by Seeley James
As she wiped off the transferred powdered sugar, she looked up at the portrait of Alan Sabel on the wall. She suddenly felt as if she were treading water below the cliff while the ocean gathered a huge wave behind her. Why did he have to be the hero? Why couldn’t he let the professionals take the risk? He’d done stupid things before—and the team always saved him. They gave him a false sense of invincibility. Why Dad? Why have you abandoned me? I need you now. But that was the kind of man he’d always been: forever taking charge of everything around him. Blaming him was pointless.
She shook her head at the lifeless painting.
The real blame lay with those responsible for killing 365 Americans. Who gave the order? The same person responsible for so many other crimes. She needed to take care of Popov before his long reach found her.
She picked up her purse, pushed on her cane, and faced the giant globe before turning to the exit. The globe reminded her of Roche’s visit. Why had he said, “You’re just as stupid as your old man?” No one thought of Alan Sabel as stupid. Headstrong, driven, arrogant, but never stupid.
She strode toward the hall, barely using the cane. She set it on a table and took a few steps without it. Not quite yet. She retrieved it and took one more glance at the portrait.
It hit her like a punch in the gut.
Roche wasn’t talking about Alan Sabel. He was talking about Lloyd Aston, her biological father. A man who made one fatal mistake: he found a way to break America’s dependence on oil. A stupid decision in the eyes of Chuck Roche, the refinery tycoon. But how did Roche know Lloyd Aston? Had they met? Alan Sabel had never said a word about that. They’d once had a heart-to-heart about her parents’ final days. And they had several lengthy discussions about Chuck Roche. Alan met Roche long after the killings. But if Kasey’s information was real, the killers were paid by Roche Security.
Which could only mean: Alan had not known Roche was involved.
She turned on her cane and looked over her shoulder at his portrait. His smile beamed back at her.
If Chuck Roche paid the assassins, who was the project manager Kasey referred to? And who was the missing trigger man? Would either of them testify against Roche? Was Roche part of it? Could something like that happen inside his company without his knowledge or involvement?
Pia thought about Sabel Industries. Among 40,000 employees, were there people willing to commit murder for her? Statistically speaking, yes. Realistically speaking—she hoped not.
Kasey was right about one thing: she would pay to find out.
She dialed Kasey Earl. Her call went directly to Kasey’s voicemail. “Kasey, I’ve considered your proposal. Five million will be transferred immediately upon delivery. I’ll have Jacob work out the details.”
Striding through the Senate wing of the US Capitol, Pia followed her guide to S-116, the Foreign Relations Committee room. Among the throngs of people lining the hallway, FBI Director Shikowitz appeared. He planted himself in her path.
“Pia, I’m here to wish you the best of luck today.” Shikowitz grabbed her hand to shake it and pulled her in for a hug. When they were close, he whispered, “This is a Top Secret recording made by the NSA that you must have Bianca translate immediately. It’s part of an ongoing investigation. Giving this to anyone is a violation of ethics, laws, and my own common sense. Therefore, you do not have it.”
He pushed back from her and gave her a big, fake smile. His voice picked up loud enough for bystanders to hear. “I know you’ll do well. You are a beacon of light and truth.”
When he walked away, Pia palmed the SD card he’d pressed into her hand. She excused herself from the guide to find the restroom. Once there, she slid the card into her tablet and uploaded the file to Bianca with instructions.
She rejoined the guide and entered the imposing wood-paneled chambers that Foreign Relations had occupied since 1933.
Pia finished her opening statement to the Senate Committee. Photographers clicked and whirred, TV cameras loomed over her. A row of twenty old men and one middle-aged woman faced her with dour faces. The Committee Chairman made a statement about mercenaries for hire and citizens conducting foreign policy.
She tuned out.
Her thoughts turned to the President-Elect and his involvement in murder-for-hire. If Kasey’s evidence held up and Roche was involved, should she release the taped conversation of Roche conspiring to kill her? She could think of a thousand charges the Feds could bring against her for having made it. It would be worth going to jail if she brought down Roche, but not if he managed to silence or discredit her first. And there were other futures to consider. Jacob and Bianca would be caught up in any investigation. She could only hope Kasey’s documents would provide overwhelming evidence against him. Until then, she would need a better strategy.
Eventually, the Chairman said, “Isn’t that right, Ms. Sabel?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Chairman. TL;DR.”
Everyone under forty laughed out loud. The sour-faced senators looked around the room. The Chairman banged his gavel. An aide leaned to his ear and explained, Too Long; Didn’t Read. The internet shorthand for, I couldn’t wade through your boring drivel.
“I said, we all want to get to the bottom of things. Is that right, Ms. Sabel?”
“I would rather stick to the truth.”
A round of suppressed laughter rippled around the room.
The Chairman banged his gavel again and threatened to clear the room. He directed his attention back to her. “An apology for your impudence would be appropriate.”
A long silence stretched. Not a single sound occurred in the room for thirty seconds.
“We can wait until hell freezes over, Mr. Chairman.” Pia frowned. “I’m not going to apologize for insisting on the truth.”
The room filled with the quiet noise of a thousand fingers clicking out tweets and texts on smartphones.
“My first question to you is, did you authorize your agent, Jacob Stearne, to attack the Russian Embassy?” The Senator pointed to a large poster being brought into the open space between her table and the dais. It depicted a silhouette slithering between buildings. Uniformed guards stood in the background looking and pointing in the wrong direction.
Her phone, laid out on the table next to her, displayed a text from her attorney: Plead the 5th.
“Your question is based on unfounded assumptions about who is in that grainy photo of yours. Nonetheless, I assure you, I never have and never would authorize my employees to break the laws of our country.”
Her attorney’s next text: THE 5TH!
“Do you deny the sworn testimony, heard before this committee, of Russian diplomat Viktor Popov, who stated, under oath, that Jacob Stearne entered onto Russian Embassy grounds and shot him in the leg to retrieve his dog?”
Her attorney: 5TH! 5TH! 5TH!
Pia squinted. “Did I hear you right? A Russian diplomat testified that he kidnapped a decorated American veteran’s puppy? I know about diplomatic immunity, but surely you expelled him from the country after that confession.”
The voices in the room erupted, cameras clattered, the gavel banged again.
“Next question,” the Chairman growled. “Did you fly to Kaliningrad with the express intent to kill Russian military personnel?”
Yet another text about the Fifth Amendment with a flurry of exclamation points popped up on her phone. She flipped the phone over, face down.
“I did not fly to Kaliningrad.” She paused and lowered her volume, fighting her growing desire to leap up and throttle the bastard. “As Swedish, Finish, and Lithuanian air traffic controllers have already reported in the media, I was on a flight path to Klaipėda, Lithuania when Russian fighter jets forced my pilots—”
“What was your business in Lithuania?”
“My people have been tracing the criminals responsible for bringing down Flight 1028 and—”
“We are painfully aware of the outlandish claims you made to the media.” The Chairman scow
led, his jowls flushing with anger. “Do you have a shred of evidence that the good people of Norway were responsible for #HuntersFail?”
“I’m waiting for the Stavanger police to release public videos we can use for facial recognition of the men who—”
“Yes, the Committee has been in touch with authorities in Stavanger about your unsubstantiated claims. The router logs you claim originated in their fair city have been traced to Istanbul, not Norway. Tell us the truth, Ms. Sabel, you are way out of your league on this topic, are you not? Don’t answer that. Just stick to soccer.”
Pia shook her head. “Don’t you get it? Viktor Popov has been meddling in the election—”
“You and your boy-toy—I mean, bodyguard—have a thing for this respected diplomat. You should be ashamed, Ms. Sabel. Ashamed.”
The press corps erupted with laughs. Cameras clicked in rapid-fire succession and phones clicked with incoming and outgoing texts.
A text from Bianca came to Pia’s phone, identified by a unique ping. She flipped her phone over and scanned her text: “Shikowitz’s file is a recorded phone conversation between Popov and Strangelove minutes before Popov’s surgery. He orders Strangelove to, ‘kill the girl in front of Alan. Make him regret challenging us. Do not release him until he is compliant like Jallet. He will submit or die.’”
Pia bit the inside of her lip and felt rage building inside her. Strangelove paid the ultimate price for messing with America; now it was Popov’s turn. As soon as she finished with the Senate.
The Chairman again banged his gavel. “Ms. Sabel, you are under oath and must respond truthfully to our questions.” He remained silent to punctuate his demand. Then he continued. “Did you travel to Europe with the express intent to destroy a Russian general whose code name is Strangelove?”
“No.”
The Chairman paused and stared at her until the room waited silently for his next word.
“Ms. Sabel, did you ever tell someone, and I quote, ‘I’m not going to bring Strangelove and Popov to justice. I’m going to kill them’?”
CHAPTER 49
Our attorney spent the break between Ms. Sabel’s grilling and my testimony ranting about the Fifth Amendment. Bianca interrupted him with a better strategy. Since Sabel Technology was engaged in a national security contract and was actively tracing the responsible parties in the airline disaster, all our actions were covered. We could only testify in closed-door sessions. Since the proceedings were nothing but a publicity stunt for the Chairman, they would decline further questions. Probably.
I made my opening statement referring to the security issues. Which caused a lengthy delay. The press could see where this was heading and filed out to find some other gladiator in some other arena being torn to shreds. The Chairman’s aide came to my table with a list of questions and asked me to strike the ones I would refuse to answer. I struck them all.
That didn’t save me. They rolled out a big screen and played a video. In the low-contrast clip, a figure appeared to pole-vault the Russian Embassy’s outer wall.
“Is that shadowy assassin you, Mr. Stearne?” the Chairman asked.
“No.”
Mercury took a seat next to me. He wore a Brooks Brothers suit and a shiny red tie. Yo, homie. Did Roger get you to confess to killing his mistress yet?
No. I did a double-take. Wait. Who?
Mercury looked at me, incredulous. The ugly dude up there. Roger. We used to be buds, he and I. Got him into Congress, first term, yo. But one day he ups and kills his pregnant mistress and blames me. Can you believe it? Mars, Diana, and I were going to roast him in a fire, but when we got to his crib, he’d already made a deal with Set. Mercury straightened his tie. And we had marshmallows and everything.
A what kind of deal?
Not what, who. Set, the Egyptian god who killed his brother. Not a nice guy, dawg. Yeah, so Roger cuddles up with Set and the next thing you know the old guy gets kicked up to the Senate. Some poor homeless guy went to jail for the murder.
“Shall we watch the tape again, Mr. Stearne?”
I sat up straight. “Sure, but this time, can you roll it a few seconds longer?”
The video played. The part I was looking for happened. “Stop right there.”
I gave thanks and praise to the Dii Concentes. When I launched the extra-large sandbag over the fence for a distraction, I remembered it breaking open on impact. The video caught the splat nicely. The white sand spilled out into a well-lit area. There was no mistaking what it was and what it was not.
“I’m sorry, Roger, did you think that sandbag was an assassin or something?” There was a lengthy pause while some of the senators tittered. “Do you need anything else from me? Or are you all SET—like an Egyptian?”
The Chairman squinted over his spectacles at me. He pursed his lips as we made a non-verbal connection. His eyes shifted to Mercury. He banged his gavel. “No further questions.”
Twenty minutes later, I arrived back at Sabel Gardens.
Inside, Ms. Sabel yelled loud enough for a couple maids to listen in from the grand foyer. I shooed them away, only to find Tania standing with her back to the library doorjamb. I started to scold her for eavesdropping. She put a finger to her lips.
Olivier Jallet, the French dude, was pleading his case. He swore he never told anyone what she’d said to him on the flight back to Washington.
Tania held up her phone to show me the headlines. Ms. Sabel’s swollen and bruised face, in full saturated color, graced the website under the banner, “Vigilante Princess or Rampage Killer?”
I rolled my eyes. Tania nodded.
I asked, “She hasn’t seen it yet?”
Tania shook her head. “She knows her testimony started well but ended badly.”
The shouting subsided. Tania hid her phone.
Ms. Sabel strode out, barely putting weight on her cane. She stopped in front of me. “Kasey texted back that he’s ready. But I can’t get him on the phone to make arrangements. See Cousin Elmer for your car and drive up to New York. Talk to Kasey. See what kind of game he’s playing.”
I went to the car barn where Ms. Sabel’s Chief Auto Officer, also known as Cousin Elmer, leaned against a Ferrari 488 Spider. He said, “Miguel reminded her that a terrorist blew up your VW, so she’s giving you this as a Thanksgiving gift.”
It took me a few seconds to get my lungs working again. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me, thank her.” Cousin Elmer tossed me the keys and walked away. “And don’t do that until you see your insurance bill for driving it. She doesn’t understand the economic strain. Fifty bucks says you’ll put this baby on eBay by next week.”
Screw him. I planned to drive the thing until my reality check bounced. Just in case he was right, I emailed my insurance agent and asked how much my rates would go up. He reported it would probably be more than my annual income, but he’d check and get back to me.
My new sled made the long drive up the Jersey Turnpike easy. Despite the freezing air, I kept the top down with the heat cranked up on full. A lot of young ladies did a double-take and gave me a smile. Which would’ve made my day if Sylvia hadn’t walked off with my heart in her roller bag.
Mercury appeared in the passenger seat wearing a g-string of a toga. Told you she’s no good for you. What kind of a person walks out after a tragedy like that? You needed her.
I said, We barely knew each other, and I left her alone most of the time. Bad timing. Maybe she’ll give me a second chance.
Mercury said, You don’t need it. She’s a narcissist. Worse, she’s a pacifist. No future in their kind. They turn the other cheek, and—BAM!—they go down quicker than a sacked temple.
I said, Gandhi was a pacifist and he took down the British Empire.
Fluke, dude. Just a fluke.
I made my way through the Lincoln Tunnel. Kasey’s building was just off Tompkins Square. When I asked Google Maps where to park, it displayed a message I’d never seen before, “WTF I look
like, a magician?” Even AI goes native in NYC. A few pedestrians eyed the Ferrari hungrily. I double-parked and ran in, trying to make it quick.
Naturally, Kasey lived on the fourth floor. No elevator.
I bolted up the stairs and stopped when I reached his landing. Something felt wrong. There were four apartments; one of the doors was ajar. I stood still and listened. A muffled TV played a floor down. Nothing else. Inching along, I did the math. The open door was definitely Kasey’s. Amid the New York noise outside, I heard sirens approaching. With one last look around, I reached the door, pushed it wider with one finger, and peered in.
A loud bang echoed through the building.
To me, it sounded like a large book dropped flat on the hardwood floor. The average civilian would easily mistake it for a gunshot.
Kasey lay in a pool of black-red blood, dead center. He was hard to miss.
Blood had long since stopped flowing from the three holes in his body. One at center-chest, the second at the clavicle, the third in his forehead. Professional. The kitchenette’s sink was filled with dirty dishes. His futon at the back had blood sprayed on the right side. A TV on the right wall also had some splatter. There was a bookshelf with some potted plants, Army Ranger memorabilia, and some Star Wars figurines. His lone medal—the Purple Heart he got after I sliced his ear off—lay on the coffee table. There were no boxes. No papers.
Mercury leaned over my shoulder. Bro, you need to get to the super’s apartment and grab a copy of the video.
I said, What video?
Dude, the hallway camera. The cops are coming, and you’re double-parked. So, move it.
Boots clumped into the lobby below us. Excited voices rose from downstairs. The boots hit the stairs at a run.
Mercury said, Too late.
I said, Could you give me a little more notice? Like, y’know, enough time to make a clean getaway?
Mercury said, You need to get an attitude of gratitude, my brutha. You have god on your side, and all you do is complain.
A cop’s head came into view from the stairway at the end of the hall. She looked like a young version of the Major, a serious black woman with her hair pulled back in a tight bun. She stopped and drew her weapon. I raised my hands over my head in the airport scanning position.
