The Bernie Factor

by Joseph S. Davis

  Chapter 18

  “We may have a problem.”

  “Whiteside, you may have a problem if you ever call on this line again,” Christos Gionelli shouted. “Hang up now and follow the established procedures. I don’t expect this to ever happen again.”

  Whiteside’s phone went silent. He pulled the device away from his ear and looked at it, as if it would provide any answers. How could he have been so stupid? In the span of 4 hours, he’d managed to commit two judgment errors that went totally against his character. But this last one rattled him. Not so much because he used the wrong line, but because Schwartz’s voice and presence so easily disrupted his professional demeanor and thought process. This simple assignment was beginning to make him question whether he was up to the task, and that was something he never questioned. He sat in his Mercedes in Pine Valley and redialed the correct number and waited for Gionelli’s voice.

  “That’s better,” Gionelli answered. “Now what the fuck is the problem? All you have to do is get a stupid mutt from an animal shelter.”

  “There’s been a complication. Somebody has taken ownership of the target. To keep things unsuspecting and quiet, I’ll need a little more time.”

  “Your time should have been better utilized busting you ass to Pine Valley before this happened,” Gionelli roared over the telephone line. He did not possess a lengthy patience, and this dilemma used up what little remained. “Time is the one precious commodity we do not have. 24 hours is your maximum allotment, or you’re working pro bono on this one. You feeling me?” Gionelli received partial payments from underworld contacts who expected a product by a specified time. If he was delinquent on his end, he stood to suffer more than just financial repercussions. These people possessed zero tolerance.

  “If you want this job to go clean, I’ll operate as usual. Are you authorizing something different?”

  “I’m telling you keep it quick and clean. Both elements must be adhered to or this whole thing will fall apart in a heartbeat, and that won’t be good for either one of us. Agreed?”

  “I agree to do my best. There is something else.”

  “There’s always something else, but not typically with you. What the hell’s going on out there?”

  “Do you have some of your people here?”

  “Where my people are is irrelevant. As far as you’re concerned, I have people everywhere.”

  “But you have one in particular who I know, and he knows me. He’s here in Pine Valley or at least passing through. I saw Martin Schwartz today.”

  The mention of Schwartz’s name from this man made Gionelli’s blood run cold. He never even put two and two together. Both men currently operated in the same small town under his personal supervision, officially and unofficially. His heart sank into his stomach with the thought of these two crossing paths after so many years. A delicate fabric of lies and cover-ups had been woven years ago. If Schwartz saw his field operative, the whole tapestry could unravel in an instant.

  “Did he see you?” Gionelli whispered, his voice barely audible and cracking slightly under the pressure.

  “Of course not. I’m a professional,” Whiteside responded flatly.

  “We’re all professionals, dammit!” Gionelli shouted. His embarrassment at showing weakness enraged him as much as anything else. Whiteside maintained silence on the other end. “Schwartz is conducting a separate, unrelated investigation. Forget about him, and continue on with your assignment. Just take extra precautions in and around Pine Valley.” Gionelli spoke the words hoping they would reassure him, but felt no ease in his mind. “Where’s the dog?”

  “In town with a Nicholas O’Fallon,” he replied. “My database searches didn’t bring up anything remarkable about this man. This will be more of a timing issue than anything else.”

  “Did you say Nicholas O’Fallon?” Gionelli’s head began reeling with the unlikely possibility that there were two Nicholas O’Fallons in Pine Valley. He dropped his head into his open palm and contemplated how much more complicated this could become.

  “Yes, that’s the name. Is there a problem?” he asked. Gionelli said nothing, breathing short heavy breaths into the receiver. “I’m sorry, is there a problem with O’Fallon?” Whiteside repeated. The lack of response made his heart slightly accelerate.

  “There’s no problem. Just requires some minor league technical maneuvering,” Gionelli lied. Gionelli spun his chair around and looked at the cell phone tracking software program. Andy O’Fallon was approximately 25 miles northwest of Pine Valley. Dammit, when did he start heading that direction? How long had it been since he looked at this screen? He would have to activate Schwartz after completing this phone call.

  “Technical maneuvering? I need full disclosure to assure there are no loose ends or further complications.” Gionelli had no intention of providing anything more than what he already said. He had to play things close to the vest. The proximity of these two operations required his utmost attention and discretion. Nothing further would get shared at this moment.

  “Yeah technical maneuvering. You know, GPS imaging, allocation of assets, that kind of stuff. You’ll be clear to operate without any interference. That is, if you’re still up to doing the job right and keeping an extremely low profile.” Gionelli knew that last jab would land squarely on this hired man’s ego and prompt an immediate response.

  “I’m always up to the job,” Whiteside said louder than usual. He calmed himself and continued, “I’m the best, and that’s why I’m here. It will be done tonight.”

  “If you say so,” Gionelli replied, knowing this would finish driving in the nail.

  “I say so!” The phone went silent, and Gionelli chuckled uneasily to himself at how easy it was to manipulate a man like that. Sociopath’s aren’t usually so quickly controlled with their emotions.

  Gionelli hit the phone speed dial. In two rings a gruff voice resonated over the line.

  “Schwartz,” said the voice on the other end.

  “It’s time to put down the coffee and donuts. O’Fallon is 25 miles outside of Pine Valley and apparently heading that direction.”

  “25 miles! Jesus Christ, what the hell were you waiting for? You’re lucky Winston and I are still so freaking close.”

  “Relax. All I need you to do is head toward his kid’s bar, and nab the old man there. Stay away from the house for now. He’s not heading there.”

  “And how the hell do you know that? And what do mean nab him? Do we have paper on him?”

  “I’ve got him on GPS, and no, we don’t have any paper. Just lean on him. Tell him it’s coming forthwith. Offer to put him on a plane at our expense.”

  “Who’s approving that expense?”

  “Who the fuck do you think? Me, god dammit! Stop asking so many fucking questions, and get your asses over to that bar and wait for him. Understood?”

  “Fine. I like drinking on the job anyway.” With that the phone went dead. Gionelli tossed the device across his desk and watched it skid off the edge and fall on the carpeted tile floor.

  “Fuck it,” Gionelli said to himself. He rocked back in his chair and considered how two separate operations, one legitimate and one in the shadows, could get this closely connected. In his 25 years of service he’d never seen or heard of anything like this before. Just goes to figure, the one time he decided to step over the line and get a little something for himself. He rationalized that he’d put in enough years of dealing with the lying, scumbag witnesses who pass through the program year after year. Now it was payback time.

  To maintain his cover in the witness protection program, he jokingly told people he was in the waste management business. He never got too in depth, quickly changing the subject to something about the other person. In all his years, he never met somebody who didn’t prefer talking about themselves, if given the opportunity. They never got to know that the waste he managed
was busy testifying in federal courts, with so many cases hinging on their testimonies. Sure, some of the protectees were affable enough, but most were nothing more than asshole crooks who got hooked by the man and decided to sell out their friends and associates to avoid swinging the soap on a rope inside a federal penitentiary. And now the Department of Justice was trying to squeeze him out before he was ready to retire and cost him significant money. This plan was his insurance contingency to an earlier than expected retirement.

  And the plan had been so ingenious. A decade ago, two low level thugs worked freelance, skirting the periphery of a much larger syndicate of thieves, cutthroats , and drug smugglers in Las Vegas. To show their allegiance and to work their way into the inner circle of the criminal operation, these two knuckleheads took on the responsibility of carrying out a contract killing. Of course, they were not contract killers, just eager to make their bones. Like most gangsters, they believed the answer was lots of firepower and ammunition. Basically, they took the spray and pray approach when it came to gunning down a mark.

  So in the middle of the night, when their target loaded his entourage into a black stretch Hummer limousine, they followed in close proximity. About 4 blocks from the nightclub the limousine stopped at a red light. At 4:30AM and off the Las Vegas strip, they easily pulled alongside the unsuspecting vehicle and opened fire. Their first mistake arose at failing to achieve proper target acquisition, also known as aiming. The second error revolved around identifying potential collateral damage, also known as paying attention to what’s around you. The third blow to their hastily designed plan involved accurate intelligence, also known as buying special ammunition for shooting at an armored limousine.

  A hail of bullets danced and ricocheted across the surface of the vehicle, nothing penetrating. The bulletproof glass spidered with the impact of the rounds but the windows maintained their integrity. Even the tires were penetration resistant and were impervious to the bullets.

  What wasn’t impervious or resistant to the bullets was the car parked across the street, which was occupied by two men engaged in what the newspapers would later refer to as an unnatural sex act. Until that moment, it was unclear if that line had ever been crossed in Las Vegas, NV. It probably had something to do with the trailer hitched to the rear of the car, complete with two miniature ponies, seven roosters, and a shaved mole. The Las Vegas Review Journal later reported that the mole succumbed to his wounds several hours after the incident. Authorities never fully confirmed the accounts, but many who followed the story believed the mole’s name was Rascal.

  In spite of the marsupial loss, the real story unfolded not because of the senseless act of violence that could have cost human lives, but the fact that one of the men in that parked car was a GOP Senator from Kansas on vacation with his family. The other man, who received a minor graze wound to his left shoulder, was his senior aide and an apparent animal right’s enthusiast. The political process could not keep the sexual nature of the encounter off the front pages, but it was able to bring attempted murder charges of a U.S. Senator upon the hapless thugs.

  With the full force of the Las Vegas Police Department, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the United States Attorney’s Office, and a camera mounted atop the traffic signal at the crime scene, an arrest was made within four hours of the triggers getting pulled. The two men slept at an old girlfriend’s apartment with the getaway car parked outside the front steps. Once the door came off its hinges by the power of a size 14 Danner Boot, the former girlfriend quickly distanced herself from either of the men. At the end of the day, she thought they took the car out for a booty run. She was glad it came back without the unsavory scent of prostitute stank. Looming attempted murder and accomplice to commit murder charges with a misdemeanor cruelty to animal charge quickly swayed her to the side of the government officials. The two men soon followed suit.

  In an agreement to eliminate jail time, they decided to cooperate with federal investigators and provide assistance to an ongoing prosecution about drug kingpins in the greater Las Vegas, NV area. By doing so, they were placed in the U.S. Marshals Service’s Witness Protection Program. They eagerly told investigators everything they knew and even supplied information on things they knew absolutely nothing about. The prosecutors soaked it up like a mop. The crooks became so adept at manufacturing incriminating stories, it became somewhat of a chore even for them to differentiate between the truth and their wild factual bends. But the stories rolled in, and soon the case spider webbed up and down the west coast and as far east as St. Louis and as far south as Texas. The case labored on for 16 months, including over 120 indictments, 57 plea bargains brokered, and 7 multi-defendant trials in 3 separate federal judicial districts.

  Upon completion of their testimonies, the two men assumed new identities under the witness protection program and began new lives in separate, unsuspecting cities and communities. Chief Christos Gionelli knew that the threat against these men was very real. The organizations they helped cripple still had powerful allies, and the money still rolled in. There were contracts out on their lives during the whole legal process, and Gionelli knew that nothing changed as they began their new lives within the witness protection program. But it had been years of inconspicuous living, and both men kept their noses clean and stayed off everyone’s radar. Even U.S. Marshal Service handlers in the field interacted with them only on an occasional basis. A professional contract could be carried out with relative ease if anyone knew of their locations.

  Gionelli made contact with the mentally weaker of the two men who worked in a veterinary clinic, just outside of Fort Carson Army Base in Colorado Springs. He’d gone to bat for this client and got him a good gig with this veterinarian clinic and used tax payer dollars to train him almost as much as an actual veterinarian. But the true key to success lay in the fact he knew this man would remain silent. Gionelli concocted a story about matters of national security and the transfer of judicially sensitive information through a less than conventional methodology. An encased microchip needed to be implanted just below the skin on a large sized dog obtained by his protectee and then shipped to a location in Phoenix, AZ. The protectee located a St. Bernard, thereby initiating phase one. All Gionelli had to do was access the protected witness information.

  It wasn’t hard to work the system. Where the difficulty lay was keeping any kind of electronic or paper trail away from him. However, as the Witness Security Chief Inspector for the western region of the United States, he possessed all of the proper clearances and security levels to access information on every single protected witness and their families. He signed off on all of the paperwork. He personally coordinated relocation and re-identification procedures and protocols. He was a clearinghouse for all Witsec client’s past history and fabricated new identities. Gionelli imbedded every bit of this information on a microchip, which he sent to his protectee in Colorado Springs. From there, the dog was to get shipped to Surey Whiteside in Phoenix, AZ. Whiteside’s name did not appear on the list for more than one reason. Gionelli decided any personal contact with Whiteside during this operation an unnecessary risk, thus the middleman and the dog in Colorado Springs.

  However, this is where the plan went awry. Instead of delivering the dog to Phoenix, the protectee sent the St. Bernard to the shipping company’s main warehouse in south Denver. When Gionelli hammered him about this mishap, the man jabbered incoherently about seeing auras and hearing disembodied voices that told him to send the dog to the new address. Obviously concerned about the man’s mentally stability, Gionelli took matters into his own hands.

  The shipping company promised to reroute the dog to the intended destination. However, by the time Gionelli ironed out all of the details, the St. Bernard up and vanished from the warehouse without a trace. It was 36 hours before the embarrassed warehouse manager contacted Gionelli and explained the situation. If Gionelli could have crawled through
the telephone line and choked him out, he would have done it. However, Gionelli had a fail-safe measure in place; a GPS tracking component attached to the microchip that was implanted in the dog’s neck. This device provided coordinates to an animal shelter in Pine Valley, CO. Gionelli almost didn’t think a GPS unit would be necessary, but he decided at the last second, better safe than sorry.

  Whiteside’s fee went up substantially with this complication, but the payoff was enough to offset the margin cut. Besides, Surey Whiteside was extremely reliable. With Whiteside’s history inside the program during his formidable teenage years, Gionelli witnessed Surey’s troubled past bloom into an exploitable asset for the government. Surey’s father, a sociopath himself, worked for years as an enforcer for outlaw motorcycle gangs across the country before briefly entering the Witsec program. His short stint as a federally relocated witness simply proved that a leopard can’t change his spots. Before long, Edgar Whiteside was up to his old tricks, and that was hard to hide in a small ranching community outside of Helena, MT. Surey Whiteside’s transformation, however, was an entirely different story.

  But for now, Gionelli felt confident that this caper could still come off without any further hitches. He tinkered with the thought of jumping on a plane and heading to Pine Valley to ostensibly oversee the project. Of course, the guise would be overseeing what happened with Andy O’Fallon. He had no intention of being seen anywhere near Surey Whiteside. He sincerely hoped there would be no collateral damage on this job. A pang of guilt resonated through his gut, and he knew sitting in Las Vegas was no longer an option.

  He reached for the desk telephone and hit the speed dial number 3. The person on the other end echoed in a tinny voice.

  “Worldwide Reservations. How may I help you this evening?” The voice possessed neither male nor female attributes, but they never did. Gionelli often pictured a room full of eunuchs or unfortunate participants from a government cloning project sequestered deep within a secure black ops facility where their every need was met, with the exception of societal integration.

  “Gionelli, Christos J., 2853 requesting travel.”

  “Please provide locations,” the androgynous voice responded. Gionelli continued to wonder if these people worked in a subterranean, steel-fortified bunker at area 51 or some other clandestine government facility that didn’t actually exist. If you tell a lie enough, after a while it becomes your reality. Gionelli knew as well as anybody else just how true that statement was to those in his profession.

  “Locations, please,” the voice prompted.

  Gionelli jolted upright and responded, “Las Vegas, NV to Denver, CO. One way.”

  “Processing. Please wait.”

  Gionelli began formulating contingency plans in his head. If Whiteside got in and got out undetected, Gionelli was golden. But with all of these closely interconnected players, there was too much room for potential error. Playing scenarios out in his head made his temples start to throb. If he game planned this too much, his brain would surely blow a gasket. He switched to thinking about what type of car to rent when it hit him. He’d just ordered a one-way ticket. Why did I do that, he pondered? Just as he was about to correct his itinerary, the androgynous voice cut the silence.

  “You have a 1939 hours flight departure from McCarran International Airport to Denver International Airport scheduled. No return flight.” He sat silent on the other end, debating whether to add the return segment. “Is that acceptable, sir?”

  “Yes, that’s fine,” Gionelli responded. He wasn’t really sure it was fine, but he decided to roll with it.

  “Will you be renting a vehicle on this trip?”

  “Yes, something indiscriminate and good for surveillance.”

  “Excellent. I have several minivans. Do you have a preferred make?”

  “I said indiscriminate, not soccer mom.”

  “Sir, is there a problem?” There was a certain air of superiority in the voice, even in its monotone, expressionless nature. I’m speaking with an egotistical android he thought.

  Gionelli sighed and decided not to argue with whomever or whatever was on the other end of this conversation. “No, you’re right. A minivan is perfect. Can we do Chrysler?” His sister-in-law Delores drove one and nobody ever gave her a second look. However, there were extenuating physical factors that likely led to her low level of public attention.

  “Done. Is there anything else I can assist you with tonight?”

  “No, you’ve been quite helpful. Please tell all of the other robots thanks, too.” A five second pause was followed by dial tone. “Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke.”

  Gionelli pushed back from his desk and patted down all of his pockets, making a quick assessment of what was on his body and what equipment he’d need. Not much he thought. In and out, no muss no fuss. He grabbed his briefcase and strode through a series of biometric and cipher locks until he reached the underground Witsec parking lot and hopped inside his blacked out Crown Victoria. He’d make a quick stop by his apartment and then make a beeline to the airport.

  “Everything’s going to be fine,” he said to himself. “Everything is everything.” As the garage doors lifted and the hydraulic barriers sank into the concrete, he toyed again with why he requisitioned a one-way ticket. “Because I’m keeping my plans flexible,” he said, feeling quite certain that wasn’t the truth.