by Leslie Wolfe
The skirt steak, grilled with buttered Portabella mushrooms and served with Claire’s signature mashed potatoes, was excellent.
“Absolutely agree,” Sam said, raising his bottle of beer toward Tom.
Steve observed quietly, not interrupting the dialogue. Brian, at his side, was finishing his steak. Lou had finished his meal altogether, after wolfing down the steak in a few large bites.
“Alex, can I get you anything else to drink?” Claire asked. “I see you’re holding an empty glass.”
“Yes, Claire, please. I would love another angry mojito. They’re really good.”
“I’ll make that,” Tom offered. “Always leave work assignments to the highest qualified workforce, right?” Everyone chuckled. “What else can I bring you? Robert, another beer?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Me too,” Sam said.
“Me three,” Brian joked.
“All right, full round of drinks coming right up.”
He came back shortly, as everyone was finishing up.
“I think I know what it is,” Alex said, “with our silence. The case we’re celebrating, it’s closed but not quite, and I think this bothers you all just as much as it bothers me.”
“You have a point there, kiddo,” Sam said. “But we have, in fact, fulfilled our mission.”
Steve lit a cigar and leaned back more comfortably in his chair.
“Have we, really?” Alex asked. “Yes, we prevented a disaster of immense proportions by thwarting a plan to steal our elections. Never before has a terrorist organization planned to decide our next American president somewhere outside our borders. Yes, we countered that plan. We have achieved that. We have also prevented the multi-point terrorist attacks scheduled to happen at some point in the future. We, all of us here, have restored the integrity and safety of our Election Day and election process. And your friends,” she said, pointing at Sam, “took care of the bad guys. Even better, none of us are in jail. Yet.”
She paused, allowing time for anyone who wanted to interject, but no one did. “This is all the good stuff. But I still don’t know who X is. We still don’t know who the leader, the architect of this plan was. You have to give it to him; it was a great plan. It almost worked. It took Robert’s solid conscience combined with sheer luck to get us to find out this much about them and reclaim the integrity of our elections process.” She stopped talking, deep in thought, her fork stuck in mid-air.
“We got lucky this time, but let’s face it,” she continued, “this X has thought up a plan that has greatness in it, boldness. He has some serious cojones, this guy. X is smart, calculated, a brilliant orchestrator able to forge a global game of immense reach with laser precision. It bothers me that he’s still out there, planning his next move. We think we won, but in fact, the devil’s move is next. The game is still on, and it will be on until we catch X, or whatever we want to call him. And what exactly do we know about him?”
“We do know a little more than before. We know for sure he’s Russian, and his nickname is V, or that’s his initial. We know last time the group met in Greece, somewhere within a half hour by chopper from Thessaloniki. That’s the extent of what we know, unfortunately,” Sam said.
“Not nearly enough to call the case done,” Alex said bitterly. “I know you said that some of these cases take a long time to really close, but I’m not a spy, Sam, I don’t have your patience. I want the bastard to hang now. I wanna know who he is. I wanna look him straight in the eye while we take him down.”
“Spies aren’t patient by choice, kiddo. They’re patient by need. This is the game we have to play. It’s covert, all smoke and mirrors, and you have to wait, wait like a spider who weaves its web and waits. Sooner or later it will work if the web is woven well. We’re working on that, right, kiddo? So take it easy, ’cause this anger I sense brewing inside you will only get you to screw up. Only a cool-headed agent is able to interpret information accurately. A hot-headed, frustrated one will get emotional and then get killed.”
“I’m not an agent,” Alex said, and to her own surprise, with sadness in her voice. “I am not spy material.”
“Yes, you are,” Sam countered, “and a darn good one. If I weren’t retired I’d try to recruit you for the CIA right now.”
“Don’t you dare,” Tom said, “she’s all mine.”
Steve chuckled.
“Sorry, Sam,” Alex joked. “Tom pays way better than the government.”
They all burst into laughter.
“Alex,” Robert said as soon as the laughter subsided a little, “you might not be happy with the outcome of this case, but you protected us, my wife and me, and we’re both very grateful to all of you. You and your terrific team saved our lives.”
Alex nodded, accepting the compliment, but her bitterness remained. “Helms is still out there, chased by the Israelis. Your lives might still be at risk. Robert, be very careful. Helms is still in the wind, so even that’s not closed yet. And we might still go to jail over this, at some point in our lives, you know.”
“Sure, but something tells me we won’t,” Sam reassured her. “This is not how such things are handled. No one wants this kind of story to make it out to the public, so they wouldn’t risk it at this point, even if they somehow learned about it. It would make the responsible agencies seem like they’re asleep at the wheel, right? No one has any interest whatsoever in blowing this thing wide open now, or at any time in the future. Plus, we did nail us some fairly big terrorists, right? That should buy us some slack with law enforcement agencies.”
Lou nodded vigorously. “Yep, yep,” he whispered.
“I agree,” Steve said, his first words in the entire evening.
“Well, I might have to disagree, unfortunately,” Robert said. “I had to inform my boss, the main shareholder of DCBI. A few days ago, I brought him up to speed and offered my resignation. He wants me to stay until after Election Day and fully oversee this engagement, but afterward I’m out. Early retirement I would call it, if everything else were OK. However, at that time Campbell might want to hold me accountable for what I have done. I could go to prison for the rest of my life, or be executed for treason. God only knows.”
Alex looked at Tom, who nodded almost imperceptibly.
“Umm...not really,” she said. “During the course of our investigation we have ascertained that Melanie’s heart failure was induced through prolonged and carefully timed exposure to certain drug mixes. She was poisoned. Her heart failure was induced, Robert. Not to mention a DUI doesn’t automatically disqualify heart transplant candidates. We’ve checked. You were set up. You are not a traitor; you are a victim. Melanie is a victim too.” Alex looked at everyone around the table. “And we’re willing to testify to that.”
“Yep,” Sam confirmed.
Tom raised his glass toward Robert and smiled with kindness.
Tears flowed freely on Robert’s cheeks. He covered his mouth with his hands, trying to control his emotions.
“Oh, my God,” he whispered, swallowing his sobs. “Oh, my God.”
Steve put his hand on Robert’s shoulder, comforting him. “It will all be OK, you’ll see. Everything will turn out just fine,” he said in a soft, reassuring voice.
Robert wiped his tears with his hands and cleared his throat. “Umm...by the way, Campbell gave me this,” he said, taking an envelope from his pocket and handing it to Tom, “to give to you, the leader of the organization that helped DCBI and me. I didn’t tell him anything more, not your name, not anything.”
Tom took the envelope and studied it silently, with a frown on his forehead.
“Maybe this is where he tells us we have ten days to run to a non-extradition country, or else we’re gonna get canned,” Brian joked.
“Ah, shut up, you,” Tom laughed. “Let’s see.” He opened the envelope and took out the contents. “OK, so there’s a note that says, quite cryptically, ‘Thank you. You know what for,’ and there’s a money order f
or one-million dollars. See? All good stuff!”
They cheered, a welcome wave of relief inundating them.
Steve’s laughter covered everyone else’s.
“There goes our opportunity,” he said, “our once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to be heroes, true patriots, people who sacrifice, risk, and endure for their country. We’re back to being mercenaries again, just like we normally are.”
Silence dropped heavy among them. Tom looked at everyone carefully, silently asking for their approval. Somehow, they all knew what he intended, and they all agreed.
“Nope, it doesn’t,” Tom replied. “Lou, why don’t you take this and compensate your...umm...hacker friends, the ones who wrote the new software for us?”
“Sir, that’s a lot of coin for a week’s worth of work,” Lou said.
“It’s the value that should be rewarded, not the time,” Tom pushed back. “And Lou?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Stop calling me sir, already!”
...Chapter 102: Retirement
...Friday, October 28, 10:17PM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)
...Evening News at Ten
...Nationally Syndicated
“In other news tonight,” the anchor said, starting the final segment of the newscast, “Russian President Piotr Abramovich has announced in a Kremlin press conference today the retirement of Minister of Defense Mikhail Nikolaev Dimitrov. Dimitrov has led the Russian office for almost seven years, and he was considered a moderate, appreciated for his balanced, non-military approach to resolving crises. Dimitrov is also a long-time personal friend of Abramovich, dating to their early careers in the KGB, where they served together in the same foreign intelligence unit. This could maybe explain why the Russian president himself held the press conference to announce Dimitrov’s resignation. President Abramovich stated that Dimitrov resigned for personal and health reasons and wished him all the best in his retirement.”
The anchor paused a little and changed his pitch slightly as he continued.
“Analysts are saying that being a moderate and the recent frictions between him and the president are the real reasons behind the defense minister’s resignation. A successor has not yet been named, but it is expected to be one of the old guard generals, more aligned with President Abramovich’s hard-line policy toward the West.”
The anchor set down his papers, then continued. “Moving on to coast-to-coast weather, with our very own meteorologist, Dylan McPherson.”
...Chapter 103: House Guest
...Friday, October 28, 10:48PM PDT (UTC-7:00 hours)
...Alex Hoffmann’s Residence
...San Diego, California
She unlocked the door, happy to be home and looking forward to a nightcap at the end of a long, emotionally draining day. Yes, a martini straight up would do it; the strong taste of undiluted vermouth on ice would definitely help her sort through her mixed thoughts.
She kicked her shoes off and entered her living room. She turned on the light and froze. A man was sitting on her couch, a handgun on the coffee table in front of him. He looked somewhat familiar. At first, she couldn’t figure out who the stranger was; then she remembered the sketch she had seen.
“Miss Hoffmann, I presume?”
“Helms...You’re Warren Helms, right?”
“I prefer Mr. Helms, if that’s all right with you,” the man said politely, as if they were just introduced in a social situation.
“Sure, I apologize,” she reacted. The slight buzz from her earlier mojitos was all gone, her brain in high gear. How the hell was Mossad looking for this guy, when he was right there, installed comfortably in her living room? How the hell did they miss it?
“Ah, polite...That is refreshing,” Helms said.
Alex stood a few feet away from the coffee table, not sure what to do. Her phone was in her pocket, but she doubted Helms would allow her to use it. She decided to engage him, ignoring her trembling knees that were urging her to run.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Helms?”
“You can tell me who you are, Miss Hoffmann. Who are you? How did you get involved in this?”
“I don’t understand what you mean,” she tried to deflect.
“You know, we’re both going to die, Miss Hoffmann. You will die here, today, by my hand. That is a fact. I will probably follow at some time in the future, although I intend to postpone that event as long as I can. Therefore, you can tell me. Who are you?”
“Just someone who can’t take your kind of bullshit and be indifferent, I guess,” she answered, regaining her self-confidence. The hell with it, she thought. “I’m actually happy you found me, relieved to be exact. I knew you were coming, and I was getting tired of looking over my shoulder.”
“Happy to oblige,” Helms said coldly. “I am glad to finally make your acquaintance. You see, there are only two people in this world who caused me grief in the past few months. You are one of them, and we’re going to end that today. The other one is Krassner, and I’ll deal with him next week. But let’s get back to you. I am glad you saw me coming. You have clear expectations, I take it.”
She stood quietly, holding his gaze.
“This is good,” Helms continued. “Who pays you?”
“I’ll be happy to answer that if you tell me who pays you.”
Fast and unexpected, Helms rose from the couch and slapped her hard across the face, throwing her off balance. She hit the side of the coffee table with her left shoulder and landed hard on the carpet, face down. Her head throbbed, and tears burned her eyes.
“This is not how this works,” Helms said quietly, sitting back down on the couch. His voice was a whisper, almost soft, conveying a level-toned sequence of short phrases, separated by silence in between. It had a silent staccato rhythm, underlying his point. The effect was threatening. “I ask. You answer. Or you get hurt. A lot. Before you die.”
He watched her trying to pick herself up from the floor, using just her right arm for support. “The die part is a fact we cannot change, but it can come slowly or quickly. It’s entirely up to you. Please don’t get to the point where you have to beg for your death. It’s just such a bad experience.”
She groaned and started crawling on the floor, approaching the coffee table. She turned slightly to her left and leaned on the coffee table with her left hand, grabbing the edge for support and letting out inarticulate whimpers of pain. She watched Helms waiting for her to get up, but she let herself fall back on the floor instead, almost on her back, in parallel with the coffee table. Unseen, her right had reached under it and grabbed the small pistol she had taped under there. Without hesitation and without squinting she pulled the trigger twice. The bullets hit Helms in the chest, tightly grouped. She watched Helms as life left his body, still pointing the gun at him.
“Bang means the bad guy is down. Yes, I want to see that happening,” she mumbled, picking herself up from the floor.
She took her encrypted cell out of her pocket and called Tom.
“Hey, sorry to call so late, but I found Helms.”
“Where is he?” Tom asked.
“In my living room, staining my damn carpet. The couch is a write-off too.”
...Chapter 104: Voting Day
...Tuesday, November 8, 8:07AM PST (UTC-8:00 hours)
...Carmel Valley Recreational Center—Polling Precinct
...San Diego, California
Alex entered the polling precinct and went straight for the registration desk, presenting her driver’s license and voter registration card. An absent-minded woman in her fifties checked her ID and let her go through to the booths. She waited for a minute or so for one to become available, a strong sense of excitement making her smile widely. The Agency had made this Election Day possible.
Alex entered the booth and closed the curtain behind her. She touched the upper left corner of the voting tablet, holding her finger in place for a few seconds. A screen prompting for a username and password opened up. Lou’s hacker friends
had built a backdoor into the software, to allow access to the admin level, control panel, where they could see the statistics. She entered her credentials to gain access and checked the application’s performance. Stats were great; the application was running smoothly, not a trace of malware, external attack, or anything of that nature. Satisfied, she exited the admin control panel and cast her vote.
A few minutes later, she exited the polling precinct, smiling just as widely as she had on her way in. Steve was waiting for her, leaning against a side wall. She grabbed his arm in a side-hug and kissed his cheek.
“So, who do you think is gonna win?” Steve asked.
“I don’t know, but it’s gonna be whoever they choose,” Alex said, gesturing toward the people coming in and out of the polling precinct. “And that just makes it all worthwhile, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Absolutely agree,” he replied, not letting go of her as they walked toward his car. “What next?”
She looked straight into his blue eyes and considered her options for a second. It was time for a leap of faith.
“How’s St. Thomas this time of year?” she asked.
“Always perfect,” Steve answered, unable to hide the surprise in his voice.
“Wanna keep me company?”
“I’ll book us on the earliest flight.”
“Ahh...don’t bother,” she laughed, as she opened the door to his matte black M6. “I happen to have a good friend with a private jet. I might as well take advantage, don’t you think? We can leave as soon as you’re ready.”
“I’m ready anytime you like,” Steve said, “but we won’t be able to stay too long. We have to be back by Sunday evening. We should probably fly straight to New York City when we come back.”
“Why’s that?” Alex pouted.
“We have a new client. You do, to be precise. We’re meeting with the Board of Directors on Monday morning, 9AM, on Wall Street.”
~~~ The End ~~~