Final Target

by Steven Gore

  “No,” Matson said, looking like a dog abandoned at the pound.

  “Does your wife know why you gotta go?”

  “It doesn’t make any difference.” Matson stared vacantly at the television. “I’m not taking her.”

  “You want I should send her a little money?”

  “There’s a couple of million in equity in the house. She can sell it. I don’t care.”

  Matson let his hands fall between his legs and exhaled.

  Viz called over to Matson, “You take sugar in your coffee?”

  Matson didn’t respond, eyes now riveted on the screen.

  Gage saw the words “NATO reports Ukrainian missile explosion” tick along the bottom.

  “I guess not,” Viz said.

  Gage picked up the remote and switched the channel to ESPN.

  “Turn it back,” Matson said, voice rising. “Turn it back, please.”

  Gage returned to CNN.

  “Cream?” Viz asked, pretending not to notice Matson’s bewilderment and terror.

  Viz brought the cup into the living room and set it on the coffee table in front of Matson. He picked it up, seemingly more from habit than interest, hands shaking.

  A grayscale photo appeared next to the right shoulder of the announcer. NATO released satellite images of three explosions at a Ukrainian missile testing facility on the Crimean peninsula.

  Gage twisted the knife. “Since you’ve got a Ukrainian name on your passport, maybe you should pay attention to this one.”

  The screen was filled by a succession of photos, each showing dark-edged gray blots of slightly different contours against the aerial view of a military installation.

  After first denying the explosions, late today the Ukrainian Ministry of Defense acknowledged the mishap and reported that four observers were injured. CNN in Kiev confirmed that one of those injured was the son of the president of Ukraine. His condition is unknown. The president-elect has promised a full investigation.

  Matson half rose from the couch, spilling his coffee as he set down the cup. “Shit!” He shook off the hot liquid from his hand. His face reddened as he hyperventilated and dropped back onto the couch, arms rigid on the cushions, as if trying to maintain his balance.

  Gage glanced over Viz. “Bring him a paper bag.”

  Viz brought one, snapped it open, then pushed it up against Matson’s face. Matson circled his hands around the top, then sucked air in and out, the bag collapsing, and then expanding with a pop.

  Gage waited until Matson’s breathing began to slow, then got up and sat next to him on the edge of the couch.

  “What’s going on?”

  Matson pulled the bag away from his mouth. “I…” He gasped a final time. “I can’t talk about it.”

  “You in some kind of trouble you haven’t told me about?”

  Matson stared at the television, as if waiting for a bulletin that would grant him a reprieve.

  Gage leaned back, then signaled with his head for Viz to return to the kitchen.

  “If I was to put two and two together,” Gage said, “and I think you know what I’m talking about, I’d say those missiles were using SatTek video amplifiers.”

  “There’s no proof that I—”

  Gage raised his hand toward Matson. “I’m not saying there is. I’m just saying what you get when you add it up.”

  Matson leaned back and began to chew on a fingernail.

  Gage watched Matson trying to calculate his position. His deal with Peterson, blown. Alla’s gangster father maybe coming after him. Gravilov wanting an answer to why the missiles exploded. Hadeon Alexandervich, if he was still alive, wanting revenge against everyone.

  “I deal a lot in missile technology,” Gage said. “Three explosions. Ukraine tests in three different ranges all at once. I would guess it’s probably not a hardware defect. That would be like lightning striking the same tree three times in a row.” Gage was making it up as he went along, wondering how easily Blanchard would cut holes in this fictionalized account of why missiles explode. “It would have to be the software. That’s my guess.”

  Gage waited until he felt Matson was done processing the logic of his fiction.

  “Maybe somebody sabotaged it.” Gage shrugged. “You know, monkeyed with the code.”

  Matson’s eyes widened as a picture seemed to capture his mind. Gage guessed it was of Alla working away on his laptop in Dnepropetrovsk.

  “I…” Matson swallowed hard. “I need to use your phone.”

  Gage walked to the counter, retrieved the handset, and passed it to Matson. Gage watched him punch in the international access code, then the UK country code, London city code, and number. Gage knew what Matson would hear: a script Gage had given Alla to read.

  You have reached Alla and Stuart. Sorry we’re unable to take your call. If you’re trying to reach Stuart, try him on his cell phone in the States. I can be reached at my father’s in Budapest. Otherwise, leave a message after the tone.

  Matson lowered the phone from his ear, fumbled until he located the end button, and disconnected. He stared at the receiver. Gage reached out to retrieve it. Matson at first didn’t notice, then handed it back.

  Gage sensed Matson recalculating. Alla: If her job was to sabotage the software, then her gangster father wouldn’t be coming after him—but Gravilov would.

  “If I was to add two more,” Gage said, “I’d say you sold bad devices to Ukraine and somebody is pissed. Maybe even already gunning for you.”

  “What the fuck do you know?” Matson slapped the armrest. An adrenaline rush pumped him to his feet.

  “Take it easy, man,” Gage said, looking up. “I’m just doing a little addition. If it doesn’t add up, it doesn’t add up. Makes no difference to me. I’m only in this for the money and I got enough to keep me happy. But there’s something you need to think about.”

  Matson glared down at Gage. “What the fuck is that?”

  “Screwing with national security is a whole lot worse than some diddly-squat stock fraud.” Gage stood up, then handed Matson his parka. “Let’s take a walk. You got to cool down so you can think things through.”

  After Matson turned toward the door, Gage signaled Viz to follow with the shotgun.

  Matson was waiting at the bottom of the stairs when Gage returned from collecting his jacket from the car. The sun had already fallen behind the six-thousand-foot mountain range to the west of the cabin and the temperature was plummeting toward freezing.

  The parka was puffed up around Matson’s head. He blinked against the crisp breeze, then wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

  Gage heard Matson’s feet shuffle and wobble on the gravel as he followed behind through the woods and toward the river. Matson stumbled over a root. Gage looked back in time to see him steady himself against a pine tree, then pull his hand away and try to wipe off grimy sap on his pants.

  Gage stopped just before the meadow. The only sounds were the rushing river in the distance and Viz’s footfalls coming to a stop five yards behind them.

  “You don’t need to say anything,” Gage said, staring toward the shadowed forest, hands in his coat pockets. “Just let me talk.”

  Gage’s breath condensed into a cloud, then dissipated.

  “It seems to me you’ve got a big problem.”

  Matson didn’t respond.

  “Now, you told me you’ve got a Panamanian passport.”

  Gage looked over, and Matson nodded.

  “I may be wrong here, but I’ll bet you used it where you shouldn’t have, and if you travel on it people are gonna find you.”

  Matson nodded again.

  “My guess is that you also got lots of different people looking for you. Ukrainians, gangsters, FBI, and pretty soon the CIA. And the world is getting real small.”

  Gage rolled over a fist-sized piece of granite with his shoe, then reached down and picked it up. Matson’s eyes followed the rock as Gage flipped it back and forth in his hands. Gage toss
ed it into the dark meadow, where it thudded like a head hitting cement.

  “My situation is different than yours,” Gage continued. “I can disappear anytime. I mean you see me and everything, but I don’t really exist.”

  Matson looked up at Gage, his expression a combination of envy and apprehension.

  Gage turned fully toward Matson. “You’ve got yourself in a pickle and I can see you don’t know what to do.” Gage shrugged and spread his hands. “I mean, look. We hardly know each other but here I am, taking care of your money, protecting you. I was even gonna get you out of the country until the passport problem came up—and you don’t know me from Adam.”

  Matson’s eyes darted toward Viz, then back to Gage. Uncertainty consumed his face. Gage knew what Matson was thinking: He was in the middle of nowhere with two guys he didn’t know, one with a shotgun, the other with an enormous handgun dangling a foot away, and all his money stashed somewhere in the ether.

  “You shouldn’t have ended up in a spot like this,” Gage said. “I think you wanted to go big time, but you didn’t have the skills—or the heart.”

  Gage curled his hand and looked down at his fingernails. “You really fucked up.”

  He watched panic rising in Matson’s face. He knew Matson had seen it on television a hundred times: The gangster gazes dismissively at his fingernails, then draws his gun and the victim’s guts are spattered against a wall. Matson glanced around the darkening forest, the world closing in.

  “Yep. You really fucked up.”

  Gage waited, letting the panic rage.

  Matson flinched when Gage reached out to rest a hand on his shoulder.

  “You know what I think?” Gage said.

  Matson flinched again as Gage slowly reached under his jacket and toward his gun.

  Gage scratched his ribs. “I think you better get some legal advice.”

  Matson exhaled. “I thought…I thought…Man, you scared the shit out of me.”

  “I’m sorry.” Gage smiled, pretending to be embarrassed at the misunderstanding. “I figured you knew what I was getting at all along.”

  “Yeah, I guess…I mean…I thought I knew what you had in mind.”

  Gage dropped his hand from Matson’s shoulder.

  “I’m thinking you need to consider a different strategy.”

  Matson nodded.

  “I know a lawyer who could help you.”

  “Is he good?”

  “Yeah. The best.”

  “Could he cut me a deal?”

  “Easy.”

  “You trust him?”

  “With my life.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Jack Burch.”

  Viz racked the shotgun, metal on metal ripping at the still air.

  Matson’s hands began to shake as if his body understood before his mind. Gage watched him disassociate, lose his bearings.

  Gage leaned in toward Matson and grabbed the front of his jacket, just below his chin, and yanked up. “You little runt. Burch took two bullets in the chest because of you.”

  “You…you are…” Matson’s voice failed him.

  Unmoved by either anger or sympathy, Gage watched the spectacle. He knew that the actual, the imaginary, and Matson’s bewildered attempt to distinguish them had been sucked into a ferocious vortex. He saw Matson’s eyes recoil from the images flying at him, the names and faces emerging out of the whirlwind, gouging at his sense of reality.

  Matson dropped to his hands and knees, splattering vomit on his parka and pants, and ending with dry heaves that arched his back into spasms. He tried to wipe his mouth with his sleeve as he struggled to his feet, but missed and fell forward, then curled into a fetal ball and began whimpering.

  Viz stepped forward and looked down at Matson. “Jeez, boss. I think you broke that son of a bitch.”

  CHAPTER 80

  I’ve got him stashed,” Gage told Peterson across the conference table on the eleventh floor of the Federal Building the following morning. Zink sat at the end of the table near the door, childishly sneering.

  “It’s called kidnapping and false imprisonment,” Peterson said.

  “You don’t know when to give up.” Gage shook his head. “How do you know he doesn’t want to be stashed? You’ve listened to the recording I made last night. Does he sound like a guy who’s ready to cozy up to you again?”

  Peterson leaned back in his chair. “What do you want?”

  “Transactional immunity for Burch. No prosecution ever for anything related to SatTek.”

  Peterson tossed his pen onto the table, as if Gage’s demand was absurd. “I’ll only give him use immunity for anything he tells the grand jury.”

  Gage looked hard at Peterson. “You don’t get it. Maybe you don’t want to. Maybe you’re still addicted to the headlines you’d get bringing down a lawyer like Burch. Maybe his indictment was going to be your ticket to Willie Rose’s job after he quits to run for governor.” Gage paused for a beat. “I’ve got news for you: Burch…didn’t…do it.” Gage stood up. “Maybe your boss will catch on a little faster.”

  Peterson straightened himself in his chair. He glanced over at Zink. The sneer was gone. “Okay. Sit down.”

  “What does okay mean?”

  “It means transactional.”

  Gage sat down. “And I want a court order before I leave today.”

  “Fine. And I assume that’s not all you want.”

  “You got that right. I don’t want Burch or his firm named in the civil suit.”

  “I can’t control what Braunegg does,” Peterson said. “DOJ policy says I can’t interfere.”

  “It’s a little late to start drawing ethical boundaries between you and Braunegg. You’re the tit he sucks on. He’ll do whatever you tell him.”

  Peterson smirked. “Anything else on your wish list?”

  “Nope. But I’ve got twenty million dollars that Matson had in a Swiss account. KTMG Limited. I’ll wire it to the court’s bank when Braunegg confirms that Burch is out of the case.”

  “Why the court?”

  “Because I don’t want Braunegg getting a cut of it. If he doesn’t recover it on his own, he doesn’t get a percentage. His thirty percent will go to the victims.”

  Peterson picked up the telephone and dialed.

  “Franklin Braunegg, please…Frank, this is Bill…Yeah, fine…Look, the complexion of the SatTek case changed…Yeah, just today…I’ll fill you in on the details later…You’ll need to drop Burch and his firm from the complaint…Yeah, that’s what I said…It’s gotta be that way…Yeah, how’d you guess? He’s sitting right here…” Peterson covered the mouthpiece. “Can they interview Burch?”

  Gage shook his head. “They’re not coming anywhere near him. I’ll tell them what they need to know.”

  Peterson removed his hand. “He won’t go for it…Gage will do it…He’s kinda got a gun to our heads on this one…You need to cut your losses…okay…I’ll talk to you later.”

  Peterson hung up. “He agrees.”

  Gage nodded, then dialed his cell phone. “Bring him in.”

  Two minutes later the conference room phone rang. Peterson picked it up, listened for a few seconds, then said, “Zink’ll come down,” and disconnected. Zink pulled himself up from his chair and shuffled out.

  Gage watched as Peterson began to write a column of names on a blank yellow pad in front of him. Gage knew what it was without asking: a revised grand jury target list.

  “You’re pretty light on your feet for a big guy,” Gage said.

  “It’s the only useful lesson from football. Sometimes you have to settle for a field goal.”

  “Who’ve you got?”

  “Matson, the stockbrokers, Gravilov, the controller at SatTek…what’s his name?”

  “Milsberg, Robert Milsberg. Leave him off. He’s worked his tail off helping me.”

  “Will he debrief?”

  “He’ll do what I tell him.”

  “Okay
. He’ll be an unindicted coconspirator.”

  Gage tossed a bone. “Why not the Ukrainian president’s son instead? He’d be a prize.”

  Peterson brightened.

  “You’d get headlines around the world. A helluva press conference for your boss.”

  “Not a bad idea.”

  “Of course, you’ll never get him to trial. No extradition treaty.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Peterson said. “CNN is saying the new president wants to put his predecessor and his cronies on trial. Maybe him and his son will make a run for it and we’ll snag him in a country where we do.”

  Peterson rose and headed toward the door. “You want coffee?”

  “Sure. Black.” Gage knew Peterson’s offer wasn’t really about a warm drink. He’d simply made peace with the reality Gage had imposed on him.

  Peterson returned just a minute before Viz, Matson, and Zink approached the door. Matson froze at the threshold, glancing first at Gage, then at Peterson, then back at Gage, uncertain where to sit, not sure who now owned him.

  Gage pointed at the end of the table, farthest from the door. Viz walked him to a chair and unlocked the handcuffs. Matson rubbed his wrists, then pulled out the chair and sat down. Viz leaned against a bookshelf behind him.

  “What about his lawyer?” Peterson asked. “Shouldn’t Hackett be here?”

  “No.” Gage looked at Matson. “Didn’t you tell me you wanted to represent yourself?”

  “Yeah,” Matson said, slumping down in his chair. “I guess so.”

  “You disappointed me,” Peterson said, glaring at Matson. “And you’re gonna pay for it.”

  “I’m willing to do a few years. I told Gage I’d do that.”

  “A few years won’t do it.”

  “Okay, five, five years.” Matson said the words in an expectant tone, as if a negotiation had begun. “I can do five years.”

  “Not a chance.” Peterson’s forefinger thumped the table. “There’s something called sentencing guidelines and you’re now off the fucking chart.”

  Matson swallowed hard, then sat up rubbing his hands together. “We can work something out. I know we can work something out.” He forced a weak half smile, his salesman’s instincts taking over. “I got it. Gravilov. He’s big. Him and Kovalenko were behind the killings. Absolutely. And they weren’t part of my deal. It’ll be something new. I can testify about those guys. Then go into Witness Protection.”