Witness to Death

by Dave White

  Frank nodded and then his eyes took another sweep around the bar. John felt a chill pass through his body. Maybe there was someone behind him with a knife or a gun, just taking a few steps toward them. Maybe he’d feel something pierce his spine and then everything would go black.

  He took a long swig of beer and had to swallow hard to force it down his throat.

  “I thought you were cheating on Michelle,” John said. “When I called her to tell her about Ashley. And I thought, I couldn’t let you do that to her anymore. Keep her in the dark. So, since she wanted to help me, I was going to help her.”

  The story sounded good. He didn’t want Frank to know he would have followed him whether he and Ashley had argued or not. He didn’t really want to tell Frank anything.

  Frank took a long sip of his vodka. His eyes kept moving around the room.

  “So I followed you. I was going to take a picture on my camera phone of you and whoever it was. I was going to show her, and she—she—”

  “Was going to go back to you?” Frank said.

  John didn’t say anything. His beer glass was empty, and damn did he want another one.

  “Never mind that,” Frank said. “You have no idea what you got yourself into.”

  “What was I supposed to think? I was going to get a coffee at the Starbucks on Valley Road. I almost went in, but I saw you sitting across from some woman in a hat. You reached across and touched her hand. You looked like you were going to put your arm around her.”

  Frank downed the rest of his vodka. Ice clinked in the glass when he put it back down.

  “I didn’t see you there that day,” he said.

  “I didn’t go in. Who was the girl? I couldn’t see her face.”

  “It’s none of your business. I’m not cheating on Michelle. My work is my work and it’s not her business or yours.”

  “Why did you kill those people?”

  “All right,” Frank said. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to get out of the city. Take the train this time, stay away from the water.”

  John closed his eyes. Another beer would have been great. He couldn’t stop shaking.

  “When you get off the train, go to the police. Tell them what’s going on, tell them what happened. You’ll be fine.”

  “I can’t leave. I won’t be safe.”

  Frank leaned across the table, whispering. “You’ll be safer going back to the police than you will be with me.”

  “No one’s going to come after me?”

  “Those people were after me. It’s not your problem. Just tell the police what you saw. Then you can go meet up with your friends and get some drinks. Enjoy your February break.”

  John took a step away from the table. He shoved his hands in his pockets.

  “Okay,” John said.

  “I’m sorry to hear about you and Ashley.”

  John said, “Where’s the nearest PATH stop?”

  “33rd.” Frank gave him directions.

  John walked to the door, and pushed it open. When he stepped out on to the street, a gust of winter wind hit him in the face. Pulling his jacket tight, he turned up the block and immediately bumped into a fat guy in a black trenchcoat.

  Beer sloshed around in John’s stomach. His knees wobbled. He took a step forward. The guy apologized and kept walking down the street.

  Peter Callahan—it was still difficult to think of himself as Frank Carnathan—watched John leave. He felt like a rat was chewing the lining of his stomach away as he pulled his Blackberry out and called Weller, his boss.

  He got through to Weller after reciting his identification numbers and several different passwords. The passwords were simple, six different state flowers, and they reminded him of spring.

  “What the hell happened?” he asked as soon as he was transferred.

  “Let’s meet,” Weller said. He dashed off an address, and hung up. Callahan stared at the phone.

  ****

  The first time Callahan met Weller, Callahan was in DC after switching jobs from the CIA to the newly formed DHS. Standing in the National Mall, watching the crowd, looking for anyone who stuck out. Much like he’d done at the bar tonight.

  Callahan stepped into the World War II Memorial and watched a few tourists study the pillars—one for each state. He headed toward the New Jersey pillar.

  A man holding a manilla folder ambled up to him. He had a neatly trimmed gray beard and long black overcoat.

  “Do you have a match?” the man asked.

  “I use a lighter,” Callahan said, feeling the Zippo in his pocket.

  “Better still.”

  “Until they go wrong.”

  He handed the man the lighter. The guy hunched against the wind and lit his cigarette. He introduced himself as Ian Weller and then proceeded to give Callahan a history lesson on the war before handing out the first assignment. The man was verbose, often drifting off into long tangents about movies, history, or making up code phrases before meeting up with agents, even though they’d already met before. He never rushed. He never complained. And he always acted like National Security was a fun job.

  So, when Callahan met up with Weller on the corner of First and First, Weller’s intensity was what really worried Callahan. No preamble, no history lesson, just right into the problem.

  “You don’t have much time. Somebody gave you up. You need to find Omar Thabata.”

  “That’s what I was trying to do,” Callahan said. “He was surrounded by guys with guns. He ran off, but I know he saw me. He yelled out my name. He knows who I am.”

  Weller nodded and scrolled through his Blackberry.

  “I understand you had to go through outside sources.”

  “How else would I have found him?” Callahan asked.

  He watched two people pass him on the street, halting at the corner to check traffic. He felt his muscles tense. When the street was clear the two people crossed.

  “My contact heard about the meeting. Put it up on the server. I’m going to have to ask her if she’s heard where he’s run off to.”

  Weller looked up from his Blackberry.

  “No. Don’t talk to her. She might be the one who gave you up. You’re going to have to earn the spy title this time. You find him on your own. And he better be alone when you find him.”

  Callahan didn’t say anything. Across the street someone hailed a cab. Three teenagers ambled up from the south. Callahan figured he could make it to the next block and disappear in the crowd in less than ten seconds if he needed to. He’d already memorized the nearest subway station on the way there.

  “I don’t know where to begin looking,” Callahan said. “Tonight was our chance.”

  Weller smiled. “Who’s the genius? The man who knows everything? Or the man who knows how to find everything?”

  Callahan didn’t bother to respond. Just another one of Weller’s catch phrases.

  “You need to hurry,” Weller said. “There’s been a lot of chatter lately. They’re talking about another attack on the city. We’re talking within the next week.” He gestured toward the skyline.

  “I think that’s why the meeting with Omar was set up.”

  “Good guess.”

  “You going to put the city on orange?”

  “Not my call,” Weller said. “You know the higher ups. They don’t want to worry anyone. Gotta keep getting people out shopping at F.A.O. and Macy’s.”

  The wind funneled down the street, burning Callahan’s ears. The city was a wind tunnel in the middle of the winter. He wished he’d worn a scarf and a hat.

  Weller said, “Give me your Blackberry.”

  Callahan did, and Weller pulled a short wire from his jacket pocket, connecting his Blackberry to Callahan’s.

  “I’m loading the security codes for Jersey City morgues for you. Doreen Duffy got the codes for me. Find out who these guys you killed are.”

  “What about Omar?”

  “I also put the address of th
e last place he was spotted about two weeks ago. A Mosque in Jersey City. Check that out too, if you don’t find anything out from the treanchcoats.”

  “A lot to do. Little time.”

  Weller shrugged. “All part of the job.”

  “Maybe I should talk to Duffy,” Callahan said.

  “You know that’s not possible,” Weller said.

  “Things have changed. People are dead. I need to come in. Discuss.”

  “No.”

  “I told you to pull me out of this weeks ago. Made a mistake and now I’m too close to this. I can’t be impartial,” Callahan said.

  “Come on, you’re better than that. Forget all the other personal stuff. Find Omar.”

  Callahan didn’t say a word.

  “If Duffy knows about you and you have to do something—” Weller twirled his finger in a circle. “—bad, then the DHS has plausible deniability. The press would be all over us if we made a mistake. She knows nothing.”

  Callahan took his phone back and then tucked his hands in his pockets. His knuckles were stiff from the cold air. In his pockets he opened and closed his fingers, trying to get circulation back. Weller hardly flinched with each gust of wind.

  “Funny thing about my assailants,” Callahan said. “The guy I killed on the train, I recognized him.”

  Weller raised an eyebrow.

  “He was a Blackwater guy from back when I was in the CIA.”

  Blackwater was an outside company the CIA had used to train CIA agents to assassinate high ranking Al Qaeda officials. They also supplied the CIA with private agents to carry out some of the assassinations and interrogations of terrorists.

  “I thought that started in ‘04. After you left.”

  “It’s the CIA. That’s what they wanted you to think.”

  Weller shook his head. “You sure it was the same guy?”

  “I was there for the interview. Part of my training, to ask the right questions, make decisions on guys like this. And test my ability to keep secrets.”

  “Did you hire him?”

  “I don’t remember exactly. We had a lot of interviews. But my gut says no.”

  “Glad you didn’t,” Weller said.

  “Why’s that?’

  Weller shrugged. “You guys may have fought to a tie. I’ll look into it, talk to some of my CIA pals. Who was the guy you were with tonight? Did you bring back-up?”

  Callahan shoved his hands in his pockets. “Who are you talking about?”

  “The guy all over the news. Someone got his picture on a cell phone. They’re pasting it all over the place. The news, the internet. They say he’s responsible for all the deaths. Nice move, deflecting the attention.”

  Callahan squeezed his hands into fists, inside his pockets. He’d sent John right to the police.

  The cell phone rang as Christine Verderese slipped the cookie tray into the stove. After taking off the oven mitts, she picked it up. Her Uncle Tony was on the other end of the line, and that meant only one thing.

  A job.

  Her last job was three months ago, and she was starting to get antsy. Since then she’d had to work small jobs, waitress in a coffee shop, collections for her uncle, even signed up with a Temp Agency. It was like leaving the business. Her uncle told her to keep the faith, and she’d be needed again. But at this point, she felt like she was living a normal life.

  And she did not want that.

  But now the phone was ringing, and she felt the fire in her veins.

  “I need you,” her uncle Tony said.

  “It’s about time. What’s the job?”

  “Come over and make me meatballs. I’m hungry.”

  “You better be joking.”

  A rustle of paper on the other end of the line. Her uncle coughed as if he was suppressing a laugh.

  “Since Donte took over, things have been tough. You know that. Fucker has not given me any work. And the jobs I’ve sent you on haven’t done much to slow him down.”

  Since Donte Maiore took over. Since the Feds started taking people down for breathing near an OTB. Her uncle’s business was not in good shape.

  “So, he finally called you?”

  “No, this is something else.”

  Christine’s hands went numb. Something else? What, driving some greaseball to the airport? Babysitting?

  “You might get to see your sister in the process,” Tony said.

  The thick scent of smoke filled her nostrils. Her cookies were burning. Just like the first Christmas after mom died, when her uncle tried to make it seem traditional. When he sent the maid home and tried to bake sugar cookies, and forgot about them. Her mother never baked sugar cookies. They were always chocolate chip. And they never burned.

  “What’s the job?” Christine said again, the words coming from her mouth full of spittle.

  “Is this line secure?”

  “Of course. You don’t trust me?”

  “You’re going to find Peter Callahan and Ashley MacDonald. You’re going to do what you do. Get rid of Ashley, no sign. Callahan, you bring him to me. Alive.”

  Christine switched the phone from her left ear to her right. She looked into the kitchen and watched the smoke seep out from the oven door.

  “Ashley’s not my sister. I don’t know who that is,” she said. Her uncle never did get to meet that “side” of the family. Maybe he was confused.

  “I know that,” Tony said. “I’m no dummy. Trust me. I’m calling you because you’re the best at what you do. Get this done and we’ll be back on top.”

  “Okay,” Christine said, exhaling through her nose.

  “You watch the news tonight?”

  “I had it on,” Christine said.

  “The Callahan guy, he was involved in that shooting down in Jersey City.”

  “Was that him? The picture they had?”

  “No, I’ll email you his picture. Be careful, he’s good. He took out five mercenaries. And no old ladies. Good aim.” Tony laughed again.

  He rattled off two addresses for the targets. She jotted them down, and then the five figure amount she’d be paid to do the job. She told Uncle Tony she’d report back soon.

  “I really do want meatballs.”

  She hung up.

  The smoke alarm went off; the cookies were ruined. Turning around, Christine opened a window, then fanned her hand in front of the alarm until the siren stopped. Opened a few more windows, and watched the smoke get sucked out into the night air. She discarded the cookies, the acrid smell reminding her of the time she blew up the Corsetti restaurant. Insurance paid big on that one.

  As the smell faded, Christine moved into her bedroom. She opened the closet door and reached behind the row of shirts. She pulled out her gun and a sharp knife,then checked her email and printed out the photos of Callahan and Ashley. She studied them, let the images imprint in her mind, then folded them and put them into her purse.

  Shutting all the windows, she inhaled the smell of the burnt crumbs once more. Her sister. Uncle Tony was giving her a very interesting job.

  She shrugged on a jacket and checked the weapons.

  She was ready for work.

  Michelle Sandler pulled up in front of her father’s Saddle River mansion. The expensive part of northern New Jersey, rumor had it that P Diddy or Jay Z or one of those rappers lived down the street. Michelle had never met him, and probably wouldn’t know it if she did. But her father said whoever he was threw loud parties over the summer and kept everyone on the block from getting any work done.

  Frank wasn’t picking up his phone again. He never did when he worked. Michelle wondered if he’d even seen the news. Probably not, he was just out talking with Asians, trading steel with people in Korea or Japan or China. Whatever he did.

  She tried John again too, but got no answer. Had everyone decided to go into radio silence once the news broke? With no other options, she decided her father could be the most helpful.

  She had to ring the doorbell three times
before her dad, dressed in a robe with a glass of scotch in his hand, answered.

  “What is it?”