End Game

by John Gilstrap

  “So you’re saying that they disappeared.”

  “Essentially, yes,” Maryanne said.

  “Why are you telling me this instead of briefing a roomful of fire-breathing Fibbies?” As far as Jonathan could tell, there were only a couple of reasons for Uncle Sam to reach out to contractors, and more times than not, it had something to do with breaking the law.

  “Because Wolverine asked me to?”

  “Not enough this time,” Jonathan said. “First of all, I don’t see Wolverine. And second, I’ve got bullshit bells ringing in my head like it’s Armistice Day. Let’s start with the fact that these missing people—what are their names?”

  “The Mitchells.”

  “Let’s start with the fact that the Mitchells were first and foremost the responsibility of the federal government. It’s not as if you folks are understaffed.”

  Maryanne seemed unmoved. “I revert to my original comment,” she said. “Director Rivers asked me to ask you. She seemed to think that that would be enough incentive.”

  She had a point, and she seemed to know it. Jonathan shifted topics. “How were the Mitchells’ covers blown?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Aren’t you a little worried?”

  “We’re a lot worried. We literally have no idea. All we know is what I’ve told you—Bernard is dead and the others are missing.”

  Jonathan considered the details. “The au pair,” he said. “What do you know about her?”

  “She’s local talent, but recruited by us.”

  Jonathan laughed. “The feds are recruiting au pairs now? How about house cleaners? Do you recruit them, too?”

  Maryanne smiled. Or maybe she had a gas pain. “Okay, she’s more than your average au pair.”

  “More like a bodyguard, then?”

  “Exactly.”

  “You’re sure you can trust her?”

  “You know my business, Mr. Grave. I don’t trust anyone.” Beyond Maryanne’s left shoulder, a steady stream of taillights flowed across the Teddy Roosevelt bridge toward Virginia, while virtually no cars headed into the District.

  “Yet you trust me,” Jonathan said.

  “Heavens no,” she said. “I’ll pretend to trust you because my boss trusts you.” The smile turned menacing. “But if you cross me, I’ll kill you.”

  The laugh escaped before Jonathan could stop it. He had Christmas tree ornaments bigger than she, but he admired her zeal.

  “How old is the kid?”

  “Fourteen. His name is Graham.”

  “Does he know about Mom and Dad’s other life?”

  “I don’t know. If they followed the rules, no. But rule-following gets really murky when it comes to families.”

  “So what do you want from me?” Jonathan asked. This Maryanne chick had eyes that could melt the ice caps. Blue, wet, and beautiful.

  Her face darkened. “I was hoping that would be obvious.”

  Jonathan smirked. “I’ve learned to live by hard requests. That old saw about assumptions making an ass of you and me applies in spades.”

  “We want you to rescue the mother and her son.”

  Jonathan crossed his arms and dug in for a second swing at the details he wanted to know. “There’s that first person plural again. Who’s we?”

  “Uncle Sam.”

  Jonathan cocked his head. This was the problem with young people. They said the lines without fully understanding the meaning. “How much of Uncle Sam?” he asked, not bothering to camouflage his smile. “All of him, or just certain parts?”

  “I speak on behalf of Director Rivers,” Maryanne said. “I can’t speak for anyone beyond her.”

  Jonathan found himself liking this kid. She didn’t show any of the know-it-all hyperbole that was so common to her generation. She stuck with the mission. Jonathan could count a dozen or more warriors he knew who had died at the hands of commanders who had violated that one sacred tenet of command—stick to the goddamn mission.

  If Irene Rivers wanted him to march into harm’s way, that was almost enough unto itself.

  “Maryanne, I like your spunk and your approach. But I have a lot more experience at not trusting people than even you. If we’re going to take another step together—Wolverine or no Wolverine—I want a straight answer to this. Why isn’t my dear Uncle Sam making use of his enormous resources to take care of this rescue himself?”

  She did something with her eyes, a casual glance away, a break in eye contact. It was a tell. “There are only so many routes for that kind of information to get out,” she said.

  There it was. “You’re telling me that the Bureau continues to leak.”

  “Like a cheap diaper.” She looked away, casting her glance upriver toward the Georgetown Harbor complex.

  Leaks had been a burgeoning problem within the Bureau ever since Congress had gotten on its high horse and demanded that agents play by all the rules all the time, irrespective of criticality. Between the career advancement that was guaranteed for whistle-blowers, and the subterranean celebrity that was afforded to those who leaked information to the press, it had become harder and harder to keep a secret in this town.

  “Tell me your worst fears regarding this case,” Jonathan said.

  “That the family will die.”

  “Bullshit. First of all, you answered too quickly, and second, saving families has never been a priority of the Bureau. Protecting careers first, catching bad guys second, and saving lives somewhere below that. This isn’t my first trip to the races.”

  Jonathan let his words penetrate. He suspected that Maryanne was still young enough not to comprehend that difficult truth. All government agencies—not exclusively the FBI, but they were the worst offenders, in his experience—valued process over all. Careers were far more deeply jeopardized when a clerical error let a bad guy go than they were by the death of a citizen. More than anything else, that philosophy defined the chasm that separated the worldviews of elite law enforcement groups from those of elite military teams.

  “We can’t afford for them to be squeezed for information,” Maryanne said.

  “What do they know?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Okay,” Jonathan said. “We’re done, then. Have a good night.” He turned and headed back inside.

  “Really?” Maryanne said. Her voice sounded shocked. “That’s all?”

  Jonathan stopped, turned, and planted his fists on his hips. “What more would you have? I’m not a soldier anymore. I don’t take orders. I make decisions whether a risk is worth its reward. There’s never been a free agent freer than I. The rest is up to you. My team, my rules. Play by them, or pick a different field.”

  Not waiting for an answer, he turned and headed back to the opera. He figured that she’d come to her senses or she wouldn’t. Personally, he didn’t much care.

  Jonathan was a little disappointed when he exited the Opera House and Maryanne wasn’t there waiting for him. Now there was one more mystery in the world for which he would never know the resolution.

  “What exactly did she want?’ Venice asked as they turned the corner into the Hall of Nations, a vast corridor where the flags of dozens of countries hung from the sixty-foot ceiling—the flag of every country with which the United States had diplomatic relations, in alphabetical order. Jonathan had heard stories that after the fall of the Soviet Union, workers had to reorder everything to make room for twelve additional standards.

  “A home was invaded in Indiana and the family was taken. They were spies for the good guys. She wanted our help getting them back.”

  “Isn’t that what the FBI gets paid to do?”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Jonathan said. A set of doors led to the first of a series of escalators that would take them down to Jonathan’s car.

  “There must be some kind of internal problem within the Bureau,” Venice said. “Why else turn to outside talent?”

  Jonathan caught the drift that Venice’s cur
iosity was piqued. “Again, you’re channeling me. Too many outstanding questions to get any closer. History has proven that there’s no upside to getting in the middle of a catfight between Uncle Sam’s various children.”

  “Speaking of children,” Venice said, “were any kids involved in the kidnapping?”

  He held up his forefinger. “One,” he said. “Fourteen. Plus a nanny-slash-bodyguard and maybe the mother. Dad was killed in the initial assault.”

  At the base of the first escalator, they turned and continued down. “This isn’t like you. Don’t you think—”

  Jonathan touched her arm. “Perhaps this is a discussion to have in a smaller crowd.” On the moving stairway, they were but two of hundreds who would soon be clogging the roads. Venice and he were speaking quietly enough not to stand out, so there was little chance of being overheard, but still. Also, Jonathan didn’t want to talk about it anymore.

  They made it to the second-level garage and Jonathan led the way to his BMW. As he unlocked Venice’s door, Jonathan stopped her again with another gentle touch on her arm. She looked up, her brown eyes flashing a reflection of the harsh overhead lights. “You look stunning tonight,” he said.

  Her smile flashed brilliant white. “Why thank you, Mr. Grave. You clean up pretty good, too.”

  He wondered sometimes if the gap in their ages were less, would he have returned the crush she’d had on him as a teenager. While age differences meant less with every passing year, it had been an obscene and felonious gap back then, and even though they remained close, a slice of Jonathan’s brain would always see her as the googly-eyed kid.

  Jonathan was about to push the passenger-side door closed when he saw the business card that had been tucked under his windshield wiper. Even from a distance, he could see the emblem of the FBI shield.

  “Uh-oh,” he said.

  “What is it?”

  He pulled the card away from the rubber wiper and took a closer look. The name embossed on the front read Irene Rivers, Director. On the back were written the words, “This lvl, sect B row 2.”

  “Well, shit,” Jonathan said. He handed the card to Venice.

  She read it, and right away started to climb out of the car. Whatever it was, she was coming along.

  “Before you get out,” he said, “do me a favor and pull the black square out of the center console.”

  “The what?”

  “You’ll see it. And be careful when you handle it.”

  Venice looked and then rolled her eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake.”

  Jonathan reached out his hand and wiggled his fingers. She handed him his Ruger LCP .380, already tucked into its pocket holster. He slid it into the front pocket of his tuxedo pants.

  Jonathan craned his neck to get his bearings. The parking lot was massive, more typical of a shopping mall than an entertainment venue, and B2 was quite a hike from where they stood. With all the departing traffic, driving was not practical, so they decided to walk.

  “Is that really Wolverine’s handwriting?” Venice asked.

  Jonathan shrugged. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her handwriting. It’s always phone and e-mails.”

  Jonathan’s relationship with Irene Rivers went way back, to the days when he was still in the Army, and she was a special agent working out of Alexandria, Virginia. He’d helped her with a problem, and that had started a history of off-the-record assignments that needed the special skills of a man with Jonathan’s training, but could never carry Uncle Sam’s fingerprints. When they first met, neither could have foreseen her ascendancy to the big chair at headquarters. Then again, no one could have anticipated the events that launched her into Bureau superstardom.

  “Did you notice that there’s no space number?” Venice said. She kept studying the card, as if searching for a secret message.

  “I did notice that,” Jonathan said. Parking garages were inherently creepy places, which probably explained why they were so often featured in scary movies. The weight of the LCP in his pocket—all eleven ounces of it—reassured him. Far from his preferred weapon in a gunfight, it was better than being left with fingernails and fists if the shit hit the fan.

  Fifteen seconds later, he realized that he wouldn’t need to know the space. A standard government-issue heavy metal POS Chevy flashed its lights.

  Jonathan stopped walking, and Venice pulled up short with him.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Never overcommit,” Jonathan said. “Let them come to us. Anyone can use someone else’s business card. It’s not real until I see a face.” He waited as a stream of departing patrons drove past them. After ten or fifteen seconds, the sedan’s door opened, and Special Agent Maryanne Rhoades rose from the driver’s seat to reveal herself.

  It didn’t take her long to get the point that he wasn’t walking over to join her, so she came to him.

  “Is Wolverine in the car?” Jonathan asked as she strolled his way.

  Maryanne shook her head. “I left her card to reinforce the fact that I am here on her authorization.”

  “You misrepresented yourself,” Venice said. “That’s not a good way to start a relationship.”

  “Venice Alexander,” Maryanne said. She pronounced the name correctly. “I’ve heard a lot about you. Director Rivers told me to tell you that the offer to join the Bureau is still open. We can always use skills like yours.”

  Venice more snarled than smiled. She shared Jonathan’s distrust of federal agents, but she had a special distrust for those who looked beautiful in an evening gown.

  “Ven’s got a point,” Jonathan said. “My cards are on the table. I know every detail or I don’t play.”

  Maryanne made a point of looking over both shoulders to survey the garage. “Clearly this is not the place. Might I suggest that we pay Mr. Van de Muelebroeke a visit? I believe he lives close to here.”

  The man she referred to was Brian Van de Muelebroeke, Jonathan’s friend and cohort from forever. Most people knew him as Boxers, and those who did generally knew better than to surprise him with a late-night visit. He wasn’t always the most cheerful fellow, and at just south of seven feet tall and considerably north of three hundred pounds an angry Boxers could be ugly.

  Jonathan grinned. “Sure,” he said. “That should be fun. You know the address?”

  “I found your car, didn’t I?”

  There was the Fibbie hubris that Jonathan had come to depend on, the self-aggrandizing nonanswer answer. “See you there in half an hour.”

  Graham pretended to sleep in the shotgun seat of the Mercedes sedan they’d taken from the doctor. It was every bit as comfortable as it was hot looking. Best of all, it was quiet.

  So many numbers. Too many numbers. They swam in Graham’s head like the schools of fish you see in documentaries, where great clouds of them swarmed and shifted directions and blocked out the view of anything else.

  That’s what life was like when you lived with a memory that recorded everything, all the time. He’d told his therapist once—Doctor Harper—that it was like eating a Thanksgiving feast every day, maybe twice a day. You get progressively more stuffed, but you keep cramming more in. That was an imperfect comparison, though, because you could always puke up a meal to make more room. His head just got progressively more full. Doctor Harper had assured him that his brain would not rupture from the pressure. He’d also promised that one day, Graham would learn to live with his ability—to tame it—and that he’d come to see it as more a gift than a curse.

  But that’s what parents and doctors always said. They marginalized everything with phrases like one day or you’re too young to understand or I’d give anything to be like you. Somehow, they all forgot what it was like to be a freshman in high school, where all those other assholes lived today at the age they were in a world where being smart was punished by sack-taps in the hallway and bags of dog shit slipped into your backpack when you weren’t looking. The fact that he’d be envied when he was thirty didn’t mean a whol
e hell of a lot when he wasn’t yet half that age.

  He’d tried playing dumb, intentionally missing questions on tests, and spending five minutes figuring out math problems that he’d already solved at a glance, but that brought on a whole new breed of derision and animosity. Who knew that pretending to be stupid was insulting to people who really were stupid? Rather than waiting for him to tame what came naturally, how about somebody step up and tame the herd of assholes that swarmed the halls between classes?

  Names and dates were one thing when they flooded his head. They got pushed into their own files, ready to be recalled when he needed them, but otherwise never to be thought of again. It was the number sequences that cost him sleep, that obsessed him. While words made sense in and of themselves—people arranged letters into words, and then words into sentences that had clear meanings—numbers were meaningless outside of a known pattern. Three digits plus three digits plus four digits was probably a phone number, but other less obvious number sequences appeared random, yet rarely were because someone had arranged them with a purpose. He could spend hours trying to decode such sequences. More often than not, he’d be able to add meaning, but he’d rarely know for sure if the solution he’d identified had any relation to the true intent of the sequence’s author.

  Graham liked to imagine that he had a kind of curator living inside his head—he even had a name. Linus never slept. Instead, he catalogued every phone number, address, locker combination, and historical fact that flowed through his brain. When Graham needed the information, whatever it was, Linus would produce the correct folder, and everyone would think that Graham was brilliant.

  If sticking a coat hanger in his ear would kill Linus, Graham would have done it ages ago.

  Right now, as Jolaine drove through the jet-black countryside, on their way north, the number sequence that bothered him most had nothing to do with the cipher on the bloody scrap of paper. At least not directly.

  Follow the protocol.

  The protocol was a telephone number. If anything bad ever happened to the family, or if he were ever threatened with harm, he was to call the number and follow instructions. Easy-peasy.