Dangerous Bet: A financial thriller

by Jack Gardner

  Dangerous Bet

  Jack Gardner

  Copyright © 2015 by Jack Gardner

  All rights reserved

  ISBN: 1507773668

  ISBN-13: 978-1507773666

  To Lili

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  Epilogue

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To my nameless professional friends - people hidden in the shadows - who contributed their insight of the undercover world, corrected, commented and shed light, making it impossible to separate fiction from reality. In cases of beautified reality or error, I take full responsibility.

  Prologue

  I was sitting at Davis Café, eating a grilled cheese sandwich and drinking a cappuccino when they came to kill me. There were three of them. Took no risks. The new 7.5L V8 engine 345 horsepower black Jeep Grand Cherokee rolled in quickly and stopped in front of the café. The tires didn’t screech the way they do in Hollywood movies. But it was effective. The two sidewalk-facing doors opened simultaneously, with coordination attainable only through repeated exercises.

  I raised my left hand—the one holding the toast—to my chin. Not that I thought it would hide me. But while my eyes were taking in the sight, my brain tried to make sense of it. To my left was a big guy with a pale face and light slicked-back hair, wearing a short black leather jacket over a blue shirt and black corduroys, holding a 9mm Mauser. The entire southern part of the café was in his range. The other guy in the middle—whose distinctly Neanderthal face was unforgettable because of his protruding jaw line, flat nose, and dark eyes too close together—thought he was sophisticated. The barrel of his handgun, which I could not identify, peered from under the navy colored jacket he was holding. I hoped that would slow him down. A silencer was attached to the handgun. This is definitely unusual for an arrest, I thought, but maybe he was extra sensitive about making too much noise in a public place. Go figure.

  The third, small and slim, was the most dangerous. When I saw him, I knew they were cheating. He wore a black long-sleeved shirt, tight even though the neckline was too big for his scrawny neck. I thought I knew why. It flattered me, but it wasn’t exactly the moment to enjoy the compliment. He carried a 9mm Beretta handgun, also with a silencer, and a 15-bullet magazine. He crabbed toward the ligustrum fence, about four-foot tall, that blocked off the café’s outdoor sitting area like a green wall. Always on the side, I thought; always on the margin, careful and precise.

  Not moving a muscle, I pictured the whole scene in my mind: the towering plants to the left, a couple of young lovers who giggled up until a moment ago at the table for two to the right. They’re silent now—most probably the result of the shock brought about by the sudden arrival of the armed men.

  The Neanderthal’s eyes were on the couple and the café’s door. Maybe they divided the tasks, and maybe it only seemed so. Maybe they were just ready for anything. I would have been. Now, the big guy surveyed the café, his eyes resting on me. I saw him blink as he looked at my face, comparing it with a photograph he was probably supplied with earlier. He decided that they matched and I knew I was running out of time. This was the moment for him to signal me to get up and quietly walk away with them. That was the plan. But his eyes said something else: we take no prisoners.

  My handgun—a .45 Heckler & Koch MK23, one of the best pistols ever made—was in my right hand, right above my knee. I shot in the direction of the little guy’s bottom half, just below the bulletproof vest he wore under his black shirt. The bullet kicked him backward as it hit the bone, and his legs betrayed him. I shifted my aim to his right and sent two quick bullets toward the ugly guy’s chest. Surprise spread on his face like an ink stain on a sheet of paper. It’s amazing what one can see within a split second. I thought I recognized the beginning of a certain motion in his face, but maybe I was confusing motion and emotion. The navy blue jacket started falling out of his heavy hand. He was no longer a problem. But the big guy was. Clint Eastwood in Unforgiven would have gotten the third guy, too. I, in reality, was running out of time.

  For a split second, the big guy looked at me with a certain appreciation—from one professional to another. My second compliment in less than a minute. But then, I was looking into a barrel that seemed like a dark tunnel ready to swallow me. I wondered whether I’d see the bullet moving toward me. As he pulled the trigger, the handgun sprung upward. So that’s what it feels like to die. I heard the shot, the sound of the end of the world. But then, the shot you hear cannot be the shot that killed you—it has to be that way. My eyes focused again. He stood there, his face shuddering with pain. Blood flowing from his amputated hand like a fountain. which could have been amusing. A one in a million chance, but it happened.

  My hand started rising on its own accord. I looked at him and saw some understanding in his eyes, maybe even gratefulness. Like a pianist, uninterested in career retraining, coming to terms with the loss of a hand in the height of his career. I didn’t think it was on me to help him, at least not the way he wanted me to. I took my Heckler & Koch and shot him in the knee; he’d never be able to quickly exit a car again. He fell to the sidewalk like a sack of potatoes. His grateful look turned into a hateful one. Never mind; when he tells his grandchildren about his life, maybe he’ll even thank me.

  I kicked my chair back and got up, meaning to get out of there as soon as possible. The Jeep took off quickly. Half a grilled cheese sandwich and a cappuccino abandoned behind. I didn’t see anyone handing me a bill. My right hand, holding on to the handgun, was deep in my jacket pocket. I didn’t remember how it got there, but it was shaking and there wasn’t a goddamn thing I could do about it. My mouth was as dry as a desert and my heart was about to explode from the adrenaline rush. In seconds, police sirens would echo and the area would be sealed off.

  There was something tempting about the idea of being arrested. A chance to figure out what is going on, and a little bit of rest, which I desperately needed. But I wouldn’t be safe in the police’s hands. The Cherokee would be back with a new crew. And I’ll be a limping duck during hunting season; a duck who has no idea who is chasing him and why.

  ***

  I reached the train station in less than a minute. The station was located in a large junction and had four separate entrances, which stopped me from feeling like I was walking into a mousetrap. I paused at the entrance, my back to the door. I noticed that the wall in front was covered with graffiti. I surveyed the area; my eyes moved in slow, circular motion—a method meant to uncover as many details as possible.

  Nothing suspicious. If anyone were following me, they wouldn’t have let me see it. I rushed down the stairs and hopped on a train a minute before the doors closed.

  It was a familiar line, and I planned on taking it to the final st
op and disappear around the university. I had a safe place there. I sat down, my right hand still in my pocket, and my heart slowly returning to normal. I leaned back, my eyes partially closed, but still watchful, and my mind drifting away. There are islands far in the ocean—clear blue water, golden beaches, coconut trees, and a peacefulness to envelop it all. If only I could disappear in one of those islands… I let go of this peaceful sight and resumed what I do best. My eyes examined the other passengers on the train, memorizing faces. If I ever see any of them in the future, I will know exactly when and where I’ve seen them before. And knowing this is the difference between life and death. I knew I was in one of those stories that aren’t over ‘til they’re over. Just a few minutes ago, someone tried to finish this story. This time he failed.

  Only that they should have known I wouldn’t just quietly disappear. That is exactly what they trained me to do.

  ***

  My safe house was in a three-storied private house, with a slanted red roof and brick walls covered with green ivy. My haven there was a small garret converted into an apartment. The house was located in a small and quiet street, less than a mile from the university; it had a wall surrounding it and an iron gate at its front. A path from the gate led to a set of stairs that climbed to my garret in the back.

  According to what the realtor told me, the owner was a pretty, wealthy woman about fifty-years-old. She lived on the ground and middle floors. My only demand was for a quiet location with maximum privacy. The realtor promised me that. The woman is a widow who lives alone and does not see many people, he promised. She has a small family, a son and a daughter, both of whom live abroad and rarely visit. From the way he described her, she sounded like a very lonely person, but when I thought about it, so was I.

  Privacy and secrecy were crucial for me. I rented the apartment as soon as I became suspicious that things were not what they seemed to be. Still, doing so was considered disobedience. The guidelines were not flexible, nor was there any option of creative interpretations: I was supposed to report to the Bureau—the “Bureau of Counter Spying Activities,” as my employer was commonly referred to—about any housing option, whether it was my permanent residence place, a secondary one, or a temporary arrangement. Neglecting to report something like this was not considered forgetfulness, but a trust issue, taken in all serious measures.

  One was expected to follow regulations perfectly.

  I accepted this; but I also expected reciprocity. I expected to be treated the same way—you give your best and receive in accord. But that day, not anticipating a thing, I received some information that seemed like a red flag, and wouldn’t let go of it. The more I thought about it, the more it lingered; it did not disappear—to the contrary, it only strengthened. When my thoughts were too troublesome, which happened quite quickly, I decided that I had to be prepared. So I made the necessary arrangements. I was already under surveillance, but it seems that in that stage, the objective was mainly to collect data on me. At the time, they may not have realized just how dangerous I was for them. Not that I knew exactly who they were or what I was suspected of.

  True, no one was beyond any doubt. The Bureau was a synonym for “doubt.” Its role was to take care of anyone who may pose risk to the country’s security. It was a paranoid organization, and paranoia does not allow for anyone to be beyond any doubt. No employee, as important as he or she may be, was automatically immune.

  I assumed that those who were after me were the operations branch. It was an educated guess, considering how well I knew the hierarchy of the Bureau. The problem was that their role was to carry out decisions, but I couldn’t tell who made those decisions. They were the hand, but who was the head?

  I began with the assumption that the safest thing is to believe that nothing is safe. First of all, I have to be out of their range, and only then I could start figuring out what is going on. So I slipped the surveillance, and signed the lease in the realtor’s office. It was a one-year lease, with an option for extension. I told the realtor that I worked abroad and traveled frequently. I told him that I will rarely be at the apartment, and that I am looking for complete privacy. He thought himself to be an open-minded man, and so he nodded his head, saying that he was an expert in finding solutions for specific demands. He proved that when he found my landlady. I showed him a driver’s license that I snatched from a careless gentleman, whose photograph I quickly changed to mine, only with a beard and wide-brimmed glasses. Slim chance that anyone could ever recognize me by that photograph. I signed the lease and paid a year’s rent in cash, adding a thousand dollars as a deposit for the landlady. I promised that I will send the next year’s rent a month before the lease ended. I received a key and headed out of the office, walking with a limp in my left leg. Professionals call that a “memory implant.” That was the moment I went underground.

  As I requested, the realtor explained to the landlady that I was very busy and needed my privacy. Thankfully, she did not insist on meeting me, settling for a thank you note that she affixed to the lease, where she expressed hope that we’d meet one of these days, so she could meet her new tenant. Quite natural curiosity, I smiled to myself upon seeing it. “Maybe one day,” I thought.

  ***

  Two stations before the university, I stood by the train doors when passengers started getting off the train. I would have to walk about three miles, but it would expand the search range around me by much more than that. I glanced at the platform and could not see anyone who was not a natural part of the landscape: no one collected trash, looked at the train map, or just read a newspaper. But there was always a chance that a stalker was on the train. The passengers flowed toward the exit tunnel. When the doors began closing, I pushed them open and jumped onto the platform as the train set in motion. No one jumped after me, but maybe only because I did it right. But if anyone was on the train, he or she probably already reported my exit, and the patrol cars were already racing toward the station’s exits.

  The electronic board announced that the next train would pass in six minutes. For a moment, I was tempted to wait in the station and hop on it, but only for a moment: six minutes are a long time. Long enough to bring in people to the platforms. Moreover, if the team following me was large enough, they could close the next stations too. And they had every reason to assign a large team. Their death toll now seemed like the result of a small war. So I dismissed the idea of the next train and rushed out. I was hoping I’d have about four or five minutes to disappear.

  I was the last passenger to leave the station when I saw the beggar. He sat on a colorful blanket with an open guitar case in front of him and a guitar leaning on the wall behind him. The case was there for the coins of those who thought they fared better in life. It’s funny to think about the fragility of such beliefs. He looked at me and for a second his eyes caught sight of my right hand, the one in the jacket pocket. Or maybe I was just imagining it. He wore a black beret that covered his hair and an old gray jacket over a red vest with a high collar. I thought I saw his lips move, which could have meant that he had a microphone planted in the collar of his vest. But then again, beggars mumbling to themselves are a pretty common sight. I walked toward him. He kept on mumbling. When I was a few feet away from him I peeked at his guitar case. They always fall on the little details, or he was just especially unlucky. There were no coins in the case, just a clean red lining. Too clean. Stalkers are not fighters, and the odds of him being armed were slim. In any case, he missed his chance. I bended toward him, grabbed him by the collar with my left hand and pulled him upward. That’s probably what a hanged man feels at the moment the ground drops beneath him. I pulled the handgun out of my pocket quickly, and hit him in the head with the gun’s blue butt. It made a horrific sound. His body was dull and he fell back on to the blanket.

  I pulled his red collar. There wasn’t a microphone, no wires, no nothing. I checked his pulse and felt it slow and steady. When he wakes up, there’s a good chance that he’ll
decide to start working somewhere else. I took my jacket off and put it in the guitar case. I wore his beret. I stuffed a one hundred dollar bill into his collar, as compensation for any damage I may have done, hoping that he’d forgive me. I turned toward the exit, holding the guitar case in my left hand. They wouldn’t expect a guitar player with a beret. The exit seemed abandoned. There was a small park to my right and I rushed toward the dark wooded path. I started running quickly. After about half a mile I left the path and hid behind a tree.

  Twenty minutes later, my night sight sharpened. I thoroughly scanned the shadows, paying attention to every detail. I couldn’t notice a thing. Maybe luck was with me. A little way from the road I noticed a pipeline deep in the ground. I threw the guitar case into it, as deep as I could, hoping it would not be found until the next rainy season.

  I started walking in the direction of my apartment. As I was walking, I imagined L, Head of Operations, and his deputy Sammy, sitting in L’s office. I’ve only been to that room once, but that was enough for me to memorize every detail. I imagined the small coffee table used for his brainstorming sessions, with the ever-present jug and cups full of that brown fuel without which no one in our profession can function. I saw the matches L used to light his pipe in the paper basket. I imagined his eyes—tough, cruel, unforgiving—and then the silent voice, ordering to get me. Dead or alive.

  I imagined the flow of action on the radio waves in the air around me, the disappointed messages of stalkers whose prey has disappeared. The laconic reports of the backup team looking for their way in the dark. The responses from their headquarters, ordering everyone not to leave their positions and await new orders. A large production—and I was its star.

  I snuck between the quiet shadows up to my garret apartment.

  The clock rang midnight.