The Shadow Priest

by D. C. Alexander

  "In Hell. Best pack there is, but it's not worth it." The man began eating his own potato. "I'm glad you're finally up and eating something. I was starting to worry. You look like shit, friend."

  "You look like Osama bin Laden."

  The man grinned. "Maybe I am."

  "All the same, thanks for the potato."

  As they finished, Arkin studied the man.

  "What?" the man asked.

  "Why are you in here?"

  "Because I'm homeless, man. Why do you think?"

  "Bigger picture."

  "Bigger picture? Because I'm mentally ill."

  "You don't seem too mentally ill to me. Cynical, maybe. But not mentally ill in any material sense."

  "Only on paper. Only according to the DSM-V. No, I have a completely rational, crystal clear view of the reality of the world. But that, friend, is why I don't fit in the paradigm. That is why I don't function in society. That is what makes me mentally ill," he said in a sudden agitation, his fingers scratching quotation marks out of the air.

  "I see."

  "You see. That's good. It's all about seeing. Because once you see the truth, exposed, under the harsh sun of the high-altitude wastes, how can you ever go back? How can you ever convince yourself to bother?"

  "With what?"

  "With everything."

  Arkin wondered whether the high-altitude wastes where the man had discovered his idea of the truth was in the same Hindu Kush mountain range where Arkin had found his own. He also wondered whether the man came from the same tree as Morrison.

  "Everybody wants more," he went on. "The rest of humanity be damned. That's all any of it's about, friend. That's the big secret." He stood, slung his pack, and made to leave. "But you know what they say: the Danse Macabre unites us all in the end. In darkness. You take care now, friend."

  "You take care too." Friend, Arkin thought as he watched the man walk out the door.

  *****

  He slipped his shoes and coat on, drank a full bottle of water, pocketed two more, and strode out of the cot room and into the hall. "Does someone have a phone I could use to call for a ride?" he asked one of the volunteers seated at a collapsible table in the sterile hallway. A minute later, he was down the hall, just out of earshot, dialing the number of an extraordinarily messy and disorganized U.S. Forest Service biologist who worked down the hall from Morrison. When she answered, Arkin put on the heaviest Texas accent he could manage.

  "Hey there, young lady. Is this the ATF office?"

  "No, that's just down the hall."

  "Oh, shoot. I musta written it down wrong. Can you transfer me?"

  "I'm sorry. Our phones can't do that."

  "Or maybe you could give me the number?"

  "Hold on." Arkin could hear drawers opening and closing. Papers moving about. "Oh, hold on. I'll just go down the hall and bring someone to the phone for you, okay?"

  "Oh, now, I don't want to tie up your phone. Know what? If you could just tell that agent guy—Morris, or whatever."

  "Special Agent Morrison."

  "Yeah. If you could tell him to call Lurker at this number, I'd be obliged."

  "I will."

  A misdirected call from Lurker was part of a long-running training scenario all operative recruits went through in the intro course at Camp Peary. It was a code unique to that scenario, and was meant to alert the recipient of the need to go and find a safe telephone and call back on the number being called from. It was a distress signal. A call for help where both the handler and the operative were presumed to be in environments of extreme risk. Arkin prayed that Morrison had been through the same course and remembered the same scenario.

  A few minutes went by. Then the phone rang. A Colorado area code. Arkin answered.

  "Nate? Where in the hell—"

  "How is Hannah?"

  Morrison paused. Arkin stopped breathing. "She's hanging in there."

  "Still in the hospital?"

  "Yes, but she's a tough cookie."

  "How soon can you meet me in Bend, Oregon."

  "Let me see what the internet thinks. Hold on. Bend, Oregon. Okay. Sixteen hours and 38 minutes."

  "There is a small park there, right on the Deschutes River."

  "Go on."

  THIRTY

  It took Arkin nearly twelve hours to hitchhike his way across Willamette Pass and up old U.S. Route 97 into the high desert town of Bend, Oregon. As he did, he second-guessed his decision to call Morrison. He'd been comforted by the idea of him watching over Hannah. But then, she had many good friends who would keep her company. And as for her security, if the group was going to try something, Arkin reasoned that they already would have. They had no reason to harm her, as she was certainly no threat to them. And while it was possible that they might try to kidnap her to get to him, the group probably figured that the risk of trying to pull off such an operation outweighed the risk that Arkin posed. It was a weighing of probabilities, and there was little reason for them to think he'd obtained any useful information in Vancouver, having been chased off so quickly. By the time they realized he had, they'd be too focused on hunting him down to mess with Hannah.

  With a few hours to kill before his rendezvous with Morrison, he wandered along a bike path on the Deschutes River, filling in the details of the tentative plan of attack he'd come up with on his journey from Eugene. As the sky eventually began to grow dark, Arkin made his way back to the riverfront park where he spotted a white Toyota Prius pulling to the curb on the quiet road that bordered it. "Hey, douche bag!" he heard Morrison shout as his window came down. Arkin strode to the car as Morrison got out and stretched. "That was a long damned drive."

  "A Prius?"

  "I was in a rush. It's what I could get from a friend of a friend of a friend. Anyway, can you think of a better statement of the strength of my self-esteem? And what cop is going to bother hassling a dude in a hybrid?"

  "Point."

  "Come look," Morrison said as he popped the hatchback. "I brought toys."

  All Arkin saw was a large golf bag next to a ratty green blanket. "Are we going golfing?"

  "In a sense," Morrison said as he glanced around the immediate area, removed a golf towel, and drew out an SR-25 sniper rifle.

  "That the latest thing in putters?"

  "They say you can't miss with one of these. But wait, there's more," Morrison said, pulling aside the green blanket to reveal a jumble of equipment. Ballistic vests, radios, one pair of thermographic binoculars, one set of image intensifier night vision goggles, and two handguns—the smaller of which, in an ankle holster, he handed to Arkin.

  "This is for you. Merry early Christmas. A P239 loaded with Federal HST."

  "No extra mags?"

  "You ungrateful ass."

  "Thank you."

  "De nada. And here's another phone," Morrison said, handing Arkin a smartphone in a pink leopard print case.

  "Cute."

  "Compliments of an especially absent-minded diner at Barnaby's Truck Stop, Mountain Home, Idaho." Morrison stretched again. "So, here we are, in exotic Bend, Oregon. This is starting to feel a bit like an Ian Fleming novel, isn't it?"

  "I'm a much more believable character than James Bond."

  "Yeah, but come on. We're chasing an outrageously sophisticated transnational cadre of phantom bad guys. An international conspiracy run by a shadow priest. Smells like SPECTRE."

  "You're the one who just pulled an SR-25 out of a Callaway golf bag. Did Q Branch fix that up for you?"

  "It's improvised low-profile. Again, I was in a hurry," Morrison said as they got back into the car.

  "Cut back through downtown and head east. What did you tell your boss?"

  "That I have mono. That should buy me a couple of weeks at least."

  "And they won't mind that you borrowed their $20,000 IR binoculars, among other things?"

  "What they don't know won't hurt them."

  "You amaze me, sir. And to think I always assumed that becau
se of its battery requirements the Prius had no cargo space."

  "Well, you know the saying: when you assume, you making an 'ass' out of 'u.'"

  "And 'me.'"

  "No, just 'u.'"

  For a moment, Arkin considered telling Morrison about Sheffield. But he didn't.

  "Alright Bill, out with it."

  "Huh?"

  "How is Hannah?"

  "Oh—I got Paul Regan and a couple of buddies of his to rotate guarding her room. And her friend Diane from the legal aid office, she and a bunch of their buddies have damn near a full platoon keeping her company. She's in good hands."

  "I mean, how is she?"

  "She's tough."

  "Don't sugarcoat it."

  Arkin watched Morrison's hands squeeze the steering wheel. "She's not good."

  "What level of not good?"

  Morrison sighed. "Time. . . ." His jaw clenched as he swallowed hard. He couldn't finish his sentence.

  "Time is of the essence," Arkin said solemnly.

  "Yes."

  Arkin sat still for a moment, then nodded.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Heading east, out of the pines and into the patchwork of lava fields, sagebrush, and grasslands that made up much of Eastern Oregon, they took turns filling each other in.

  "This should come as no surprise," Morrison said, a giant wad of chew tobacco making a disfigured lump of his cheek, "but friends in our nation's glorious capitol tell me the word in federal law enforcement circles is that Killick bolted. Just up and disappeared in the middle of the work day. Left his computer on, his car in the parking lot, and a full cup of coffee on his desk. I thought I should pass that along in case, with your incredible capacity for self-delusion, you held out any shred of hope that Killick wasn't really involved. Oh—and Hannah said that a load of red cedar arrived for you at that big freight yard south of town. I was planning to go pick it up with my truck until you summoned me to Oregon, posthaste. What are you going to build with all that wood?"

  "An ofuro."

  "What'd you call me?"

  "It a type of Japanese soaking tub. I was going to build it in the upstairs bathroom."

  "Are. Are going to build it."

  "Anyway, aside from getting shot, I've accomplished very little over these past weeks. Before Slobodan Milošević Jr. flushed me out of his grim excuse for an art gallery and shot me, I managed to figure out the last number dialed from a telephone, and was able to print sent and received reports off a fax machine I found in a secret room behind a hidden door."

  "Of course. A secret room behind a hidden door. Did I not already say that this whole thing smacks of Ian Fleming? And our bad guy is a Serb? That, sir, takes the cake."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "The Serbs make such great bad guys. The big, bushy eyebrows. The spooky accents. All that hair. Someone is obviously going to want to option this story for the movie rights. But I'm putting the cart before the horse."

  "The phone call was to a number in Valparaiso, Chile. The fax reports showed two numbers—one on the Caribbean island of Montserrat, and—"

  "The island with the active volcano on it?"

  "The same."

  "Huh! I actually flew by that thing on the way to a night drop once. You could see the lava glowing orange."

  "A night drop where?"

  "Never you mind."

  "Right. So the one is on Montserrat, and the other is in Eugene, Oregon. Both numbers were involved in isolated clusters of fax traffic before and after the shootings of both Egan and John."

  "So why aren't we on our way to Eugene?"

  "Because I don't want them to know that I know about Eugene—or Valparaiso or Montserrat, for that matter—until I have more information. Eugene could be a red herring. But our going there could alert the group and flush them out of all present locations. And then I'd have no remaining leads. So I want to sandbag the shooter first. If we can take him alive, find out what he knows, great. If not, at least we'll have eliminated the threat." Arkin thought, once again, that he really should mention his discovery of Sheffield. But he didn't.

  "But you were already in Eugene. What did you find?"

  "The fax number traces to a residence. A house."

  "So, priorities being what they are, we're getting away from Eugene, and heading to a remote location to draw out and ambush our Balkan-Canadian artist psycho killer. Will I get to torture him for information?"

  "For information, and for pleasure."

  "Oh, Nate. You're making me giddy. So where exactly are we going?"

  "To the Alvord Desert. To the eastern flank of Steens Mountain. There's a hunting cabin I know."

  "I have to ask. Why the ass end of Southeastern Oregon? Why not Palm Springs or Maui or something? And is it far enough away that it won't arouse suspicion of your possible awareness of the house in Eugene?"

  "I don't have time to search for something farther afield. It's a plausible hideout for Nathaniel Arkin, fugitive. And terrain-wise, it's perfect. The cabin sits in a gully below the towering eastern slope of the mountain. Lots of places for you to hide and still command a view of the long access road and entire surround. Plus there's nobody out there. And there's very little cover down in the valley. His approach will be entirely exposed. Anyway, you'd hate Palm Springs. It's all golf courses and gated condo communities."

  "And you're going to get him there by attracting attention to your cellphone?"

  "Yes."

  "Is there even cell reception there?"

  "Believe it or not, yes. There's a tower on the summit of Steens."

  "Won't the group just tip off unwitting local law enforcement like they did before?"

  "No. They know I've been to Vancouver. I might know something now, unlikely though they may find that to be. They can't take the chance that I'll pass along information that could expose the group. This offers them what they will think is a relatively low-risk way to take me out."

  "But didn't they tip off law enforcement after you'd been to the gallery?"

  "I don't think so. The son of a bitch definitely meant to shoot me dead. I think maybe somebody else called the cops because of a barking dog, and the locals got there just in time to scare off Slobodan Milošević Jr. and save my unconscious skin."

  "Then why did they bother with the kerosene?"

  Arkin paused. "I have to admit, I'm a little perplexed by that. Maybe the shooter came to the hospital to finish me off, only to discover that I had a police chaperone. Maybe he got hold of my clothes while I was in surgery. I don't know."

  "You don't know. But you don't think this is too obvious? You don't think Slobodan will smell a trap?"

  "He can't risk not taking a shot at me."

  "What's Slobodan's real name again?"

  "The magnificent Andrej Petrović."

  "Played by Viggo Mortensen. Love it. But I'm still skeptical, Nate. I have a gut feeling this jerkhole is never going to show up."

  "Viggo Mortensen is Danish, not Serbian. And have a little faith. I'm a law enforcement genius."

  "See, I knew that would go to your head the moment I said it."

  *****

  In the next town, they stopped at a small sporting goods store to buy isobutane canisters, camp stoves, and freeze-dried food for their stakeout.

  "The beef stroganoff is the best," Morrison said.

  "I concur. Here, let's get this one."

  "I like this other one. Plus it's a bigger serving size."

  "No, Bill."

  "Why not?"

  "Because, first of all, with that one, you have to pour the stuff into a pot."

  "So?"

  "Then you have to wash the damned pot every time you cook. It's an inferior system. With the one I want, you just pour boiling water into the pouch, seal it up for a few minutes, and eat. When you're done, you toss the pouch and still have a clean pot. Plus my brand tastes better."

  "Is it that big of a deal?"

  "It is if you're on surv
eillance and don't want to carry extra water for doing dishes. And this one is $1.05 cheaper."

  "It's my money."

  "Doesn't mean you should be stupid with it."

  Morrison grinned. "It's funny."

  "What is?"

  "You're a fugitive. I'm an accessory. We're in a bona fide battle against evil. Our lives hang in the balance. And here we are, in some two-bit sporting goods store a hundred miles east of nowhere, and you're arguing with me about which brand of freeze-dried beef stroganoff we should buy."

  "Yeah, well. Sometimes focusing on minutiae shrinks the universe a little. Makes it less terrifying."

  "Amen."

  "And at least we aren't going to be eating MREs."

  "Double amen. Shit, did you ever have the chicken fajita one?"

  "Spectacularly awful."

  "At least it came with a moist towelette. How am I supposed to wash my hands, Nate, without a moist towelette?"

  "I'll give you a moist towelette. But probably not in the sense that you mean."

  *****

  They pulled off U.S. Highway 395 to refuel at an isolated service station in the grasslands east of Burns. Morrison manned the pump while Arkin did his best to wash the smeared guts of innumerable insects from the windshield. Meanwhile, they watched and listened as a goateed man wearing a Hank Williams, Jr. T-shirt and duck workpants that were so clean they may have only been worn for costuming purposes filled an enormous, immaculate Dodge Ram pickup truck on the other side of the pump island and berated his teenage daughter over her request for two dollars to buy a Hostess fruit pie in the station's mini-mart. "All that shit's going to do is make your ass even fatter than it is already. Is that what you want? To have a fatter ass than you already do?"

  Arkin couldn't hear her subdued response.

  "So you want a fatter ass? That's what you're saying, right? You want a fatter ass?" As the man returned his attention to the gas pump, he glanced over at Morrison, seeming to zero in on the Marine Corps tattoo on Morrison's right shoulder. "Did you serve?" the man asked.