by Josie Brown
Others around me, all murmuring sotto voce, glare at me.
When I put the phone back near my face, I hiss, “Prove it. Quietly.”
“Okay, so listen! The offshore bank account linked to Lee is tied to an entity called JBC Holdings.”
“How do you know?”
“Because it’s the only account in Wagner Klein’s database that isn’t under GWI’s umbrella corporation or affiliated with another owner. Not only that, it was the only account accessed on the same day and time Helen Drake appeared in the Trident Union Bank building. So, BINGO!”
This time I get shushed by some guy talking to “the Coast” in a voice almost as loud as Arnie’s.
I shush him back.
“Great work,” I whisper. “Call Jack with the news. Tell him I’ll be back in an hour.”
I feel it’s an appropriate amount of time to spend with Wendell before I give him the bum’s rush.
As quickly as possible I head back upstairs.
Wendell is reading something as he sips his drink.
It’s a Hart Media cheat sheet.
“Shame on you for taking that out of the office,” I tease him. “But I won’t tell on you. I think it’s a silly rule anyway.” I sit down. “Are you cribbing for tomorrow’s broadcast?”
“Not at all. In fact, this isn’t even mine.” He allows me to read the assigned reporter’s name on it:
GRANT LARKIN
I feel my face heat up.
He points to my now open purse, where I stuffed the rest of the cheat sheets.
“CIA or GRU?” he asks.
Nervously, I retort, “Why would you think I’m either?”
Before I can I reach for the purse, he hands it to me. “I took the liberty of relieving you of your gun.”
Now I’m panicking. “And you are?”
“Can’t you guess?”
I say what I’m hoping: “MI6?”
He nods.
“I’ll need verification,” I say.
He pulls out an ID. As I peruse it, I say, “I’ll have my boss check it out.” I sigh. “Oh bother! That means another damn trek downstairs…”
“Ryan Clancy? No need to do so, Ms. Craig. We’re old friends. A pleasure to meet you. Your reputation precedes you.” He holds out his hand. “May I call you Donna?”
I laugh as I shake it.
“I must admit I was somewhat wary of you from the get-go,” he adds.
“Oh? And why is that?”
“Despite your spot on Mancunian brogue, you were tripped up by its regional slang.” He winks broadly. “For example, when I invited you to ‘dinner,’ you suggested lunch instead. In Manchester, they are one and the same.”
I wince. “Ha! I’ll have to remember that. Still, better to be burned by MI6 than Moscow.”
“Frankly, I didn’t ID you until Acme’s Regent’s Park operation,” Wendell concedes.
“Do tell!” Wait until Jack hears this!
“Because of the U.K.’s recent altercations with Russia, MI6 has also been investigating Hart Media’s ties with the Kremlin. Charlotte’s fiancé, Mikhail, set off all sorts of bells and whistles. Mikhail was always shadowed by one of our operatives. First Dominic Fleming popped up to comfort the grieving fiancée. Then, when Acme requested preferential treatment on Mikhail’s autopsy, we realized Acme had been contracted to do the same for the CIA. Langley confirmed it.” He grins. “I must say, I don’t mind taking credit for Dominic’s innate talents. He was one of the best honeytraps to come out of my class at Fort Monkton.”
“Don’t let him know that. His head is big enough as it is.” I ease back in my chair. “Lucky you, to be able to hide in plain sight. From now on, I’ll always assume that any foreign correspondent I meet is also a spook.”
“I do,” Wendell assures me. He leans forward. “Since we’re on the same team, perhaps we should share leads?”
I tap my glass to his. “The more the merrier.”
By the time Wendell and I get back to the condo, Jack is already there with Abu. Ryan has confirmed that his “old buddy, Wendell,” is in fact a Cousin, which is the nickname MI6 and the CIA share.
And Wendell confirms that MI6 has already broken Hart’s cheat sheet cipher.
“That news deserves one of the best bottles of champagne from Harold and Charlotte’s wine cellar,” Jack declares.
“I’d suggest keeping your wits about you,” Wendell replies. “Yesterday, I intercepted the office boy who delivers the cheat sheets to the newsroom. He divulged that they come via courier every evening. The sender’s name is Cain N. Able.”
“An interesting name,” I say.
“And a rather obvious alias, as there is no one by that name within the organization,” he says dryly. “Ironically, tonight, our target is to rendezvous with Mr. Able’s GRU extradition handler.”
“Do you have a location?” Abu asks.
“In a manner of speaking. What was clear is that the meeting takes place at midnight.”
“What’s the fuzzy part?” I ask.
“The location given was simply ‘Lincoln.’ It either refers to the Lincoln Theater or the Lincoln Memorial.”
I frown. “They’re three miles apart.”
“I suggest we split up,” Jack replies. “Wendell, why don’t you and Abu take the theater? It’s a dark night there, so whoever shows up is our target. Donna and I will cover the memorial.”
Abu looks at his watch. “To have an element of surprise, we should take off now.”
“Head out with Wendell,” I say to Abu. “I still need to get out of this dress and heels.”
“You’re allowed another rain check on the club,” Wendell promises with a wink.
It’s Randall.
I know this because, like me, he’s at the Memorial much earlier than the designated time. I would not have allowed him to see me except that the open plaza provides very little cover, and I wasn’t expecting him to be here so soon.
He stands as opposed to sits. It must be a difficult endeavor because he is stooped over his ever-present cane.
He wears a long cashmere wool coat. A heavy scarf is wrapped around his neck and his hands are sheathed in gloves. A wool newsboy cap is on his head. Still, his ears are red from the cold that, even on a mild spring night, penetrates the thin skin of a man entering his ninth decade.
When he spots me, he waves as if he’s been expecting me all along.
Does he know his handler? If not, does he assume it’s me?
Well then, one of us is going to be sorely disappointed.
He greets me with a nod. “I’m surprised it’s you.”
“It’s not,” I inform him. “I’m sorry, Randall, but you’re under arrest. The CIA has been aware for some time that Hart Media is passing intel on behalf of our nation’s enemies, and we know how this is being done. It’s how I knew you’d be meeting your handler here, tonight.”
A gun springs from the wolf’s head handle of his cane. It’s small, but no doubt accurate and deadly too.
He holds it steady enough that, yes, I’m concerned.
“Please, raise your hands.”
He pats me down and finds the Sig Sauer P229 in my appendix holster.
But he misses the Springfield XDE strapped to my ankle.
Still, I do as I am told, for now, anyway.
Jack may be hearing and seeing what I do, but he’s far enough away to wait and watch because capturing Randall’s handler, too, would be a feather in Acme’s cap. Also, Arnie is watching via a ComSat feed.
“We’ll wait together.” Randall points to the steps in front of the mammoth statue of our sixteenth president. “Please, have a seat.”
“Tell me about yourself,” he insists. “Do you have a name other than Gwendolyn?”
He is not crass enough to put the gun to my head, but I won’t test his aim with any sudden moves.
“Once a reporter, always a reporter, eh, Randall?”
He shrugs. “It’s a hard habit to break.”
“I’m up for a game of Twenty Questions. But you go first. Are you also Quorum?”
He laughs. “It’s now a smaller but even more elite group, but yes. And now your name.”
“Donna Craig.”
“Ah! Finally we meet!” He squints and leans in for a closer look at my face. “The change was enough to fool our facial recognition scanner. Bravo to Acme on that!”
“My turn. Why is Babette selling Lee down the river?”
Randall chuckles. “Without his political power, she has no use for him. It’s time she move on.” He rests heavier on the stick of his cane, but his gun doesn’t waver. “That is thanks to you and your colleagues, Mrs. Craig. When Acme exposed the connection between Trident’s clients, Russia and Hart, it led to the revelation of Chiffray’s connection to the bank too.”
“You mean Babette’s connection,” I correct him. “Babette passed herself off as Helen Drake.”
Randall’s silence speaks volumes.
The memory of the body on the embankment suddenly comes to me. Then, like a bolt of lightning, I see the connection in my mind’s eye:
The Jered Friedland pocketbook.
Lolita had an identical one.
“You killed Lolita,” I declare.
“Yes.” As he smiles, his skin stretches thin over his face creating the illusion of a living skull.
He is proud of his admission. I imagine he’s thinking, The old boy still has it in him…
I hear something that Randall does not: footsteps.
Is it Jack, or is it the Russian handler?
No.
“But Harold doesn’t know, does he?” I ask. “He thinks she left him. And you don’t want Harold to know, either—about her murder, or about that part of Hart’s business dealings. You’re his father, but you never wanted him to take the fall for your treasonous acts.”
Randall frowns. “Not to worry, dear. As always, Harold will go down his own clueless path for as long as he’s alive.”
“Maybe no,” I counter. “Things are heating up, Randall. Isn’t that why you reached out to the GRU and requested asylum after all these years?”
“Sadly, yes.” He sighs heavily. “The weather is always so damnably miserable in Moscow! Still, there I’ll die a hero.”
I snort. “I guess you’re proud of yourself for reigniting a worldwide nuclear arms build-up.”
“You see? That is the advantage of a dictatorship!” he exclaims. “One person sets the course for the whole world’s destiny! Everyone else picks up an oar and rows.” He shakes his head in resignation. “But I won’t see it in my lifetime.”
“I don’t plan on seeing it in mine, either,” I declare.
“But you will, Mrs. Craig! Because, in the geo-political chess game between our two nations, democracy wins only when another dictator falls from his or her perch of power.” Randall enjoys rhapsodizing poetically on something he has no choice but to believe. “Russia’s way of cheating at the game is to whip up tribal or social conflicts. Pawns are collected when fascism replaces humanity; when denial and apathy smother common sense. My son and my daughter may suck at the teat of anarchy, but they don’t realize how close they are to its source. They do know, however, which side their artisan bread is buttered. It’s why they only do as I tell them.”
“Say that to their faces,” I dare him.
He laughs. “I have, in so many words. At least, to Harold. He is inanely weak. And like most weak men, he thinks his power—the power I bestowed on him—makes him virile.” He shakes his head in disgust. “Lolita was just one more complication. Still, in the end, she served her purpose. She kept him entertained.” He chuckles. “And me as well.”
I feign horror. “You have no qualms taking what belongs to your son?”
Randall shrugs. “Tit for tat. He’s taken enough from me over the years.” He raises the gun. “So sorry, my dear, but one of us will not be attending my bon voyage.”
He raises the gun—
Then his head explodes.
I duck, but I’m still spattered with his blood, brains, and skull shards.
The footsteps weren’t Jack’s but Harold’s, who stood just out of his father’s peripheral vision. Perhaps if Randall’s ears had been keener he might have heard Harold approaching us.
Just another way in which getting old is a bitch.
Harold is undone by the sight of his damage. “I…I loved her,” he sobs, “and he killed her!”
I now realize that what he mourns isn’t whom he feared but what he lost.
“Did you know that he cut off her fingers and her face so that no one would know it was her?” he asks.
“I don’t understand. Why would you think her disappearance would have anything to do with your father?”
“Don’t you understand? He’d done it before! He paid them off to go away! It’s why I…why I try so hard not to fall in love with them! He always told me, ‘Just have sex with them, Sonny! They’re all whores! They’re only after your money. Look at you! It’s not your looks…”
He stares down at the gun.
Then he raises it.
Randall pocketed the Sig Sauer, so I only have a split-second to decide if it’s dark enough that Harold might miss me if I duck and go for the XDE—
But I’m too late. Harold puts the gun to his temple and pulls the trigger.
Damn. What a night.
I drop to the ground, exhausted, lying flat on the cold marble walkway behind the monument.
Traffic noises tickle my ears: the swish of cars, freed of mid-day traffic congestion.
Again, I hear footsteps.
But then the person stops, having likely spotted the two bodies.
But by the time I leap up and follow, the person is running away.
I call out, “Jack! The handler took off between the trees! Do you see him?”
“On it!” I hear his breathing get heavier. I’m sure mine sounds the same to him.
Jack’s breath gets louder.
Then I hear a gunshot.
Then another one…
Frantically, I whisper, “Jack? JACK!”
“I’m fine,” he assures me. “The suspect is headed toward Constitution Avenue.”
I run that way too—
And right into Jack.
We hear a door slam shut. A car veers off without lights.
Jack takes a shot.
“Too far away, damn it!” he growls.
“Arnie! Can you track the vehicle?” I ask.
“On it!” Arnie exclaims.
Jack and I don’t hear back from Arnie until we get to our car. “Sorry guys. From Constitution, I lost the car when it jumped into the I-66 spaghetti bowl.”
Jack shouts, “Did you get the make of the car or the license plate?”
“No, sorry,” Arnie admits. “I’ve alerted the police about Randall and Harold.”
A moment later we hear sirens coming our way.
Dominic should be prepared that Charlotte is going to need a shoulder to cry on.
Today, just two days after the event, Charlotte is overseeing a joint memorial for Randall and Harold.
It is taking place at Randall Hart’s stately thirty-three-room mansion sitting on three verdant acres of prime McLean Virginia real estate. The size of its grounds, along with an ornate twelve-foot wrought iron fence, roving Dobermans, and battalion of security guards, makes it almost as secure as Fort Knox.
The crowd of five hundred mourners is not only large but also varied. Besides the corporation’s board members, executive staff, featured newscasters, and senior correspondents, a plethora of politicians and foreign dignitaries have come to pay their respects.
Charlotte’s hastiness in coordinating the event has allowed her to muzzle all news about the true cause of death—murder and suicide—until after her father and brother are laid to rest.
By now, the CIA has informed her about her father’s treason. It cut a deal with her: when she is eventually contac
ted by Randall’s Russian handlers and blackmailed into continuing his endeavors, she is to pass along the covert messages. Should some eager reporter or inside whistleblower come across the scheme, Charlotte, along with Hart Media’s unwitting newscasters and talking heads, will be indemnified against prosecution.
In fact, CIA operatives are here now, ID’ing and observing the mourners.
In the days prior to the memorial, Charlotte has rallied the sympathy of Hart Media’s board in order to withstand any attempts of a company buyout.
By now, Abu, Arnie, Jack, and I have turned in our resignations. She also knows our true roles within the events. Surprisingly, she is grateful to us.
She makes this clear to Jack and me as we walk over to express our condolences. “I may have loved my father, but I never liked him,” she admits. “How could I? Whereas I did everything I could to win his love, Harold gave up trying to please him. And yet, he disdained us equally.” She wipes away a tear. “We were never allowed to see beyond the façade. At least, now I know why.”
“You’ve already made the right decision to right his wrongs,” I say.
“I hope so. I’ll start by being the opposite of my father. In fact, I’ll do my best to model myself after Katharine Graham.” Charlotte shrugs. “I like her motto: ‘If we had failed to pursue the facts as far as they led, we would have denied the public any knowledge of an unprecedented scheme of political surveillance and sabotage.’”
“She was right,” I concede. “A story is only as good as the facts revealed.”
Charlotte chuckles. “May I quote you, Donna Craig?”
I nod. “Better yet, put it under your byline. Something tells me that in the next decade you’ll be one of the most quotable women in journalism.”
“It won’t be easy. It starts with cleaning house, top to bottom.” She frowns. “Personally, that begins with ending my relationship with Dominic.”
Her eyes scan the crowd of mourners, finally honing in on Dominic. He’s chatting up the new Good Morning Hartland! cohosts—identical twins whose resemblances are only skin deep. The idea to hire these B-rated actresses was smart. One plays it sharp, witty and straight, while the other plays the show’s ditz. The program achieves its mandate: great morning eye candy, but with none of their predecessors’ petty jealousies and infighting.
