The Jack Hammer

by Derek Ciccone

  “Who is after you, Ms. Kushka?”

  “The media—now open the damn door.”

  Henson obliged, and the blonde bombshell dashed inside.

  “What is Natasha Kushka doing here?” Cam whispered into Sam’s ear, now completely perplexed.

  Sam took a deep breath, and replied, “Do you remember the alias Alexander Kushka from the bulletin board? Well, Natasha is his daughter. Which I think makes her your sister.”

  Chapter 66

  Class was in session at O’Connell Investigators, Professor Lee Henson presiding.

  The mix of students was similar to the time he taught a criminal justice class at George Washington University. Sam O’Connell was the eager beaver who hung on his every word, and never missed an opportunity to ask a question. Anna Stepania was the star student who quietly soaked in each piece of information.

  And then there were those who didn’t want to be there—Cam was the Doubting Thomas of the group, unimpressed by the professor’s theories. And Natasha was the problem child, who chose disruption over education. But the key was that neither of them had left the room—as long as he had them here, Henson believed he could get through to them.

  The story began in a small town in the Soviet Union, almost forty years ago. A brilliant young athlete named Alexander Kushka was recruited by the KGB at the height of the Cold War. The goal was to take advantage of the obsession with sport in the United States, and he was trained in the most popular American sports, including football and basketball. But Kushka had a natural talent for baseball—and having a spy infiltrate the sport considered to be America’s “national pastime” was a symbolic coup for the Soviets.

  He was sent to the US, where he became Jack Myles. He was stationed in Washington D.C., and took a job at a bar that hosted many influential Washington power-brokers. One of those was Katie Barrett, the daughter of Senator Arthur Barrett, the head of the US Intelligence Committee—it wasn’t a coincidence. Henson didn’t doubt that there was real love between Katie and Jack Myles, but their initial meeting was anything but organic.

  Henson would concede that the baseball angle was a brilliant play by the Soviets. The hardest part of spying was not the gathering of information, but the ability to communicate that information to your team, and transferring “commo” was the most dangerous part of the spy game. Secrets and information had to be exchanged in face-to-face meetings or “dead drops.” A challenge that was heightened during the Cold War days because the technology revolution was in its infancy. That is where most spies would be captured, or even better, fingered, and then followed until they led them to bigger fish.

  But as a professional baseball player, Jack Myles traveled the country without attracting suspicion. Many of his games were televised nationally, where he could signal information with mundane actions—the number of practice swings he took when he came to the plate, whether or not he swung at the first pitch—the possibilities were endless. It put a new spin on the old baseball axiom of “stealing signs.”

  But he found the most efficient way to transfer information was simple fan mail, which Jack Myles received by the box load. In a Sports Illustrated article during his rookie year, it hailed Jack Myles for responding to every piece of fan mail, despite receiving it in record numbers. Years later, a dirty CIA agent named Durst testified that anonymous letters would be sent to Myles with a code on the return address, which wouldn’t stand out to the average person. So simple, yet so effective.

  It became clear to US officials at the time that the Soviets had gained an advantage in the battle for intelligence. This included the outing of numerous US operatives working inside the KGB, who were later executed without trial. The CIA and FBI were flabbergasted by the Soviets’ ability to communicate information back to the Kremlin so easily and efficiently, and began calling their system “the Switchboard.” Little did they know that there was only one man running the switchboard, and he already had a nickname—the Jack Hammer.

  Chapter 67

  Henson put the cap back on the colored marker. On the grease-board behind O’Connell’s desk, he had just detailed Jack Myles’ life, from the moment he first touched American soil to the supposed car crash that had taken his life.

  “What I don’t get,” Samantha O’Connell spoke up. “Is if you knew all this, why didn’t anybody do anything about it for all these years?”

  “The first evidence that Jack Myles was working for the Soviets came from Senator Barrett, who left behind information that connected Myles to the crimes … and to the Senator’s death, which had been ruled a suicide. It took some time to unravel this information, and by that time, Myles was already gone.”

  The accusation angered Cam. “If you’re going to try to write a spy novel, Henson, you have to make it somewhat believable to the reader. My grandfather left behind a note in his own handwriting, and had been suffering from depression since my grandmother died. I would love for there to be a different conclusion, but the facts are he took his own life … and all you’re doing is using his death to further your conspiracy theories.”

  “Just like your brother left a suicide note behind?”

  “Don’t bring Geoff into this. Especially today …”

  “I didn’t—your father did.”

  The words momentarily quieted Cam, and Henson could tell the wheels of his sharp mind were turning. Cam was about logic and thought, so that was the way to convince him. Natasha was about emotion, and he needed to tap into that to make his case to her.

  Henson continued, “When we came to the conclusion that Jack Myles had staged his death, the last thing anyone wanted—from the FBI to the CIA, and all the way to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue—was to accuse a martyred American hero of being a turncoat, with no physical evidence, and then add the embarrassments that one, we allowed him in, and two, we had no idea where he was. So any search for Myles was done in secrecy, by a few of us at the highest level of clearance. Even incoming presidents didn’t know about it. As far as the official record went, it never existed.

  “About ten years ago, a CIA operative named Durst was caught selling US secrets to the Chinese, and cut a deal for his life. In doing so, he admitted working with the Soviets in the 70s and 80s, and provided us important information about Jack Myles, and their working relationship. For the first time, we learned his real name was Alexander Kushka. By that time the Cold War had ended, and nobody was interested in bringing up the dirty past. So when I learned that Kushka was living back in Russia without an alias, as if nothing had happened, I traveled there on my own. And in a case of déjà vu, I found that Kushka had faked his death just before my arrival—obviously he had some old friends who tipped him off.”

  This set Natasha off. “You are a dirty liar. My father did not fake his death. He would never do that to me!”

  Cam took up her side. “You’re going off the word of a traitorous agent who would say anything to save himself. Thirty years, and all you have is a bunch of circumstantial storytelling. Rather sad, if you ask me.”

  “I understand your perspective, Cam. But I will say this—the best investigative journalist in the world thinks my conclusions are valid … Katie Barrett. Perhaps you’ve heard of her.”

  Having made his point, he turned back to Natasha. “Tell me about the phone call you received last Monday night, Ms. Kushka? From a certain sports agent.”

  “Agents call me all the time. I can’t remember.”

  “Who was the call from, Natasha?”

  “You are stupid. I’m leaving,” she said, and headed for the door.

  “If a man I never met called me out of the blue just before he died, I would think it would be a very big deal. So what did Geoff Myles say to you in that phone call?”

  She looked overwhelmed. Her voice was strangely soft when she answered, “That he was meeting with someone claiming to be my father, and wanted me to verify that it was him.”

  Chapter 68

  Henson continued to chip away at
the jury. Cam and Natasha were still holdouts, which didn’t surprise him—he knew their mothers. While there might be a lot of mystery and intrigue surrounding their father, there was no questioning which parent they got their stubbornness from.

  He did find it telling that Natasha didn’t bolt after her outburst. But perhaps she was still pondering it. She was now sitting in front of the door, facing away from the group.

  Cam looked like a dazed fighter. This was a hard day for him anyway, but the revelation of the phone call his brother made to Natasha was forcing him to consider possibilities he didn’t want to deal with.

  When Henson got to the part about the time spent in Cuba, he handed off to an expert witness.

  Anna stood nervously before the group like she was going to deliver a eulogy. She began by unnecessarily apologizing for not figuring things out earlier, so they could have possibly saved Geoff and Tim. Then she took them back to Cuba, “I wish I could tell you more about his days there, and describe the things he did. I was too young to remember anything significant, but I do know he was a soldier. He left one day, and my mother sat me down and told me that he had gone off to protect his home country of Russia, and I’d have to help out raising Teo until he got back. I was only four years old,” she said and her eyes filled with tears.

  Sam put her arm around her until she was able to compose herself. “One day, my mother received a letter about my father. All I remember is her crying for days—I wondered if she would ever stop. Then a few days later she sat me down and explained to me that Papa died a hero and had gone to heaven. She told me that I should be proud of him and not to be sad. But I would go to my room and cry at night. And I could hear her through the walls, doing the same. It was so hard, especially with Teo being so young.”

  “So your mother still lives in Cuba?” Henson asked.

  “Yes, she lives in Varadero, and her name is Gloria. She changed her name back to her maiden name of Gloria Abiso, but for many years she kept the name Stepania—it was as if she couldn’t let go.”

  Henson noted the pattern. Katie and Irina had similar feelings toward the man who’d abandoned them, even after learning the truth. It was those type of powerful connections he made, whether it be with the women who loved him, or baseball fans, that made him so lethal.

  Anna went on to explain how she’d come to connect her father to Jack Myles, and brought the information to a reluctant investigator named Tim O’Connell. He then embarked upon a global search—a search that got him killed.

  Henson addressed Sam, “Your brother came to me. I was impressed with what he’d found—things I hadn’t been able to discover in decades. The Stepania alias in Cuba had baffled us for years—it was like a black hole on our timeline, as if he’d just disappeared off the face of the earth during those years. He was a very good investigator.

  “I warned him of how dangerous the man he was searching for was, but I should have done more. Maybe if I’d gone with him, things might have turned out different. I feel responsible.”

  Sam remained composed. “It’s not your fault. My brother would never have given up … especially when he was in love.” She smiled briefly at Anna. “The only person responsible for his death is Jack Myles, or Victor Stepania, or Alexander Kushka … or whatever the hell his name is.”

  Before Sam could even finish her statement, an out-of-control Natasha flew past her and headed directly for Henson.

  “You lying, bastard!” Natasha gripped him around the neck. “Don’t you ever say my father killed Tim. It couldn’t be him—he would never kill the man I love!”

  Sam and Anna tried to pull Natasha off him, but she seemed possessed. Cam was finally able to help remove her, before she killed a former federal agent.

  Natasha ran toward the front door, then turned and glared at Henson with rabid eyes. “If you ever say that my father killed Tim again, I’ll skin you like a bear.”

  He believed her.

  She began walking in circles like she was disoriented. Shouting, “No,” over and over again. With each step she became wobblier, and then she fainted. Her famous face bounced off the cold linoleum.

  Henson rushed to her aid. Her face was already bright red and swelling by the second.

  “Is she okay?” Sam asked with worry.

  “She’s breathing, but knocked out cold,” Henson said, taking control. “We need to get her to a hospital.”

  Chapter 69

  Lee Henson came as close as he ever came to smiling when he viewed the video. It was taken last Sunday by security cameras at LaGuardia Airport. At front and center was a man who looked a hell of a lot like Jack Myles getting on Flight 587. The disguise, along with the skillful way he avoided eye contact with the cameras, would fool most people. But not the man who has been chasing him for the last three decades.

  It placed him in New York at the time of the apartment bombing, and showed him heading toward Miami, where Geoff Myles and Teo Stepania were killed just days later. But while it helped build their case, he knew it wouldn’t lead them to Myles. Henson had been following his work for long enough to know that once he’d completed his mission in Florida he was long gone.

  The video was sent to him by Director Parker, who was now sufficiently convinced to bring Henson back as a consultant for this one special assignment. Of course, there was no paperwork to fill out or contract to sign, since officially no such case existed. He also was able to convince Parker to put Katie, Irina, and the kids in protective custody. They would go kicking and screaming, but all he cared about was their safety. What were they going to do—sue the FBI for saving their lives?

  Henson rubbed his sore neck, thinking that Natasha might want to think about changing careers from tennis to wrestling. He shut off the video, tucked his phone into the pocket of his suit coat, and headed into the lion’s den for a rematch.

  Natasha lay sleeping in the bed, looking as good as someone could in her position. Her glowing blonde hair was strewn across the pillow, looking almost artistic, and like she’d created a pose. Her stoic mother sat in vigil at her bedside. Her daughter’s diagnosis turned out to be just a mild concussion caused by drama-queen-itis—he knew all too well about the Kushka women’s flair for the dramatic.

  Henson looked at his watch; he wouldn’t leave the others alone in the hallway for long. “Hello, Irina.”

  She looked up, appearing exhausted. “Hello, Lee … it’s been a long time.”

  Henson thought back to the time when he first met her in Russia. She looked much older now. And not just the added wrinkles and heavy baggage under her eyes—it seemed as if the fire that burned deep within her had been doused. A decade can last much longer than ten years for some.

  “It was him, wasn’t it?” she simply said.

  “We are looking into some leads.”

  She looked away, calling his BS. “The Myles boy phoned Natasha before he died. He told her that a man claiming to be her father was there.”

  “I know.”

  “Of course, I forgot that you know everything … except where this monster is hiding.”

  As if annoyed at having to share the attention, Natasha coughed a couple times, and then opened her stunning blue eyes.

  Irina gasped with relief. “Natasha, are you okay? You had me so worried.”

  She looked right past her mother to Henson, ready to resume their showdown. “Why is this liar in my room? Get him out of here … now!”

  What Agent Henson tells you is the truth. I didn’t want you to ever know about your father. We were all better off believing he was dead.”

  She tried to take Natasha’s hand, but she pulled it away.

  “If he is telling the truth, then you are a liar.”

  “I’m so sorry. I was just trying to protect you.”

  “My father is dead. It’s time you accept that, Mother, and get on with your pathetic life!”

  Henson stood quietly in the background, until a knock on the door caused him to reach for his gun. “
Who is it?”

  “Anna Stepania.”

  Henson put his gun away and cautiously opened the door. Anna had changed out of her funeral dress into a simple sweater and jeans, and her hair was now in a ponytail. Like all of them, she looked drained, but her weariness was masked by a resilient optimism.

  She held a bottle of High Octane sports drink, along with an assortment of candy bars and bags of chips.

  Natasha roared, “Get that crap away from me. I never drink High Octane—it tastes like battery acid.”

  Anna remained undeterred, attempting to hand Natasha a candy bar.

  “Candy will make you fat. Do you see an ounce of fat on me? Do you?” she screeched. When she didn’t get the conflict she sought, Natasha turned over on her side, looking away from them.

  Irina apologized for her daughter. It sounded prepared, almost like a worn out speech. “That was very nice of you, Anna, I will hold on to them. Perhaps Natasha will be hungry later this morning.”

  “It was no problem. She’s my sister. I’d do anything for my family.”

  The words set off the Natasha Bomb once again. “You are not my sister!”

  “I know it sounds crazy, but I think the evidence is pretty strong that we are …”

  “I would know if you were my sister. My sister wouldn’t be some lowly waitress—you’re nothing like me. That is all the evidence I need.”

  Henson noted how skilled Natasha was at getting her opponent in a defensive position, and she instinctively knew when to go in for the kill—she took after Daddy.

  Anna stood firm, her posture unwavering. The abusive words seemed to bounce off her.

  Natasha wasn’t getting her way, so she took it up a notch. She began screaming at the top of her lungs, “Get out of my room … all of you! Go spread your lies somewhere else!”

  Irina backed down. “Okay, fine, you win, Natasha … we are leaving.” She put her hand on Anna’s shoulder and guided her out the door.