The Consultant

by TJ O'Connor

  Kev’s brother? Did I hear something in her voice that wasn’t there?

  I looked straight into her FBI-vampire eyes. “You know, Victoria, your slinking in here isn’t exactly FBI protocol, is it?”

  “No, it’s not.” She retreated to the window again. “But these are not normal times. I’m responsible for this case. Things have gone bad. I need to know who I’m dealing with. You were with Kevin when he died. I need to trust what you told us. I need to trust you. That, Jonathan Mallory Hunter, begins with knowing just who you really are and what you know.”

  I’d swear she had a shudder in her voice just then. Emotion. Maybe a little self-pity. But I was exhausted and didn’t want to misjudge her. It might get me in more trouble than my mouth does. Inconceivable as it was.

  I said, “It’s Jonathan Hunter Mallory, actually. That’s what’s on my birth certificate. That’s what’s in my classified Army file. Give me a week and I’ll hand-deliver all the proof you need. All of it. Records. Witnesses. But I need a week.”

  “Why a week?”

  I said nothing.

  “Because you’re AWOL from the Agency.”

  “Perhaps.” Well, that was no longer true, but I couldn’t admit that.

  “What happens when they find you?” She allowed herself that thin smile again. “Do they shoot you or something?”

  “Or something.” I grinned. “I’ll have to face the music, and the conductor is a real prick. Worse, I’ll have to leave for a while to sort things out. That would mean—”

  “You couldn’t hunt Kevin’s killer.” She held my eyes like Dracula. Well, a sexy, hot Dracula—Draculette. “That’s your plan, right?”

  “Exactly.”

  “All the coincidences are fascinating, don’t you think?”

  “Coincidences?”

  Her eyes considered me and she picked her words carefully. “You’re a CIA spook operating in the Middle East. Your brother, whom you’ve not seen for years, marries an Iranian refugee and adopts an Iranian boy. Then, Middle Easterners launch a terror attack just after Kevin is murdered in front of you. You’re a CIA Middle Eastern counterterrorism operative. It’s like you and Kevin were cosmically connected. The cosmos brought you here.”

  “The cosmos?” What the heck did she smoke? “Victoria, you’re seeing shadows where there aren’t any. Kevin brought me back home, not some astrology chart.”

  “Food for thought.” She stared at me, and her eyes got inside my head and roamed around awhile. I could feel her probing, seeking, chasing answers. I tried the hypnosis thing that commands obedience. All I got was more static and the weather channel.

  Finally, she went to the door and opened it, then turned and faced me. There was no thin smile. No dark, probing eyes. There was relief.

  “Okay, you’re Kevin’s brother.” She left and closed the door behind her.

  Damn, if it was that easy, I would have hypnotized her before.

  CHAPTER 30

  Day 3: May 17, 1325 Hours, Daylight Saving Time

  Union Station, Washington, DC

  KHALIFAH WALKED BENEATH Union Station’s barrel ceiling, through the lobby, and out into the afternoon sun. He shifted the tiny video recorder in his breast suitcoat pocket and turned in slow movements to record the entire train station entrance. Then he waited for traffic, nodded to a nearby policeman who watched the crowds, and crossed Columbus Circle toward his SUV parked west of the station entrance.

  He moved casually along. He wasn’t worried that anyone would approach or question him. His dark skin and businessman-like appearance was easily camouflaged among Washington’s cosmopolitan ethnicities. Even in his taqiyah, full beard, and dark, expensive Saville Row suit, he did not stand out from the other such men of foreign descent around him. In all the nation’s cities, a man such as he was just one of millions going unnoticed.

  He was a man of the people on these streets. He was a man who liked to do his own planning and see his targets as they would be seen when he executed his plans.

  When he reached the SUV registered to Kazan Limited, he sat behind the steering wheel and appeared to talk on his cell phone—just another commuter checking in with wife or office. The SUV was parked in a small lot that faced across Columbus circle with a full view of the rail station entrance.

  His body equipment continued to record.

  Before he left the SUV to hail a cab, he manipulated the car stereo. His combination of digital entries activated a closedcircuit television camera hidden in the vehicle’s roof rack. Next, he removed his false eyeglasses and hidden camera and tossed them into the glove box. He scanned the area and, satisfied no one was watching, slid from the SUV and locked the door. He hailed a cab, instructed the driver to bring him to the Galleria Shopping Mall in Tysons Corner, and sat back for the brief trip. There, another transformation would take place and another vehicle awaited him.

  Events were in motion. In time, another cool half-million would be in his account.

  CHAPTER 31

  Day 3: May 17, 1330 Hours, Daylight Saving Time

  Winchester, Virginia

  VICTORIA’S VISIT LEFT me stewing as I paced my hotel room and tried to make sense of everything. She came for answers. I don’t know if she got them, but she left me with more questions. Why had she come “off-the-books”? Sure, she wanted to know who I was. After all, I totally screwed up my initial introduction that first night at the river. But “off-the-books”? For an FBI agent hunting the murderer of one of her own, she didn’t ask me any real FBI questions. She just wanted a warm, cozy feeling about me.

  She said she got it. Had she?

  After the stewing led nowhere but a headache, I decided to work on the Bobby Kruppa problem. Bobby had some explaining to do, and there was no time like the present. Of course, I had to find him. Winchester wasn’t that big and Noor told me the general vicinity to look in.

  How hard could finding a pudgy, awkward twenty-year-old college kid be?

  Easier than I thought, obviously. First, I drove to the University of the Shenandoah Valley on the outskirts of Winchester and looked around a complex of two older hotels. They were the kind with outdoor stairs and room entrances found off any interstate. The buildings had been renovated and turned into campus housing, as Noor had described. Next, around the rear of one unit, I knew exactly which apartment Bobby lived in. It was the first door on the right, atop the stairs, beside the second-floor landing.

  How did I know?

  Easy. As I pulled into the parking area, Azar and Fariq were pushing their way into a second-floor dorm room. I was sure Bobby Kruppa was inside. This detective stuff isn’t all that difficult.

  I climbed the outside stairs and slipped around the walkway. I did not see Fariq, Azar, and Bobby when I reached the second floor. As I made my way to the room, I scanned the area looking for any sign of other trouble, like friends of Fariq’s and Azar’s to be loitering. Nothing. What I did see was Kevin’s custom trike motorcycle parked beside a dumpster. Next to it stood a thin, helmeted rider. I watched him climb on board, start the engine, and zoom off.

  Sam. Coincidence? I think not.

  Bobby’s room door was closed and the window blinds drawn. Several shouts and cries reverberated from inside and something slammed hard against the inside door. Bobby cried out again.

  I pulled my .45 and stood in front of the door. With my thumb over the peephole so no one could cheat, I knocked on the door. “Housekeeping.” I did my best girlie-girl impression. The scuffle inside stopped, but no one came to the door. “Come on or I’ll get the manager.”

  Footsteps reached the door. With a grunt, someone popped the door open four inches.

  Just enough.

  In one violent movement, I kicked the door and propelled myself through. Azar was on the other side and had his face pressed into the four-inch opening. He got a mouth full of metal door and was knocked into the middle of the room on his back. Inside, I leveled my .45 at Fariq’s chest before anyone—espe
cially Fariq—could react. I toed the door closed behind me and contemplated the two thugs across the room.

  Fariq had Bobby in a full nelson. Bobby’s face was bruised and bloodied. Welts had already formed around his mouth and eyes. His room had been ransacked.

  I lazily lowered the pistol toward Fariq’s groin. “I’m sure we’ve seen the same movies.”

  Fariq, not having missed the nuance of my gesture, released Bobby and stepped back. Bobby crawled onto the couch across the room. Tears streamed down his face. “Thank God,” he whimpered. “They’re going to kill me. I couldn’t find Sam. I called and called. He won’t answer me.”

  “Shut it, Bobby.” I kicked Azar in the thigh and kept my gun on Fariq. “Up, Azar. Slow.”

  Azar complied, and, in broken English, spat, “This is nothing for you here. Walk away or it will surely be bad for you.”

  We did watch the same movies. I knew all the cool door-kickin’ moves and they knew all the cheesy threats. Instead of another movie line, I baited him a bit. “Azar, where are you really from? Baghdad?”

  Azar spat at me. “No, pig. I am Iranian.”

  “Azar!” Fariq yelled. “Be silent. Tell him nothing.”

  Fariq was shy about his family heritage. Interesting. “Time to go home, boys. If I see you here or at the café or anywhere within a mile of Bobby or Sam and Noor Mallory, I’ll forget I’m a peacenik and blow your balls off.”

  Fariq helped Azar to his feet. “No one will care about this one. No one will care about you, either. Sameh Mallory least of all. Soon you will understand.”

  That was a funny thing to say.

  “Please get them outta here.” Bobby’s eyes darted from them to me. “I won’t call the cops if they promise to leave me alone.”

  I waved the gun. “Do we have a deal?”

  Azar’s eye was bloodshot and turning a kaleidoscope of color. His mouth was bleeding and he rubbed his shoulder. Still, he managed to say, “Baleh.”

  Fariq dragged Azar toward the door. He stopped and turned back to Bobby. “No police. That is our deal. For now. You will not have this protection always.”

  “No cops. I swear.” Bobby left the couch and backed into the corner of the room, like a rat trying to escape. “I told you before I won’t talk to the cops. I swear. Leave me alone. You don’t have to come back. Please.”

  Azar aimed a gun-finger at Bobby. “We will be looking at you. We will know if you have lied to us.” Then to me, he cocked his gun-finger and pulled the trigger. “You will soon understand.”

  I walked to the door, shoved them out, then slammed and locked it. When I turned around, my face burned and my muscles wanted to scream. I went to Bobby, grabbed him by the shirt, and pressed him against the wall.

  “What, dude?” His eyes bulged and his mouth dropped open. “What’s going on?”

  “Enough of this, Bobby.” I holstered my pistol and jammed an angry finger into his cheek. “Twice now I almost got myself killed for you. There’s no third time. What happened at the river?”

  His face drained around the blossoming bruises. His eyes darted around and wouldn’t settle. His breath came faster and faster as he approached a panic attack.

  “Now, Bobby.” I ground my finger harder into his cheek. “Or I call Fariq and Azar back for dessert.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  I tossed him onto the couch and went to the door. My fingers were closing on the knob when he whimpered jumbled words.

  “Pictures. I … the body was …”

  “Spit it out, Bobby. They’re still in the parking lot.”

  “Down at the river.” He steadied himself, burning a hole in the carpet with his eyes. “I didn’t just find the body.”

  I folded my arms. “What did you see?”

  “It’s not what I saw.” He shook all over. “It’s what I did.”

  “What did you do?”

  He rubbed his eyes and continued to shake. The meltdown lasted two minutes and I didn’t intervene. When he finally calmed and looked up, it all made sense.

  “Pictures. I took pictures.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Day 3: May 17, 1345 Hours, Daylight Saving Time

  Middleburg, Virginia

  LARUE RAISED HIS glass of white wine and waited for his companion to do the same. “To old friends, Alexei, and new ones.”

  “New friends? How intriguing.” The tall, sturdy Foreigner with dark, sunken eyes cocked his head. His swarthy complexion and gruff, accented voice betrayed his Leningrad roots. “So, you did not invite me here to Middleburg, no matter how beautiful and quaint. What then? To reminisce?”

  LaRue allowed a thin smile. “An extraordinary thing has happened, Alexei. I have found myself in possession of information I wish were untrue.”

  “Oh, what might that be?”

  “Terrible things. I am told your people are instigating horrific events on American soil.”

  Alexei Fedorov sipped his wine with his right hand, keeping his left on his lap below the table in a self-conscious habit, not for the concealment of a weapon. “Preposterous. Do not trust such rumors. There are many who would like to see the old days return and America and Russia at odds again.”

  “No, no. I have not learned this from outsiders. The source is very credible. Let us say he warmed to me and discussed these matters freely and with candor.”

  “Warmed?” Fedorov’s eyes narrowed. “My dear friend, you play with words.”

  LaRue continued. “You see, I am told the SVR believes it can keep America focused elsewhere in order to have a freer hand for Russian expansion. Simple misdirection. An old tactic I am familiar with. Divert attention and maneuver quietly.”

  Fedorov did not like hearing “SVR” spoken anywhere but in his embassy office in Washington, DC, and even then, only in hushed words within his secure SCIF. There, he was General-Polkovnik—Colonel General—Alexei Mikhailovich Fedorov, Chief Resident of the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service and senior most officer in the United States. There, he controlled everything. But in Middleburg, he controlled nothing.

  “Misdirection?” Fedorov sipped his wine. “I, too, am familiar with such strategy. You, my friend, are a master of this, no? This source of yours, he is perhaps unreliable?”

  “My new friend told me his handler was an old master himself, Alexei. You.”

  “Me? Silliness. I am too old and senior to, how do you say, get my hands dirty.”

  LaRue smiled again. “Our countries have tried to put the past far behind us. To learn that a Russian operation is unfolding on American soil and costing American lives might set the clock back considerably—to colder days.”

  “Careful, my friend.” Fedorov slid forward in his seat. “Are you suggesting we are behind recent atrocities here?”

  “I do not suggest anything.” LaRue held the old spy’s eyes. He didn’t move or show any emotion. “I am asking that sensibility return. However, if what I believe is true, I urge you to assist me in correcting this unfortunate matter before I am forced to do so alone. If I am forced to, I will use a wide brush.”

  “A wide brush?”

  “I am fearful.” LaRue took a moment to finish his wine. When he set his glass on the table, he folded his hands in front of him. “We teetered on the brink of total destruction in the past. You play with those days again. Putin has flexed his muscle and struts around like a schoolboy seeking admirers—the emperor and his new clothes.”

  “Be careful.” The Russian held up a hand. “America is weak. Even you must admit that. No? Ill-considered wars have exhausted you and poorly executed strategies lessen your credibility. While victory was within your fingers, you failed to grasp it. Now your allies are distrustful. We both know the American flag does not fly so high any longer.”

  “Your point, Alexei Mikhailovich Fedorov?”

  The Russian smiled. “Why not simply allow us to ensure our own security as you have sought to secure yours? Perhaps two world powers can both have what they
wish and not interfere with one another.”

  “Interfere with one another?” LaRue forced a grin. “Have you forgotten our elections?”

  “Elections?” The Russian laughed and slapped the table for effect. “Killing one’s opponent or removing the voices of opposition by force, now, that is interfering in elections. You speak of e-mails? A ten-year-old’s computer tricks. Please, my friend, do not insult me.”

  LaRue lifted his chin. “I do not hear you speaking of Russia’s aggression in Ukraine and the animal you have on a leash, Bashir Assad.”

  “Now you insult me with words like aggression. Is America’s interference in the Middle East not aggression? The goose and gander, my friend. Perhaps America should focus more on its own weaknesses at home than abroad. Russia is simply securing itself against foreign threats as America contends the same in the Middle East. There is no difference.”

  “No difference?” LaRue’s eyes darkened. His grandfatherly smile was replaced by a tight, hard jaw. “You will learn we are not weak in the wake of recent terrorist events, Alexei. You might consider our response should the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki be caught sponsoring those events.”

  “No, no, how could you think that? I merely suggest that America has grown fragile and may stand alone very soon.”

  LaRue didn’t speak.

  “America should limit its own aggressions and leave Russian affairs to Russia. A mere suggestion.”

  LaRue removed his eyeglasses for a polishing. “Let me suggest, my dear friend, that Russia may wish to recalculate its perceptions. They are flawed. Don’t believe that allies who squabble are not still true allies.”

  Fedorov stood and bowed his head slightly. “Dangerous times. Perhaps we should all consider the cost of our struggle these last seventy years. You should be careful in suggesting Russian aggression is on your shores.”

  “Grigori Sokoloff.” LaRue’s words were served cold and direct. “Operation Maya.”

  Fedorov took a single step toward the door and stopped. He turned and smiled a warm, nervous smile. “We have been friends for many years, Oscar LaRue. Even during the dark times. Times when our two countries looked for reasons to destroy one another. Even then, you and I found understanding.”