The Blackmail Club

by David Bishop

  “Nothing’s perfect, Jack.”

  The top dogs in the intelligence community who were opposed to Engels’s department called him the director of assassinations. Jack had spent many long, lonely nights thinking about Engels’s department and his own past role in their missions. He wanted to respond to this man who worked the buttons on most of the agency’s black ops, but this was neither the time nor the place.

  “I’m sorry you had to deal with Tyson,” is all Jack said. “I should not have let him in.”

  “P-p-please k-keep him away, J-j-jack.”

  The spittle from Engels’s “p” hit Jack’s lips—scotch. He casually wiped his fingers across his lips. He had never before heard Engels stutter.

  The last of the guests left two hours later; the catering service soon thereafter. Jack and Nora were alone.

  She came to him. “Why don’t you come home with me? I make a great omelette.”

  “Thanks, but I’m whipped. These kinds of events aren’t easy for me. You did a great job setting it all up and keeping things moving smoothly all night. But I think I need to head home. I’m hoping Saturday will be a sleep-in morning; I’ll talk to you sometime tomorrow.”

  She hugged him and went out the door.

  Jack flipped off the lights and looked around his empty office. His eyes finding the faint light wafting over from a few lit offices in the building across the street.

  He grabbed a half-full liter of Maker’s Mark by the throat, took a long swig, and collapsed onto the couch in his office. It had been raining on and off since about noon, just as it had the night he and Rachel had finished furnishing the office.

  That night he had taken a seat on this same leather couch, waiting while Rachel put the finishing touches on her own office. Instead, she had surprised him by changing into a short, tight dress, nylons and red heels.

  He looked up and in his mind saw her leaning against his doorway, just as she had that night. Her lips curved into a delightfully wicked smile.

  “Time for us to christen the place,” she had said, holding up a bottle of Dom Perignon, the wet from the ice bucket dripping off its bottom.

  His memory watched her hips as she came toward him, and the desire revisited his core. She handed him the bottle and set the glasses on the table that fronted the couch, her wide stance stretching her black dress taut across her thighs.

  Jack’s hands twitched as his mind relived tearing at the foil and twisting the wire to expose the cork. His eyes saw what they had seen that night.

  Rachel’s arms had moved to the back of her neck where her dress fastened. It slipped around her hips and dropped to the floor. She again stood before him wearing only the red heels and a black teddy. A low growl escaped him. She had always had the uncanny ability to make him feel like no woman ever had, like she had been molded especially for him.

  At that moment, the cork had come free. The champagne had frothed over the neck and ran down its glass shape. Rachel took the bottle from his hand and licked the foam, her tongue darting into the bottle.

  “Now that we’re married, you don’t have any objection to my seducing you in our office, do you, Mr. McCall?” Her words echoed in his mind.

  “None whatsoever, Mrs. McCall,” Jack said out loud, recalling his own words.

  Jack’s mind let him hear the snaps pop free as Rachel reached down and freed the crotch of her teddy.

  After they had finished what Rachel often called Good and Plenty, they had sat without concern for the rest of the world, drank champagne, and watched the late rain dance within the ambient light of the night.

  Jack turned his focus to the raindrops beating a silent rhythm against the pane, each drop joining with others to form ribbons and race to the sill. He felt Rachel leaning into him again, the tufts of her hair, still moist from their passion, settling against his neck.

  The memory was so sensual that Jack reached up and touched the spot.

  Chapter 13

  The next morning, Jack’s neck felt spray-starched, a leftover from sleeping with his head on the arm of his office couch. He went home and slept two more hours. Then, after a light lunch, he called Agnes Fuller to report that the man following her the last few days was involved in the security clearance for her State department job.

  “Thank you so much, Mr. McCall. Last night, after Mr. Drummond told me there were no listening devices or cameras in my home, I slept like a baby. He said you wanted to talk with me further. I’m off today. If you don’t mind doing it on a Saturday, I can be in your office in two hours. Say four-thirty?”

  “That would be fine. Come upstairs this time.”

  At four that afternoon, Jack arrived at MI to find Nora already there.

  “I got so busy getting ready for the party last night,” she said, “I forgot to tell you that I checked Donny Andujar’s liquor and business licenses. He’s the only owner of record. On his application he put down the money for his club came from gambling winnings that he claimed he reported as income. I called a friend at the Tax and Revenue Office. It checks. He covered his story.”

  Before they could discuss much of anything further, Agnes Fuller walked in; she was a few minutes early. Jack led her back to their conference room, took a seat directly across from her, and cut right to the chase.

  “Sarah believes Chris was being blackmailed,” he said. “We think she’s right. It’s also possible that a few of Chris’s patients may have also been blackmailed. Do you know his patient codes?”

  Fuller looked back and forth between Jack and Nora, her loose jowls swinging slightly. “The codes were only kept inside the patients’ jackets and in Dr. Andujar’s head.”

  “That’d be just like Chris,” Jack said. “He had a phenomenal memory.”

  “He did, didn’t he?” Fuller nodded.

  Fuller was quickly able to put names with a half a dozen of Chris’s patient codes, those who had appointments the last few days before his death. Then she pursed her lips and shook her head.

  “Who picked you up in the dark coupe after you and I spoke in the parking garage?” Jack asked.

  “My boyfriend, Arthur Tyson, he’s a local PI. Artie says he knows both of you.”

  Jack forgot his sore neck and snapped his head toward Nora. After wincing, he said, “Please tell Arthur we said hello.”

  The city had a zillion dark-colored coupes, so Jack couldn’t conclude Tyson had been the driver outside of Sarah Andujar’s house. But then he couldn’t conclude he hadn’t.

  Agnes Fuller left.

  Five minutes later Chief Mandrake came in. “I just cruised through your underground parking garage to be sure Tyson had picked up his car and I saw your car. I decided to come up and let you know we’ve identified the man in the dumpster: Benjamin Haviland, a federal fugitive who, during the late 60s and early 70s, demonstrated for every cause that needed someone to carry another sign. The Feds had nothing on the guy since ‘72. Sergeant Suggs tossed his apartment; he found nothing other than clothes and a high school track medal for winning the hundred-yard dash. He lived ready to run at any moment.”

  “Not much to leave behind at the end of a life,” Nora said.

  Five minutes after Chief Mandrake left, Max Logan came in.

  “This is more visitors than we get on weekdays,” Jack said to Nora.

  “Here’s the photo of the stranger I saw with Donny Andujar in the lot at his club.” Max dropped the picture on the table.

  Nora picked it up and immediately said, “Jack, this guy was here last night, at our open house.”

  Max perked up. “You know him, boss?”

  “Meet Troy Engels, Deputy Director of the Central Intelligence Agency. But what’s he doing with a pimply faced wannabe gangster like Donny Andujar?”

  “Any guesses, boss?”

  “No reliable ones.”

  “What else has been happening at Donny’s club?” Nora asked.

  “Boring! I’ve been singing Irish ballads just to stay awake. Donny
shows up around noon, then leaves for the night sometime between dinner and closing time. Last night, it got a bit more interesting. Around six, he comes out with one of his ladies wearing a short skirt and a pair of them mid-thigh patent leather boots. The two of ‘em got into his Porsche, and after five minutes of what looked like an argument, they drove off. I followed. A Porsche is a pretty easy car to keep your eye on in traffic.”

  Max used his hands to demonstrate a turn, and then continued. “Twenty minutes later he pulled up outside the Lord & Taylor store out on Western Avenue. The doll goes in. He waited in his car. I waited in mine. Fifty-five minutes later she comes out. Wow, what a change. I wasn’t sure it was the same dish till she got back in Donny’s Porsche.”

  “How had she changed?” asked Nora.

  “She’s all dolled up, fresh as a spring morn, including a new do. She had on a plaid above-the-knee skirt and a green blazer, with one of them phony family crests on the pocket. She’d gone from a lap dancer to a good-looking fox like you in under an hour. My apology,” he added, his hands outstretched like a revivalist, “if that didn’t come out like the compliment I intended.”

  “You can call me a fox anytime, Max.” Nora smiled.

  “Donny took off with me still playing shadow, and after a while he turned into the parking for the Loews Hotel on L’Enfant Plaza SW. He and the babe got out and went inside the hotel. Neither Donny nor the doll knew me from nobody so I followed on foot.

  “They got off the elevator at the twelfth floor and the doll goes in one of the rooms. Donny returned to the elevator alone and took it down. By then I’m all curious so I hunkered down in the lounge area outside the elevators on twelve. I called my relief guy and told him I’d broken off the tail. I told him to hustle over to Donny’s house to see if he went home.”

  “Had he?” Jack asked.

  “Nope. My guy found him parked back in a reserved spot at his club.”

  “So what happened at the hotel?” Nora asked.

  “Two hours passed with nothing going on. Then the door opens and a man comes out. He had to have been in the room when we got there. The doll followed him into the hall wearing nothing but her blazer. The little lass put her arms behind his neck and hopped up and wrapped her legs around his waist. He planted a two-handed grip on her butt. Then he put her down and walked backwards for a bit so he could watch her lean forward and jiggle in her single-breasted; that’s the blazer, not the doll.”

  Max winked. “She wagged a crooked finger beckoning the guy back, but he shook his head. She went back inside, and he started walking toward me.”

  “Did you get a picture?”

  “Sure. Took the picture through a hole in the newspaper I was holding because, this time, I knew the bloke.”

  “I’ve never heard a more colorful report on a stakeout, Max,” Nora said, “but who the hell was he?”

  After a final pause for drama, Max said, “You’ve met him, boss. The Honorable Patrick Molloy, Mayor of the great District of Columbia.” Max slid the picture across the table.

  Chapter 14

  After a quick Monday morning stop at a chiropractor to get his neck jerked into alignment, Jack called an old friend. “Hello, Carol. It’s Jack McCall. I need a favor.”

  “Well, Jack. What’s it been, a couple of years? How’s it hanging?”

  Carol had always talked more like one of the guys than one of the guys.

  Jack and Carol Sebring had dated about five years ago. After going out several times they’d agreed to end their relationship and remain friends.

  “Congratulations on your promotion to Special Deputy Assistant to the Director. I wouldn’t be surprised if one day you become America’s first female FBI director.”

  “The promotion was nearly three years ago, Jack. I got the flowers you sent then. They were beautiful and thoughtful. Now cut to the chase.”

  Carol had also always been a bottom-line person.

  “A few days ago the body of one of your old fugitives, Benjamin Haviland, showed up in the dumpster behind my building. I’d like a look at his file.”

  “The identification of Haviland’s body came up briefly in one of my meetings yesterday. Don’t expect much. Until we identified the prints sent over by Metro, his file had been in the Bureau’s equivalent of the post office dead letter section.”

  “Would four work for you?”

  “I’ll clear you with security. Ask for me.”

  A black Cadillac Escalade with heavily tinted windows followed Jack around a second corner. The car seemed sinister, but DC had many black Escalades. He parked on D Street and walked down Tenth toward the FBI entrance near Pennsylvania Avenue. After stepping inside he looked through the window as the Escalade drove by, its dark windows denying a view of the driver. He wondered if this had been a coincidence, or his imagination on overdrive. He thought not. Just a feeling, but he had come to trust those feelings.

  Carol Sebring still hadn’t gotten her nose straightened from taking a punch from a suspect. With the broken beak she had knocked out the perp with a left-right combination. The slightly crooked nose gave her face character and added an invisible message: Don’t fuck with me; I’m tougher than I look. Carol was a sexual powder keg. Jack had not met her husband, but he smiled in a moment of compassion and envy.

  She escorted Jack to a small private room. “These files are hard copies from the old days. Take whatever notes you wish, but don’t remove anything.”

  He nodded. “I appreciate you setting this up. Now, how have you been?”

  “Wonderful. As you know, I got married to Cary Scott, so we have no problems with monogrammed linens.” She laughed the laugh that follows a line used before. “Around here I still use my maiden name.” She touched his arm. “I was saddened to hear of Rachel’s death. I knew her from her time with the Bureau. She was a fine agent and an even better person.”

  “Thank you. I’m pleased you’re happy. You deserve it.”

  She opened the door to leave.

  Jack pulled out the chair. Then he twisted back toward the door. His neck was still tender, but since leaving his chiropractor there was no more sharp pain. “Carol.” She stopped. “Did you mean to leave these other two files on, ah,” he looked at the names: “Anson and Jensen?”

  “Read Haviland first. You’ll see the connection. If you need me, dial 322. It rings on my desk.”

  In the mid-60s, Benjamin Haviland had been active at every major demonstration in America. In the early 70s, along with a Carl Anson and Joan Jensen, he graduated to the big time as a prime suspect in the robbery and demolition of an unoccupied National Guard armory. The FBI estimated the street value of the stolen weapons and ammunition at $2 million.

  The files included pictures of all three from their hippie days. The backs of the pictures carried the same notations: “Received, with a date stamp of four years ago. Source, San Francisco Police Department, originally taken at a mid-60s demonstration.” Even after allowing for the impact of the years and the work of the maggots, Jack could easily tell that Haviland and the dumpster man were one and the same.

  He punched in Carol’s extension. “Did the FBI provide copies of these three files to Metro PD?”

  “Their request was for Haviland,” she explained, “came in through normal channels. After they read Haviland, if they want Anson and Jensen they’ll put in another request. Then again, there’s no particular reason for Metro to assume three hippies from the sixties have kept in touch.”

  Carol walked him through a deciphering of the transmittal sheets in each of the files. The notations told him the forty-plus-year-old pictures of the three fugitives had come in from Frisco four years ago. Then nothing until DC Metro requested Haviland’s file.

  Jack was back in his car by seven-thirty with his stomach reminding him he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He pulled in behind a diner and went in for a burger and a piece of coconut-cream pie.

  When he came out, a parked green van sat in the space
beside his car; the front seat was unoccupied. After he opened his driver’s side door, the mid-door of the van opened from the inside. Then he felt a jab in the back, a jab he knew, a gun jab.

  “Don’t turn around, McCall!”

  They knew his name so this was no random robbery, and they didn’t intend to kill him. If they had, they could have simply put two slugs in his head without bothering to get out of their van.

  “What do you want?”

  A deep voice came from above his head. “Careful and slow, put your hands behind your back. Now!” The assailant punctuated his command with another jab of the gun barrel. Harder.

  The space between his car and the van lacked the room for a countermove. He heard the cold, hard click of handcuffs, and then felt the active hands of a frisk. A strong punch in the side of his lower back slammed him against his car, his knee denting the side panel. Then a hand came around from behind and grabbed a fistful of his shirt, and a wad of skin. He looked down. The hand was the size of a rump roast, a white guy’s hand. No watch. No rings. No tattoos. But he did have hairy arms and dirty fingernails.

  Jack felt the warmth of the man’s throaty whisper against the back of his head, and smelled fetid breath sneaking below his collar. “Straighten up and walk,” the voice commanded. From the location of the voice, Jack estimated the man to be at least four inches taller than him, which would put the guy around six-six. Then the hand gave him a healthy push in the direction of the alley off to one side of the lot. As he twisted from the push, he saw the hood of a black Escalade, the inside dome light illuminating its tinted windshield. The next push put the dark Cadillac out of view. Then he heard a car door close. He thought it was the Escalade because car doors sound tighter than the doors on vans.

  The talker held the short chain between the cuffs higher than Jack’s arms would comfortably tolerate, so he walked on the balls of his feet to slacken the pressure. From their footsteps he figured his greeting party had three members. Maybe four if whoever got out of the Escalade was involved.