Last Chance to Die

by Noah Boyd

“By ‘detain’ you mean arrest, right?” Kate asked.

  “I mean detain, as in hold with extremely slow due process. Justice has consented to this approach because of the possibility of others on the list fleeing. Once we grab him, our ten-day clock will start ticking. I’ve talked to NSA and explained the evidence to them. They’re setting up Petriv at work for us. He’ll be called away from his desk, and we will casually escort him out. I should be getting a call any minute to let us know that everything is set.”

  Vail said to Kate, “Did you tell him about Dellasanti?”

  “Yes, she called me last night,” the assistant director said. “So I called the director. Mark, you’re handling that.”

  The unit chief, Mark Brogdon, straightened up. “I have an entire surveillance squad ready to go. They’ll be in the park late tonight and look for some good spots to get an eyeball on the bridge. They don’t know any of the specifics, except that they’ll be covering a potential dead drop.”

  Kate looked at Vail and, as if anticipating what he was going to ask, said, “If Dellasanti does pick up the package, Bill wants us to take custody of it and see if we can find the next link.”

  Langston said, “I have to give it to you, Steve, the two of you figuring out that fingerprint code. Very slick. Apparently Calculus left clues each time so we could figure out the next name. Am I correct?”

  Kate had been right about Langston’s being nobody’s fool. He had figured out the connection between the moles without the advantage of the Ariadne inscription. “He has so far.”

  “Knowing your disdain for management, it’s not that hard to figure out why you didn’t tell anyone about it.” He looked at Kate. “At least not any of my people.”

  “If you check my old performance ratings,” Vail said, “you’ll see that ‘doesn’t work well with others’ was one of my more consistent character flaws.”

  Langston chuckled. “I could see where you’d be a nightmare to manage, but you do get results. It’s unfortunate you won’t be able to go with us today to detain Mr. Petriv.”

  Vail looked at the agent from OPR and then at Kate. “Me and Lance going to spend a little time together?”

  “There are some legitimate concerns about Pollock’s death that need to be answered immediately,” Langston said.

  “Like what?”

  “The syringe that was recovered from the crime scene had one set of prints on it—yours. Do you know what was in it? Temazepam. Do you know what that is?”

  “A depressant.”

  “Yes, it is, but do you know what intelligence agencies have been rumored to use it for? Truth serum. Pollock looked like he’d been tortured and then given a truth drug. By us. The Russians don’t use it. They have their own proprietary blend, something called SP-17, according to a defector. So that leaves us holding the temazepam bag. Do you see a pattern here? There can be no explanation that doesn’t sound like we’re covering something up. Especially with you being—no pun intended—a contract employee.”

  “There was a deputy assistant director with me. Do you think she was involved in torture?”

  “I don’t think either one of you was,” Langston said. “This is a potentially catastrophic public-relations problem that has to be defused immediately. OPR spends a lot more time clearing our employees than having them prosecuted. And Kate will be interviewed, too, once your statement has been taken and analyzed. OPR has decided to interview you first because of your constant threat to just quit and jump on a plane to Chicago.”

  Vail laughed and then looked at Kate. She looked away. So she knew that this was coming, he thought. The only reason he’d accepted the director’s offer was the hope of reinstating Kate’s reputation, which had been momentarily tarnished by the ridiculous assumption that she’d attempted suicide. He got up and walked to the door. He turned and looked at Kate and the men around her. Evidently she had been returned to a full-share member of the team. For whatever that was worth. Would her career always come between them? He turned back to Langston. “Nicely done, Bill.”

  “I had nothing to do with this. You’re the one who went sneaking off on your own and wound up in the middle of this mess.”

  “That fingerprint exam on the syringe and the blood chemistry that found the temazepam—you didn’t have that expedited?”

  Langston’s usual stoic expression twisted into a knot of anger fueled by the embarrassment of being caught in a lie. Just then his phone rang. He took his time going to his desk to compose himself. “Bill Langston.” As he listened, he sat down and pulled a pen out of a desk holder. “I see. . . . Yes, I do, but give it to me anyhow.” He wrote something down and hung up. “Petriv didn’t show up for work today, and he didn’t call in,” he announced to everyone, and then looked at Vail.

  Vail glanced back at him and then at Kate. Still she didn’t meet his eyes. Apparently he’d been in denial about her truly wanting to end their relationship. But was he reading this correctly, or was he just feeling contempt for everything because he was being so artfully removed from the case? Something this confusing usually just made him mad, but instead he was feeling defiant, defiance being his oldest and most reliable ally. “Good luck.”

  Kate knew what that meant. Everybody in the world was on his own. Especially Steve Vail. She had seen something deep in his eyes, something only she recognized—revenge. It was perhaps his only selfish indulgence. He would find some way to involve himself in the case and succeed when everyone else failed. And then he would walk away, his final measure of contempt for the FBI and those who thought they ran it.

  After Vail and the OPR agent left, Langston tore the page off the notepad. “I’ve got his home address. Let’s go.”

  13

  It was in the middle of the afternoon when Vail finished with OPR. The two agents who interviewed him had never been involved in a murder investigation before and peppered him with clumsy questions and half-thought-out accusations in an attempt to force inconsistencies in his story. He suspected that this was also part of Langston’s delaying process. When they started asking the same questions for the third time, Vail said, “You do realize that you have no jurisdiction in a murder case? The only authority you have over me is as an employee, which in a couple of days you’ll have to be a Chicago building inspector to maintain. But you can now tell Langston that you did your job and kept me from being involved in what he’s doing. Congratulations, I’m sure it won’t be long before you’ll be promoted to assistant bosses in the field, where you’ll be able to obstruct more than one agent at a time.” He got up and walked out.

  Vail checked his watch and, reluctantly, turned on his cell phone. He was hoping Kate had called, but she hadn’t. He took a moment to scold himself for not being able to let go of her apparent siding with Langston. There was one message, though. It was from the manager at the Old Dominion Bank where they had broken into Yanko Petriv’s safe-deposit box.

  Vail called him back. “Yes, Agent Vail, Mr. Petriv called this morning and spoke with one of the assistant managers. I had flagged his file, so when she saw it, she came to me.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “He told her that he wanted his accounts transferred to a bank in New York and was in the process of doing the paperwork with them. In the meantime he wanted his ATM limit upped. She told him he was already at the max, four hundred dollars, and bank policy wouldn’t allow it to be increased. She said he was not happy.”

  “Did she tell him about his safe-deposit box being opened?”

  “I’m the only one here who knows about that, so she couldn’t have.”

  “Can you take a look at his account right now?” Vail asked.

  “Give me two seconds.” Vail’s thoughts again drifted to Kate while he waited. “Yes, I’ve got it up now.”

  “Did he make any ATM withdrawals yesterday or today?”

  “Ah, let’s see. Yes, this morning. Looks like just before he called us. Four hundred dollars.”

  “Where
at?”

  “At one of our branches in Arlington. In fact, I don’t live far from there. It’s right next to the old Adams Hotel.”

  “Thanks for your help,” Vail said, and hung up.

  He drove back to the off-site and ran upstairs to the workroom. He leafed through some of his notes until he found what he was looking for. Back in the car, he headed to the Adams Hotel.

  The two men sat parked in the SUV, which was positioned anonymously among the rows of cars at the strip mall, watching the entrance to the Adams Hotel. Vail pulled up and turned his car over to the valet. The SUV’s driver dialed his cell phone, calling the man who had set the fire at the historic building, trying to kill Vail and Kate. “He just arrived.”

  “He’s alone?”

  “Get things ready there,” the driver said.

  “I thought the woman was our target.”

  Instead of answering, the driver hung up.

  The big passenger with the Russian accent said, “We’ll wait until he leaves to make sure he’s heading in the right direction.”

  The Adams Hotel was one of those grand old wooden structures that looked as though Civil War generals had stayed there. It almost seemed out of place with the modern Old Dominion Bank on one side and the tall, gleaming gold-glass office building on the other. The desk clerk was an older man with a thin, waxy mustache who looked like someone out of a 1940s black-and-white movie. “May I help you?”

  Vail flashed his credentials and leaned closer in confidence. “I’m looking for a fugitive. His name is Yanko Petriv. I’d like to know if he’s staying here. P-E-T-R-I-V.”

  The clerk studied Vail’s face briefly and then, apparently satisfied, tapped a couple of keys on his desktop computer. “I’m sorry, no.”

  Vail took a slip of paper out of his jacket pocket. “How about Lev Tesar?” Vail spelled the last name. When the bank manager told him during the call about the hotel’s being next door, Vail thought it was a possibility that Petriv might be staying there. Since Petriv had false passports, Vail reasoned that the Russians would have provided him with other corroborating identification that, since it wasn’t in the safe-deposit box, might have been kept in a more immediately accessible place.

  “No, sir, he’s not one of our guests either.”

  “Last one, how about Oszkar Kalman? With a K.”

  The clerk tapped in the name. “Yes. He was.”

  “Was?”

  “Yes, he checked out around noon today.”

  “Did he make any phone calls?”

  “Ahhhh, yes, one.” The clerk read the number, and Vail recognized it as the call to the Old Dominion Bank that morning.

  “What address did he give you?”

  The clerk looked around and then said, “I don’t know if I’m allowed to provide that information without a subpoena or some other legal order.” He then half turned the monitor toward Vail and gave him a tacit glance. “I have to go do something. I’ll return in a couple of minutes.”

  “Thanks for your help,” Vail called after him as he disappeared through a doorway behind the desk. He swung the monitor enough so he could read it and copied down the address Oszkar Kalman had used. It was in Oakton, Virginia.

  The drive took longer than Vail had predicted, and it was almost five o’clock by the time he got to Oakton. The traffic was heavy, and two separate accidents hadn’t helped. The address turned out to be an old, weathered, two-story home with a large attached garage that looked like it could have been a separate barn at one time. In an attempt to update the structure, a breezeway had been built connecting the house and garage. The nearest neighbors were a half mile in either direction. Due to some intermittent stands of pine trees, Vail was able to find a place to park seventy-five yards away that was ideal for watching the house. The thick wooden sliding doors to the garage were open a few inches, and he tried to see if he could spot any vehicles inside. He took the binoculars from under the seat and peered through them, but dusk had started to take over and the winter light was fading.

  Vail thought he saw some movement in a second-floor window, but by the time he swung the binoculars toward it, there was nothing he could see. He lowered the glasses but continued to watch the second floor. A few seconds later, in the same window, he saw definite movement. As dark as it was getting, that there were no lights on meant that someone was trying not to be detected.

  Vail put the car in gear and started toward the house. As it got closer, he let it glide to a stop fifty yards in front of the garage.

  Suddenly a three-round volley was fired from the second floor, at least two of the slugs slamming into the front of his car. He dove out of it and took cover behind the vehicle. After a minute or so, he peeked over the trunk, looking for any further movement inside the house.

  “I thought the bumper sticker said that Virginia was for lovers,” he muttered to himself.

  Two more rounds were fired at him, this time from the first floor. “Evidently it’s gun lovers.”

  He stood up and fired a burst into the first-floor window. Almost immediately he was fired at again, this time from the breezeway. He suspected that whoever was shooting at him was working his way to the garage, probably trying to get to his car. Vail shifted his angle behind the car to the garage and put his point of aim at the six-inch opening between the two heavy doors, then waited.

  Almost too predictably, a three-round fusillade came from the narrow black opening between the garage doors. Vail opened fire, letting his Glock come back down level before pulling the trigger each time, as though he sensed that his rounds were finding their mark. Maybe it was the tiny after-echo that couldn’t have been anything but lead slamming into tissue. He rolled back into a safe position on the car’s trunk, dropped an empty magazine, and shoved in a fresh one.

  Raising his head for a few seconds, he tried to draw more fire. When none came, he assumed a two-handed grip on his gun and started cautiously toward the garage. Every few feet he took a step to the right or the left so he wouldn’t be a constant target. When he got to within ten feet of the garage, another eruption of gunfire came from the opening.

  Vail went into a deep defensive crouch and fired at least ten rounds in the direction of the garage while he maneuvered quickly to his left and ran to the door on that side, flattening himself against it. Now the gunman would have to actually stick his weapon outside the opening to get a shot at him. He was about to take hold of the left edge of the door and slide it completely open, all the time ready to shoot anyone who stepped out, when the sound of an engine roared inside the garage. He leaped to the opening and pulled the door open.

  Tied to the front of a car, spread-eagled and gagged, was Yanko Petriv, the NSA translator. At least a half dozen of Vail’s rounds having found his chest and stomach.

  Out of the rear of the garage, which had identical sliding doors, a blue sedan screamed away and down a back road.

  Vail ran around to the other side of the garage, trying to get a shot at the car, but with its lights off it disappeared behind a stand of evergreens and into the winter night.

  Vail holstered his weapon and returned to the body. Placing an index finger on Petriv’s carotid artery out of habit, he withdrew it almost immediately.

  He realized now that they’d had Petriv use this address so Vail would be led here. And then started the running gun battle so he’d fire blindly into the garage. Of course it wasn’t his fault, and yet he couldn’t help but wonder if they’d staked Petriv out like that because they knew the way Vail went after things.

  14

  Vail had gotten in about four hours earlier, after a long session with the Oakton police. He’d called them to the scene and, as soon as they arrived, had explained that he was the one who’d shot Petriv. As he walked them through the shoot-out, they found cartridges at every location where Vail said he’d received fire. The bullet holes in his car matched the caliber of the casings recovered. When asked who the victim was, Vail said that Petriv had been a
person of interest in a Bureau investigation, a man he was trying to locate, and that he had finally found him at this house.

  The detective asked him more than once to clarify “person of interest,” to which he answered that it was a classified matter. Finally Vail had them call Kate at home and have her verify that it was a sensitive investigation. She asked to speak to the chief and eventually convinced him that it was a matter of national security and that as soon as it was resolved, he would receive full details. After a few more hours of interviews by different combinations of officers, detectives, and even the chief, Vail was allowed to leave.

  Vail woke up abruptly, thinking he’d heard Kate calling his name. “Steve, we’re coming up.” It was her. He jumped out of bed and pulled on a robe.

  Vail went to the top of the stairs and was surprised to see Langston and Kalix with her. “I wonder what this could be about,” Vail said to himself quietly. And then, “Great, now I’m being sarcastic to myself.”

  They all went into the workroom, and Langston immediately noticed the wall where all the photos and documents were displayed. For a moment he tried to comprehend how they had translated into the identification of three spies, but he didn’t want Vail to think he was there to admire his work.

  Vail said, “Anyone want coffee?” and started for the kitchen.

  Langston finally sat down on the sofa and called in to Vail, “I’ve briefed the director about last night, and of course he knew about the murder of Charles Pollock. Needless to say, he’s not happy. Two suspected spies, both dead. Both, it appears, were tortured and killed. Both times you’re right in the middle of it.”

  Vail came out of the kitchen. “That shows you how misguided I am. I would think it was a good thing for the Bureau to be right in the middle of things.”

  “And you had to go out there by yourself to do this. Was that to embarrass me?”

  “I went by myself so your rules wouldn’t get in the way. Embarrassing you was just a bonus.”