( 2011) Cry For Justice

by Ralph Zeta

  “Now, if you have no further objections,” Sammy’s voice went on, “you will abort your half-assed attempt at coercing Mr. Justice to go anywhere with you, and you will get your lard asses back in your vehicle and leave, or you will cease breathing. Am I clear? Please acknowledge your understanding when you are ready to comply.”

  That Sammy, always with the official cop talk.

  “This must be your associate, Mr. Samuel Raj, formerly of the Palm Beach Sheriff’s Office and Miami-Dade Police, isn’t it?” said Kellerman.

  “I am sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sammy replied.

  “Prank calls,” I added. “Happens all the time.”

  “Are you aware that threatening a federal officer is a felony?”

  “Who’s threatening whom here?” Sammy snapped back. “Besides, I don’t see anyone resembling a federal officer anywhere, do you? All I see is three ugly mugs maybe Russian mob with bad haircuts and concealed firearms, attempting to kidnap a law-abiding citizen off a public street. An officer of the court, no less, and a decorated veteran. Kidnapping in most instances is a federal offense carrying a stiff sentence.”

  Kellerman looked at me for a moment, an eerie calm settling over his cold features as he took a moment to look around the parking lot. His eyes came to rest on a three-story office building roughly four hundred yards east of our location. That’s where I would set up a sniping nest if I were Sammy. Kellerman recognized it, too not a difficult shot for a marksman with reasonable skills.

  Kellerman took his sunglasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He knew he was outgunned. When he finally leveled his gaze at me I saw a certain cold detachment there, a deep dark void, I had seen in others who operated on the wrong side of morality.

  “Listen, Jason,” Kellerman began. “I don’t want to cause a scene where none is required. Either by dumb luck or accident, you stumbled into something that doesn’t concern you. Matters of national security are involved here. I expect you to keep what you’ve learned to yourself. Do you understand?”

  I said nothing. The stare-down continued, the silence thickening with each passing second, the red dot hovering in a tight pattern on my antagonist’s chest.

  It would have been funny if it weren’t so real. Like marionettes frozen in time, we all stood in place, not moving, facing each other, hands touching metal, in uneasy silence, shooting cold stares at one another, each one of us waiting for something. These things always end the same way. Someone blinks first; guns are drawn, hot brass ejected and flesh pierced. I hoped everyone understood the implications of making an ill-considered move.

  Finally, Kellerman broke the silence. “Fine. Have it your way.” He put his sunglasses back on and headed back to his SUV. “Good luck with your hunt. You’re gonna need it.”

  “Hey, Kellerman!” I called out.

  He stopped and turned to face me.

  “All I want is to recover some personal items and whatever’s left of the money Kaja Slavik took from my clients. I get that and I go away. Quietly. You never hear from me again. It’ll be like we never even met.”

  Kellerman pondered this for about a second, then said, “Best offer I’ve heard all day.”

  “Do you know where I can find him?” I asked.

  He smiled and lowered his head. We both knew he held all the advantages in this situation. I could not afford a fight with the CIA. If he was who I suspected he was a CIA field operative who took care of mop-ups and screw–ups he could run interference all day and easily thwart my efforts. Or he could just stash Baumann so deep, not even the maggots on his own grave would be able to find him. If I wanted to find Baumann I needed to come clean with this guy.

  Still grinning, hKellerman scanned the area surrounding the parking lot. “Do you like a latte, Jason?”

  “Pardon me?” I said confused.

  “Coffee,” he said, tilting his head to his right. There was a commercial strip across the street with the familiar big green letters announcing Seattle’s’ most famous chain store. “Today is your lucky day.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I’m buying,” Kellerman proudly announced.

  “Just so’s you all know,” said Sammy’s voice, still on speaker phone, “I’ll be watching.” The phone line went dead.

  Kellerman looked at the phone and said, “Loyalty such a rare commodity these days, isn’t it?”

  “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Kellerman let out a hearty laugh and waved for me to join him. “Walk with me, Jason,” he said, and waved his men away. The two clambered back into the SUV, slammed doors, and rumbled away. For the first time, I noticed something peculiar in Kellerman’s voice. Nothing really apparent, and it didn’t occur often, but it was there just the same: a certain inflexion in his speech. The faint vestige of an accent? And I wondered if that was even his real name. With spooks, there was simply no way for an outsider like me to be sure. With these guys things were never as they seemed.

  I put my phone away and fell in step with Kellerman. His stride was quick and agile. This was a man on a mission, someone who displayed an air of supreme confidence, to the point of arrogance, about his every move. A man who, despite his age and the beginnings of a paunch, could no doubt take care of himself. And I began to really wonder what sort of mare’s nest I had stepped into here. Thanks a bunch, Nora.

  Twenty-one

  We walked the length of the parking lot in silence, not even glancing at each other. The sound of leather soles on pavement, the buzzing of nearby traffic and an occasional faceless voice our only companions. Heavy, dark clouds still blocked the mid afternoon sun and the breeze, though warm, was not as humid as yesterday.

  I wanted to ask this man so many questions especially about what the hell they were thinking when they decided to let someone like Baumann/Slavik loose and unsupervised on an unsuspecting American public. Innocent civilians deserved better from their government. I had to wonder how the news would play out if the press got hold of the story.

  I finally couldn’t wait any longer. I hate silence. “Do you know where Baumann is yes or no?”

  “There are a few things we need to discuss first.”

  We really didn’t, but there was no point in antagonizing a man I needed something from. He would tell me whatever it was he wanted to share, whenever he was ready.

  “Tell me about your clients,” he finally said, breaking the silence. “What is it Baumann allegedly did to them?”

  I recounted the methods used to defraud these women, the drugs and alcohol, the fake names, the ensuing physical and mental abuse that drove at least one of them to kill herself, although her daughter believed the suicide had been staged. The young woman was now facing some very serious financial challenges. She was brave or dumb enough to confront Baumann and paid the price. I told him where he could find her, and see for himself what his valuable ally had done to an innocent college student. Kellerman listened without interrupting, as though memorizing the atrocities I recounted.

  We reached the front entrance to the coffee bar. There were a dozen or so umbrella-shaded tables spread smartly outside the entrance, and a half-dozen more in a small fenced-in patio beside the building. Every table was occupied by men and women, young and old, in workout clothes or business attire. Some had cell phones pressed to their ears, while others gazed raptly at laptop screens or conversed in hushed tones.

  Inside, the place was just as full. Kellerman ordered an iced nonfat latte; I got coffee. He paid and led me outside. He took a moment to take in the scene before him: several dozen happy, well-to-do people going about their daily lives in perfect harmony, safe from the perils that others faced in so many war-torn hellholes around the world.

  “Look at ’em,” he said to me. “They sit around as though this is the way it’ll always be. They have no clue how temporal this freedom and prosperity of ours is. How fragile. One second everything’s fabulous, and then poof! bad guy
s rule.”

  “So what?” I asked with a tinge of indignation. “Do you expect them to thank you or me before taking their next sip, because they owe us something?”

  Kellerman lowered his gaze for a moment. “I supposed I deserve that,” he said. He grinned and added, “After I said it, I realized it did sound a little cheesy, didn’t it?”

  I had to smile. “So what can you tell me about Kaja Slavik? Or does that violate the Holly Code of National Security?”

  He started to walk away, and I followed.

  “How long were you in the service, Jason?”

  “Too long.”

  “Afghanistan, right?”

  I nodded.

  “If I’m not mistaken, you saw quite a bit of action there. Medal of Valor, Distinguished Service Cross, too. You killed quite a few men there, some in hand-to-hand combat. Very impressive.”

  “I’m touched,” I said. “You read up on me.”

  Ignoring the remark, he said, “Did you consider it a worthy endeavor, serving your country?”

  “What are you getting at?” I wasn’t in the mood for a philosophical argument.

  “That what we do sometimes doesn’t work out as intended despite the very best intentions, I might add.” He stopped and faced me before continuing, as if he wished to convince me of something he held dear. “But we do what we do in the service of our country, and always with the best of intentions.”

  “Unintended consequences be damned, is that it?”

  “Not at all,” he said. “As with everything involving human endeavor, the variables are simply too numerous to account for. Sometimes things go wrong. Sometimes we screw up. The innocent sometimes are caught in the middle. It happens.”

  I managed to remain quiet. I had to let him talk.

  “For someone in my position,” Kellerman went on, “it’s hard to admit it, but sometimes, despite our best efforts, we fail.”

  “As in Baumann’s case, you mean?” I asked, annoyed.

  He did not respond.

  “I’m sure you realize that if knowledge of this relocation program of yours were to become public, the scandal would hit Langley like an F-five shit storm.”

  “What exactly are you saying, Jason?”

  “I can just see the director of the Agency opening the Washington Post or the New York Times and reading the headline ‘Foreign Psychopath on CIA’s Payroll Secretly Unleashed on Unsuspecting Florida Community. Death Toll Mounts.’ Then the dreaded call from the White House. Heads would roll end of the road for quite a few lifers at Langley.”

  “Do I sense a threat, Jason?”

  “What? Me threaten the CIA?” I said with my best poker face. “Never. Merely a hypothetical scenario.”

  Kellerman studied my face for a moment and took a long sip from his iced latte. “I hope so, Jason. I really do.” He turned and resumed his walk back toward the hospital parking lot.

  “Because I’m here to make a determination. If, as you claim, Baumann committed or participated in any illegal activities, our sponsorship of him under the program would be immediately terminated, his U.S. citizenship revoked, and he would face immediate deportation.”

  “But you need solid proof, right?” I asked.

  “This is still America,” he replied a little wistfully. “But you forget something.”

  We stopped and waited for the light before crossing the street. “I’m not in the mood for games, Kellerman. If you have something to say to me, say it. Otherwise, let’s stop jerking each other off.”

  “‘Central Intelligence’ the name says it all,” he replied with a conspiratorial smile. “We may not be as intelligent as the name implies sometimes, but we clean up our own messes.”

  “Should I be impressed?”

  “I only ask that you defer judgment for now. Can you do that?”

  I nodded but said nothing.

  Kellerman took his cell phone from a pocket of his suit jacket and put it to his ear. “What are the names of the alleged victims in this case?” he asked, looking at me.

  I gave him the names of Elizabeth Gage and her brother, Mrs. Kelly, and Amy. He asked about Amy. I detailed her condition and her inability to cover her medical expenses. Baumann had been behind the attack that put her in the hospital.

  “Was she sure about it?” Kellerman asked.

  Absolutely, I replied. The least he could do was see that no further harm came to her. He repeated every detail I gave him into the phone.

  “Is that it?” he asked.

  “What? Is it not enough for you?” I said.

  “No, it’s not that,” he said, smiling, which pissed me off. “I just wondered if you had any more victims’ names.”

  “That’s all I know,” I replied.

  He ended his call and made a motion with his hand. A few seconds later, the black Ford Excursion showed up at the curb near us. The guy on the passenger side got out and opened the back door for Kellerman.

  Kellerman glanced at me for a second, then shook his head before ambling toward the open door.

  “What?” I asked. “Something I said?”

  He turned to face me and shook his head again. “Jason, as surprising as this may sound, I think you and I are going to get along just fine. Can you believe that?” I saw that grin again, only this time it was a bit different, as if he knew something I didn’t.

  “Happens all the time,” I replied. If getting along meant I would get the information I needed, then fine. But if it meant his being nice only to hang me out to dry, not so good.

  “What about Baumann?” I pressed.

  “You know how it is. These people are protected until they are not end of story.”

  “What about his victims? Which, incidentally, are your victims, too. Who’s looking out for them? Who’s going to protect them from your sick wards?”

  He hesitated, then said, “I’m going to need some time.”

  “You mean you need corroboration, that it?”

  The grin vanished. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “You know as well as I do that Baumann was damned careful, covered his tracks. He married these women, for God’s sake! They signed powers of attorney. All very legal. I had a hard time determining what’s what. It’s going to be even harder for a bunch of pencil-necks in some dark basement in Virginia to sort out what happened here.”

  “Come, come, now, Jason,” Kellerman said in a dismissive tone. “You know we have many ways. You’re just going to have to trust me. I mean, what choice do you have, really?” The grin again.

  He was right. I really hate when bad guys are right. “And if your crack team of computer jockeys aren’t convinced by what they find, then what?”

  “Simple,” he said as he got in. “You won’t hear from me again. Like we never even met.”

  Last thing I saw as he closed the door was that dazzling grin again.

  Twenty-two

  Losing a tail in a congested urban environment such as West Palm Beach is not all that difficult. But even if someone was following us, there was no point in shaking them. There was no way to know if Kellerman had ordered surveillance on us, but given the implications and the risk of exposure my involvement presented to his secret relocation program, I couldn’t rule it out. As far as he was concerned we had conflicting goals and vastly different agendas, I was a wild card, an unpredictable variable, and he had to regard me as hostile to his interests.

  I drove a roundabout route to my office, getting off the interstate several times, waiting at several red lights, only to get back on the highway again. Sammy followed at a safe distance. All my moves were designed to expose any potential tails. We saw nothing out of the ordinary. If there was indeed a tail, they were either invisible or so good at their craft they were indeed invisible so there was no point in continuing my maneuvers. The fact we had failed to identify a tail didn’t mean there were no eyes on us. What with all the ultrasophisticated surveillance technology available in this new post Nine-eleven world of our
s, it would not be that difficult for techno-spooks in some remote location thousands of miles away to follow our every move aided by some new high-tech gizmo. Hell, for all I knew, Kellerman’s people could predict the next time I made a bathroom run. I fought the urge to search the skies above for black helicopters or unmanned drone circling overhead.

  Sammy and I agreed that once we reached the Okeechobee Boulevard exit he would head west toward his office and I would head east to mine. If any tails were still on me after that, it mattered little they already knew everything about me.

  It was a late afternoon, and my office building seemed semi-deserted for a Tuesday. There were fewer cars in the parking lot than was usual. I parked and took a moment to scan the scattered vehicles in the ample lot. I saw nothing that seemed out of the ordinary so I locked my car and stalked toward the front entrance. Since I was scheduled to be on vacation this week I had given Rene and Consuelo the week off, too. I would be completely alone in my office. I rode the elevator up, entered my office, locked the door behind me and, without turning on the overhead lights, went straight to my desk and turned on the computer. This was going to be a long day.

  We had pretty much exhausted every possible lead, and we were no closer to Baumann than when we started. My best bet was to find Mrs. Kelly’s sailboat, the Stella Maris. If we found it, there was a good chance we might find Baumann. Sammy and I had already agreed on how to go about searching for the sailboat. I knew we couldn’t check all the possibilities there was too little time and far too many marinas. But chances were good that someone somewhere may have seen or heard of the Stella Maris tying up somewhere. The boat’s unique hull design and sheer size would make it stand out. Normally, people involved in the yacht service industry were into it mostly because they liked it and enjoyed boats. If it floated and it was big enough these guys took notice. Still, searching for a ninety-foot motorsailer ketch, no matter how eye-catching, on a coastline dotted with hundreds of thousands of boats, was a long shot at best.