Allegiance Burned: A Jackson Quick Adventure

by Tom Abrahams

  “How do you know Blogis has a piece of the process?” I ask.

  “There are two dead scientists. They were found floating in the Fountaine des trois Douphins.”

  “There are two dead scientists,” I tell Bella before asking Sir Spencer, “Why would that lead you to believe that Blogis did it and that he recovered something?”

  “Both scientists worked for the French institute in charge of running ANTARES, and when police went to their lab, the hard drives were ripped from the computers.”

  “That doesn’t mean it was Blogis. There were other players, remember?”

  “Yes, but Blogis has the correct list of names.”

  “How do you know? One drive has a false list. Maybe the French scientists were diversions.”

  “Not possible.”

  “Why is that?” I press. “How would you know?”

  “Because there was no fake list,” he says. “That was a ruse.”

  “You’re confusing me, Sir Spencer.” A cab pulls up to the curb and a driver gets out, walking around the rear of the car toward Bella.

  “Jackson,” he says, “must I spell out everything for you? There was no fake list. Wolf did have two lists on two drives. One was a duplicate of the other. When Mack killed Wolf, he found one of them and gave it to me.”

  “Mack gave it —”

  “Let me finish,” Sir Spencer cut in firmly. “Mack was working for me. I paid him to provide me whatever he recovered from Bella’s contracted hit on Wolf. He found the list. I have it. The dead scientists are on that list. So was Bella’s contact in Odessa, the Gamow fellow.”

  “Mack was working for you? So that’s why the drive he gave Bella was blank.”

  Bella’s getting into the cab. The driver looks at me expectantly, motioning to his car. I hold up a finger, asking him to wait a second.

  “Bravo, Jackson.”

  “How does Blogis have a copy? Where did he get it?”

  “I’m sure he paid someone for a copy,” he says. “Or he killed someone for it. His resources are greater than mine.”

  “This doesn’t add up. If you have the list, and you’re helping Bella, why would you keep it from her? And why wouldn’t we just start in Long Island? That’s a lot closer than Europe.”

  “Oh, Jackson,” he sighs. “To answer your obsessive questioning about Long Island, suffice it to say that is the least likely of places. True, there is neutrino work being done there, but the good doctor had very little connection there. Proximity is irrelevant. Now, let’s go back to the beginning of the conversation, during which we discussed the strategic, restricted flow of information; a trickle here, a trickle there.”

  I walk toward the cab.

  “I am the source from whence all information originates,” he laughs. “Bella learns what I want her to know. She shares what she wants you to know. That’s how this works.”

  I should have known.

  “Now Blogis is doing some of the work himself. He has teams doing the rest of it. I believe you killed a few of those henchmen already.”

  “I suppose.” I slip off my pack while managing to cradle the phone between my shoulder and ear.

  “If he doesn’t have the piece from those hard drives in Toulon,” he says, “he’ll have it soon.”

  “It’s Blogis 1, Bella 1.”

  “Yes, in the parlance of sports, I suppose. It is up to you, then, to score a point in Ukraine. After that it’s Germany.”

  “How many pieces are there?”

  “My information is that Wolf split the process into four pieces.”

  “Bella has one, Blogis has one, and there are two missing.”

  “Yes.”

  “You weren’t really a middleman were you? You were a bidder.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Are you working with Blogis too?” I ask, pausing at the rear passenger door before getting in the car. “Covering all of your bases, so to speak?”

  “Ha!” he laughs again. “No, good man, that relationship ended long ago. The student thought he’d become the master.”

  ***

  I could hear my parents yelling from down the hall. I was sitting on the floor in my bedroom, playing Tetris and listening to an old, rare Gary U.S. Bonds album, one on which he collaborated with Bruce Springsteen.

  I couldn’t tell at first why they were arguing. My parents didn’t disagree much, at least not about important things. Choosing a restaurant for dinner was the most common battle.

  I put down the game and ran my hands through the thick pile of the carpet, grabbing and twisting some of the strands that tickled my palms.

  “It’s enough,” my mother said. “He’s getting older now.”

  “What do you expect me to do?” my dad responded. “It’s not as though I have a lot of options. You know that better than anyone.”

  They were talking about me now. My interest piqued, I slowly twisted the volume down a couple of notches.

  My mother’s voice had that warble in it that happens when somebody’s talking and pressing to hold back tears at the same time.

  “I don’t understand why the decision is complicated at all,” she sobbed, her voice softening enough that it was hard for me to hear. “This is your family…” there was more, but I didn’t catch it.

  “You’re making this about one or the other?” Dad’s voice was still booming. He hadn’t calmed down yet. “Why is that the only choice here? Shouldn’t you have considered that from the beginning, from the day I met them?”

  I turned off the music and pressed on the carpet to push myself onto my feet. My right knee, recently surgically repaired, resisted at first. I pushed past the tinge of pain and quietly stepped into the hallway, a few feet closer to the argument.

  At the end of the hallway, my parents’ bedroom door was closed. It was late afternoon on a weekend. The sun was setting and shadows danced back and forth underneath the door from inside their room. I inched closer to their room, craning my neck to listen, to understand what it was that had them so upset.

  “I’m very good at what I do,” he said, “and it affords us a lot of things we might not otherwise enjoy. This house, our cars, vacations, money for Jackson’s college education.”

  “I know —” my mother started before my father interrupted.

  “Do you? Do you know we have no debt? We have cash in the bank, several banks,” he argued. “How many of your Bunko friends can say that? How many PTA moms are driving around in leased cars, living in double-mortgaged homes, spending every last penny they have to pay the bills each month?”

  “That’s not fair. Not fair at all! There are a million jobs a man like you could hold. And because we have no debt, because we have money in several banks, now is exactly when you could afford to do something else. If there’s that much money, you could take some time off. You don’t have to work at all.”

  “Right,” he said, “like that’s gonna —”

  “Stop!” my mother shouted. “I listened to you. It’s my turn.”

  “Go ahead,” Dad huffed.

  “Your son needs you. He’s growing up. He’s having trouble at school.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “He’s getting bullied.”

  Mom knew about that? She knew about Blair Loxley, the punk? She knew that he picked on me almost daily and that the torn ligament in my knee was no accident?

  “Why would you think that?” My dad sounded surprised and less angry.

  “He’s had bruises on his ribs. He keeps losing his lunch money. He’s losing weight. His knee for goodness sake…”

  “He hasn’t said anything about it,” my dad countered. “He has a viable explanation for all of it.”

  “You don’t want to see it,” Mom said. “You’re busy on whatever job they have you doing.”

  “That’s not fair. How am I supposed to know if somebody’s picking on him if he doesn’t tell me? And why haven’t you said anything until now?”

 
; “I can’t prove he’s being bullied, especially if he won’t admit it. Plus, you’re always telling me to let him fight his own battles,” she said. “You tell me that he’ll never learn how to grow up if I baby him. So I back off. I give him his space.”

  “That’s a cop out,” Dad said. “You’re blaming me for your inaction? You’re blaming my job for my ineptitude as a father?”

  I should have told them about Loxley. I should have let them help me. If I had, they wouldn’t be fighting. They wouldn’t be mad at each other.

  “I’m not saying you’re inept. I’m saying that you’re absent, that even when you’re home you are not really home.”

  “Everything is my fault,” his voice grew louder again. “Is that how it is?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Mom countered with a softer tone, making it more difficult to hear her. I stepped closer to the door. “I never said that everything is anyone’s fault.”

  “You didn’t have to say it!” Dad snapped. “It’s crystal clear that I’m the problem here. My job is the problem. I’m the one who needs fixing.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I knew what I was getting into when I married you, when we had Jackson. I’m not an innocent here. I’m just trying to —”

  “Knew what you were getting into? What does that mean?”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Of course you meant it,” he said. “You were complicit! You weren’t along for the ride. If anything, you were the one driving. I’m done with this conversation.”

  “Don’t —”

  “We’ll talk about this later, when I’m a little less ridiculous.”

  The door swung open into the bedroom and my dad stomped into the hall. He almost bowled over me, not seeing me just a couple of feet from the doorway.

  “Whoa!” he grabbed my shoulders to prevent both of us from tumbling to the floor. “Jackson, how long have you been standing here?”

  My mom appeared in the open doorway, her face pale except for the redness around her nose. Her shoulders slumped when she saw me standing there.

  “Jackson,” my father repeated, “how much of our conversation did you hear?”

  I shrugged, “I dunno.” I stared down at the floor, unwilling to look at either of my parents. “A minute maybe,” I lied.

  “All right,” he gently wrapped his thick hand around the back of my neck, “understand that your mother and I love each other.”

  “Very much,” my mom added.

  “But we’re having a strong disagreement about some things,” he continued. “It involves my work. It involves us as a family.”

  I focus on the curled strands of thick pile beneath my feet, some of which poke up between my toes like blades of grass. I curl my big toes, rubbing them back and forth on the carpet.

  My mom stepped from the bedroom and into the hall. Her arms were folded across her chest as though she was trying to stay warm. “Jackson, we love you. And it’s important that you understand that parents sometimes argue or disagree.”

  “We’re fine, buddy.” My dad extended his thumb to rub it back and forth behind my ear. “We’ll be fine,” he corrected. “Your mom and I are just…”

  “We’re passionate about things,” my mom said, “and sometimes it gets the best of us.”

  “Do you understand?” my dad asked.

  I nodded without looking up. I’d never heard them argue like that before. They’d had their moments, but this was different somehow.

  “Do you have any questions?” my mom asked. “Do you want to know what we were talking about?”

  “We’ll tell you whatever you want to know,” my dad said.

  I shook my head.

  Mom put her hand under my chin, lifting my eyes to hers. “Jackson, are you okay?”

  This was my chance. I could admit that Loxley was bullying me, that I wasn’t losing my lunch money, that I didn’t fall on the track while running. He took my money. He tore my ACL.

  “I’m fine, Mom,” I told her. “I’m fine.”

  ***

  The Hyatt Kiev is in the center of a damaged, war-torn city. A gleaming all glass, concave structure, it stands out among old red bricks and the pale blues and yellows of the older buildings around it and the burned out shells of places not fortunate to survive the unrest here.

  Kiev looks like those photographs of Yugoslavia in the early 1990s or parts of France after Germany had its way in the 1940s. There’s the low, dark gray haze of smoke hovering just below the clouds. In the public squares there are piles of burnt trash, bloodstains, and splintered barricades.

  Outside of the hotel’s entrance there is a pair of armed security guards, likely soldiers making extra cash. They’re humorless and serve as a reminder of the instability here.

  Inside the hotel, the outside world doesn’t exist, however. In the center of the two-story lobby is a quartet of white sofas, paired off and facing one another. They frame two low black coffee tables, set upon a large gray area rug. Sitting on one of those sofas is where I find the man Wolodymyr said would take us to Chernobyl. He’s bald, sun spots dotting his head. His chin sports a reddish goatee which, with the thin mustache beneath his hawkish nose, gives him a Leninesque appearance. I have a feeling it’s intentional.

  “Привіт,” I say, hello, and take a seat across from the man, sinking into the white leather. He’s holding a cup of coffee with one hand, thumbing through his smartphone with the other. He doesn’t acknowledge me.

  “Привіт,” I repeat. “Ми маємо взаємного товариша.” I explain we have a mutual friend, which causes him to glance up from his phone.

  His eyes, peeking over a pair of frameless glasses, are like so many eastern Europeans’, deep set with dark circles that convey the hard, blue collar subsistence so many live. He pulls the cup to his lips and blows gently on the coffee before taking a slurp.

  “Я не маю слово коду для вас.” I don’t have a code word for him and I tell him that I need some transportation. “Я тільки потребую їзди.” I stand to leave. Bella’s been waiting by the entrance to the hotel, standing with our bags. “Wolodymyr сказали ви могли допомогти. Але можливо ви не бажаєте моїх грошей.”

  “I do want your money,” he says in good English. “And if Wolodymyr told you I could help you, then I can help you.” He motions to the sofa with his coffee cup, and slides his phone into his shirt pocket.

  I sit on the edge of the sofa, leaning forward. “You speak English.”

  “Of course,” he says. “It’s currency just like your American dollar. I must speak English to do business with many of Wolodymyr’s friends.”

  “When do we leave?” I ask. “We need to be at our location as quickly as possible.”

  “Hold onto the horses,” he chuckles. “It is late. We cannot go there at night.”

  “Why not?” I ask. “I thought Wolodymyr expressed to you the urgency of our trip.”

  Across the lobby, Bella’s dragged the bags over to a chair near the entrance and is sitting. Her elbows are resting on her knees, her head in her hands.

  The Lenin look-alike takes another sip from his coffee, then tongues his mustache clean. “He did.” He leans back and crosses one leg over the other. “I gave him price for daytime trip. Much more dangerous at night.”

  “So we could go tonight. It’ll just be more expensive.”

  “It is much more dangerous. The roads are not good. There is more security at night.”

  “I thought you had papers to get us past the security? Wolodymyr told me you had papers. That’s part of the cost.”

  “I have papers,” he says. “Those are for daytime. No papers for night.”

  “How much?”

  “How much for what?”

  “I’ll find someone else.” I get up again, tired of his games. I’m five or six steps toward Bella when there’s hand on my shoulder. I turn around, shrugging h
im off.

  “Five,” he blinks behind his glasses. “We go now.”

  “Thousand?” I clarify. That’s not much more than the original price.

  He nods. “Five thousand, yes. Each.”

  “Ten thousand, then,” I say, trying not to reveal any surprise at the ridiculously steep charge.

  “Yes.”

  “Thirty-five hundred each,” I counter. “That’s double your original price. And we won’t be needing the papers. So…”

  “Four.” His eyes, pupils wide, are searching mine, like an animal searching for weakness.

  “Thirty-five. There are others who aren’t afraid of the dark.” If Wolodymyr hadn’t recommended this guy, I’d be long gone.

  His pupils shrink. “Okay. I take thirty-five. You ready to go?”

  “Yes.” I nod toward Bella. “She’s going with us.”

  “Nice,” he says. “Very nice. Maybe she goes for free.”

  “I don’t think so. Where’s your car?”

  “I have new Opel,” he says. “It is hatchback. You put your bags in the back when I drive to front of hotel.”

  “See you in a minute.” I start toward Bella.

  “Принесіть гроші з вами,” he calls after me.

  “I’ll bring the money,” I reply without turning around. “I have it with me.”

  “Good,” he mumbles. “Five minutes we leave.”

  Bella is still sitting, head in hands as I step to her near the entrance of the hotel. She looks up at me.

  “We need to talk,” she says.

  “Now?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t think this is the time or place. We’ve got a ride to catch.”

  “You’ll want to hear this,” she says. “And probably sooner, rather than later.”

  “Okay.” I sit in the chair next to her. “There must be something about hotel lobbies.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Earlier today, in Odessa. We had a heart to heart there. Remember?”

  “Yes, Jackson, I remember.”

  “What’s the big reveal, Bella?”

  “You were right in suggesting I’ve not been honest with you. And it’s not that you’re not trustworthy. That wasn’t fair of me to say. I’m sorry for that.”