The Spy Devils

by Joe Goldberg

  “It isn’t true, father.” It was the voice of a scared daughter.

  Bondar answered with a face chiseled tight in disappointment. He stood and walked around the desk.

  “You want to get rid of your father so desperately you asked him?” He balled his hand into fists again and shook them at her. “You think you can run my businesses better than I can? You should be grateful for all I have given you and your worthless brother.”

  Ira exploded off the couch. Her robe fell open, exposing a small white lace nightgown. She stormed across the room to within a few feet of her father.

  “You are the worthless one for what you did to Olek! You abandoned him to rot in a jail in Cyprus.”

  “What are you talking about? I did nothing to him in Cyprus—”

  “Um. Excuse me,” Bridger interrupted. “Let me clarify this point. For the sake of our mission, we took the liberty of pretending to be you, Viktor. Olek was a little confused. It is technical stuff. I don’t understand it, but it was effective. I am sorry if it caused any bad feelings.”

  “What? It wasn’t father?” Olek stammered.

  “Nope.” Bridger shrugged and raised his eyebrows at Demon. “Guess it worked.” Demon nodded.

  Bondar grabbed Ira tightly by the arm above the elbow and pulled her close till her face was an inch from his.

  “What were you thinking?” Saliva landed on her face. He pushed her away. “I would have respected you more if you had just shot me. That at least has some honor. Show some guts. It is how I lived my life. Kill or be killed. I am a killer.”

  “You killed Anton,” she screamed at him.

  Bondar was silent. He took his time walking back to his desk chair. He sat, crossed his arms across his silk pajamas, and leaned back to stare at the ceiling. Silence packed the room, except for the clock ticking in the corner like a time bomb.

  “You,” Ira turned to Bridger—her rage reappearing, “you did all this.” She tried to hit him, but he grabbed her arm and wrenched it outward, then down in a ninety-degree angle. She grunted in pain as she bent over to relieve the stress in her elbow.

  “So if I plot this right, you had Beast killed just before our meeting? Am I correct?”

  “No.” She forced the word out through clenched teeth.

  Bridger flinched in actual surprise. He let go of her arm. She stood and rubbed her elbow in relief.

  “Care to explain that?”

  “I didn’t have him killed. I killed your man, this Beast, for what you did to Olek. I do not grieve for him.”

  “You killed him, yourself, then met me to make a deal to destroy your father?” Bridger was genuinely shocked. “I will admit to being surprised.” He looked at Bondar. “That is quite an industrious daughter you have. Tell me, Ira, how did you find him? Chapel, or Chen?”

  “Neither. We did it ourselves. I recognized him sitting outside the bank,” Olek bragged from his corner of the room. “Your shitty group of spies were sloppy.”

  “Shut up, Olek, you fool,” Ira hissed at him.

  Bridger looked at Olek. Then to Demon.

  “Just bad luck,” Demon said, from his position guarding the door. “It happens.”

  Bridger stood. He looked around the room and turned toward the door. “Well, our business is complete. I will leave you to resolve the family issues.” He saw Demon go on alert.

  Bridger turned around. Bondar had the Tula tucked under his right armpit, pointed at Bridger’s chest.

  “Come now, Viktor. You can’t kill me,” Bridger said.

  “You are a devil.”

  “You don’t know how much I appreciate the kind words. But, you see, you won’t kill me because I have all your money, known or hidden. If you kill me, it will vanish. If we leave here unharmed, I will consider letting you have some of it back.”

  “You are a liar.”

  “There it is, Demon. I am being called a liar, and I think I am the only one here who has told the truth.” Bridger shrugged his shoulders. “Let me explain. It started with that delightful gentleman, Theo Giannokis, the one with the exquisite taste in pajamas, like yourself. He provided us access to quite a lot of your financial data there. Quite a lot. Then I asked my new employee Pavlo to give us the whole enchilada, as they say. You forgot to change the access codes and techie stuff when you let him go.”

  Bridger tossed up his good hand in the air. He walked toward Ira and stood over her. She glared back.

  “That was a mistake. So, I took it. I couldn’t resist the temptation. Kill me, and you lose all your money. Of course, if you want some of your wealth back—you could, you know—do me a favor. Earn it, if you know what I mean.”

  Bridger stood looking at Ira for another moment. Bridger turned and walked to the door.

  “Burn in hell,” she snarled at him.

  Then he stopped and looked at Bondar. The Tula was still aimed at him.

  “Thank you, Ira. Consider my offer, Viktor. It is only good for—” Bridger checked his watch. “—a few more minutes.”

  They walked out of the room. Snake followed as they moved to the elevator.

  A few seconds later they heard the sound of a rifle being fired.

  “I’m glad they worked out their issues,” Bridger said as they stepped into the elevator.

  55

  We Win And They Lose

  Kirkwood Headquarters

  Peter found it difficult to settle back into his corporate intelligence routine.

  Less than a week ago, I was blown-up and running for my life. Now I’m back in my ergonomic chair staring at my computer.

  His immediate task was the hundreds of unanswered emails in his inbox; each, he knew, was a person who wanted him to do something for them. It all seemed irrelevant after the events in Ukraine. Childish. He wanted to ‘select all’ the emails and just delete them.

  Click. Out of inbox. Out of mind.

  There were a few things on the bright side.

  First, he had not heard from Bridger, which had only re-fueled his apprehension.

  Second, he was reading all he could about Viktor Bondar's arrest for the murder of his daughter. Unfortunately, it was only superficially covered in the U.S. press. In Ukraine and many countries in Europe, it was big news. As much as the people wanted to see Bondar's fall, their hopes were dashed when he was set free by judges he had bribed for years. Bondar was rumored to have fled to Geneva.

  “Hope you have secured your files.” Peter jolted when Benton’s mocking baritone voice reverberated around his office.

  “Miss your daily dosage of donuts this morning, Benton?” Peter shot back.

  “Upstairs, asshole. Boardroom. Let’s go.”

  Peter entered the Jacob Kirkwood Corporate Boardroom a few minutes later.

  Inside, painted by the lamp’s glow, CEO Samuel Kirkwood stood with his hands laced behind his back. His head was tilted up toward the life-sized oil portrait of his father. Bold strokes and use of color formed the aura of strength and leadership in Jacob.

  “Hello, Peter.”

  Ever the gentlemen, Kirkwood approached him with his hand extended. Peter did the same, and they exchanged a quick handshake. Peter felt the moisture on the palms of Kirkwood’s hand. Kirkwood indicated that Peter should take the chair at the table by the CEO’s seat.

  Peter walked to the spot and gingerly lowered his sore body to the padded seat. The cushion let out a low rush of air. The room was warm, the lights were low, and the chair was really comfortable. It took all the concertation he had not to just put his head on the table and nap.

  Peter expected Kirkwood to sit. Instead, he stood behind his chair, gazing across the room.

  “I am glad you are back and safe. Danny has kept me informed of your exploits on behalf of the company. It was, well, um, exciting, and dangerous. It’s wonderful. I greatly appreciated it.”

  Peter winced as he nodded his bandaged head. “Thank you.”

  “Peter, you know this company was built by my father
, Jacob. His father Benjamin and his father, Wilbur. All the greatest minds of the time. Now, it is my time.” He started to walk in measured slow steps around the room, examining all the paintings and pictures. He stopped and peered at a large watercolor of the first Kirkwood headquarters. A three-story all-brick building on a crowded Chicago neighborhood street.

  Peter saw Kirkwood’s head scan the picture from top to bottom.

  “I spent time here with my grandfather.” He moved to the next picture and looked at it. Without turning to Peter, he continued. A Kirkwood has been at the epicenter of technological developments that have made this a better world for over one hundred years. The Kirkwood name stands as a bellweather example of all that is exceptional in business and America. The finest technology genes are written into the DNA of every employee.”

  Before Peter could respond, Kirkwood stopped and leaned on the table across from Peter. His cheeks were glowing orange-red. He reminded Peter of a cockatiel.

  “I employ tens of thousands of people. Good jobs. Good salaries. I support this company and the entire country. When we are needed, I answer the call. That is more than most can say. You agree?”

  His voice was getting higher in pitch. A fine mist spewed from the round mouth of his round head.

  “Yes, sir.” Peter’s anxiety rose. Kirkwood, the mild-mannered CEO, looked like he was either going to jump across the table and attack him, or explode.

  “Big and successful global companies do big successful global company things. It is how we win and they lose. From what I understand, you think we have taken some improper actions. That we shouldn’t share technology with our Chinese business partners to get their business and investment? How do you think we grow or make money? It is what we have to do.”

  Kirkwood was leaning so far over the table his sweaty palms slid and he lost his balance. He pushed back and regained his footing. The shock seemed to calm him. He continued.

  “I will never allow Kirkwood to be compared to the likes of Enron. Or Waste Management. Or Worldcom. Health South. Tyco. Freddie Mac, and certainly not Lehman. No FBI. No SEC.”

  Then, just as suddenly, the atmosphere changed again. Kirkwood stood straight, and his eyes looked around the room. His voice was back to a soft tenor. His face was returning to its pink fleshy tone.

  Kirkwood walked to him, his hand out in front, offering a handshake. Peter stood.

  “I hope you understand now. These are important times for our company.” Kirkwood led Peter toward the door. “I want to thank you for all the wonderful things you did for the company. We asked you to do the impossible in very little time, and you did that and more. Thank you.”

  Kirkwood opened the door for Peter, and with his hand in the small of his back, shoved Peter out of the Jacob Kirkwood Boardroom.

  On the drive home, Peter decided he would let whatever happens happen. His concentration was on getting home and on when he would hear from Bridger next—not the car following him.

  Peter pulled into his garage as the trailing car rolled down the street, made a loop around the block, and stopped.

  Peter lugged his body through the garage door and into the mudroom off the kitchen. He expected to smell dinner or hear the TV tuned to some cartoon. He didn’t. Then he noticed the door to the kitchen, which was always open, was closed.

  “Janelle?” Peter whispered. “Janelle?”

  He went back and looked in the garage. Her car was there. Panic started to set in. He grabbed a broom that was against the wall and held it in front of him like a spear. Taking in a deep breath, he opened the kitchen door.

  “Peter. Finally. We have to get going,” Bridger said. Bridger was sitting at the table, eating a rather large sandwich. “Janelle has shown me your files on your employer. They have been very, very bad boys.” He pointed at the broom still in a spearing position. “Nice broom.”

  “Hi, honey.” With a smile, Janelle got up and gave the stunned Peter a kiss on the cheek. “James is at Chuck’s house. Give me that.” She took the broom and walked to the mudroom.

  The sight of Bridger being at his house, sitting at the table eating a sandwich, talking to his wife was somewhat disconcerting.

  “Peter, we have to go.” Bridger got up, took one more large bite of sandwich. “Yummy. Roast beef. Thanks, Janelle.”

  “What? Where?”

  Peter had never seen Bridger so excited.

  “If the mountain won’t come to us, we have to blow up the mountain.”

  56

  The Stuff of Fiction Books and Movies

  Lombard, Illinois

  Bridger knew Chapel wasn’t the kind of guy who met in dark alleys. He didn’t do recognition signals. SDRs. Disguises. Any of that espionage stuff. That was far beneath Danforth Chapel. Nope. Chapel liked the good life—the very good life.

  In the rare instance he needed to personally obtain information, Chapel preferred to do it over a fabulous meal. His source would carry a briefcase containing the secrets into a private room in an expensive restaurant. The person would place it under the table. Then they would eat a fine meal. After dessert, the source would leave. The case remained behind. Chapel would have an after-dinner drink. Congenial and satisfying.

  The stuff of fiction books and movies.

  Bridger knew it was his one exploitable weakness. That was why when Bridger and Peter pulled into the lot near the Capital Grille, Lombard, the Devil knew exactly what to expect.

  “He is a predictable pompous ass.” Bridger laughed and slapped Peter on his shoulder. He was in a good mood. “He takes the same suite in the classic Drake Hotel in Oak Brook. Medium rare steaks at the Capital Grille. All close to Kirkwood HQ. No time wasted sitting in traffic.”

  Bridger looked at Peter.

  “Ironic, huh? This is where we had our first date,” Bridger said.

  “I will mark it in my calendar and cherish the date forever,” Peter replied.

  Bridger laughed, then said, “Here he is.”

  They watched the Lincoln Town Car pull up to the valet entrance of the steak house. A mountain-sized security man got out, looked around, and opened the door. Chapel got out. He buttoned his Gieves & Hawkes, glanced left and right, then entered, followed by the guard.

  The driver backed the car into the end parking space parallel to the building. He got out of the Town Car and walked toward the entrance. He stopped just outside the door and took a standing position under the green awning covering the entrance.

  “I will give his security goons credit. They at least sweep the car twice a day for trackers and bugs. But it isn’t enough. Not today. Not by a long shot.”

  The 8 p.m. twilight cast long shadows across the ground as the setting sun cleared the horizon. The darkness they needed would be upon them shortly.

  “Is there any reason that we just can’t pull this guy over, whomp him, and take the case without all this cloak and dagger stuff?” Demon asked over the comm system. He and Snake were following a few lengths behind Chapel’s dinner guest.

  “Yes, there is a reason.” Bridger rolled his eyes at Peter, who was given his own comm for this op. “The answers are, I need to talk to them to get some important intel, and to satisfy my pure, unadulterated spite.”

  “Well, okay. I like the spite part of the plan. We are five minutes out. Maybe ten, the way this guy drives. If he was going any slower, it would be yesterday.”

  “Beatrice? Milton. Status?”

  “Chapel just walked in and went into a small private dining room. The middle one on the right. His security guy is immediately outside, sitting at a table. And this steak is great.” Milton said from a booth inside.

  “I recommend the salmon. It is perfect.” Beatrice was across from him.

  “Imp? Wake up.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m ready to push the button.” Imp rose from the back seat. “I like steak, too.”

  “We will drive through McDonald’s later and get you a happy meal, brat,” Beatrice said.

 
; “We are here,” Snake alerted them.

  Bridger and Peter watched a white early 2000s Chrysler Minivan pull into the Capital Grille lot and park near the entrance. A few seconds behind, Demon and Snake, in a Ford Explorer, rolled by the building and parked on the opposite side.

  They watched Gilbert Street, Kirkwood Research Technologies leader, the ‘King of the Moles,’ walk from the van, past Chapel’s guard, and into the restaurant. He carried a large canvas duffel bag in his right hand.

  “Oh Gilbert, let’s find out what May has done to you,” Bridger said, as he got out of the car and motioned for Peter to do the same. “Demon? Snake?”

  “We are in position.”

  “Beatrice?”

  “The guy with the bag went into the room with Chapel. Guard still outside. The door is closed when the waiter isn’t there.”

  “Large wooden door. Opaque glass. Window-framed.” Milton added.

  “Now, Imp.”

  Imp pushed a series of buttons on his computer. The vehicle security system of the Lincoln activated like fireworks on July 4th. The panic alarm blared as the interior and exterior lights flashed. Chapel’s driver jerked with surprise at the sight and sound. He ran toward the car, frantically pushing the control buttons on his key fob. As he reached for the front door handle, Imp cut the system off just as suddenly. The guard stopped.

  He didn’t see Demon wave the Devil Stick in his face. The man’s body quivered and gagged as it fell against the side of the Lincoln. Unable to brace himself, he rolled like a raindrop down the side and hit the concrete curb with his face. Cracking, plinking, and grunt sounds indicated a broken nose, lost teeth, and unconsciousness.

  Demon grinned at Snake. “Maybe we should have caught him?”

  Snake shrugged.

  They grabbed the unconscious man under his arms and locked him in the trunk.

  “One in the trunk,” Snake announced.

  Wearing a nice patterned gray blazer, white button-up shirt, and trendy casual jeans, Bridger walked into the restaurant to the sounds of Frank Sinatra. Peter followed.