“Hunterman and Halden, an H for an H,” Matt cut in, ending the interrogation into his character. “You know I love letters. I can get you the pins for them, remember?”
“Mathews, that confidence of yours will be your downfall.”
The cat-and-mouse dialogue ended there, and Matt was escorted back to the Embassy.
* * *
Over the course of the next three days, Matt was trained on the wiring and all things related to bugging. He was taught how to use the devices they gave him, and he received even more training on arms and how to decode hidden messages. They wanted to make sure he was fully prepared for any probability related to the faceoff.
On Wednesday, Nigel and Matt met at six a.m., and at that meeting, Nigel laid out the whole plan for Matt’s first anticipated encounter with Hunterman, which would take place after he landed at JFK in New York. “Mathews, you’ve gotta do this step by step, exactly as I tell you. We’ll take the same flight to the Big Apple, but we won’t sit together. We won’t talk or even look at each other. You’ll have an aisle seat, 12D, and my seat will be three rows behind you. Now, when we—”
“How did you know I prefer an aisle seat, Nigel?” Matt asked coyly, interrupting him yet again.
“Shut up, Mathews. When I’m talking, you just listen. Shall I repeat that?”
“Well, I—” Matt tried.
“I said to keep your trap shut. I’m talking here,” Nigel said, even louder this time. When Matt tried to speak again, he held up a hand to shush him.“ There will be a couple seated next to you, supposedly returning from their honeymoon. They are part of my team. When the plane lands, you’ll disembark like any normal passenger and head to the passport counter. There, you’ll be asked for the reason for your travel. Just tell them you’re a tourist. They will take your biometrics. If you’re right, Hunterman will be watching, and they’ll be alerted that you’re at JFK. Got that?”
Matt nodded.
“Good. From there, you’ll head to baggage claim, but your bags will supposedly be missing. That will give Hunterman plenty of time to come after you. It’ll take about an hour to wait in line and fill out forms for your missing luggage. You’ll get your bag and leave the terminal only after you get our signal. Get into the second cab in line at the curb. The driver will be wearing an old Knicks cap and a sparkly red shirt.”
“How stylish,” Matt interjected.
Nigel wrinkled his brow in frustration and continued, “Tell the cabbie, ‘I am sleepy. Take me to the hotel on the 31st and 2nd Avenue. I need to read a book.’ If he answers, ‘A book on a rainy day is magic,’ that means it’s safe. If he says anything else, go back into the airport. The husband from the couple who’ll sit next to you on the plane will approach you and tell you what to do…”
As Nigel continued reviewing the plan for another hour, Matt didn’t make a sound; he only smoked and took notes. Finally, at three p.m., the meeting was over.
Nigel dropped Matt at a nice, cozy hotel. “This place has a nice restaurant and bar. I know you’re not stupid enough to plan an escape, and I don’t need to remind you that if you try it, you’ll be fast asleep within minutes and will wake up red from my lovely bitch-slaps.”
“Right,” Matt said, rubbing the side of his face and grinning. “Lovely.”
Nigel shook his head, as if he had no time for Matt’s snide humor. “As per our plan, tomorrow morning at exactly nine a.m., you will take a taxi to the airport. Our flight leaves at noon. If all goes well, we’ll talk back in the States. If not… Well, let’s not think that way.”
* * *
The hotel room was small but comfy, and it was far more tasteful than Matt’s accommodations at the run-down Embassy. The art on the walls was nice, and the carpets were elegant. The silver and maroon bed linens gave the place a royal feel. Within minutes of laying his head back on the soft, feather pillow, Matt was slumbering soundly.
He woke up around eight p.m., washed his hair in the sink, dressed in a dark blue and brown checkered shirt on, and headed out to get some dinner. He enjoyed two glasses of wine and a nice rib-eye. “Let Nigel and Uncle Sam pay for it, right out of the good taxpayers’ pockets,” he said as he signed for the charges to be billed to Room 701, to be more precise. He then took out a pack of smokes and went for a stroll in the beautiful, narrow streets.
Nothing cleared his mind like fresh air. It had worked everywhere: back home in the UK; on the balconies in Europe, where his crimes began; and in Dubai, where he had met Daisy. All of that seemed as if it had happened ages ago, as if it was ancient history.
He walked and walked, until he stumbled on a guitar player at the square in Plaza Lavalle, just opposite the prestigious Colón Theatre, one of the world’s most famous opera houses, the pride and joy of the city. Artists such as Stravinsky, Caruso, Strauss, Maria Callas, and Pavarotti had graced the place. Now, the black-bearded young man with long, curly black hair was playing “The Girl from Ipanema,” a great bossa nova that Matt remembered dancing to with Daisy in Dubai. Ah, the pain I endured for allowing myself to fall for another woman, he thought, and he vowed to never again make that mistake.
As the man strummed the final notes, Matt pondered his legacy and the peaceful years he hoped to spend at Halden. He left the young guitarist several pesos, and by eleven that night, he was fast asleep again.
* * *
After a warm bath and a clean shave, Matt sat with his black luggage in the small lobby of the antique hotel. He was very focused on the job ahead, so he only grabbed a piece of toast and a cup of black coffee for breakfast. He’d gone over Nigel’s plan and his notes what seemed like a hundred times, and now, it was show time.
Just as instructed, Matt took a taxi to the airport. Everything went smoothly at the checkpoint and with check-in, and he was, as promised, seated right next to the alleged honeymooners. As soon as the flight took off, the two were all over each other, playing the part well.
Matt stared at them and thought about all the lovers he’d met in his lifetime who had insisted on public displays of affection. So many of them were fake, just like these two, he thought. Who knows what’s real or not in this world anymore? Who knows what’s an act and what is natural? For all we know, the whole damn thing could be a lie.
Matt dozed off to sleep for a few hours during the uneventful flight. By the time he woke up, the two had stopped kissing, and a quick glance over his shoulder told him that Nigel was enjoying a book, or at least doing a good job pretending that he was.
After another two hours and a glass of red wine, the pilot announced over the loudspeaker that they would soon touch down at JFK, and landing commenced.
The lady at the passport counter was a nice one, and she asked all the typical questions. As per the usual routine, Matt’s biometrics were taken, and his passport was stamped.
Right on cue, Matt’s luggage went missing. After half an hour, he and another young man were taken to the lost and found area. They both filled out the forms, indicating what was inside the missing luggage, and they left their contact numbers so the airport could get in touch with them when the bags were found. While Matt was going through the proper procedures, one of the airport personnel alerted him that his bag had been found. Matt feigned relief, but the young man was furious that his bag was still missing, as he would be in New York for only a few days before he had to fly to Boston for an important presentation. Matt had a feeling that Nigel was behind it, but he couldn’t blame him; it would have looked somewhat suspicious for Matt’s bag to be the only one that came up missing. Unfortunately, the young businessman was just unlucky, a pawn unaware in a game he wasn’t even trying to play.
After retrieving his bag, Matt sat down at a table to have a cup of coffee. When a woman with a dog asked him what time it was, he knew it was time to move; that was the signal that suspicious faces, most probably Hunterman had arrived, and all eyes were on him.
Matt walked outside and immediately spotted the driver with the flash
y shirt and the Knicks hat, and they engaged in the scripted dialogue. Matt climbed into the cab, and they pulled away from the curb, only to be followed by a silver GMC and two Honda motorcycles.
“Relax, sir. We have a cab and two sedans on their trail,” the oddly dressed cabbie said. “Do you see that red BMW ahead?” When Matt nodded in the rearview mirror, the driver smiled. “That’s ours as well. Also, the windows are bulletproof. Enjoy the ride.”
Matt laughed.
A minute later, one of the Hondas sped up to close the gap between them. The biker, wearing a black and red helmet, slowed down as he passed by Matt in the back seat of the cab.
Nigel had booked a hotel in the United Nations Quarter, and the place was secure. There was no way the Hunterman goons would enter armed. As Matt approached the front counter to check in, the motorcyclists sat down in the lobby, obviously awaiting his next move.
“Here you are, sir,” the clerk said, handing Matt the keys to Room 510.
Matt took the elevator to the fifth floor. As soon as the door whooshed open, he was greeted by Feds, who immediately took control. They escorted him to Room 511, the room connected to the one he had a key for. All the operations would be controlled from there. His original room, 510, was loaded with cameras and sleeping gas would take care of the Hunterman men as soon as they made a move.
Twenty minutes later, they entered the room and heard water in the shower. They walked into the bathroom to investigate, only to collapse to the tile floor, fast asleep, when the whole room and their lungs filled with sleeping gas.
Within seconds, an explosion outside that rattled the area. Minutes earlier, hotel security had asked the silver GMC to move to a parking lot a few hundred feet away, and the men parked there and waited for their team to finish the business; what they didn’t realize was that they were really only waiting for their comrades to die.
Chaos ensued, but the FBI was well aware of all that was going on. Nigel’s plan worked well, and there were no innocent casualties. Two Hunterman men were dead, and the snoozing ones were easily apprehended from Room 510.
From the hotel, Matt was taken to Penn Station, then departed for Atlantic City. He only had $1,500, a cell phone, and two keys: one for the car he was to pick up from the station at Atlantic City and the other for a house in Virginia. The address was already recorded on the GPS system of the black Honda CRT he would drive, so there was no danger of him getting lost.
“That home sweet home will be our base sweet base,” Nigel joked, “our playground.” Truly, everything had gone off without a hitch, and they were ready for a Hunterman retaliation.
The drive wasn’t a pleasant one for Matt. Even though he was a smoker and enjoyed it, the car reeked of too much nicotine. He couldn’t open the windows for relief from the stench, for there was a downpour outside, so for three hours, he was at the mercy of Mother Nature’s never-ending showers.
A month earlier, he’d been enjoying cocktails and getting a tan in St. Kitis. Now, he could barely see through the sheen of rain on the windshield, even with his wipers on full blast. He fondly recalled the more relaxed moments of his life, but his ego also demanded an adrenaline rush, so the mission was worth it. He turned on the stereo, and a little jazz for the end of his journey made the smoky, wet ride a little less intolerable.
Virginia
The house Nigel had chosen for him was at the corner of a compound of nearly identical homes. It wasn’t anything glamorous, but he had all the necessities.
The fridge was full: fresh produce, milk, cheese, and cold cuts. The freezer was packed with pizza, burgers, and lasagna, none of which required more preparation than a few minutes of heating.
The front door opened to a mid-sized living room. At first sight, it seemed a bit dull, and the curtains were an ugly hue of dark green. The wallpaper looked like something out of an ancient motel, a gaudy floral design. All the furniture was old, and if not for the flat-screen TV in the middle of the room, he might have thought he’d stepped onto the set of a 1960s sitcom. In general, the house felt deserted, and it certainly smelled so.
Matt looked around and wondered who else had stayed there, in that miserable place, under the Feds’ protection. He pondered how many had trudged through there, slept there, on work assignments similar to his own.
It was near nine p.m. before he finally sat down. He chose a vegetarian pizza, grabbed a can of cold beer, and turned on the TV. He wasn’t in the mood for news or sports, so he just kept flipping through the channels, unable to settle on anything. Eventually, he decided to count to ten and let chance dictate what he would watch for the evening. Fate landed him on one of those Hollywood gossip channels, some story about the life of a so-called famous person. One thing Matt had never been able to understand was why so many people seemed so consumed and obsessed by the lives of others.
* * *
Two long days later, a dreadfully boring forty-four hours after he entered that Virginia house, it was time to meet Nigel again, at a Walmart across town, in the cosmetics section. The address was already programmed into the GPS, so getting there was no problem.
Matt wore exactly what he was told to: black denim trousers, a white shirt with a brown button-down, a scarf, and a funny hat. He found everything in the bedroom wardrobe, so it wasn’t that difficult for him to get dressed.
He reached Walmart around six p.m. and began walking up and down the aisles, picking up toothpaste and shampoo, as if he was just a random shopper.
Nigel finally showed up, holding a green plastic shopping basket filled with a few items. “Carry this, Mathews…and follow me,” he said.
“Um…have you ever heard of hello?” Matt asked, reluctantly taking the basket.
As they approached the checkout lane, Nigel spoke very little, but he did order Matt to pay.
In no mood to argue, Matt paid for the items.
In the parking lot, they made their way to the used red Ford pickup that Nigel was driving. Nigel opened the glove compartment, took out something that resembled a pair of sunglasses, and handed it to Matt. “New tech,” he said. “The button’s on the left.”
Matt wrinkled up his brow. “What is this, Star Wars?”
“I’m not here to entertain. Just wear them,” Nigel ordered.
“Fuck off, Nigel,” Matt said, but he took the glasses and placed them over his eyes. When he pushed the button, he saw a 3D view of the streets of Tokyo. It was something like virtual reality, for whenever he turned his head to the right or left, he saw a street view. Unfortunately for him, he wasn’t in Tokyo, and there was no way he could track where they were.
“Get in,” Nigel said, pointing to the truck.
The drive took just over twenty minutes, and neither man said a word. Nigel stopped at a bar, a typical corner pub, with a flashing neon sign in front of it. The parking lot was half-full of cars, but no one was outside. Nigel parked around the corner, facing the back of the place.
He patted Mathews. “You can take those off now, sport,” he said. “Follow me, but don’t say anything. We’ll have plenty to talk about later.”
After they climbed out of the truck, Nigel led the way to the rusty back door. He took a key out of his pocket and unlocked it, and they walked inside. In any normal world, the stairs in the back of a bar would have led to a dank basement or storage room, but it was clear when Nigel turned the lights on that there was nothing ordinary about the underbelly of the establishment.
In the middle of the large room was a table for four, mahogany. A medium-sized flat-screen adorned one of the walls, and there was a fridge in the corner. Three landline phones were fitted into a cupboard, and there were a few posters on the wall: one of the White House, beneath a silvery, shiny full moon, and another of Aerosmith. There was also a small bunk-bed, and the bathroom was a fair size. The whole place was very practical but very warm and cozy.
“Only nine other people in the world know about this place. I am the tenth…and that makes you the eleventh
,” Nigel said. “It’s been here over twenty-five years, and not even the president knows about it.”
“I really don’t care, Nigel,” Matt said. “Just give my regards to the person who takes care of it. He’s got taste. Now, can we get down to business?” Matt said, taking a seat at the table.
“I’ll pass the word along. He owns the bar,” Nigel said. “As for business, let me update you about the latest incident back in New York. The good news is that we didn’t leave any markers behind, nothing that can be traced to you or us. The press has been told that investigations are still underway, and everyone is debating whether terrorists or just some local madman are responsible.”
“And is there bad news?” Matt coaxed.
“Yes. The two bikers died on the way to the hospital. As smart as we are, Mathews, your guys were smarter. Within fifteen minutes after the car exploded outside, the bikers we’d apprehended went into cardiac arrest. The autopsies tell us they died of extreme tachycardia. Their hearts began beating at three times the normal rate, damn near exploded in their chests. We can only conclude that they were drugged, and we’re pretty sure the bikers themselves had no idea. We had no data on any of the four. All their phones were clean, with few contacts on them, and the bikes were reported stolen two days ago. We don’t have a lead.”
“Hmm. Perhaps I am playing for the wrong team, Nigel,” Matt said. “Maybe I should have gone to the Russians, the Mosad. Man, Hollywood makes you Bureau boys look invincible, acts as if you can pull off anything. What a bunch of bull!” Matt shouted, then stormed off to the bathroom.
“What did you expect, Mathews? Hunterman is not an amateur organization. You, of all people, should know that. As a matter of fact, this gives your story more credibility. They are dangerous. While some things about our plan worked out, they didn’t approach you like we hoped. We’re going to have to go to them ourselves.”
Matt: A Matt Godfrey Short thriller Trilogy Page 12
