by Leslie Wolfe
“I don’t think Johnson’s views on immigration will do this country any good,” said a woman in her thirties while hailing a cab. “I think we need to think of the welfare of our own children before caring about other countries and their problems. I want a job and a future for my son, first,” she finished speaking, slamming the cab door behind her.
“He’s a kind man, he is, you know,” an elderly man stated, “and we need kind men.”
The screen shifted back to the studio.
“Senator Johnson has some strong supporters, and he could get more. The coming months will be critical for his chances to win, and we will keep an eye on things for you. From Flash Elections, this is Phil Fournier, wishing you a good rest of the day.”
...30
...Saturday, January 16, 12:13PM EST (UTC-5:00 hours)
...Sam Russell’s Residence
...Timberlake, Virginia
Sam paced his snow-covered deck; he was wearing a light jacket on top of a sweat suit, not feeling the cold, not noticing the winter wonderland landscape unfolding behind his home. There were many ways this could go terribly wrong. He’d been out of the spy business for six years now, and yes, some things never change, but this deal that Robert had gotten himself into seemed intricate and treacherous, a real can of worms.
Sam scratched his clean-shaven head, thinking hard. He had options, quite a few, some legal, some not so much. He could call his former boss, still working for the CIA, and hand this case over on a platter and let the experts do whatever they saw fit with it. There were many other alphabet agencies he could call, with the same results, including throwing Robert in jail for a very long time. All these were his lawful options. He was now aware of a crime being committed, and, under the law, he was obligated to report it. OK, yeah, but fuck that, he thought, moving on to less lawful options.
A smile curled the right corner of his lips. Do I still have it in me? One more case? He flexed his left arm, feeling his bicep with his right hand. He stretched his legs and tried a couple boxing moves, made his feet dance, and threw a couple of jabs in the air. Yep, still alive, he thought. But I can’t do this on my own, that’s for sure. I need a team.
He went back inside the house, grabbed his encrypted cell, and retrieved a number from the phone’s memory. A man’s voice answered almost instantly.
“Tom Isaac speaking.”
“Hey, ol’ buddy, this is Sam Russell; how are ya?”
“Hey! Great, really great, how have you been?”
“All good, retired and all, just getting old and stale, that’s all,” Sam said jokingly.
“That’s bullshit if I ever heard bullshit before. You, old and stale? Never gonna happen!” Tom laughed.
“Hey, listen,” Sam’s voice turned serious all of a sudden. “Are you in the same line of business?”
“Yes, absolutely. What can I do for you?”
“How soon can you get here? There’s someone you need to meet. You’re on the West Coast now, right?”
“Yep, that’s where I am. Let’s see...” Tom paused, checking flight options online. “It’s early here, so I can hop on a flight before lunch. How’s nine tonight your time? Landing at Reagan National? Fast enough for you?”
“That’ll work. Can we meet inside the airport?”
“Sure,” Tom responded, his answer delayed by a split-second of hesitation. “Wherever works for you.”
“Text me at wheels down.”
...31
...Saturday, January 16, 9:52PM Local Time (UTC-4:00 hours)
...Flamboyant Avenue
...St. Thomas, US Virgin Islands
Alex enjoyed the Caribbean more than she had expected. She didn’t care she technically had to run from San Diego because of Kramer and other potentially loose and dangerous ex-NanoLance executives. Her bruised ego healed in exactly five minutes after being in St. Thomas. Steve’s impeccable taste in beaches, convertibles, dining, and overall entertainment was helping as well, but Alex enjoyed his presence most of all.
“What are you smiling about, Miss Hoffmann?” Steve interrupted her reverie.
You, she thought, her smile widening. “I’m having a great time; thank you so much for putting up with me,” she said instead. “I took over your vacation without notice or invitation, and I appreciate you taking me in.”
“Always a pleasure,” Steve replied, frowning a little, a shadow coming over his blue eyes.
There were many unspoken things between them, the relationship that could have been but Alex had rejected because of her own insecurities and the complications such a relationship would bring to their work. Steve disagreed with her reasons, but of course he did; he was the shrink. He always disagreed, always challenged her thoughts, her feelings. They had stopped arguing about it though, both valuing their friendship to the greatest degree. It still felt awkward at times though. Deciding not to think about it anymore, Alex lifted her arms, playing with the wind and enjoying the high-speed convertible ride.
“So, tell me, do you have one of these customized cars brought over when you travel?
Steve’s frown evaporated.
“This? This is a rental; it’s not customized at all. But it was, in all fairness, very difficult to find.”
“Why the extra trouble? You can’t drive the average rental sedan for a few days?”
“Seriously? How can you ask that? I will always put in the extra effort to ensure I enjoy my ride. It’s important to me.”
“Food is important to me right now. Beach makes me very hungry.” She growled playfully, baring her teeth and contorting her tan face in imitation of a feral predator. “Where are we eating?”
“We’re gonna have pizzas at the Pie Whole. It’s an excellent place, you’ll love the pies.”
Seated and waiting for their pizzas, the conversation stalled. Alex broke the silence, not comfortable with it at all.
“Do you come here every year?”
“In the past few I have, yes,” Steve replied.
“Cheers.” She raised her glass, then downed her Heineken thirstily. Putting it down empty, she beckoned the waitress for another one.
“Go easy on it; it’ll get to your head before you know it,” Steve warned, playfully waving a finger at her.
“Ah, shut up, buzzkill. I’m thirsty, that’s all.” She laughed.
“Actually, that’s not all,” Steve added, turning pedantic. “You’re also dehydrated from a full day on the beach, and alcohol will get you intoxicated faster than normal. That’s why alcoholic beverages should not be consumed on the beach or in intense heat.”
The man loved to teach, that was a sure fact.
“That’s why Arabs don’t drink alcohol,” he continued, undisturbed.
The tidbit of information caught Alex’s curious mind.
“What? I thought it was by religious precept that they couldn’t drink. Written in the Quran, right?”
“Yes, but like with all forms of religious doctrine, the Quran was developed as a guide to keep people lawful, healthy, and productive during times where law and law enforcement, healthcare and health education, and government infrastructure were altogether absent. The religious books taught people what to eat and what to avoid to live a healthy life. You see, back then ‘Thou shalt not kill’ was about the only thing keeping people from killing one another. Back then, if anyone decided to commit murder, in the absence of the legal mechanisms we have today, there was little that could be done to catch the killers and hold them accountable.”
“Interesting. So that’s why alcohol is banned in Islam, because Islam is found in the hot zones of the planet, right?”
“The Islamic faith originated in the very hot areas of the planet; although now you can find some limited Islamic influences in temperate climates, yes. But even the expansion of the Islam happened primarily toward other hot regions, like Africa. One can only speculate that it happened this way because their precepts made more sense to people living in very hot climates.”
“I see what you mean,” Alex said, thoughtful. “Muslims cannot drink alcohol, but Catholics can, the majority of them living in temperate or cold areas.”
“Catholics can and are even encouraged to taste a little red wine, very healthy for people living in temperate or cold climates. Wine is a natural circulatory aid. What other examples can you think of?” Steve asked in his teacher voice, addressing her as he would a student.
“Well, Muslims can’t eat pork either. Pork is fat, hard to digest in a hot climate, and spoils easily. What else...Ah, the Catholics and the Orthodox have biannual fasting, which detoxifies your body, if you stop and think about it. But both these religions allow eating of meat, especially at the beginning of winter.”
“Why then? Why sacrifice pigs at the start of winter?”
“Because it’s cold outside, and, historically, people living thousands of years ago did not have freezers to preserve their meats.”
“Yep, that’s precisely it,” he agreed.
“Why do you like to teach, Steve?”
“Because it changes how people, how you look at things. How you think about things. I open your mind to different points of view that you later decide to use or discard. That is very rewarding.” He paused, taking a wolf bite out of his pizza. “I also like to hear myself talk,” he laughed.
“How long have you worked with Tom and the gang, with The Agency?”
“Almost twelve years now,” he replied and took another bite.
“How was it back then? How were the earlier cases?” Alex gulped her second glass of ice-cold beer and gestured for a third.
“Oh, I don’t know about the early cases. Tom had started The Agency almost twenty years before he met me. He worked the cases himself; he did everything on his own at first, or with Claire’s help. Then we met, and I started working for him.”
“Did you work on tough cases like the ones we take now?”
“You’ve only worked two cases; you’re very junior in this job, but yes, both your cases so far were tough, and no, back then they weren’t all like that. For example, no one held me at gunpoint or wanted to kill me until several years in.”
“So I should be flattered?” She smiled playfully, almost flirtatiously.
“No, you should be concerned and wary and behave like an adult about this.” Steve was serious. “I am worried, you know,” he softened his voice a little, touching her hand. “I am concerned that you show no sign of trauma after these events. On the surface it’s almost like these events did not affect you at all, like you don’t care.”
“Steve, don’t be a shrink with me, please. I’m having a great time. Be a friend,” she pleaded, slurring a little, raising her third glass of beer and clinking it against Steve’s tall order of sparkling mineral water.
“I am your friend, and I am concerned about you. You should feel anger, fear, anxiety, or any mix of these feelings. Instead, it seems to me you don’t let yourself feel anything.”
“Nope, not true. I feel proud of being able to handle myself well. I felt embarrassment when I didn’t. I had my ass handed to me a couple of times in the past, and that was awful. I was afraid I’d get fired for not being able to take care of myself.” She chuckled.
“That would never happen, don’t worry. Tom will probably give you a hard time and train you some more, but he wouldn’t do that.”
“Good to know, but I still don’t wanna fuck it up again, ’cause it was a lousy feeling, to let that biatch Kramer have the upper hand. But see? The tides have turned, and fate gave me the opportunity to even the score with her, so I actually felt happy about it. That’s how I felt. And grateful to Lou for spending his Christmas vacation on my self-defense lessons. My butt hurt for days...It had to count for something, and it did. And I am grateful.”
“Were you afraid? Talk to me,” Steve asked in a soft voice.
“Hell, yeah, and still am sometimes, but I don’t wanna talk about it,” she said, sadness coloring her voice. She stood up, a little unsteady, then found her balance and sense of humor. “Let’s go. I am so done letting you ruin this awesome dinner.”
“That’s your way of saying you’re a little tipsy, exactly like I said you’d be, and you wanna get to the hotel early?” Steve asked mischievously, laughter in his voice.
“Ha! In your dreams, buddy, I am so not drunk! The night’s still young!”
“Prove it to me, then,” Steve challenged her as they left the restaurant.
“How?”
Steve stepped toward a patch of fresh-mowed lawn next to the Pie Whole. Cut blades of grass covered the lawn, left behind by the mower.
“Well, it’s a scientifically proven fact that a person can’t sit on their knees, hands behind their back, and lean forward to grab a blade of grass with their teeth, then sit upright again, if they’re intoxicated.”
“You’re on.” Alex cheered at the challenge.
She kneeled on the grass and put her hands behind her back. She felt unsteady momentarily. This was going to be hard, but she wasn’t going to back down from the challenge. She started leaning forward toward the grass, slowly, barely managing to hold her balance and not fall face down on that lawn. A few passersby were watching, intrigued and entertained, but she didn’t care. She grunted a little, leaned in some more, struggling for balance with a lot of effort, and finally reached the grass. She took a couple blades between her teeth, then got back up, cheering loudly.
“See? I told you I’m not drunk!”
“Oh, but you are, my dear,” Steve said.
“What? But you said—”
“No sober person would have accepted that challenge.” Steve laughed, followed by the chuckles of their impromptu audience.
“You bastard!” Alex laughed, punching him in the chest.
It felt good to be there; it felt safe. It was OK to be a careless kid again.
Steve’s cell phone rang, interrupting them. He spoke with the caller briefly, then turned to her, his glee gone.
“That was Tom. We’re going back home tomorrow; we have a new client.”
...32
...Sunday, January 17, 4:27PM EST (UTC-5:00 hours)
...Robert Wilton’s Residence
...Washington, DC
Regardless of what Robert did that day, he did not let the burn phone out of his sight, waiting for a sign from Sam Russell or his friend, Tom Isaac. He had met with Tom at the airport, late the night before, and somehow, without really promising much, that guy had put hope back into his heart.
When the burn cell finally chimed, it startled him. With trembling hands, he flipped the cell open to read the text message.
Find a legit business reason to travel to Las Vegas on Tuesday—meet a vendor for dinner. Check into Aria hotel—reservation already made. While at dinner, you’ll get a new text with instructions. Hang in there.
...33
...Monday, January 18, 10:14AM Local Time (UTC+1:00 hours)
...Prague East—Brandýs nad Labem-Stará Boleslav
...Prague, The Czech Republic
Karmal Shah pulled his Audi Q7 into the courtyard. Before parking, he looked around carefully, checking for movement, people, cars, anything out of the ordinary. All was quiet in the backyard of his newly purchased property in East Prague. He had spent 12,000,000 Czech koruny, or almost $470,000, to buy a 7,500-square-foot warehouse with refrigeration capabilities, an office that could accommodate five or six people, and an apartment for his personal use. The building had truck access and a loading dock and could be fitted to house even more industrial-sized refrigerators, if the business were to suddenly pick up. The colors were awful though; the place needed a paint job badly, but there was no time for that.
This location worked great for Shah. It was just a few miles northeast of a small airport, Letiště Praha-Kbely. A small air base that welcomed civilian aircraft traffic for the right amount of money, Kbely was large enough to accommodate his personal plane, a Piaggio Avanti EVO, custom-fi
tted to carry cargo with minimal reconfiguration. His aircraft turned people’s heads and got a lot of attention due to its twin engines mounted in push configuration. A small forward wing made the nine-seater plane look like it had whiskers and made its silhouette unmistakable. It was a great aircraft: fast, reliable, and low cost to fly. Seven million dollars very well spent.
Karmal Shah, a Pashtun from Afghanistan and successful entrepreneur in the gourmet and exotic foods market with rumored yet unconfirmed ties to the Taliban, was very aware that his current commercial flight status could change overnight if the FBI, CIA, or any such organization should decide to add him to the no-fly list. That was probably going to happen anyway, sooner rather than later. Shah was not delusional; he knew that was coming, especially with the new rise in the terrorist activity generated by ISIL and the renewed focus on antiterrorism that ISIL had generated.
Damn fools, ISIL, ISIS, or whatever they wanted to call themselves. They didn’t have the refinement or patience to think through or build complex strategies. They were savages, barbarians who liked to scream threats and decapitate hostages on television, getting people and organizations like Shah’s under the microscope again. Damn fools. Sometimes Shah wondered whom ISIL really worked for.
Nevertheless, Shah needed to preserve his air mobility, and he needed a private plane for his current needs anyway. The Piaggio was hardly a cargo hauler, but it could take a decent payload. With some careful planning and a few refueling stops along the way, it could even make it to America. A simple stopover would take his plane to Moscow, Eastern Africa, or the Middle East. Great piece of equipment to have, very helpful in his business. The only thing left to do was to register the plane with the Czech Republic Civil Aviation Authority.
Shah liked the location of his new building for many other reasons. The Czechs were happy to grant him business permits and a tax break in exchange for the twenty-five million dollars he was bringing as an investment to their country. Shah was moving his booming online gourmet foods business away from France, where it had operated and grown successfully for years, away from high taxes and overzealous inspectors. All inspectors bothered Shah, whether food, safety, tax, or labor. He simply didn’t want them snooping around. The Czechs were willing to be flexible in exchange for such a strong injection of capital into the region. The local authorities had become his best friends for minimal amounts of cash. Great place to do business.
