by Seeley James
She took the nearest pen and ball and chatted with a grinning teenager. She engaged each player, parent, ref, and coach until everyone was satisfied.
Ms. Sabel spoke to the St. Muriel’s girls, inspiring them with a speech about playing as a team and not for individual glory. She sent them out to the field with a rousing cheer. She joined me as I backed up a gentle slope to survey the park from the high ground.
The whistle blew and the Virginia Falcons kicked off against St. Muriel’s Eagles. A St. Muriel’s player rushed into the Falcons’ midst and stole the first pass. Without looking up, she sent it to another player running up the sidelines. The two of them passed it back and forth three times, advancing quickly up field and distracting the Falcons from a third player who’d run between the two center defenders. The girl who’d stolen the ball back-heeled it to the girl in the middle. She volleyed it straight into the net. The Eagles’ side went wild.
Ms. Sabel jumped up and down, clapping her hands and calling out the players by name. When the celebration subsided, she turned to me. “Did you see number two? Betty Weir. Keep your eye on her. She told me it was her goal to break my records before senior year. I love that kind of focus.”
“Records?” I immediately regretted asking what I should’ve known.
“Senior year, I set the state records for one hundred, two hundred, and—”
The crowd on our side of the field broke into another cheer. While we were talking, the Eagles had scored again. Instead of cheering, Ms. Sabel chewed a fingernail.
The Falcons’ third kickoff in three minutes went the same way. Betty Weir, center-mid for the Eagles, stole the ball and weaved down field for a goal all by herself.
“Not good,” Ms. Sabel said.
“They’re winning, right? What’s wrong with that?”
“The only thing you get from a blowout is hubris.”
I followed as she marched down the slope to the Eagles’ bench and pulled three yellow pennies from the coach’s bag. Walking onto the field, she ignored the referee’s warnings to clear off. He gave her his undivided attention. She handed the pennies to Betty Weir, a defender, and the keeper.
“Bring out your backups,” she told the Eagles’ coach while the Falcons glared at her. “Betty, you three take up positions to coach the Falcons. Don’t play for them, give them pointers. Tell them how to anticipate the play, where to send the pass, how to read the field. Let’s turn this game into something worth the time to play it.”
“What if they beat us?” Betty Weir asked.
“Then you’ll know your backups need more playing time.”
Ms. Sabel walked toward the Falcons’ bench. The ref looked at the Falcons’ coach, who shrugged back. The ref blew the whistle.
Movement in my peripheral vision turned my attention to Otis. Freelance TV reporters have to be the whole crew these days. He was running back and forth from behind his camera to the front. As he stepped before the lens, he tugged down his shirt and sport coat, shook his hair back, and pulled a microphone to his face. He jumped back to his camera and trained it on Ms. Sabel. She was talking to the Falcons’ coach. The coach had a pad of paper and pen in hand, scribbling notes as she pointed at players and rattled off instructions.
On the field, Betty Weir looked like a Pia Sabel clone. A few inches shorter but just as long-legged, the girl pointed and talked to Falcons players, giving them instructions. In the goal, the Eagles’ keeper stood behind her counterpart. I heard her say, “Talk to your defense, tell them to shift left, assign someone to cover the open wing.” The Falcons’ keeper repeated the instructions to her teammates.
At one point, Betty Weir called out, “Never tell a teammate, ‘yours.’ Only say ‘mine’ when you can get the ball, or ‘help’ when you can’t. Take responsibility.” Across the field, Ms. Sabel gave the girl a thumbs-up.
The game ended 6-3 Eagles. Instead of the standard high-five line, the field erupted into group hugs.
As we walked off the field, Ms. Sabel said, “Do you play any sports?”
“Baseball in high school and college.”
“I didn’t know you went to college.”
Mercury said, No background check? Dude, you are one lucky soldier.
I said, The Major vouched for me.
Mercury said, And she kept her mouth shut about your mental health?
Carmen rode shotgun with Miguel taking a lead car and the new guy following behind.
I slid in next to Ms. Sabel and buckled in with a click.
“I graduated high school young,” I said, “and went to Iowa State for a year. First day of classes, sophomore year, was September 11th, 2001. I joined the Army the next day.”
“Admirable.”
Mercury said, Dude, you’ve got her ear. Show her you can think about something other than sex and women. You only get a second to impress a Caesar.
“I’ve been thinking about why someone would engineer a virus if it’s not a bio-weapon. The only answer I can think of is because they have the patent on the cure. A company like Jenkins Pharmaceuticals could make zillions of—”
“No,” she said. “Bobby Jenkins would never do a thing like that. It would be murder.”
“OK, what about someone else in the company? A rogue unit, someone new, or trying too hard?”
Ms. Sabel scowled. “God, I hope not.”
We entered Sabel Gardens’ main building and were met by the Major. “Do you want to see the bad news first?” she asked.
We filed into the drawing room. Verges rose from a chair. A TV screen dropped from the ceiling. The Major clicked a remote and a newscaster appeared on screen. “…attack on Pia Sabel may have been for publicity. According to our highly placed source in Homeland Security, this might be a mirror of the stunt Miss Sabel pulled last August when she attacked a US military…”
The Major pushed a button and switched to another channel. “…source who prefers to remain anonymous said, and I quote, ‘Miss Sabel is a threat to the community, and because that community is our nation’s capitol, she’s a threat to the nation.’ End quote.”
The Major said, “Ready for the good news?”
She switched to Channel 4, and played a clip by Otis. “…a different side of Pia Sabel. When she saw a team outclassed by her alma mater, she didn’t let her side run up the score. The World Champion stopped the game and turned what should have been a rout into an educational—”
“Goddamn it!” Ms. Sabel grabbed the remote from the Major’s hand and switched off the TV. Red-faced and steaming, she paced the room while she dialed her phone, then clamped it to her ear.
Carmen, the Major, and I exchanged puzzled glances.
Ms. Sabel shook her head and regarded us as if we were dim. “The people who killed Kevin could track down anyone on the team.”
“Coach.” Ms. Sabel returned her attention to her phone. “I need the cell numbers of all your players. I’m sending Sabel agents to everyone’s home.”
She clicked off and fiddled with her email. In the corner of the room, a printer whirred to life. She sprinted for it, tore the printed page into sections, and handed them out. “Call these players, get them covered.”
“What? Why?” I asked.
“I have bodyguards, but the girls don’t.” She turned away from me as her next call connected. “Annette, Pia Sabel.”
Still puzzled, the rest of us followed her lead. I called three families, all of whom were both concerned by the call but happy to have Sabel agents assigned to them.
Carmen frowned and checked her phone’s display. She pulled Ms. Sabel’s arm, a puzzled look on her face. “What if there’s no answer?”
“Who are you calling?”
“Betty Weir.”
Ms. Sabel turned to Verges. “I need to report a kidnapping.”
CHAPTER 20
Situated between the Embassies on Massachusetts Avenue and the White House, the exclusive Jefferson Hotel kept high standards: no blue-collar conspirators al
lowed. Violet, dressed in an Armani skirt suit, met the bellman’s condescending gaze and demanded directions to her meeting. She followed him to the Book Room, an intimate space off the lobby. Ed Cummings wore a gray Zegna suit and sat at a small table by the fireplace in the otherwise empty alcove. They eyed each other as she waved the bellman away and took the chair opposite.
Cummings leaned toward her once they were alone. “What the hell did you do?”
“Me? I thought you did it.”
“Why would I kill Verratti? I told you we needed his people for the operation. You’re the one who said we needed to replace him.”
“Maybe the Collettivo didn’t like his investments.” Violet glanced around.
Cummings squinted. “How can I trust you now?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Ed. I’m meeting your Velox man in a few minutes at the National Geo around the corner. Tag along and ask him.”
Cummings leaned back and drummed his fingers on the table. “I’ll do that.”
“I think it was Sabel. Either for revenge or to send a message.”
“No way. I looked her up, she’s just a kid, twenty-five. Pretty good looking too, if you like ’em buff.”
“Keep your dick in your pants. Inside that amazon beats the heart of a tiger.” Violet leaned forward and tapped her index finger on the table. “Verratti made her look bad, killed one of her people, so she went after him and killed him.”
“You think Verratti’s people opened fire on a suburban road to get the vials? He was too cautious for that. And Pia Sabel going after Marco Verratti? I don’t see it. She’s a trust-fund brat. She likes the spotlight and plays the executive the same way she played soccer, for the applause.”
“Check her flight records. She flew straight there and straight back.”
“The FAA doesn’t release those records.”
“The Wall Street Journal keeps a database of corporate jets. She flew to Milan, stayed four hours, and left. Verratti was killed in the third hour.”
Cummings whistled softly. He didn’t move while he thought through the implications. “Will she come after us?”
“Not if we get her first.”
“Hold on a second. I’m not going to be part of a…” Cummings checked around them, then lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’m not going to participate in a murder conspiracy.”
“What do you think happened on Borneo, Ed? What do you think will happen in Philadelphia?”
“Nobody cares about a bunch of aborigines in the jungle. And Philly’s elderly will go peacefully in their sleep. That’s not the same as contracting a hit on—”
“Don’t make it sound like some cheap gangster movie. I’m hiring her competitor to ensure we stay alive. I think that’s a wise investment, don’t you?”
“Why such a drastic approach? Why do you hate her so much?”
“Because she’s Bobby Jenkins’ special pet.” Violet lowered her voice an octave. “And she took my goddamn vials.”
“You mean the Jenkins Pharmaceuticals guy? Why do you care about him?”
“He’s a competitor,” she hissed. “I worked for him early in my career, but he was an asshole.”
“I don’t get it.”
“He has six children who adore him and all he ever talks about is his goddaughter, Pia-fucking-Sabel. She isn’t even his.” Violet glanced around the Book Room again. “Sooner or later, she’ll give up waiting for those fools at NIH to figure it out and she’ll call Bobby. He’ll come running to her and he’ll know right away.”
“Wait. How will he know it was you?” Cummings thought for a moment. “Holy shit, you started this project when you worked for him?”
“He didn’t have the balls to pull it off.”
Cummings’ nostrils flared. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
Violet leaned back and sighed. Finally, she broke the long silence. “Next problem: where did Marco hide our Element 42?”
“Did he have the Levoxavir too?”
“You think I’m dumb enough to give him everything?” Violet snapped.
“I’m a hedge fund manager. This kind of thing isn’t in my wheelhouse.” Ed pinched his nose and started paging through texts on his phone. “His contact in DC texted Marco and me a code to let us know when it arrived.”
“You were responsible for landing the package in the US and all you have is a phone number?”
Cummings shrugged. “What do you have?”
She sighed and shook her head. “Let’s go.”
They rose and left the hotel, pulling their overcoats tight as they stepped into a frigid autumn morning. They walked around the block and across the street to the National Geographic Museum, Violet limping slightly and tugging on Cummings’s arm for support. Inside the almost empty hall, a display of magazine covers through the years formed a dark and empty walkway.
An unappealing man tugged his dark pea coat over his shoulder holster and grinned at Violet. He was missing an ear and had a face like a smashed ham sandwich. He sauntered over and leaned against the display in front of them.
“Well hello, sugar,” he said. “Is this pansy supposed to be your bodyguard?”
“See here.” Cummings stepped forward.
Violet put a hand across his chest. “Can you do what we discussed?”
Kasey Earl smirked. “This package of yours must be pretty special. Someone killed your pal Verratti for it. You’ll pay a double retainer.”
“Did you kill Verratti?” Cummings asked.
“Who the fuck are you, pretty boy?” Kasey shoved the hedge fund manager back a step. “Ain’t got my retainer yet. I don’t work for free.”
Violet huffed and pulled her phone. “Do you have the routing and account numbers?”
Kasey held up his phone’s screen and she thumbed in a bank transfer of $200,000 from the Windsor account to his.
When the transaction completed, he put his phone away. “Who has the package?”
Violet nodded and Cummings provided the phone number for Verratti’s American contact. She said, “You can find him from that?”
“When I request NSA info, they never ask why. Not allowed to. I’ll have his real-time GPS coordinates whenever I want them. You’ll get a text that says, ‘Lincoln Memorial’ when I have your package.”
“Can you handle another operation for me?” Violet asked.
“Depends.” Kasey cocked his head to the side.
“We need protection from whoever killed Verratti.”
Kasey laughed. “The Mafia? No problem.”
“We think Pia Sabel killed him.”
Kasey stopped mid-laugh. He looked back and forth from Violet to Cummings. “You got Sabel Security after you?”
“Can you handle the job?” Violet asked.
“We ain’t no babysitting outfit like them. We only work proactive like.”
Violet smiled. “We were hoping you’d take that approach.”
Cummings said, “Hey, wait a minute, what are you talking about?”
Kasey and Violet stared at him. Cummings shuffled and huffed then turned away.
Kasey faced Violet. “We’re talking a whole lot of money, full payment in advance.”
She glared into his smile. “We also have a side job.”
“Yeah, whatever, but I’m going to bring in some people to take on Sabel. You need to cough up a bigger nut. You feel me?”
Cummings pressed his finger in Kasey’s chest. “Can you handle the job? Do you know who you’re up against?”
Kasey slapped his hand away. “Jonelle Jackson, Tania Cooper, Jacob Stearne? Fuck yeah, I know who I’m up against.” He brushed a hand over his missing ear and stared at Violet with narrowing eyes, then spoke through his teeth. “Two million. Now.”
* * *
Kasey Earl left by the side exit and dialed his boss from the alley. “Where did you dig up these suckers?”
“Cummings helped me finance the company after I had a little PR problem in Iraq. Why?
”
“They just paid me half a million dollars to kill Pia Sabel. I shit you not.”
“A fool and her money are soon parted.” The other man laughed. “How much did you get in advance?”
“I done got the whole nut up front. Wired it straight to my Caymans account.”
“And this time, there won’t be any refunds. Wire it to the Velox account as soon as it clears.” The man laughed. “Did they tell you where to find Element 42?”
“They gave me a lead.”
“Then quit yakking and get moving. Our buyer is standing by.” He clicked off.
CHAPTER 21
It took me all day to negotiate the exchange. The Kazakhs used random intermediaries and their translations caused a lot of confusion. We finally agreed on the Carderock Recreation Area after hours, an empty public space squeezed between the Naval Surface Warfare Center on one side and the Potomac River on the other. My mistake was thinking I could surround them in the dark. My backup and operations team hid half a mile down the road in the parking area.
I smelled the stench before I saw him, a dark shadow moving between the trees. He stopped five yards out and stood still. After a full minute, I said, “I’m alone, asswipe.”
No response. Maybe the Kazakhs really didn’t speak English.
I held up the vials. “Show me Betty.”
Nothing. I repeated in Pashto and Arabic since I didn’t speak Russian or Kazakh. Still nothing.
The shadow approached me and put his barrel in my face. He grunted. His bad breath traveled the distance between us like a cloud of mustard gas. One hand held his weapon, the other reached for my vials. I snapped them back and shoved them in my leather jacket.
“No way,” I said. “Show me Betty first.”
He kept his hand out.
From the bulk of his shadow, I figured he was wearing an extra vest. Even dim-witted Kazakhs figured out how to armor themselves against darts after a single firefight. I’d have to work on Ms. Sabel’s infatuation with Sabel darts.
He spoke in what sounded like Russian. I shrugged.
He produced a phone and talked into it. Then he turned the screen to me. A shiny new Nokia Lumia with a translator app on screen read: Comrades of you take back on parking station. Girl stand on ground. True.
