by Seeley James
Outside, the wind picked up and splashed raindrops hard against the window.
“Are you a Christian man, Babineau?” Yuri asked. “Oh. Don’t answer that. Just know this: you are going to die for my sins. Isn’t that nice?”
Yuri considered Babineau’s bulging eyes. There was life left in them. He was fighting it. He had important things in mind, things he cared about, which made him hang on longer than necessary.
“Aren’t you glad we had this little talk, Monsieur Babineau?” Yuri felt his heart beating harder as a rush of endorphins kicked in. “Talking about things makes us feel better. Don’t you agree?”
CHAPTER 42
Refusing a boot for her smashed ankle, Pia leaned on her cane as she crossed from the main house at Sabel Gardens to the private chapel. The entire walkway was lined with well-wishers six to eight deep. Somber employees from all corners of Sabel Industries hung their heads. Tania walked on her left. Jacob on her right. The Major waited inside.
She did nothing to hide her extensive bruises. Her left eye was yellow and purple and swollen shut. She relied on Jacob’s elbow and her cane for every step. She held her chin high and gave a morose nod to people as she passed.
A cacophony a few yards behind the line of mourners broke the muted gathering’s decorum. Everyone turned left and right, looking for the source of the noise.
Raised voices shouted at the back of the chapel. Pia turned and pushed through the crowd until she found her oversized attorney shaking papers at two men in gray suits. Sensing her presence, he faced her.
“Is there a problem?” she asked.
“Fucking FBI wants his body for an autopsy.” He turned back to the men in suits. “You’re as low as they come, stinking maggots of the Stasi—”
“There’s no need to escalate your language, sir.” One of the men held his hands up. “We’re just doing our job. I gave you the warrant.”
“Why an autopsy?” Pia asked.
The two men glanced at each other. The quiet one spoke first. “President Hunter tasked the Bureau with discerning who shot him, ma’am. She’s concerned it might have been friendly fire. I’d like to add that we were against the idea. But orders are …”
She felt her hand gripping the cane’s handle too hard as the man’s lame excuse trailed off. She fought the urge to beat him with it and turned her thoughts to how much she needed Dad. There was so much to tell him. So much advice she still wanted. Needed. How should she handle Hunter and Popov and Roche and Watson? Killing them was the only answer that came to her. He always had a different answer. She’d kept it secret that they were plotting to kill her. Instead of seeking his counsel, what were her last words? I’m not a little girl anymore. I can handle everything just fine without your help.
So wrong.
There should be many more years with him. Plenty of time for talking and confessions and apologies and appreciations. None of that would happen now. She’d squandered her time with him. The best time to be honest and thankful for loved ones is in the present. She knew that now. Too late.
The agents coughed.
“It should be simple enough.” She looked at the men. “Sabel is standardized on 9mm while the Russians use a 5.45mm.”
“It doesn’t matter.” The attorney turned beet-red. “The president doesn’t have that authority. She’s not a medical examiner, coroner, or judge. She has no right—”
“Let them have the body.” She squeezed her attorney’s arm.
Her head filled with rage at Roche and Hunter. And ultimately Viktor Popov, the man who somehow pulled their strings. They were to blame for far more than an autopsy.
“His body is an empty vessel.” She thumped her chest with her fist. “He is with me.”
She left them and entered the chapel. Jacob escorted her to a seat in the front pew next to the Major. Tania sat next to Jaz Jenkins across the center aisle.
An empty bier draped in flowers graced the front. A priest entered and raised her hand for silence. As the congregation quieted, a tall, handsome man stepped around the Major. Pia looked up to see Stefan Devoor, returned early from his travels. Stefan took her hand and looked into her eyes. Jacob moved over to give him room. He said nothing, but took the offered seat and kept her hand enveloped in his.
His contact was the only thing she’d felt since Kaliningrad.
The priest began the service with an invocation.
Pia observed the familiar woman who led the congregation in prayer. A tough-looking middle-aged cleric; Pia wondered if she was the same woman the cathedral had sent for previous funerals. The liturgy proceeded, but Pia heard nothing. Having been raised in the Episcopal Church, attending on those occasions when there wasn’t a soccer tournament, she knew the rituals by heart. She knew when to stand and sit and kneel, cued by the rhythm of the rite. Little of it registered in her bereaved state except for a fragment of Psalm 90:8-9: You have set our iniquities before you, our secret sins in the light of your countenance. For all our days pass away under your wrath; our years come to an end like a sigh.
When it was over, she remained in her pew intending to pray and meditate. Instead, several people formed a line to express their condolences. Reluctantly, she stood to face them.
The eighth person was FBI Director Shikowitz. “You are in our prayers, Pia.”
She recognized him through the fog of the day. He’d been a friend of Alan’s for as long as she could remember. He’d helped her too many times to count. She said, “Tell your agents not to let up on their investigation because of the funeral. Getting this cleared up sooner rather than later is best for everyone.”
He appraised her carefully and glanced over his shoulder before leaning in to whisper. “Hunter demanded the investigation, as did the Russians. But there was something uncovered by the investigators which would be improper to tell you. Therefore, I am not telling you this.”
Pia cocked her head at his odd phrase.
“As Edward Snowden made everyone aware,” Shikowitz continued, “the NSA monitors communications of many people overseas. Spies, terrorists, diplomats, and so on. They monitored Strangelove. Hours before you were forced down in Kaliningrad, they monitored a call from David Watson to Strangelove. Watson claimed he overheard you making plans to fly straight to Latvia.” He paused and looked solemn. “I did not tell you this.”
Shikowitz tugged her hand gently and patted it on top with his other hand. “I considered Alan my best friend, and consider you my third daughter. If it’s not too much, I’d like to stop by tomorrow to help the Major with the mundane arrangements like paying the staff and finding…”
His voice continued, but Pia’s mind went elsewhere. She’d expected Watson to shoot her, stab her, poison her. Treachery on this scale had never entered her mind. Jacob constantly complained that she charged ahead on missions without enough planning. She’d proven his point more than once. This time, her rash and impatient actions cost Dad his life. Should she blame herself? Or Watson? Or all of them? She felt the hot rush of anger rising up to her head. Which one should she kill first?
She sensed Shikowitz had asked her something that she hadn’t answered. She didn’t care.
“Who was Ilya Pozdeeva?” she asked.
Shikowitz hesitated. “Pia. There are national security issues involved there. I can’t speak to—”
“Why did Pozdeeva visit CIA headquarters in the early ’90s?” Her voice grew edgy.
“Friends don’t ask friends to violate the rules of—”
She waved a dismissive hand and looked past him.
Shikowitz inhaled and formed a sentence that he decided not to speak. He smiled with understanding and left.
Bobby Jenkins came next. The friend who unwittingly saved Alan’s life and career decades earlier. “I overheard your question.” Bobby gave her a gentle hug. “All I know is that Veronica Hunter was Director of the CIA in the nineties.”
“How does that fit in?” Pia squinted.
“No idea
.” He squeezed her hand. “I hope you will count on me the way your father did. I’d hate to lose that connection.”
He reached up on tiptoes to kiss her cheek and left.
Jacob rose in front of the waiting line. He ushered them to the living room. It took a moment, but the line dispersed. Several stayed, whispering in small groups.
Pia’s phone buzzed with a text from President Hunter, “I signed the orders you wanted. Sabel Industries is released from all Federal exclusive-use clauses. BTW: Campaign debt is crushing me, need help.”
Pia texted back, “Dad’s funeral in progress. Thanks for your thoughts and prayers.”
Hunter’s cursor indicated a reply in progress. Then it stopped. There was nothing Hunter could say now that wouldn’t make it worse.
Stefan kissed her cheek. They sat in the pew. She leaned into him and felt his arm encircle her.
“Where are your children?” she asked.
“On the soccer field with your upstairs maid.” Stefan sighed. “They’ve seen too many funerals.”
“Sorry to interrupt.” Emily knelt in front of Pia with a phone in her hand displaying a video. “President-Elect Roche is holding a press conference at the front gates. I thought you should know.”
Pia stared blankly as the words rolled around in her head. Had she heard right? Roche stood outside? The man’s insolence drove her beyond outrage. She shook with murderous intentions. Taking the phone from Emily, she turned up the volume. The Major leaned over her left shoulder, and Jacob leaned in with Stefan.
Chuck Roche stood a few feet in front of the gates, Sabel Gardens rising behind him, the turning circle filled with black limousines. He stood behind a temporary lectern festooned with microphones. “There will be those who question my motives for speaking at a funeral. Suffice it to say, I feel it’s important to speak to you, the American people. You see, I knew Alan Sabel from the beginning. I gave him his start over two decades ago. I was the one who provided the connections and capital to launch his career. I did those things because he was my friend and I believed in him. So, why do I stand before his gates today to decry his actions? Because I believe in this country more.
“Alan Sabel invaded a sovereign nation, our Russian allies because he was rich and had the resources. He brought the United States of America—you and me—to the brink of war for nothing more than his ambition. His ego. His self-interest. Weighing the lives of a few against those of the country is something a leader must do every day. Would it be better to let one woman suffer or to endanger an entire nation?”
Chuck Roche looked at his notes and silently read a page. He looked back to the cameras.
“Can we stand by while unelected billionaires conduct their own foreign policy? Who here today believes that wealth dictates a moral imperative? Who believes that a rich person should decide when this nation goes to war—not because he should but because he can?”
Pia watched the small screen in her hand as the President-Elect paused to read more of his notes. Why was he so afraid of her? Strangelove’s notes about #HuntersFail couldn’t be tied to him directly. And what was Hunter afraid of that she needed an autopsy? What was it about Pia Sabel that drove them to such acts of desperation?
“Alan Sabel’s accomplishments rise eighteen stories above the Bethesda skyline.” Roche’s voice rose to a shout. “Sabel Industries glows in bright neon from Sabel Towers, trumpeting his success. It’s there to ensure every resident knows how great he is. Was. His treason against the United States of America should shine equally far. He brought his death upon himself. And we, the people of the United States of America, will have to pay for it. Well, I think that’s wrong. The American taxpayers shouldn’t have to fund their dangerous exploits. The Sabel Drone program has just been certified by the military. I will demand a reduction in price that will leave them no room for profit. I will drive them out of business.”
Roche let the statement stand while he eyeballed every camera. Then he read his notes again.
“For now, I leave the survivors to mourn. Let them bury this traitor and say what they will. When the time for weeping is over, I, and I alone, will protect this country, not only from foreign retribution for Sabel’s callous acts but also from his rogue mercenaries who endanger every American.”
CHAPTER 43
I was of a mind to go out there and punch Chuck Roche in the nose.
After she heard Roche’s rant, Ms. Sabel pushed off Stefan’s shoulder and stormed for the exit. Her battered body didn’t let her get three steps. I shoved my shoulder under hers while Emily grabbed her other elbow. We steadied her.
“You’re not thinking about challenging him?” Emily asked with a quaking voice.
“Damn straight.”
“That’s just what he wants.” Emily nearly shouted. “To provoke you, prove you don’t care about Alan Sabel. He’ll call you everything if you open the front door.”
Mercury slapped my face. You’re gonna do this, bro. You go out there, open your mouth—I’ll put words in it.
I said, Where the hell have you been?
Mercury said, Carrying you, homie. Now shut up and get out there.
Are you going to make me say something stupid about the Capitoline—
Mercury gripped my shoulder hard. I ain’t doing shit for you. I’m doing this for Pia-Ceasar-Sabel. I’m the god of eloquence. Have some faith for once and do what I tell you.
OK, OK, I said. I’ll do it.
“What? Not you,” Emily sneered. “We need someone with public speaking—”
“Jacob does it.” Ms. Sabel’s stern voice didn’t leave room for discussion. “Bianca introduces him.”
She turned to me. “It’s not about me. Popov hijacked our democracy. You have to do this for Dad and the USA.”
She turned around, sat down between Stefan and the Major, and didn’t look up.
In short order, I was following Bianca and Emily through the main house. Our indignant march pounded the marble floors.
We passed Sylvia in the foyer. She looked confused and out of place, embarrassed to be attending a funeral for a man she’d never spoken to. I’d been preoccupied, which left her to fend for herself. The press photographed everyone on the grounds at Sabel Gardens with telephoto lenses and drones overhead. And President-Elect Roche wasn’t the only one saying bad things about us. Sylvia couldn’t have come at a worse time. Our love affair had been grounded by life. She gave me a weak smile and a thumbs-up.
Outside, we headed for the gates. Reporters were packing up. Bianca ran ahead to the lectern when she saw someone reaching to pull a mic off it.
“A minute please,” she said. “Sabel Security Agent Jacob Stearne was an Army Ranger who earned lots of medals in service to this country. We owe him the courtesy of listening for a few minutes.”
She stepped back and looked at me.
No part of me wanted to move. I was rooted to the spot like an oak. I felt the eyes of a hundred reporters and the lenses of a hundred cameras turn to me. What the hell was I doing? Shooting people, no problem. Public speaking? No way. And this was not just public speaking. This was speaking to the entire nation about … what?
Mercury smacked my shoulder. Move it, soldier. Don’t stand there like an idiot. I told you I got this. Now get up there and open your mouth.
I said, Tell me I’m not going to be speaking in tongues.
You’re no coward. You’re not afraid to speak in tongues or anything else I have in store for you. Think, dude, think. You’ve stood in the line of fire for these jackasses. No need to give a damn about them. Give a damn about Pia-Caesar-Sabel. You’re going to set this straight. Right here. Right now.
Emily took a knee in the front row, her phone live-streaming. Bianca motioned expectantly for me to step forward.
I took the first step, then the second. Next thing I knew, I was tapping the microphones for some bizarre reason. I tossed my hands up, palms out to show I was unarmed. Force of habit. Hostile parleys in uncerta
in territories were common during my deployments. I opened my mouth.
“Friends, uh.” My brain froze. I rocked back and forth. “Americans. World citizens. I’m just a soldier. Most of my adult life was spent ducking bullets and bombs in Iraq and Afghanistan. I never learned the finer points of speeching.” I swallowed hard. “I mean, speech making. Oration. Whatever y’wanna call it.”
Mercury punched me in the gut. Speak from here. Make it bold.
“I learned how to look a man in the eye—” my voice turned thunderous, “—and decide—the instant before pulling the trigger—whether he’s friend or foe. Whether he was a man or coward, hero or terrorist. I don’t know much about Chuck Roche. I never looked him in the eye. I never saw him in uniform. I don’t know if he’s even been on a battlefield. Some people voted for him, so I guess someone thought well of him.”
I scratched my head and tried to think. “When a man dies, everyone remembers his sins. Richard Nixon was a crook, not the man who opened China. Today, Roche told you Alan Sabel was an egomaniac. If that’s true, he paid the ultimate price for his hubris. I’ll leave that for the Almighty to judge.”
I took a deep breath and took a second to look at the camera lenses. They were big glass things, not like handheld cameras or phones. And there were a lot of them. I felt my gaze boring into them, through them, trying to see the people on the other side.
“I came out here to tell you about my boss, my friend, Alan Sabel.” I paused and caught an encouraging smile from Emily. “He was good to me. He was good to everyone he met. He was good to this community. His philanthropy reached every corner of this region—and he didn’t do it for glory. He did it because he cared. Is that treason? To feed the poor? To shelter the homeless? To comfort the afflicted? I should be so treasonous.
“Alan Sabel used to be our hero. He was an American success story. A grad student who adopted an orphaned girl and built an empire. Everyone looked up to him.” I paused again. I felt something welling up in my chest. A thickness in my nose and throat. “He was more than a success story to me. He was someone who gave a damn.”
