by Brian Drake
The room was a small office with some stock stacked in a corner, a small lamp on the desk. Hamin logged onto Skype and connected with his chief in Tehran. Fartosh Pander frowned when he saw Hamin’s face.
“Why aren’t you on a plane to San Francisco?” The Iranian spy chief spoke through a bushy mustache.
Hamin explained his problem.
“All right,” Pander said. “You’ll be taken care of tonight and the brothers will provide you with a car and a new passport. You should probably head north for Belgium and get on a plane there.”
“Is that smart?”
“The nice thing about going to America is that’s where they won’t be looking for you.”
“Something needs to happen to the man chasing me.”
“Consider it done, Shahram.”
“And you’ll tell our contacts in San Francisco that I’ll be late.”
“It will be taken care of. Our man there is having some trouble with the final arrangements we need, but he assures me he’s taking steps that will permanently solve the problem.”
“I’ll report when I arrive, sir.”
“Good luck.”
Pander cut off the feed.
The clerk returned with the tea. Hamin still did not ask the brother’s name as they went over what they had to do. It was a security precaution. People who remained anonymous couldn’t identify each other when under interrogation.
The clerk left to return to the counter as a pair of customers entered. Hamin remained in the chair and sipped the tea.
America. Heart of the beast. Hamin had not wanted to argue, but he was wary of working with Americans. The ones who jumped at the chance to make a buck would just as quickly betray him if somebody else offered more money.
But he had his orders and those orders would be carried out to their full extent and Allah help the poor bastard who tried to double-cross him.
Scott sat in the corner of a rooftop till after sunset. The ache in his side, from his slip-and-fall, had faded. The police search had moved well away from him, and checks over the side showed he was also outside the search perimeter.
What a mess.
The temperature cooled and his jacket smelled from the trash dip.
When the sky turned from pink to black, the city lights blazing, he finally worked his way to the street and caught a cab, which dropped him at a restaurant a block away from the embassy.
Scott walked the rest of the way.
Gray clouds and a chill. Not the best kind of day to say good-bye to your country.
After a three-day debriefing at the embassy, the State Department cleared the Blaser family to leave. More agency officials awaited them in the U.S.
Stiletto drove the van containing the family to the Bern airport where a chartered jet waited.
Nobody spoke during the drive. The kids were deathly quiet. Stiletto had escorted the family home to collect some belongings, and the kids had fussed indeed about only being able to take a few things. Stiletto knew they’d have a new home with all the trimmings set up by the U.S. government, but of course it would never match their real home.
Blaser sat up front with Scott. The physicist stared straight ahead. His wife, sitting back with the kids, wore an equally blank stare.
Plenty of speed bumps waited on the road back to normal, but Scott knew the family was strong enough to prevail.
He turned onto the airport property and pulled into the private hanger where the C.I.A. jet sat. Scott had ordered it stocked with food and drinks and treats for the kids with a selection of movies to help pass the time during the long flight. Stiletto didn’t think any of them would sleep.
Scott helped with the suitcases and they boarded the plane. The wind rushing into the hanger pushed at their backs.
At least the plane had creature comforts. Soft tan carpeting, leather chairs and couches up against the fuselage. Bathroom and galley in the rear; a large screen television up front.
The Blasers tentatively took seats. Scott helped them get strapped in and spoke briefly with the pilot, who said they might shave an hour or more off the flight time if they hit the jet stream.
Twenty minutes later the jet left the runway and climbed through the gray clouds to the blue sky above. The drone of the engines filled the cabin.
Scott served food and presently the family started to relax. The kids declined a movie and instead played a board game with their mother.
Lars Blaser sat on a couch opposite his family, hands and knees together, staring at the carpet.
Stiletto sat beside him and handed Lars a beer.
“This is all my fault,” the physicist said.
“You can’t say that. There were risks from the start. If you hadn’t agreed, we wouldn’t be talking. They’d have killed you and your family.”
“I tell myself that, and wonder if it might have been better that way.”
“Lars—”
“Our whole lives ripped apart. Do you have any idea—”
“Yes,” Scott said. “My pop was an army colonel. We moved a lot. Always a new town, school, friends—or not. I kind of stopped making friends after a while.”
“You and I became good friends. You came when I called.”
“When you only have a few friends,” Scott said, “you do anything for them.”
Lars drank some beer and finally loosened up and sat back. “I’ve thought about what you said, how we could pick where we wanted to go.”
“Yeah.”
“You suggested Chicago or one other place I don’t remember, but I like Montana. They have a good university, Montana Technical. It’s in an old mining town called Butte.”
“Big Sky Country.”
“I like the pictures I saw on the Internet.”
“Then we’ll make Montana your new home,” Stiletto said.
They fell silent a while, drinking the beer, and then Blaser said, “They’ll find another.”
“Not if we round them up first,” Stiletto said.
“When you catch them, maybe we can go back?”
“Don’t bet on it. Even if Hamin is taken down, there will be another to replace him, and you can be sure your name is on a list somewhere. They won’t forget you.”
“Nothing changes,” the physicist said. “It’s a never-ending cycle of conflict and violence. You do nothing but maintain a status quo.”
“That’s right.”
“And this is okay with you?”
“I never said that,” Stiletto said. “If we have the power to try and change things, we should try. I have the power to do things other people can’t. Or won’t. It’s the way of the world and something I came to terms with long ago. If we can keep the world from blowing up, maybe the next generation—such as your kids—can finally make it right.”
“I wish I didn’t know about your life,” Blaser said. “I never expected mine to turn out like this.” He swallowed another mouthful of beer.
“You can’t give up, Lars. Your family needs you now more than ever. You need to reach down deep and lead them through this.”
“What if I can’t?”
“You will.”
“How do you know?” the physicist said.
“Because you had the guts to come to us in the first place.”
Lars Blaser nodded. “I didn’t even think about it. I had to.”
“Bring that same attitude to your new life and you’ll be fine.”
“You can come and visit?”
“I will try,” Stiletto said. But it wasn’t entirely the truth. Once the Blasers were in full protective custody, he wouldn’t be allowed access to their whereabouts.
But at least Lars finally smiled.
San Francisco, CA
If she hadn’t been so busy, Ali Lewis would have had time to count the number of brain cells she had lost due to the thump-bump-bump of the EDM blaring from the venue’s speakers. Electronic dance music might have been popular, it might have given the models something to walk a be
at to, but give her Frank and Dean any day.
You could hardly breathe backstage for all the busyness. Models rushing from one spot to the next, handlers with their ever-present portable communications headsets racing after them, designers hovering and making last-second changes to outfits, complaining about this and that, journalists snooping about. Ali’s models, each in a conservative but sexy suit, lined up near the stage door waiting for the crew ahead of them to finish. Music played and the audience cheered as models walked the runway. As each model came backstage, they returned to their designer’s area and changed clothes to go out again.
Ali went up and down the line of her models, making final inspections. She passed along her usual pep talk, trying to massage the nervousness out of their eyes. Every model felt it. They stood straight and looked confident but everybody had a little stage fright just before going out, including Ali, who would have to walk the stage last to either applause or jeers.
It was the last day of San Francisco’s Fashion Week. She was showing her new line of work clothes for female tech workers. With so many tech companies making San Francisco home, she wanted to cash in on women who needed smart yet sexy outfits that were also comfortable and fun. No ‘80s shoulder pads or anything too stuffy; nothing matronish; no flat colors; a little cheesecake mixed with modesty. She thought she had nailed the concept. The wolves in the audience would tell her.
Sudden boos mixed with the applause. Ali looked out on the stage with concern. Her team’s handler already stood there. The girl was shorter than Ali and wore black-rimmed glasses. She said, “That rapper and his reality show wife just showed up.”
“They’re three hours late!”
“That’s why everybody’s booing.”
Ali saw the couple pushing their way to the front to claim their seats. The rapper wore a black suit; his TV wife bulged in a tiny dress with her long black hair curled around her shoulders. She towered over him by at least two feet. She waved at a pair of photographers but did not receive any attention in return. Her frown communicated her disappointment.
Ali went back to her models. “Okay, we’re next.”
More thump-bump-bump from the speakers. Ali sent her first model out. The tall blonde marched with hands on hips, a smile and wink; quick turn, back again. Cheers and applause. So far so good. The next model walked out on six-inch heels. Ali finally let out a breath. The crowd wasn’t going to devour her just yet.
The next model went out and the one after that. Ali stayed by the stage watching each walk on the runway, trying to gauge the crowd.
A warm hand fell on her right shoulder. She turned and smiled. Her father Jay said, “Your mother would be so proud of you, Ali.” He’d slicked back his gray hair and his light cologne was a welcome scent. Ali’s nerves quickly calmed with the weight of his hand on her shoulder.
“Long time coming,” she said.
The Marla Grace Collection had begun back in the early 1960s, when Ali’s mother cashed in on the mini-skirt craze. She followed-up with bikinis when demand outmatched supply. Pretty soon, the Lewis family dedicated all their time to the Marla Grace Empire as one line followed another with terrific success. Ali finally came on board after her mother passed away a couple of years earlier, and this was the first time she had designed a line on her own.
It was quite a change from her former life at the Central Intelligence Agency.
The wave of models continued and the crowd applauded. Ali finally allowed a smile to crack the mask. She turned to her father.
“I think we did it.”
“You did it, honey.”
She frowned. “Who’s that?”
Jay Lewis followed her gaze through the backstage crowd.
“What?” he said. “I don’t see anybody special.”
“I thought I saw Max Fairmont hanging around.”
Her handler said, “You’re next, Ms. Lewis.”
Ali’s last model made her appearance on the catwalk. More applause. Ali took a deep breath. Her father offered an encouraging smile. As the young model passed by, Ali ventured onto the catwalk. She smiled big. The stage lights nearly blinded her. At least, that way, she couldn’t see the faces staring back. When she heard the cheers, applause and whistles, she smiled big. Ali waved, turned back, and proudly walked off stage.
Ali sat on a folding chair as the clean-up crew swept the backstage floor and erased the rest of the remaining mess. She felt humbled and blessed by the evening’s events. There was an after-party waiting for her; she’d sent her father along first.
She looked around. The back-stage lights had been brightened to allow the cleaning crew to see every nook. The bright lights also helped zero her thoughts. Her mother might be proud, she thought. Her father had seemed certain, but Mama Lewis had been the stoic one, her father the extroverted one, Ali a combination of the two. She tried to take after her father, but her mother was never far behind.
Certainly, though, her mother would have been pleased.
Footsteps behind her.
“Congratulations, Ali.”
She stood and turned. Max Fairmont, in a dark suit, hands in his pockets, a smile on his face, stood there. His dark hair was as lush and full as ever, his chiseled jaw making him look like a ‘30s matinée idol.
“Your mother would be very happy.”
“Thank you, Max. I didn’t expect to see you here after our last conversation.”
Max Fairmont had been an early partner in the Marla Grace Collection, working close with Ali’s mother.
He did have a gleam in his eye, though. The gleam of the entrepreneur. Only those like-minded noticed.
He’d quit the Lewis family business in the mid-70s to start FairSoft, leaving the fashion industry to join the ranks of Silicon Valley software developers.
And he’d approached Ali three times in as many weeks with an offer to buy the company. She’d refused every time.
“I still have connections that got me in the door,” he said.
“Well I appreciate your support.”
“I came to make another offer on the company, Ali.”
“And my answer hasn’t changed.”
“I want to buy the Marla Grace Collection. Name a number.”
“Oh, so it’s ‘name a number’ this time? Why do you want my company, Max?”
“I know what it is worth and I’m willing to pay much more.”
“I have no number for you.”
“At least discuss it with your father. I’m serious with this offer.”
Ali shook her head again. “I’ll tell him I saw you.”
Fairmont let out a sigh of defeat and shook his head. “Well it’s too bad, Ali. Thanks.”
Fairmont turned and left, Ali watching his back, stunned.
Ali turned to her father and said, “Are you sure you have to go back?”
“Work needs to be done, dear. We spent too much time at the party.”
“You’re gonna be there all night and you know it.”
The older man patted her leg. “After the craziness of this week and today, I have to catch up on other things that didn’t get done.”
Jay Lewis made a right turn in the company Towncar and continued toward the condo they shared near the Embarcadero. The street was usually so busy during the day you couldn’t hear yourself think, but now all was quiet. A glow from the lights at the bus station at the center of the block cast odd shadows on the street. Cars lined the curbsides. The Towncar rumbled over some potholes that never seemed to get fixed. Ali shook her head. For all the wealth in the city, they couldn’t keep the streets properly paved.
“That party counted as work, you know,” Ali said.
“Maybe for you. I lost count of the interviews you did.”
“Because you were chasing women younger than me,” she said. “Maybe if you’d been trying to drum up business you’d be staying home.”
Jay pulled up in front of a high-rise condo complex on Harrison. The Bay Bridge span loomed in
the distance, the trim lights that lined every support cable, and flashing against the dark background of the night sky.
“I’ll be back in two hours.”
“Nuts,” Ali said as she opened the door. “You’ll be back when the sun comes up.”
Ali’s heels clicked on the sidewalk.
She took a key card from her purse.
A man wearing black clothes and a black ski mask lunged from an alcove, grabbing her arm, squeezing hard enough to elicit a cry of pain.
“Daddy!”
The man shoved. She fell hard onto the concrete, another cry cut short, pain flooding her backside.
A car door opened and slammed. She heard her father yelling. Feet shuffled on the sidewalk. Men grunted, fists smacked against flesh, the attacker making no noise. Then a pistol cracked.
Dad doesn’t carry a pistol. . .
A body hit the sidewalk with a loud smack. Next to her. Something wet splashed on her. Feet shuffled again as somebody ran away.
Ali rolled over enough to look and when she saw the dead eyes of her father staring back at her she sucked in a gulp of air and let out as a scream that echoed up the street.
Her father was D.O.A. She already knew that, and managed to keep it together while a nurse inspected her face. Nothing broken, a bad bruise, stay overnight for observation. The nurse left. Ali lost it, pain of a different kind filling her body as she cried into the hospital pillow. The bed creaked as she shifted onto her side.
She eventually stopped, the wet spot on the pillow warming against her cheek. That’s when she noticed the police inspector standing beside her bed. Dark hair, light skin, jaw stubble. The only thing he was missing was a cigarette dangling from his lip.
The inspector spoke softly. He understood how difficult it must be, bla bla bla. Just like on T.V. but with less meaning. It was a rehearsed line with him. He probably practiced it in front of the mirror before breakfast each morning.
