The Consultant

by TJ O'Connor

  Still, no one’s curiosity had been aroused.

  That was what Mo Nassar had counted on.

  CHAPTER 24

  Day 3: May 17, 0715 Hours, Daylight Saving Time

  Winchester, Virginia

  THE NEXT MORNING, I woke to pounding loud enough to wake the dead on my hotel room door. I, having had only a couple hours sleep again, was near dead. Last night, my adventure at the cabin was fruitful but scary. After I found the gun, money, and other treasure beneath old Hunter, I’d paced the wooden cabin floor, wondering what my long-lost brother got himself—and now me—into.

  I found no answers.

  Afterward, memories from my childhood consumed me again. They were bittersweet and most of them caused my insides to churn and torment me. Remembrances were warm at first. Visions of happier days and laughter. Then, like a schoolboy remembering a love who’d broken his heart, those memories turned painful.

  At four a.m., I dropped into my hotel room bed.

  Now, someone was outside my door earning a busted lip.

  I tripped over my running shoes and stumbled to the door’s peephole. It took a little while to focus through the tiny glass. Oh crap, what did I do now?

  Maybe Detectives Bond and Perry were here to take me to breakfast. You think?

  No, breakfast was out. The handcuffs would get in the way.

  * * *

  My reception at the sheriff’s office was no better. After an hour of “good-cop, bad-cop, quiet-cop, raging-cop,” irritation set in. To me, not them. The interrogation room was too bright, too stuffy, and too crowded. I was tired and mentally spent. In the past thirty-six hours, I’d been through everything imaginable except a small coup.

  Generally speaking, I was in a bad mood.

  “Mallory? Let’s start with that.” Annoyance shrouded Bond’s voice. “Jonathan Mallory graduated high school in Fairfax in ninety-two. Then poof. Nothing.”

  “Poof?” Oh right, the CIA “poofed” me.

  Perry banged his hand on the table. “We ran Jonathan Mallory from Fairfax through the computers. There’s nothing to speak of. No credit cards, no addresses, nothing. After high school, you did what?”

  “Hey, look. I pay cash, I move around a lot. I stay off the grid.”

  “Shut up.” Bond leaned across the table. “I talk. You listen.”

  I nodded. Silence was my best defense. Unfortunately, silence was not my best strength.

  Bond folded his arms and flexed bone-breaking muscles. “After your cage match at Noor’s house, you tangled with two Sand Town bad boys. You beat the crap out of them. How come? Didn’t they want to have a gunfight?”

  I smirked. Bond was a funny guy.

  “We’re not even going to talk about the address Kevin Mallory gave you,” Perry said. “Speaking of Kevin, you claim to have witnessed his murder. Right near a dead guy you never saw.”

  “Claim?” The heat surged across my face.

  “We’ve got an interesting theory.” Bond dumped my license and credit cards on the table before me. Then he flipped one over and it was a fifteen-year-old driver’s license with the name Jonathan H. Hunter on it. “Want to hear it?”

  Now where did they get Jonathan H. Hunter from? I thought the CIA poofed me good. Obviously, the poof was a little short.

  “It’s why you lied about your name that gets us wondering.” Perry was watching me close now, like a jackal about to pounce. “We ran the name Jonathan Hunter, too. Funny, he’s as much of a mystery as Jonathan Mallory. You show up in Winchester two days ago. Before that, poof.”

  “Where you been?” Bond moved closer. “The computers can’t find you.”

  Perry came around the table and leaned over my shoulder so close I could taste his mouthwash. “Then we ran your prints. We got nothing.”

  Poof.

  “Look, guys, it’s complicated. My legal name was Jonathan Hunter Mallory. When our folks died—Kevin’s and mine—I used my middle name instead of Mallory. I was young. I rebelled. It’s how I coped.” That wasn’t a lie.

  “You just happened to have phony ID?” Bond slammed his hand on the interview room table so hard my fillings vibrated. “Noor never met you, either of you, before yesterday.”

  My radar pinged. Bond was a gruff guy. Equal bite and bark. But when he said “Noor,” he softened. I was already in enough trouble, but the way he said “Noor” sealed it.

  I tried to soothe the beasts. “What could she know? I just met her yesterday.”

  “Kevin never told her you used a different name. You were with her yesterday and you never brought that up? She said you and Kevin had bad blood.” Bond was all confidence now. “People kill over less.”

  I looked at him and tried to keep my temper in check. The urge to snap his neck was simmering.

  “Want to explain?”

  “No.”

  “You come home and now he’s dead.” Perry pressed. “No more problem. See what we see?”

  “You don’t see anything.” I jumped to my feet. “You’re fishing for a suspect, and I’m an easy catch.” Perhaps the condescending attitude wasn’t wise. “Respectfully, that is.”

  “Prove you’re Kevin’s brother,” Bond said. “Then we’ll talk about all the killing and fighting that happens around you.”

  “You handled yourself pretty good, Mallory, er, Hunter.” It was Perry’s turn to be the good cop. “Kelley the waitress said you karate’d those boys. Those two Sand Towners came at you with knives, and you kicked their asses. Then there’s the intruder at Noor Mallory’s house. Where’d you learn that martial arts stuff?”

  “The Internet.” I regretted the words the moment they came out—again. “Listen, what do you want from me?”

  “The truth!” Bond shoved the table out of his way. “We checked the airlines. No Jonathan Mallory or Jonathan Hunter came into the area in the past month. You’re going to get real cozy with some drug dealers and gutter-trash in lockup. You can practice karate or do the chicken dance with them. Ever been a gangbanger’s bitch?”

  “No, but I bet you like it.” Damn, I did it again.

  Bond came at me, but Perry grabbed his arm and backed him to the door. There, they whispered and strategized my path to death row. I sat silent, difficult as it was, adding up my mistakes since arriving home. Mistakes enough for a hangman’s noose.

  Bond moved the table back in front of me and found a calmer tone. “How about the .45 we found in your hotel? You got a permit?” Bond already knew I didn’t. “We’re running it through ballistics.”

  “Permit? No. But owning a handgun is not a crime and doesn’t require a permit unless you’re carrying it concealed in this state, right?”

  Bond stared.

  “So I’ll expect it back when I leave. That will be very soon.”

  A voice from the past boomed into the room. “Good morning, Jon. The desert too hot these days?”

  I looked at the speaker and then at the large two-way observation mirror below it. The voice was familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

  The voice said, “Don’t you think you should come clean? I’m sure you’re leaving out the good parts.”

  That voice …

  “Please, Detectives, don’t let me interrupt. Jon was about to tell us about the gun and all his aliases. It won’t be the truth. But it’ll be colorful.”

  I looked at Bond. He watched me like a tiger that smelled blood. I tried hard not to give away any body language, but I twitched like a fox before the hunt.

  “You’ve been busy.” Now, the voice came from the open interrogation room door. “Cut the bull. You can tell me, and then, of course, you’ll have to kill me. Isn’t that how it is, Jon Clayton?”

  Jon Clayton? I hadn’t used that name since … Riyadh. Ten years ago.

  A tall, distinguished black man in an expensive vested suit walked into the room, and I felt like I’d just been caught in church with my zipper down.

  Damn, they got me again.

  CHAPTER
25

  Day 3: May 17, 0715 Hours, Daylight Saving Time

  Eastern Frederick County, Virginia

  LARUE SAT IN a metal folding chair sipping a cup of Earl Grey. He watched the three men in the far corner of the stark, barren basement. Two of the men were dressed casually in jeans, sneakers, and polo shirts. Both were armed with semiautomatic pistols. The third man, a young, pale-faced man, sat on an inverted metal bucket with his hands bound behind him. His black t-shirt was soaked in sweat. His feet were bare. His cowboy boots and military field jacket lay in a pile beside him. Yet despite his hours in isolation and discomfort, his eyes were still defiant.

  LaRue watched and began to nod. He’d reached a decision. “Regrettably, Shepard, events require us to expedite the interview. Proceed.”

  Shepard stood facing the man. He gave him a long, slow drink with a plastic water bottle. Then he wiped the sweat from the man’s face with a towel. His offerings were solemn and controlled. “We’re not asking a lot. Just your name.”

  Silence.

  Shepard offered him more water and the man drank. “Baby steps.”

  The man spat the water into Shepard’s face.

  “We won’t be pals.” Shepard rose and retrieved a large suitcase from behind LaRue. He opened the case, withdrew an electronic device the size of a microwave oven. The control box was complete with a round, blunt saucer mounted on a pedestal that resembled a tiny satellite dish. He positioned the dish on a chair ten feet from the man and aimed it at him. He turned dials and switches and activated the control box.

  The man looked on indifferently.

  “How do you like your meat? Medium or well?” Shepard turned a dial on the control box and waited.

  The man’s eyes widened and snapped shut. He broke into a sweat and began panting, fighting the urge to scream. A few seconds later, his teeth clenched and muscles flexed and vibrated. His body wiggled for freedom above the metal bucket. He twisted and turned, but there was no escape. Finally, he lost his fight and screamed.

  “Ostanovite, pozhaluysta!”

  LaRue looked on.

  The Active Denial System, or ADS as the research papers referred to it, projected a focused beam of electromagnetic radiation at the man. The beam excited the molecules just beneath his skin. The resulting sensation was that his skin was on fire and melting away. It was not. If used in limited engagements over limited time, no permanent damage was done—physically. Scientifically, that was the intent. Originally designed as a defensive antiriot device, creative uses of the ADS were another matter.

  “Pozhaluysta, ne, ne boleye.”

  LaRue raised a hand. “Ja ponimaju—I understand. Ya plokha gavaryoo pa rooskee. But you are Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki, SVR—my Russian is bad—but you are from the Foreign Intelligence Service of the Russian Federation, the SVR. Shall we try English?”

  The Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki has the distinction of being to Russia what the KGB—The Committee for State Security—was to the former Soviet Union. The SVR’s mission is foreign intelligence and security. It accomplishes this mission through what has traditionally been dubbed cloak and dagger. Often, however, there is more dagger than cloak. The SVR, like the former KGB, is not squeamish about violence.

  Shepard turned the device off.

  The Russian’s head dropped low. His body quivered and saliva dripped from his mouth. After several moments, his panting subsided and his breathing returned to normal.

  LaRue slid a metal chair close to the Russian and faced him. “Now, if you please, explain to me what SVR is doing in our lovely town of Winchester.”

  The Russian’s head rolled from side to side and he mumbled in Russian.

  “English, if you please.” LaRue gently touched the man’s knee. “It has been too long for me. I would hate for my associate to make you uncomfortable again.”

  “Grigori.” The Russian’s head lifted and his eyes were defeated. “My name, sir, is Grigori Sokoloff. You will wish to know of Operatsiya Maya.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Day 3: May 17, 0845 Hours, Daylight Saving Time

  Frederick County Sheriff’s Office, Outside Winchester, Virginia

  “ARTIE POLO. HOW are you?” I looked across the interrogation table at the man I hadn’t seen in ten years. “You look good. New suit?”

  “You’re still a smartass, but not still Jonathan Clayton. What do I call you?”

  “It’s Jonathan Hunter. It used to be Mallory. Long story.” He had me cold. “Just call me Hunter.”

  Artie shook his head. “Everywhere you go, carnage follows.”

  That was harsh.

  Artie was a distinguished man in his late thirties, perhaps early forties. His features were tight and muscled, and, as always, he was dressed as if he’d just walked out of a fashion magazine. He wore a goatee that was new since I’d worked with him in Riyadh—yes, as Jonathan Clayton—and it made him look more refined and intelligent. Artie was the first in his family to graduate high school, let alone college, and the first to reach twenty without a parole officer. Detroit is a tough town.

  “Artie, you used to be fun.”

  “You used to be Jon Clayton.”

  Touché.

  Artie eyed me, probably deciding where to insert the executioner’s needle. He’d listened to my interrogation. He knew every truth and every lie. Artie knew more about me than most people. That’s why I never played poker with him. He could spot a bluff three cards deep. I tried to remember what lies and any half-truths I’d given out so far. I’d have to answer for them now.

  Time to play nice. “Yeah, about the name thing, Artie—”

  “Save it.” He laughed and extended his hand with surprising warmness. “You look good. Whoever you are.”

  “Just call me Hunter.” I gestured to Bond and Perry in the doorway. “Your friends are a little tense. You know me, I hate confrontation.”

  “Know you? I’m not sure I ever knew you.” He rose from his chair and gestured for Bond and Perry to join him in the hall. I couldn’t hear what he said, but Perry shook his head and Bond glared death threats at me. Both detectives left cursing.

  When the door shut and Artie sat back down, I asked, “Everything okay?”

  “No, it isn’t. Terrorists hit the mall outside Fairfax this morning and killed several hundred people. We’re still sorting body parts. The one lead we had led to that Middle Eastern refugee’s house at the address Kevin Mallory gave you.”

  Oops. “Did you take out the cell?”

  “No. All we found was the family. All dead. Strange, too. It looks like a terror cell grabbed the family and forced the bombing. They killed the family anyway. What a mess.”

  “That’s an ISIS thing, Artie.”

  “Yes, I know.” He eyed me. “We’re still working the scene. We hope to get more.”

  As much as I wanted to spill what I knew to Artie and help out, if LaRue didn’t want them to know, then I wouldn’t. I was on my own for now—Shepard and LaRue notwithstanding. Silence was key. If I wanted Oscar LaRue to leave me with my balls in place, that is.

  LaRue was a complicated guy.

  “Look, Clayton, er, Hunter—” Artie threw up his hands. “Our phones are ringing off the wall after the mall bombing. Isn’t it a coincidence all this happens when you roll into town?”

  “I can’t help you there, Artie. This is Winchester, not Fairfax County.” The look on his face told me he knew the geography. “Kevin gave me a partial address, and I gave it to you guys. That’s it.”

  “How did you know it was only a partial?”

  Ah, good question. “Come on, I looked it up myself. I couldn’t find anything that matched so I left it alone.” Okay, a teeny-weeny lie. “Trust me.”

  “Trust you? You and trouble are one.” He cursed and changed the subject. “What happened last night? Hell, what happened the night before? No BS, Hunter.” He pushed himself back in the chair. “Not like last time.”

  “Come on, don’t be like that.�
� I tried my best smile. “It wasn’t my fault the Saudi cops grabbed you.”

  “It took me days to get out of that mess. You have no idea what it cost me, and LaRue didn’t help at all. Is he lurking around here?”

  “I can honestly say that I have no idea.” That wasn’t a lie. Not really. With LaRue, he could be under the table spying on us and we wouldn’t know it.

  He crossed his arms and looked me over. “Really?”

  “Come on, Artie. I’m not involved in any of this.”

  “Involved in what?”

  “Nothing. I mean I’m here alone.” Damn. “I mean, I came home for a visit. The last time you and I—”

  “The last time you almost caused an international incident. It was me, not you, who cleaned up that mess. So give it up, Hunter. What are you doing here?”

  Ten years or so ago, Special Agent Arthur Polo had worked a case in Riyadh. I was there, too, and I found myself in a little debacle. I had shot one or two people, perhaps a couple more. Okay, it was more than five and less than ten. I was on the trail of an al-Qaeda operative ID’d by my asset. “Asset” is “snitch” in cop talk. A local Saudi cop, also one of my assets, double-crossed me and arranged for me to be kidnapped or killed, or kidnapped then killed. Unbeknownst to me, Artie was hunting the same bad guy and had been double-crossed, too. We were both held at a run-down hotel but broke free and shot our way out. I caught the next plane to Kuwait. Artie had to stay and clean up the mess. Since he was officially there on FBI business, and I wasn’t officially in the country, he lost the coin toss. He also had fewer friends. I, thankfully, had my hero, LaRue.

  “Out with it, Hunter. What are you doing here?”

  “Okay.” I leaned forward. “See, there’s my Sadie back in Riyadh.”

  “Sadie?” He laughed and threw his hands up in surrender.

  “She’s my best girl.”

  Artie smiled. “Forget Sadie. Straight, Hunter, what are you doing here?”

  “I came home to see Kevin. You know the rest.”