The Man From Belarus (Corps Justice Book 16)

by C. G. Cooper

  Doubt had begun to creep in right about the time Mrs. Pascal knocked on the door. “Is everything okay, honey?”

  Lena glanced at her phone. The best she could figure, she’d been in the small room for thirty minutes. Thirty minutes!

  The longest she’d ever stayed before was maybe five. And that was including pleasantries on the way out the door.

  She stuffed everything into her bag and slapped her cheeks a couple times.

  “Get it together,” she said to herself, then composed herself and went out to meet Mrs. Pascal at the door with a dazzling smile.

  Once she’d made it to the apartment she’d rented after all sorts of cajoling, not to mention lying about her age, lying about her real name, and lying about her mother being with her, Lena locked the door and dissected every word in her father’s letter. The words and the tone felt like him, but she had to be cautious. First, she used every trick Terry Shamblin had taught her to detect codes within the text. Next it was scouring the paper itself to see if there was a hidden message stored in its filaments.

  Nothing.

  Just a letter from the father she’d thought was dead.

  Her mind went back to that day. A calm day in the field, shooting as he tried to distract her. Then the car doors slamming. Her father telling her to go. The sound of gunshots.

  She should’ve gone back. That way she would’ve been sure. She might’ve seen something she didn’t want to see, but that was life. She knew that now. But no, she’d listened to her father and the lessons he’d drilled into her from such a young age.

  Lena closed her eyes and, after some hard-fought concentration, sunk into a calming meditation. When thoughts or images came, she acknowledged them and allowed them to move along on their way. Finally, she was in that perfect moment, with her mind clear, her breathing settled, and her soul floating in its place.

  She opened her eyes and started again, this time detached and studious, an archeologist investigating a long-forgotten tablet.

  It took another hour of supreme focus. With a long-awaited exhalation, she nodded. It had to be her father.

  Now the question was, was she supposed to find him, or was he going to make the next move?

  She waited a day. A long, boring day, when all she could think about was running. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to see her father, or that she’d lost faith that he had written the letter. It was the other questions that crept in.

  Was it he who planted the letter in the safe deposit box? If not, then who?

  And how did they know where to find her?

  And were they watching her now?

  And if they were watching, what were they waiting for?

  Intermixed with those questions were the concerns.

  Where had she gone wrong? She’d learned how to live off the grid, almost completely anonymous, and yet, they’d found her.

  If she made a run for it now, would she ruin her father’s plan?

  Where had he been all these years?

  Why hadn’t he contacted her before?

  Why did he let her think he was dead all this time, believing that she could only catch his soul in a memory? Where were his hugs when she needed them?

  She decided on a run. At least that way she could bolt if needed. With anything of value hidden in the ceiling air vent, booby trapped with explosives, of course, she laced up her running shoes and left the cramped apartment that smelled like 1949.

  She wore a ball cap for the first mile, eyes behind Oakley sunglasses, always scanning in her peripherals. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just a small town going about its small-town ways. Men and women heading to church or some eatery. Kids heading to the park on wobbly bikes.

  She stopped at the drugstore for a sports drink and took her time perusing the aisle. No cameras. No wary eyes. Just the old owner who couldn’t see much farther than the end of his nose.

  Lena was about to pay for her drink and ask the man where the nearest laundromat was when someone tripped the jingle of the front door. She looked toward the sound.

  And froze. She locked eyes with the nondescript man who gave her a nod and dropped a piece of paper on the ground. He was gone and she ran without thinking, snatching the paper and reading the old code.

  It was time.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  STOKES — CAMP SPARTAN, ARRINGTON, TENNESSEE — PRESENT DAY

  The fact that someone was after him was no surprise. What was a shock was the easy-breezy way they’d burrowed into SSI’s technological nerve center.

  It was just him and Elijah Huckleberry, the whiz doing everything in his power to retrace the path of the intrusion. “No trace in the P&L files,” he said after several minutes of intense silence. “They did go for a nice walk through our Saudi deployment schedule. And that was after the breech into your stuff.”

  “So, what you’re saying,” said Cal, “is that someone accessed my personnel record and then went window shopping at SSI’s top secret expense.”

  Huck nodded at the screen. “I’d say that’s a fair assessment of the situation.” He then leaned back in his chair and looked at Cal, his face a stoic mask. “I need to tell Mr. Dunn.”

  “I'm sure he’s got his hands full. Why don’t you—”

  There was a commotion behind him and, without warning, the door to Huckleberry’s office burst off the hinges.

  “Get down on the ground!” yelled the first man, his voice slightly muffled by the balaclava covering his face.

  Cal raised his hands and went to the ground. A knee jammed into his spine, a hand clamped onto the back of his neck, and a boot stomped on his calf.

  “Take it easy,” he said through grunts, “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “You shut your mouth,” said the man slapping the cuffs onto his wrists. “We’ve been told you’re fair game if you resist. You’d be wise not to give me the opportunity to stomp you into the ground.”

  There was nothing for Cal to do but remain compliant, take the black canvas they put over his head, and try to keep up with the stomping feet of the dozen or so men sent in to nab him.

  Chapter Forty

  DUNN — CAMP SPARTAN, ARRINGTON, TENNESSEE — PRESENT DAY

  “What do you mean they took him?” he said, teeth grinding.

  “They burst in here and took him,” said Huck. “Like with the bag over his head and everything. I’m guessing that wasn’t us?”

  If the past couple of hours had felt like being pulled out by a Rio undertow, it now felt like the ocean was sucking him into some deep drain at its lowest depth.

  “No, it wasn’t us, Mr. Huckleberry.”

  All Dunn knew was that there’d been a call from the president, then a call from the front gate, and before he could fully react, Cal was gone. He wasn’t going to tell the kid that. Better to rein in the spiraling situation.

  Huck put a thumbnail to his lips. “I knew I should’ve said something.”

  “It’s not your job. Besides, you were outnumbered.”

  “Then what can I do, Mr. Dunn?”

  “I'm not sure yet. What did you find before it happened?”

  Huckleberry told him about Cal’s file, about the other rabbit trails. Dunn couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe Cal had been in on it all along. But why? And the thing with the dead guy on the trail. No way. Cal would have to be in some deep kimchee to go that far. And besides, what would he need his own personnel file for?

  Dunn didn’t answer for a long time. Huckleberry, to his credit, just waited, no tapping foot or nervous tick, save for a gentle gnawing of the thumbnail. Other than that, the twentysomething was a rock under pressure.

  “Okay, Mr. Huckleberry, here’s what I want you to do.”

  As Dunn outlined the outrageous plan, he was pleased to see only a slight rise in one of Huckleberry’s eyebrows.

  Chapter Forty-One

  WILCOX — COPENHAGEN, DENMARK — PRESENT DAY

  Patience was a game few played well. Matthew Wilcox w
as one of the few. “The Few and the Proud,” as his old pal Cal would say.

  Only Cal wasn’t really his pal. Sure they’d had some good times. Sure they’d killed some bad guys. But that had been his idea, not Cal’s. Then again, maybe there’s a certain kind of guy who’ll go along with you to the edge of the fire just because he figures you need someone to look after you. That’s a pal in anyone’s book. A sucker and a hopeless schmuck, but a pal, nonetheless.

  Wilcox zoomed in on the pair magnified in his high-powered lens. These two squabbled like an old married couple, even though it was a bit one-sided. Gaucho, the short one, complained and wailed while Trent took it all in stride, sometimes chucking a jab back at his friend, sometimes just chuckling softly to himself.

  “We should go home,” Gaucho said for perhaps the fiftieth time that day.

  “Man, we don’t have a home,” Trent said, though Wilcox couldn’t detect any regret in his words.

  “Why’d you have to bring that up?”

  “You’re the one who keeps bringing it up.”

  The short man shrugged. “I don’t see the problem.”

  “The problem is me having to steady my hand as it keeps wanting to smack your head five or six times without stopping.”

  “Easy does it, there, Top. You’re no prince.”

  “At least I’m not some homesick baby crying for his wubby.” Trent smiled broadly at that, going so far as to let a chuckle slip.

  “I got your wubby right here,” muttered his friend.

  And so it went, back and forth, neither man giving an inch in his resolute stand.

  “These two,” said Wilcox, shaking his head and making another note in the small journal he was keeping for this glorious task. “Maybe I should walk over there and tap them on the shoulders.”

  He probably could. Though the pair was on surveillance, they’d shown him little to prove that they could even come close to beating a true professional. Like himself, for instance.

  “Waste of my time,” he muttered, rummaging through his pack until he found a protein bar. What he wouldn’t give for a blood red filet mignon and a vintage Pinot Meunier to go with it. He bit into the bar and did his best to imagine the steak. It was perfect. The steak tasted just like gerbil food.

  His mind went back to where it always did, to the possibility that maybe, just maybe, Cal Stokes would indeed come over to his way of thinking.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  STOKES — LOCATION: UNKNOWN — PRESENT DAY

  His knee skidded along the concrete floor, and he came to rest face down atop what he could only guess was an antique desk layered with asbestos.

  “Strap him to the chair,” one of his captors said, and a second later he was once again yanked to his feet, plopped in a matching asbestos chair, and tied to it like a criminal.

  “Anyone have a stick of gum? My mouth is dry as the Grand Canyon,” Cal asked. No reply, just more cinching down of the ropes around his arms. “Seriously guys, if I’d known I was coming maybe I could’ve packed a sack lunch, or maybe even a six pack for the road.”

  The cinching ended and the stomping of boots drifted away. “Guys? You sure you don’t have any Juicy Fruit?”

  The only answer was the sound of his own words that reverberated back to his hooded head.

  So much for small talk.

  He was doing his best to adjust his arms so it didn’t feel like his fingers were going to fall off when he heard a scrape from nearby.

  “Uncle Bobby, is that you?”

  He didn’t expect a reply, but he got one anyway.

  “I've been waiting a long time to meet you, Mr. Stokes.”

  Cal didn’t know the voice and couldn’t place the accent. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. Maybe if I’d known about the invitation earlier...”

  The stranger came back with a laugh. “You remind me of someone, you know.”

  “Yeah? Who’s that?”

  “Just an old friend.”

  “Anyone I know?” Cal tried to shift so he could get his bearings.

  “Why yes. It’s someone you knew quite well.”

  Cal figured he knew right where this was going. Wilcox. That damned Wilcox.

  “Let me guess. He’s a morally ambiguous narcissist with a head full of god complex?”

  Again, the laugh. Not maniacal. Not harmonic. Just an ordinary, genuine, bona fide nice-guy laugh. “Oh, how I wish we might have more time together, Mr. Stokes.”

  Cal shrugged. “I’ve got all the time in the world.”

  “Well, I wish that were true. But I will tell you who you remind me of…” Footsteps came Cal’s way and he steeled himself for a one-sided scrap. The hits never came. It was a whisper in his ear that did more to shock him than a sledgehammer to the chest could have: “You remind me of your father, Mr. Stokes.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  STOKES — LOCATION: UNKNOWN — PRESENT DAY

  His frozen mind took a long time to thaw.

  His father? Who was this man speaking to him of his father?

  Cal wasn’t sure he had the strength to speak. “How did you know my father?”

  “We were friends,” said the voice, pacing in front of him. “It feels like a century ago. It was a different time, for sure. A day and age when spies tracked down spies. Though in those days we lived by a code. It wasn’t a perfect system, but it led to some… unexpected consequences.” The man sighed. “But you’re not here to listen to my old stories. You want to know why I brought you here.”

  “Why don’t you take off the hood so we can speak man to man? Are you that ugly?”

  No laugh this time. “I’m not ready for you to know who I am.”

  “But you know who I am.”

  “Of course.”

  “A little one-sided, don’t you think?”

  A hand settled on his shoulder. “I didn’t bring you here to hurt you, Cal.”

  “Then why am I here?”

  “Various reasons. As I mentioned, I wanted to meet the son of my old friend. Your father was a special man, a military man who understood the benefit of working outside of official channels. Maybe you inherited that particular talent from him?”

  Cal wasn’t about to give this guy an inch. “I don’t know what you’re talking about...”

  “Undoubtedly you don’t. I understand. I was in your shoes once, working to ferret out the worst elements of my country. I ate it up like it was manna from heaven, but we get older, Cal. The world changes. Old alliances crumble and new ones are made. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “How about me? Is this about an alliance?”

  “I don’t need anything from you.”

  “Then why am I here?”

  “Because you need me, Cal.”

  Cal didn’t like the sound of that. “Why?”

  “You think your friends are on your side, but how else would I have gotten to you if not through your friends?”

  Cal didn’t have a reply. He’d been thinking the same things since being dragged out of SSI. This wasn’t Dunn’s doing. He could’ve just thrown Cal into a detention cell in the bowels of SSI headquarters. Top and Gaucho were out of the country, and there wasn’t a chance in hell they would be in on this. Daniel even less so. That really left only one option.

  “Which one of my friends?”

  “I think with a little bit of thought you can work that out for yourself.”

  “You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t play along with your game of Guess Who?, pal. I’m tired. I’m blindfolded. And I’m sick of sitting in this chair.”

  “It won’t be much longer. I promise.”

  Cal strained against his bonds.

  “Don’t do that.”

  “Untie me, for God’s sake.”

  “Don’t you want to know who started this nasty boulder rolling your way?”

  Cal let out a frustrated breath. “Sure. Tell me.”

  Cal heard a Zippo flick to flame, then clap shut. The mysterious man blew
softly, and Cal could smell the smoke of a fine, foreign cigarette.

  “I know it’s cliché to say it, but you never know who you can trust, Cal. Your friends. Your enemies. Neutral parties you’ve never met. They could be on your side or on the side of the enemy. And how would you know?”

  “You know, if I had a nickel for every time a bad guy gave me a riddle.”

  “It’s not a riddle. Think. How would you know?”

  “I give up.”

  “Your true friends can never be bought, Cal. But your enemies—ah, that’s another story. Just ask your friend in the White House. He’s the one behind everything.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  ZIMMER — CAMP DAVID, FREDERICK COUNTY, MARYLAND — PRESENT DAY

  The prime minister of Australia waved from the motorcade and then sped off to the airport.

  “Can we maybe halve his next visit?” Zimmer asked, loosening his tie before handing his coat to the valet.

  “You didn’t enjoy the prime minister’s many stories about koalas and kangaroos?” Marge Haines asked, straight-faced.

  “He didn’t mention a koala or kangaroo the entire time he was here.”

  “Yeah, I know. I thought you might need some middle school giggles.”

  Zimmer returned the salute of the Marine guards passing by before getting into the armored limousine. The damn thing reminded him of a hearse. He would rather ride in the back of an armored personnel carrier. “He’s not a bad guy. Just a little chatty.”

  “And you’re not in the mood for chatty?”

  “Nope.”

  Marge scribbled in her notebook: “Not... chatty... duly noted.”

  Zimmer stifled a moan. All he wanted to do was go for a run, maybe watch a movie, have a stiff drink, and go to bed. But there were important things to discuss.

  “You saw the text?” he asked, rubbing his temples.