Death and Treason

by Seeley James

  “Identify yourself.” She came up the steps slowly.

  Her partner, a nervous-looking younger guy, came up behind her.

  “Jacob Stearne, Sabel Security. ID’s in my pocket. I have a pistol under my jacket.”

  She inched along. Her partner took nervous to DEFCON 1.

  “Turn to the wall slowly.” When I complied, she reached under my jacket and took my weapon. She sniffed it for recent firing. Then she pulled the wallet out of my pocket. “OK, Mr. Stearne, what are you doing here?”

  “The victim claimed to have information about a cold case murder. My boss sent me here to collect it.”

  “Did you?”

  “I’ve been here thirty seconds longer than you.” I kept my hands raised and my face to the wall. The nervous guy still had his finger inside his trigger guard.

  She turned to her partner. “Get that damn Ferrari towed before the EMTs get here.”

  “Wait! It’s mine.” I looked over my shoulder. “The keys are in my front pocket.”

  “Hang on a second.” She peered at me. A decidedly unpleasant expression crossed her face. “Are you that guy who murdered all those Russians?”

  CHAPTER 50

  After the cameras and the lights left the Oval Office, the real meeting between President-Elect Chuck Roche and President Hunter began in earnest.

  Roche twirled his cane with childlike giddiness and inspected the photos lined up on the Resolute Desk. “Why is your Chief of Staff still here?”

  President Hunter snapped her fingers at her astonished aide. “I’ll call for you when we need you again.”

  The door closed leaving Hunter, Roche, and Watson looking at each other like boxers before a fight.

  Roche’s cane launched a photo of Hunter shaking hands with the Prime Minister of Canada off the desk. It landed with a thump on the plush carpet. He said, “My program is working. She’s completely discredited. Now all we need is another attack from a different angle and—”

  “Get a grip on reality, Chuck.” Hunter fisted her hips. “Pia Sabel is America’s darling. She’ll wriggle out of it. She always does.”

  Watson turned to the window. “I said all along we should’ve killed her right off.”

  “How did your plan work out, genius?” Roche pointed his cane at Watson. “I had to give you a job to cover your ass before they traced your calls to Russia.”

  “They already did.” Hunter bit her thumbnail. “All seventeen intelligence agencies are investigating your campaign staff. They have recordings of—”

  “What is this, East Germany?” Roche yelled. “They can’t investigate me. I won.”

  “That’s not how it works. The separation of—”

  “You’re still the goddamn president. Make them stop the investigation.”

  “I can’t.” Hunter turned away. “Presidents don’t have that power.”

  “Fine, I’ll do it when my Attorney General gets confirmed.” Roche flicked a picture of Hunter shaking hands with the Queen of England off the desk. It hit the coffee table. The glass shattered.

  “Watson, what new dirt did you find on Sabel?” Roche asked.

  “Yeah, about that.” Watson stared at Hunter.

  “I told him to stand down, Chuck.” Hunter faced Roche. “You don’t know how thorough the press is. They track every rumor back to its origins. They’ll debunk it like Pizzagate and Seth Rich. If you put some nasty story out there, they’ll trace it back to Watson.”

  “Since when do my people take orders from you?” Roche swung his cane through the air between them. Hunter jumped.

  “I asked for advice.” Watson stepped in. “She’s right. They trace it back to me, they’ll hang you with it.”

  “But I had nothing to do with it!” Roche paced around the Resolute Desk. “I don’t text. I don’t email. They can’t prove anything.”

  He stopped and tapped his cane against the side of Queen Victoria’s gift to President Hayes. “First thing I’m going to do is get rid of this ugly desk. Where the hell did you find it, a garage sale?”

  No one spoke. He caught Watson and Hunter sharing a pained glance.

  “Fine,” Roche said. “Get an expendable outsider. Find one of those brown-nosers who’re dying to kiss my ring. Have one of them take the fall for it. Feed it to the conspiracy sites. Just get a goddamn story out there. We need to start a second fire before she can put out the first.”

  “Do what you want.” Hunter tossed up her hands. “But long term, it won’t work.”

  “Then we go with Watson’s plan. Order a drone strike before you leave office. Don’t leave your messes in my lap.” Roche noticed the shocked look on his co-conspirators’ faces. “OK, I’ll bite, what’s wrong with that idea?”

  “You’ll create a martyr and have a revolution.” Hunter stroked his shoulder and spoke in a calming voice. “You can’t touch her.”

  “If I can’t touch her, Popov can. She already declared war on him. Watson, get General Krasny over to the Russian Embassy. We need to use their secure lines to have a conversation with Popov that our so-called intelligence agencies can’t hear.”

  Yuri took his turn at the tripod-mounted field glasses. With care, he settled his bandaged nose between the lenses. His restructured orbital socket touched the eyecup, sending needles of pain through his head. He and Roman sat two feet back from the curtains, watching two white stucco motels across the river in Belo Horizonte, Brazil. It was their second day holed up in a city the size of Philadelphia—a city he’d never heard of before. They’d covered every conceivable topic to discuss. Except one. And now they were broaching it.

  “You can let go of her like that?” Roman asked.

  “Everyone loses a mother sooner or later.” Yuri reached for another naan to hide his sigh. “Popov will hold our relatives over our heads. We can regret our choice. We can cry ourselves to sleep. What will change? Will Andrine come back to life? My mother? Your family? There is nothing we can do about it now. If we go back, they will either kill us or turn us over to the Americans.”

  He tossed the bread back in the box. Take-out Indian in the middle of Brazil did not taste the same as eating it in Mumbai. And talking about his mother was killing his appetite.

  “We must shed everything.” Yuri leaned to the binoculars. “Our families, our friends—any connection to Russia.”

  “You and I are made of steel.” Roman finished his tandoori chicken. “Not everyone in SHaRC is so strong.”

  “To stay in SHaRC is to shed everything.” Yuri stood and paced. “To leave SHaRC is to face death back home. To offer them a choice is to ask them to lie. We must test them.”

  “What kind of test?” Roman leaned forward and watched the motels. “Loyalty? Like gangs?”

  “Such barbarism. How could you think such a thing? No. Investment tests.”

  “Where your money is, your heart will be also?” Roman craned over his shoulder to observe Yuri. “You think that’s a stronger test than Strangelove’s?”

  “More honorable.” Yuri picked up the discarded naan and took a large bite. “Do you have a better idea?”

  Roman returned to his observations and remained silent for a long time. Finally, he leaned back. “If I am to be part of the leadership, I am glad to hear you will not use Strangelove’s savagery. It should be as you say.”

  Yuri finished his chana masala and mopped up his lentil soup with the naan. He put the empty boxes in the trash can.

  “They’re here,” Roman said.

  Yuri moved to the window and raised his handheld binoculars. He checked their haircuts and their fashion sense and their movements. They were Russians. Not Americans like Brad. “I see three. No. five.”

  “Another car went around the back. There could be more.”

  “More than I expected.” Yuri turned to Roman. “Which room are they swarming?”

  Roman had rented a room with a credit card tied to his alias account. Yuri had done the same at the motel next door using h
is money. A test to determine which of them Popov had been following. Roman said, “Mine.”

  Yuri watched two thugs dressed in business casual exit the motel office. They nodded to men at the room door. The gangsters used a battering ram to break it open. The remaining men flooded into the room, guns drawn.

  Yuri laughed. “It is like a circus car full of clowns.”

  “You think this is funny?” Roman jumped up. “This means they can lock down my account. I’ve lost everything.”

  “No. You’ve lost nothing. I will take care of it, Roman.” Yuri gave him a hard stare. His voice lowered. “I have a plan in place. You will move all your money to my account.”

  “Me? But I …” His words failed him. He lost all his color.

  “I will not have Popov follow SHaRC to the next destination. I will eliminate the threat. And right now, you are the threat. Popov is following you.” Yuri pulled the pistol from his pocket and held it at his side. “You pledged your loyalty to me. It is time to put your heart into your loyalty oath. What was it you said? Where your money is, your heart will be also.”

  Yuri pointed to the laptops whirring away on the coffee table. “Sit down and transfer all your money to my account. It will be SHaRC’s money.”

  He waited, but Roman remained rooted in place.

  “I realize you’ve always thought of it as your safety net. Your getaway stash. But I am your safety now.” He held the pistol to Roman’s face. “Strangelove would kill you, forfeit your accounts, and leave. But I’m different. I’m going to give you a chance. But with a platoon of Popov’s men across the street, time is running out. What will it be?”

  They stood still for nearly a full minute.

  “I’ll do it.” Roman rushed to the couch and touched the fingerprint reader on his laptop. “But won’t he follow the transfer?”

  “I have shell accounts in countries he’ll expect. He’ll find those. But then I will move it through Florida, Wyoming, and Nevada before bringing it back to the Caymans and Panama.”

  Roman relaxed and let a grin crease his face. “Exactly what the oligarchs did.”

  “I studied the Panama Papers.” Yuri nodded. “I know how they operate. And I know their mistakes.”

  Roman brought up his accounts online.

  “And move Aleksandr’s accounts as well.” Yuri checked the chamber in his pistol. “I saw you unlock his phone. I know you have his passwords.”

  CHAPTER 51

  Pia rolled to a stop in a quiet Bethesda neighborhood in front of Stefan’s modest home. She reminded herself not to rush. Don’t look desperate. Don’t expect too much. Thanksgiving is about family, not romance.

  She’d been lucky to have him around in the days after Dad’s murder. Stefan’s friendship hit just the right note. Empathetic and quiet. He’d made no demands. He brought the children sometimes. Only when it was appropriate. He was a perfect gentleman. But. When she was ready to resume the intimate side of their relationship, he continued to be a perfect gentleman.

  Maybe he was doing the right thing. She should trust him to make a move at the right time. After all, he’d dealt with being bereaved. He knew more about loss and recovery than she.

  Or had he lost interest?

  Maybe he considered her too emotionally damaged now. No one wanted a woman with so many problems. She had ghosts hanging on her family tree like grisly Christmas ornaments. Would she ever be anything more than a basket case to someone?

  “Shit.” She grabbed the flowers and orange juice off the McLaren’s passenger seat. “It’s just an orphans’ Thanksgiving. Try not to over-analyze it.”

  She strode up the short walkway and rang the bell.

  Stefan, Emma, and Ethan wrapped her in warm hugs and pulled her inside. The kids returned to their toy kitchen in the breakfast nook. Stefan showed Pia the bird in the oven. “Like you, I grew up with a chef. I’m just now learning. This is my first big meal. So, please, lower your expectations.”

  “I won’t complain. I invited myself over.”

  “Nonsense.” He rinsed a couple dishes in the sink. “I chickened out about five times before you called. I kept convincing myself you’d hold Alan’s Uber-Thanksgiving at the Gardens. For some reason, I thought you’d continue his traditions.”

  She crossed her arms, leaned against the counter, and stared at the floor. “When you’re a family of two but have a hundred people over for turkey … it’s indescribably lonely.” She felt a tear welling and turned around.

  A stack of pamphlets greeted her. She tried not to pry, but the banner across the front caught her eye: “Since 1870, Georgetown Law has been an innovator in legal education.” She picked it up and found an application guide underneath and the corner of a brochure about LSAT classes. She dropped the brochure and straightened the stack. When she turned back, he was right behind her.

  “I’ve decided to pursue a law degree.” He shrugged. “Family law, to protect orphans and foster children. But Georgetown is probably out of my academic league. Do community colleges have law schools?”

  She smiled. He turned back to the stove. She glanced around.

  There was a laptop on the counter next to the stove. A video was paused on a bowl of stuffing. She moved to it.

  “What are your guests doing?” he asked.

  “The Jallets are French. It’s an unknown holiday to them. They’re chilling in the guest house, anxious to see justice come to Popov.”

  “I’m glad you came.” Stefan wiped his hands on a dishtowel. “Four is a good number.”

  She sensed him observing her. He reached around and pressed play on the laptop. A woman’s voice spoke about the benefits of low-calorie stuffing. Stefan stood closer to her than they’d been in a long time. Their eyes connected in a way that felt electric to her. He moved in and kissed her on the lips. A genuine kiss. It was quick, not deep. Light, not intense.

  But it had sparks.

  “Eww,” Ethan shouted from his mini-kitchen. “Not like Betty.”

  Pia pulled back. “Betty?”

  “The babysitter.” When her nose crinkled, Stefan’s color rose. “No, no, no. Not what you’re thinking. Betty brings her boyfriend over. They’re teenagers. There might be more PDA in front of the children than I’d like, but it’s hard to get good help.”

  Pia laughed. Schadenfreude at Stefan’s expense felt good. It was the first time she’d laughed in a month. Even if it was an unimportant laugh, it was a step. There was relief too in knowing he cared enough to explain Betty. He poured them each a glass of orange juice.

  “I squeezed it myself.” She’d left the house with a different gift before realizing it would be in bad taste to bring a bottle of wine to a recovering alcoholic. She’d run back inside and looked around for something more appropriate. The first thing she saw was a bowl of oranges.

  They clinked glasses and sipped. It was bitter with a strong taste of rind. She wondered if she’d over-juiced.

  A timer rang. They pulled what looked like a sun-dried turkey from the oven. Burned beans and limp salad surrounded a cup of severely mashed potatoes. Neither of them could figure out how to make the gravy into a liquid again, so they left it. Empty carbs anyway.

  They sat at the table and gave thanks for Pillsbury Crescent rolls. At least one thing came out right, albeit lopsided.

  After dinner, they played soccer in the backyard with a ball the size of a grapefruit. Pia dazzled the children with her skills. She balanced a spinning ball on her knee before bouncing it to her forehead and rolling it down her back, down her leg to her heel, where she popped it over her head and caught it on her toe. She taught them how to pass the ball to each other. And then everyone was cold.

  They went inside for hot chocolate and an animated movie. Stefan lit a fire.

  Pia snuggled on the couch with him. It felt good to have his arm around her, to hear his heartbeat, to smell his cologne. Emma crawled in with them first. Ethan came a minute later and used Stefan’s leg for a pillow. When
the movie ended, Pia pulled out a worn copy of Falling Up by Shel Silverstein and read to them.

  The children laughed at the poems, then fell asleep.

  As they basked in the fire’s dying glow, she marveled at Stefan’s new life. In less than a year, he’d gone from spoiled scion to giving away his family fortune and adopting two children. Any professional psychologist would’ve predicted disaster. Yet he’d forged a family of three abandoned misfits. And she could easily become their missing mother-figure. It felt like destiny.

  Almost.

  She didn’t feel herself committing to them. Not yet. He wasn’t ready. The kids weren’t ready. More importantly, she didn’t know if she was ready. She understood Stefan’s reticence to dive back into a hot-and-heavy relationship. Life with kids is complex.

  After a long silence, she extricated herself from the tangled limbs and small bodies. She gave Stefan a kiss. “Can Betty babysit this weekend? Maybe we can catch dinner and a movie.”

  The McLaren took her home to a strangely quiet Sabel Gardens. Her agents had staggered their family meals to keep a full rotation. They kept a low and quiet profile, the compound still in mourning. She parked and walked in through the family entrance.

  In the dim marble side-foyer, she stopped and listened. The house was mostly silent. In one distant wing, an agent walked rounds, checking doors and rooms.

  The foyer opened in many directions: the dark and empty kitchen; the dark and empty library; the dark and empty bar; the dark and empty formal rooms. She sensed the vastness of it. Tens of thousands of hollow square feet. Marble, oak, mahogany, ebony, and brass in every direction. Crystal chandeliers, sweeping staircases, double doors, furniture so heavy it took two people to move a chair.

  What good was it?

  Alan Sabel built it to impress her. To carve out a life in the woods. To make a cozy home for the two of them. To keep her safe. He did what he thought best to make them a family. He built big to make it better. While he was at it, to make sure everyone could see who was king of the hill. And who was his princess.