[Cole Sage 03.0] Helix of Cole

by Micheal Maxwell

“Thank you. Let’s get this over with.” Washington went to the door and waited as Sarah then Cole left the room. “Twice, huh?” he whispered as Cole moved past. Cole just smiled.

  Cole and Sarah were ushered by a man wearing an FBI identification tag through a door between the rooms marked “1” and “2”. The room beyond was completely dark except for the glow of red and green lights on the cameras and other equipment. The cameras were mounted on extension-arm tripods facing a two-way mirror mounted above a two-foot-wide work surface. Four low-back office chairs were pushed up under the work area. Pads, pencils, and bottled water were in front of each.

  “Agent Speigelman, please have a seat here.” A voice came from the darkness. A small beam of light touched the surface of the work area below the window. “Mr. Sage, next to her, please.”

  As Sarah lowered herself into the chair, the room was suddenly washed in a bath of light. Carter Washington walked past the two-way mirror and smiled. In front of them, separated only by the mirror, stood Richard Edward Shipman III in an orange jumpsuit. A guard was directing him to a table in the center of the room. His feet and hands were manacled, and there was a chain connecting them. When Shipman was seated, a guard placed a baton under his chin and another guard padlocked the chains on his feet to a large steel ring in the floor. Only then did they unlock the chain connecting his feet and hands.

  Shipman was a small, thin man with a large head and receding hairline. In what was an obvious effort to relieve the cramped muscles in his back, Shipman rocked and arched, pulling back his shoulders and sticking out his chest. He leaned his head hard from side to side, like a fighter loosening up. Then he sat bolt upright and stared straight ahead into the mirror. Without blinking, he began a snakelike darting movement with his tongue.

  Washington sat down to the left of Shipman, and Abrahamoff to the right.

  “Roll tape,” said a voice behind Cole.

  “Let the record show that Special Agent Carter T. Washington of the Federal Bureau of Investigation and David D. Abrahamoff, Attorney for the Department of Corrections of the State of California are interviewing Richard Edward Shipman III at his request,” Carter said, not looking at Shipman.

  “Mr. Shipman, are you here of your own free will and have you waived your right to legal representation?” Abrahamoff twisted a pen as he spoke.

  “Yes.”

  “You contacted the warden yesterday and told him an interesting little story. You want to tell us?” Carter pinched his lips together and continued. “Do you really think some nut has got an atomic bomb in a suitcase?”

  “The warden said you might get time shaved off my sentence if I gave you information.” Shipman flicked his tongue.

  “Is that what this is about, Shipman, some bullshit stunt to get time shaved? The warden said you feared for your life. What, you forget that?”

  “I just want to know, if this works out, what’s it worth to you?”

  “One word from me, and your cell will be moved to a room with a nice northerly exposure and an open window, just in case.” Carter smiled, showing lots of teeth.

  “You’re a lawyer; can he do that?” Shipman looked at Abrahamoff and darted his tongue in and out. “Can he?”

  “I represent the state, Mr. Shipman, so my opinion is really not of much import to you. I will say this: Your tone and willingness to cooperate will carry a lot of weight with Mr. Washington, I’m sure.”

  Shipman rubbed small circles on the tabletop with his index fingers. He twisted his neck again, causing it to pop. He darted his tongue in and out several times before he spoke. “Mr. Washington, would you please consider requesting a reduction of my sentence if the information I provide is of value to the apprehension of the man threatening San Francisco with a nuclear device?”

  “I would certainly consider it. Understand, though, I am only an FBI agent, not a judge.”

  “I understand. Thank you, sir.” Shipman bobbed his head as he spoke.

  “Shipman, don’t kiss my ass so hard. Might leave marks. Now, what do you know? Start at the beginning.” Carter folded his long arms across his chest as he finished.

  “I have been an active member of numerous revolutionary groups since 1972. In that time, I have seen, but not participated in, numerous bombings, bank robberies, and cases of arson that involved high explosives and materials not available at your local Ace hardware store,” Shipman began.

  “Hold it a minute. Okay, I get it. You’re here because you are an innocent victim of a fascist police state judicial system that is bought and sold by the power elite and dedicated to the persecution of those who would give their life for a socialist people cooperative state. Did I leave anything out? If not, no more ‘I’m innocent’ bullshit. It will cut the time by half, okay?” Washington gave a long bored sigh.

  “The guy you want is Curtis Winger. He buys, sells, and steals weapons, ammunitions, explosives—you name it—and then trains people committed to a New World Power Balance to use the stuff.”

  “Strike one. We’re looking for Jason Reed.” Carter shook his head.

  “I know him as Curtis Reed. Same guy. We trained New People’s Army personnel in the Philippines on the use of surface-to-air missiles.” Shipman’s tongue flashed in and out as he paused between words.

  “How do you know it’s him?”

  “Easy. Only three groups have nukes. Russians, they’re selling; Arabs, they’re buying; and Curtis, he’s about using them. He told me in the Philippines if he ever got one, he wouldn’t be afraid to use it. I figure he has negotiated enough sales that the Russians bonused him a suitcase.” Shipman accentuated each sentence with a flick of his tongue.

  “Suitcase?” Carter asked to make sure there was no misunderstanding.

  “Yeah, suitcase nuke. He’s got to have one by now. He sure as hell could never buy one. Curtis isn’t about money. He told me he had half a million in a footlocker in LA, been there four or five years, and that was about five years ago. You know what he charged the NPA? A plane ticket! You believe it? A plane ticket to Frankfurt. I got 100,000 Euro in Krugerrands.”

  “A truly committed radical you are,” Carter said sarcastically.

  “Whatever. He’s your guy.” Shipman flicked his tongue repeatedly.

  “I want a complete description. Height, weight, coloring, scars, tattoos—anything you can think of.”

  “Five-four or five, little, 130 pounds maybe, wiry muscular, strong as hell, hairy arms, red hair, freckles, lots of freckles. He’s a killer. I’ve seen him kill men who looked twice as big as him with his bare hands. Strong, amazingly strong. When he had long hair, he looked like Willie Nelson, the singer. Used to really piss him off if anybody said so.” Shipman laughed and darted his tongue. “You’ll never find him though. He’s, like, invisible.”

  “How do you mean?” Carter asked softly, not wanting to break the flow.

  “We were in London, and he would walk into a tour group, walk for blocks, nobody would even look at him. It was like he wasn’t there. He had me try it. Ten feet, somebody spoke to me. Weird shit this guy does. Spooky. Maybe it’s the peyote. Strong medicine, and Curtis or—what’d you say his real name was?”

  “Jason Reed.”

  “Yeah, Reed. Always takes peyote before a big decision. Off by himself. Says he has visions. Powerful shit, that peyote. I tried it once, no more, no sir, not for me. He’s very internal. You know, keeps it all inside, a good man, strong warrior of changing the world. I would work with him anytime. But you will never find him. He’s been underground forever. Doesn’t exist, no paper, that’s why he’s sought after. But it also means you can’t cross him. He can make people disappear. Suddenly, they’re having their balls crushed by the CIA. People have tried to sell him out. Can’t be found. Like I said, invisible.”

  “So, why are you so willing to give him up?”

  “Crazy asshole will light the fuse. That radioactive cloud will head straight here on the south wind. I’m not willing to die for his
egotism. I’ll be out of here within a year. Don’t want to die of leukemia or liver cancer, either. This is not the way to go about change. Violence must be target-directed. Killing civilians is not endearing to any cause.”

  “Carter, ask him if he knows anyone in the Russian Mob.” Sarah’s voice was loud and crisp in Carter’s earpiece.

  “So, tell me about the Russian mob.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you want to be helpful.” Carter gave Shipman a forced smile.

  “I’m no Russian.”

  “Names, all I want are some names. They’ll never know where the names came from.”

  “Are you keeping track of my tone and willingness to cooperate?” Shipman asked.

  “Noted. Names.”

  “I worked with someone from the Ukraine. Arms guy. He could get you a tank! Sergei something. Wait. Nakarifeiv, Sergei Nakarifeiv. Lives in Prague.”

  “Okay, who else?”

  “How safe are we in here?” Shipman pointed at the two-way mirror.

  “Nobody there but Feds.”

  “Ahem.” Abrahamoff cleared his throat.

  “And a witness.”

  “To what?” screamed Shipman. As he tried to stand, his tongue manically darted in and out.

  “He’s FBI security, cleared all the way to the President. Now sit, more names.”

  “That’s it. This gets out, I’m dead. You know what these Russian Mob guys do to snitches. No more, no more!” Shipman frantically pulled at his chains, and began rocking in his chair and groaning, all the while repeatedly darting his tongue in and out.

  “Who’s the contact for Nakarifeiv?” Sarah asked through the earpiece.

  “I need Nakarifeiv’s contact. If you want any help from me!” Carter tried to shout over Shipman’s howling.

  “You killed me!” Shipman screamed and started to beat his forehead on the table.

  Over and over, he pounded his head against the tabletop. Half standing and slamming it down like a karate demonstration in a high school gym, he appeared to be trying to break the table in half. Twisting and turning, Shipman moaned, continually flicking his tongue in his bazaar snake-like fashion. Time and again, his head made contact. Once he slammed down on the table’s edge, gashing a broad deep cut just below his thinning hairline. As Carter Washington watched in dismay, large plops of blood began streaming onto the Formica table. As Shipman’s head slammed down, a spray of crimson splashed across the table like someone stomping a ketchup packet and slashed a trail across Abrahamoff’s brilliant white shirt. The lawyer sat frozen, gazing down as blood hit the front of his clothing a second time.

  “Maybe we should go.” Washington pulled on Abrahamoff’s arm as he passed him on his way toward the door. “Guard! Guard!” Washington yelled as he rapped on the door.

  Abrahamoff stood motionless, looking down at the bloody stains across his abdomen. Carter reached over and took the handkerchief square from the attorney’s jacket pocket and gently wiped two spots of blood from Abrahamoff’s neck, just above his collar. He handed him the soiled handkerchief, and Abrahamoff dropped it to the floor like it was leprous.

  “Stop the cameras, kill audio,” the voice behind Cole and Sarah said flatly.

  Through the window, Cole watched the now-silent scene of two guards trying to subdue Shipman as he pounded and splashed his bloody head repeatedly against the table. In exasperation, one of the guards put his baton around Shipman’s neck with both hands and pulled him back, struggling to keep him from striking the table again. Finally, choking and gagging, Shipman went limp, unable to breath. With swift efficient movements, the other guard loosed the chains connecting him to the ring on the floor and replaced the chain connecting Shipman’s hands and feet. Grabbing him under each arm, as though they’d done it a thousand times, the expressionless guards dragged the prisoner from the room, toes dragging the floor, blood running from his forehead.

  “That was lovely,” Cole said.

  “No comment.” Sarah stared ahead, unflinching.

  “You certainly don’t question why these people are locked up.”

  “Seems his family could have easily gotten a competency hearing and won it hands down,” Sarah said, turning to face Cole.

  “Old money wants no crazies dangling from the family tree if they can help it.” Washington entered the room and his voice boomed across it. “Let’s go.”

  As they approached the final obstacle to their exit and freedom, they saw Abrahamoff retrieving several objects from the guards.

  “You’ll not hear from me,” he said, without turning around.

  “Thanks for your help today,” Washington replied.

  Abrahamoff did not respond. He picked up his briefcase and left the building.

  On the way back to San Francisco, Cole and Sarah talked and laughed as though they had known each other forever. Stories of Cole’s travels and work met with Sarah’s tales of FBI life and her year on a kibbutz in Israel made the time pass far too quickly to suit either.

  Shortly before they arrived back at the hotel that housed the visiting legion of FBI agents and technicians, Cole reached out, touched Sarah’s sleeve, and leaned toward her. “Is it against regulations to have dinner with someone involved in an investigation?” Cole whispered.

  “I hope not.” Sarah smiled.

  “Meet you in the lobby at 7?”

  “How about 6?”

  “I’ll be here.”

  The car pulled up to the curb in front of the Pickwick Hotel, and Sarah got out. Carter Washington turned and smiled at Cole.

  “You’re an old smoothie, you are.”

  “Come on, Carter, it’s just—” Cole didn’t finish. Carter Washington was out of the car and bounding across the sidewalk behind Sarah. Cole watched as they both disappeared inside the hotel.

  CHAPTER 11

  At a quarter to 6, Cole walked into the lobby of the Pickwick Hotel. He had gone home and shaved again, showered again, and changed his shirt three times. He made reservations at a small Italian restaurant in the Noe Valley and put in a special order for tiramisu. Cole’s stomach was churning, and he’d broken out in a cold sweat. He felt like a kid on his first date. Then he saw her.

  Sarah stood next to an oversized chair that faced the elevators. She wore a brilliant fire engine red dress. The top of the dress was highlighted by a band around her neck and was formfitting to the waist, leaving her shoulders bare. From her waist, the skirt spread out in a flowing fullness that seemed to sway, even though she was standing still. Around her shoulders, was draped a black lace shawl that hung gracefully over her arms. She held a small black clutch detailed in rhinestones. This glorious vision was standing atop a pair of red stiletto heels with toes as sharp as a fresh pencil. Cole could hardly breathe.

  Sarah saw Cole at the same moment he saw her. Her smile seemed to outshine the lights in the room. Her raven hair was pulled back and accentuated her long, graceful neck. Earlier in the day, she hadn’t worn make up or at least not enough for Cole to notice. Now she wore red lipstick to match her dress and a glistening blush upon her cheeks. With her dark hair and porcelain skin, she was like a glamorous illustration and not a living breathing person. Her eyes sparkled like the bluest sapphires and projected the same smile that was on her lips. She was altogether beautiful.

  “You look amazing,” Cole said as he reached her.

  “Thank you,” Sarah said softly, looking down at her bag.

  From beneath her soft makeup, Cole could see the natural rose of her blushing cheeks. “You FBI people seem to be prepared for any occasion!” he exclaimed in mock surprise.

  “I’m just a girl let loose in San Francisco with an American Express card. You like?” Sarah twirled around, the skirt floating away from her body, giving the sensation of slow motion. She stopped to face Cole and beamed, seeing she made the desired impression.

  “You are lovely. Shall we?” Cole offered her his arm. She took it, and Cole thought he felt a squeeze.

/>   At the door of Mia Sophia Restaurante, Cole and Sarah were met by the owner, Anthony Fabiani, who took them to a booth neatly tucked into the corner, far from the noise of the kitchen door. The Mia Sophia was a journey into what restaurants must have been like a hundred years ago. The table was a classic red-and-white check. A red candle burned from a short Chianti bottle, the wax of many years flowed down to all but cover its woven straw base. Napkin rings made of tomato paste cans made for a sharp contrast to the dazzling white of the starched napkins.

  “Per la signora giovane bella.” Fabiani handed Sarah a large burgundy leather menu folder. “May I suggest the Clam Linguine this evening? Followed by the Giant Sea Scallop Scampi?”

  “Doesn’t sound kosher to me,” Cole said softly to Sarah.

  “Thank you,” Sarah said with a grin.

  “I think Saltimbocca alla Romana for tonight and the Spinach Ravioli.”

  “Bella, bella, scelta eccellente! And for the wine?”

  “Nothing tonight, grazie.” Cole smiled.

  “And he speaks Italian?” Sarah said slyly.

  “Restaurant Italian only.”

  “This is lovely, Cole. A place only a native would know.”

  “Transplanted native.”

  “So, why did you leave Chicago? Wasn’t it home?”

  “To me, California is really home. I have always wanted to work in San Francisco, and when I found out about Erin, it just felt right. So, I moved. Funny thing is, Erin and Ben decided to move to the Bay Area at the same time, a job offer for Ben, actually.”

  “When I get back to D.C., I’ll be taking a new position. Quite a promotion, actually.” Sarah took a deep breath. “It’s a five-year commitment. No transfers, no promotions.” She watched Cole’s face for a reaction.

  Cole smiled, but his eyes showed the disappointment he was feeling. It was foolish, he knew, but he thought, maybe, just maybe, he found someone. Stupid, he thought to himself, you’ve known her 10 hours and three of those you were apart. Still, he felt a void, a void that had, if only for a few hours, been filled by this beautiful, bright, witty woman. Did she seen him falling? She let him down so easily, yet so early in the evening. It wouldn’t work; she knew it all along. Now he knew it. She saw the disappointment.