by Vince Milam
A country singer on the jukebox wailed about being fooled again. Yeah, no kidding. The one avenue of solid relief—my friends. More than friends: blood brothers. Brothers well situated and well experienced, delivering insights and advice and an exit strategy for the blues. The quiet corner booth provided privacy and a launchpad.
Bo first. Bo Dickerson, a man who dwelled among his own unique cosmic realities. And our former Delta team spearhead. The most fearless and strange warrior any of us had ever encountered. My best friend. He now lived on the island of St. Thomas, US Virgin Islands. He’d stayed behind after the chaos and horror of the Caribbean job. Drawn by his new love, JJ. Julie Johnson. An FBI agent stationed there. She represented the federal law I’d spill the beans to if necessary. JJ had more than an inkling about my background, and Bo’s. If contacted, she’d focus on the issue at hand and leave the shovel behind. She and Bo had a tacit agreement—no grave digging.
“My Georgia peach! Wait one,” he said, answering after two rings. A minute later he continued. “The sound and fury of surrounding tourists had an inhibiting vibe. I now stand before you, not quite naked but fully engaged. How be ye?”
“Holed up in anticipation of tomorrow’s sit-down with your Clubhouse girlfriend.”
Jules had met Bo prior to our Caribbean trip. A meeting for the ages.
“Provide her with my lasting admiration and affection. She occupies an enlightened place in the cosmos. Now tell me a tale. Where have your bedraggled buttocks ventured as of late?”
I gave him an overview, a few insights, and my current position as loser in the grand chase.
“It sounds like you punched the right cards, my brother,” Bo said. “An admirable effort.”
A high compliment considering the source; Bo was a tracker extraordinaire.
“Admirable doesn’t always translate to success.”
He gave a heavy sigh in response. “You lack perspective. An old story and one that wears on my tender soul. If I didn’t love you, I’d get pissed at your usual lack of understanding. Think universal placement, goober.”
“Yeah, well, right now the universe has placed my worn rear end in a corner booth. Near a neon beer sign whose first two letters pop and flicker at irregular intervals.”
“Pay it no heed. A false metaphor. Your path will reveal itself. The mighty oracle awaits you in the morn. All is well.”
“No. No it’s not, Bo. This stuff is as bad as it gets. With ill intent stamped across the owner’s actions. And I can’t tote the burden much longer. So if I pull in the Feds, I’ll start with JJ. At least I know her. And trust her.”
“A valid consideration. But let’s face it, kemosabe. That’s a nuclear option.”
I got it. Expired bad guys littered US turf. Bodies sprinkled across hell’s half acre. Bodies me and Bo and Catch and Marcus had walked away from. Rooting around our home turf history wasn’t a door any of us wished reopened.
“Yeah. I know. How’s she doing?”
I held a warm spot in my heart for JJ. She’d joined me in battle on St. Thomas and more than held up her end. We shared a rock-solid bond.
“Fine as kind. Accepting. Loving. An old soul and one who, against all logic, finds herself attracted to me.”
We chatted about life on St. Thomas. Bo worked as a snorkeling guide, quite popular by his accounts. I didn’t doubt it. JJ was bored out of her mind. Not a lot of FBI activity within her Caribbean domain. We had a fine and pleasant chat, much needed and fulfilling. Bo signed off with words of germane wisdom based on his vast experience.
“Before you pull the Fed trigger, consider the hunting field.”
“Okay.”
“Your rabbit has gone to ground. This isn’t unusual. But she’ll stick her head up, my brother. Oh, yes, she will. So be still. Be patient. Hover high with the cosmic winds. Then strike with fury and finality.”
Man, I missed hanging with him. Sort through the Bo universal perspective and discover hidden gems. He was right; she’d show. The nagging questions of when and where still weighed heavy on me. At some point, soon, I’d have no option but to contact federal authorities. Not the CIA and their mission-specific partner Mossad. For a variety of reasons, including agency turf wars, their feedback of findings to domestic US authorities wasn’t guaranteed. So I’d pull the domestic Fed trigger at some point. Prudent, sure, but it reeked of handwashing.
Amsler would focus on the States. How MOIS played into it, unknown and disturbing. And here I sat in a hideaway drinking hole, having another. Bo’s perspective, valid as ever, didn’t alleviate the alone-on-an-ice-floe blues. Solo hunter, waiting. So I made another call.
Marcus Johnson represented a lot of things. Former team lead for our Delta unit. An excellent leader, one we all respected. A person who didn’t mince words or actions or advice—a mild irritant at times, but one accepted as part of the blood brother package. He now lived as one of the few black ranchers amid the wilds of Montana, blanketed in isolation, nursing an attitude of leave-me-alone-and-I’ll-return-the-favor.
“Impeccable timing as usual.” He’d answered after three rings. “The hay is put away, the hard work accomplished. Your absence was noted.”
I’d visited him a couple of months earlier. Left with the usual vague commitment of “See you soon.”
“I know. And the guilt overflows. I left a man of your age stranded without the scooter I promised to get you between the house and the barn.”
“Get your butt up here, and I’ll show you stranded. I suppose you’re calling to ask about the fishing and bird hunting. It’s time. Although the hunts do require long walks. Are you still capable of those? Or should I plan on driving his highness across the prairie?”
We both laughed, tossed a few more jibes, and settled into the nature of the call. I filled him in with an overview, spared some details, outlined next steps.
“This proves, once again, you listen about as well as a rock,” he said.
Marcus unloaded The Talk each Montana visit. Stop my current line of work, move to his neck of the woods, settle. Rinse, repeat. He’d delivered a bang-up rendition during my last visit.
“Could we not review my career choice deficiencies? And, I don’t know, maybe focus on the issue at hand?”
“It sounds like you’ve already made your decision.” His Zippo lighter flicked, a cigar lit. “You’ll meet with the Chesapeake witch. And figure it out from there. Solid footing, son. Solid.”
“Hold that thought while I get a mop and clean up the dripping sarcasm, Obi Wan.”
Marcus held Jules in less than high regard. During our Delta days we’d worked with the CIA on a regular basis. Official spookdom wasn’t his cup of tea either, but he internalized the need for clandestine efforts. Jules sat a far distance from official, and her loyalties, at least from Marcus’s perch, were suspect at best.
“So give me more detail on this elixir.” He avoided the use of “toxin” or “poison,” knowing full well that even encrypted phones had potential, however minimal, for a security breach. “Are we talking be real careful or tighten your jockstrap?”
“Jockstrap.”
“And this person is no fan of the homeland?”
“Card-carrying wingnut of the central committee.”
“And she’s got a few lights out on her string?”
“More than a few.”
Silence while he mulled the situation. A slight groan—either brought on by my circumstances, or he’d stood up from a comfortable chair.
“When you fart around among those other places around the world, I get less than excited,” he said. “But you’re talking about home turf. Addressing threats here requires swift and sure action. I’m not hearing swift. You have no clue where she’s gone. And guidance from the witch falls far short of sure.”
“Bo says she’s gone to ground but will stick her head up.”
“You went and told the cosmic cowboy about this? What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Lon
g list. But you and him have the same tactical solution. When it’s time, hit hard.”
“You are aware he sleeps with an FBI agent, right?”
“And she’s the person I’ll communicate with if the need arises.”
A heavy sigh from Montana. Not evoked by the JJ option near as much as his head-wagging disgust over my participation in digging this current hole. The Zippo clacked again as he relit the cigar. I nodded affirmation toward the distant barkeep who’d shot me the universal raised eyebrows: “Want another?”
“What I’m saying next is not advice. It is reality,” Marcus said. His voice adopted a lower timbre than usual. “The Feds contain legions of bureaucratic numbnuts. That’s a fact. They won’t move with speed. Or finality.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t do that. I’m as serious as it gets.”
Marcus couldn’t stand my “Okay” rejoinders. For him, they meant I half-listened or half-accepted the information shared.
“I’m with you on the serious scale.”
“So I understand you will want the law enforcement trigger pulled at some point. When is a personal decision. You have good instincts. You’ll know.”
“Not far from it now.”
“Again, understood. But if you get wind of her, and she’s heading this way or is already here, we will take care of business. And I do mean we. You and I.”
My drink arrived. I took a sip while Marcus continued.
“If she pokes up her head, it becomes a matter of trust,” he said.
“How so?”
“Do you trust any government with the elixir? Including our own?”
“No. No, I don’t. Maybe the Swiss. Otherwise, this stuff requires a deep shoveling and a lifetime shut up.”
“The Swiss have an issue.”
“What’s that?”
“They’re human.”
“Yeah.” I rubbed my face, internalized his point. “Yeah. I get it.”
“Right. So we’re full circle. Back to you and me. Don’t even think about flying solo on this one. The risk is too high, the stakes too high, and you’ll require someone to cover your back. That would be me.”
There wasn’t a finer man on this good earth to fulfill the role.
“No argument here, Marcus.” Took another sip. “Moment’s notice, right?”
“Hell, yes. Locked and loaded. Tell me when and where. We’ll clean house, end it, bury it.”
I halfway committed. A blood brother, former Delta, and rock-solid character might join me if Amsler was headed our way. Events now hinged on the Clubhouse. And if Jules set her mind to something, mountains moved.
Chapter 29
The sawed-off double-barrel shotgun rested on the desktop. Door locked, eyepatch once again jet black, the large Cirque du Soleil flyer replaced with the previous occupant—a Casablanca movie poster. She twirled the sealed tip of her cigar against the embedded Ka-Bar knife and eyeballed me.
“You’ve brought back Bogart and Bergman,” I said and adjusted my seating position. The stitched side wounds stung.
“You’ve brought back more physical artifacts. I would venture they extend well beyond the one exhibited on your cheekbone.”
“Not a big deal.”
“Hmm.”
She fished in a shirt pocket, produced a kitchen match, and fired it along the arm of her chair. I took her Case Lee perusal as an opportunity to slide my index card across the worn wooden surface. Three names and phone numbers—Kirmani, Hirsch, and Ski. A credit for my account, balanced against the information she’d supply. A sealed fingertip pulled the card closer.
“Iranian, Israeli, Company?”
I nodded back. She puffed, leaned forward, elbows tucked on armrests. A bony hand lifted a corner of the old wooden abacus and let it drop with a resounding clap.
“This shall not be a transactional visit. Larger considerations loom. I say this due to your lengthy missive. It was most prodigious, Shakespeare.”
“Sorry. Protocol broken, I know.” She was referencing yesterday’s detailed report I’d sent her way via the dark web. “But I’m borderline desperate, Jules. I’ve got nothing. No trail, no hint.”
“I shall forgive you. This time.”
“Thanks. About those larger considerations?”
“In due course. Now if you would, dear, edify me. I require context, so leave no stone unturned.”
I reviewed the entire mess. The Manaus riverside bar and the mistake of arming myself in plain sight. The chat with Kirmani. Hirsch’s introduction, the opera house shoot-out. The exploration with Kim, the dead zone and its effects on the two MOIS agents. Bernie’s murder, slaughter at the Swiss base camp, events at Coari. Ski in Rio, the favela shoot-out, and Hirsch’s reappearance. The Amsler and MOIS meeting. Everything.
Cigar puffed, eye squinted, several more hmms delivered. As I wrapped up, she leaned back, the chair squeaking, and stared upward. Smoke collected across the ceiling.
“So that’s where I sit,” I said, wrapping up.
A single raised eyebrow as her head lowered, the bird-of-prey stare locked and loaded.
“I shall posit questions, as is my wont. Do not raise the usual hackles. We engage with serious business, Mr. Lee. Most serious business.”
“Yeah. It is.”
“Three people know the toxin’s source. Do you trust Dr. Rochat?”
“Yeah. I have to.”
“You most certainly do not.”
“She understands the potential. Her knowledge will fade into obscurity.”
“Hackles raised.”
“Disagree. She’s trustworthy. A simple reality.”
A Case and Jules stare down ensued. Neither unusual nor prolonged. It usually happened when she presented a conversational path best avoided. I felt no desire to plumb her concerns over Kim Rochat’s trustworthiness. In Jules’s world, actions toward Kim could be intimated if not initiated. Then her face softened as she slumped and cocked her head.
“Your attempt at casting a protective cloak around Dr. Rochat is admirable. Let us move on. A brief detour, and one we have discussed several times before. I shall repeat it.” She tapped two fingers against the desktop for emphasis. “I fear one of those bullets you dodge during your gymnastic field endeavors will find a terminal home. You are no longer a young man. And I would miss you, Case Lee.”
That came from out of the blue. Jules—such a strange bird. The weird affectations, deep shadow life, inviolate Clubhouse rules. But she had a soft spot for me. And, truth be told, me for her.
“I’m not a knife-between-the-teeth-and-storm-the-barricades kind of guy anymore, Jules.”
“Our perspectives on that would vary greatly.”
“This started as a simple search-and-rescue gig. The escalation, bullets included, weren’t part of the plan.”
An empathetic nod and sigh, the cigar inspected.
“I have always admired your endeavors to straddle this muddy stream of mine. And you have made consistent and valiant efforts to avoid wetting your feet. But avoidance, dear boy, is seldom an option. Which brings us to those larger considerations.”
“Okay.”
“Do understand the grand finale of this current situation will involve shadow players.”
“Not if I isolate her. Her and the toxin sample. MOIS might be involved. I can handle them.”
A part of me wished they were involved—in particular Kirmani. Dead man walking.
“A possibility, yes. For she will make a mistake. I shall do what I can to capture the mistake. And back to the larger considerations.”
“Okay.”
“The major players. They are engaged now. Word has spread. I would suspect the Company leads the charge, although you shouldn’t discount others.”
“What I’m hearing is it’s liable to get crowded.”
“And be aware one of the crowd’s predominant members may have altered course. Over the last twenty-four hours the tea leaves would indicate as much.”
Drove me nuts. The Clubhouse, and spookville in general, dealt with the obtuse. Why? Because, as per the clandestine world, we lived and communicated within a spatial environment. Nonlinear, they would tell you. Just flat drove me nuts.
“I fear you shall greet the news with less than open acceptance.”
“Jules, I’m begging. Just tell me.”
“The Russians, dear.”
I sighed. The Suriname and New Guinea jobs had placed me high on their shitlist. Avoidance was my prime tactic. Whatever altered course they’d taken, I had high hopes Case Lee wasn’t perched on the road they now barreled down.
“Well, I have open acceptance they want me dead. So, yeah, there is that.”
She tapped a bony fingertip against the desktop.
“Remove yourself from this. It is not about you.”
“It’s about stopping a world-class terror attack. I get it. Now what’s up with the Russkies?”
“The aforementioned tea leaves suggest they have lost control. Their minions no longer communicate.”
“The Iranians?”
“Yes.” She scratched her head with the cigar hand. “In the past you have often brought tasty offerings. Confections. Has this wretched creature offended you somehow?”
Licorice. Jules had an extreme fondness for licorice, and I often delivered her a small supply. I hadn’t done so the last two visits. These strange conversational detours she often employed had a more complex purpose. At least for her. I didn’t have a clue.
