Compromised

by Tom Saric

  “What’s going on here, John?”

  “Have a seat, Craig.” Daniels pointed at an armchair in front of the desk. “We need to talk.”

  Evans stepped over to the chair and flashed a quick glance at Paul, who sat down in the armchair next to him. Evans sank in the plush leather cushions and placed his leather briefcase on his lap.

  “Do you know this man?” Daniels pointed at Paul.

  Craig looked at Paul for a long moment and then shook his head, frowning. “I don’t believe I do. I’m Craig Evans—how do you do?” He offered his hand. Paul stared at it until Evans withdrew uncomfortably.

  “I didn’t think you’d say ‘yes’.” Daniels picked up a stack of printed spreadsheets from his desk and put on a pair of reading glasses. “Can you explain this transaction?” He drew a circle on the paper with a red pen and pushed it across the desk.

  Evans lifted the paper off of the desk, placed it on his lap, and carefully followed the entry with his finger. He looked up at Daniels. “I don’t know if you want me to say in front of this guy.” He pointed at Paul with his thumb. “IRS, I assume?”

  “Go ahead; it’s okay.” Daniels nodded.

  “It’s what we’ve been doing for years—borrowing to invest.” Evans turned towards Paul. “We take money from the company and invest it briefly, then cash it in. We then return the money to the company. Illegal? Technically, yes. Uncommon? Definitely not.”

  “It’s not the same. I called the bank and that amount has already been withdrawn. Not by me, but by someone else with another numbered foreign account. And you authorized it.” Daniels folded the arms of his glasses and then hung them from his collar. “Please tell me that you had nothing to do with one of our helicopters plucking a terrorist from the middle of a desert in Africa. Please tell me this transfer had nothing to do with funding terrorism in Somalia.”

  “Wait just a minute here.” Evans showed his palms. “Where is all this coming from? I made a transfer, that’s it. I don’t know where it went.”

  “The transfer was made by you, Craig. The bank confirmed it.” Daniels rose from his seat, walked around the desk, and faced Evans. “They’re looking into who the recipient was. We’ll know in a few hours. We’ve contacted the authorities.” He reached down and patted Evans on the shoulder. “Son, it’s best you come clean now.”

  Evans’ breaths became deeper and faster. He squeezed a clump of hair in each fist until the pink drained from his knuckles. “This is not right. This is not how this is going to go!”

  Evans flipped open his briefcase, pulled out a Glock, and pointed it at Daniels. He rose slowly and stepped backwards, nearly tripping over one of the chair’s legs.

  Paul lifted his hands up and spread his fingers apart. He sidestepped towards the window beside Joan, who stood frozen at the sight of the gun. Daniels kept his hands up.

  Evans’ hand trembled and he kept changing his target as his eyes darted between John, then Joan, then Paul.

  Evans cried, “I’ve watched you wait for this company to right itself, to come back from near bankruptcy. Waiting, waiting, waiting. But no action. You’re finished, John. The company’s almost dead. One more quarter and we’re done. Your plan has been to wait it out. Someone had to do something. So I did it. To help you.” He waved the gun around indiscriminately, taken over by anger and fear. Evans’ bony finger tense on the trigger.

  “What did you do, Craig?” Daniels suddenly stood straight with his chest pushed out. He moved slowly towards Evans. “Who did the money go to?”

  Evans stepped backwards until his heels hit the doorway. He kept the gun pointed at Daniels. “It went to funding a project that’s going to bring our company back from the dead.”

  “Did it go to terrorists?” Daniels inched closer to Evans, whose back was now pressed against the back of the door.

  “No,” Evans said, “it went to a contact of mine. He liaised with men in special forces and the NCS to set up a mission.”

  “What was the mission?” Daniels kept closing in on Evans. His voice lowered and he stared sideways at him. “Was it to get nuclear weapons smuggled into Somalia?”

  “Nuclear weapons?” Evans scanned the room, surprised. “What are you talking about?”

  “I think you do, Craig.” Daniels was only a few feet away from Evans. “How could you do this to me? I’ve treated you like a son.”

  “I did this for you, for us, for our company. You said it yourself in the speech today—Somalia is our only hope. I did what you didn’t have the guts to do. I made the tough decision.” The gun’s muzzle was two inches from Daniels’ sternum.

  “A decision to smuggle weapons into Somalia?” Daniels boomed. “And then into the United States?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Evans shook his head.

  “I think you do, Craig.” Daniels pointed at Paul, who stood beside the window. “This is Paul Alban. I think you know who he is.”

  “That name means nothing to me.”

  Paul piped up. “I’m the operative in Somalia. Or, I was.”

  Evans’ eyes widened. He extended his trembling arm and took aim. In that instant, Paul recognized that Evans had made the decision to fire. Paul lunged to the side, pushing himself face down, on top of Joan. Two rounds went off, and the window behind him shattered, glass showering on top of them. Wind rushed in through the twenty-ninth floor window.

  Paul saw the blur of Daniels pummeling Evans, putting the smaller man in a bear hug on the floor. They jostled for position and slammed into the wooden bookcase beside the desk, tipping it over, books flying everywhere. Daniels pinned Evans’ wrist to the ground and tried to wrestle the gun out of his hand. He swung Evans’ hand against the wall, sending the gun skidding a few inches along the carpet.

  Paul exploded to his feet and dove for the gun, which was a mere inch from Evans’ extended fingertips. Daniels straddled Evans and tried to get hold of his thrashing upper arms. Paul bent down and got his fingers on the gun. Evans rolled out from under Daniels, sending the larger man sprawling, cutting Paul’s legs out from under him, the gun slipping out of Paul’s hand.

  Paul stretched for the gun with his free arm. The tip of his middle finger slid across the handle. Daniels rolled, freeing Paul, but as he reached for it, Evans’ hand scooped it up. He stepped on Paul’s wrist and put his full weight down on it.

  Evans had the gun pointed at his head. Paul squeezed his eyelids. He heard a thud and then a pop! The pressure on his wrist was gone. He opened his eyes. Daniels was lying face down on top of Evans. Paul rolled over onto all fours and rose. He stared at Daniels’ back. Then, Evans slithered out from underneath, panting, with a dark red circle on his shirt. He swallowed hard and ran his hands over the red circle.

  Joan let out a shriek at the sight of the blood and ran to Daniels, kneeling beside his body.

  Evans looked at Paul, briefly paralyzed, as if to ask what do I do now? Then, he turned and ran out of the room.

  Paul pulled Joan off Daniels and rolled him over. His blue shirt had turned purple. Paul tore it open and ran his hand along Daniels’ chest and abdomen, his fingers finding the dime-sized hole in his belly. Blood leaked out onto the floor. Paul took off his blazer, bunched it together and pressed it over the bullet hole. “Put pressure,” he said to Joan as he placed her hands over the jacket.

  He set his fingers just below Daniels’ jawbone. After a few seconds, Paul felt a fast, thready pulse and breathed a quick sigh. He put his hand on Daniels’ forehead and lifted his eyelid with his thumb. He ran to the phone and dialed 911. They would be there in ten minutes. With Daniels’ weak pulse, Paul wasn’t sure that was quick enough.

  Paul pulled a stack of books off the floor and lifted Daniels’ feet on top of them, allowing some blood to return to his brain. Joan’s arms vibrated as she pressed on her dying husband’s abdomen. Slowly, Daniels’ eyes opened, life barely left inside them.

  “Where’d he go?” Daniels barely got the wo
rds out.

  “He ran.” Paul shook his head. “Ambulance is coming right away. You’ll be okay.”

  “Go get him,” Daniels said.

  “What?”

  “Get Evans. Get whoever is behind this.”

  Paul nodded and picked up the Glock that Evans had dropped on the floor.

  He sprinted out the door through a narrow hallway. Elevator doors stood on either side of the leather sofa against the wall. He scanned the flashing numbers above the elevators. None of the elevators were moving. Both were parked on the fifteenth floor. Evans didn’t have more than a ninety-second head start . He must have gone down another way. Or he was still hiding on the twenty-ninth floor.

  Gripping the pistol with both of his bloodstained hands, Paul walked to the far end of the foyer, in front of the walnut reception desk. Behind it, a dark corridor split into opposite directions. Beside one of the doors, a red fluorescent sign marked STAIRS. On the door itself were four red fingerprints.

  Paul pressed the push bar gently, poked his head into the stairwell, saw that it was empty, and stepped inside. He heard faint footsteps, but because of the hum of the air vents above, he couldn’t be sure they were coming from above or below. He held the gun by his thigh, walked over to the railing and looked up and down. About ten flights below, he saw the blur of a hand sliding across the railing.

  Paul jumped down the first flight, skipping all of the stairs, his knees nearly buckling under him as he hit the landing, Pain shot up from his knees to his hips. He gathered himself and ran down, taking stairs four at a time, holding onto the metal railing to keep his balance.

  Evans’s footsteps became louder and clearer. He could hear Evans panting over his own heavy breathing.

  Paul kept sprinting down the stairs, ignoring his aching knees and burning lungs. He had the target in his sights; he was only a few flights away from him. He circled down two more flights and then heard a door on the bottom floor squeak open and slam shut.

  Paul arrived at the ground floor landing a moment after Evans, flung open the door, and stumbled out into the dark atrium. Evans raced to the gold-framed revolving front door, before yelling to the security guard in the corner of the room, “Stop that man. He tried to kill me.”

  Paul was halfway across the atrium when the security guard jumped up from his station in the corner and ran directly at him. Paul tried to twist out of the way of the large guard’s tackle, but the guard’s shoulder rammed into Paul’s hip, sending him twisting to the ground. The gun flew out of Paul’s hand and skidded along the ground towards the windows. Paul lifted himself up, his thigh already tightening up from the impact. The security guard stood up, ready to charge again. Paul made for the window and slid, scooping up the gun. The guard slammed into him, and the two of them crashed into the front window. Paul righted the gun in his hand and pointed it at the guard, who lay on the floor, holding his hands up.

  Paul kept the gun pointed at the guard while he looked for Evans, who he saw descending the front steps towards the street. Paul said to the guard. “Call the police, tell them what happened, now!”

  Paul spilled out of the VeritOil building. His muscles burned, starved for oxygen. He spotted Evans crossing the road, narrowly avoiding an Escalade. At the other side of the street, men in sleek suits and women in tight dresses lined up behind a velvet rope, in front of a building that vibrated with bass music and a flashing sign advertising Coconuts Nightclub. Evans weaved and pushed his way through the crowd, handed the large bouncer a handful of cash, and walked into the club.

  Paul ran down the stairs to New York Avenue, wincing with each step. He clicked the safety on and shoved the gun inside his belt, the handle still showing. He wound through the crowd, toward the entrance.

  Then something resonated with him. If the bouncers got to Evans, he wouldn’t be able to pry him out of their hands. The police were on their way, and the security guard at VeritOil would point them toward the club. If the bouncers saw Paul come at Evans, they would intervene. Paul needed to get Evans to a different location. One where he could interrogate him alone.

  The bouncer had a ponytail in a braid and three rings on each hand. He didn’t say a word, just shook his head and pointed at the back of the line. Paul glanced back. A guy in a white blazer tossed a string of profanity at him, while his bleached blonde arm candy had both middle fingers pointed at him. The bouncer dropped a hand on Paul’s shoulder and squeezed.

  Paul snapped around, releasing from the bouncer’s meaty grip and took a step back. He pulled the gun out of his belt and aimed it towards the line-up. A few hit the deck, others ran toward the street and took cover behind parked cars. Paul fired a round into the brick wall of the building so people would know he was serious.

  The bouncer had his hands up, and Paul walked right by him into the club. Red, pink, and yellow lights spun around the room. Music blared. People inside must had heard the gunshot and the crowd flowed out into the street, right past Paul. As he fought his way upstream, he scanned the faces funneling past him and didn’t see Craig Evans. Hopefully, that meant that Evans was inside.

  At the back of the nightclub, Evans slipped into a hallway. Paul continued forward. Evans slid through another narrow hallway and slammed past the VIP door. Paul caught the door before it closed and burst out into a back alley. A motion sensor above the door provided the only lighting. Rotting garbage overflowed from bins that lined both sides of the street. He didn’t hear footsteps or doors opening or closing. That meant Evans was close, very close.

  Paul stood in the middle of the alley where a small puddle formed around a sewer drain. The motion sensor light turned off, and the alley was almost completely dark. Paul looked up and down the street.

  Then he heard the hollow sound of an empty can rolling along concrete. The light came back on above the door and there was a rustle behind the garbage bins. Evans burst out of the shadows and sprinted up the alley. Paul gave chase and when he was less than twenty feet away, stopped, raised the gun and took aim. His forearm tensed but he couldn’t pull the trigger. He couldn’t be sure that the shot would only injure Evans. If a stray bullet ended up in Evans’s head, his only lead would become a dead end.

  Instead, Paul went into a full sprint. Evans turned the corner at the cross street and went right through a large puddle that wrapped around the corner of a building. His foot skidded out from under him, and he slipped into the puddle. Paul stood over Evans who lay in the puddle on his back, propped up on his elbows, panting.

  Paul tucked the gun in his pants and lifted Evans up forcefully by his skinny arm. Paul glanced around and saw a gas station up the street, half a block away. The orange GULF sign wasn’t lit, but all he needed was a semi-private venue to get information from Evans. He kept a tight grip on Evans’ upper arm and directed him forwards.

  “Where are you taking me?” Evans said, his body rigid.

  “To that gas station over there,” Paul pointed.

  “Just do me in already,” Evans said, with a false bravado in his voice, “put one in the back of my head.”

  “Not yet. Not until you tell me what I need to know.”

  Paul reached in his pocket and pulled out James Wright’s cell phone. He dialed the number he had written down on a piece of paper in Ceerigaabo and put the phone to his ear. Bailey Clarke answered.

  “I told you I would call you when I got in.”

  “Alban? You weren’t on the plane.”

  “I didn’t think I’d be let in the country so easily. It sounded like a set-up to me.”

  He heard a long sigh on the other end. “They are looking for you. I should say, they’re scouring the eastern United States for you.”

  “I’m sure they are.” Paul steered Evans towards the gas station kiosk. “I have information about what is going on. I have a man named Craig Evans with me. He’s involved with this whole thing and he’s going to tell me who’s behind all of this. I’ll call you back in five minutes. You need to record the ca
ll. Have someone you trust there with you, because if I’m right, someone inside your department is involved.”

  There was a long pause on the phone and then Bailey lowered her voice. “Paul, you cannot torture him. I’ve read your file. Tell me where you are and bring him in and we’ll put it together.”

  “You’ve read my file? Then you know the last time we let someone go before getting a confession, my whole life fell apart.” Paul gritted his teeth. “Get the recording equipment. Be by the phone when I call back.”

  Paul ended the call. They were in front of the gas station kiosk. The lights were off inside, except for a small desk light at the counter under which an old man in a Red Sox hat read a paperback. He hadn’t noticed them at the door. Paul tugged the cold metal door handle, but it was locked. He knocked loudly, startling the man, who rose from his chair and squinted at the window. He slid a pair of thick-rimmed glasses on and looked at Paul.

  The intercom by the door came on and old man spoke through the static. “Can I help you?”

  “My friend here is injured,” Paul said. “Can we come in?”

  “You want me to call an ambulance?”

  “No, but can we come in?”

  “Can’t let no one in after hours.”

  Paul pulled the gun from his belt and punched the glass door twice with the gun, shattering it to pieces. He pushed Evans underneath the handrail into a rack of potato chip bags and pointed the gun at the old man. The old man stepped back from the counter and raised his hands.

  “Take whatever you want.”

  “I’m not taking anything from you,” Paul said, lifting Evans up to his feet. “Do you have a back room?”

  The old man nodded and opened a small metal door beside the counter. It creaked on its hinges. Paul grabbed Evans and pushed him into the room. The old man flicked the light switch. A solitary forty-watt bulb on the ceiling blinked. The room was tiny, eight-by-ten feet at most, and felt smaller because of the boxes of canned soda stacked along the walls. Paul slid a plastic chair to the center of the room. He grabbed a roll of packing tape from atop one of the boxes and found the end. He pointed for Evans to sit.