Devil's Advocate (Trackdown Book 4)

by Michael A. Black

  “So, is this an official call, or what?” McNamara said as Kasey set a glass of orange juice and a steaming cup of coffee onto the table in front of Franker.

  “Actually,” Franker said, “I came by on the way into the office. I had a question or two for Mr. Wolf.”

  We’re back to formalities, Wolf thought.

  He was enjoying watching the FBI man’s obvious discomfort. Things weren’t proceeding how he’d planned.

  “I thought we already explained that to you,” McNamara said. “Our lawyer advised us not to make any further statements unless he was present. You wouldn’t want us to not do what he told us, would you? After all, we’re paying him a lot of money.”

  Franker appeared flustered. He sat there staring at the steaming eggs on his plate.

  “Now go on,” McNamara said. “Eat your eggs before you hurt my daughter’s feelings.”

  “Dad,” Kasey said, walking around the table. “Leave the poor man alone.” She bent over and kissed her father on the cheek, straightened up, and draped the apron over an empty chair. “I’ll have to clean the kitchen later. I don’t want to be late taking Chad to school.”

  “Okay, sweetie,” McNamara said. “And me and Steve’ll be on KP duty. We’ll do the kitchen.”

  “Okay,” Kasey said, smiling at Wolf, who nodded.

  It’ll give me another excuse not to work on that English Lit paper, he thought.

  “I’ll see you later then,” Kasey said, turning to go out of the room. “Nice seeing you again, Mr. Franker.”

  Franker, who had a mouthful, shifted the partially chewed food to the side and said, “Bill. Please. Call me Bill.” He made a few more attempts to masticate and then added, “Fabulous breakfast, Ms. McNamara.”

  “It’s Ms. Riley,” Kasey said, her smile evaporating. “At least until I can get it legally changed back to McNamara.”

  On that note she walked out of the room without a backward glance. Franker watched her go and Wolf had to admit that her figure looked pretty good in that tight-fitting dress. He wondered for a moment if her fetching looks was what had caught the FBI man’s attention, or if he might be considering something else.

  Maybe he’s thinking about trying to find out more information about Mexico by questioning her, Wolf thought. If he is, big mistake. Mac’ll never stand for that.

  McNamara slapped Franker on the back with a bit more enthusiasm than a casual pat.

  “That was her ex-husband’s name,” Mac said. “But he ain’t in the picture no more.”

  Franker nodded and Wolf figured the FBI man already knew that. Charles Riley had been part of the Freedom Brigade militia, which had been responsible for numerous bank robberies. He’d taken Chad, his natural son, and fled south to an abandoned army fort where he’d met his untimely end. The whole sordid chapter was probably common knowledge to the Bureau. They’d been involved trying to track the robbers down.

  The door slammed at the front of the house as Kasey and Chad exited.

  Wolf took his last bite of toast and shoved himself away from the table. Standing, he finished off his juice and brought the dishes over to the sink.

  “I’ll get started on the KP,” he said.

  Franker took a few more bites and stood as well.

  “I really should be going,” he said.

  “You mean you ain’t gonna stay and help us with the dishes?” McNamara waited a few beats to watch the FBI man’s surprised expression and then laughed. “Just kidding. Steve, why don’t you show Bill here out.”

  “Be glad to,” Wolf said.

  He and Franker walked to the front door and went through the same living room area where the South Africans had held everyone at gunpoint. Franker and his partner had come at a crucial time and provided the necessary break that Wolf needed to gain the upper hand. The result had been a deadly shootout but it had turned out all right, except for Franker and his partner almost getting shot, and Franker inadvertently having an accidental discharge of his firearm. He paused at the doorway, turned, and stared at the room with a far-away look in his eyes.

  “That was quite a night,” he said. “Wasn’t it?”

  “That’s putting it mildly,” Wolf said. “How’d you make out with that shooting team investigation?”

  Franker shrugged.

  “A letter of reprimand was placed in my file.” He pursed his lips into what passed for a lips-only smile. “But at least I lived to talk about it. Thanks to you, that is.”

  Wolf passed off the accolade with a shrug.

  “I owe you, too,” he said. “If you and your partner hadn’t come along when you did …”

  The two men stood in silence, each apparently feeling a commonality of appreciation.

  “You two gonna be taking a long walk together, or what?” McNamara yelled from the kitchen. “Cause I’m gonna need some help policing up this damn kitchen.”

  Wolf grinned. “On the way.”

  Franker turned and held his clenched fist out toward Wolf. The gesture took him off guard until he realized the fed was offering it instead of a handshake. A parting salutation in the age of the new normal. Wolf bumped his fist against Franker’s.

  The FBI man turned to go, then stopped.

  “Ms. McNama—” He gave his head a minute shake. “I mean Ms. Riley … She was engaged to that dead lawyer, right?”

  “She was,” Wolf said. “When he was still a live lawyer, that is.” He felt bad about joking about Shemp’s demise, but the temptation was just too great.

  Franker blushed and Wolf wondered again just why the fed was asking.

  “Is she pretty much over that?” Franker asked.

  Curiouser and curiouser, Wolf thought, remembering that line from one of his lit classes.

  “So far she is,” he said. “She’s a pretty tough kid, just like her dad.

  Franker compressed his lips and nodded a thanks.

  “Mac’s very protective of her,” Wolf added, wanting to curtail any ideas Franker might have of trying to interview Kasey. “And of his grandson.”

  “I’ll bet he is,” Franker said. “But I can’t blame him. She’s a doll.”

  A doll?

  The words hit Wolf like a quick, powerful jab … Like one of those telephone pole jabs that Big George Foreman used to spear his opponents with and knock them down.

  Did Franker have the hots for Kasey?

  She did look very attractive in that blue suit …

  Or was he, as Wolf had wondered before, merely trying for another angle to get more info for his Mexico investigation?

  “Tell her I said thanks for the breakfast,” Franker said. “It was really great.”

  As he walked over to the navy-blue sedan, Wolf wondered what the fed’s game was.

  Friend or foe now?

  Wolf couldn’t decide, especially in view of the way Franker had been looking at Kasey.

  Whatever he’s got planned, Wolf thought as he walked back toward the kitchen, the guy better beware of Mac.

  SOMEWHERE OVER THE CARIBBEAN

  EN ROUTE BACK TO THE UNITED STATES

  The number on the caller ID hadn’t looked familiar, but the voice in the message bank was. Dirk recognized it immediately. It was his erstwhile buddy, Richard Soraces.

  “Give me a call back ASAP if you’re interested in a lucrative venture,” the message said. “And it’s right here in the US for a change.”

  Dirk had heard through the grapevine that Soraces was more or less a free agent now, still pulling an occasional assignment from the Agency but doing very well in the private sector. This one had to be for the latter since Soraces had specifically mentioned it being on U.S. soil. This navy transport plane that had picked him up from the aircraft carrier was way too noisy for him to return the call now, and that wouldn’t serve his purpose anyway. Soraces wouldn’t have called unless he had something already lined up, and the undercurrent of tension that Dirk had picked up in the voice tone of the recorded message, as slight as it was
, spelled one thing: urgency.

  Dirk had heard through the informal grapevine about a month ago that Soraces had put the word out that he was assembling a wet work team. The specifics were vague, only that Soraces need someone right away. In fact, Dirk seemed to recall receiving a message requesting that he call the man. With two assignments already lined up, one in the Middle East and this little one in Caracas, Dirk had ignored Soraces’s previous query. Now, that same grapevine was reporting that a former agency associate, Werner Gunther, had been killed about three and a half weeks ago in some remote hole-in-the-wall place in Arizona.

  Interesting coincidence, Dirk thought.

  And he didn’t believe in coincidences.

  He and Gunther had worked together several times, and Dirk regarded the man as a respected colleague, but they weren’t what you could call friends. It was best not to have any friends in this business. Friendship begat complications, like sentimentality, and Dirk prided himself on never being sentimental.

  Gunther was a seasoned pro, so Dirk was curious about the circumstances of the man’s demise, and if his death were connected to the little Stateside venture that Soraces had been pushing.

  That undercurrent of urgency in the phone message flittered through Dirk’s memory once again, despite the monotonous thrumming of the transport’s twin engines.

  The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation, he thought, smiling as he recalled one of his favorite quotes from Thoreau.

  Quiet desperation … The smile broadened. This could work in his favor and up the price.

  GARFIELD AND OLLIE’S CRAFT’S SHOP

  SCOTTSDALE, ARIZONA

  Wolf and McNamara stood off to the side and watched as Garfield Bellows carefully set the statue of the bandito on the large work desk in the back portion of the shop. The smiling plaster face seemed to stare back at Wolf in some kind of ethereal mockery. Anthropomorphism, his English professor would say—ascribing human characteristics to inanimate things. And that reminded him again about the final lit paper that he had to turn in. Garfield had been a college professor before.

  Perhaps he can give me some suggestions, Wolf thought as he stared at the bandito. But first, let’s see what kind of secrets you’ve been keeping.

  “I tried to be as careful as I could, Steve,” Garfield said. “But as you can see, the excavation did cause some stress cracks to form here. I reinforced them with Superglue.”

  Wolf saw the faint lines over the bandito’s face.

  Cicatrizes pequeñitas, he thought. Tiny scars.

  Garfield slowly rotated the bandito around so that Wolf and Mac could see the gaping hole in the statue’s backside. “Pursuant to your request, I used a tiny chisel and hammer to chip away this back portion here. Very carefully, I might add.” He ran his index finger over the black vest. “I had to remove all of this area here, but luckily, I was able to keep the figurine pretty much intact. Stone, which is the type of plaster it’s made of, is generally pretty strong and allows for cutting and removal, as long as it isn’t too substantial, and you do it carefully.”

  “Sort of like excavating one of them old Egyptian tombs, or something, eh?” McNamara asked.

  “Exactly,” Garfield said. “But on a much smaller scale, of course.”

  “And a lot less valuable,” McNamara said.

  Garfield canted his head to the side. “I’m not so sure about that.”

  This piqued Wolf’s interest even more. What did that mean?

  “But,” Garfield said, tapping his fingernail against the bandito’s back. “I was lucky enough to have that x-ray I had taken before to guide me. I kept chipping away until it was large enough to remove what was inside without damaging it too much. What do you want me to do? I could whip up another batch of stone and pour it in making it almost as good as new if you want.”

  “It’d be a damn shame to just toss it,” McNamara said.

  Wolf said nothing.

  “Well,” Garfield said. “Like I told you, I could fill it back in. Only take about fifteen minutes to set.” He tapped the statue with his knuckle. “It’d be almost as solid as it was before.”

  “That’s good to know,” Wolf said. “But what was inside?”

  Garfield grinned and held up his index finger.

  “That’s where I got another ‘Eureka moment.’ Remember that story I told you before about Archimedes running through the streets naked?”

  That had been when Garfield had been making a duplicate of the bandito. He’d noticed a weight difference between the original statue and the newly fashioned one which led him to investigate further. He’d discovered that the original bandito from Mexico contained some strange object buried inside the center portion. An x-ray had disclosed the basic size and shape, which appeared to be something about the size of half of a sliced cantaloupe.

  “Like it was yesterday,” Wolf said. “But …”

  Garfield sighed. “Please forgive an old, retired professor’s addiction to vanity and a flair for the overly dramatic. I miss not being in front of the classroom.”

  Wolf could envision him in that role, prancing about and delaying the inevitable with a smile and a tease.

  “I want you to know that after I saw what it was,” Garfield said, “I had my suspicions but wanted to make sure before I contacted you.”

  “We appreciate that,” McNamara said. “But will you get on with it? You’re worse than a gal standing in front of the mirror before her first prom date.”

  Garfield nodded and went to the large safe in the corner of the room. Stooping in front of it, he began to spin the dial as he spoke.

  “If you remember back to our misadventure in Iraq,” he said. “In April of two thousand and three we invaded Iraq with the intention of toppling Saddam Hussein.”

  “Yeah,” McNamara said. “It was one of the last misadventures I was a part of.”

  Garfield stopped and looked up. “No offense intended. I’ve always thought very highly of our military.”

  “None taken,” McNamara said. “And don’t let me stop you.”

  Going back to the dial, Garfield twisted it slightly.

  “Well,” he said. “When Saddam took power in nineteen seventy-nine, he assumed an air of protective reverence over the many antiquities from the region. He doubled his archeology budget and set up numerous museums in the major cities. Archeological sites were also declared as protected areas.”

  “Well, some dictators will do that,” McNamara said. “Hitler was great for grabbing onto works of art, especially those that belonged to someone else.”

  Garfield laughed, gripped the metal handle of the safe, and twisted it but it didn’t budge. He shook his head, adjusted his glasses, and got down on one knee before starting to rotate the dial again.

  “This thing has such a sensitive setting,” he said.

  “You going to continue with the history lesson, professor?” Wolf said. He was feeling anxious about all this being so close to finding something that might provide an answer to this seemingly eternal conundrum.

  “Yes,” Garfield said. “Forgive me. When the war started, he assumed the National Museum of Iraq in Baghdad wouldn’t be bombed, so he moved a lot of the country’s antiquities there. What he didn’t figure on was how quickly his army would fold in defeat.”

  “Hell,” McNamara said. “It was as much of a cake walk as the first one back in ninety-one. Keeping the peace became the dangerous part.” He glanced at Wolf. “A damn shame this country just don’t know how to win a war anymore, ain’t it?”

  Wolf nodded, recalling his days of kicking down doors in house-to-house searches for insurgents, snipers, and IED’s. And then, of course, his last little foray that had ended up with two dead Iraqi civilians and a court-martial. If only he could recall those eight or so minutes that had been erased from his memory … Maybe then he’d be able to make total sense of this ongoing puzzle.

  “Once the army fled Baghdad,” Garfield continued, “the museum was l
ooted. Priceless antiquities dating back thousands of years were taken.” He stopped and pulled up on the metal handle and, this time, it went up with an accompanying thump. Grinning, Garfield got to his feet and swung the heavy, metal door open. Reaching inside, he removed an item bundled in newspaper and walked carefully over to his work table. After setting the bundle onto the center, he slowly began unwrapping it.

  “This was what was in the center of your bandito, Steve,” he said. “The newspaper’s mine. I rewrapped it.”

  Wolf stared with interest down at the uncovered item on the desk. A dome of ornately fashioned stone about the size of a cleaved sixteen-inch softball lay on the crinkled newspaper. A baroque pattern decorated the exterior shell. Garfield picked it up with both hands, holding it with meticulous care and rotated it. The underside was flat and hollow, the inside showing a shiny gloss of startlingly white inlay—Mother of pearl, perhaps. Two figures of black onyx were pictured on the surface. They looked to be a man and a lion engaged in mortal combat.

  “This was inside?” Wolf asked.

  “I take it that it’s one of them stolen antiquities you were gabbing about?” McNamara said.

  “It is,” Garfield said. “Or, more precisely, half of one. The Lion Attacking the Nubian. It dates back to twenty-seventy B.C. and the king of Babylon.”

  Wolf kept staring down at the beautifully rendered figures, the milky texture of the mother of pearl.

  This was over two thousand years old? This was what Accondras had said would make them all rich? This was what so many men had died for?

  Then something else hit him like a whistling body blow to the liver.

  “Half of one?” he said.

  “Yes,” Garfield said. “The other half is almost an exact duplicate, except that it features a female lion, that is, one without the mane, attacking a separate Nubian. It’s considered almost of equal value as this piece, the Holy Grail to collectors of art from this period, which is a rather moot point since together or separate, they’re considered quite priceless.”

  Priceless, thought Wolf. And paid for with the blood of so many victims, so many lives ruined.