Death and Treason

by Seeley James

  Several women walking by scowled at me. I ignored them.

  Sylvia threw her shopping-bag-laden hands out and twirled.

  Every male trekking the sidewalk rubbernecked and bumped into each other. One nearly ran into me, looked me up and down, made the connection, and muttered, “Lucky bastard.”

  Mercury stepped out from behind her with his arms folded across his chest. You haven’t heard a Jupiter-damn thing I’ve said, have you, horn-dog?

  Without taking my eyes off Sylvia, I said, Whaaa?

  Mercury said, They’re going to empty the trash in ten minutes, homie. You gotta to move.

  I said, So?

  Sylvia smiled. Her pale blue eyes zapped me like tractor beams. I continued moving straight toward her under her spell.

  “Do we have dinner reservations?” she asked. “Cause if you haven’t made plans, I made reservations at Zenkichi. They say it’s so private you can make love at your table. Do you like Japanese?”

  Mercury stepped around my personal beauty queen and leaned into my face. Dude! Yuri dropped his burner in the trash at the library. You can dig it out and get the confirmation Pia-Caesar-Sabel and Bianca are about to waste the weekend looking for. If Roche wins because you were too love-struck to grab a Russian phone when you had the chance, you’re toast.

  Two statements snaked through my thick skull at the same instant. Yuri’s phone and make love at your table.

  I froze in midstride, still two steps short of Sylvia. She looked surprised at my sudden lack of enthusiasm.

  There is no decision more difficult in a man’s life than the choice between imminent sex and doing something for his career. In a nanosecond, I weighed the importance of my future with Sylvia against my future with Sabel Security. Ms. Sabel wanted Strangelove. I wanted Sylvia. Sylvia wanted me. But there was a chance Sylvia would still want me on Monday while Strangelove could be armored up with tanks in a matter of hours.

  I said, “Ken Cheesy sounds fine.”

  “Zenkichi.” She frowned.

  I tossed a thumb over my shoulder, pointing about a mile down Madison Avenue in the general direction of the NYPL. “I forgot something at the library. I gotta get it real quick. Be right back.”

  “The library?” Her tone of voice bordered on incredulous. One more wrong word and she would go ballistic.

  “Yeah. Take me a couple minutes. Wait right here.” I looked at the Tom Ford store. The only thing I know about fashion is that Tom Ford is fashionista speak for you-can’t-afford-it-farm-boy. Then I remembered I left her with my company AMEX Centurion card. It’s black, made of titanium, and has no spending limit. At all. I looked at her.

  She was pretty. I could trust her. Probably.

  Cabs in New York are as elusive as trout back home. Sometimes you raise your hand and a cab stops. Sometimes two hundred of them roll by without tapping the brakes. Uber and Lyft would take longer to arrange than the five minutes for a sprint. I took off running.

  A few steps away, I gave Sylvia a glance over my shoulder. She stood curbside, an elegant finger in the air for a cab. Sometimes you have to leave things to fate. Or kismet. Or whatever the Romans called it.

  I crossed to 5th Avenue on 41st Street and rounded the lion statue at full gallop and saw the trash can at the top of the stairs. According to my memory, it was the only one Yuri neared during our meeting.

  I stuck my arm in the restricting hole. Odd gooey sensations slithered over my hand, wrist, and arm. Junk food containers spilled open as I thrashed around in the muck. Then I felt something rectangular and solid, not Styrofoam. I pulled it out.

  An unscratched smartphone sheathed in a Hello Kitty case stared back at me. I was confused. The design elements didn’t strike me as Russian military-esque.

  A twelve-year-old girl in braces snatched it out of my hand and yelled over her shoulder, “Ethan, I’m gonna kill you!” She turned back to me. “Thanks.”

  She ran into the crowd.

  I stuck my hand back in the swamp.

  “Dumpster diving is not my idea of a good first date.” Sylvia’s strained voice assaulted my ears.

  I reached and clawed deeper, nearly crawling into the can. Few things in life are as disgusting as squeezing half-eaten junk food covered in ketchup. I persevered while trying to think up a witty reply. Before I came up with one, I came up with the phone. I extracted my prize from the narrow opening and observed it. It was black, cheap, and disposable. Definitely the right one because there was no way two jerk-brothers would trash a little sister’s phone on the same day.

  I faced my angel. “Found it.”

  Mustard dripped off the left corner. Her lip curled.

  “Hang on a sec.” I held a finger between us and called Bianca from my phone. She instructed me to have a courier deliver it to her right away without touching the fingerprint reader or any buttons. Yuri was a techie and would’ve set it to self-destruct at any unauthorized attempt. She would handle it at Sabel Tech. We disconnected.

  “That’s more important than dinner?” Sylvia sneered at the phone.

  “The future of Russian-American relations depends on this phone.” I took a breath after seeing her extremely negative facial expression. “As soon as I ship this out, I’ll be ready for dinner.”

  She stared at the filth running down my right arm.

  Mercury paraded behind her looking smug. Now you with me, bro? Do you see why she ends up killing you every time? Cause you suck. Dump her right now, get it over with. Nothing lost. You don’t even know her last name.

  I hid my grimy arm behind my back. When I asked, a passing mom pushing a stroller gave up a couple diaper wipes for my sponge bath. She didn’t think anything of it because New York.

  I took the shopping bags from Sylvia as we made our way down the steps to the street. I pulled the only purchase I made for myself on our little shopping spree, a t-shirt that read, 75th Rangers, Dangerous When Provoked. Sylvia was not amused. She grabbed the t-shirt and replaced it with a shirt that set Ms. Sabel back $600.

  I didn’t see any difference. Except it had a collar. And long sleeves. And a pattern like the designer tried to do a plaid while tripping on acid.

  I changed on the spot, trying to impress her with my abs. The daily sit-ups paid off. She grinned and bit her lip and blushed and looked away.

  We walked up 5th Ave toward Central Park. I glanced over at her. “What’s your last name?”

  She shrugged.

  “How is it you speak French, Spanish, and English without any accents?”

  She looked at me sideways as we walked. “I was born in France, moved to LA when I was ten, moved back to France when I was eighteen. The Spaniards think I have a horrible accent.”

  “What took you back to icy France from LA?”

  “A woman is waving at you.” She pointed across the Zoo to the Delacorte Clock.

  Agent Kayla from the local office met us. I gave her the phone and told her she could take the jet to DC if she promised to bring it right back. Kayla took off running.

  Sylvia rolled her eyes. “You don’t need to impress me with the jet-thing.”

  Damn. If I couldn’t impress her with Ms. Sabel’s wealth, my looks and charm were going to fall short. And I had only one impressive thing left in my arsenal.

  We decided the zoo was too crowded and strolled through the park. We talked about interesting things, like how history was largely defined by wars until the nineteenth century when the dates of inventions and milestones in science grabbed more headlines. We pondered whether that was a good sign for civilization or just an anomaly. We discussed the importance of classical music training in childhood since we both abandoned stringed instruments as soon as our parents would allow. I had continued with the saxophone and Sylvia still played the trumpet.

  As the sun set, the creeping evening chill allowed me to wrap an arm around Sylvia on our carriage ride. She snuggled in, and we rode in silence.

  It was dark when the cab dropped us at Zenk
ichi in Brooklyn. The curtained tables were not quite as private as Sylvia imagined—unless she was more of an exhibitionist than I thought. We opted for the Autumn Omakase, a Japanese word meaning, “I leave it to you,” or chef’s choice.

  We were on the second of eight courses—persimmon and watercress and tofu and goji berries—when Kayla texted me that she’d returned and left the pilots in the ignition. The Zenkichi staff explained each course and the ingredients when serving them. The third and fourth courses—maguro in vinegar with Tosa soy sauce followed by scallop in ponzu dashi broth—were equally life-enhancing experiences.

  Then Bianca called. “You have to get down here right away. Assemble a team. You have to go after Yuri Belenov.”

  I turned away from the best date I’d ever had. “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “We traced the router.” Bianca took a deep, nervous breath. “I think he’s the one who crashed the airliners. I’m working with the NSA and the FAA and Homeland, but the Feds will take time. You need to catch that guy right now.”

  “I don’t know where to find Yuri, but I know where to find his boss.”

  “We haven’t confirmed his map yet. But, yeah, that would be a good place to start.”

  My gaze wandered unfocused beyond the gauze curtains as my hand reached for the service button. I signaled for the check. Bianca kept talking about IP addresses and connections to FAA locations in rural Ohio, which sounded very high-tech and convincing but was way outside my field of expertise. I felt Sylvia’s cold stare. Bianca finished up and clicked off.

  I paid the bill, and we left in a cab. Sylvia responded to my apologies with the silent treatment. Not a hostile treatment. More of a one-step-short-of-hostile treatment. She was trying hard to fall in love with me—which was exactly what I wanted—but I was running off on a mission I couldn’t talk about. Her aggravation was understandable.

  Mercury turned around from the cab’s passenger seat. Toldya, bro. She’s not going to be happy with you. You’re not ideal boyfriend material. The only place your abs are going to get you is a modeling gig for the covers of cheap romance novels. Chest only, no face.

  I said, Why didn’t you tell me about Yuri?

  Mercury said, Whatdya want from me? You expect me to follow all those little bits and bites you guys call communication these days? Those are for the new gods.

  Which gods? I need gods who can help me in the modern age.

  They haven’t formed yet. But there’s a guy named Derrick, works out of George Lucas’s garage, who’s working on it. May the fulcrum be with you. Until then, I’m all you get. Before you get cocky, don’t forget about that meteor we’ve got with your name on it. Have you even started on that shrine?

  I made phone calls to assemble my team. Dhanpal and Tania were nowhere to be found. No one had seen them since Ms. Sabel’s last text to me around noon. Miguel had just conquered jet lag and was ready for anything that involved shooting Russians. Only Emily and Alan Sabel were at the Gardens. I kept dialing to round up personnel.

  We transferred to Sabel Three and roared into the night skies. I kept working the phones.

  Sylvia read a book called Death and the Damned by some clown I’d never heard of.

  We landed and went straight to the Gardens. The company was stretched thin. Our successes under Ms. Sabel’s management had every employee fully deployed. Add to that the fact that everyone had been pulling double duty since I pissed off Viktor Popov and the result was: no extra personnel to go after Yuri and Strangelove.

  The butler showed Sylvia to the guest wing while I walked into the library. Emily looked up from a table strewn with papers and tablets.

  “Where is everybody?”

  She shrugged.

  “Have you seen Ms. Sabel?” I asked.

  “She took Tania and Dhanpal to Lithuania.” She stood and stretched. “They’re going to sneak across the border to Riga in Latvia and tear apart Popov’s dacha.”

  Before I could ask why David Watson strode in like he owned the place.

  Mercury thumbed over his shoulder at our in-house assassin. Hey bro, take this guy on your quest. You can make him walk point and get him killed.

  I said, We don’t just kill people.

  Mercury said, Zat so? Let me put it in the Judeo-Christian vernacular for you: King David did it to Bathsheba’s husband so he could have the man’s woman. Oh. Hold up. You don’t get Watson’s woman. Ima have to think about this. I’ll get back to you.

  Watson said, “Hey, Agent Marty told me to report to you. Can I have the day off? I’ve not slept since we left for Barcelona.”

  “No.”

  Behind him, Sylvia hovered at the doorway. Unwilling to come in, and unable to leave, she bit her lip. I wanted to say something. She wanted to say something. Neither of us knew what.

  Alan Sabel pushed around her, dragging a familiar-looking Russian soldier. “Jacob, this is Pavel. You brought him here and now he’s requesting asylum.”

  I shot a peeved glance at Mercury. That was some strategic plan you had.

  Mercury ducked his head in shame and snuck away.

  My phone rang. Bianca said, “Yuri’s last incoming call originated from the office building on that map he gave you. It’s in Kaliningrad. I have high confidence that this confirms Strangelove’s location. Working with the NSA, we have a hypothesis that Strangelove ordered Yuri to crash the airliners.”

  “That makes Strangelove the priority over Yuri.”

  “Exactly. Here’s the good part: we’re getting intel from the CIA. They’ll support us as long as we don’t get caught. If we do, they’ll—”

  “Disavow our existence and let the Russians kill us. Been there, done that. Send me the coordinates. I’m on my way.” I clicked off and stared at Watson.

  “What?” Watson asked.

  Alan Sabel took a call.

  “I’ve got an assignment for you,” I said. “How’s your Russian?”

  “Counterintelligence against the FSB for fifteen years. How do you think?”

  “Good. Translate for Pavel here. I want to make sure we’re on the same page. And don’t try anything dumb. Pavel knows enough English to know if you’re slanting it.” I turned to my would-be assassin from Russia by way of Bornholm. “Word is you’re looking for asylum. I’ve got just the thing to help you prove you’re worth it. We’re going after the GRU general who calls himself Strangelove. We know where he lives. Have you been there?”

  Watson hesitated, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. He looked me over cautiously before he translated.

  Pavel had been stationed at the Informatsionny Tsentr building for several months. He knew—and hated—Strangelove. He even drew a map of the area that looked a lot like Yuri’s.

  Watson’s skin grew gray and clammy. A shiver crawled over him.

  Miguel walked in and clanked a bag full of weaponry on the table. “Ready to die. Who wants in?”

  I pointed at Pavel and Watson.

  Miguel looked like I’d passed gas in front of the Queen. He leaned close to my ear. “A guy who tried to kill us and a guy who’s planning to kill us?”

  I shrugged.

  “Anyone else?” Miguel asked.

  Emily raised a hand. I began to shake my head because the last thing we needed was a reporter. I mean, journalist.

  Miguel stopped me with a why-not shrug. “She shot a guy in the—”

  “Yeah. I was there.”

  “IMPOSSIBLE! You can’t be—” Alan Sabel’s voice exploded in rage on his call. He clicked off and stormed straight at me like a linebacker going after the quarterback. “Pia’s jet was forced down over Kaliningrad.”

  CHAPTER 35

  Nothing ever went right for Yuri Belenov. The crazy Mexican wasn’t so crazy after all. He’d screamed at Yuri and called the cops. Approaching sirens had forced Yuri to exit quickly. He ran down one alley after another, ducking through stores, pushing through restaurants to get away. He stole a windbreaker from a shop and tr
aded it for another two blocks later. It was an hour before the patrols gave up and moved on to their next crisis.

  He made his way across town, bought a new phone, and found a cab. He rode in silence, thinking through his next move. Failure would never fly with Strangelove. He had to run. With a little luck and the help of his banda—now SHaRC, he reminded himself—he could get away.

  Strangelove could find him by tracking Andrine’s phone. Simple enough solution: dump her phone. The next problem would be getting her to leave the hotel using a different passport. After thinking through several ideas, his Montreal plan was the only one worth trying. There were historical sites to see. He could tell her he was testing the TSA passport control and needed someone unknown to use a fake. Andrine would want to please him. It might work.

  Yuri’s banda contained the best hackers Russia had ever produced. Their skill was the only reason the old general was pretending to forgive him. Strangelove had found Yuri, but not the others. The old man still needed Yuri to bring them back. That made Yuri’s next step clear: keep the SHaRCs loyal to him.

  From his phone, he logged into Reddit using the anonymous username and joined the anonymous forum to communicate with his people. He left a post inquiring about the weather in Singapore a few hours ahead. It was code for the time of their anonymous video session on the H.234 system they’d set up. It was designed to avoid US and Russian surveillance and could force itself to live-stream on each user’s phone in case of emergency.

  The cab arrived at the Andaz and dropped him at the corner. When he opened his suite, the adjoining room doors stood open. Perfect.

  Andrine stood in her suite in a bathrobe, looking through her suitcase. She looked up. “How did your meeting go?”

  “Not as planned.” He grinned at her casual attire. “I have to test the TSA at the Canadian border.”

  “Now?” She looked up with a pained expression. “I was about to shower for dinner.”