Apex

by Ryan W. Aslesen

  “I don’t give a damn, let ’em come for me.”

  Marklin chuckled around the cigar. “Big words... and stupid. I think you realize that. I know you have axes to grind on your righteous quest for truth and justice, but don’t start thinking you’re untouchable.”

  “I never have.”

  “Your actions lately say otherwise. And why go to all that trouble to find what you seek when a piece of the puzzle just landed in your lap?”

  “Enough with the riddles. Be a good general and give it to me straight.”

  “In return for finding and returning the senator’s son, I can offer the identity of one of the men involved in your family’s murder.”

  Max shook his head, unimpressed. “Heard it all before. Hell, the only reason I participated in that North Korean goat-fuck last year was to receive information at the end. That panned out really well.”

  “What if I told you I’m ninety-five percent certain he was on your team at some point?”

  “Then who the hell is he? Tell me now, and I’ll meet with the senator and accept the mission.”

  Marklin laughed. “Come on, you know it doesn’t work like that. If I gave up his name, you’d run out of this park and go balls-out after the guy. Plenty of time for that later. After the mission.”

  Max stood. This meeting had ended. “Then I’m not interested. I’m done working for promises, General.”

  Marklin nodded. “Then allow me to throw you a bone. Sit back down, and I’ll tell you what little I know of the man who orchestrated the operation.”

  It was like receiving a shot of epinephrine to the heart. “Burt Jarvis?”

  “Among the many names he’s called himself.”

  “What do you have on him?” Max sat down and gave Marklin his undivided attention.

  “You agree to at least meet with the senator?”

  Max nodded.

  “Well, as I said, I don’t know much about him because there isn’t much to know. Apparently he started off with the NYPD as a forensics expert, then matriculated to the CIA about fifteen years back. He left the company around 2009 and went freelance. He’s an accident man, one of the best.”

  Max was familiar with the title—someone who made hits that look like accidents. Drunk driving accident in my case, with the drunk nowhere to be found. “His current whereabouts?”

  “Unknown. He’s a ghost; practically no information exists on him. He’s harder to find than the A-Team.”

  “What about his CIA and NYPD records? They have to have dossiers on him.”

  Marklin shook his head. “Afraid not. It’s been looked into—his records have been completely wiped from every government database, even the IRS. I’m betting your old pal Banner had something to do with that.”

  “Probably. There’s not even a photo of the son of a bitch?”

  “No, but I’ve talked to a couple of people who claim to have met him. They gave me two somewhat different descriptions, but they had one thing in common—he’s about the most nondescript-looking man in the world. Average height and build, medium skin tone, ethnic background unknown, not ugly and not handsome, he’s just kind of there, the sort of guy you see on the street and instantly forget because he’s so unremarkable. One of the witnesses met him in 2003 or so, the other just before he left the agency. The fact that his facial features differed could be disguise or even plastic surgery. Even if there were any photos of him, he probably doesn’t look the same these days.”

  “Great. Is that all you have?”

  “Not quite. This guy is something of a mean motorscooter, to use the old corps vernacular. He’s a schemer, a mastermind who leaves no clues or doubts behind, but he can likewise walk up and waste your grandma without losing a wink of sleep. A classic looney-tunes psycho, wound about as tight as they come. At least that’s the impression I get.”

  Max nodded as he pondered the information. Interesting enough, if too scant to help him. But at least it lent something of an identity to the mysterious Burt Jarvis. That he’d gone freelance came as no surprise—good accident men were rare and thus in high demand amongst the elites, the only people with reason to employ them and cash enough to pay their fees. That kind of money could make someone show up dead on a park bench in the middle of Washington, DC.

  “I hope you weren’t expecting something more useful,” Marklin said, “like his social security number or home address.”

  “No, it’s about what I figured.” And damn you for holding out on the accomplice’s name! Once again Max found himself coerced into playing ball. But at least Marklin would probably be alive after the mission. Now I just have to survive the mission myself.

  “I’ll keep my ear to the ground, Max. In the meantime, you have a meeting with the senator.” Marklin pulled out a cell phone and punched a speed dial prompt. “Good morning... Yes, ma’am, it’s a go... I’ll relay the information.” He terminated the call. “You’re on. She’ll meet you for lunch in a private booth at The Big City Front, twelve-thirty. You know the place?”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Well, you have Google on your phone like everyone else, I’m sure you can find it. She won’t be using her real name, of course, so ask for Ms. White.”

  “Understood. But tell me this: why is the senator being so secretive about her son going missing? Sounds more like a job for the state police or the FBI.”

  “Because apparently the kid got involved with some people who are connected and extremely dangerous. In her situation, the usual channels just aren’t an option.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Pull this off and I’ll have more information. But I’m warning you, Max, on this quest for vengeance, you’re likely to discover things you’d rather not know.”

  “Won’t be the first time, General.” And I don’t give a damn. I’ll have justice and that fucking accident man when this is all over.

  “Very well, then.” Marklin stood. “I’m off to slice a few balls. You should take up golf, maybe join me some time. It’ll help you relax.”

  “I’ll have to pass on that. I already sliced a couple balls this morning, and I have a lunch date.”

  “Better take a shower first. And lay off the Grecian Formula for fuck’s sake.”

  2

  Freshly showered and shaved, Max alighted from an Uber before The Big City Front. He commended himself on catching a ride instead of driving. There wasn’t an empty parking space within a three-block walk of the place at lunch hour on a weekday.

  According to Google, Big City Front specialized in Italian cuisine. Its four-star rating came with four dollar-signs, indicating a pricey menu, not that the latter concerned him. This is one date I’m sure as hell not paying for. Max walked through an open gate in the wrought-iron fence that separated the restaurant’s Euro-style outdoor cafe—empty beneath a storm-threatening sky—from the sidewalk.

  Though not a fan of haute cuisine, Max had dined in many upscale restaurants, usually while meeting clients such as Senator Pierce. It came with the territory; only power brokers could afford his services, and they weren’t the type to meet for a beer at the local bar and grill.

  The interior of Big City Front looked typical enough: muted lighting, white linen tablecloths, potted palms, young waiters in spotless white jackets and black trousers. At the tables and booths, power-suited women dined with men in dark suits and unicolor ties, their fastidiously varnished haircuts and perfect plastic smiles capturing and reflecting the dim light.

  One whiff of the patrons and Max knew he was in DC. Beneath the aromas of expensive cologne and delicious food, the place reeked like a political barnyard populated by grasping pigs and furtive chickens scratching for whatever leftovers they could devour. Perfect fit for this town. He felt soiled despite the absolute cleanliness of the place.

  The hostess, a smiling brunette college girl in a
black dress both clingy and somehow tasteful, greeted him.

  “I’m here to see Ms. White,” Max told her.

  “Yes, sir, right this way.”

  Max admired her swaying rear end as she led him through the front dining room and into a smaller, darker, more intimate room at the rear of the restaurant. Fewer diners sat here, and judging by their advanced age and intense gestures as they talked business, these were the true players, not the wannabes out front.

  Though he had been through this rigmarole dozens of times, a familiar sense of apprehension settled in his gut. He had dressed properly enough for the occasion in a charcoal jacket, dark-green slacks, and white oxford shirt. He’d even worn a tie, an accessory he habitually avoided. None of that mattered, he still didn’t belong here.

  You don’t have to fit in. Just get a job and make some money. Or don’t.

  He would be fine with the latter. His bank account was still in fair shape, and he desired to get back into the hunt for Jarvis and his men. Marklin’s offer of information, while tempting, didn’t much reassure him.

  Probably as useless as everything else I’ve been promised.

  The hostess led him to a booth at the rear of the room, far removed from the other patrons. Max thanked her and then turned his attention to Senator Pierce, a woman in late middle age who wore a long and concealing black dress more suited for a funeral than a lunch meeting. A black pillbox hat and veil hung on a hook adjacent to the booth. Unlike the other patrons, who probably wanted to be spotted dining at The Big City Front, she went to great lengths to remain anonymous.

  “Mr. Ahlgren, such a pleasure to meet you.” Her smile looked genuine enough, and when she offered her hand he shook it gently.

  “The pleasure is mine, Ms. White.” He seated himself across the table.

  “Please, call me Linda.” She glanced furtively at the dining room, then reached up and slid a curtain over her half of the booth. Max did the same on his side. Definitely down incognito. He wondered how many of the backroom patrons she knew personally.

  “Certainly. And call me Max.”

  “The waiter should be by any time. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

  Max nodded. “Same here.” Despite his usual habit of eating small meals throughout the day, he hadn’t eaten since dinner the previous evening. He’d never been much for Italian food, most of which seemed to wind up on his shirt rather than in his mouth. With a tie he would have to be especially careful no matter what he ate. As his late father used to say, “A tie is just an extension of your tongue.” So he decided on a king’s cut prime rib.

  They made small talk as they waited for the wine, the senator probing for his basic background information. Max made her work for it, since the questions were pointless. Marklin had certainly briefed her on his specifics.

  Once the wine had been served—a bland and slightly acidic burgundy that tasted like pond water—Max got to business. “So, what’s going on with your son?”

  Her face drooped slightly. She stared into the ruby depths of her wine for a moment, then said, “He’s missing, as I’m sure our friend told you. Josh is a graduate student at Johns Hopkins, but he’s already received acclaim as a brilliant geneticist, one of the upcoming minds in the field. He’s published five academic papers and received solid peer reviews.

  “He left town after the spring semester to take a summer position with a nascent research institute in South America. We checked the institute’s reputation before he left, and it seemed very legitimate all around. He raved about the place—the cutting-edge equipment and advanced research. The positive emails went on for about two months. I was happy for him; it seemed that he had found his true calling in life. But I remained wary as well. For some reason he couldn’t reveal the lab’s location, not even the country.”

  “I can see why that would be a red flag.”

  She nodded, sipped her wine. “Yes. But as long as he was happy, I was happy. Then he stopped corresponding. No warning. No response to my emails.”

  “I take it he’s not the type who tends to randomly disappear for a while?”

  “No, he’s always been very communicative, especially since his father died a few years back. If he was going to be offline for a while, he would have told me in advance. Then I received the letter.”

  “A ransom note?”

  “Not the usual sort. They want a favor, not money. During the next senate session there will be a vote on a bill that I coauthored with another senator demanding strict regulation and restrictions in the field of genetic research. I’ve been asked to withdraw my support for the bill and help scrap it in return for my son.”

  “Did you agree to do so?”

  “No. I have yet to answer at all. I have no problem with genetic research, but a line must be drawn and regulations put into place, or we begin to slide down the slope towards human cloning and other aberrant practices. Human beings should study God’s work but not interfere in it. This has always been my position, and I stand by it.”

  True conviction. Don’t see much of that in this town. “And does your son share your views?”

  She winced, barely noticeable. “We’ve had our share of disagreements.”

  “So it’s possible he’s helping this institute conduct research into matters you deem inappropriate.”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “Maybe he made a breakthrough discovery, but the law you proposed won’t allow it, so his bosses are using the only leverage they have to bring you into line. Whatever the case, it sounds like Josh has gotten in way over his head.”

  “I don’t know what to do.” She paused, shook her head in frustration. “Tom says you are the best man to handle this. He’s always given me good advice. I hope you can help me.”

  By Tom she meant Marklin, of course. Maybe I should start calling him Tom, see how that goes over. “I might be able to, but I’m still foggy on a couple of details. Why did you contact Marklin about this and not the FBI?”

  She gulped audibly and glanced at the curtain, probably hoping the waiter would pull it back and serve their food to delay further questions. That didn’t happen, so she dropped it on him: “The research institute is a front company that may be working with Gideon Wilde.”

  The curtain slid back and their lunch was served.

  Perfect timing, as the diversion gave Max some time to ruminate on Dr. Gideon Wilde. A German national, Wilde had served for decades as a political lightning rod in genetic research and was known to have various ties to several billion-dollar pharmaceutical companies. He supposedly held a doctorate in genetics from Heidelberg University, yet that institution claimed to have expelled him as a graduate student. That never stopped him from conducting what he claimed to be research, even after his experiments—rumored to be conducted on living human beings—were banned under UN conventions. When that happened, the CIA predictably inserted its proboscis into the mess, though not for the humanitarian reasons one would like to believe.

  Appropriately enough, Wilde’s research lab at the time had been located in a remote, heavily forested portion of Romania, in the region known as Transylvania. Max led a team of CIA operatives on a raid to shut down the lab and capture Wilde so he could be questioned and eventually turned over to the UN to be tried for international crimes. Max’s team encountered no resistance when they infiltrated the compound. Gideon Wilde had already escaped, taking all of his equipment and staff with him.

  Max had heard of other missions undertaken to stop Wilde in the intervening years, all of which had come to naught. Wilde’s minor in college must have been magic, for he’d proven himself quite skillful at vanishing into thin air, though Max suspected he had connections with high-level people in the CIA. Considering their history, Max understood Marklin’s recommendation.

  After the trial of eating most of his steak—he only spilled a smal
l drop of creamed horseradish on his tie—Max said, “I still think the FBI is your best bet. I’ve been known to solve problems, when I know where the problems are, but I’m not a detective or a missing persons expert, which is really what you need.”

  “That’s simply not an option.”

  “Why? I’m sure they would keep your case confidential.”

  “I doubt it.” Her expression soured. “Political divisiveness has plagued this country since it was founded, but these days it’s been honed to a fine art. Nothing is secret in this town, and everything is exploited for all the dirt it can yield. If I go to the FBI, it’ll be on the front page of the Post within a couple of days. I can almost guarantee it. Then I’ll have to explain how the senator pushing for genetics regulation has a son who works with Gideon Wilde. They won’t be interested in the fact that he accepted employment before he learned of Wilde’s involvement. Need I say more?”

  Max nodded. “Not at all. I can see why that would be problematic in your position.”

  “Can you help me then? I need someone on this immediately. I’m starting to get very worried.”

  Max didn’t want the job, and for exactly the reason he’d stated—finding people was not his business. He would also have to suspend his search for Jarvis and his accomplices. But where’s that going right now? You’ve run into nothing but brick walls. And Marklin is right; it’s only a matter of time before I whack the wrong suit and wind up in the ground. I have to play the long game. It might even be prudent to disappear for a while until the heat blows over. And Marklin’s information would be legit, even if the general was only ninety-five percent sure.

  And then there’s Wilde. I want another crack at that son of a bitch. That was the clincher.

  “I can’t promise you success, but I’ll do my best to bring him back.” Alive, hopefully.