Zero Sum

by Russell Blake

  So Italy.

  Checkmate: Chapter 11

  Late afternoon on Monday, Steven called Diego to see how things had gone.

  “Oh, fine,” he said casually, “although there wasn’t much traffic in and out. I got pictures of six different men and two women; one group of three men, a couple, and three different individuals. I already scanned them and e-mailed them to you a half hour ago; sorry about the resolution, it’s pretty low. I’ll be back there tomorrow again. Would you like to stop by and pay the second half tomorrow about this time, and pick up the photos?”

  Diego was completely professional; a good recommendation, obviously.

  “That would be great. Let me take a look at the pictures. Thanks for the good work.”

  “No problem, Senor. Adios.”

  He went down to the business center, and logged onto a computer; the Blackberry wasn’t the right device to view photos with any level of detail. He pulled the message up, and noted it contained a zip file. He opened the attachment and unzipped it, then examined the photos; they were blurry from the poor input resolution, but good enough so he could make out the faces.

  The couple was first. A J-Lo look-alike accompanying a young Don Juan type in a tailored suit. Next were two different men, both in casual clothing, both obviously Aryan. The next was a middle-aged woman with a perennial frown etched into her face. Last were three men in casual clothes, obviously deep in discussion. All were shot framed by the door of the building. He took one more quick look and started closing the photo windows, and then froze.

  The three men.

  The one in the center looked familiar. He couldn’t place it; maybe a celebrity? Someone he’d seen at the hotel? Then it hit him. Holy shit.

  He closed the windows and made sure the Hotmail message was saved before forwarding it on to Spyder and Stan Caldwell for safekeeping. He did the same with the intelligence document on the Wolfsatz after encrypting it; Stan could act as a backup for him in terms of data accumulation.

  Steven sat in the chair for a few minutes, thinking the whole thing through, wondering what it all meant. Then the light bulb went off. He felt like jumping up and screaming Eureka. Instead, he thanked the attendant at the desk for use of the computer, and returned to the room.

  Steven reported to Antonia what he’d seen on the screen downstairs. She was also completely surprised, at a loss for any response.

  “Jim Cavierti? I thought he was dead? Killed, no? On the boat? Are you sure it’s him?” Antonia didn’t get it.

  “It’s him.”

  “But why the explosion, why fake his death?”

  “I don’t know.”

  But I have a few ideas, Steven thought, and they all pointed to a leak at the FBI. The only question was why.

  Checkmate: Chapter 12

  Tuesday, Steven and Antonia perused the flights to Italy. There was a direct flight that night on Aerolineas Argentinas, departing at 11:30 p.m. to Rome. They booked two seats in first class, side by side. They’d stay in Rome overnight, and then go spend some time at a family apartment in a small town named Todi for a week or so while they figured out what to do next. She was excited, chattering brightly about all the places she wanted to visit with him; Venice, Chianti, Umbria, Portofino, Cinque Terra, Siena. Just the names of the towns and regions sounded exotic as they rolled off her native tongue.

  He had a good feeling about this; felt like he was finally moving towards something good, a positive in his life. All the issues he’d faced so far were receding in his mental picture of himself, to be replaced by a vision of the two of them together, happy and fulfilled.

  Steven stuffed his duffel, which was at the bursting point with the addition of the raincoat and other items, and prepared for checkout. The plan was to pack, leave their bags with the bell captain, and go to the Italian restaurant one last time; purely in the interests of comparison, as he was about to go eat the real thing. Afterwards they would swing by Diego’s and drop off the remaining cash, then head out to the airport before Buenos Aires’ rush hour got started.

  He logged onto his PDA, and went to his e-mail, where he saw the Canadian had responded quickly to his request. The message was short and to the point:

  [Adriatic is known to us. One of several Russian Mafiya companies active in North America and EU. Murder for hire, drugs, extortion, arms, you name it. Hope this helps you. If Peter was involved in investigating them, I can understand why he might have been killed. Regards, Cliff T]

  Bingo. The final connection. Griffen had the Russian mob as one of his key investors. South American Coke Producers, Nazi slavers, Middle Eastern arms merchants, and the Russian mob. No one too dirty or too evil to launder money for; bring it on, it’s all green. Steven fired off a response:

  [Is there any way at all I could get some sort of document that would corroborate the Adriatic info? Not for publication. Promise.]

  He was left with a lot of questions. How had Griffen gotten Homeland Security to come after him? How had Cavierti known about the FBI indictment? Who’d killed Peter and Todd? And who’d butchered Avalon? Why Allied, specifically? Why was Cavierti in Buenos Aires consorting with Nazis? And most importantly, how could he bring Griffen down and expose Allied as a scam? He suspected he might never know the answers to many of his questions, but he’d need to figure out the last one or his entire crusade would have been in vain.

  He guessed the Wolfsatz’s desire to have a little chat with anyone investigating them was not necessarily Griffen-connected, but rather standard operating procedure; he’d left no tracks on that, so he was safe from repercussions.

  The Anguillan police chief was probably trying to protect Cavierti as well as his own ass for having perpetrated a massive fraud to deceive the FBI. Who knew whether it was even a boat that had blown up? It could have been a dinghy packed with an incendiary device – which would simulate a boat explosion; that would explain the lack of flotsam and the absence of any local boat.

  Antonia called from the bedroom and interrupted his ruminations.

  “Honey, I’m almost done. Can you come help me with this stupid zipper? I can’t get the thing closed.” She was battling with her massively overstuffed bag, and the bag was clearly winning. He stepped in to help, and between the two of them they were able to temporarily defeat the resistant fastening. He kissed her. She kissed back.

  “I love you, Antonia Donitelli.”

  She stared at him as though a snake had bitten her – sending her into shock. Her lower lip quivered, just once at first, and then almost uncontrollably, and her eyes brimmed with tears. She threw her arms around him and sobbed into his shoulder. He held her. For a long time.

  “I love you too, Steven whatever-your-name-is-today. I do. Completely.” She was both laughing and crying simultaneously. “You’ve made me so happy. I love you so much. Oh God, Steven...” and then she resumed crying, the laughter part over. She kissed his lips, his nose, his cheeks, and soon they were wrestling their way out of their clothes, their urgency stoked again. Good that we’re not on a schedule, was the last thought he had before all thoughts abandoned him and it was just her and lips and skin and hair and...

  As they sipped their coffee, Steven called Diego to see if he could stop by a few hours early to drop off the cash. The phone rang without being answered. Probably out to lunch. He was getting that queasy feeling in his stomach again; but it could be the pasta and the wine. Still, he felt uneasy. He’d try to call again before they took a cab to the airport.

  They whiled away another half hour at the restaurant before paying their bill and making tracks. Antonia could sense something was wrong. She asked him what was going on.

  “I’m probably just being overly cautious, and the receptionist is out to lunch. I’ll call again at the hotel,” he explained.

  His nerves were raw from the last three weeks, but they were almost in the home stretch; he could see light at the end of the tunnel.

  “So you think...what? What are you agi
tated about, eh? This man doesn’t even know your name, correct?”

  Antonia was right.

  “I’ll call again. If no one answers, I want you to take a separate car to the airport and I’ll meet you there, okay?”

  “But Steven...”

  “No buts, Antonia. I’ve learned to trust my gut on this stuff. Just do as I ask…please?”

  “I hope they answer the phone.”

  She wasn’t happy. He didn’t blame her. He hoped they answered the phone, too.

  They returned to the hotel and claimed their bags from the bell desk. Steven called Diego again – still no answer. Considering it was now 4:00, lunchtime should have been over; but then again, in Argentina things did kind of run late. Part of him said to just leave town and forget about the PI, but another part argued that he needed hard copy photos, not grainy scans.

  His need for the photos won out. He handed Antonia his bags, asking her to please wait for him in the airport lobby area by the ticket counter. She was far from happy about the situation, but agreed grudgingly.

  “You watch out, Double-O-Seven, you’re not made of steel. Be careful, please, eh? I have some people I need to bring you home to meet.”

  “No worries. I’m just going to drop off the money and be out of there. I’ll see you in an hour or so.”

  Checkmate: Chapter 13

  They went their separate ways; she off to the airport, and he to Diego’s. The rain beat down on the procession of traffic, making for slower going down the boulevards. When they pulled up to Diego’s building, he had the cab driver wait, and went to the front door and tried it. Open. He pulled out his cell and dialed the number; he listened to the phone ringing upstairs.

  No answer.

  His unease grew.

  He paid the taxi driver, ambled down to the end of the block and slipped around to the back of the building. Nothing obviously wrong, no shadowy figures holding walkie-talkies. He returned to the main street and stood in the doorway of one of the adjacent buildings for ten minutes or so. There was no suspicious traffic, no black cars pulling up.

  Perhaps he was being paranoid again.

  Diego maybe didn’t have the most responsive receptionist; that didn’t mean every door held danger and menace. Snap out of it, he told himself. Stop getting spooked; just give Diego the cash, get the photo, and go to the airport.

  Easy.

  Let’s not make this more difficult than necessary.

  He returned to Diego’s building, opened the front door, and slowly walked up the stairs. He tried the door to the office, suite 200; the knob turned. He pushed it open. Medium sized office, no one in the front area, no evidence of anything wrong, unless you considered a receptionist absent from the front desk sinister.

  Bathroom break? A little afternoon delight? An errand?

  He called out.

  “Diego? Are you there?”

  Nothing.

  He contemplated turning around and leaving, but he needed those photos if he was going to hang Griffen with Cavierti. Thumbnails could be tampered with. He hated that he needed to see this through, but he did; he’d come too far…

  Steven walked towards the back of the suite, past the reception area to what he presumed was Diego’s office, and was stopped by the smell; a cloying and familiar odor. He’d smelled that before.

  He pushed open Diego’s door, and retched at the horror before him. Diego had taken his last photograph. He was tied, naked, to his chair – the extent of his torture grossly apparent by the cigarette burns on his arms and chest and groin. Cause of death was disembowelment. A young girl he assumed to be Diego’s receptionist lay discarded on the floor, throat cut, naked, likely raped.

  The stink in the small space threatened to overpower Steven’s senses.

  He darted to the window, slid it up, and took in some long, deep breaths of air. Was this the Wolfsatz sending the message, ‘Don’t fuck with us?’. But why then the torture…what were they after?

  His description, of course.

  Any info Diego might have had relating to his identity or how he could be located. They couldn’t have been too happy he hadn’t known anything.

  Steven scanned the carnage, mind racing.

  The photo. He needed the Cavierti photo.

  He rooted around the office, finding nothing but an empty file folder lying next to the body of the receptionist. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted an old scanner on the floor, next to the credenza; it was worth a shot, he supposed. He bent down and pushed the ancient eject button; a photo exited the document slot. Cavierti. At least he’d caught a little luck. He carefully slipped the black-and-white into an envelope, and after taking a last hurried look at the unfortunate couple on the floor, returned to the window for another gulp of fresh air.

  A creak emanated from the front office.

  He stiffened. There was no way that was good. If this was the same group that had paid his fake apartment a visit, they’d have the downstairs sealed off, no doubt from the inside this time, so that was a no go. He looked outside and considered the fire escape; it was up or nothing. He rolled up the photo and stuck it in his inside jacket pocket, and uttering a silent oath, climbed out through the window, carefully shutting it behind him.

  Though a good foil for noise, the pelting of rain made everything slippery; but at least he had on his rubber-soled shoes. He ascended quickly, stealthily as he could, ears strained for any movement below.

  He made it to the top floor just as he heard a noise emanate from Diego’s office. Steven glanced down; an unfriendly face glared up at him from Diego’s window.

  Partially obscured by a pistol barrel pointed at Steven’s head.

  He kicked in the window he was facing and dived, elbows up, through the jagged frame, rolling on the floor as he regained his bearings – shedding shards of glass and droplets of water. He staggered into a headlong, upright position and tore past the bewildered office staff yelling, “Policia. Llame los policia!”

  He pushed open the office door and heard unmistakable echoes of footfalls urgently ascending the stairs below. He rapidly surveyed the area, spotted a likely doorway and lunged through it, springing up the short flight of steps to yet another door; he burst through to find himself on the wet rooftop, surrounded by piles of rubbish, pipe, and planks. Wheeling around, he slammed the door shut and jammed a short, thick plank against the doorknob, wedging it against the surface of the roof – then ran and grabbed a dead TV set and shoved it against the base of the makeshift prop. That might slow them down a little.

  He spent a few valuable seconds racing around the perimeter of the roof, hurriedly looking for options.

  Crap.

  He hated heights.

  But he hated being shot, tortured and disemboweled even more.

  He let out a primeval shout of defiance as he sprinted and leapt across the void to the next building, slipping on the slick but abrasive roof when he landed, slamming onto his back.

  Damage assessment: momentarily winded; a spike of pain through the spine and into his legs; it hurt, but he hadn’t broken anything. Good.

  A series of gunshots blew whistling through the barricaded door at Diego’s building, signaling that he needed to keep moving if he wanted to survive. He rolled onto hands and knees, struggled upright and gingerly approached the edge of the roof.

  The next building was a story lower.

  This just got better and better.

  He summoned another primeval scream, and racing as hard as he could, threw himself out into space, arms and legs milling to gain precious inches.

  Time slowed until he hit the roof hard, knocking the air from his lungs. He registered that he was still conscious – but was he okay?

  A flash of pain stabbed his ankle. Ligaments, not a fracture, he knew from harsh experience.

  Fuck.

  He was way too old for this.

  He groaned his way onto his feet and tried the rooftop service door. No luck. Locked. Hurriedly scanni
ng the area for another escape route, he limped to the far corner of the building, thankfully discovering a fire escape. He cautiously lowered himself down the side of the eroded edifice while clinging to the metal roof gutter, ignoring the sensation of skin tearing into the jagged steel handhold. Nostrils flared, Steven summoned up a stable grip on the unfaithful surface of the decrepit steps.

  The thumping of footfalls sounded from the roof above. If he was still on the fire escape by the time they made it to the edge, he’d be dead meat.

  Preparing himself for more pain, he loosened his grip to increase the rate of descent, leaving a thin trail of blood on the rails as he lost his footing and slid faster still. He dropped the final story onto the sidewalk of the little alley and rolled to mitigate the momentum from the fall.

  His ankle shrieked in protest over the new pain in his knee.

  Tough shit.

  Live with it, pussy.

  He raced down the wet, narrow space, trying every door.

  Locked. Locked. Locked.

  Open.

  Thank God.

  Steven ducked inside the room, quickly bolting the door behind him.

  Another office building.

  He took a few deep breaths of mind-clearing air and padded to the front of the building to get a fix as to what street he was now on.

  Big boulevard.

  Eyes alert, he stepped into the mix and hailed a cab – a plentiful commodity in Buenos Aires. A taxi pulled smartly to the curb almost instantly.

  Steven collapsed into the back seat in a state of relief.

  “Aeoropuerto, por favor.”

  The driver nodded and leaned over to activate the meter.

  The rear passenger window shattered and the front of the driver’s head blew onto the dashboard and windshield, spattering Steven with a mist of warm blood. He kicked open the opposite door and rolled onto the pavement, to be almost flattened by the blaring, glaring oncoming traffic. He sprang into a crouch and dodged between the cars, which in Buenos Aires fashion were moving at roughly double any sensible speed. He sped off, up and over his pain barrier as he zigged, then zagged across the eight lane road.