Olympus Device 1: The Olympus Device

by Joe Nobody

  The first contained a marked-up contract from a perspective buyer Maria had been courting for over a month. The man was from Seattle, completely anal over every minor detail of the home he was buying. She grimaced at the number of changes he’d requested on the document. The boss wasn’t going to be happy.

  The next package brought a frown to her face. A hand-lettered, common white envelope was inside, sealed and addressed as; “Personal and confidential – Maria Weathers only.”

  “Now, that’s odd,” she whispered. “Why would anyone do that?”

  Shrugging her shoulders, she placed the item in Maria’s inbox and continued on to the third delivery.

  True to her word, Maria arrived at the office shortly after 10, her workout clothes evidence of the morning’s activities. The broker stood at the corner of Paula’s desk, shuffling through messages and then picking up the mail. The plain white envelope drew its second frown of the day.

  Picking up her gym bag without another word, Maria entered her office and closed the door. She recognized the block print on the letter, and it made her stomach churn.

  How clever, she reasoned. No way the cops would intercept a next day package.

  She sat at her desk before opening it – looking at the letter as if it was a snake about to strike. Gently tearing open one end, she pulled out two sheets of paper and began reading:

  My Dear Maria,

  I wanted to drop you one last note before I depart. I have arranged for transportation on a foreign-flagged freighter leaving the United States. I’m saddened to be leaving my country forever. I will miss you, our son, and my land.

  I know this news is probably welcome. I’m sure the authorities are pressuring you. I know you probably won’t, but if there is any chance you can get away, my boat leaves from pier #19 tomorrow at 10:30 a.m., the Houston Ship Channel. I would like to see you one last time if you can push our history aside.

  Tell Anthony his father loves him and is proud of him. One day, please tell him the truth about me – what I stood for, how I lived my life.

  Yours Truly,

  Dusty

  What is he doing? He’s up to something, she wondered as she turned to the second page. It, again, was another note, the block printing that was so Dusty scrolling across the page.

  Maria – The first letter was for you to hand over to the authorities. I want them at the ship channel tomorrow. Turn me in for the reward. I want you to. I need you to. When the Dust (y) settles, you’ll understand.

  The letter was signed with a smiley face – a cute little secret code they had used during the marriage to let the other know everything was okay. He hadn’t used it for years.

  Exhaling, she separated the two pages and gathered herself. Pulling a pair of scissors from her drawer, she quietly cut the second page into small bits and then flushed them down the toilet. Let the FBI men go swimming in the sewer if they want to see that, she mused. The first page was folded and placed in her purse.

  Paula knocked on the door and then stuck her head inside. “Are you okay?”

  “No,” the boss replied. “Something has come up, and I’m going home for a bit.”

  “You don’t look good. Is there anything I can do?”

  Maria considered her response for a bit, deciding to practice her act before a friendly audience first. Conscious that federal ears were probably listening, she reached into her handbag and withdrew the letter. “This is what was in that envelope,” she said.

  Paula scanned the note, her lips moving as she read. After finishing, she looked up at Maria and simply whispered, “Oh my God,” followed shortly by, “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m sick and tired of my ex-husband interfering with my life. I can’t risk my business or reputation any longer. He’s killed people and hurt the city of Houston badly. It will take years for the Medical Center to recover. That note is proof – he’s gone completely over the edge. I think I’m going to call the FBI.”

  Nodding, the assistant handed the page back. “I don’t blame you,” she said, a supportive tone in her words. “I was worried you were going to actually go and meet him.”

  “No, I’m going home. I’m sure the police are going to want to see that letter, and I don’t want a bunch of cops hanging around here and scaring off customers. Hold down the fort – I’ll be back in after I’ve turned everything over to them.”

  Then as an afterthought, Maria added, “Get me the number of that cute lawyer up in The Woodlands. I’m going to have him meet me at the house – just in case.”

  Maria stood to leave, her friend and co-worker coming around the desk to hug the troubled woman. “Good luck – you’re doing the right thing you know.”

  Grace’s confidence grew every day, recovering quickly after being released. Her spirit and sense of injustice motivating her to invest all of her energies in order to obtain Hank’s freedom. Since being let go, she’d drained the battery in her cell phone three times, calling every judge, attorney friend, and law school professor she knew. Agent Monroe had surprised her once, she was determined not to let that happen again.

  Eva had helped as much as she could. Taking on the persona of a law clerk, the woman seemed competent with internet searching, happy to look up any subject and filter useless results. Grace was building a case, but it was a tedious, lengthy process.

  Her progress was slowed by high emotions, both hers and Eva’s. After reading reams of web-based news reports covering every angle of Durham’s escapades downtown and at the Medical Center, she had struggled to correlate what was being said, with what she knew about the man. A man, she admitted, she cared deeply about.

  Often she would find her mind wandering off Hank’s case – wondering what had really happened… how it had changed Durham. The vision of a frightened man, all alone and being chased by the whole world pulled at her heart. The fact that people had died, apparently due to his actions, confused the issue and frustrated her.

  The two legal eagles had converted Maria’s breakfast nook into what they had taken to calling “the war room.” The large table completely covered with papers, two laptops, legal references checked out from the local library, a phone charger and coffee cups completed the effect. The sound of their host’s car pulling into the driveway was unexpected, both women looking up with concern.

  Maria entered her home, walking past the nook on her way to the master bedroom. Grace could tell something was wrong immediately. “Everything okay?”

  “Yes… yes… everything’s fine. I’m going to work at home today, ladies. I’ll use my office so as not to interrupt your efforts. I may have some visitors stopping by later.”

  Odd, thought Grace. The woman is out of character. Something is going on. Shrugging it off as most likely something to do with Maria’s real estate business, she returned to study the legal opinion displayed on the laptop’s screen.

  A few hours later, a young man rang the doorbell. Again, Grace noticed Maria carried herself differently, rushing to greet the gentleman. Rather than introduce him to her guests, the hostess guided the new arrival directly to her office and closed the door.

  Don’t make too much of it, she concluded. We’ve been intruding here for days now, and I’m sure Maria has private dealings as much as anyone else.

  Grace continued with her work, the behind-closed door meeting passing without either party so much as exiting the private space to use the powder room. The doorbell rang again.

  Now, her curiosity spiked, she rose from the table quickly, determined to answer the new call. Again, Maria beat her to the punch. Grace’s heart froze when she saw Agent Monroe standing in the threshold. Am I going to be arrested again?

  Just like the first visitor, Monroe and another of his henchmen was escorted into the home office. The door was closed behind them.

  Grace’s mind raced with the possibilities, but couldn’t settle on an explanation for the weird goings on. She decided to do a little sneaking around herself. She stood and
stretched as if the hours of study left her body extraordinarily stiff. Turning to Eva she announced, “I think I need to move around a little and get my blood circulating again. I’ll be right back. I have to run upstairs anyway and retrieve a file I fell asleep reading last night,” and headed for her second floor guestroom. Ascending the stairs as quietly as possible, she walked carefully across the floor, hoping to pass without any squeaking. She entered her temporary bedroom and closed the door gently.

  Going to her hands and knees, Grace put her ear to the heating register installed in the floor. She’d heard Maria’s voice once before, not surprising since her room was right above the office.

  She could hear the conversation below clearly, but didn’t believe the words that reached her ears. Maria was turning Dusty over to the FBI! For a reward!

  She listened with a growing anger as her host’s lawyer outlined the documents he’d created – legal papers that gave Maria immunity and outlined a trust account where the electronic payment of $25 million was to be deposited. The entire conversation made her sick.

  She was about to storm downstairs and barge in. She wanted to grab Maria by the hair and slap some sense into the woman. What she heard next stopped her from going on the offensive.

  “I also want you’re guarantee that Hank Barns will be released immediately.”

  Agent Monroe’s voice floated through the vent. “Yes, as soon as Mr. Weathers is no longer on the streets, I will release Mr. Barns.”

  Maria responded, “Then we are in agreement. I have a letter here that I received from Dusty this morning via next day delivery. As you can see, he has suggested that I meet him down at the Houston Ship Channel, before 10:30 a.m. tomorrow morning – pier #19. He claims he has found transportation out of the US.”

  Grace didn’t hear the rest of the conversation, the blood rushing through her ears canceling all sensory input. She couldn’t believe Maria was doing this, yet she didn’t want to take any chance on jeopardizing Hank’s release.

  She sat with her back against the wall, trying to sort it all out.

  Finally composing herself, she reached a determination. She’d get Hank out on her own – she had to warn Dusty of Maria’s treachery.

  Sergei stuffed the cigarette into the ashtray, bending the filter over the cherry to extinguish the smoke. The bathroom door opened, a younger, blonde haired woman crossing into the main part of the suite. She showed no sign of embarrassment that he was awake, casually walking past while drying strands of damp hair with a towel.

  “They have an ingenious device called a blow dryer, I believe. It is used by females after taking a shower.”

  Grunting, she replied, “I’m well aware of such things, Sergei. I don’t like using heat because it makes my hair brittle.”

  He continued to watch as she moved about the room, unashamed of her nakedness. Buxom, with strong shoulders and wider at the hip than most western men preferred, Arianna was typical of good, solid Russian peasant stock. Capable of working in the field all day, the kitchen all evening, and the bedroom all night, the young woman benefited from years of generic advantages.

  She hadn’t been recruited into the SRV because of her looks; raw sex appeal had nothing to do with her advancements. Arianna was brilliant with numbers and equations. The fact that she possessed a healthy libido and volunteered to exercise it with the director of her agency was a happy bonus for both.

  She moved close to him, picking up his pack of cigarettes from the bedside table. After lighting her smoke, she sat beside him, a look of concern on her face. “I’m still not sure what it is you want me to do tomorrow,” she stated. “I know you didn’t go to the trouble of flying me in from Moscow just for good sex.”

  “Tomorrow there is going to be an exchange with the farmer who invented the rail gun I was telling you about. I want you there to examine the weapon during the trade.”

  Shaking her head, Doctor Sharapova replied, “There’s not much I can do, really. Without equipment and a lab, about the only assurance I can render is entirely speculation. Besides, as I told you on the phone before, I don’t believe the weapon is as powerful as claimed. It would defy the known laws of physics.”

  “I understand, Arianna. You are an insurance policy against the American playing any games. When we meet with him, I’m going to introduce you by your formal title. I want to watch his face… his eyes. If he is playing a game with us, then I’ll know.”

  Nodding, she stood and moved toward the chest of drawers to retrieve her clothing. On top, next to her slacks and blouse, was a duffle bag full of money, gold, and a pistol. Glancing at the collection of wealth, she said, “Why don’t you just kill him and take the weapon? It seems such a waste to use such wealth when a bullet costing less than a ruble would do the trick.”

  Smiling, then shaking his head, Sergei responded, “Have you been watching those western spy movies again, my dear? Word gets around when you break a deal – even a deal with a farmer. That amount of money is a fair price for what we will receive in return. I’ll protect myself against skullduggery on the part of the American, but I won’t instigate it myself. Such acts damage one’s reputation.”

  “Okay,” she shrugged, “I’ll leave the methods and procedures up to you. I’ll do the best I can with the science.”

  She walked back around the bed, using the ashtray to extinguish her smoke. Looking down, she touched herself and said, “Are you through with me, or can I get dressed?”

  “If you keep walking around in the nude, I most surely will require more of your company. What about you – still feeling the need?”

  Laughing, she smiled and said, “I’m cursed, Sergei. I always feel the need. It is such a distraction that I’m surprised I get any work done at all. It’s a good thing I was raised in the sparsely populated countryside, or I would have never finished school.”

  They both had a good laugh over her comment. After the humor had faded, she moved her hand inside of his blanket. “Perhaps I can accelerate your recovery,” she offered.

  Monroe and Special Prosecutor Haskins left Maria’s home, each man having a completely different opinion regarding the outcome. The lawyer was upbeat, his workload lightened with the promised release of Hank Barns, his political future in Washington looking far more positive if his name was associated with the capture of the world’s most wanted man.

  Monroe, on the other hand, was skeptical. After weeks of chasing Weathers, the end seemed all too easy. Many criminals had seen an end to their lives or freedom due to the betrayal of a woman they loved and trusted. John Dillinger was only one of dozens of examples the senior FBI man could name.

  Still, something just didn’t seem right about the entire situation. Finally shrugging off his pessimism, he decided he didn’t have any choice but to do his best to ensure that Weathers didn’t escape again. He was familiar with the Port of Houston, and he would put a wall of steel around pier #19. No ship would leave until he had Weathers – either in cuffs or a body bag.

  The Final Day

  Dusty woke up from a catnap, the loud rumble of yet another in the seemingly endless parade of trucks waking him from the light slumber.

  He glanced around the main terminal parking lot, the same cars and trucks parked in the same spaces as before he’d dozed off.

  He’d been inside the security perimeter of the terminal since late the previous afternoon, sitting in his truck, occasionally walking down along the water’s edge just to circulate the blood. He figured Monroe would deploy his men early, so he’d made sure he was the first one in – the early bird, not the worm.

  The night had passed slowly, Dusty’s level of alert focusing suspicion on every car, truck and van that entered the busy port area. After a while, it had all become routine, and he’d managed some sleep. It wasn’t quite daylight yet – probably another 20 minutes before the sun crested in the east. He was sure the law enforcement teams would be arriving soon.

  It was time to call his Russian friend.<
br />
  “Da,” the now familiar voice responded on the first ring. “I hope after our exchange you will be a man who can sleep normal hours, Mr. Weathers.”

  Dusty laughed, actually beginning to like the foreigner’s attitude. “So have you managed to gather everything I requested?”

  “Of course, of course. I am eager to return home. Please tell me there won’t be any delay.”

  “Meet me at the Port of Houston, Pier #19 at 10 a.m. Follow the signs for the free boat tour. I’ll meet you at the east edge of the terminal parking lot – the side closest to the big bridge.”

  “This is acceptable. You will have the weapon with you, I assume?”

  “Yes. It is sitting right here beside me. One other thing – this area is very secure. This is the only parking open to the general public. Just tell the guard you’re here for that free public boat tour.”

  “Da. I will see you in a few hours then.”

  Again the line went dead, Dusty assuming that the Russians weren’t big on salutations. Shrugging, he tossed the phone, no longer caring if anyone knew where he was. It was time to go.

  He cleared out all of his personal items from the truck, the two packs bulky and awkward. Avoiding the pools of light created by the high overhead fluorescent bulbs, he strode calmly toward the 610 bridge.

  A working port uses a lot of pallets, and pier #19 was no exception. A virtual forest of wooden frames stacked as tall as a man dominated one section of the loading area. Covering more waterside real estate than a football field, Dusty had played hide and seek with his son on this very ground years ago.

  Disinterested in the school field trip’s free boat tour, he and Anthony had slipped off to chase each other through the canyons of pallets while waiting. The size of the maze was just as he remembered, perhaps even larger.

  It wasn’t uncommon for a stack to be knocked over, the forklift drivers occasionally careless, or the random thunderstorm whipping up enough wind to push over a wobbly tower of wood and nails.