by Cap Daniels
“But on the street, kid—”
“On the street, I would’ve put two forty-five rounds into your gut and watched you bleed out. But we weren’t on the street. We were on my boat, I knew my attacker, and I did what had to be done to defeat him.”
“Hmm,” he grunted. “Gimme back my gun, you cocky little bastard.”
I handed him his 1911, butt first, and pointed to the safety. He yanked the pistol from my hand, flipped off the safety, and racked a fresh round into the chamber.
“Fix me a drink and bring me some aspirin,” he ordered.
I poured four fingers of Jack Daniel’s Single Barrel into three highball glasses and tossed Gunny the bottle of Fred’s so-called sleeping pills.
He read the label and laughed. “Some things never change.”
I slid a glass to Clark and one to Gunny before raising mine. “Some things never do.”
We touched glasses and Gunny gobbled a handful of aspirin and emptied his glass.
“So, I hear we’ve got a rogue Russian colonel on the loose and you want to have a chat with him.”
“You hear correctly,” I said as I sat down at the table and began the long story of what had happened in St. Augustine.
“You mean you shot him twice in the gut and left him to die? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Yeah, Gunny. That’s what I’m telling you. I know I screwed up, but nothing can be done about it now. Now we need to find him and stop him before he finds Norikova.”
Why did I just call Anya Norikova?
“What makes you think she’s still alive?” he asked, still rubbing his neck.
I told him the story of Padre in Charleston.
“That old coot always did have the inside angle. I can’t think of anything he stands to gain by telling you that story, unless somebody’s forcing him to sell you a crock of crap and get you off balance.”
“We’ve been working on my balance,” I said, nodding toward Clark. “Thanks to Clark and Fred, I’m a lot stronger than I used to be . . . and a lot more dangerous for people like Tornovich.”
“I’m still not sure how you closed on me and put me down before I could react.” He looked back at the spot on the deck where he’d lain unconscious for several minutes.
“So how do we flush Tornovich out if he’s still alive?” I asked.
“We send him a telegram,” Gunny said.
“A telegram?”
“Yes, a telegram. And where do you think comrade Colonel Tornovich gets his telegrams these days now that he’s persona non grata in Moscow?”
“That’s it! You’re a genius, Gunny.” I grabbed him by the shoulders and kissed him on the forehead. “Make yourself at home. Oh, and don’t tell Penny we’re spies.”
He shoved me away. “Who’s Penny?”
“Come on, Clark. We’ve got to get to Langley. And Penny is a beautiful young woman who’ll be back in a few minutes. Keep your filthy hands off of her, and don’t you dare tell her anything resembling the truth.”
Clark followed me off the boat and up the boardwalk. We were headed out the marina gate when we met Penny coming the other way.
I kissed her ferociously. “The man’s name on the boat is Gunny. He’s harmless, but don’t listen to a word he says. He’s a miserable liar. We’ll be back. If you need money, it’s in the coffee pot. I’ll call you soon. Oh, and Penny, you’re a lot hotter than Marty Gellhorn.”
22
A Striking Snake
I flagged down a taxi then followed Clark into the back seat. I shoved a fifty-dollar bill into the cabbie’s hand. “The airport. As fast as possible.”
Smoke boiled from the back tires of the cab as we accelerated from the marina parking lot. I’d picked the right cab. The ride that should’ve taken fifteen minutes lasted less than eight, and the cabbie got to keep the change.
I bought a pair of tickets on United’s next flight to Reagan National Airport, leaving in forty minutes.
On our sprint to the gate, Clark grabbed my sleeve and yanked me into an empty alcove. “Tell me where we’re going and what we’re doing.”
“We’re going to Langley to leave a message for Tornovich. Remember when Gunny said to send him a telegram?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, he gets his telegrams from a leak in the CIA. There’s no other way he would’ve known about the sub we borrowed or Norikova still being alive.”
There it was again. I’d called Anya Norikova for the second time in one afternoon.
“So, are you planning to rush up to CIA headquarters and leave a note for Tornovich?”
“Yeah, pretty much, except you’re leaving the note,” I said.
“Why me?”
“It’s simple,” I said. “There’s no way Michael Pennant will see me. He knows I’m a wild card right now, and he thinks I’m too dangerous to control, but he’ll see you.”
“No, he won’t,” demanded Clark. “He has no idea who I am. There’s no chance I’m getting in to see the deputy director of operations of the CIA.”
“Maybe,” I said, “but you can get closer to him than I can. And when you tell whoever you see that you have information that Chase Fulton has gone rogue and is going after Captain Ekaterina Norikova in the safe house, they’ll start listening, and Pennant will get the message whether you get to actually see him or not. I need to get that message floating around CIA headquarters. If we can plant that seed, you know it’ll grow, and Tornovich will eat the poisonous fruit right out of our hands.”
“Chase, this is dangerous . . . and I like it. We’ve got a plane to catch.”
We made it to the plane, and the fifty-one-minute flight felt like four days.
Clark and I ran from the Reagan National terminal to the endless line of taxis waiting for fares.
“What’ll you be doing while I’m leaving telegrams at Langley?”
“I’ll be trying to find our old friend, Padre. Do you have Hope’s or Faith’s phone numbers?”
“Sure I do.” He rattled off both numbers from memory.
I admired his ability to memorize numbers. “That’s a gift, my friend. I don’t know how you do that.”
“They’re gorgeous twenty-two-year-old college girls. Of course I’m going to remember their numbers. Oh, and tell the one with good eyebrows I said hey.”
“You plant the seed, Romeo. I’ll meet you back here in three hours.”
He slid into the back seat of a taxi. “Just call me Johnny Appleseed.”
I needed a bar and a quiet place to make a few phone calls. The bar wouldn’t be a problem. D.C. was full of drunks, most of them elected drunks, so there were plenty of bars. But finding a quiet place would be a challenge. I opted for Arlington. It was across I-395, just north of Reagan National. I took a cab and walked through the thousands of tombstones of fallen heroes who gave their lives in defense of our country. They were men like Clark who’d volunteered, donned a uniform, and gone to war with our enemies to keep America free. They were fathers, brothers, sisters, and mothers. They were the best of what America is, and I was proud to call them my family, my brothers-in-arms. My body would never rest beneath the hallowed ground of Arlington National Cemetery, but I would most likely die in the defense and preservation of my country, the greatest country on the planet.
I called Hope, and to my delight, discovered that she knew how to find Padre. She gave me his office, home, and cell phone numbers.
“Thank you, Hope. I owe you big-time.”
“Just have Clark call me sometime and we’ll call it even, okay?”
How does that guy do it?
I hung up and decided to call his office first. No luck. I tried his cell phone next, but he didn’t answer. I finally dialed his home number and he picked up the phone.
“I’ve been expecting your call, Chase. What can I do for you?”
I chose to forego any small talk. “I need to know where Anya is being held.”
I called her Anya.
&n
bsp; “I’m sorry, Chase. I don’t know.”
“Then guess. If you were holding her, where would you be?”
The line was deathly silent for several seconds before he said, “Staunton.”
Staunton, Virginia, was a town of over eighteen thousand people, nestled in the Shenandoah Valley northwest of Charlottesville and three hours southwest of D.C. I couldn’t think of a better place to hide a Russian SVR officer.
“Thanks, Padre.”
“Wait!” he said. “Chase, be careful. You aren’t dealing with amateurs. These people are dangerous and desperate. They’re not accustomed to being confronted and challenged. They will strike when cornered. Don’t forget that.”
“I’m counting on exactly that, Padre. A striking snake never looks behind himself, and that’s precisely where I intend to be.”
I hung up the phone and watched the Changing of the Guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. It was soul stirring and powerful. I’d never forget the sounds of the soldiers’ taps on the concrete, or the rattle and clang of their rifles. They were guardians of the past, and I was charged with guarding the future.
As planned, I met Clark at the United ticket counter at Reagan National. He was smiling.
“So,” I asked, “how’d it go?”
“Perfect,” he said. “I made an ass of myself and made sure everyone within a thousand feet heard me doing it. There’s no chance of Tornovich not knowing what you’re doing before the sun goes down. What did you learn from Padre?”
“He thinks Norikova’s three hours southwest of here in Staunton.”
“Yeah, I know where Staunton is. I had an old company commander from there. He got shot up in Desert Storm. They gave him a chest full of medals and a disability pension.”
“Is he still in Staunton?”
“Yeah, I’m sure he is. His family owned several businesses back there. I’m sure he’s working in one of them. Is that where we’re headed?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “I’ll rent us a car while you figure out how to find your old company commander.”
We made our way to the wall of rental car reps.
“We need to rent a car,” I said. “What do you have available?”
“How long will you be needing the car, sir?” The young lady behind the counter had a Midwestern accent that didn’t belong in D.C.
“No more than a week,” I said. “If we finish early, we can turn it in anytime, right?”
“Yes, sir. Of course you can. I need your driver’s license, credit card, and one other form of ID.”
I presented my cards and ID and she pulled out a mountain of paperwork.
“Okay, Mr. Fulton . . . Chase Fulton?” She looked down at my right hand. “You didn’t play baseball, did you?”
I stared at the woman and then at her name tag that read “Katherine Reynolds.” Nothing about her looked or sounded familiar. What were the chances of meeting a female UGA baseball fan in Washington D.C.?
“I played a little in the mid-nineties at UGA, why?”
“I’m Kathy Reynolds, Eddie Reynolds’s sister.” She ran around the counter and hugged me. I returned her hug as if she were an unfamiliar aunt at a family reunion. I didn’t know what was going on, and Clark was even more baffled. Kathy stepped back and took my right hand in hers. She examined the scars and discolored flesh that covered both my hand and wrist.
“My God,” she said. “They did a wonderful job. That’s amazing.”
I pulled my hand from hers. “Kathy, I’m sorry, but I don’t remember you or Eddie.”
“Of course you don’t remember me. But you remember Eddie. He was the last baserunner you ever tagged out.”
My mind flashed back to the scalding hot summer afternoon in Omaha when the Oklahoma State centerfielder, Eddie Reynolds, rounded third and charged toward me at the plate. I’d broken my hand in a collision with his teammate seconds before, and the next crash was seconds away.
Simultaneously, Eddie hit me and the ball hit my mitt. Eddie was out, and I was knocked out. If those collisions hadn’t occurred, I would’ve been catching for the Atlanta Braves instead of chasing Russian spies through the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia.
“Kathy, it’s nice to see you, but I can’t say I remember much about that day. What’s Eddie doing now?”
“You mean you don’t know?”
“No, I’m not really in the loop anymore. I travel a lot.”
“He’s in his second season as an outfielder with the Mets. He went in the second round of the draft the year of your. . . .” She looked back down at my hand.
“It’s okay,” I said. “It’s great to hear that Eddie’s still playing ball. Next time you see him, tell him I said he’s out.”
She laughed. “He’ll like that. I know I’m not supposed to do this, but can I give him your phone number? I’m sure he’d love to hear from you.”
“I don’t know,” I said hesitantly. “I’ve kind of gotten away from the game.”
“Here, I know,” she said. “Here’s his number. If you ever get nostalgic, give him a call.”
I liked her solution. “Thanks, Kathy. I appreciate that.” I tucked his number into my wallet. “I don’t mean to be rude, but we’re in a bit of a hurry.”
“Oh my,” she said. “I’m so sorry. I forgot we were renting you a car.” She ran back around the counter and tossed the stack of papers into the trash.
“We’re upgrading you to luxury or sport. What would you like? We have the Town Car or the Mustang convertible.”
Clark shook his head. I took that as a no to either suggestion.
“Uh, that’s a little too flashy for Staunton. Do you have anything that won’t stand out quite so much?”
She went to work on her keyboard, typing furiously. “We have a Ford F-150 pickup. It’s blue.”
“Perfect. We’ll take it.”
She started typing again. “I’m giving you the ‘I’m sorry ’bout your hand’ rate. It’ll be thirty-one per day for a total of two-forty-three-oh-four, taxes and all.”
My black credit card drawn on one of the accounts in the Caymans was still lying on the counter beside my license and ID. She snatched it up, slid it through the reader, and presented me with one document to sign and set of keys.
She came back around the counter again and offered another hug. I accepted that one with a little more warmth than the first.
“Eddie’s never going to believe it,” she said.
We pulled out of the maze that is Reagan National parking.
Clark was staring at my hand and scratching his chin. “Well, that was interesting.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I guess it’s a small world.”
“I knew you’d played ball, but I didn’t know what the scars on your hand were from. I assumed you got cut up in the field and didn’t want to talk about it, so I never brought it up.”
“Nope,” I said. “This was pre-assassin days. I had a few surgeries to put my hand back together. It was after a nasty wreck with that girl’s brother at home plate during the ninety-six College World Series. If that didn’t happen, I’d have never ended up doing this kind of work.”
Clark chuckled. “Well then, I guess it was fate . . . or whatever.”
“Yeah, or whatever,” I said.
I’d expected a three-hour drive to Staunton, but getting outside the D.C. Beltway took over an hour. When we finally made it to the quaint little town, I was immediately enamored. The place was beautiful, old, and welcoming. It reminded me of the old Southern towns scattered throughout Georgia and South Carolina.
Roadside diners are better than information booths. The waitresses know everybody and everything. We slid into a booth at Barbara-Anne’s Café, and a twenty-something, pregnant waitress wearing way too much makeup showed up at our table.
“Hey, guys. Welcome to Barbara-Anne’s. I’m Tammy. What can I get for you?”
I ordered the country fried steak and Clark settled on a cheeseburger. The plates ar
rived piled high to overflowing with food.
“Looks good, huh? Is there anything else I can get you?”
Clark said, “Yeah, actually, we’re from out of town and—”
“Yeah, no kidding,” Tammy said. “Your truck is way too clean, and nobody orders nothin’ that ain’t catfish on Tuesday.”
“Why didn’t you tell us about the catfish?” he asked.
“Everybody knows about the catfish.”
“We’re actually looking for a guy I was in the army with ten years ago. His name is Brian Garner. His family owns—”
“Oh, yeah, I know Brian. Heck, everybody knows the Garners. They own half the town. Brian runs their construction company. They’re building a bunch of houses up off the parkway by the resort. I’m sure you can find him up there.”
“So, it’s Garner Construction?” Clark asked.
“Yeah, like Garner Trucking, and Garner Hardware, and Garner and Garner Attorneys at Law. You know them Garners. If there’s a nickel to be made in it, they’re going to be doing it. Heck, I’m surprised there ain’t a Garner Bank and Trust.”
“Shh, don’t say that too loud,” Clark cautioned. “They’re liable to buy out Barbara-Anne and build a bank right here.”
“I wish they would,” she said. “Being a bank teller’s gotta be better than twelve hours a day on my swollen feet.”
We finished our meal and left Tammy a nice tip, but there was nothing we could do for her swollen feet.
“Do you have any idea what the parkway is, or what resort she was talking about?”
Clark looked off to the east at the green sloping hills. “I’d bet the parkway is the Blue Ridge Parkway that runs across the top of those mountains, but I don’t know the resort.”
We headed off toward the parkway in search of the mysterious resort. It didn’t take long to find what we were looking for. The asphalt roads covered with muddy tracks of dump trucks and construction vehicles gave it away. We pulled into one of the houses that appeared to be ninety-percent complete and asked for Brian.
