by Roger Weston
“Have more,” he said. “Eat all you can.”
“I’d like to,” Snider said, “but I’m playing racquetball after this.”
“You poor man. You need to learn how to enjoy life.” Earl wondered if this was the crisis he’d mentioned to his assistant. Earl wiped some grease off his chin with a napkin and pushed back from the table a couple of inches to ease the pressure. “Thank you for meeting with me, Senator. As I mentioned, the stimulus bill we’re putting on the table is of grave importance for national security due to certain add-ons.”
Snider patted his hair. “You’re touching a soft spot, Earl. I guess you knew I’m a pushover when it comes to national security. Give me the particulars, but keep it simple so I can sell your product to my colleagues. Tell me what your bill does and what’s in it for the guy and gal on the street.”
Earl gave him the main points, then nibbled on a piece of bacon for a minute.
Snider closed his eyes and buried his forehead in his hand and made out as if he were giving this his greatest consideration. Finally Snider sat up straight. He leaned back and slapped his hard, lean stomach. “Earl, you know I’ve come through for you in the past. I came through for you with the Medicare bill and prescription drugs bill, but this time I have to abstain. My constituents and my backers are against it, and they’ll hang me out for scavengers if I go AWOL on them.”
“This is a matter of national security. If we don’t support our intelligence apparatus, we’re going to be caught off guard by some shadowy group of fanatics.”
Snider blew a hissing stream of air out between his lips. “I’m all for protecting our country,” he said, “but not if it requires the guy and the gal on the street to make a sacrifice. When it comes to that, it’s time for our public servants to step up to the plate and do their jobs with the abundant resources we’ve already given them. Sorry, Earl.” Snider glanced at his watch. “Gotta run. I’ve got a tennis match.”
Earl frowned. Last he’d heard it was racquetball, but he could hardly expect the Senator to bother with the truth. He’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but as always he was prepared to get the job done. Every Senator had his weakness, and Snider was no exception. It was no secret that Snider found it impossible to let a single skirt pass by without chasing it. He was compulsive and had no self control in that area.
“Hold on, Senator. I wouldn’t ask for your vote without throwing in a carrot.”
Snider frowned. “I know where you’re going. Bottom line is I’m a public servant. I’m not in this for the money.”
Earl knew this was true. Snider had made a fortune in business and was now more concerned with pleasure than dollars.
“You misunderstand, Senator. I’m not even going there.” Earl whistled. He heard the door to the master bedroom open up and his high-priced hooker strode out into the main room. She was dressed in a glittering pink gown and pink high heals and long earrings. She looked like a starlet at the Emmys.
“Perhaps Esmeralda can persuade you to reconsider,” Earl said. He loved Washington politics.
He watched the Senator closely. The man’s face got serious as his eyes roved up and down this lovely vision of female flesh. “Oh boy,” he said. “Earl, you don’t play fair.” He shook his head. “You really make this hard.”
“She can be very persuasive.”
“I’ll bet she can. I’m already starting to see things your way.” Snider slapped his stomach and stood. “Ha! I’m thinking about this.” He checked his watch. “This is very tempting.” He circled the pink dress, and the glitters seemed to have him in a sort of trance. “I’m definitely thinking about this.”
Earl nibbled on bacon. This was a done deal.
The Senator stopped circling the pink dress. He winced as if he’d just been stung by a bee and seemed to force his neck to turn away, as if to not gape at her was painful. “Tell her to leave,” he whispered hoarsely.
Earl dropped his bacon. “What?”
“Tell her to get out. I’m not interested.”
Earl couldn’t believe this. Snider had never shown any self-control in the presence of women. The man couldn’t stand the thought of woman whom he hadn’t had. Earl had staked everything on this move. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” He waved at the woman as if she were a fly. “Scat. Get out of my sight.” She retreated to the back room.
“What’s wrong?” Earl said.
“It’s too risky for me to cross the aisle on this. I’ve got my career to think about.”
“What— What’ll it take to earn your vote? I need it. Please. Please help me.”
“This time I can’t budge. But you play hardball, my friend. You make it hurt.” He hurried to the door. He stopped, glanced down the hall as if he were reconsidering, then shook his head and rushed out.
Earl waited about twenty seconds, then dialed his cell phone. He waited for Robert Fielding to answer, then said, “Plan B is a go. Snider wants to play hardball. Send your best pitcher onto the field.” He hung up, smiled, and scooped up a spoonful of strawberry jelly.
CHAPTER 39
Ballard docks, Seattle
Chuck woke up from a catnap and took more aspirin. He sat on his berth for half an hour and watched the docks through the porthole for any signs of Triads or assassins or anyone else that seemed bent on killing him. His finger throbbed and so did his scalp. Blood had soaked through the bandage on his palm. His ribs only hurt when he moved, but it was a big hurt, and breathing made it worse. He lay back and thought about what he’d learned.
Lok Jin had been a miner in Idaho, but nobody knew where his mine was, the only clue being a poker chip that was lost a hundred years ago. Chuck shook his head. He gave his finger to learn that? With clues like that he’d run out of limbs before he got anything substantial. Still, he wasn’t doing too badly. He was lucky to have come out of Chinatown alive and lucky he didn’t suffer the death of a thousand cuts that Triads were famous for.
Chuck got up, a painful ordeal. He went to the wheelhouse and booted up the laptop.
Typing with his good hand, he went to several Chinese American genealogical websites and researched Lok Jin. After about an hour, he found his man and traced his ancestry down to the present. It seemed Lok Jin had made quite an impression upon his return to China in 1922, partially because he returned with a small fortune from gold and gem sales and partly because he died on arrival, leaving his two sons to fight over the money.
Apparently the older brother claimed the entire fortune for himself. This caused the younger brother to murder him although some said the older brother just tripped and landed on his knife. Whatever really occurred, the little brother took the prize. He invested in Chinese junks and built up a fleet that thrived on providing protection to fishermen. It was not clear why they needed protection although the little brother was evidently quite certain that they did and must have been persuasive on the matter because it was said that the fishermen were so eager to pay him that they threw money at little brother’s junk before they’d tied up, and lots of coin was lost in the sea.
Little brother kidnapped a wife and had a son who was said to have more ability than his father. The boy’s name was Wu Jin. When the Communists took control of China, Wu Jin fled to Hong Kong with his fleet of junks. For the next three decades, he ran black market goods to the mainland. Many had accused him of distributing drugs, but he denied this. Either way, he’d become one of the wealthiest businessmen in Hong Kong. Lately, as China had opened up more, he’d been courting the Communists. It was said that they loved to accept his large cash gifts—so much so that they had allowed him to establish a new residence near Shanghai.
Chuck did an online search of Wu Jin and came across a ton of hits. They were fresh. Some dated as recently as the last month. Wu Jin had become such a successful businessman that a journalist had sought him out and interviewed him for a business magazine. He now called himself Gary Jin, probably to gain rapport with American businessmen
. Mostly the article consisted of a few proverbs of business philosophy and abundant airs on the subject of giving to charity. But one passing reference stunned Chuck. Gary Jin jokingly attributed his success in business to a lucky poker chip that had been passed down from his father and his grandfather.
Chuck sat in the galley with a cup of coffee. He set his cup down next to his handgun. His left hand was bandaged and covered in bags of ice. He had another ice bag strapped to his shoulder. He sat up straight—stiff with pain—another bag of ice on his head to numb his lacerated scalp.
Jeff walked in. “Guess you’re hurtin’. Well, this should help.” He picked up a prescription capsule. “Morphine—for all who have just been amputated, stabbed and beaten.”
“Let me see that.” Chuck put out his good hand and accepted the drug. He looked at it for a minute, then threw it out the porthole across the galley.
“Nice shot,” Jeff said, “but that’s all we had.”
“Good. I don’t want it.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ll suffer more without it—which I deserve—and besides, I can’t find Lydia when I’m drugged out.”
“What do you think you’re gonna do? You just got your ass beat. You can’t even lift your arm.”
“This is barely a scratch. I’m gonna find Lydia. Nothing else matters. Now give me those antibiotics and a couple more aspirin.”
Jeff spilled the requested meds onto the table in front of him. Chuck washed them down and grinned. “Time to get busy.”
“You can’t go out like that. You’ll draw too much attention. You’re hair is matted in blood, your—”
Chuck got a steaming wet towel and began dabbing his forehead. “I’m going to China.”
“What?” Jeff said.
“Immediately.”
“You’re joking. No, you’re not joking, but you should be.”
“I did some research and found an interview with a prominent Chinese businessman. He’s the descendent of Lok Jin, and he keeps the lost poker chip as a good luck charm.”
“If you’re going to visit him,” Jeff said, “that chip doesn’t bring him good luck.”
Chuck picked up his hand gun from the table and looked at it.
Heads Up: Thank you for reading this far! Book 2 of the popular Brandt series, The Handler, is now available on Amazon. Grab a copy today. Now back to The Recruiter.
CHAPTER 40
Seattle
When a gorgeous woman in a business suit walked past Curtis Moore and smiled, he tried to smile back but the effort was forced and fake—sort of like Leslie’s affections perhaps. When Curtis spotted Leslie walking toward Steamers Clam House on First Avenue, his pulse leapt from third into fourth gear. As the Russians used to say, the most dangerous liaisons were romantic. Perhaps he shouldn’t have ignored their maxim. Curtis remained inside of his car under the Alaskan Way Viaduct for ten minutes, watching for any indication of a set-up. Nobody was following Leslie, and he saw nobody that gave him any concern—except maybe the woman with the mini skirt, but he’d get around to her in a minute.
Curtis got out of his car. The Alaskan Way Viaduct was a street on stilts. Beneath the highway, between the stilts was a parking area that stretched for blocks along the waterfront. Curtis casually strolled two blocks. As he walked, he studied the cars for anything he didn’t like. He kept his hands in the pocket of his overcoat, his fingers wrapped tightly around the grip of his Glock combat handgun; however, he was relieved that there were evidently no assassins waiting for him to walk into their trap.
He checked out several blocks back down the other way. He saw someone sitting alone in a car facing the waterfront. Curtis walked up behind the vehicle and pulled out his pistol, ready to put a bullet behind the ear of whoever it was. He aimed and was about to fire when he realized that it was a woman with a baby at her breast. He stuffed his weapon back into his pocket. The doting mom had been too preoccupied with her infant to notice him. He started back the way he’d come, looking around to be sure nobody had seen his actions. To their good fortune, the only pedestrians were a block and half down.
Curtis crossed the street and entered Steamers. Leslie was sitting with her back to the wall watching the entrance, a serious expression on her face.
She stood and smiled at him, though he sensed her reserve. He hugged her and kissed her, and she made a weak comment about the rain and missing him.
“Let’s go,” Curtis said.
“What? No lunch?”
He took her by the arm and rushed her out of the restaurant and over to the parking area under the viaduct. When they got to his car, he glanced around. Nobody. He kissed her and ran his hands up under her shirt.
“What are you doing?” she said, grabbing his wrists.
“Shut up. Are you wired?”
“Wired. What the hell?”
“Get in the car.”
She did as she was told.
Curtis snatched her purse from her shoulder and slammed the door.
He got into the driver’s seat and dumped the contents of her purse onto the floor. There was a .40 caliber Beretta Mini Cougar Pistol, which he shoved into his pocket. He tossed her pepper spray out the window. He chirped the tires as he whipped out into traffic.
“What’s wrong with you?” she said.
Curtis ignored her and drove along the waterfront.
“Damn you,” she said. “You blew it.”
Curtis drove for a while, crossed over a bridge and parked in an industrial area in West Seattle. He looked over at her and thought about the pistol in his pocket.
“Have you lost your mind?” she said. “Why didn’t you take Brandt out?”
“You set me up.”
“Oh, please, Curtis. I’ve dealt with too many paranoid agents. Get it together.”
“Don’t mess with me. I’m warning you, Leslie. You do not want to do that.”
“Oh, my God, Curtis. You’re scaring me.”
“Why are you so eager for me to take out Brandt? You led me right into RUMAN’s trap. Brandt was under surveillance. Is it me you want to sanction?”
“I’m getting out of here.” She went for the door handle.
Curtis grabbed her arm hard. “Answer me.”
“You’re hurting me,” she said. “Let go.”
“Tell me the truth.”
“Brandt has the mark on you. He’s working for Robert.”
“Why did you send me after him—really?”
“He thinks I betrayed him. Robert met no resistance when he offered Chuck half a million to sack you. You have to finish the job, Curtis. I want to be with you, but we have to prepare for my exit. We have to delete that lunatic Brandt. He’ll come after me. If you love me, you wouldn’t ask me to live with that fear hanging over me, tormenting me like a slave master.”
“Somebody tried to take me out.” He let go of her arm and glared at her. “Nobody crosses me and gets away with it.”
She put her hands together. “Curtis, listen to me. All I want is to be with you. I need you. How could you ever think I’d do anything—anything at all to put you at risk? You’re my whole world. My hope for us is all that keeps me going.”
Curtis looked away, and Leslie put her hand on his thigh.
“You need to act now. You’ve got to track him down.” She put her head on his shoulder and moved her hand to his chest.
“The sanction is off.” Curtis grabbed her arm and squeezed hard. “Don’t mention it to me again.”
Her whole body quivered under his grip.
CHAPTER 41
Chuck had to make one call before he headed to the airport. He sat in the galley of his fishing boat and dialed up Lawrence, his old contact who worked at the CIA.
“What have you found out?”
“I did what I could for you, Chuck. I couldn’t find out anything about Jin Mountain. As for Bruce Foley, he was a NASA scientist who died in a mugging. His file was heavily redacted. I owe you big time, and
I did my best. Unfortunately, RUMAN is a closed-door operation. I couldn’t find out anything about their operations. Hell, most the people around the CIA deny that RUMAN even exists, and they mean it.”
“You’ve got nothing else for me.”
“Now, hold on. I didn’t say that. The shrink you asked me about, Leslie Bower. We have her file; however, our records say she worked for the CIA up until four years ago. After that, she falls off the map. She quit and returned to private practice, but I have no idea where she is. We weren’t able to track her down, which is very unusual. She may be overseas.”
“What did she do while she was active?”
“Not your typical CIA shrink if you know what I mean. She worked in heavy stuff—long-term interrogation sequences and psych ops were her specialty. I don’t know why she wanted to leave. Probably couldn’t take the stress anymore.”
Chuck found Jeff in the wheelhouse. “They’re messing with my mind, brother. I’ve got to find Lydia soon. I will find her or die. I don’t care about anything else.”
CHAPTER 42
Washington D.C.
Robert walked casually across the dark motel parking lot, the headlights of cars on the adjoining freeway failing to add more than a slight haze of illumination behind the row of trees. He approached room seven where he reached up and unscrewed the bulb on the exterior lamp. There was only one other occupant at the sleazy motel on a Tuesday night, but Robert couldn’t risk anyone seeing a strange man dressed in black with equipment strapped to his back. He pulled on his black face mask and shoved his pistol under his belt. Then he knocked on the door.