the University of South Carolina and an undergraduate degree in business from George Mason University. He enjoys traveling, hiking and biking. He speaks Japanese. A fourth-generation Washingtonian, he currently resides in the D.C. area. His first two novels were recognized as finalist and semifinalist, respectively, in the William Faulkner-Wisdom creative writing competition.

  Read an excerpt from Mark Gilleo's LOVE THY NEIGHBOR

  Clark Hayden is a graduate student trying to help his mother navigate through the loss of his father while she continues to live in their house near Washington DC. With his mother’s diminishing mental capacity becoming the norm, Clark expects a certain amount of craziness as he heads home for the holidays. What he couldn’t possibly anticipate, though, is that he would find himself catapulted into the middle of a terrorist operation. As the holiday festivities reach a crescendo, a terrorist cell––which happens to be across the street––is activated. Suddenly Clark is discovering things he never knew about deadly chemicals, secret government operations, suspiciously missing neighbors, and the intentions of a gorgeous IRS auditor. Clark’s quiet suburban neighborhood is about to become one of the most deadly places on the planet, and it’s up to Clark to prevent the loss of hundreds of thousands of innocent lives in the nation’s capital.

  Here’s an excerpt from Love Thy Neighbor.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  (This part is true.)

  In late 1999 a woman from Vienna, Virginia, a suburb ten miles from the White House as the crow flies, called the CIA. The woman, a fifty-something mother of three, phoned to report what she referred to as potential terrorists living across the street from her middle-class home. She went on to explain what she had been seeing in her otherwise quiet neighborhood: Strange men of seemingly Middle-Eastern descent using their cell phones in the yard. Meetings in the middle of the night with bumper-to-bumper curbside parking, expensive cars rubbing ends with vans and common Japanese imports. A constant flow of young men, some who seemed to stay for long periods of time without introducing themselves to anyone in the neighborhood. The construction of a six-foot wooden fence to hide the backyard from the street only made the property more suspicious.

  Upon hearing a layperson’s description of suspicious behavior, the CIA promptly dismissed the woman and her phone call. (Ironically, the woman lived less than a quarter of a mile from a CIA installation, though it was not CIA headquarters as was later reported.)

  In the days and weeks following 9/11, the intelligence community in the U.S. began to learn the identities of the nineteen hijackers who had flown the planes into the World Trade Towers and the Pentagon. In the process of their investigation they discovered that two of the hijackers, one on each of the planes that hit the World Trade Towers, had listed a particular house in Vienna, Virginia as a place of residence.

  The FBI and various other agencies swooped in on the unassuming neighborhood and began knocking on doors. When they reached the house of a certain mother of three, she stopped them dead in their tracks. She was purported to have said, “I called the CIA two years ago to report that terrorists were living across the street and no one did anything.”

  The CIA claimed to have no record of a phone call.

  The news networks set up cameras and began broadcasting from the residential street. ABC, NBC, FOX. The FBI followed up with further inquiries. The woman’s story was later bounced around the various post 9/11 committees and intelligence hearings on Capitol Hill. (Incidentally, after 9/11, the CIA closed its multi-story facility in the neighborhood where the terrorist reportedly lived. In 2006 the empty building was finally torn down and, as of early 2011, was being replaced with another office building).

  There has been much speculation about what the government should have or could have known prior to 9/11. The answer is not simple. There have been anecdotal stories of people in Florida and elsewhere who claimed to have reported similar “terrorist” type activities by suspicious people prior to 9/11. None of these stories have been proven.

  What we do know is that with the exception of the flight school instructor in Minnesota who questioned the motive of a student who was interested in flying an aircraft without learning how to land, and an unheeded warning from actor James Woods who was on a plane from Boston with several of the purported terrorists while they were doing a trial run, the woman from Vienna, Virginia was the country’s best chance to prevent 9/11. To date, there has been no verification of any other pre-9/11 warnings from the general public so far in advance of that fateful day in September.

  For me, there is no doubt as to the validity of the claims of the woman in Vienna.

  She lived in the house where I grew up. She is my mother.

  Mark Gilleo. October, 2011.

  Washington DC.

  * * *

  Ariana turned on the nightlight and closed the door to her daughter’s room. She walked down the carpeted hall towards the light stretching out from the plastic chandelier over the dining room table. Her husband’s chair was empty and she quietly called out his name. No response. As Ariana turned the corner to the kitchen and reached for the knob on the cabinet over the counter, eight hundred pages of advertising crashed into her rib cage, sucking the wind from her lungs. As his wife doubled over, Nazim raised the thick Yellow Book with both hands and hit her on her back, driving her body to the floor.

  “Don’t you ever disobey me in front of others again.”
<
br />   Ariana coughed. There was no blood. This time. She tried to speak but her lips only quivered. Her thick-framed glasses rested on the floor, out of reach. Her brain fought to make sense of what happened, what had set her husband off. It could have been anything. But every curse had its blessing, and for Ariana the blessing was the fact that Nazim didn’t hit her in front of Liana. A blessing that the child didn’t see her mother being punched. The reason was simple. Nazim was afraid of his daughter. Afraid of what she could say now that she could speak.

  The curse was that Ariana never knew when she had crossed the line. She never knew when the next blow was coming. She merely had to wait until they were alone to learn her fate for past indiscretions.

  Ariana gasped slowly for air. She didn’t cry. The pain she felt in her side wasn’t bad enough to give her husband the satisfaction.

  “When I say it is time to leave, it is time to leave. There is no room for negotiation in this marriage.”

  Ariana panted as her mind flashed back to the Christmas party. She immediately realized her faux pas. “I didn’t want to be rude to Maria. She spent days making dessert. She is old. Do we not respect our elders anymore?”

  Nazim pushed his wife onto the floor with his knee, a reaction Ariana fully expected. “You are my wife. This is about you and me. Our neighbor has nothing to do with it.” Nazim looked down at Ariana sprawled on the linoleum and spit on her with more mock than saliva.

  “Maria is my friend.”

  “Well, her son is coming home and she doesn’t need you.”

  Nazim dropped the yellow book on the counter with a thud and went to the basement. Ariana gathered herself, pushing her body onto all fours and then pulling herself up by the front of the oven. She looked at the Yellow Book and her blood boiled. It was like getting hit by a cinderblock with soft edges. When it hit flush, it left very little bruising. As her husband intended. For a man of slight build, Nazim could generate power when a beating was needed.

  Ariana took inventory of herself, one hand propping herself up on the counter. She had been beaten worse. Far worse. By other men before she met her husband. Her eyes moved beyond the Yellow Pages and settled on the knife set on the counter, the shiny German steel resting in its wooden block holder. She grabbed the fillet knife, caressed the blade with her eyes, and then pushed the thought from her mind.

  Her husband called her from the basement and she snapped out of her momentary daze. “Coming,” she answered, putting the knife back in its designated slot in the wood. She knew what was coming next. It was always the same. A physical assault followed by a sexual one. She reached up her skirt and removed her panties. There was no sense in having another pair ripped, even if robbing Nazim of the joy would cost her a punch or two.

  Christmas, the season of giving, she thought as she made her way down the stairs into the chilly basement.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher. The Story Plant The Aronica-Miller Publishing Project, LLC P.O. Box 4331 Stamford, CT 06907 Copyright © 2012 by Mark Gilleo Jacket design by Barbara Aronica Buck Print ISBN-13: 978-1-61188-051-9

  E-book ISBN-13: 978-1-61188-052-6 Visit our website at www.thestoryplant.com

  All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever, except as provided by US Copyright Law. For information, address The Story Plant. First Story Plant Printing: August 2012 Printed in The United States of America

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