by D S Kane
As the train to New York passed the natural gas refinery in Elizabeth, New Jersey, Cassie held her nose and breathed as little as possible. After so long in clean air, the Jersey pollution was offensive. She looked out the train window watching the flaming vent burn waste gas from oil refineries, thinking, Jersey is the only state needing a pilot light.
The next day, she checked into the Hotel Wolcott.
Cassie thought about hacking Project SafePay. If I can determine which transfer banks are involved, and which government bank accounts are being used, I can just grab the cash, bit by bit, and that might yield the resources I need to take on the Islamic extremists who hunt me.
How long did she have before the hunters found and terminated her?
Could she even hope to prevail?
What would it take to go on the offensive?
How long would crafting a plan take?
How much would it really cost?
Part Two
Chapter Thirteen
August 4, 11:36 a.m.
Hotel Wolcott, 4 West 31st Street, Manhattan
Two days passed, and Cassie hadn’t done anything about her situation. No objective for the future. No plan at all. It all seemed hopeless to her.
She wandered the West Side, exploring her new neighborhood, stopping and looking at the reflections from store windows to ensure no one followed her. The area was chock full of wonderful but reasonable restaurants and brewpubs. She ate at a hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant, watching the people outside who walked by. The food was greasy but tasty. When she’d finished her lunch, she left, dragging her empty rolling suitcase behind her.
Off to Penn Station and the lockers where she’d stored additional copies of her identities and her computer equipment for quick getaway in case of emergency. She stopped occasionally to watch traffic flows. No one stopped behind her.
Cassie opened her locker and removed some paper and ink for her printer. Returning to the hotel, she stood in an alleyway across the street for almost a half hour, watching traffic move past the Wolcott’s entrance. Simple tradecraft to keep her safe.
The next day she visited the YMCA. She found a bulletin board that featured activities for residents of the community and several martial arts classes. Cassie enrolled in two refresher classes, jujitsu and aikido, signing her name as “Denise Hardcastle,” from Woodbine, Iowa. She visited one of the classes, led by a tall, thin man. She needed his knowledge and hoped her decision to attend would yield results. The next day she returned and visited a class in judo led by Judy Hernandez.
Cassie practiced with each of them twice a week. Over a period of two weeks she came up to speed. Cassie thought of them as friends. With Judy’s help, she gained strength, and also lost some more weight. In less than two weeks Cassie could lift her own weight. When Judy asked, Cassie told her she was a struggling fiction writer who occasionally worked as a journalist, but only when desperate for cash.
Judy helped Cassie practice several moves designed for close combat offense and defense. They had been working out for almost two hours, and it was getting late.
Judy moved her arms and hips in tandem, sweeping Cassie off her feet and knocking her breath from her as she landed. Judy spoke with a thick Brooklyn accent. “Living in this city, you really need to know how to defend yourself. Know what I mean?”
Cassie stayed on the mat until she could once again breathe, felt her ass throb in the spot where she landed. She knew she’d be black and blue tomorrow. “Ouch. Well yeah, but some lessons are just painful.”
Cassie rolled over and rose up. “Let’s break. Enough for today.” The wall clock showed it was after 8 p.m. The place was deserted except for them.
Judy and Cassie headed for the lockers on their way to the showers. They stripped off their clothes and Cassie found Judy staring at her. Judy’s mouth fell open as Cassie wiped a few drops of creamy liquid seeping from her breasts. “Denise, is that what I think it is?”
“Uh, yeah, I’m afraid so,” Cassie replied, uncertain as she watched Judy for signs this might complicate their budding friendship. She found only curiosity in Judy’s expression.
“Cheez, how’d that happen?” Judy pointed with a circular gesture at Cassie’s tiny swollen breasts.
She took a deep breath as images swirled through her. Composed, finally. “One big accident. And the guy literally died on top of me. You could say the shitbag came and then he went.” She tried to keep her voice from cracking as she remembered murdering her baby. “So I had it aborted, but no one told my breasts.” She turned her face away for a moment, hoping she wouldn’t start crying.
“Have you ever, you know, have you?” Judy pointed at her mouth, and Cassie feigned shock. Judy winced, wearing a sheepish expression. She might have taken too much for granted in opening this entire discussion topic. “Hey, Denise, I had to ask.”
Cassie shrugged. “I’d rather not talk about it.”
Judy sat frozen on the locker room bench, unsure of what to say next. She reached out and touched Cassie’s cheek.
Cassie thought fast. Is this safe? Should I offer myself? She felt she could trust a woman not to rape her, and it been so long for her without the comfort of another with loving intentions.
She nodded. “You’ll never be able to reach me from there. Come here.” Judy sat on the bench closer to Cassie, but still too far away. “Closer.”
Judy straddled the bench and reached a hand to touch Cassie’s left nipple. Cassie could smell Judy’s odors. The perspiration of her workout permeated Judy’s body, plus garlic and what seemed like the aroma of hamburger emerged from Judy’s mouth as she smiled at Cassie.
They stared into each other’s eyes, then Judy moved her face toward Cassie’s. Closer. Their lips touched, then separated. Judy moved in again and they kissed. At first Cassie thought it was mere exploration, soft and gentle. But it grew passionate and then they were touching and squeezing each other, fingers thrusting everywhere, each pushing into the other with a hunger—in Cassie’s case—pent up from months of celibacy.
She remembered Riyadh. She should stop now. Without control over her own hand, it moved and touched Judy’s face. What am I doing?
But it was happening and now, she was unable to keep herself from wanting it. Want it bad. Real bad.
Cassie saw that her towel had dropped on the floor. Judy tried pushing Cassie onto it, but Cassie said, “Me on top.” Judy agreed with reluctance. Then they reversed positions. Each one faced the other’s vee, had their tongue embedded within the other’s genitals, licking, sucking, nibbling, rubbing, and prying with fingertips. Cassie felt Judy’s finger, then most of her hand, part her vaginal lips to enter and reach deep into her. She moaned with arousal and replied in kind with her hand.
Judy was fast and easy but Cassie took forever, time passing as her core slowly heated toward a climax on which she had to focus all her attention, forcibly coaxing it from her body. Her orgasm pulsed stronger, longer, and felt more satisfying than she’d remembered any before.
Their experience ended in the shower as, after they’d satisfied each other multiple times, they washed each other. What now? She’d never had sex with a friend before, and never with a woman. She decided, damn! I need to exert more control over what I do in my personal life, and what I let others do to me.
As if feeling Cassie’s ambivalence, Judy said, “Don’t concern yourself about this, Denise, unless you want more of me. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy it. You’re a handful in the sack. But you’re not very submissive, and I hate to fight for control when…well, when, you know.”
And Cassie did understand. Her few encounters with men were fights over control, and only Evan could accept her domination. He was the only man who’d ever had the patience to deal with her. Thinking about it now, she realized she always “fucked” men, never let them “make love” to her and absolutely never let them fuck her.
As she understood the logical implications of her actions, Cassie wondere
d what it would take for her to change her behavior. But wouldn’t that leave her more vulnerable?
Cassie’s face wrinkled wistfully. “Oh, well, at least we can remain friends, right?” And when Judy smiled and nodded, Cassie said, “Yes. Friends.” They both laughed.
Her hack of the White House server left Cassie concerned about her personal security. She reviewed her knowledge of counter-surveillance tradecraft, hoping to improve her life expectancy. She bought prepaid cell phones with enough time to get her through a week of usage, then discarded them and bought replacements. She only used these for outgoing calls. She gave the first phone’s numbers to Judy, but Judy hadn’t called and Cassie discarded the cell phone.
Cassie used her cell phone only to connect to her website and retrieve email. She built over a hundred false or stolen identities, then ran out of materials. But she didn’t think she’d need more. Cassie continued to rotate through her identities and changed hotels every week.
She had yet to even visit the same restaurant twice. There were so many great ones she wasn’t even tempted. Her large rolling suitcase could accommodate a single burner camping stove and had room enough for cooking supplies. Cassie could rig up a portable kitchen wherever she went, providing the hotel room had electric outlets, a microwave, a coffee maker, and a refrigerator.
Her only location of habit was the Y. But how safe is it to not alter this habit? Should I go to the other Y branches in Manhattan?
She felt vulnerable all the time.
Chapter Fourteen
August 6, 12:06 p.m.
Milburn Hotel, 242 West 76th Street, Manhattan
On a sunny Saturday morning, Cassie found herself humming the words to a blues tune from the early 1930s, “Midnight Hour Blues,” by Leroy Carr. She watched an old PBS Julia Child cooking show she’d never seen, and arranged the ingredients she’d need to make the dish as she sang.
She brushed the dirt off a pound of crimini mushrooms, diced an onion, and opened a small bottle of brandy for the cream of mushroom soup recipe. Her mouth watered in anticipation. She could smell some of the assembled ingredients, the strong pungent aroma of the uncorked brandy, the forest odor of the raw porcini mushrooms, and the sweet smell of crème fraîche she’d bought at Zabar’s gourmet delicatessen.
From the room’s television, the show started, and Julia Child spoke about her guest chef.
Cassie’s cell phone vibrated in her pocket. No one knows my number!
The phone’s display listed the caller’s ID as “Private.” Cassie hesitated, someone had found her. Maybe it’s a wrong number. She took a breath, then pressed the Answer button and pressed the phone against her ear.
She remained silent, patient until she heard the caller.
“This is Leland Ainsley for Swiftshadow.” She said nothing. As the agency’s Director of Information Security, Ainsley wasn’t an operative. He was more like a chained junkyard dog, keeping the back yard clear of trouble.
Cassie had never liked him. He’d always tried to interest her in himself, using pick-up lines she found ludicrous.
Was he the person who’d leaked her cover? Before this call, she’d thought the traitor was Assistant Director McDougal or Director Greenfield. Maybe even Robert Gault, McDougal’s favorite operative. Or one of her fellow operatives who knew her from when they’d trained together at The Farm. Ainsley hadn’t had that training and therefore hadn’t occurred to her as a possible traitor. But now, she admitted, maybe she’d been wrong.
Cassie willed her voice to speak. “Briefly state your business.”
“Cassie, we were told you’re dead. You can’t imagine what I went through, trying to—”
“Your business, Mr. Ainsley.” She could feel anger overpower her fear and tried to keep both emotions from her voice.
“Lee. It’s Lee. I have some information for you. Or rather, I have information to trade with you.”
She felt her face grimace, turning to a sneer. “What kind of information could you have that might interest me? And what do you expect in return?”
“Cassie, where can we meet? You just won’t believe what I found.”
“First, I never meet with anyone. Ever! Second, I can’t imagine you know anything of value to me. And third—”
“I know who, how, and why your cover was blown. I’m almost sure of the intel.”
Cassie’s heart almost stopped. Her jaw fell open. She tried to speak but her mouth didn’t work. Misha’s voice in her head screamed, hang up now, you idiot!
She wasn’t aware of how much time passed before she refocused. Her anger melted into fear and indecisiveness. In a near panic, she wondered what she should do?
Gradually, her curiosity won out. But that wasn’t good. What if the phone call was a setup? What if he was a threat? And even if he wasn’t, others might have the same skills. They could also find her.
Her mouth opened and words came, words she couldn’t control, filled with rage at being in danger yet again. “And what do you want in return for this relatively useless and worthless piece of intel?”
She could almost envision his smile, his blond-haired head nodding, as he must now understand she’d agreed she was interested after all. Fuck!
“Cassie, I think what happened to you may happen again, maybe to me this time, unless we stop it. I can’t survive alone for long, just like you can’t.”
She thought about the implications of every possible response she might make to his statement. “Give me a phone number where I can reach you and a non-agency email address. And a list of dates with times when you could disappear for at least three hours without anyone suspecting.”
“Look, if I can find you, others can too. Destroy this cell immediately. Call me at 202-463-1294 when you can, and stay on the line for less than ten seconds, giving me the number of the pay phone where you’re located. I’ll send you a choice of meeting dates in DC.” He terminated the call.
Cassie noted the entire conversation had taken almost ninety seconds—way over the magic three-second boundary that made a call almost impossible to trace. “Damn.” She dropped the cell phone on the floor and crushed it with her shoe, gathered all the documents identifying her, and bolted from the hotel.
She jogged several blocks to the Javits Center where she found a bank of pay phones on the first floor. It was crowded there and she felt safe. “Ainsley, it’s 212-687-1269. Cassie out. When you call, say the words “death letter blues” to identify yourself.” She hung up. “Death Letter” was one of the oldest blues, with many versions claimed by various blues legends from the 1920s, starting with Charley Patton and Son House. Something few people would think of.
She waited. Over five minutes passed before he called her back. He gave her an untraceable non-agency email address at hushmail.com, a list of untraceable cell phone numbers for phones given him by the agency, and a list of days and times when he could be missing from work for up to three hours without it being noticed. He finished the call with, “I’ll need some help very soon or I might be dead. Not to mention it’s likely you’ll be dead too.” This call took over two minutes, but she figured no one could have traced it.
When the call ended, she walked back to the hotel, wondering if it was still a safe place. She watched its entrance from the front window of a convenience bodega until she was sure there was no one scouting out the entrance. Twenty minutes. Cassie returned to her room.
Cassie was too disturbed to cook. She brewed a cup of coffee, dumped in the brandy, and drank it in three swallows. She thought about all Ainsley told her.
She came to a quick decision, smashed her remaining cell phones, and packed her attaché case with three complete changes of clothes, five alternate fake identities, $5,000 in counterfeit $20 bills, and her toolkit. She dressed in her homeless outfit, stuffed her kitchen equipment into the rolling suitcase, and packed her notebook computer into another case she placed atop her suitcase. She left by the service exit.
From the alleyway,
she waited to see if anything had changed at the front of the hotel. No action there. She took a deep breath, relaxing, and walked from the alley onto the street, crossing to the opposite corner just as a van screeched to a halt in front of the hotel. Two men bolted from the van and sped into the lobby. She recognized them as the ones who chased her from her Washington apartment. One carried a sharpened broom handle and all had bulges under their trench coats. Cassie continued on, not looking back. This was getting old.
She walked toward Penn Station. On her way she bought a new burner cell phone. She wondered if Ainsley had set her up. Did he call the men who are probably searching my hotel room this very second? If I escape, it will qualify his bona fides. If I don’t, I’m dead. Whose side is Ainsley on?
So many unanswered questions. So many threats. She steeled herself to what her life had become.
Cassie was gone from New York State in under an hour.
Chapter Fifteen
August 8, 1:14 p.m.
L Street near First Street, Washington, DC
The summer day broiled down, steamy and smoggy, its colors bright, contrasts stark. Cassie waited in a nondescript rental car for the approach of her prey. Parked on L Street near First Street, the car was one block from the DC bus station where she’d arrived.
