by R. A. McGee
He made his way to the parking garage, the early-morning sun hurting his eyes as he stepped out into the cool air of the day.
Pushing the keyless remote fob, Clark kept going until he found a rental. It was a foreign, midsized SUV.
“Good thing it’s not a compact,” Clark said to no one.
He fished around in the back area, finding not just the burner phone, but several pistols and a rifle as well. He fired up the SUV, driving to the spot in the garage where he’d parked Reggie’s Cadillac Eldorado. The man had been happy when Clark made him an offer for the vehicle, and had given up the keys lightning fast. Clark grabbed his bag off the seat and tossed it into the SUV.
Clark powered on Exeter’s burner phone, checking the status of the battery. It was full, and Clark tossed it into the cup holder. The tank was nearly full, and he had no reason to stop anytime soon. There was only one destination.
He was going to have a talk with Keever, and he didn’t expect both of them to survive the conversation.
Fifty-Four
McHenry padded from his restroom back to his bedroom. The big open windows let in the early light of the day, and he had a small bag open on his bed, packing clothes as he went along.
He paused for a few minutes to stretch, trying to push away the ever-present pain in his hip. He walked across the plain carpet of his living room and into the small area officially known as the kitchen. Little more than a counter and hot plate, the space served McHenry well enough.
He reached for a small, opaque bottle with a prescription label on it. He held the bottle, tossing it up and down in his hand before he slammed it down on the counter and walked away from it.
He needed to be clear-headed.
McHenry poured himself a finger of Scotch—for the taste, not for the buzz—and paced his living room floor. A ring of the doorbell broke his concentration and he hobbled into his bedroom, retrieving the Browning Hi-Powered from his nightstand.
He peered through the peephole, then lowered the gun to his side and opened the door.
“Were you pointing that thing at me?”
“No, but you can’t be too cautious.”
“That’s the Ulysses who showed me the ropes. May I come in?”
“Of course, Jim.” McHenry moved out of the way and let Assistant CIA Director Selwyn walk past him and into his home.
“I hope you have some of that for me,” Selwyn said, pointing at the rocks glass.
McHenry poured a sip for Selwyn, and the big man thanked him.
“I’ve been trying to get a hold of Brockman,” McHenry said. “Why the hell won't he speak with me?”
“Eric’s busy, you know that. You were a deputy before, you know how much work goes into doing the top job.”
“So he sent you instead?”
“Yep. What’s so important that I’m at your place on a Saturday morning? Do you have any idea what a rough night I had?”
“I’m sure you’ll survive,” McHenry said. “Jim, I think I’ve made a mistake.”
Selwyn stopped mid-sip and put his glass on the bar top in front of him. “What do you mean, Old Man? I’ve never even seen you make a misstep, let alone a mistake.”
McHenry exhaled. “This guy you loaned me. Keever? He’s an issue.”
“He can be… unorthodox, I’ll give him that. But he usually gets the job done.”
“Usually?”
Selwyn nodded. “Things aren’t working out?”
“So far? No. He may get lucky in the future, but I won’t hold my breath.”
“Eric was afraid of that.”
“That’s why he didn’t come, isn't it? Why he won't return my calls. He doesn’t want any part of this anymore.”
“It’s just… we’ve had some issues with Keever in the past. He likes to go off script sometimes. He can be hard to control.”
“And this is the guy you lend me?” McHenry said, anger flashing in his face. “I ask for a favor and you give me your sick puppy? What sort of cooperation is that?”
“Listen, Eric and I both wanted to help you out. We go back a long way, there’s no denying that. But our best guys are in the field. I can’t recall an asset from the field just to sanction someone for you. Keever may be a bit unorthodox, but he’s still effective. What’s the matter, did he not kill who you wanted him to?”
“He did, I suppose, but he’s made the matter far, far worse. Frankly, at this point, I would have been better off without him.”
Selwyn didn’t answer, instead taking a big gulp of the Scotch. “Got any more?”
McHenry poured the assistant director another glass. “I appreciate you guys farming him out to me. I was in a pinch and couldn’t use any of my guys, I get it.”
Selwyn waved his hand in a “no problem” gesture.
“Still, even if Keever manages to take care of my issue, I think he will know too much about the situation to remain viable.”
“Viable? What do you mean?”
“It means I want you guys to take him out,” McHenry said. “Sanction him.”
“We lend you one of our toys and now you want us to toss him in a fire?”
McHenry sighed. “Jim, I haven’t told you everything. Not even close. I didn’t feel like I needed to, with our background. I may have done something… compromising. Even if Keever takes out the new targets I have, I can’t let him walk around. I need you to eliminate him. I’d be willing to reimburse you.”
Selwyn rubbed the stubble on his jaw, looking at the old man. “What do you mean by reimbursement?”
“Name it.”
“Your guy, the one from Costa Rica. What did you call him, Dust?”
“Yes…”
“Let us borrow him. Eric’s got something he thinks the guy is perfect for. Something we’d rather not use our people for,” Selwyn said, emphasizing the words “we” and “our.”
“Dust is… unavailable.”
“Why, because you disavowed him?” Selwyn said with a smile.
McHenry ground his teeth.
“His name’s Clark, right? We’ve known for a while. We just never felt the need to poach your guy.”
“How did you know who he was?”
“Come on, I think you overestimate the value a code name has, especially when I can just call people I know at Blackthorn and ask. We’re the damn CIA, there isn’t much we don’t know.”
“If you know so much, then why don’t you ask him yourself?”
“Rather let you make the introduction. Some people don’t like being headhunted without a reference. Even though you disavowed him, I’m sure you can work something out. Hell, it may be better if he is disavowed. He’ll be very off the books.”
“That’s one of the problems,” McHenry said, eyeing Selwyn’s drink. “Keever put me in the position to disavow Clark. Now Keever’s going after Clark.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means that the parameters of the mission I used Keever for have changed and now he’s going to eliminate Clark for me.”
“Hmm,” Selwyn said. “Well, in that case, it doesn’t seem like you have much to trade. Bad enough you disavow the guy, I doubt he’s going to listen to you when he finds out you tried to have him killed.”
“With any luck, Keever will get the job done and Clark will no longer be a problem.”
Selwyn threw his head back and laughed, loud and deep. McHenry wasn’t sure if what he’d said was genuinely that funny, if it was the hangover, or the freshly introduced Scotch. He waited while Selwyn’s big shoulders heaved up and down.
“I’ll tell you what. If Keever manages to take out that hard son of a bitch, then you let me know. Until then, let’s just say we’re going to step back and let your scenario play out.”
“And wait to pick up the pieces,” McHenry said.
Selwyn shrugged. “Can’t help you, Old Man.”
“Don’t give me that bullshit,” McHenry hissed. “You can do something.”
Selwyn tipped back the rest of the contents of the glass and set it gently on the counter. “Listen, McHenry, I don’t have to do anything for you. I think I’ve been pretty understanding, out of respect for our history, but you aren’t going to tell me what to do. You lost that right when you left the Agency and started your little concierge spy outfit.
“The fact of the matter is, this is your mess and you need to clean it up. Maybe we can do something for you later.”
McHenry walked around the edge of the bar top and past Selwyn. He pulled the front door open and gestured an upturned palm to Selwyn. “Thanks for coming by, Jim.”
“Aww, come on, McHenry. I’m already here. Why don’t we just relax and drink some more Scotch?”
He gestured again. “I have a train to catch.”
“Why don’t we—”
“Get out, Jim! Just get out.”
Wordlessly, Selwyn buttoned his blazer and walked out of the apartment.
McHenry shut the door behind him, leaned against the door, and rubbed his head. Then he walked over to the counter, snatched his bottle of painkillers, and twisted the top off.
He chased the pill with a bottle of water, having decided that the bit of alcohol he’d imbibed was already more than he was comfortable with. He needed to be clear-headed and ready. There would be no way to quarterback this thing if he was too drunk or stoned on pills.
The smartphone next to the bottle of Scotch rang, and McHenry snatched it up to look at the caller ID.
He stood straight, then checked his watch and answered the phone. “McHenry. Yes, I know who this is, how can I help you?”
McHenry limped over to the sofa, sitting gingerly. “I’m not sure if it’s a good idea for us to meet.”
He scooted back to lean against the cushion. “You have what? Are you sure?”
McHenry slid forward and stood up again. “How long until I can meet you?”
He slipped into his shoes and donned his trench coat. “No, I can be there right now.”
The phone clicked off and McHenry was left with a thread of hope that he’d be able to turn this soup sandwich of a situation around. He slipped his pistol into his jacket pocket and left his apartment, a bit of light now at the end of the tunnel.
This meeting could change everything.
Fifty-Five
Clark gripped the steering wheel of the SUV until his knuckles were white. The events of the last few days swirled in his head and he wanted a place to sleep for a while. As great as that sounded, he knew it was a trap. Samantha was waiting for him when he closed his eyes, and as much as he loved to see her face again, he wasn’t as fond of the stuff that came after that.
The burner phone rang on the seat next to him, its shrill beep rousing his from his fog. It was the number that was in the phone’s incoming log. Clark waited until it stopped, then picked up his own phone and dialed a number.
Of the ten digits, he’d dialed the first eight hundreds of times, in hundreds of situations. He’d never dialed the last two, an extension that was two desks away from the person he wished he could speak with.
“Hello?” a groggy voice said.
“Is this Klaus?”
“Uhm… yes, this is Klaus. How can I help you?”
“Took a chance you’d be at the office on a Saturday, but I figured it was worth a shot. You tech nerds put in some serious hours. I remember Lucy being there around the clock,” Clark said.
“Who is this?”
“Klaus, this is Czerny Clark.”
There was silence on the phone for several seconds. “Mr. Clark?”
“Yes, sir. I was wondering if you remembered me. You hadn’t been there long before I quit.”
“I remember you. Lucy was excited to introduce us.”
“Yeah,” Clark said, his voice trailing off. “Listen, Klaus, I need a favor.”
“Can I do that? I mean, you don’t work for Blackthorn anymore. Not that I’m trying to bring that up, I’m sorry for mentioning it, I’m just saying. You know. You don’t.”
“You’re right, I don’t. But you know who does?”
There was silence on the phone.
“I can’t hear you shake your head, Klaus.”
“Oh, right. Who still works here?”
“You do. And I need your help, not just for me, but for Lucy.”
“Lucy?” Klaus said. “What’s wrong with Lucy?”
Clark read the road sign, indicating he needed to get off in five miles. “I’m going to tell you something, but you can’t tell anyone. Do you understand?”
“Like a secret?”
“Exactly. Can you keep a secret?”
“Of course. There was this time when I was at space camp, Benny Giovanni smuggled in a case of—”
“If you tell me, it won't be a secret anymore.”
“Right. Don’t worry, I’m good at keeping secrets.”
Clark sighed. “Lucy’s been kidnapped.”
“What?”
“I said Lucy Gordon’s been kidnapped.”
“This is bad.”
“Yes, it’s bad,” Clark said.
“How can I find her? Where is she? Does she need help?”
“I’m going to help her, but I can’t do it without you, savvy?”
“You need my help?”
“Yes, Klaus. Can you help me? Can you help Lucy?”
“Anything for Lucy.”
“Good,” Clark said. “Good.”
Ten minutes later, Klaus had called back, with an address for Clark. “This is the last place that phone has spent more than an hour at.”
“Just one address?”
“I’m running a program to triangulate any other viable locations. I’ll text you if I get any other addresses.”
“Sounds complicated.”
“It was really easy to find. See, what I did was—”
“You know, you remind me of someone,” Clark said.
“Really? Who?”
“Never mind. Remember, this is a secret.”
“Don’t worry, I got it.”
“Good work, Klaus.”
“Mr. Clark?”
“Yeah?”
“When you see Lucy, would you tell her I said hi?”
Clark thumbed the phone off. He pushed the gas pedal down further and the SUV hurtled along the highway.
The burner phone rang again. Clark looked at the dashboard clock, then his smartphone. He figured enough time had elapsed. He picked up the phone, but didn’t answer.
“Hello?” Keever’s voice said. “Dixon, you there?”
Clark didn’t answer, leaving the phone open, sitting in his cup holder.
“Dixon, come on. I need to know how things went.”
Clark remained silent.
For several moments, Keever was quiet. Then, “Clark? Is that you?”
Clark still didn’t answer.
“They call you Dust now, right? Did you get a hold of Dixon? I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. He wasn’t really in top form. I thought it was a throwaway job, offing that big bitch from the trailer. Had to make sure she didn’t point the finger at me, you know? Guess Dixon wasn’t up to it.”
Clark gritted his teeth but didn’t respond.
“I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess you aren’t too happy with me. That’s okay, Dust. It doesn’t matter much to me either way. I just want you to know that the girl is safe... mostly. She smells really good, you know? Like she lives in a coffee house. And lilacs. She smells like lilacs too. I just keep smelling her and smelling her. It’s making me wonder something.
“I wonder if the carpet matches the drapes. I mean, with skin that pale and hair that dark, there's no real chance that it does, right? She has to be a brunette or something. I just can't believe she’d have such dark hair down there, you know? Not sure if you’ve ever been curious, but I’ll check it out and let you know.
“You know the funny thing? She really thinks the world of you. At first, I thought she had a thing
for you, but no, it’s not that at all. More like a big brother, right? Interesting. She’s pretty feisty. Says you’re going to kill me. You gonna kill me, Clark?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, there he is. You can speak. Did I touch a nerve?”
“I just figured I’d be up front with you. There is literally nothing you can do to get out of this. I. Am. Going. To. Kill. You.”
“Nothing I can do? What if I find you a hooker with a golden pussy? Surely that would be enough, right?”
“You think I’m joking.”
“Do you think I am?” Keever screamed into the phone, his outburst echoing through Clark’s car. “I’m not someone you can play games with. You aren’t the only one who’s good at his job.”
“Listen to me, Keever. Take the girl to a police station and drop her off. When she calls me and says she’s okay, then I’ll agree to kill you quickly. But I’m still going to kill you. Make your peace. “
“This is just like you. Always trying to be the big man. You know what? Fuck you and your peace. I’m going to do what I want. Feel free to try and stop me.”
Clark slammed the flip phone closed, squeezing it until he heard a crack in the case. He set the phone on the passenger's seat and mashed the pedal as far down as he could, his SUV hurtling toward his destination.
Fifty-Six
Clark sat down the street from the building, with a pair of binoculars from the trunk of Exeter/Dixon’s rental. He’d glassed the area several times, seeing nothing of note.
The GPS had brought him here, the location Klaus had found for Keever’s cell phone.
When Clark had spoken to Klaus earlier, he’d had him track the location of the cell phone Keever was using to talk to the fake doctor Exeter. It was simple, but not easy, to find out where the phone attached to a cell phone number was at any given time. It just took time and a certain type of program, as well as level of technological ability.
It was the reason Clark favored burner phones he could discard often. It didn’t matter if someone tried to triangulate a phone he’d already thrown in the bottom of a river.
