by D S Kane
After a few seconds, a middle-aged woman’s voice said, “Da, ya po iti.” Yes, I’m coming. The door opened a crack’s width and a pair of brown eyes stared at the group waiting outside. The woman’s mouth opened wide with surprise and her voice quivered as she whispered, “Cassandra?” Without waiting for a response, she reached out and grasped her daughter’s shoulders. Crying, she said, “I was sure I’d never see you again.” She hugged Cassie. “My dearest.” Then she put a bit of distance between them and examined Cassie. “You look so different. Like your uncle Misha.”
“Mama.” Cassie moved closer and hugged the older woman. “It’s been too long.” She pushed open the door with her foot. The bodyguards moved away and took up positions around the property.
The two women embraced. The older woman looked at Cassie, then at Ann, and down the path to the doorway and saw the rest of the group. “What happened to your face? Who are all these people?”
Cassie smiled. “I’ll tell you as soon as you let us all inside.” She turned and told them all, “This is my mother, Natasha.” She pointed to the people behind her on the path. “Mama, this is Lee. He’s my man. And this is Ann, your granddaughter. And these men are my friends and protectors.” She introduced the five bodyguards.
Natasha’s eyes lit up. “And you didn’t tell me? She’s too old to be yours. When did you adopt?” She faced Ann. Motioned to the teen. “Come to me.” Ann moved cautiously, But Tasha gave her a bear hug. “Welcome, granddaughter.”
Tasha motioned for them all to enter the hallway. She walked slowly struggling to the kitchen.
Cassie touched Tasha’s shoulder. “How’s your arthritis?”
“I’m okay. It’s the constant fog off the ocean.” she replied, shrugging. “Cassie, your face. Tell me everything.”
Cassie scratched her chin. “I found myself in desperate need of a permanent disguise. People were trying to kill me. I hadn’t intended to look like uncle Misha. I don’t even like him. It just happened.”
The older woman stared at her daughter. “But you never called us! We heard you were dead, but you weren’t.” She pounded Cassie’s shoulder. “Shame on you!” She raised her voice, shaking her head. “I’m your mother and you treat me this way?”
Cassie’s face fell. “But mom, I thought if you knew, it would put you in danger. I kept you from knowing for your own good.”
Now the older woman’s face became fierce. “Kiril and I worked with spies. You don’t think we know how to keep secrets? It’s what we do, baby.” She shook her head again, her voice softening. “What exactly happened?” She walked to the stove, placed a teapot on a burner and turned it on. As if shifting gears, she turned to the group and said, “Tea.” It wasn’t a question. She pointed to the dining room table. “We have plenty of time. I don’t have to be at City Hall until Council meeting tonight, and Kiril won’t return from Stanford until dinnertime. He’s teaching seminar class this afternoon on introduction to Leontief’s input-output matrix theory of forecasting. It takes lots of time for young minds to grasp matrix calculus theory of economics.”
She sat and waited until the others joined her at the table. As Lee approached, she examined him as if he was some object about to be auctioned off. To Cassie she asked, “Does he treat you well?” When Cassie smiled and nodded, Natasha gave him a hug. Then back to Cassie. “So daughter, tell me of your adventures.”
All three of them told the tale. Where the story involved just Cassie, she told it. But whenever the story involved one of the others, Cassie pointed to them and let them tell it their way. Ann told how her brother was murdered right in front of her the first night she was homeless, but omitted saying anything about her time turning tricks for cash. Lee told how Cassie had evaded McDougal’s operatives, especially Bob Gault. Cassie described Lee’s brilliant idea to hire a mercenary army headed by Avram Shimmel, who’d served in the Israeli military and then in Mossad. And how Shimmel had found them the bodyguards.
It took several hours. As Cassie finished the story with recovering Ann from the tunnels and Lee from Guantanamo, and their move to the house in Chevy Chase, they heard a car door closing and then the screen door opening.
“Who owns large limo blocking driveway?” growled a voice with a discernible Russian accent. Kiril was thin and wiry, just past middle age. His face was covered by a scrappy, short-cropped, gray Van Dyke beard, and his eyebrows were two thick, gray brushes, but his eyes were steel gray slits. He sauntered into the dining room like the king of an empire. He saw Cassie, and his eyes widened as he began to cry. “My sweet kitten. Finally, I see you again.” He wiped his eyes. “What happened to your face?”
Natasha shook her head. “I’ll tell you later, Kiril. They tell me whole thing. Now, get ready for dinner. We have reservations at Main Street Sushi in one hour.”
“Gidye Misha, Tasha?” asked Kiril. Where is Misha?
“Misha poititi,” replied Natasha. He’ll be there.
Kiril faced Cassie and said, “I have surprise for you, kitten. Waiting with sushi.”
The limo was filled to capacity. As they stopped in front of the sushi bar—which wasn’t actually on Main Street, but two doors down at 696 Mill Street—the group slowly emerged and entered the restaurant. Ari appeared to be impressed by the look of it. “Looks like something in ancient Japan,” he said to Kiril.
Just two steps in, there was a table set for eleven. The waitress pointed to Natasha and then to the table. The five bodyguards took up positions around the table, facing the kitchen, exits and windows. Ann, Cassie, Lee, Natasha, and Kiril sat down, leaving one seat vacant.
Once more, Kiril turned to Natasha and asked, “Gidye Misha, Tasha?”
A heavy-set, tall, and dark-skinned middle-aged man smiled, holding a tiny cup of green tea. “Here,” was all he said as he approached the table, his face looking a little like Kiril but more like Cassie’s. The two men embraced.
Kiril smiled at him. “Kitten, let me introduce my brother Misha. You’ve seen photo of him. Now you meet him for first time. He’s aged since we served Soviet government decades ago. I did five-year plan forecasts under tutelage of Professor Leontief while Misha worked at KGB. When empire fell, we lose contact. Tasha and I flee to America. We escape, but Misha can’t leave. Being former KGB, they would hunt him down. Misha went out as independent, but lately sells arms that used to be property of Soviet Union. He’s contractor, working for just about everyone, but mostly Russian mafiya. Now he is free and can travel, so this is first time in years we see each other. He’s visiting from last Wednesday through tonight.”
Seeing Cassie’s astonished expression, Kiril continued. “I think his biggest client is your former employer.” Kiril looked at Misha and said, “You call yourself Misha Kovich, da? Still not Misha Sashakovich?”
All the heavyset man said was “Da. Kovich. Shorter is better.” He smiled at all the people around the table.
Cassie hugged him. She wondered what her uncle could be selling from the Russian mafiya to American intel agencies. Then Misha shook everyone else’s hand and kissed Tasha’s cheek. As he sat down, Misha said, “Never had sushi before. What is it, some kind of uncooked fish?”
Natasha replied, “Yes it is. But eat fast. I must be at City Council meeting across the street at 7:30 to cover important decision on agenda. We have choice of incorporating into Half Moon Bay or forming our own city, to be called Devil’s Slide. Misha, you might want to come, since for most of your life you could never own land.”
Ann looked up and asked, “Are you going for some specific reason?”
Natasha replied, “I’m one of the council members. Elected two years ago.”
“May I come?” asked Ann, looking at Cassie first, then at Natasha.
Cassie shrugged. “Okay as far as I’m concerned.”
Natasha smiled. “Of course you can. Meetings are open to public and ours are always well attended, with vicious arguments between developers and open space preservationists. You
might find it fun.”
“I have a social studies report due when I get back to school. I can’t fail to have it ready. This might be a good topic.” Ann smiled back.
JD looked at them and nodded. “I’ll go with her.”
Early the next morning, Cassie took Ann to the Surf Riders shop where she purchased a two-piece bathing suit for Ann. They each bought dry suits to protect them from the cold Pacific Ocean. She also purchased a surfboard for Ann. Cassie’s was waiting for her in her parents’ garage.
Ann faced Cassie. “I barely know how to swim.”
Cassie shrugged. “Time you learned.” She took Ann to Surfer’s Beach in El Granada with its tiny waves. They spent two hours in the surf there. Cassie patiently showed her what to do, and helped her get comfortable with the tiny waves. Soon, Ann was comfortable treading water and staying afloat.
Then Cassie showed Ann how to balance on the board, shifting her weight with the tiny incoming waves. Ann learned fast, and by the end of the morning, she could stay standing on the board for over thirty seconds.
Cassie smiled seeing the teenager’s progress. Her sense of pride swelled even more with the joy of being home at last.
They broke for lunch at the Gin Wah restaurant. Ann was in an obvious state of bliss, her grin from ear to ear as she munched on an egg roll. Cassie looked up from her hot and sour soup; she had never seen anyone smile at her like her daughter. Ann said, “Thank you for this, Cassie. It’s wonderful.” But then she frowned. “Tell me what it was like for you. Growing up here. My life in Brooklyn was terrible.”
Cassie shrugged. “Yeah, I know. Mine was good. This place is great for outdoor sports. I ran, I swam, I cycled. And the politics here are infectious. On the coastside, we had twice as high a percentage of voters casting ballots as the rest of the state. People constantly argued politics. So I became very aware of why things happen. But I yearned to see what the rest of the world is like.”
Ann looked away, her mouth closed tightly. “I was lucky worse things didn’t happen to me.”
Cassie touched her shoulder and smiled. “Well, I’ll work hard to give you the life I promised. Better than what I had, and I had a good life. My mom taught me how to cook. And dad helped me with math. I had everything you didn’t. Now, I want you to have all that.” She looked back to the mo shu pork on her plate. Not able to face Ann, she said, “What happened to you is way too common. But how you turned out in spite of it all is a miracle.”
She raised her face back up and smiled. “Ann, after lunch I’d like to show you where the experts surf. I’ll take you to the Mavericks. It’s a little spit of land out past the cliffs.”
She pointed out to the window of the restaurant toward the harbor. “We won’t try surfing there. It’s too dangerous for any but professionals. But that’s where they hold the world surfing championships. If we’re lucky, you can watch some experts try themselves against it.”
Ann seemed doubtful. “Is it too dangerous for you?”
“Oh yeah. It’s even killed surfers competing in the championships. Some of the waves can be fifty feet high.”
“Fifty feet? No way!”
After lunch they walked the long path toward the beachhead and finally reached the point from which surfers were visible. Ann could see the waves, but they were only about thirty feet high. She seemed impressed. “You must be a real good swimmer.”
Cassie thought about her escapades traveling to Hong Kong and San Francisco. She remembered stowing away aboard an old freighter and then diving from the aft and starboard section. “Yeah. I’m good.” She remembered paddling on the tiny inflatable raft several miles to shore. And then repeating the process in the San Francisco Bay when she returned to the United States two weeks later. She sighed, happy. “We can go swimming every day and you’ll improve fast. When we get home I’ll have you enrolled in a swimming class and you’ll get even better.”
For Cassie, the look on Ann’s face was a treat. And Cassie basked in the happiness she saw in her daughter’s face.
As they walked back from the bluff to the parking lot, Ann thought about her new life. Her face went rigid with focus as she came to a decision. She was going to stay with Cassie. The tunnels were behind her now. She needed to prove she was worthy of Cassie’s love and trust. But, how could she do this? And what to make of Lee?
Saturday afternoon Cassie brought her group to La De Da, a coffee house in Half Moon Bay. While they ordered coffee, a small group called Blue Shades played songs from the 1920s through the 1940s, mostly Delta, Memphis, country blues, and jump blues. Her family listened to the band while drinking cups of coffee, cappuccino, latte, and espresso. Cassie admired the lead guitarist’s instrument, a steel-body Dobro-type with a resonator that looked like a polished silver pie tin, with humbucker and lipstick pickups. She realized how much she missed playing guitar, and vowed to buy one as soon as she returned to Washington.
Their music gave her chills. She remembered her first time listening to a blues guitarist playing at a coffee house on the coast side. She’d fallen in love with the blues, its simplicity and directness, traits she found admirable. She remembered her first guitar lesson, her tenth birthday present after she’d complained she wasn’t interested in learning piano. She watched the guitarist’s style, his finger placements as he ran through “Sunday Street,” a complex song by Dave Van Ronk about a drunk homeless person. She ached to play his instrument.
During the intermission between sets, Cassie approached the group’s lead guitarist and asked, “May I see your axe?” He nodded and handed her the guitar. She touched its body, felt the smooth fine wood of the neck and the cold steel body. It was a Galveston 001 model, heavier than any guitar she’d ever handled. It was strung in normal tuning with super slinky 8 gauge strings.
“May I?”
After the guitarist nodded, Cassie sat and played a few chords from a song by Big Bill Broonzy, “Sportin’ Life Blues.” She’d learned it off a teaching video by Van Ronk. He’d died a few years ago. Dave had been based in New York City.
Ann watched Cassie’s face as she plucked the strings and sang. She had never had the desire to learn to play music until now, but she didn’t know Cassie could play guitar. Seeing the pain and pleasure reflected in Cassie’s face as she played guitar, she wanted to learn.
For Ann, there was so much on her growing list of things she wanted, things she never even knew were possible two months ago.
Chapter Fourteen
October 13, 11:24 a.m.
1000 Design Way, Detroit, Michigan
Louis Stepponi hurried down the city street, looking to any curious onlooker like a business executive holding an oversized pool cue case. He wore his most conservative burgundy tie. But inside the case was a disassembled Tango-51 sniper rifle equipped with an AN/PVS-10 night scope. It was one of several weapons he carried as he walked to the office building directly across from the American Motors headquarters in suburban Detroit.
Stepponi hummed the old Frank Sinatra tune, “That’s Life,” as he strolled through the building lobby and smiled at the building security staff. No one moved to vet Louis, probably because they saw an impeccably dressed businessman. He navigated towards the staircase and headed up to the twentieth floor, taking the stairs at a near run, humming as he sprinted. Louis anticipated what he hoped would follow. He was eager to get to the roof.
Once there, he began to whistle the same tune he’d hummed before, as he disabled the fire alarm and picked the lock, then assembled and set up the rifle. The breeze ruffled his hair. He adjusted the rifle’s scope to accommodate wind drift as he screwed a video cam recorder to the butt of the Tango-51, attached the cam to the back end of the gun’s scope and filled a clip with armor piercing shells. When he’d completed the assembly, he looked at the Forbes article with his target’s picture, took a set of binoculars and began running a visual search pattern for his objective, a middle-aged man named John Irving Cragmore. Stepponi had a clear line of
sight across the street, through the office window into the man’s office. All he had to do now was wait.
He had a reputation as a professional killer to maintain, and although his clients knew how to contact him, no one knew what he looked like or anything about his personal life. No one had ever identified him, although he’d done over fifteen hits, mostly for around three hundred thousand dollars each, all paid in cash. His last hits were over two years ago. . He’d found less demand since the mafiya now preferred laundering their money. The businesses of organized crime had become legitimate fronts and profit centers in a brave new world that had little use for him. He’d looked for other outlets for his talents, and recently stumbled over GrayNet.com. It had become his saving grace. He could once again afford two-thousand-dollar business suits, a new bright red Ferrari sports car, and vacations to the hippest parts of the planet. As a result, he even had a new girlfriend, Sharon Marconi. Stepponi was a happy man.
Fifteen minutes passed before he sighted his quarry. “Bingo!” He placed the rifle against its brace and, in turn, he locked its bracket against the building’s exterior wall. He raised the rifle and sighted on Cragmore’s head. But before he could pull the trigger, another person moved in front of his target. Crap, he thought. The other man wore a waiter’s outfit. Stepponi looked at his watch. He’d waited until it was after noon. “Shit.” He watched in alarm as two other men, dressed in business suits, entered the suite and they all sat down at a conference room table well within the Tango’s range, leaving a clear shot for Stepponi. “Good.”
Once again he took aim. But before he could complete squeezing the trigger, the waiter moved in front of Cragmore again. Stepponi assumed the waiter would serve them lunch and leave. He continued looking through the scope for his opportunity to get off a kill shot.
