Enemies Within

by J. S. Chapman

  “Not Azerbaijanian? Or Moldavian?”

  She grinned. “He would take any reasonable offer.”

  With an exuberance he hadn’t felt in years, Nick kissed Zandra on the mouth. She was taken aback, odd since she had been coming onto him for days. But then, smiling cattily, she locked up and led him around to the front of the villa. Allowing her skirt to swing around before facing him, she smiled again. “Is it yes? Or is it no?” She was a persuasive woman. She already knew the answer. “Don’t look so glum. It is not like you’re signing away your life.”

  “Oh, no?”

  She made a vacillating sound. “Perhaps. But I don’t want you to think of it that way. It is only a transition from uncertainty to certainty. Yes?” She haughtily lifted her chin, daring him to disagree.

  “Yes. Or no. Whatever.”

  “Oh, you Greeks. You are all the same. Afraid to show your emotions.”

  “You’re Greek.”

  “True enough. But I’m a Cypriot Greek. Whereas you are an American Greek. Big difference.”

  “What gave me away?”

  “Your arrogance.”

  “I have to use the facilities.”

  “I think there’s one over there. Ah, yes. Here it is.” She left him to it.

  After relieving himself, he thought about his situation. He had covered his tracks well enough. Taken precautions. Made plans ahead of time. Left nothing to chance. There was no way he could be implicated in the operation. But then you never knew, did you? The people who hired him certainly knew who he was. But would they talk? Only if implicated and captured. Still, he had to be doubly careful from here on out. He already walked out on his family and mysteriously disappeared, supposedly on a business trip. He would start a new life with a new name, but to be honest with himself, his new name was his birth name, the name given to him in a small village in Greece nearly forty years ago. He spoke fluent Greek tinged with an American accent. He could blend in. He wouldn’t stand out as a person of interest to local authorities. He would merely be a wealthy investor who chose to retire in style. He only had to fabricate an elaborate biography and stamp it in his memory. He would inhabit the identity of Baltsaros Georg Nikolaidhis, and never look back. Never call Brenda. Never see his kids again. He missed Brenda already, but if were being honest with himself, he didn’t miss her constant nagging or her chilling silences. It was the boys he would miss the most, especially the feel of their arms around his neck and the sloppy kisses they left on his cheeks.

  He rejoined Zandra on the veranda.

  With a flounce of her skirt, she climbed into her car and was already on the phone with the owner by the time Nick got in. They negotiated the price with a verbal agreement. When it was done, she led him to a grassy area beneath a shade tree, where they made love to the chittering of birds. She was a bold woman with a bold appetite. More than one bargain was struck that day.

  15

  Near Rockville, Virginia

  Monday, August 11

  HOSPITALS ARE NOTORIOUSLY slow institutions. They work on their own timetables, keep to their own schedules. Nothing is a rush unless the patient is on the brink of death. The staff is officious, methodical, and thorough. Questions to ask, X-rays to take, vitals to record, and procedures to follow. Never mind the patient’s emotional distress or physical discomfort.

  Vikki could see herself now, a middle-aged woman in repose, lying on a gurney, wearing an undignified hospital gown, helpless to help herself, slightly wild-eyed, shamelessly frantic, and fighting hospital personnel all the way. She longed to stand on her own two feet and walk out of the emergency room into a world where accidents didn’t happen and people didn’t want to kill you. While waiting for the final diagnosis, she busied herself with things to do, lists to check off, and phone calls to make. It took a good two hours for her to receive treatment for her injuries. A bump on the head, a swollen lip, a bleeding nose, numerous bruises, some dizziness, and multiple wrenches, aches, and pangs. The psychological scars were much worse than the physical damage.

  The detective had left. She told him of speaking with Lindsey-Marie Moffat minutes before the crash. Of the woman’s skittishness and reticence to talk. If someone wanted to kill a reporter, the person she just interviewed could also be in danger. When she dictated the woman’s address, he doffed his hat and wordlessly departed.

  The accident left a sour aftertaste in her mouth no amount of water could wash away. What she needed was whiskey, a minimum of three shots would do. A whole bottle would do better. Trauma is an indescribable experience. It takes the victim out of the current moment and propels her into a tempest. She loses track of time, forgets simple things like names and phone numbers, and mutters to herself like one of those decrepit bag ladies trolling along the streets.

  The doctor returned. The patient’s prognosis was good. He could only come up with a sprained wrist, a possible concussion, and a swollen nose, bruised but not broken. He didn’t mention her bruised ego or shattered psyche. “Go home and take it easy for a couple of days. Do you live with someone?”

  “My daughter. My boyfriend.” She purposely hadn’t called them. She didn’t want to alarm them. Hysterics could happen later, along with copious tears and crying on shoulders and giving way to jitters that so far had been kept at bay.

  “Have them wake you every hour or so and ask you simple questions. Your name. Your address. The multiplication table. Simple things like that. To make sure you’re thinking clearly.”

  “Me? Think clearly? After this?”

  “Make sure to consult your private physician.” Sarcasm was wasted on some men. Come to think, she decided after he left, it was wasted on most men.

  She finally called home, if only for practical reasons. Her car was totaled and she needed a lift. Grace arrived first, all a-bustle with worry and nervous hiccups. A few minutes later, her talented cameraman and able bed partner strode into the aqua-washed room with the grace of a gazelle. This is what she loved most about Alex, the calm he brought to bear in situations large or small, even if the planes of his face were taut with concern. He said very little since Grace had already taken most of the oxygen in the room.

  Brushing off the accident as a small incident of no great matter, she jumped down from the gurney and settled onto bare feet, wobbling slightly but instantly regaining her equilibrium. They rushed in to help, but she brushed them away. “I can walk on my own two feet, thank you very much.”

  “You’ll walk them straight into your grave,” Alex said.

  “You know me too well.” She stroked a hand across his bronze cheek and took a kiss from his unyielding mouth. “What I adore about you. And now. If you’ll give me some privacy, I’d like to get dressed.”

  Detective Benedicto returned. He was sitting in the waiting room with Alex and Grace, hunched forward, his big shoes planted on the floor, his hands clutched between his knees, just a big hairy Buddha contemplating his navel. On her entry, he lumbered to his feet, towering over her. He was quickly becoming an old reliable friend, but there was an alarming way he held himself. Stiff. At attention.

  “What is it? What’s happened?”

  His wasn’t a very animated face. It might have been his disposition, his physical characteristics, or his profession that made him give off the aura of detachment in all weathers. This time he gave himself away with nuanced tics. “This isn’t a good place to talk.”

  In the corridor, where voices and stirrings and random noises echoed off sterile walls, the sergeant dispensed with preliminary formalities. “Ms. Moffat is dead.”

  Vikki dreaded this verdict most of all, not about herself but about a woman she had only just met. And now she was dead. Gone. A postscript at the end of a letter. The plainspoken fact took her several moments to digest. When she fully grasped the implications, she slapped a hand to her chest and inhaled successive breaths of dread while holding back sobs and repressing an overriding urge to scream the gods down.

  “Who is Linds
ey-Marie Moffat? Mom?”

  “I’ll tell you later.” She glared at Benedicto. “Tell me everything. Unembellished.”

  “Apparent suicide.”

  “Seems to be a rash of those these days.” Her statement was glib even if her voice shook with emotion. She shut her eyes to blot out the images of a woman in trouble, a woman she couldn’t help, a woman who may have been killed because she talked to a nosey reporter.

  “You spoke to her,” Benedicto said.

  “Interviewed would be the proper term.” She smiled glibly. “How did it happen? This suicide?”

  “Apparent overdose. The hypo was stuck in her arm.”

  She thought it over. “Want to bet it wasn’t self-administered?”

  “No signs of struggle. Left a note saying she couldn’t go on.” He sniffed an irksome breath. His nose had been broken at some point, more than once by the looks of it. He was a man forced to fight for who he was and what he did for a living. “The case is out of our jurisdiction, but I’ll push for details. What did you two talk about?”

  She briefed him on their encounter without giving away too much. “She was nervous. Scared. Afraid to talk to me. Afraid of being seen talking to me. She kept looking outside. As if she were being watched or followed. You do know, Sheriff, that they want Coyote gone, silenced, and don’t care who they have to eliminate to finish the job.”

  “They?”

  “Before you tell me I’m imagining things, ask yourself this. Why do you think I was targeted? Because of my pleasing personality?”

  The wisp of a grin touched his mouth. He thought it over before giving her a curt nod and turning to go.

  “You’re not getting away that easily,” she said to his receding back.

  He slowly pivoted on a heel and regarded her, his head angling quizzically, his eyes penetrating hers.

  “I saw you pick something up. Outside HID headquarters. From the curb. You slipped it into an evidence bag.”

  He blinked, pretending to be baffled. He wasn’t a very good liar. His eyes gave him away.

  “The medicine always goes down easier, Detective, if you pour it into a spoon before swallowing.”

  “It was a cell phone. Not in very good shape.”

  “As if it had fallen from a great height?”

  That grin again.

  “Whose, if I might inquire?”

  “We’ll never know. It was a throwaway phone. The last phone number called was also a throwaway.” He doffed his hat and lumbered away.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” she said to Grace and Alex. “I need a drink, a shower, and a steak, not necessarily in that order.”

  16

  Vienna, Virginia

  Monday, August 11

  THE CONTINGENT FROM the Homeland Intelligence Division arrived at MonCom headquarters shortly after lunch, having made the drive from Annapolis to Langley in head-turning speed, amazing given the unfortunate demise of one of their leaders. It said they were anxious. Cordelia smiled inwardly at what the reason for their anxiousness might be.

  After they were efficiently ushered into one of the smaller conference rooms, the initial introductions and overtures went off amiably enough, with Cordelia, Taggert, and Frances Hynes representing the Monetary Compliance Network, and Liz Langdon, Camilla Howden, and Angela Browne coming on behalf of HID, the informal powwow couched as an exchange of information benefitting both sides, even if the real purpose was not quite so mundane. Having taken advantage of the refreshment cart, the participants sat on opposite sides of the oblong conference table, name badges identifying each to those across the divide, a symbolic squaring off of cooperative agencies that made everyone equals, or so it appeared.

  Being thrust into a leadership rôle was a new experience for Cordelia. During her two-year tenure with MonCom, she was accustomed to lying low and experiencing her most intimate conversations with databases and spreadsheets. The pressure of being placed at the forefront of a meeting held under sensitive circumstances felt immense. Not only were the eyes of HID’s associates upon her, her own colleagues looked to her to set the tone. It was her find, her gig, her responsibility. She might as well make the most of it and fake it until she made it.

  “First, let me thank you all for coming. I ... we ... appreciate your making this effort on such short notice, especially considering ... well, considering. Recent events must have come as quite a shock.” Her words sounded lame and unconvincing, even shallow, like inserting a jab in an already sore wound. The Homeland Intelligence Agency had been under siege for more than a month, and now this.

  After clearing her throat, Browne said, “We appreciate your sentiments.” With sideways glances, she sought support from her associates.

  Howden and Langdon mutely agreed, heads bowed as if in prayer, whether in honor of their fallen fellow ... literally fallen, Cordelia had to remind herself ... or for their own survival, there was no way of knowing. Probably both.

  Browne went on. “John Sessions was a revered member of our team. A leader whose opinion we respected. His suicide, as the authorities are currently calling this ... episode ...,” she said with distaste, “is ... well ... it’s terrible ... just terrible.” Her voice broke. She paused to gather her wits and to calm her visible nerves. “That being said, it’s exactly because of this tragedy ... or rather, this most recent in a series of tragedies ... that we have to find the underlying causes of why our agency was targeted. On behalf of us all, let me first thank you for bringing your developments to our attention. I’m sure your briefing will prove most informative.”

  The conference room had become eerily quiet. Though hermetically sealed by a thick door, gray-tinted windows, and a sound-absorbing ceiling, the pervasive silence came from a deeper source.

  Filling the stillness, brief though it was, Howden said, “It appears your people have a pulse on a particular gentleman of our acquaintance.” With this singular statement, she had shown her hand. The Homeland Intelligence Division wanted Jack Coyote. They wanted him badly enough to come crawling to a sister agency.

  From what Cordelia knew, Howden’s duties concentrated on cyber warfare and defense programs. In addition to liaising with Capitol Hill, she oversaw intelligence gathering and data collection. She was a seasoned bureaucrat known to be brash and demanding. Supposedly she got by on five hours of sleep a night, strived on stress, and never heard an excuse she liked. The bland equanimity of her demeanor served her well. No one would believe a calculating mind lurked behind the refined smiles, but her penetrating eyes said everything. While others much more influential headed the Homeland Intelligence Division, Howden was known to be the one at the helm, steering the ship in treacherous political waters.

  “Let us be clear,” Frances said, stepping in. “MonCom’s intent is entirely different from yours. We wish to gather information leading to the arrest and conviction of a person or persons who criminally infiltrated four Wall Street brokerages and transferred fifty million dollars to several offshore bank accounts, a theft of considerable enough degree to compromise our entire banking system. The proverbial canary in the coal mine as it were. Your primary objective is to bring in Jack Coyote. By working together, I believe we can achieve both goals.”

  Without hesitance, Howden said, “You’ll have our full cooperation and have no doubts that you will reciprocate in kind.”

  “We’ll hold you to it then. With a caveat. Our regulatory compliance systems have been in place for several years, set up in such a way that should have prevented the infiltration of our banking system. But along comes a very clever, very ingenious individual or group of individuals. At first, we made light of the circumstances. After all, it was only fifty million in a multi-trillion-dollar economy, a trivial amount as it goes. But the way it was done has raised serious concerns, which is why we decided to reach out to you. You may believe the heist occurred at your front door, and on the face of it, was purely an internal problem. We don’t have that luxury.”


  Howden thoughtfully considered the implications along with the significance of Frances’s suggestion. It could not have been missed on her that MonCom was offering an olive branch to HID. Though they were not enemies, they were competitors protecting their turfs. She turned toward Taggert. “We’ve heard great things about your investigations and prosecutions, Jon.”

  With her silver-haired perfection, formidable appearance, and unreadable expression, Howden wasn’t a person to trifle with. Then again, neither was Jonathan Taggert. He wasn’t so easily flattered. Or distracted. Cordelia had never seen her boss appear so calm, so reserved, so calculating, though from her perspective, the subtle grinding of his jaw and the way he showed his teeth revealed his true feelings.

  The tension in the room was palpable. It could have been the setting. The subject matter. The intimidation factor. Or the crowd of powerhouses, each man and woman accustomed to exerting influence and getting their own way.

  Browne entered the fray, breaking the tension. “We thought Coyote’s original crime—that of killing his ... our colleague—was simply an act of passion gone horribly wrong. Since then, everything points in a different direction. I fought the implications. I can’t fight them any longer. We believe Coyote is a traitor, a spy, and a one-man execution squad. He has much to atone for. We trusted him. He used that trust against us.” Eyes averted, seated at a careless angle, her arm resting easily on the conference table, she had conveyed the bombshell like lines from a script. She brought no laptop with her and made no notes on the legal pad at her elbow. Her hair was gathered into a gaudy hair clip, a choice that deliberately drew attention away from her face and the emotions written on it. In truth, everything about her was deliberate. She was acting out a part.

  Air rushed out of the room. No one spoke. What was there to say? Hers was quite a statement, a statement neither of her associates disavowed.