by Jordan Cole
“Been awhile since you’ve dealt with a woman, huh?”
“And I’m probably messing it up. Believe me, I get it. I know you don’t want to be cooped up here, but it’s for the best. At least until the police start taking this seriously.”
“Those bodies would have--”
“Those bodies would have landed us in an MPD interrogation room for 12 hours while the bad guys put into place whatever they have planned.” It came out harsher than he intended. “We don’t know if they have someone on the inside. You think you’re easy to get to on the street? It’s a hundred times easier in a holding cell. Or prison.”
“All right. Sheesh.” She put her hands against her forehead. “I’m not as tactically aware as you. Every angle isn’t immediately apparent.”
“Sorry,” Riley said. Awake for ten minutes, and already arguing. That part of co-habitation he sure didn’t miss. “Maybe I’m letting my past experiences with the cops cloud my judgement. But I did what I thought was best. And now we have to deal with that. You’ll be safe here. That’s the only thing I know for sure.”
She nodded. Finished her first cup of coffee and poured another.
“I believe you. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. Not after you killed two people. But what if they come for me while you’re gone?”
“I’ll have everything on high alert. The motion detectors will pick up anyone within a thousand yards. They’ll start howling like banshees. I don’t think that will happen, but if it does, you hightail it to the panic room and lock the door. That room is surrounded by yards of reinforced steel and concrete. There’s no way inside. You call the cops and sit tight and wait for them to arrive. No one will bother you here, not today. But if they do, you’ll be ready.”
“Okay.
“You can be useful even stuck inside. Do some digging. Try and find out who or what this Caliban is. Could be connected in some way. And any word on the whereabouts of Pete Saccarelli, you call me.”
“Gotcha.”
Riley nodded. Went downstairs to one the rec room, where his gun rack rested against the wall. An assortment of rifles, semi-automatics, and handguns. He took a silver Smith & Wesson revolver, eight shots, swung the cylinder and loaded it with .357 magnum rounds. Enough to stop pretty much anything. He holstered it to his belt, beneath his shirt. Riley kept all his weapons in good working condition. The revolver was on the larger side, but reliable--basically impossible to jam, and it left no shell cases behind. The concealed carry of a handgun was legal in Virginia but not in DC, so once he crossed over he’d be breaking the law. He wasn’t overly concerned. He didn’t plan on getting arrested, and he wasn’t going out without a weapon, considering the events of the last few days. He slid a small hunting knife beside the Smith & Wesson, then tied his boots and headed out to the driveway. Debated whether he should take the rented Hyundai or his own car, a dark Toyota SUV parked a few yards to the rear. Settled quickly on the Toyota. Agatha would have enough headaches from the rental company as it was.
His first stop was Murray’s Electronics, in downtown DC. Riley drove quickly, speeding along the mountain, envisioning the snarl of traffic he would encounter once he hit the freeway. But it turned out to be not too bad, for a Monday. Morning rush hour, but no accidents or construction delays. He nosed in among the line of cars and made decent time into the city. Nobody sinister following. Just sleepy commuters, people on the way to work, sipping coffee and checking their makeup. Soon he was in the city, driving past a long avenue of shops and small businesses, clothing stores, phone retailers, electronics companies. He found Murray’s nestled between an Abercrombie & Fitch and a bakery. A small storefront, with the look of a local hardware store, independently owned. Not a chain. It was a little after 10 AM, and the store hours indicated the place had just opened. Riley went inside, a tinny digital doorbell announcing his presence as he entered.
The wares at Murray’s were an eclectic mix between everyday consumer gadgets and more niche equipment. Headphones and MP3 players on the shelves next to nanny cameras, spy sunglasses, long range binoculars and small microphones for discreet listening. Toward the back of the store was a glassed off area with the more expensive gear. Riley saw a selection of directional microphones similar to the one Peter had purchased, in addition to motion detectors, mirror cameras, USB cameras, and sweeping devices promising to detect all the hidden bugs being sold on either side of it. Kind of a tautological loop of espionage. Riley guessed maybe a quarter of the stuff worked as advertised--the motion detectors lining his cabin had cost a hell of a lot more than they were going for here. But the directional mics seemed legitimate, and their prices reflected that. The five-hundred-dollar microphone purchased by Saccarelli was on the cheaper end of the available models.
While Riley perused, a man watched him from behind the counter. Murray, presumably. Riley had pictured a wizened, older guy, maybe with spectacles--someone from a John LeCarre novel, perhaps. The actual guy was dark-skinned. Middle-eastern, by the looks of him. He was husky with broad shoulders, and had a neatly-shaven goatee.
“Help you with anything?” he asked.
“Are you Murray?” Riley asked, making his way over to the counter.
“Sure am.”
And he might have been, after a name change. Probably anglicized from Mustafa or Musharraf or something similar. Which Riley had no problem with. Foreigners needed to make a living too, even if they had to alter their surnames to accommodate xenophobic American consumers.
“I was wondering if you recognize this man.” Riley held up the picture of Saccarelli. “He bought a directional microphone here a few weeks ago. Expensive. Thought you might remember the sale.”
Murray squinted at the photo. Brought his eyes back up to Riley. A practiced poker face, no tells in his expression.
“Can’t say that I do, no.”
“No? I have a receipt confirming the purchase. You’re saying you don’t recall selling a microphone to this man?”
Murray placed a thumb against his goatee.
“Are you a law enforcement officer?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Well then I’m afraid I’m not really required to respond to your query. It’s nothing personal. My customers expect a certain level of discretion from me. A husband comes in here and asks, ‘Hey, did my wife buy this camera I found in my car to spy on me?’, it’s not right of me to say anything, one way or another. You understand, I’m sure.”
“This isn’t about a cheating spouse,” Riley said. “This is serious. The guy you sold this to is a reporter. He could be in trouble. He could be dead.”
“That’s terrible,” Murray replied. “But if it’s true, then it’s a matter for the police.”
“I’m not trying to bust your balls here,” Riley said. Murray’s smiling stone face was starting to anger him. “All I want to know is if you saw the guy, and if he said anything to you.”
“And I’m telling you I’m very sorry, but I don’t remember him.”
Riley sighed. Fought back the urge to grab Murray by his goatee and yank him down onto the counter until he started talking. Too early in the morning for that sort of thing. And despite the veiled hostility, Riley could see where Murray was coming from. The guy had a business to protect. He didn’t know Riley from any other schmuck off the street.
“I really need that information. What can I do to change your mind?”
Murray considered. Didn’t rebuff him right away, which was promising. Something like a twinkle in his dark eyes.
“I like paying customers more than window shoppers. Cash transactions sometimes have a way of loosening my tongue. Say, something in the price range of fifty dollars or more.”
Riley nodded. Went back over to the merchandise. Nothing here he really needed. His eyes fell upon a row of Swiss Army knives, stacked in a neat row of boxes. Just around fifty bucks. He had no shortage of knives, but if it got Murray talking, then what the hell. He grabbed a box and brought it to
the counter.
“Excellent choice,” Murray said. “These are a great deal for the price. Can’t go wrong with the classic design.”
“Whatever,” Riley said, pulling a roll of twenties from his wallet. “Tell me about this guy and the directional mic.”
“Oh, yes.” Murray slid the cash into the register. “Now that you mention it, I believe he was in here a few weeks ago. He seemed very eager to make the purchase. Like he was in a hurry. He had a lot of questions for me.”
“That right?”
“Indeed. He wanted to know the range of the microphone from an automobile. For listening in on a conversation. I told him that model worked from up to a hundred yards away.”
“What else did he say?”
“Well, from what he told me, it sounded as if he was working with one of the people in the conversation. As if they were partners. He asked the best way for this other person to position himself to capture the conversation clearly. I mentioned there were smaller devices that might attain better recording quality. That this other person could wear, sewn into their clothes, perhaps. But he was adamant this was not an option. Implying this other person would be checked for such devices. So, in the end, he was happy with the microphone.”
Riley nodded. Peter had been working with someone. A source, possibly? Who was the third party, being spied on?
“That’s all I really remember from our conversation. Like I said, he was in a bit of a hurry.”
“Appreciate the help. One more thing. Does the word Caliban mean anything to you?”
“Caliban is a Shakespeare character. Son of the witch Sycorax. A monster enslaved by Prospero, the play’s hero. A complex, pitiable figure.”
“Yeah, okay. Thanks.”
Riley walked back out onto the street, holding the silly Swiss Army knife box under an arm. Trying to run the scenarios in his mind, figure out what Peter Saccarelli had gotten himself into. Had to be a story he was chasing down. Both Agatha and Farber said Saccarelli was ambitious, hungry for the next big scoop. Possible he had stumbled into something bigger than he’d anticipated. But they hadn’t mentioned him working with a partner. And who was he taping? Was it the same people that were after Agatha?
Riley tossed the box into the trunk of the Toyota. Started the engine and headed south, toward Arlington and the Pentagon. Thinking as he drove, trying to visualize himself in Saccarelli’s shoes. He worked for Accounting Magazine, so whatever was going on had to involve some kind of monetary transaction. And either the money itself was dirty, or the goods being exchanged. Drugs, guns, protection. People paranoid enough to check for electronic bugs. Not small-time guys selling weed out in the mountains. Professionals who were fanatic about security and had business interests to maintain. This third person, the one Peter was working with, the guy possibly nicknamed Caliban. If they found him, he could put this all together. But that would be tough. Right now, there was no guarantee he even existed.
13.
Almost noon, and traffic had thinned. Riley made it to Arlington within a half hour. Passed the Metrorail, through the Courthouse neighborhood, civic buildings mixing with low rise residential apartments. Glimpses of the Pentagon through the trees to the north. He kept driving until the sidewalks thinned and the apartments gave way to industrial lots, offices for companies like Lockheed Martin and Boeing and Booz Allen Hamilton, rows of parking garages and enormous facilities. The offices of Henderson Security were small in comparison but thoroughly modern.
A gated entrance and meticulous landscaping flanked a stark silver building. The futuristic look made up for the building’s size, but Riley knew the technologies utilized inside were not the realm of science fiction but tried and true methods: information gathering, bodyguard detail, database mining. A solid outpost, with room to grow. A respectable job, running his own company. Riley felt a twinge of jealously. Nothing he couldn’t be doing himself. What he was doing, in a way, with Agatha. But the silver building made it real. The silver building drew the line between the amateurs and the professionals.
He parked in the visitor’s lot and approached the gate. Riley hadn’t announced he was coming, which was a calculated move on his part. He wanted to catch Dallas somewhat unawares. Offering to help on the phone was one thing; it’s another when the person is actually there in your face. Riley trusted Dallas, but he could be fickle. And what Riley was asking wasn’t, in the strictest sense, legal.
He entered the building, buffeted by a blast of air conditioning. A sleek lobby with metallic walls and mirrors, and a pretty young secretary sitting behind a raised desk. Behind were offices which lay down wide echoing corridors. Like a law firm mixed with scientific laboratories. Dallas was doing well for himself. Either that, or he was up to his eyeballs in debt with the loans he’d needed to buy the place. Riley was clueless as to his profit margin, but it didn’t seem as if Henderson Security was hurting for work. He approached the secretary, who greeted him with a youthful smile and asked if he had an appointment.
“No,” Riley said. “I’m an old friend of Dallas Henderson’s. My name’s Clay Riley. Was hoping I could speak with him.”
“Just a minute.” She patched into the phone line and called Dallas. No hemming and hawing, no excuses. Efficient and friendly. Maybe a tad too much so. Maybe Dallas liked the girl and thus tolerated her amiable demeanor. Or maybe despite the real estate, Henderson Security was still a small operation and they needed all the business they could get. Either way, a few minutes later Dallas came striding down one of the corridors, smiling. He looked much like Riley remembered; beefy and broad, strangely formal in an expensive suit and tie. A formality in his gait which suggested he still wasn’t entirely at ease with his new management position. He greeted Riley with a smothering handshake and fraternal clap on the back.
“Riley, you old bastard. You haven’t aged a day. Christ, you look exactly the same.”
Not entirely true. The boozing had put some wrinkles beneath his eyes. But he’d always had the good fortune of a full head of hair and looking about ten years younger than he really was. Dallas, on the other hand, was showing some stress. His face had filled out, gray hairs intermingled with brownish-red ones, and there was a bit of gut showing beneath the suit. But otherwise, the same guy Riley had known, way back when.
“Good to see you, Dallas. You’ve got a hell of a place here. I’m impressed.”
“Yeah, well, you should have seen where I started out. Real hole in the wall. It’s a miracle we ever got any business at all.”
“Any place we can go to talk?”
“I’ll show you my office. Lonely by myself in there today anyway.”
Dallas led him down the hallway, through the complex. The main floor looked more like a normal workspace; there were men in suits on the phone and on computers, talking to clients. Guys decked out like they were Secret Service detail. Through the windows Riley could see the company parking lot, and a long line of dark SUVs and Town Cars. They certainly had the image down pat.
Dallas’s office was modest, which didn’t surprise Riley. A big desk, some plaques on the wall. Pictures of Dallas’s family. The only extravagance was a desktop computer with a monitor the size of Riley’s torso. Made his own setup in the safe room back at the cabin look wimpy in comparison. Riley nodded.
“Nice office. Nice secretary, too. Real friendly.”
“Shelley? She’s great. One thing I’ve found is that people who need our services like the friendliness. They’ve got enough stress going on in their lives. We get some stern ice queen working the desk, drives ‘em away. You’d think they’d want someone a little more authoritative, but that doesn’t seem to be the case.”
“You were always business minded.”
“Running a business beats running patrols in Mosul. That I can say with confidence.”
“For sure.”
“You want a drink? I’ve got some scotch in here a client gave me. Haven’t even had a chance to touch it.”
“I’m okay.”
“Yeah. Little early to be tipping back, I guess.” Dallas leaned forward. Like Riley was a client, and he was about to make a proposal. “So what brings you down here? Is it what we talked about on the phone yesterday?”
“Same deal, yeah.”
“You check out that address I gave you?”
Riley nodded. Gave Dallas the story of his run-in with Agatha, the search for Peter Saccarelli. Left out the part about Spann and Carter in the apartment. He trusted Dallas, but there was no need to incriminate himself in anything just yet. Dallas listened, nodding along with the beats. When Riley finished, he sucked in his teeth and shook his head.
“What do you think this Saccarelli guy was into?” Dallas asked.
“I don’t rightly know. Seems he got caught up with some bad people, got himself kidnapped or killed. I’m more worried about the woman. Agatha. She’s a good kid. I don’t want to see her get hurt.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place. I can put my A team on it. I mean, if the cops are screwing you around, why not? If it’s a money thing, I’m sure we can--”
“It’s not the money. She’s loaded. Rich parents, or something like that.”
“So what’s the problem?”
The problem is, I found her, Riley thought. And I’m the one who should be getting her out of this. Dallas had been a good operator, but those days were past. He had no idea if his A team was any good.
“No problem,” Riley said finally. “I just don’t know if we’re at that point yet.”
“You told me there’s men after her. How bad does it have to get?”
“That’s not why I came here,” Riley said, feeling a tinge of frustration. “I came for information. I’ve got two names.” He took out the licenses of Spann and Carter. “Was hoping you could dig something up.”
Dallas took the licenses. Commonwealth of Virginia, both of them. He examined the unsmiling faces. Turned the licenses over and flexed the laminated plastic, much like Riley had done. The holographic watermark shimmered as he manipulated it, a spectrum of color.
