by Jack Hardin
“Your favorite agent? Can you put that in writing so I can present it to Brad?”
“If I ever think about running for a local office, you can be my speechwriter.”
“So what now?” I asked. “I thought Homeland had another team trying to piece together Fagan’s whereabouts these last few months?”
“We still need to find out who ordered Fry and Burkes to come after you. Joel must have hired someone he knew stateside who farmed out the work—an intermediary between Fagan and Fry. I’ll put Callahan on that. And to answer your questions, yes. The Homeland team working to find Fagan has made inroads into his existing networks. You’ll be teaming up with them and work the case in tandem with the lead agent. When Brad gets back, I’ll have him join you.”
“Thank you. This means a lot.”
“And you’re well aware of this, but Joel is dangerous. Extremely dangerous. After his stunt in Costa Rica, the CIA’s psychiatrists have recently labeled him as a psychopath. And if that’s correct, it means he has no ability to empathize with another human being. It means that everything he does is colored by a persistent disregard for morals.”
“What’s the latest intel on him?”
“I’ll let the agent in charge fill you in tomorrow. I’ll email you the details.”
Kathleen stood up, and I followed suit. She escorted me back to the front door and turned on the porch light as I stepped across the threshold.
“Ryan.”
I turned around. She was silhouetted in the doorway. “If I had to pick anyone, past or present, to go after Joel, it would be you. I’m glad it worked out this way.”
“Thanks, Kathleen.”
And with that, she shut the door.
Part Two
Chapter Nine
The conductor stood atop his podium, his tailcoat wagging behind him as he tensed and gestured with expert and perfectly timed motions; a subtle flick of his baton, a nod of his chin, a brief moment of direct eye contact, all of it leading his orchestra through a flawless execution of the extensive score placed before him.
The Musikverein concert hall was home to the Vienna Philharmonic orchestra and was considered, along with Berlin's Konzerthaus, the Concertgebouw in Amsterdam, and Boston's Symphony Hall, one of the finest concert halls in the world, if not the very crown jewel itself.
The level of detail in the hall was striking: Apollo and the muses drew the eye to the ceiling, while fifty life-size, gilded, topless female sculptures stood as impassive visions of neoclassical femininity that had watched over every performance from Bruckner to Bernstein.
Every surface, from the crenellated, gilt-edged balconies to the allegorical paintings on the ceiling, was covered in a rich excess of architectural detail and contributed to the space’s de facto moniker: The Golden Hall.
As incomparable as the gaudy look were the spatial acoustics: expert sounds bounced off hundreds of planes and angles, from the curve of a golden breast to the sweep of an alabaster swan's neck, making the sounds warmer and richer, creating the hall's sonic radiance, and allowing the hall itself to become an instrument, a very extension of the resonating chamber.
Roman Baxter was but one of the seventeen hundred patrons who sat enchanted at the Orchestre de l'Opéra national de Paris’s performance of Richard Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde.
Upon the stage, Tristan was singing of a fate that had constrained him to die without realizing his passions, and he poured forth a bitter lament over life as it had come to be.
For Baxter, Wagner was a genius of the highest order, a man whose articulation of life seemed to sum up Baxter’s own outlook on the world. Others had their priests, pastors, and prophets. But Baxter had no use for such misguided sophistry. He himself threw in with philosophy and art, and among these, he held Richard Wagner as most preeminent.
Baxter tore his eyes away from the stage and glanced at the Vacheron Constantin watch wrapped around his thick wrist.
He needed to leave.
His date was at his left arm, a gorgeous twenty-seven-year-old brunette who had dazzled on the runways but a few years earlier. Now she spent her days traveling the world, laying out on exclusive beaches and Roman’s yacht, shopping in New York City, and attending world premieres in Milan and high-profile boxing bouts in Vegas.
Baxter leaned over and whispered in her ear. “I must go.”
Gianna glanced at him, surprised. “Leave?”
“Business. I’ll have a car waiting for you out front. It will take you back to the hotel. I won’t be far behind you.”
She looked at him with disappointed eyes.
“I’ll make it up to you.” He pressed his lips even closer to her ear. “How about the Riviera next weekend?”
Gianna’s perfectly shaped brows lifted, and she smiled pleasantly, nodding her agreement and then returning her attention to the stage. Baxter kissed his paramour on the cheek, quickly stood up from his seat at the end of the third row, and silently stepped across the aisle to the side exit.
It was the height of societal impropriety to step out in the middle of such a performance; the second intermission had ended nearly a half-hour earlier, and there was still nearly an hour remaining.
But Baxter could not wait for the concert to end.
An usher stepped back and opened the door for him. He entered the hallway and proceeded to the front doors, leaving the passion of the opera behind as Tristan continued to rail against his desires and the fateful potion.
A second usher opened the front door for him, and Baxter stepped outside into a cool Vienna evening. His limousine was already waiting for him at the corner of the building, his driver standing behind the open rear door. Baxter nodded to his driver, ducked his head, and slid onto the luxurious leather seat.
As the vehicle pulled away from the concert hall, Baxter worked his plump fingers across the knot in his bow tie. The loose ends fell across his starched white shirt like dead snakes. He looked out the window.
In the distance stood St. Stephen’s Cathedral, its four towering spires poking into the sky like interfering fingers. Beyond was the Karlskirche, and its domed cathedral rose high over a portico designed in the style of ancient Greek temples, the building itself flanked by two strong columns. Like so many cities in Europe, Vienna's rich culture and heritage stood in bold relief against the concrete roads, sharp-edged buildings, and bright light of modernism. The limousine continued south on the highway following the Danube River. Now the Millennium Tower, the Vienna Twin Towers, and the high rises of the Donaustadt district filled his window. Here two distinct ages of progress stood apart, yet intertwined, the city itself a perfect resonance of old and new.
Fifteen minutes later they took the exit for Vienna International Airport. The driver turned into the entrance reserved for private members and presented his credentials. Once cleared, the guard disappeared into the guardhouse and the red and white security gate arm rose up. The limousine pulled forward and followed a circuitous route along the western perimeter of the airport to a series of smaller hangars.
A Gulfstream jet was sitting alone on the tarmac outside of a private hangar. The airstairs were down, and silhouetted against the light coming from inside the cabin was a man sitting on the top step. His elbows sat on his knees and his hands rested limply toward his feet. A cigarette dangled from the edge of his mouth. As the limousine came to a stop, the man took his time standing up. He flicked the half-smoked cigarette away and then moved down the steps in an unhurried manner. Approaching the vehicle, he opened the rear door and got in.
Baxter was lighting up a Cuban Cohiba. Once he had the end of the cigar glowing orange, he rolled down his window and tossed out the match.
“Good evening,” Baxter said.
“Hola,” Joel Fagan replied.
“How was the flight? I trust you were comfortable.”
“The flight was fine.”
“The problem in Dublin. It’s taken care of?”
“Murphy is at the b
ottom of a bog. I dropped off the packet he stole at your London office this morning.”
“Very good. That Murphy. He was a pesky fellow. Very pesky.” Baxter took a long draw on his cigar. Thick, creamy smoke plumed from his mouth as he spoke. “And the stateside job. You handled that?”
Fagan was grasping a newspaper. He handed it across the seat. Baxter unfolded it and held it up. “Page eight,” Fagan said.
The newspaper crinkled as Baxter flipped to the only article in the Miami Herald that was of interest to him. He took his time reading the short column reporting on the murder of two brothers in South Florida. “It says that one of the brothers was killed in a shootout in Key Largo. Two others died? Why wasn’t this done cleanly?”
“Because I had to farm it out, Roman. You know that. For some strange reason, my U.S. passport was revoked, you know, twenty years ago.”
“I told you I would get you in and out of the States without issue.”
“And while I appreciate the offer, I wasn't going to risk it. If they grab me on U.S soil, then even you couldn’t get me out of where they would throw me.”
“And the hardware?”
“It’s been destroyed,” Fagan lied.
“You’re sure of this?”
“Yes,” Fagan lied again. “Incinerated.”
“Because if that information was not destroyed and if that information happens to get out, I will hold you personally responsible. And I hope that you know that the irony exists that, while the U.S. intelligence community may struggle to find you, I will not.”
“It’s all taken care of, Roman. The men who stole your files are dead, and the information has been destroyed.”
Roman took another long and steady draw on his cigar. “Joel, I’m sure you’re aware that it’s been twelve weeks since I gained your release from that unsavory Costa Rican prison.”
“I am.”
“So I believe we’re now what they call ‘fair and square.’ What will you do now?”
Fagan allowed himself a wide smile, his lips pulling back to reveal large white teeth. “I believe I’ll keep that close to the chest, Roman.”
Baxter studied his cigar. “If I’m honest, I’ve nearly gotten used to having a cleaner on my crew. At least, one as efficient as yourself.”
“If I’m honest,” Fagan replied, “these last two jobs have left me far more exposed than I would have liked. If the wrong people look in the right place, it won’t be too difficult for them to identify me.”
Baxter looked at Fagan and shrugged. “You’re saying that you wish I had allowed you to be extradited to America?”
“I’m saying that these last couple of assignments have been less than ideal. To get to Murphy, I had to show my face in half a dozen pubs and two crack houses. And last month it took a car chase halfway across Paris before I caught up to Simon Drago. You getting me out of prison does me no good if I end up getting arrested again.”
“Well, then I suppose it’s a good thing I asked you to this lovely city tonight. I simply wanted to say thank you. And to say goodbye. You paid me back the one million dollars that you owed me. I gave you a year to do it and you came through, with interest, in just ten months.” Baxter huffed and continued to speak around his cigar. “And your creativity was commendable. Forcing immigrants to dig for flecks of gold. You’ve been the talk of the black market ever since the law caught up to you and your little operation was exposed. Most anyone else would have tried to plan a bank robbery or diamond heist to get some easy cash. But not you.”
“I don’t need your laurels.” Fagan tugged slightly at his eyepatch, adjusting it.
“Of course you don’t,” Baxter said. He rolled down his window and tapped away the ash. “But now that the matter of losing a shipment of my guns to the bottom of the ocean is behind us, and now that your three months of doing my bidding is over, it’s time to say goodbye.” Baxter waved a hand toward the aircraft. “My pilot will take you anywhere you would like to go.”
Fagan nodded. “I wish I could say it’s been fun.”
“But you can say that you are free.”
“Goodbye, Roman.”
“Goodbye, Joel.”
Fagan opened the door and stepped onto the concrete. The air was crisp, chilly, and slate gray clouds overhead held a promise of an early winter’s first snow flurry. Just as Fagan went to shut the door and be rid of Roman Baxter once and for all, Baxter spoke again.
“Joel.”
He leaned down to meet the larger man’s gaze.
“You’ve learned a lot about my organization these last three months. Were you to falter and get arrested again…” He let the implication hang.
“Your secrets are safe with me, Roman.”
Baxter slid the cigar between his teeth and smiled. “Very good.”
Chapter Ten
Joel Fagan gritted his teeth as he ascended the airstairs and stepped aboard the aircraft. The pilot was standing in the door of the cockpit, the vinyl brim of his hat tugged down low across his eyes.
“Welcome back, sir,” the pilot said. “Where else can I take you this evening?”
Fagan’s gaze lingered on the man. Something deep inside him felt a revulsion against the pilot. Maybe it was that he worked for Roman Baxter, was at his beck and call, ready to take the bloated crony-capitalist wherever he wanted to go, whenever. Perhaps it was the fact that this man had chosen an honorable profession, one that allowed him to provide for his wife and children in a way that kept him well above the law, and not far beneath it. But Fagan couldn't be sure. Whatever it was, he was unable to push back the cold aversion that he felt.
Answering the pilot’s question, he said, “I’d like to go to Martinique.”
“Very good, sir. Of course, sir. Let me submit a flight plan, and we’ll have you in the air very soon.” He motioned to the back of the cabin. “In the meantime, please make yourself comfortable.”
Fagan worked his way down the aisle to a polished mahogany hutch. He turned the gold plated handle and opened the door. A shelf displayed several decanters and a half dozen laser cut glasses. He selected the Highland Park 50 Year Old Single Malt, grabbed a glass, and poured himself a fair serving. He sniffed it and set it to his lips. The perfectly crafted scotch slid down his throat like liquid glass. It was sweet, with notes of ripe black cherries and brown sugar giving way to dried fruit, a light peat smoke, and a lingering finish.
Fagan moved to the nearest seat. He leaned it back and let out a heavy sigh.
After spending an entire year paying off two debts to one man, the world was finally his oyster once again.
After another minute and three more healthy sips, the scotch began to do its work, relaxing tired muscles and drawing off some of the tension brought about by his brief meeting with Baxter. He never did know what Baxter might throw at him. Fagan had half expected the man to spring another job on him, to tell him he wasn’t quite done yet, and could he spare one last favor?
But he hadn’t, and now Fagan was finally free. He owed no man anything. He was on the threshold of a new start, with sturdy irons of possibility already glowing in the fire.
Joel Fagan closed his eyes and thought back on the whirlwind that was his last two decades.
He had been four months away from graduating Yale with a degree in linguistics when he had been approached by, and subsequently recruited by, the CIA. At The Farm, they trained him in tradecraft and espionage during the last two years of the Cold War. He loved the work, the subtle art of deception, recruiting foreign assets, mystifying pursuers, and spying on those who thought you were their friend. It all had a certain appeal to it. He enjoyed the cloak and dagger routine; he liked hiding behind a mask and pulling the wool over people's eyes.
There was a certain allure of power in it all.
But soon enough he would look in the mirror, and the line where Joel Fagan began and the mask ended became blurred. After years of working for the red, white, and blue, Fagan was no longer sure that
he believed in the purpose behind it all. Langley had trained him as a world-class fighter in a clandestine war, to keep America safe against enemies who would seek to destroy her under the subtle cover of darkness. But he woke one day to find that he was unconvinced of the clear demarcation between the good guys and the bad guys. Maybe the very designations of good and bad were meaningless, holding no value at all except for those politicians and CEOs profiting from their never-ending game of chess.
So, after deciding that spying for a country he didn’t care much about just wasn’t for him, after giving the CIA the finger and slipping quietly into the shadows, Fagan had seen early and rapid success in the black markets. His skills in tradecraft, disinformation, and lying with his eyes wide open assisted him in building a small empire of sorts. He sold weapons to the North Africans, heroin to the French, and even managed to broker a human trafficking route through the Caucasus. His connections were expanding, his list of services growing, and business had never been better.
The United States did not look kindly at one of their spooks defecting. But even now, all these years later, they still hadn’t caught up to him. Except, of course, for Agent Savage grabbing him in Costa Rica. And that was a fluke of sorts. Fagan had gotten a little proud in the way he had disposed of Frank Blackwell, and that came back to bite him right in the tail.
But then these last five years he had seen nothing but a long string of bad luck, as though he had done something to piss off the black market gods. Sergei, his right-hand man, betrayed him, skimming cash off the top of payments and using the funds to buy shares in a Monte Carlo casino. Fagan shot Sergei in the throat while he was soaking in a hot tub with his girlfriend. And because the girl was there too, Fagan had shot her as well.
But that was just the start of the downhill slide. Before the grass even had a chance to start growing over Sergei’s grave, the largest shipment of heroin Fagan had ever sent off was apprehended by the authorities in Italy.
