by Jeff Siebold
* * *
“Where’s the box?” asked Simpson, the prison guard. Zeke looked up, then he pointed to a box marked ‘Dole Bananas’ sitting on the floor. The red strapping tape was in place, still sealing the box.
Simpson said, “Let me have one of your carts.”
Zeke stepped out in the hall and returned rolling a silver utility cart. “Here you go,” he said.
Simpson looked at him and said, “You didn’t open this, did you?”
Zeke shook his head.
Simpson said, “Never look inside our boxes, got it?”
Zeke said, “Sure.”
The guard, apparently not certain whether Zeke was speaking sarcastically, pause for a moment. Then he gave Zeke a withering look, turned away, and started pushing the cart, banana box on top, out of the kitchen area.
Zeke shrugged.
Chapter 12
“So no one was the wiser?” asked Clive.
Zeke had left Cumberland FCI after the noon meal was served and had driven directly to Clive’s offices on Pennsylvania Avenue. There was some fog and misty rain in Maryland, but the weather improved as he approached D.C.
“I don’t think anyone has a clue,” said Zeke.
“We were able to get the IMEI and the number from the SIM card for every phone,” said Clive. When they’d opened the produce box they found a dozen cell phones hidden under bunches of bananas.
“With that information, we can track each cell phone individually and see where they end up. Then we can start working backwards, and see if we can fill in the rest of the prison delivery system,” said Zeke.
“Meantime, we’ve uncovered one way the contraband gets to the prison population. It’s brought in by employees.”
“Either cooperating employees, gang members who work at the prison, or employees who are being threatened to cooperate,” Zeke added.
“You were in the last category,” said Clive. “Seems like we’re making some progress on that part of the investigation.”
“What have we heard from Carl?” asked Zeke.
“He’s fine. He’s trying to buddy up to a couple of the prisoners who have the most juice. Like O.Z.” said Clive. “He’s finding out what he can about the killer. Or killers. And he’ll be watching for the cell phones you delivered, now. To see where they end up.”
* * *
“We’re monitoring each of the cell phones you brought into the prison yesterday,” said Clive. “Still using the StingRay and the FBI bloke, Jim O’Malley.”
“They’re distributed already?” asked Kimmy. She and Zeke were in Clive’s office.
“They were distributed within an hour of Zeke handing them off to the guards. Apparently, phones are a necessity,” Clive said.
“Essential to communicate with their posses,” said Zeke. “To maintain their leadership position.”
“What they don’t know is that each of those cell phones is bugged. And all of the calls are being recorded,” said Clive. “We did it last night, after Kirby left the box with Zeke.”
“Uh-oh,” said Kimmy. “That can’t be good for the bad guys.”
“We’re hoping that someone will slip and say something about the inmate murders. Either someone who was involved, or someone that knew who was,” said Clive.
“Do you want to take Carl out of there yet?” asked Zeke.
“No, he’s working from the other side, talking to inmates and trying to identify the killer. And he’s looking for the ways the weapons got inside,” said Clive.
“Does he still have credibility? As a prisoner, I mean?” asked Zeke. “O.Z. didn’t sound like he thought much of Carl when Kimmy, uh, talked to him.”
“O.Z. approached Carl about that,” said Clive. “Carl told him that Kimmy was a badass, and that’s how they got together. He said she grew up street fighting. He also said she was probably hopped up on Flakka.”
“Flakka?” asked Kimmy.
“It’s a drug that gives a person almost superhuman strength. It’s wild,” said Zeke.
Kimmy nodded.
“And although he seems to be the prison supplier of contraband, Carl doesn’t think O.Z. is the killer. I tend to agree with him,” said Clive.
Zeke nodded. “I do, too. I’m heading back to Savannah tomorrow morning. I need to check on Julia Conners.”
* * *
“I’m here,” Tracy called as she opened the door to Zeke’s Savannah cottage. “I’m yours for the weekend!”
“And with perfect timing,” said Zeke, turning toward her. “I just hung up with Clive.”
Tracy nodded and set her overnight bag on a chair. She took two steps into Zeke’s arms and kissed him. “I’m here to make you forget about all of that.”
“All of what?” he asked, and smiled.
Tracy broke their embrace and sat and pulled off her sweatshirt, revealing the top of a light blue sweater romper that contrasted well with her jeans. She kicked off her shoes and curled up on the overstuffed chair.
“Wow,” said Zeke. “Lucky me.”
Tracy was a couple inches shorter than Zeke, and she was lithe in her shape and graceful in her movements. Her brown shoulder length hair was straight and full. She had it arranged in a ponytail. Her nails matched her lipstick exactly, and she wore a tennis bracelet on her left wrist.
“Yes, lucky you,” she said. “And lucky me.”
Zeke stepped into the small kitchen and poured two glasses of Merlot. He handed one to Tracy, who nodded her thanks.
“You certainly look comfortable,” he said.
“I’m on vaca, so why not?” she asked.
“You missed a few buttons, up near the top,” Zeke said.
“Yes, I did.”
“I might not let you out of the house in that romper,” said Zeke. “You’d be accosted in the streets.”
“Hmm,” said Tracy. “Yes, accosted.”
Zeke said, “I’ve missed you.”
“How could you not?” she asked. Her eyes twinkled with sudden mischief.
“I know, right?” He set his wine glass on the table and leaned over. He kissed Tracy lightly just under her ear.
She shivered, her eyes closed. “You found my vulnerable spot.”
“Your tattoo is sort of a target,” Zeke said. “Helps me to zero in on the right place.”
Tracy had a small tattoo about two inches below her ear.
“Mmm,” said Tracy, as he kissed her again. “I’m pretty much helpless when you do that.”
“I hope so,” said Zeke. “That’s what I was going for.”
* * *
Zeke watched the video replaying on his laptop monitor. It showed the inside living area of Julia Conners’ apartment, located a few miles from his Savannah cottage. It was set to “fast forward”.
Sitting on the floor next to Zeke’s chair, Tracy said, “Anything interesting?”
“She hasn’t been doing too much. We tracked a few calls she's made to her friends, so she’s not trying to be invisible. She’s just making it inconvenient for the investigators to find her.”
“Lying low. It’s gotta be the worst part of the job,” said Tracy. She looked at Zeke, thoughtful. “Does she have a romantic interest? That always makes the time speed by…”
“I haven’t seen anything like that,” said Zeke. “But we do have a couple of odd calls.”
“Really?” said Tracy. She was wearing a short pair of cargo shorts and a ‘Falcons’ jersey that showed some of her slim midriff. “What kind of calls?”
“Well, there was an incoming one a while back. Sally said it was from the 212 area code, New York City. And it was a flagged number, one that the FBI has been watching,” said Zeke.
“Did they tell you why they’re watching it?”
“No, they didn’t,” said Zeke.
“And what happened?”
“Apparently, she received the call, and then flew to New York the next morning. On the red-eye,” said Zeke.
Tracy nodded. �
��And…?”
“And since then she’s received one additional call from that number, but then occasional calls from other numbers in that area code.”
“Is she setting something up? You said her offices were near New York City when you met her,” said Tracy.
“Yes, she was in Morristown, New Jersey,” said Zeke. “At Pawn 4 All headquarters.”
“What do you know about her background?” asked Tracy.
“She’s international. Originally from Ireland, I think, based on her accent and inflections. She was the Risk Manager at Pawn 4 All.” Zeke thought for a moment. “When we were in Morristown, we saw the two assassins who tried to kill Kimmy and me later on. They were in Julia’s office, talking.”
“The two you, uh, dispatched?” asked Tracy, sweetly.
“Kimmy had a lot to do with that,” said Zeke. “She has only one speed…full throttle.”
Tracy stood and stretched. Zeke smiled, admiring her midriff again.
“I’ve got an idea,” she said, taking his laptop and setting it on a bookshelf. He reached over to her and with a quick motion her brown hair was released from its ponytail and fell free. He sat back in his chair. Standing, she turned back to him and leaned over, one hand on each of his shoulders.
“Guess what I’m thinking right now?” she asked.
“You’re wondering where we put the handcuffs?” asked Zeke.
“Maybe,” said Tracy.
“You’re not wearing much,” said Zeke.
“It takes less time to get out of it.”
“That’s true,” said Zeke. He kissed her gently.
“Mmm,” she said.
Then Zeke kissed her again, just under her ear.
Tracy closed her eyes. “Not fair,” she said and shivered. “I told you, that’s just not fair.”
* * *
“How do you know these things, Zeke?” Tracy asked. They were dining at a casual seafood restaurant along River Street in Savannah.
Zeke chewed his shrimp and grits for a moment longer, swallowed, and said, “What things?”
“Like how do you know so easily when someone’s lying?” she said.
“Well, partly it’s my memory,” he said.
“But there’s more than that.”
“You’re right. I was trained by the Army counterintelligence boys. In kinesics.”
“You were? When was that?”
“Remember, I was with MICECP, the Military Intelligence Civilian Excepted Career Program, at Fort Meade from 2008 to 2013.”
“What did you do there?” she asked.
“A lot of what we do now, but I did it for the Army,” said Zeke.
“What part of the Army?”
“Army commands worldwide. We were contractors, so we had more flexibility than most of the military guys. And fewer rules.”
Tracy looked at him. “Wet work?” she asked.
“Not really wet work. At least it wasn’t my specialty,” said Zeke. “But I spent time in Afghanistan, Iraq, and Pakistan. It’s where I met Clive Greene.”
The server approached and Zeke and Tracy ordered refills of their Pinot Gris. They watched as a container ship navigated the river, heading inland toward the Port of Savannah with its massive load, seemingly just a few feet away.
“You said kinesics,” said Tracy. “Like body language?”
“That’s a part of it, certainly,” he said. “But kinesics deals with a lot more than that. We were trained in gestures and motions and distance and touch and facial expressions. All the nonverbal signals people share when they communicate.”
“Really.” It was more of a statement than a question.
Zeke nodded. “The MICECP, we called it MIC for short. They recruited many of us out of college. They’re charged with ‘developing a highly qualified, technically skilled, foreign language capable workforce for intelligence and counterintelligence missions worldwide.’ That’s a direct quote from the DOD website.”
“What exactly does that mean?” asked Tracy, brushing her hair back with her hand. She sipped the wine.
Zeke said, “For me it meant a lot of interviews of captured enemy soldiers and months at a time ‘in country’.”
“You said they recruited you,” said Tracy. “This MIC operation.”
Zeke nodded.
“From where?”
“From college. From George Washington University. It has a very good International Studies program, and is a popular recruiting ground with some of the federal agencies. I graduated in 2008.”
“But you would have been almost thirty by then, in 2008…”
“I skipped a few years earlier, when I qualified for the Olympic Judo team.”
“That’s right. You said you were an alternate…”
“I was. I got pushed around a lot by the really good guys on Team USA.”
“Eddie taught you judo,” said Tracy, remembering.
“Eddie brought me up after my parents died,” said Zeke. “And he taught me judo and some jujitsu. He was very good,” Zeke said thoughtfully. It was as if he was talking to himself.
“Hey, I’m right here, mister,” said Tracy. She smiled and reached and patted his hand.
Zeke nodded.
“So you skipped a few years?”
“I was practicing in Colorado Springs for the better part of every year until 2000, and for a while after that. It was my home.”
Tracy nodded. “The Olympic Training facility.”
Zeke looked up as if coming back from another place. He said, “The kinesics was just a part of a much larger training at MIC. But for some reason, I was pretty good at it. And it has stuck with me. It sort of comes naturally.”
* * *
“How long have you been practicing?” asked his sparring partner.
Zeke said, “Since I was about eight or nine.”
“Your form is superb. You have a graceful style, and you’re not afraid to wait for the balance shifts. Not forcing it. You’re a natural.”
The two boys, both under twenty, slid their feet across the bamboo mat as they circled, each gripping the other’s lapel. Zeke’s opponent was oriental, and he glided across the mat effortlessly, patient and confident.
Zeke said, “I was taught by a Sensei who had studied in Japan. Shotokan karate. And jiujitsu.”
“He was a good teacher,” said the man.
“His name is Eddie. He is a good teacher,” said Zeke. “And a good friend.”
The oriental boy nodded a single nod and shifted his grip on the lapels of Zeke’s Gi.
The two boys glided around the mat for a moment more, silently, then in a sudden flurry of motion the oriental boy found himself on his back on the floor, his arm stretched toward the ceiling and held there by Zeke.
The boy yielded.
* * *
“You have a good shot at the Olympics,” said Sensi Osaka. “Two more years study and I don’t see how you won’t medal.”
The 2000 Olympics were scheduled to take place in Sydney, Australia, still a couple years off. Zeke was aiming for the ‘under 73 kg’ weight class, but the competition was fierce. Jimmy Pedro, the US champion in that weight class, looked like a world champion, and he had represented the United States in the 1996 Atlanta summer games.
“I’d like to be part of that team,” said Zeke.
Sensi Osaka nodded. “We would like to have you, Zeke. Have you considered moving up a weight class?”
Zeke said, “Because of Jimmy, you mean? I think I’d do better at 73 kilos. But let me think about it.”
* * *
Zeke had met Eddie aboard his sailboat, Ryūha, shortly before his parents had been killed in an explosion on their live-aboard motorsailor, the West Wind. Eddie had taken the eight-year-old boy under his wing, and had taught him judo and jiujitsu. Zeke had taken to it, practicing his art every spare minute and competing whenever he could in local dojo’s.
It became a routine for him and Eddie to meet and practice each day as
a part of Zeke’s schooling. The rest of his education was administered by family friends in the Boot Key Marina where his family had lived before the tragedy.
Now, the boy, ten years older, sought advice from his mentor.
“What do you choose to do?” asked Eddie, after Zeke had explained the situation in a phone call from the Olympic Training Facility. “What feels right to you, Zeke?”
“I’ve made this commitment,” said Zeke. “I need to see it through.”
“I agree,” said Eddie. “And this is a decision that will reverberate through the rest of your life.”
Chapter 13
“This is quite an impressive vessel, Captain,” said Julia Conners.
“It is quite a ship.”
Julia was onboard, walking and talking. She was with a man who was about her height, but somewhat thinner.
The ship was actually a yacht, a one hundred thirty foot Fraser, three-story and bright white, that had been built in 1992 and recently refit. It belonged to Ferman Khoury and was presently docked in the Harbour Town Yacht Basin on Hilton Head Island.
“Mr. Khoury has asked us to make you comfortable,” said the man, who had introduced himself as Captain Abdul. He was wearing a captain’s jacket and hat and he spoke in a sing-song voice. “Officially, you are to be a part of the crew.”
Julia said, “Officially?”
“Yes, you’ll wear the same uniform as the rest of the crew. Blue polo shirt and khaki shorts. Dark brown deck shoes. You’ll blend in, if anyone is watching,” said the captain. “Especially when we’re in port.” He talked as they walked, touring the ship.
“OK, that’s good,” said Julia.
“But no one will be able to find you. You’ll have no address, and you’ll be onboard, out of sight, and mostly in international waters. For this trip, you’ll be invisible to anyone looking for you.”
“Will there be employment records?”
“The Gun Runner is registered in Lebanon. Your employment record, as an independent contractor, will be maintained in an office in Beirut. They would be very difficult for anyone to access.”