by Scott Blade
“Him next.”
“No!” Karpov shouted.
“Wait!” The American ordered.
The redheaded guy pointed the MP5SD at the other crewman. He didn’t fire. A light puff of smoke simmered out of the suppressor.
The American asked, “Are you going to do what you’re told now?”
Karpov breathed in and breathed out, heavy breaths. He repeated this process again and again, didn’t answer.
“Are you?”
“Yes. Don’t kill us.”
The American said, “Good. Now. Do you have any more guns down there?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Their locked up in the armory.”
“And how many crew are on the bridge?”
“Just three more. Plus us.”
“Good. Good. See that wasn’t so hard.”
Karpov had never been the crying type, but Travkin had been his friend for many years. And he had just watched him murdered in a split second.
He felt choked up.
CHAPTER 13
JACK WIDOW LIKED the double shot of black espresso that he had ordered and consumed within the last thirty minutes so much that he ordered another. Same amount. Same barista.
The espresso wasn’t the only thing that he liked.
A barista named Montana, but might as well have been named Scarlet because she was the doppelgänger of the famous actress, waited on him.
Widow couldn’t recall a movie that Scarlett the actress had been in. He didn’t watch too many movies. He had no television. But he was sure that he had seen her in one sometime. Certainly, he had seen her in passing magazine covers in gas stations or bookstores or somewhere.
Montana was younger than him. He wasn’t sure how much. She was far from being a teenager, but under the age of thirty. If he had to guess, he would guess twenty-five. Which made him feel a little weird because today he turned a year older and he was well in his thirties.
Montana had smiled at him more than once. She had taken his order, and with a busy line of people who waited to order and go, she left her station just to bring him his espresso. A special trip.
Widow sat at a little round table, near the window. His back not in the corner, but a wall was behind him.
Before Montana returned to her post she asked, “You sticking around a while?”
With nothing to say, Widow simply nodded.
She looked him up and down, quick, not a lingering flirtatious look over, more like an inspection. She must’ve been curious because he had nothing in his hands. He carried no backpack. No books. No smartphone. No laptop.
Obviously, he wasn’t there to work on anything.
She said, “We sell newspapers.”
“That’s okay. I’ll just sit.”
“With nothing to do?”
Widow shrugged.
“Oh, you’re waiting for someone?”
“No. Not waiting for anyone. Just sitting.”
She looked at him a second longer and then started to turn away. Then she stopped and asked, “Sure you don’t want a newspaper? Maybe the Times?”
“Got a copy of the Navy Times?”
“What’s that? Like a paper for the Navy?”
“That’s exactly what it is.”
“The Army has its own newspaper?”
Widow said, “It does. But the Army has one called the Army Times. The Navy is different.”
“I know. I was just speaking generically,” she said and she paused a beat and took a breath and asked, “Were you in the Navy?”
“I was.”
“Cool.”
Silence fell between them for a moment.
Another girl behind the counter shouted, “Montana? Is there a problem?”
Montana turned back and said, “No problem. I’m coming.”
She turned back to Widow, said, “I’ll be right back with a New York Times.”
He smiled. So far his birthday was going pretty well.
A moment later, Montana had returned with a newspaper folded up, thick and wrinkle free.
She placed it down in front of him.
“How much?” he asked.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“It’s gotta cost something?”
“Usually it does.”
“What’s the price? I’ll pay. I insist.”
“You don’t have to. Don’t worry. It’s a day old. Can’t charge you for a day-old newspaper.”
He smiled and nodded. That made sense.
“Let me know if you need anything else. I gotta get back to work.”
“Thanks, Montana.”
She paused another beat. Widow saw the other two girls working hard behind the counter and saw one of them look up with a bit of frustration on her face.
Montana asked, “What’s your name?”
He looked at her and said, “Widow.”
“Widow?”
“Yeah.”
“What kind of name is that?”
“It’s a name. What kind is Montana?”
She smiled again and said, “That’s true. Enjoy your paper and espresso. Widow.”
“I will.”
She turned and went back to the counter, back to the grind of making coffee for strangers.
Widow picked up the Times, opened it, held it in one hand and took a sip from the espresso in the other.
So far, so good, he thought.
CHAPTER 14
THE TOP STORY in the paper was about a New York Stock Exchange Wall Street firm’s main office that had been raided by the FBI over embezzlement, bribery charges, and a laundry list of other things.
Widow breezed through it, sipped his espresso. He skipped to the side panels and read a couple of interesting articles unrelated to Wall Street. But it was the second major story that interested him the most. It was given a huge panel underneath the top story, but there wasn’t much to it because there wasn’t much known about it.
Most of the panel space was the title of the article and two images. The first was an incorrect image of what the story was about. He knew that because the story was about a Russian submarine and the photograph was of an American Sea Wolf class submarine. He knew them all.
But the other photograph was legitimate, he assumed. It was a photograph, in color, of a Russian submarine captain. He looked Russian. But Widow had never heard of him. His name was Karpov.
The title of the article was what caught his eye. One of Widow’s favorite things to do was read paperbacks and one of his favorite genres was political espionage and mystery.
The title of the article was: The Hunt for Red October Happens. For Real?
Widow had read Tom Clancy’s book long ago. Although it was fictitious, it remained a favorite of sailors all over the world.
The basic premise of the article was short, but frightening.
A Russian nuclear submarine had gone missing somewhere north of Europe in the Arctic, beyond the borders of NATO’s defense, but in international waters.
The Cold War was long over, but hard feelings remained. Some in Washington seemed to condemn the actions of the Russians using their stealth technology to subvert NATO radar in the first place.
Not to Widow. He saw nothing wrong with it. Sneaking around with submarines was sort of all about what they were built for. What’s the point of a military vehicle that submerges underwater, out of sight? Subs are built for stealth operations.
American submarines were fitted with stealth tech. So were the Chinese and probably those of a dozen other countries.
The Russians even came forward and told us the story.
The article named “sources in the Kremlin.” Widow knew there were no sources in the Kremlin. In Russia, that meant it came straight from the top. They didn’t have a free press.
Widow hadn’t read Tom Clancy’s book in years, but he recalled the basic premise. A Soviet captain goes rogue, steals a billion-dollar nuclear sub with stealth drive technology and tries to defect to the
United States.
He remembered that in that book, the Russians didn’t tell our boys about the missing sub for a long period of time. At first they tried to sink it themselves. Then they claimed the captain stole it in order to nuke us. Which turned out to be a lie so that our subs would sink the Red October.
Good book, Widow thought.
The New York Times article painted a completely different picture.
The similarity to the story was that a stealth nuclear Russian submarine went missing more than a day earlier and they believed that the captain might’ve stolen it.
Those were the only known details. Everything else was fluff.
Widow wondered where it was. That part was a little terrifying.
Apparently, the US was sending much of the Atlantic fleet out to its last known location to try and find it.
The White House said the whole thing was a recovery operation. They said it appeared to have sunk.
CHAPTER 15
THE LINE OF PEOPLE at the counter died down to three. All women. All office workers, obviously. They were talking and laughing. Exchanging friendly banter. Exchanging inside quips. Sharing in the same events of their day.
New York City lunch hours had ended for most of the suits who worked in the area. The tables emptied and the people had cleared out, taking their trash to the can just outside the door. A few patrons stayed behind with open laptops and notebooks. Four of them sat together at one of two four-seat tables.
Widow assumed that they were local students. They were young, early twenties, three young women and one young man. They wore laidback clothes. Baggy sweatshirts for the girls and long sleeves on the guy. They had that no-care attitude that college students often had about their current surroundings.
Widow took another pull from his espresso and found that it was the last of it. He finished it and set it down. Looked out the window.
So far, he had spent his morning walking around Central Park, he rode the subway once, and then he walked the streets.
He had decided to check out the MET later, unless something more fun came his way. Maybe tonight he would take in an overpriced dinner and a show.
It was too bad that there was no sports game tonight or he would see that instead. The two teams that he would like to see were the Yankees and the Knicks. Neither had a home game tonight. And he wasn’t staying longer than tonight and Sunday.
Widow reached into his pocket and pulled out cash. He found a five and tossed in on the table for Montana.
Before he could get up, she was walking toward him.
“Widow,” she said.
“Yeah? I’m headed out.”
“Jack Widow?”
“How did you know that?”
He didn’t remember telling her his first name. Then he remembered the first time he paid with his debit card. Maybe she had pulled it off there.
She stared at him and said, “There’s someone on the phone for you.”
He stared at her, blankly.
“What?”
“The phone. At the counter. It’s for you.”
Widow stood up, took his empty paper cup with him. He walked past her toward the counter. They threaded in between tables and chairs. He stopped in front of the counter away from a glass display case, on the opposite side of the line and cash register.
“Wait here,” she said. Montana walked around to the cash register side of the counter and crossed behind one of her coworkers, who was ringing up a middle-aged man in a track suit.
Montana stepped out of sight behind a white wall for a brief moment and then returned with a portable, gray-colored phone that looked more like a remote control than it did a phone. She leaned across a side station, where customers were supposed to pick up their orders and handed the phone out to him.
“Take it.”
Widow took it. Brought it up to his ear.
“Hello?”
He heard a voice and recognized it immediately, and smiled.
“Widow?”
“Rachel Cameron.”
“Yes.”
“What are you doing?”
“Technology is a wonderful thing.”
Widow stayed quiet.
“The calendar on my computer popped up. Do you know what it said?”
“Today’s my birthday.”
Cameron said, “It said that today’s your birthday.”
Widow stayed quiet.
“Happy birthday, Widow!”
“Thank you.”
“Know how I found you?”
“You’re looking into my bank records, again? Saw my debit card used?”
“Have I done this to you before?”
“No. Last time you cleared out my account completely to get my attention.”
A pause came over the line. He heard what sounded like a chuckle from Cameron.
Rachel Cameron was ten years older than Widow, but that wasn’t something that he knew for sure. The only personal information that he knew about her for sure was her name, what she looked like, and that he could trust her. She had never led him astray, not without good intentions, anyway.
Cameron had been in charge of Unit Ten, Widow’s old undercover unit with NCIS.
She was the voice in his ear. She was his handler.
“Ancient history now, Widow.”
Widow said nothing.
“Got any special plans?”
“Just to walk the city and enjoy my day. Maybe take in a show.”
The line cracked in Widow’s ear. Another caller.
“Hey, Cameron. This is a business line. Their phone’s ringing.”
“Well, hey. I got you a present.”
Widow paused.
“You did?”
“Yeah.”
He looked at Montana. The thought had just occurred to him that he had been in the state of Montana the last time that Cameron had interrupted his life.
The irony wasn’t lost on him, but the belief of coincidence was. Now a feeling of suspicion crossed over him.
“What is it?”
“It’s a surprise.”
Widow looked away from Montana, shook off the suspicion. That would’ve been too much of a coincidence, even for Cameron.
Cameron said, “Go to The Plaza Hotel. Go to the front desk and give them your name. That’s where your present is.”
“Okay.”
“And Widow, happy birthday!”
Cameron hung up the phone.
Widow clicked off and handed the phone to Montana.
“Thanks.”
“Who was that?”
“Ancient history.”
Montana gazed away from him in a slow movement like she was searching for what to say next.
“Old girlfriend?”
Widow let out a laugh, just a quick chuckle. He said, “No. Old boss.”
“Why’s she calling you here?”
“I don’t have a phone.”
“You don’t have a cell phone?”
He shook his head.
“How did she know to call you here?”
“She knows me too well,” he said, not wanting to get into the long explanation of it all.
“I suppose you’re taking off then?”
“Yeah.”
Montana started to turn, but then she stopped and reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded slip of paper. She reached to Widow to give it to him, hand trembling.
She said, “Take this. In case you get a phone. Hope you have a good day.”
And she turned, fast, walked back to the counter, back behind the register and back to work. She never looked up at him again.
Widow already knew what it was. It was obvious.
He didn’t look at it. He just kept it in his hand and walked outside. He turned left, headed south.
He stopped in front of a garden supply store, not sure how much business they really had being in the middle of Manhattan, but he didn’t put too much thought into it.
He opened his
hand, looked down at the folded piece of paper.
He knew it was Montana’s phone number. What else would she give him?
Widow was no saint. No kind of idealist or religious man. And he liked women. Especially an attractive one. But Montana was young. Too young for him, he thought.
He did not open the piece of paper because he knew that he would memorize the phone number if he saw it.
Throwing it away had crossed his mind, but he wasn’t ready to do that either. He wasn’t blind.
A taxi blew by and honked its horn, which startled him for a second. It wasn’t honking at him. He was on the sidewalk. It honked at a kid on a bicycle. A bike messenger, who flipped back the bird and turned the corner down a one-way street.
Widow stuffed the note into the front pocket of his jeans and tried to remember which way The Plaza Hotel was.
CHAPTER 16
STANDING ON FIFTH AND CENTRAL PARK SOUTH, Widow was reminded of The Great Gatsby, a novel that he hadn’t read in decades. He recalled a scene that had a confrontation between Gatsby and another character, whose name he did not remember.
The Plaza Hotel was one of the city’s oldest hotels and a historical landmark. One of those hotels with a history of celebrities, statesmen, and infamous people all staying there or walking through it at one point or another.
Widow passed through the park and turned on the street. He walked up the sidewalk and past yellowing hedges and huge planters.
There were expensive sedans parked along the street. A doorman stood up a flight of steps to the entrance.
Widow walked up and stopped at the double doors under a black metal awning.
He saw himself in the reflection of the glass.
The doorman stayed quiet and looked Widow up and down. At first, Widow thought that he was judging him on his attire. Which was probably part of the guy’s job description. Keeping out the undesirables.
For over a year, Widow had lived like a drifter. Going nowhere in particular. Going everywhere for no reason.
In that time, he had often worn modest clothes and gone days without changing them. He got in showers every chance that he could. And sometimes, on the last day of wearing the same clothes, he looked more like a homeless person than he did a former Navy SEAL.
Luckily, this was not one of those times.
He wore a day-old set of clothes, including a blue sweater with the sleeves messily pushed up over his forearms, over a collared white button shirt, and a pair of gray chinos. He wore no belt.