by Derek Haas
“It doesn’t matter. We’re in this together until the end. Spilatro knows about me. He’s probably known about me since we landed in Chicago.”
I nod. She’s right.
“If you tried to take care of this on your own, he’d find me and use me against you. There’s no sending me away. No hiding me somewhere. If you’re not watching me, then you won’t know I’m safe. And he’ll compromise you at a point when it’ll matter.”
I keep nodding.
“I love you. I’ll do whatever you tell me at this point. If you tell me to run, I’ll run. If you tell me to hide, I’ll do it. I’ll wait for you to come back to me. But it’s not the smart play, as you call it. He knows about me, and he knows you love me.”
“I do.”
“You’ll just have to be your best with me dragging on your back.”
“No.”
Her eyes flash. “What is this ‘no’?”
“No, I won’t drag you on my back. You’re going to have to step up and be the tiger I know you have inside you.”
She sets her jaw, and when she looks up, her eyes fill with resolve. “I can be a tiger.”
“You’re going to have to kill more than a squirrel.”
“I will pull the trigger when I have to.”
“Then let’s find Lieutenant Decker.”
CHAPTER TEN
We backtracked through the four files we had on Spilatro, the four hits Archie assigned. And there it was. The connections between all those jobs that Risina and I and Archie himself had failed to catch. The first hit, the rich female English professor at Ohio State, had helped finance a PAC set up to block government land use for military training in Ohio. For the second, the TV reporter had been working on a story about bribes involving the top senator from Illinois. The unlucky bookkeeper in the third file had more than a few Washington clients on his ledgers. And the final file? The police detective in Boston? The one Carla helped knock over? He would’ve testified against two NSA officials who were caught with hookers and cocaine at the Intercontinental in downtown Boston if he hadn’t slipped on the ice and had such an untimely accident. All Spilatro kills . . . all with government ties. And the fact that all those deaths looked like accidents was the icing on the cake. If they had looked like actual hits, actual assassinations, there would have been inquiries, scandal, attention paid. The dark men wanted these issues to disappear, not become headlines. Spilatro’s killing style was perfect for these kinds of jobs.
I wonder if Archie knew he was a patsy for the government, and to what degree he was playing ball. I wonder if he slipped and accidentally gave Spilatro my name, or Spilatro discovered it and then sought out Archie, worked his way inside. Used Kirschenbaum to make himself available to Archie, then worked a few government jobs for him to gain trust. I wonder how extensive the Agency is involved in the private killing business and how many of my assignments over the years were actually financed by taxpayers.
Finally, I look up the light rail accident in Cleveland, the one Carla claims to have discovered in her basement, the one where a section of the rail collapsed, killing the 14 passengers on board. Sure enough, three of the passengers worked for a top Defense contractor, McKnight International. Why the government wanted them dead, and what contract that helped to close, I have no idea.
But Spilatro works for Uncle Sam and has been all along, I’m now sure of it.
It takes her a week in DC. I remain uncertain on whether or not she’s capable of shooting a man in the head, but as a researcher, she’s extraordinary. This is an Ivy League-educated woman who built an impressive rare book collection by carefully researching titles, cross-referencing sources, compiling lists of potential dealers, wooing and cajoling and nudging reluctant sellers while she gathered the best information first, so she could swoop in and procure a title before her competition knew there was a deal to be made. My mistake, I’m beginning to realize, was grooming Risina to do what I do, to be a contract killer. I’ve been working with a natural fence the whole time.
She won’t need to blend in, to hide in plain sight; in fact, she can use her beauty to secure what she needs, to make men want to help her. She can use an arrow I don’t have in my quiver: she can be wholly unthreatening.
She made an appointment with the Assistant Secretary of Defense for Public Affairs at the Pentagon, posing as a freelance journalist. With the Presidential initiative for a more transparent government coupled with the Freedom of Information Act and countless journalistic precedents, it wasn’t difficult for Risina to gain access to enlistment records. She charmed the ASOD as she explained she was writing a heartwarming article on Desert Storm veterans who had parlayed their time in the service into high-end jobs. So much of what is reported in the mainstream media focuses on the negative, she told him—the combat fatigue, the stress disorders, the disabilities—she was hoping to chronicle the positive effects on veterans who served their country well and made something of their lives after their tour of duty, using the skills they learned in the military to achieve civilian success. The assistant secretary damn near threw his spine out of alignment bending over backward to help her.
Roland Deckman, aka “Decker,” and Aaron Spittrow, aka “Spilatro,” both joined the army in 1988. Like I said, most hit men aren’t too imaginative when they come up with their killing names, and Risina made short work of spotting two similar names in the same unit. They entered the 24th ID out of Fort Stewart, Georgia, one of the first units deployed to Saudi Arabia in the summer of 1990. When the Gulf War began, the 24th faced some of the fiercest resistance in the entire campaign, running up against the 6th Mechanized Division of the Iraqi Republican Guard. They still managed to capture the airfields at Jabbah and Tallil. Deckman and Spittrow worked as infantry grunts, nothing unusual in their service records.
The ASOD apologized to Risina profusely, but contact information on Deckman and Spittrow was sketchy following their military service. They both were honorably discharged in 1992, and where most soldiers would at least have a few files of contact and discharge information, those files seemed to be missing for Deckman and Spittrow. Risina asked if there was contact information from before they joined the army.
The ASOD smiled. That, he had. At least for one of them.
Northville, Michigan is a quiet slice of suburbia outside of Detroit, with modest homes peppered around mansions. Although many neighborhoods in Detroit look as though they’ve been abandoned and forgotten, Northville could just as easily be situated outside Kansas City, Chicago, or Dayton. It is filled with regular folks making livings and raising families. Roland Deckman grew up here before he joined the army.
We drove straight to Michigan, taking shifts behind the wheel. Risina spent enough time driving in the States when she was in college that she isn’t intimidated by the width of our highways. In fact, she handled our sedan like it was primed for the Indy 500.
“Do you know what the fastest car in the world is?” she asked as we blasted through Ohio.
“What?”
“A rental car.”
Well, at least her jokes have gotten better.
It’s warm and rainy when we arrive, the kind of summer shower unique to Michigan that blows down like hell for fifteen minutes before it exhausts itself and retreats out to the lake.
We sit outside Deckman’s parents’ house. He’s now a government assassin, I’m sure of it, a breed of animal I’ve been fortunate to avoid until recently. He’s had training I’ve never had, supplies I can only dream of, access to targets that must be facilitated by entire teams of personnel and equipment, and a get-out-of-jail-free card that removes half the worry of making a kill.
But does he secretly despise his job? Does he question the political motivations behind his assignments? Does he rely too heavily on the system? Do his fortunes change with each new administration? And does this cement his loyalty to his friend Spilatro over his loyalty to his employers?
The real question, the only question th
at matters: is he a tiger?
No, I haven’t had to worry about government hitters until now, until they sought me out, forced me back in when I was content enough to ride out my days in obscurity.
We sip coffee and wait for the rain to die.
“Decker’s our key. He’s who we’re going to trade for Archie and how we’re going to get them off me.”
“What makes you think Spilatro or Spittrow, or whatever his name is, will be more willing to deal for Decker than Carla?”
“Because these cover stories people tell are mostly lies but always have moments of truth. I think Decker has been Spilatro’s friend and fellow soldier for twenty-plus years. I think they were already working jobs together when they were in the service. I think Decker went to the CIA first and rescued Spilatro from a dead-end life of middle-management and that formed a bond that is unbreakable.
“I could be wrong. He could mean nothing to Spilatro. But he helped him pull off that fake hit to fool his wife. After all that time, they were still together. My guess is the Agency isn’t too keen on fostering or facilitating friendships . . . they’d want their officers working alone and anonymous. So these guys still pulling a job together has to mean more than blood . . . it has to. At least, that’s what I’d like to believe.”
“Because it’s the best plan?”
“Because it’s all we have right now.”
The military is one thing, the CIA quite another. She couldn’t get inside Langley the way she did the Pentagon, so the only chance we have of confronting Decker has to come from his past. Spilatro certainly covered his tracks, burning down the “Aaron Spittrow” military records from both before and after his service, but Decker must’ve been comfortable no one would put the puzzle pieces together the way we did. He failed to erase the blackboard of his “Deckman” upbringing, and the military kept a record of his home address.
His brother, Lance, now lives in the same home they grew up in. He’s an alcoholic. He owes money to the bank, has sold the equity in the house, has tried unsuccessfully three times for a small business loan, and was rejected on the grounds of bad personal credit. All of this information, supposedly private, Risina pulled from the Internet during our ride west. A natural fence, like I said.
The rain abates, so we approach the house. After a minute, a man in his early forties opens the door. He holds a beer bottle in one hand, and his eyes are droopy, red-rimmed, like a basset hound’s.
“Help you?” he says as he takes a glance at me and then lets his gaze linger on Risina.
“Mr. Deckman?”
He turns back to me. “Yes?”
“Today’s your lucky day.”
He leans into the doorframe as his expression turns suspicious. I’m holding a duffel bag, and he eyes it, then looks back at me. “Hadn’t had too many of those. What’s the sale?”
“No sale. We’re here to give you money. Can we come in?”
He folds his arms but doesn’t budge.
“What’s this about, pal?”
“It’s about your brother.”
“My brother?”
“Roland Deckman’s your brother, correct?”
His eyes dart back and forth between us now, the lids pulled open. “Yes, but . . .”
“Well, he’s made a significant amount of money over the last twenty years, and he wanted you to have most of it.”
“Is he . . . has something happened to him?”
“Can we come in, sir? We’d rather not do this on the doorstep.”
“Yes, of course.” He blinks down at himself, tries to smooth out the wrinkles in his shirt, then props the door open, stepping aside. “Please, come in. Sorry . . . we get solicitors all the time here . . .”
“No problem.”
Risina moves in first, and I follow. The house is a craftsman, lots of wood and rustic furniture. The living room is cramped and messy, like it hasn’t had a wipe-down in a while. The television is on, a video game in mid-pause on the screen.
“Can I get you guys a beer? Or a . . . or some water?”
“No, we’re fine, thank you.”
We take seats on the sofa and Lance looks nervously at the screen and then presses a button on the remote so the television snaps to black.
After I let him stew for a moment, biting at the nail on his pinky finger, I lean forward. “I’ll cut right to it then, Mr. Deckman. I don’t know if your brother told you, but he was working for Central Intelligence.”
“Yeah . . . he, uh, I don’t know if I was supposed to know but he mentioned . . .”
“Good. It’s certainly not against regulations.”
I pause a moment longer, then smile sadly. “I’m sorry to say that your brother died in the line of duty.”
I watch Lance’s eyes, and they continue to move back and forth between us but don’t cloud over. It’s easy to see inside his head: he doesn’t give a damn about his brother, he just wants to know what is in it for him. I suspect his credit cards are maxed out, his bills are piling up, and the house we’re sitting inside is one of the few possessions he owns outright, paid for by his parents before they croaked.
He catches himself and coughs into his fist. “Oh . . . oh no. I . . . this is a shock, you know.”
“I understand.” I shift the duffel up to the coffee table, struggling for effect with the weight, and his eyes go to it like a prisoner looking at a key that fits his lock.
“Like I was saying, your brother socked away a significant sum during his employment, and his will states that he wants you to have it.”
“How much?” He catches himself again. “I mean, wow, this is incredible. I’m . . .” He stops, coloring.
“Well, that’s why we’re here in person, Lance. This bag holds a hundred thousand dollars in cash . . .”
He’s fun to watch. There’s obvious disappointment at that amount—like it’ll cover his debts but he isn’t completely out of the woods. He won’t be able to sit around playing video games for the rest of his life, all his bills paid. I keep playing with his emotions . . .
“. . . which represents five percent of his wealth.”
He swallows, and his lips purse and tremble like a baby with a pacifier. He’s too dumb to do the math, but he knows the number has a lot of zeroes. I hand him the handles of the bag and he takes it in his lap. He wants to play it cool but he can’t stop himself; he unzips the bag and looks over the stacks.
“Now here’s the messy part.”
His eyes dart up, searching my face. “Messy?”
“Yes, sir. See, we’re authorized to release you the rest of the inheritance, but we need something from you before we can do that.”
He nods before he even knows he’s doing it. “Sure. What do you need?”
“Well, when an asset of ours dies, for national security reasons, we have to make sure all ties to him are erased. If an enemy were able to trace steps back to where he started, where he was living, where he kept personal possessions, files and such, we’d be . . . well, it would be bad for the country.”
I have zero idea what I’m talking about, but I’ve read enough Ludlum, Clancy, and Follet to impersonate a government handler. Well, at least conjure enough of a performance to manipulate a desperate man who doesn’t know jack shit.
“Yeah, sure. I understand.” He stands up and absently wipes his hands on his shirt again. “Let me see . . .” He heads to a back hallway, leaving us alone in the living room.
Risina eyes me, a half smile on her face. I shrug, and we wait. I can hear doors open and close somewhere in the house, and then the sound of paper shuffling.
After a moment, Lance returns, holding a small yellow legal pad. In his other hand is a cell phone. He exhales loudly . . . “This is all I got. Umm . . . I haven’t heard from Ro in years, shoot, I mean, had to be 2005 or so, after mom died. He had to sign some papers so I could, um, take over this place. He told me if I ever got in serious trouble, to, um . . . get ahold of him at this number.”
/> He hands me the legal pad and the only thing scrawled on it is an 888 number. He hands me the phone. “He, uh, he said to use this phone so he’d know it was me. I guess it has a chip in it or something?” He hands me an old Nokia. “I haven’t, uh, charged it in a while.”
“Did you ever call him?”
“One time. I called him and some broad . . .” he looks over at Risina. “Sorry, I mean, some woman answered and said she was with some bank or something. At first, I thought I’d dialed the wrong number, then I realized it was probably a cover or something? I told her to tell Roland that his brother needed him.
“I swear it wasn’t another five minutes and the phone rang in my hand. He was all concerned, out-of-breath you know, asking if I was in trouble. I told him I was running out of funds, you know . . . maybe he could loan me some money? He told me to only call him if my life was in danger, if someone had threatened me, that was it. That’s the last I heard from him. We were never close, but I guess he . . . uh, I guess he . . .” He looks down at the duffel. “. . . wanted me to have a better life or something.”
I stand up and Risina joins me. “You sure this is everything you have that could lead back to him? No address in Washington or anything?”
He holds up his empty hands, then crosses his arms like he’s hugging himself. “No, nothing else. That’s it. If he had a home address, he never gave it to me.”
I nod, and look into his eyes, like I’m checking to see if he’s lying when I already know he’s telling the truth.
“Okay, Mr. Deckman. Thank you.”
He looks at the duffel as we head to the door. “Sure, no problem.” He follows us closely . . .
“So . . . the rest of the money?”
I stop, like I had forgotten about it. “Yes, sorry. My associate here will deliver it when we make sure there isn’t any other way to get to your brother’s identity through you.”
