Allegiance Burned: A Jackson Quick Adventure

by Tom Abrahams

  “No,” he says.

  “Sergei flies under the radar,” I tell Bella. “Going to a hospital puts him squarely in the middle of it. Plus, and no offense to you Sergei, we don’t have time to deal with him. We need to get ourselves to Germany as quickly as we can. Helping Sergei beyond paying him for his trouble is out of the question.”

  Bella runs her tongue along her top teeth, thinking about what I’ve said. “Okay,” she says. “I get it. Sergei, thank you for everything.” She hops out of the car and goes around the back to pop the hatch and grab her bag before heading into the hotel lobby. She turns and waves to him as she spins her way through the entrance.

  “Can you drive?” I ask him.

  “I can drive,” he says, his attention on Bella as she disappears. “I just thought…”

  “Thought what?”

  “That you would take me with you to Germany.” He looks down at his lap, his bald head staring at me.

  “Really?”

  “I thought we are good team.” He lifts up his head. “You, me, and Bella Francesca Buell.”

  “Her name is Analiese,” I correct him with a wink. “She’s from Switzerland and speaks native French, remember?”

  “Right,” he smirks before wincing from what I imagine is lingering pain. “Do you think I would help you without knowing who you are, Jackson Quick?”

  “Not really,” I admit. “I can’t take you with us though.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re too expensive,” I laugh. “And you’re hurt.”

  Sergei smiles and slides to the rear passenger door, pulling the handle to get out. I hop out of the front seat to assist him.

  “You sure you can drive?”

  “I’ll be okay. It’s not far from here to my doctor. He’s in Troeshna.”

  “That’s not a great part of town is it?”

  “Not good place.” He lowers himself into the driver’s seat with a grunt. “But he is good doctor.”

  “Be safe.”

  “A little late to tell me that.” He starts the engine and gingerly pulls on his seatbelt.

  “Thanks again, Lisi.”

  “Ha! Good one, Jackson Quick. I guess we are friends.” He rubs his bald head with spread fingers.

  I open the rear door to grab my pack, stuff the pistol into the top, and break down the Tec-9 to cram it into the bag, then yank my pack from the seat. “I’m good.”

  As I shut the door, Sergei is already pulling away from the hotel, merging into what’s left of the late night traffic and driving off to his doctor, or wherever he’s really going. Chances are his “doctor” is some black market pill pusher who has little or no medical training. Sergei will pay him cash, get cleaned up, and secure a month’s worth of pain killers.

  Then he’ll hide until he’s better, until he’s certain that the MVS isn’t coming for him. He’ll sleep with a gun under his pillow and have a go-bag stashed in his closet. I pity him for a second, telling myself I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes.

  I’m pushing my way into the hotel lobby when I realize, a second later than I should have, that he’s actually in my shoes, living the same Spartan existence I’ve come to accept as normal.

  “Jackson,” Bella calls from the front desk, snapping me from my funk. “I mean, Eugene,” she corrects, waving at me. “I’ve got some good news.”

  We’re the only two people in the lobby other than the front desk clerk. He’s a tall, thin man in his forties. He’s all business, and his teeth are ridiculously yellow.

  “Yes?” I smile at Bella as I lean on the front desk. “What’s up Analiese?”

  “They have a shuttle that can take us to the airport within the hour. And this gentleman…” she turns to the dour clerk. “I’m sorry, your name again?”

  “Viktor,” he burps.

  “Viktor here, is willing to let us clean up in a room while we await the shuttle’s arrival.”

  “And how much does Viktor here expect to receive for his kindness?” I’m talking to Bella, but looking at the Munster behind the desk.

  “A room is three hundred sixty eight dollars U.S.,” he says. “Plus taxes.”

  “Right,” I nod. “But how much are you charging us?”

  “A room is three hundred sixty —”

  “Viktor, we both know you’re pocketing whatever we pay you. We’re going to be in the room for, like, an hour. So how much. In cash. U.S.?”

  His eyebrows move, almost impossibly, without any other change in expression.

  “Never mind,” I tell him. “Let’s go catch a cab,” I tell Bella and grab her hand.

  She stands her ground at the counter. “I really need a shower…Eugene.”

  “We’ll get you one, now let’s go.” We get halfway to the front entrance.

  “One hundred dollars U.S.,” Viktor calls out. “One hundred only,” he repeats as we turn back around.

  “Deal,” I smile. Everyone in this country must think a one hundred dollar bribe is the going rate. It’s like Dr. Evil in the Austin Powers movies thinking that ‘ONE MILLION DOLLARS!!’ is a ridiculous amount of money.

  I pay the money and tell Bella to go ahead.

  “You’re not coming?”

  “I’ve got some phone calls to make. I’ll stay down here and wait for the shuttle.”

  “You can make the calls in the room,” she says. “I won’t eavesdrop.”

  “First,” I walk with her toward the elevator, “you would eavesdrop. You’ve demonstrated many times that you’re not trustworthy, right?”

  “Jackson, that’s not fai—”

  “And second, I’m likely to sneak a peek at your computer while you’re not looking. So…”

  “Jackson,” she protests, “I already apologized for that. I’m not upset. Why are you being so sensitive?”

  “I’m not sensitive,” I lie, “I’m pragmatic.”

  She sighs as the elevator doors open to our right. “I’m disappointed. I thought we were past that. I thought we had an understanding that, while neither of us is the most forthright person in the world, we could work together for the common good. We’re on the same team, really.”

  “I guess,” I shrug. “Right now, I’ve got some phone calls to make, and I need some privacy. I’ll see you down here when you’re cleaned up.”

  “Okay, then.” She steps into the elevator and pushes a button to her floor. The doors begin to close and she smiles in a way that contradicts the look in her eyes.

  She’s hurt.

  ***

  I was playing in the front yard of our two-story red brick home. There were two large scrub oaks that made for a fantastic soccer goal. I wasn’t much of a player, despite my speed and endurance, but I liked pretending I was a professional soccer star in make-believe World Cup matches always won on a blast in the final moments of stoppage time.

  It was fall, I remember, and there were large, crispy leaves fanned out across the faded green grass separating our house from the street. They crunched under my feet as I danced with the black and white vinyl ball from one end of the yard to the other, cones from the lone pitch pine no match as defenders on my way to a certain score.

  The score was tied one apiece with the clock at a full ninety minutes. I tapped the ball ahead and spun around, faking out my invisible Brazilian foe. Then, just ten feet from the goal, my left foot planted and my right foot delivered an arcing shot, bending to the left, and bouncing off the inside of the left oak. Gooooooaalllllll!

  I dropped to my knees, eyes closed, fists pumping in the air, imagining my teammates running to dog pile on top of me in celebration.

  “Nice shot,” a voice from the street said, shaking me from my daydream. My eyes popped open to see a man in a long, dark wool coat. Reflective aviators hid his eyes. He was standing behind the hood of his car, a black BMW sedan.

  I pushed myself up, feeling a slight pinch in my knee, and started to walk toward the car. “Uh. thanks. Can I help you?” I stopped close enough
to study the man, but far enough away that I could outrun him to my house if need be.

  “I’m here to see your dad,” he said in a uniquely deep voice. His hands were buried in the pockets of his coat. He stood with his shoulders back, legs apart. “I’m Frank, a friend from college.”

  “I’ll go get him.” I turned to run to the house, leaving my ball and imaginary teammates in the yard.

  Before I could pull open the storm door, my dad appeared at the entry and pushed his way to the front stoop. “Go inside, Jackson,” he said firmly, his gaze across the yard to the man at the curb.

  “Dad, he’s says he’s —”

  “Go inside, Jackson!” He put his hand on my shoulder and guided me forcefully past the open storm door and into the house. “We’ll talk about this when he’s gone.”

  My dad closed the storm door and marched toward the man at the BMW. The man hadn’t moved. His hands were still buried in his pockets, his stance broad and confident.

  I stayed at the doorway, watching the exchange between them. My father had his hands on his hips. His back was to me and he was partially blocking his visitor.

  My mom joined me at the door from the kitchen. She wore a dishtowel on her shoulder and she smelled like garlic.

  “I don’t know. The guy, Frank, said he went to college with Dad.”

  “Hmmm.” My mom put her hands on my shoulders. “Frank? I don’t recognize him. I knew most of your dad’s college buddies.”

  My dad started pointing at the man, who stayed perfectly still on the other side of his car. He was clearly irritating my dad, who was upset at either the man’s presence or the reason for it. I couldn’t tell which.

  The angrier my father appeared, the more the man sank into his stoicism. He was clearly defiant. Even when he wasn’t speaking, he was in control. I was a kid and could sense it. So could my mom.

  “It looks like your dad isn’t too fond of his college buddy,” she said. “I’m going to go see what this is about. We don’t need a scene in front of the neighbors.”

  My mom patted my shoulders and then, dish towel and all, walked across the yard to my father. The man’s attention turned to her as she approached, causing my father to turn around.

  My father said something to her, the man nodded a greeting to my mom, and then she turned around and walked back. She smiled at me and rolled her eyes in an attempt to ease my concern.

  I opened the door for her and she stepped up to come back inside the house. “What did they say?”

  “Oh,” she said. “It’s nothing, I suspect. The man is working with your father on some work project and he came by to discuss it. It was urgent.”

  “He said he was a college friend. He didn’t tell me he worked with Dad.”

  “Well…maybe they did go to school together and also work together.”

  “Seems kinda weird,” My gaze fixed on the man and his BMW. “That guy isn’t who he says he is.”

  “Oh, Jackson.” My mom laughed nervously. “You have such a fabulous imagination. You really do. Your dad is irritated because he doesn’t want to be bothered at home.”

  “Really? He’s always bothered with work. We could be on vacation in Wyoming and he’s bothered with work.”

  “True, but —”

  “Mom, I’m just saying that something’s not right, that’s all.”

  “You’re certainly entitled to your opinion, son. But don’t be disrespectful about it, okay?”

  “Okay,” I relented. “But let me ask again for, like, the thousandth time, what exactly does Dad do?”

  “He’s a technology consultant,” Mom said firmly. “He works with computers. You know that. Why are you asking?”

  “Do technology consultants get visits from weird guys at their homes?”

  My mom purses her lips like Dana Carvey’s Church Lady character and narrows her eyes. “They must,” she said with a head tilt, “because your father has a weird guy visiting him right now. Now go wash up. Dinner’s almost ready.”

  I didn’t buy it. I turned back in time to see the man slide into the driver’s seat of his BMW and make a U-Turn before speeding off the way he came. My dad watched the man drive off. Then he turned around, face red, and stomped back toward the front door. That was my cue. I bolted for the bathroom to wash my hands and face.

  Dinner conversation was bound to be awkward.

  ***

  “George,” I say quietly into the burner phone, “it’s me.” I’m sitting in a corner chair in the Hyatt Kiev lobby. Bella’s upstairs in a room we have for an hour.

  “Jackson?” says the reporter. “I don’t recognize the number. Again.”

  “That’s how I roll,” I joke.

  “What do you need?” The sound of the newsroom is buzzing behind his voice. I can hear police scanners beeping. There’s a loud burst of static followed by someone, presumably on the assignment desk, yelling out instructions.

  “Working late?”

  “As usual,” he says.

  “I thought investigative reporters had it easy,” I tease. “One story every three months. Nice lunches every day, in at noon and home by five…”

  “Right,” he laughs. “I’d like that gig. But really, Jackson, what’s up? Are you onto something that might mean I have to turn an extra story this quarter?”

  “Maybe.”

  “So…?”

  I’m distracted by a suited man stumbling into the lobby with a much younger woman on his arm. She’s wearing a dress too tight and too revealing for a woman not expecting money on a dresser at the end of the night. He’s pressing his finger to his lips, spitting Shhhh! as the woman giggles from obligation.

  “Jackson?” he asks. “You there?”

  “Yeah, sorry about that. I, uh, I need you to look up another person for me.”

  “What about the information I already gave you?”

  “What about it?”

  “What’s the connection between Don Carlos Buell’s daughter and neutrinos? What is Nanergetix involved in? Are they into nuclear stuff now?”

  “Yes,” I answer after a pause. “This is off the record for now and I’ll deny it if you tell anyone about it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Are you recording me?”

  Silence.

  “George?”

  “It’s off now.”

  “Look, this is a complicated deal. Somehow, Nanergetix came up with a way to harness solar neutrinos and use them to detect hidden nuclear reactors.” I’m not ready to tell him everything, but I want to whet his journalistic appetite enough that he’ll play along.

  Ultimately, George Townsend is all about the story, the exclusive get, and he’ll help me if he thinks there’s another Peabody, DuPont, or even Emmy in it for him.

  His fingers are thumping on a keyboard. “How and where?”

  “In a secret underground lab, and the scientist who perfected it is dead.”

  “How are you mixed up in this?” Good question.

  “The process by which the neutrinos are harvested and then directed at the nuclear reactors is missing. Bell— Nanergetix hired me to find it.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. Why would Buell’s daughter, with whom you are on a first name basis, hire you? You have no commensurate experience, right? Plus, her dad wanted you dead, the last I remember.”

  “That’s complicated,” I say. “She has her reasons.”

  “Okay. Say she does. Why are you helping her? That’s maybe the better question.”

  “I have my reasons too.”

  “Whatever,” he sighs. “Seems to me you’re a masochist.”

  “Maybe,” I tell him. “But I’m not the story. The story is this technology and that it’s missing.”

  “It’s off the record, right? It’s not a story if I can’t tell it.”

  “Well, if you help me, I can help you tell it.”

  “What does that even mean?” George sounds irritated.

  “If it works out, and we
find what we need to find, I might be able to get Bella to talk to you about it, how this could help the world.”

  “I’m listening…” He sounds less irritated.

  “If we fail, if the process ends up in the wrong hands, there’s no story. Bella won’t talk about it. I won’t talk about it. The biggest story of your career, bigger than putting the governor behind bars, goes Poof!”

  “If you fail, will you be alive to talk to me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How can I help you, so that you can help me?”

  “I need to know anything and everything you can find out about Liho Blogis.”

  “Who?”

  “A man named Liho Blogis.”

  “Any other information for me?” He’s typing. “Date of birth, social security number, last known address, anything?”

  “Nope. He’s connected to Sir Spencer Thomas though.”

  “The dude who kidnapped you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know he’s almost like a ghost, right? We’ve been through this before. There’s virtually nothing about him in public records, news archives, anything. If this Liho Blogis guy is connected to him, then he’s probably a ghost too.”

  “Maybe. But I need whatever you can find. Your story depends on it.”

  “Okay,” he says. “I’ll get to work on it.”

  “Thanks, George.”

  “By the way, where are you?”

  “Kiev.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. I’m headed to Germany in a couple of hours. I need the information when I get there.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he says, “but I can’t make any promises.”

  “Just do it.” I end the call and check my watch. The van should be here any second.

  “Viktor,” I call across the lobby to the glum Sleestack behind the counter. “I need your help.” I slug my pack to the check-in desk.

  “Yes?” His right eyebrow is arched.

  “I need to ship something valuable to Germany, and I need it there immediately. Can you help me with that?”

  “I can arrange for a DHL pickup. I have a shipping box in the back and they usually come for pick up around six o’clock in the morning.”

  “How much?”

  “For the shipping?” He smirks.