Confrontation

by William Hayashi

  “Really?” Sergei said with surprise.

  “Got lucky. We’ll see if it’s useful,” Addison said, taking a long pull of his Guinness. “How’s the project coming? You still way behind the NASA launch date?”

  Sergei Islander was a former FSB member, the Russian followup to the KGB after the Soviet Union’s collapse. He was a handler and a damn good analyst. Islander was assigned to the Euro-Russian Consortium’s space mission, Project Svoboda (Freedom), to oversee the security of the project’s headquarters in Kazakhstan. It also fell to him to “research” the progress and personnel of NASA’s Project Jove. He had met Rankin fifteen years earlier when the two first developed a mutually beneficial relationship trading political, business and financial inside information.

  There wasn’t too much about the American project that couldn’t be found published in science journals or readily available on the Internet, but both Islander and Rankin knew that sometimes the unexpected seed of obscure information could bear precious fruit.

  “Anything you want to tell me yet?” Sergei asked.

  “Not really. I’m going to let this one play out for a while longer. How’s progress on the ‘Truth’ coming along?”

  “We changed the name from Pravda to Svoboda, the ‘Freedom.’ It doesn’t have the Cold War connotations. But I’ve been told we’re actually about two weeks ahead of schedule. Last week we ran power-up tests on the main propulsion reactor prototype and the thrust exceeded expectations by almost fifteen percent.”

  Rankin arched his eyebrows in surprise, then asked, “Is that a real fifteen percent, or some kind of old style Pravda fifteen percent?”

  Sergei laughed and slapped the bar, drawing looks from patrons and the bartender.

  “That was good one. Sorry, ‘a’ good one. We don’t engage in that sort of propaganda any more, especially since over half the personnel are not Russian! No, our prototype engine is truly far more efficient than expected.”

  “Does that make you competitive with NASA’s mission in terms of arrival time, then?”

  “No. We will still be leaving behind Jove and our speed advantage isn’t sufficient to make up for that deficit,” answered Sergei, as he signaled the bartender for a refill.

  “I should know how useful this contact is going to be very shortly,” promised Rankin.

  “It is not industrial espionage or anything like that, my superiors just want to be kept abreast of progress at NASA. I confess that I believe our propulsion system is vastly superior, but the Americans are far ahead of our designs in crew comfort and environmental engineering. Were this the old days, I would be talking about the decadent capitalists pampering their astronauts, but the simple fact is that with the money that Global Space Technologies brings to the table, they have far more options and resources available.”

  “Why Sergei, you almost sound envious!”

  “Not in the least. And you couldn’t get me to set foot on that ship to save my life, no matter what amenities they install, I’ll take my chances down here. By the way, I have a present for you,” Sergei said, pulling a small magazine from his jacket pocket. “Just a little book of puzzles for you to do, maybe on the plane ride back to the states.”

  Rankin thanked him and tucked it away in his pocket. The magazine contained the coded letters, words and phrases Rankin was to use in his messages to an email account that supposedly belonged to a British woman he had met a few trips back and occasionally dated when he was in town. He didn’t even know if the account actually belonged to her or not, but it served as an innocuous means of communicating with Sergei.

  The two made small talk about sports on both sides of the ocean, then half an hour later Sergei left leaving Rankin behind.

  Rankin had one more Guinness, watched the football game on the pub’s single television screen, not really paying attention to the game at all, then left for his hotel.

  * * *

  Pete’s was quite a bit more crowded than usual for a Monday night; maybe it was the sultry weather that lured people out so early in the week. The clientele who had showed up right after work, showed no sign of leaving once happy hour was over and kept Pete there to double-team the bar with John.

  “You been spiking the drinks with crack, John?” Pete asked when they had a momentary lull.

  “I have no idea what flushed them out of the house tonight. We’ve had good weather for the last few weeks, so that’s not it,” John replied.

  “They’re noisy too, I had to turn the music up like it was a Friday. But don’t get me wrong, I ain’t complaining. And don’t worry, I’m staying the night. You won’t have to clean up and restock by yourself.”

  “Thanks, Pete. But it’s not necessary, it’s your night off.”

  Pete waved John off, moving to the end of the bar to take an order from a waitress.

  When John looked around, checking the level of the drinks around the bar, he saw GST’s security flack had sneaked up to the bar unseen and grabbed an open stool in the corner. He grabbed a beer glass off the shelf and pointed to it, making sure Tom wanted his usual. Getting a nod, he filled the glass and set it down on a napkin in front of the man.

  “You got a private party in here tonight?” Tom asked, almost shouting to be heard.

  “I think it’s some secret holiday no one told me about. It’s been like this since we opened,” John shouted back.

  Tom laughed, then pointed to a man leaning in, trying to catch John’s attention.

  While John was filling drink orders, Tom checked out the crowd, trying to guess the reason for the heavy turnout. He also watched as John and Pete worked behind the bar. It was almost as if they were reading each other’s minds. When one was drawing beer from a tap, the other would be attending to mixing drinks, and vice versa, with barely a word passing between them.

  John refilled Tom’s glass twice before Tom signaled he had reached his limit. When John came over to settle the tab, Tom asked, “Are you free for lunch tomorrow?”

  Somewhat startled at the question, John answered, “I suppose so, it’s my day off.”

  “That’s why I’m asking. I have a proposition I’d like to discuss with you. Let me take you to lunch and lay it out for you.”

  John thought about it, wondering what was really up.

  “Yeah, sure. Where do you want to meet?” John asked.

  “I’m taking you out, where do you want to eat?”

  “Okay, how about that steak joint a few blocks down the way? You know it?”

  “Yeah, they do good seafood there too. Good choice. Noon okay with you?”

  “Sure. See you there.”

  Tom paid his tab, gave John a wave and disappeared into the crowd, making his way through the crowd to the door.

  Later that night, once the crowd had left, the doors were locked and the staff was cleaning up and restocking, John decided to run the whole thing past Pete.

  “So you think he always had some hidden agenda and now he’s ready to spill?” Pete asked after John gave the rundown of his suspicions.

  “Exactly. I mean he comes off as a regular guy, kind of like a mid-level bureaucrat, but GST’s the biggest corporation in the world. For all practical purposes they’re a country unto themselves.”

  “And you’re worried about what, precisely?”

  “Hell if I know! What if he offers me a job?”

  “I can pretty much guarantee that your income would be taking a healthy kick in the pants. You know we’d miss you around here, but when opportunity knocks, you damn well better answer the door; it may not come your way again.”

  “But what about my working here?” John asked, genuinely worried about leaving Pete in the lurch.

  To John’s chagrin, Pete burst out laughing, and said, “Bringing you on was my own personal whitey community outreach program. Seriously, though, I love having you
here. And it did get you off your butt and out of the house. But if you have an opportunity to get a new gig, and for a big-ass bag of cash, grab it! I’ll muddle through. Besides, how long do you really think you’re gonna last once they find out how incompetent your ass really is? You’ll be back!”

  John laughed as he slit open another case of beer to load into the cooler.

  “All this jabber is nothing more than putting the cart before the horse. Let’s just wait and see what Weston has to say first. Tell you what, I’ll swing by in the afternoon and let you know what goes down.”

  Pete slid another case over to the cooler after John tossed the empty toward the basement stairs.

  “Sure thing. Maybe lightning will strike twice in a row and the place starts out jumping like it did today. We did better than the usual Thursday night. I never do this well on a Monday. If it gets to hoppin’ maybe you can lend a hand?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll bring some working duds with me in the car.”

  The two worked in companionable silence until the beer and wine coolers were completely restocked and the floors were mopped and dry.

  John, Pete and the waitresses all left at the same time, John walking the women to their cars while Pete locked up. When he returned to his car, John found Pete leaning against John’s car door.

  “I don’t have to tell you be careful or anything else, Sarge. Just pay attention. This guy’s been in and out of here for weeks now. If he’s been checking you out, whatever the reason, he’s obviously seen enough to act on whatever he’s got up his sleeve. It goes without saying, I’ve got your six.”

  “I know, Pete. Thanks, my friend. We’ll see just what his game is tomorrow. I’ll see you in the afternoon,” said John, as Pete turned and went to his own car without another word.

  John tidied up around the yard in the morning, marking time before he had to meet with Weston. When it was about an hour before noon, John jumped in the shower and got cleaned up, quite curious about exactly what Weston had on his mind.

  * * *

  “Good choice, thanks for coming,” said Tom, when John met him in front of the restaurant.

  John waited until they were seated before saying, “Okay, you’ve got my attention. What’s this all about?”

  “I can do direct,” he began with a smile. “I want to offer you a job.”

  “What kind of job?” asked John, easily hiding his surprise.

  “With GST, in corporate security. And I’m not talking about counting paperclips or checking long-distance call records. I’m talking corporate oversight, secure travel accommodations, counterespionage, security surveys; top-level responsibilities.”

  Tom was silent, letting his offer filter through John’s layers.

  “Just out of the blue you’re offering me this position? I mean I sort of figured you’ve been checking me out since you got here. Why me?”

  “Not in the beginning. When I met you and found out you’d been a cop I was intrigued. Retiring and tending bar isn’t such a stretch, a lot of cops do it. But according to my research you couldn’t wait to dump the Atlanta Police Department, getting out in a New York minute after your twenty. And yeah, I heard about that thing with the dean, and from what I’ve seen, they railroaded you off the force, and that’s fucked up. I don’t care about what went on between you two. The fact that you’re still here and they’re there kind of negates any notion of your being in collusion with those folks out in space.

  “The offer is straightforward and legit. I need people who I can trust, who can be counted on to not jump to conclusions and make mistakes. Your record as a cop is spotless, your investigative success rate was excellent, none better then or now here in Atlanta. All I’m asking is for you to give the offer some serious thought,” Tom concluded.

  John sat back, just looking at him. “And what makes you think I can trust you? Come on, what’s really the deal? You were checking me out for months. What took you so long to decide?”

  “To be perfectly honest, you weren’t even on my radar when I got here. I like jazz, although it’s not like I’m some kind of music scholar. I like the discipline, I like the construction of the music, and I like the way that when a musician does a solo or improvises, that same discipline reasserts itself when they’re done. That’s how I found you, just an extremely unlikely circumstance. I wasn’t looking for you. You were just there.”

  “Fair enough. How long do I have to think it over, and do you have anything on paper that lists compensation, job requirements and GST’s expectations of me?”

  Tom reached inside his jacket and pulled out a very fat envelope.

  “Everything is in here. Employment contract, job description, compensation. Anything you have questions about, call me. My direct mobile number is on there,” Tom said, as he handed over his business card.

  As they ate, John quizzed Tom over how he saw the position, what he would be doing, travel, and as carefully as he could, where Tom fit into the GST pecking order. Tom admitted that he was primarily responsible for oversight of security of the facilities across the Americas, and that he had the confidence of the CEO and the board of directors. Tom was quite willing to extend that trust to John, based on his review of John’s police record and the time he’d spent chatting him up at Pete’s. Tom was a firm believer in honesty, just not full disclosure.

  Later, when John arrived at Pete’s, he brought Pete up to date on the offer.

  “So that’s what he said. And looking at the paperwork. I’d be like a security troubleshooter for GST, a minister without portfolio, answering directly to Weston,” said John, paging through the job description.

  “You know what I think?”

  “Yeah, the whole thing stinks to high heaven.”

  “So when do you start?”

  John laughed at the deadpan delivery of Pete’s question. “Kind of hard to resist. I’m thinking what’s the worst that can happen? I don’t see anything life-threatening. And let’s say they do want to pump me about Sydney and that whole thing, there’s nothing more I can tell them than what I suspect Weston has already been able to get from the FBI case file.”

  “The only way you’re gonna trap this guy, or GST for that matter, is for you to walk right into it. No way anyone else can watch your six behind that, Sarge.”

  “I know. Someone is going to a lot of trouble, and for what, I have no idea.”

  “When are you going to tell him?”

  “Probably Monday.”

  “And when do you want to leave out of here?”

  “How long do you need to replace me?”

  “Don’t give it another thought, that won’t be hard to do. It’s about time I get my nephew learning the business. I’m for damn sure not going to be doing this forever. My sister’s been after me to give him a job. He’s a good kid, smart, and doesn’t have a mean bone in his body. Just let me know when they want you to start. And don’t worry, if you have to leave town for any length of time, I’ll have the kid water your lawn and pick up the papers.”

  “Thanks, man. I’ll hang around for a couple of hours to see if we have a run like last night. Everything ready?”

  “Stocked up and ready to go.”

  “Why don’t I set up the bar?”

  “Knock yourself out. I’m going to make up the playlist for the night,” Pete said, firing up the laptop on his desk.

  “Got a theme?”

  “Pre-1970 live cuts,” Pete answered, already distracted, making selections for the night from his digital jazz library.

  By the time he was finished queuing up the evening’s jazz play list, John had set out the granishes and filled all the ice sinks.

  “Coffee?” he asked when Pete came out of the office.

  “Perfect.”

  When the two were seated at the bar awaiting the arrival of the rest of the wait staff, John a
sked, “Bottom line, what do you really think Weston is up to?”

  After a few moments Pete said, “Given that GST is building that damn ship to go where Sydney and the them ended up, it has to be something related to that. I’m thinking they’re convinced that you either know more than you’ve let on, or that just maybe you might be secretly in touch with Sydney, that you might have a way of contacting her.”

  “Get the hell out of here! Why would they think that?” John asked, then a moment later he continued. “I mean that could be it. But why? He’d have to know that my phone, my computer, even the mail are still screened six ways to Sunday by the feds.”

  “Yeah, but what if Sydney’s people left you a way to communicate with her outside of anything everyone here can think of? It makes a weird kind of sense if you’re completely paranoid and/or conspiracy-minded,” said Pete, with a wry chuckle.

  “That’s it, a Dick Tracy communicator watch that reaches Jupiter,” John said sarcastically.

  “They were living on the moon, for fuck’s sake, John! And then they took their whole neighborhood out where no man has ever gone before. What’s really impossible for them? I’ll tell you this, I’m willing to believe they can do anything until I know otherwise.”

  John laughed, even though the pang of pain stabbing through his heart.

  The two were interrupted as the evening’s delivery of pastries and deserts showed up. Both helped the delivery man bring the boxes inside, and then John stocked the display case while Pete stuck the rest in the fridge in the back, leaving them about ten minutes before opening for the evening.

  For whatever reason—the barometric pressure, Atlanta’s version of El Niña or simply the portents of the night, the crowd was again four times what Pete normally expected. John stayed until closing and through the entire night there was no sign of Tom Weston.

  * * *

  “Christopher? I have Peanut on the line for you,” announced the colony’s A.I.