Night Moves

by DJ Steele

  When she reached for the knob to the bathroom door, alarms sounded inside her head warning her not to go in. She threw a quick glance behind her, twisted the knob, pushed the door open and entered.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  When Wagner reached the steps to his row house, he was surprised how out of breath he was. Before he met with Razor he needed to calm down and appear confident. In control. That’s why he needed to take the gun. It would give him the leverage and courage he might need.

  Wagner headed up the steps to his front door and froze. He had an idea. Jackson. What if he paid Jackson to take the money to Razor? That could work. He was certain Jackson would do it for him, he always needed money. And why would Razor care, as long as he got the money?

  A calmness settled over him. Then panic. What if Jackson left before he got back to him? The homeless man stayed in that area most days till evening. No need to get upset. If for some reason he wasn’t there, he’d just stick to his original plan.

  He unlocked the front door and stepped inside the marble foyer. The historic row house had been professionally decorated. The interior designer mingled modern decor with the historic interior.

  Still not convinced Jackson would be where he saw him, Wagner darted past the living area to his bedroom, retrieved the brown paper bag from his top dresser drawer. He deposited the bag with the money inside his leather briefcase. Not only was this the end of his ordeal, he didn’t have to meet a man who terrified him. Everything was going to be alright. Nobody would ever know who he really was and how he was involved in a murder.

  His eyes caught sight of his nightstand and remained fixed as his brain tried to process what he saw. Or didn’t see.

  Maybe he had forgotten. Maybe he had put the gun inside the nightstand drawer and had not left it out. He rushed to check the nightstand drawer. It wasn’t there. Where was the damn gun? In desperation he began tossing out the clothes in his dresser. Nothing. Did he absentmindedly put the gun in his briefcase? He checked. It wasn’t there. He was distraught this morning. Maybe he took the gun and laid it down in the kitchen when he made breakfast. He grabbed the briefcase, hastened out of his bedroom toward the kitchen.

  "Mr. Wagner, what’s the rush?" said a deep throaty voice from the living room.

  "What the…" Wagner spun toward the voice and was unable to finish his sentence. He wasn’t sure he could remember to breathe.

  Sitting in his leather chair was Razor wearing a long over-coat. One hand was resting on his leg holding a gun. His gun.

  "Why don’t you have a seat? You don’t look so good." Razor motioned with the gun toward the leather couch. "Did you decorate this place, cause I gotta tell you it’s like you got taste and money."

  Wagner eased over to the couch and sat on the edge, put his briefcase by his feet and folded his hands in his lap. His bowels churned. "How did you get in here?"

  "Not important." Razor began waving the gun. "What is important, is why would a Congressman have a pistol, loaded and ready to fire?" He lowered the gun. His eyes bored into Wagner’s eyes.

  How did this man, this killer know he was a Congressman? He had explicitly told Max not to tell him what he did for a living.

  "Actually, a lot of House and Senate members own guns and are allowed to carry them to their offices," his voiced cracked.

  He almost took the gun with him this morning. He now regretted that decision. He added, "Congress members get threats about controversial legislation. I keep it for protection in case somebody breaks in."

  He regretted the words, breaks in. That’s what Razor had done.

  "Correct me if I'm wrong. You weren’t planning on taking it with you to our meeting today?" Razor pretended to study the pistol.

  "No, of course not. I have all the money you asked for." Wagner reached down and opened his briefcase. His hand grabbed the brown bag and opened it to reveal the stacks of money. "Just like you instructed, in a paper bag."

  "Uh-huh. Just curious why a lawmaker has a semi-automatic gun that has the serial numbers removed. This was bought on the black market. Untraceable. Where would a Congressman get an illegal weapon like this?"

  Razor knew. The man was playing with him. He had to think and think fast.

  "A friend got it for me. He said I should have one. You know, for protection."

  "Uh-huh." Razor stood, walked with a slow deliberate stride over to him and pushed the cold barrel of the pistol against Wagner’s temple. "Your friend’s name. What is it?"

  Wagner’s hands shot up. Sweat drenched his forehead. His mouth spasmed for a second. Finally, he forced his voice to vocalize, "Please. I did what you asked. I got you more money."

  "His name."

  "You don’t know him."

  Razor pressed the barrel harder against his temple.

  "Try me."

  Wagner hastily said, "Quatterman. Dan Quatterman. He’s a Congressman." Why he said it was Dan Quatterman was he feared if Razor knew it was Max, he’d know why he had the weapon.

  Razor lowered the gun allowing Wagner to finally let out a deep breath.

  "We had a deal, Congressman. Now you go and get a gun and then lie to me about it."

  "What do you mean?" Wagner had the sensation his throat was tightening making it difficult to talk.

  "Why would a Congressman deal in black market guns unless he plans on committing a crime?"

  Wagner wiped his forehead. "It’s not like that at all. He…he just knows somebody who does it for him. Maybe he owes him a favor. You know there are Congressmen who break the law. I didn’t want to know how he obtained the weapon. He insisted I needed it for protection. I’m not sure how to even shoot a gun."

  Razor kept the gun dangling in his hand by his side. His eyes hardened, scaring Wagner even more.

  Razor raised the gun with the barrel pointed directly at Wagner's chest. "How bout I show you how easy it is?"

  "Oh my God. No. Please, don’t. I can get you more money. Anything you want. Please don’t do this."

  The cold look in the killer's eyes told Wagner he was going to die.

  As Razor squeezed the trigger, Wagner shut his eyes.

  He heard the click, opened his eyes and with disbelief he was still alive ran his hands over his chest and arms.

  "See how easy it is," declared Razor. "Just aim and squeeze."

  "You’re crazy," Wagner shouted furiously. "You know that?"

  He expected the killer to respond with anger, yet the man just bounced his head from side to side. "Who knows what crazy means. I just don’t let things bother me like you do."

  Razor placed the weapon on the coffee table, held out his hand for the money. Wagner handed him the paper bag but kept hold of the end.

  "I need to know what the reporter told you before she died," said Wagner. "That was our deal."

  Razor smirked. "Whatta ya know. A Congressman with balls."

  Wagner released the bag of money. Razor rolled up the bag and stuffed it inside his coat.

  "She said the FBI is looking for a possible Russian spy in our government."

  Wagner swallowed hard before he spoke, "Did she find out who it was?"

  "That would be bad for business, wouldn’t it, Congressman Wagner? I think that’s why you and your crooked friends didn't want her to talk. Maybe get rid of her before she wrote about it. She was kinda attractive, but a screamer. I did you a favor when I shut her up for good. The stakes are higher now. Since her boyfriend came looking for her, I took care of him too."

  "What? You murdered her boyfriend too? This isn’t what I hired you to do. I never told you to kill that reporter or her boyfriend. Shit. If the police find out, I’ll end up in prison."

  "Looks like you’re starting to understand the situation. You can’t afford any loose ends."

  "What kind of loose ends?" Wagner struggled to not sound scared, but his lips began to quiver.

  "I figure by now the FBI’s involved and maybe you already know all this. Can’t have loose end
s, can we? Half a million to tidy up this mess and when you find that Russian bastard, a million to eliminate the threat to your career. Not sure how you’re connected in all this. Maybe you’re the spy."

  "That’s ridiculous. If I was a spy for the Russians, I wouldn’t have needed you. Now, would I?"

  Razor bounced his head side to side again and said, "We’ll talk again. Soon. Meanwhile, remember Congressman Wagner, I don’t like loose ends."

  A sinister smile swiped across his face. "And I hate Russians."

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The office was the same as last time she was here, except for the personal touches the new Director of the CIA seated behind his desk had added.

  Rick Piagno had been Director of Central Intelligence for less than six months. Elke had known him a lot longer. Their paths had crossed during a covert operation more than thirty years ago.

  "Good to see you Elke. I’m glad you accepted my offer to meet," said Piagno with a hint of a smile. The man still looked like she remembered. Except now he was a little soft around the middle and had dark circles that shadowed his eyes. Piagno was a good-looking man with thick gray hair showing no signs of letting go. She knew there was opposition to his appointment, but she considered it one of the better decisions by the presiding president.

  After a few awkward seconds of silence, Piagno said, "Please have a seat." He stood and motioned with his hand. "Would you like something to drink?"

  "Do you have vodka?"

  "Anything you’d like," he responded.

  "Vodka, water and …"

  "No ice," he interrupted. "I do remember some things, unfortunately not as detailed as you do." He nodded to the tall man stationed by the door.

  The man immediately left the room.

  Elke walked to the side of the room and sat, sinking into the distressed brown leather chair.

  "At times, my memory can be a curse. But you know my past."

  "Yes, I do." The man’s eyes filled with concern.

  Piagno had begun his career serving as an officer in the United States Navy before being recruited by the CIA as a field officer. He had a Ph.D. in history from Harvard with a focus in Russian studies. He spent time abroad and became fluent in Russian. She admired the man who had been raised in a home without running water or electricity and worked hard to rank fifth in his class at Harvard.

  He had a more hawkish view than his predecessors on Russia. He had denounced Russia for its role in the annexation of Crimea, support for Syrian President Bashar al-Assad and the meddling in U.S. politics. The current administration wanted to reach out to the Kremlin in hopes of avoiding a tit-for-tat escalation with the Russian president.

  The door to the office opened and the tall man dressed in the dark suit entered, walked over and handed her the drink.

  "Thank you." She arched back in the chair, took a sip, and nodded in approval. "This is good."

  She took another sip, let it linger in her mouth and slowly swallowed. She tilted her head up toward the tall man’s face and in a serious tone said, "You can leave the director and me alone now."

  The tall man’s jaw tightened, and she was sure he wanted to respond, but he was well trained. He remained silent.

  Piagno appeared amused. He placed his hands on his desk and ordered, "Give us some time."

  The tall man did not look back in her direction. He nodded to the director, turned and walked out of the room.

  As soon as the door closed, Piagno stated, "Still as spunky and arrogant as I remember."

  "He took my weapon, under those circumstances it only seemed fair I take a dig while I had a chance."

  "He was following protocol."

  "You honestly think I’d shoot you?"

  "Only if you felt it was necessary, Elke. I’m not a gambling man." He laughed. "Besides the CIA’s not a law enforcement agency. You don’t need a weapon."

  Elke took another sip of vodka and placed the glass on the table beside the chair. "Perhaps. You were always by the books."

  "And the law," he included.

  "You’re no longer a Boy Scout," she reminded the director recalling he had attained the rank of Eagle Scout in the BSA. "The law is subject to interpretation and can be very ineffective at times. I’m sure you will agree. Or have you forgotten?"

  "I haven’t forgotten."

  "We both know how the CIA operates. The law works until it doesn’t. Isn’t that why I’m here?"

  "We do understand how the agency has to work in order to be effective. Your service, even in an unacknowledged capacity, is a value to this agency." Piagno lowered his eyes, clasped his hands resting on his desk. "You need to let me know when you’re going to meet with a person in protective custody. I can’t have you working behind my back," said Piagno.

  "I hardly believe you didn’t know of my meeting."

  "It would be better to contact me instead of finding out after the fact. You need to be careful. For whatever reason, the Russians still view you as a threat."

  "As they should. Thanks, by the way, for cleaning up that mess in Canada…and for safe passage back to the States."

  Piagno leaned back in his chair. "I need your help."

  "Apparently you’re asking me to operate in a capacity you cannot. Outside the law. And I suppose if I fail, I never worked for you and if I succeed, the CIA takes the credit."

  Elke knew how the process worked. She was naive when she first joined the agency swearing an oath of secrecy and always playing by the rules. Years later she became disillusioned by the agency’s utter disregard for her well-being and her family.

  She picked up the drink, tipped it up and drained the glass. After she placed the empty glass on the table she began, "I’m glad you have not forgotten. You and I understand Russia cannot be trusted."

  "I believe Russia has ramped up its spying activities in this country."

  "They are activating their sleepers," she said letting him know she already knew the game the Russians were up to.

  "Yes. They have long concentrated on cultivating well-placed contacts."

  Piagno picked up a photograph on his desk and handed it to her. It took a moment for her to recognize the man in the grainy photo. It gave her chills. He wore a hat and his face was turned sideways. The man had grown a thick beard covering the jagged scar on his neck. She knew the scar was there just like she knew about the skin graft on his left inner thigh.

  "Do you know this man?"

  "No. Who does he work for?"

  "We believe he’s working for the Russians. He’s a person of interest in the attempted assassination plot on the President and Vice President. His name is Adrik Kuznetsov."

  "Then bring him in for questioning. I don’t know why you need me."

  "Kuznetsov has disappeared."

  "You think I can find him?"

  "I know you can. We believe Kuznetsov can help us find the Russian spy who was supposed to meet his handler in the park on the day the handler was murdered. Why the Russian spy didn't show, we can only speculate."

  "You know, Rick," she began, "I don’t play games. You honestly think I can find a man who the CIA with all its resources can’t?"

  Piagno’s dark eyes emphasized the hardened expression on his face. She remembered that look from a long time past.

  He said, "Russia’s president has transformed Russia into a giant spy state using Cold War techniques. Their tactics come straight from the KGB playbook."

  "Disinformation, propaganda, and subversion used to weaken the West," she said.

  "Yes. If Russia has eyes and influence inside our government, we need to find the traitor." The Director’s eyes bored into hers, he steepled his fingers propped on his desk and continued, "I value human source intelligence. Looking a person in the eyes and figuring out what they know isn’t something technology can do. We can’t use satellites to see into the minds of humans. Hell, they can’t even see inside my file cabinet. You and the Bridge Club have an extensive network of human intelli
gence. Randall Ottmeyer told me the Club still uses short wave radios and invisible ink?"

  "Randall is still with the FBI? I thought he retired."

  "Next month. He’s got his last day down to the minute. The Bridge Club might want to consider recruiting him."

  "I doubt it. Randall drank the Kool-Aid and I’m not sure he’d fit in with the Club. But stranger things have happened. Does the Vice President still believe the Russians are responsible for his wife’s death?"

  "He is, but the Russians deny everything. The President is cozying up to the Russians and wants to blame ISIS. And we lack proof to prove otherwise."

  She shook her head. "The Russians are testing the waters. Their goal was not the assassination of our leaders, but to show they could. The Russian cyber warriors hacked and planted false stories to throw off our intelligence agencies. They know we don’t want to accuse them of something we can’t prove, thus the smokescreen of lies."

  "We have to tread carefully, Elke. The President wants to avoid any escalation that might play into Russia’s hands."

  "To make sure we're on the same page let me see if I understand what you want from me. Unofficially I’m to find a man the CIA can’t find and turn him over to you while the President pretends to reset relations with Russia?"

  Piagno’s face changed colors. He looked like his blood pressure had spiked. "Dammit Elke, this is serious. The people at the top are becoming paranoid. They’re finger pointing in a fishing expedition that could destroy people’s careers, their personal lives. What I need is hard evidence. Not speculation. Not finger pointing. You were in the park that day the handler was murdered."

  She knew now where this was headed and Piagno was holding the winning hand. He was playing the guilt card. She hated this damn agency. She was the one who had talked with the Russian handler in the park right before the handler was murdered. The Bridge Club had tipped her off the Russian spy would not show for the meeting. She was sure she’d get info from the handler, then the whole thing blew up in her face. She had been set up.