Double Down (12 page)

1
3

The Boss, Jackson, Lisa Bee, and Susannah were having dinner with the Kipiniaks. They had started a bit late because Jackson had insisted on taking the 7 train and he and Lisa Bee wound up stranded due to a signal problem. Lisa Bee was still pissed about it, and in addition she'd had to hear Jackson spend the day raving about how a part of Queens was named for him. The Boss found the whole thing entertaining, but realized that was probably because he had been on time and had already had a strong glass of homemade slivovitz.

They'd all just been served a wonderful meal of sausage, potatoes, and pierogi, and had engaged the Kipiniaks in casual conversation about the neighborhood, the history of Woodside, and their neighbors. The Boss had asked every question imaginable about their son, whose name turned out to be Chris, but none of the pieces seemed to fit. And there was no response whatsoever to the name Bobby. It was only after dinner, as they were helping to clear the table, that they finally struck gold.

“It was that one boy,” Myra was saying, “who threatened to turn this neighborhood into a crime zone.”

“Ah, come on, Myra,” Ronald said, carrying some plates to the kitchen, “leave it alone.”

“He was a mess. And terrifying! And stayed in that house for years after.”

“I think it's sad,” Ronald said. “You don't know that he did it. Maybe it was just a tragedy.”

“Tragedy, my behind! It was just awful.”

“I don't mean to pry,” said the Boss, lifting a casserole dish and handing it over the counter that separated the kitchen from the dining room, “but I'd be fascinated to know what you're talking about.”

Ronald let out a sigh, but Myra smiled. “He hates talking about it. There's a house diagonally across the street—here, you can see part of it from the window in the TV room—that one, the one that's a house but says that it's now a chemical company or whatnot on the outside. The one with the truck. Anyways, there was a family that lived there thirty-some-odd years ago, parents, two kids, but one of the kids was way off . . . strange kid, always thought he was strange—”

“Oh, Myra,” Ronald interrupted, “you did not. You only say that because there's no other explanation for what happened.”

“Exactly!” she said with a slap on the table for emphasis. “There's no other explanation!”

“For what?” the Boss asked gently.

“Well,” Myra said, taking a seat and patting the chair next to her. The others were still sitting at the table drinking coffee, and all leaned in with interest. “Nice Irish family. The O'Briens. Her name was Karen, his name was Sam. They had two little boys; Patrick was the older one and Liam was the younger. Lovely people! All except the older boy . . . odd one, he was. A loner. Peculiar. We knew him because he was our Chris's age, and they went to the same middle school. Chris always said the kid gave him the creeps. Anyways, one day we hear sirens, early in the morning, woke us up, and came to find out that the parents and the younger brother had all been killed—
poisoned! H
ow awful, can you imagine?
But not the older boy. Patrick. I don't know why they never accused him of it; we all thought it was him, clear as day. Maybe they didn't have any proof? Always struck me as strange. He went off to live with someone for a few years, then he came back and stayed in the house for some time. Alone. I think that house had been in the family for generations! But what a strange boy . . . with that awful stare. He sort of seemed invisible—then he'd just pop up out of nowhere. I always thought we'd both wind up dead just like his family.”

“But who the hell'd want to hurt us?” Ronald asked, seeming offended.

“I dunno,” Myra said. “Someone who wants access to the best whitefish salad in Queens?”

“This is a reason?”

The Boss cut them off before they started bickering again. “Well, it's been a long day,” he said, “and we've got to hit the road early tomorrow. We'll get some sleep and be off in the morning. Thank you for such a wonderful evening.”

“Oh, of course,” Myra said with a smile. “Just leave the keys there—the door locks by itself. And don't forget to come get some egg sandwiches for the road!”

“Will do,” the Boss replied, and ushered the others downstairs with all due speed.

‡‡‡

“Fascinating,” Jackson said as soon as the door shut and they were safely in the basement apartment. “You're thinking we just got the map that leads to the cave of buried gold, right?”

“Right,” the Boss said. “What say we do some old-school recon and check the place out? It's dark enough now, and I imagine there's a way we can sneak in.”

“Let's do this, Bossman,” Susannah said. “We're all in.”

“Okay,” the Boss said. “Game on. But let's not hedge our bets. It's time for us to play at the highest level. And you know what that means,” he said, shooting a look at Jackson.

“Time to put it all on the table,” Jackson said smartly.

“That's right,” the Boss agreed. “Double down.”

‡‡‡

Thirty minutes had come and gone, and Tyka had found nothing, so she returned to the rendezvous point. It was dark now, and it was beautiful by the Unisphere, lit up, the fountain spraying. The globe itself was steel, a replica of the Earth, and was raised above a fountain which had individual sprays of water surrounding the Unisphere that arched and fell upon it in timed intervals. Surrounding it all was a walkway with plaques and dedications scattered along the brick promenade. People nearby took pictures of their kids or tried to get as close to the globe as possible. Tyka felt she must be missing something. . . . Where on earth would someone hide notes? They must have taken a wrong turn; that was all there was to it. They'd followed a false lead and completely fucked themselves doing it.

Suddenly, Tyka's eye was caught by the flash of a camera illuminating one of the brass historical plaques nearby. This one was at the feet of a statue that portrayed a woman wearing factory garb. Looking down, Tyka saw the plaque was inscribed with a globe and the words:

In Commemoration of the Female Workers

Who Single-Handedly Built the Weaponry

That Won the Battle of Fort Gang

We Are in Your Debt

Chamber of Commerce

Queens 2010

“Hm,” she said aloud. “How interesting. I've never heard of the Battle of Fort Gang, but I'll have to look it up.”

She knelt down. The plaque was slightly raised. She realized, in a moment that felt like it was in slow motion, that there was a place for a key at its base . . . Pulling the key from her bra, she inserted it into the base and turned. The plaque slid up and out, revealing a small square opening underneath. Tyka gasped. Inside was a small box that said on top:
OPEN IN CASE OF MY DEATH. VENDICARE LA MIA MORTE
!

Avenge her death?
Tyka thought. Did Gabriella know she would die? Or did she put this here just in case? Tyka opened the box, saw a letter on top of a few photos and a flash drive, and began to read.

‡‡‡

The Boss and the rest of the gang had silently and swiftly made their way out the separate entrance and across the street. They left the TV on to make sure it sounded like someone was downstairs, though they figured the Kipiniaks must go to bed early to be up so early to run first shift at the deli.

“Okay, team,” the Boss said, feeling the anticipation coursing through his blood. “Here's what I want to do. Jackson, you're on point. The three of us will spread out on every side. Find out if anyone lives there, make sure no one's home, then find a way in. Send out an SOS if you need one. And we'll go from there.”

“Roger that, Bossman,” Jackson said, clearly raring to go. “I love breaking and entering.”

“We know,” the Boss said with a smile. “That's why you're on point. Dammit, I wish we had some backup.”

“I told Fingers we needed help,” Susannah said. “I know we want to keep this small, but she's one of us.”

“That's perfect,” the Boss said. “How soon can she get here?”

“A couple of hours.”

“Why so fast?”

“I had a hunch,” she said with a grin.

“Good going, Legs,” the Boss said. “Jackson, get to it.”

‡‡‡

Jackson made his way over to the completely dark house. It was in tremendous disrepair, and he noted that the truck was no longer parked beside it.

He rang the bell once, twice, three times. Then he tried the door. It was locked, but he could tell from the pull of it that it was a simple lock, easy to bypass. Looking around and making sure he wasn't being watched, he took a credit card out of his wallet and effortlessly made his way inside.

He nearly choked upon entering. Filthy tarps covered the furniture, and an inch of dust coated the floor. He could see dim shapes in the light from the streetlamps outside; cobwebs and filth covered the walls. The whole place gave him the creeps, and made him extraordinarily wary.

He thought about how much he'd like to be back across the street in the Kipiniaks' basement, anywhere other than this . . . then he thought, maybe there was a separate apartment in this home as well? He moved as silently as possible through the house to what looked like the kitchen, paint peeling off the walls, counters cracked. Following the countertop to the far back of the room was a door that looked like it led downstairs.
Bingo!

Using his cell phone for light, and keeping his gun at the ready, Jackson made his way down into the basement. He could tell from his first few steps that something was different; the steps were clear, for one thing, and the air seemed less congested. When he got down the stairs he found himself in an apartment similar to the one they were staying in across the street, one that had clearly been lived in recently, if not presently. It took him about three minutes to make sure there was no one there; then he relaxed and took a more powerful flashlight out of his jacket pocket. Shining it on the far wall, he felt his breath catch in his throat. “Fuck,” he said, “we've really hit it this time.” Then he picked up his phone and called the Boss. “Bossman,” he said, “I'm downstairs, in a separate apartment. Entrance is on the side. Take the stairs down, I'll leave the door open. You guys better get in here, stat.”

‡‡‡

Fritz and Rafael had made their way down near the old classrooms, and Fritz, too, heard the sounds of torture. They were faint, but undeniable, and she agreed with Rafael: They had to investigate. And there was no time to lose.

She remembered from her navy days a place recruits used to go to hook up, sometimes smoke weed, sometimes have parties. There was an area below the Military Goods Storage Warehouse that used to be a bomb shelter but hadn't been used for years. She motioned to Rafael to be quiet and took him down a staircase at the end of the corridor. It looked like it led nowhere, but after walking down the cement stairway they found a trapdoor at the bottom. Fritz lifted the hatch and got inside, motioning for him to follow.

They climbed down the ladder to a room that resembled the galley of a ship. There were rows of doors that looked like they led to either interrogation rooms or holding cells. Fritz's eyes widened; the last time she'd been down here the space had all been open; now it was partitioned into numbered rooms and looked like something she'd expect to see in Stalingrad. They crept quietly down the corridor, guns drawn, past rows of doors, to where the sounds got louder. At the last door they caught a glimpse of a single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. Fritz rose on her tiptoes and looked through the small window to witness Buzz Carter tied to a chair, being beaten by two men.

On Fritz's signal, Rafael blew the door nearly off its hinges. Entering the room, he shot one of the men point-blank; Fritz shot the other. Then she rushed to Buzz's side.

“Buzz!” she cried out, falling to her knees and using a Swiss army knife she carried to cut the plastic ties around his wrists.

He fell forward, and Rafael caught him. Buzz was barely breathing. “I know,” he said hoarsely, so quietly they could barely hear him, “who he is.”

“Baba Samka?” Rafael asked. “Tell us.”

“He's the head of my old division at the CIA. His name is Robert Smith.”

1
4

Tyka had just begun to look through the information in the box, and found it both revealing and terrifying. It was the unofficial closing time for the park; pedestrians had gradually made their way out, and Tyka had moved herself to a slightly more secluded area to look through her find. Reading by the flashlight on her cell, she wondered, not for the first time, how many double lives Gabriella had been leading. The letter she held had been written to Tyka and to a Robert Smith, the CIA man Gabriella had been seeing. It was a plea to avenge her death if she had been killed by the Mob. But that wasn't the disturbing part. What was so distressing was that Gabriella had been positive she'd found out who Baba Samka was . . . and had the documents to prove it. And it all led back to Robert Smith. Part of the letter was a plea to Tyka to hunt him down and put him away, part of it was to Smith, imploring him to turn himself in. At the end of the letter, Gabriella wrote:

I have loved you so, Robert, that I have blinded myself to the unavoidable truth:
You have wrought an unsurpassed campaign of violence that has taken countless lives. Forgive me for taking so long to see you for who you really are . . . and forgive me for continuing to love you. Tyka, forgive me for failing you.

Tyka took a deep breath and tried to still her shaking hands. The information was so shocking, and so strange. Was it possible that BS was neither Buzz, nor Birdsong, nor someone in the Sicilian Mafia, but Gabriella's lover? A CIA man?
How could this be?
She had sent a text to Mahmoud to meet her ASAP back by the Unisphere . . . twenty minutes ago. Where was he?
Puzzling.
It was at just that moment that, seemingly from out of nowhere, she was yanked up from her seat on the grass and felt a gun pressed to her back. For a split second she thought it was Mahmoud playing with her; then she instantly realized from the difference in stature that it was someone else.

“Hello, Tyka,” said a low voice in her ear. “You feel what I have pointed at you? I bet you could even guess the model. Make a sound and you're done for. I've already killed your partner . . . so sad he didn't put up more of a fight! Anyway, so glad to finally meet you. Come with me, and one false move gets you shot before you have a chance to breathe. Just like your old friend Spliff. Got it?”

“Got it,” she said, every muscle in her body filled with fear and anticipation. So this was Robert Smith, yes?
And he had killed Spliff, and Chas's father Chuck.
Did he kill Gabriella, too?
Why would he do that? Unless Gabriella was only a means to an end, a pawn in his game. Regardless, Tyka would find a way to turn the tables. She ought to have been better prepared; she was already planning how she'd get access to her guns. But he laughed, then said, as if reading her mind, “Did you really think you'd get to keep your weapons? Don't insult me, Tyka. Surely you know who you're dealing with. Please remove both guns and the knife. And the small pistol in your boot. Tell me, did you like the statue? Notice its resemblance to your mentor? I had it made for Gabriella. She always adored it. We CIA men can create wars, make heroes, move mountains. It always turned her on. How about you?”

Tyka didn't respond, but laid her weapons down, then turned to face her captor. He was balding, midfifties, and was, in a word, nondescript. She had a hard time believing that this was the man Gabriella had fallen in love with, and a harder time still with the fact that this was the international terrorist they'd been hunting. “Why did you kill Gabriella?” she asked softly. “Did she learn too much about you?”

He grabbed her and turned her back around, then fisted her hair in one hand and pulled her to him, making her gasp in pain. He still held the gun pointed at her from beneath his jacket. “She was the love of my life. I killed every remaining one of the higher-ups in the Cosa Nostra before I left Palermo. Thank you for the help with that, by the way. Start walking. Now. And shut the fuck up.” He hastily gathered the items on the ground, placed them back beneath the statue, and locked the box.

They walked in silence down a secluded path out to a side street, then made their way to a white van with the words
B
OB'S INDUSTRIAL CHEMICALS
written on the side. Robert Smith tossed her in the empty back, bound her hands and feet with zip ties, and locked the door. In the pitch blackness she finally heard what he'd said before: that
he killed her partner
 . . . She only now realized who he meant. He'd taken out Mahmoud on his way to her. Now it was official: He'd killed everyone she'd ever grown close to. She put her face on the floor of the van and silently wept.

‡‡‡

The Boss, Susannah, and Lisa Bee had all joined Jackson, and they had their flashlights pointed at what Jackson had found. They were staring openmouthed at the collage before them. It was the work of a madman; the inner workings of depravity; a study in psychosis blasted across the living room wall. There were pictures of Buzz, Susannah, and Janice; information about terrorist cells in Morocco; nicknames of members of the Sicilian Mafia. Maps of bombings in Italy, France, Morocco, and Johannesburg; detailed floor plans of nuclear facilities across the country; a list of the names and aliases of every member of the Bod Squad. Bible passages were interspersed with technical descriptions of how to build nuclear warheads. Pictures of Gabriella, taken in every possible location, from every possible angle, were prominently displayed. There was also a bank of computers set up surveillance style. Hitting a button, Lisa Bee powered them up to find each one displaying the CIA insignia and a password request.

They stood staring, looking at the seemingly endless volume of information as well as the files scattered all over the desk. Most damning of all was something Jackson found inside the desk drawer—journals that charted the creation of Baba Samka. It was all there in the hand of young Patrick O'Brien . . . Baba had come from Bobby, his brother Liam's middle name, and Samka was an amalgam of Sam and Karen, his parents' names. They'd need more time to look through the journals to see the progression of Patrick's disease, but something had happened around the time of his family's death . . . whether or not he had been responsible, the result was clear: He'd fragmented. Turned violent. Threatened, in his journals, to blow up the world in revenge. And systematically acquired power, and wealth, and contacts who would do his bidding. The reality descended on all of them at once—they'd found the key, the missing link in this abysmal series of crimes. They'd found the information they needed. They'd found the lair of Baba Samka.

‡‡‡

The Boss picked up his phone and dialed Fritz. She answered in what sounded like a frantic moment. “What is it, John?” she asked breathlessly. “I can't talk.”

“Well,” he said, “you'll want to talk about this.”

“About what?”

“We've found him.”

“Who?”

“Baba Samka.”

“John, I really don't have time for this,” she said in a rush. He could hear the sound of sirens and chaos, then of Fritz getting into a car. “We know who he is. We're on the way to get him now.”

“Where are you?” the Boss asked.

“D.C. We're on our way to Langley.”

“Well, he might be there, but we've found his home.”

“Where are you?”

“New York. Woodside.”

There was a momentary pause. Then Fritz turned sharp, sharper than he'd ever heard her. “I told you to stay out of this, John, and I meant it. Now, I don't know what you've discovered, but we're in the midst of finding him here. It's time to stop playing like you're one of us and go back to doing what you do best. I'll tell you one thing you need to know: We have Buzz. He was being held without our knowledge here in Quantico. It proves his innocence, though we need more information. And he's the one who gave us the intel. He's alive, but barely. Tell Susannah we're taking care of him and I've alerted Janice. Beyond that,
go home
. Whatever you've found, turn it over to the proper authorities. I mean it, John. Stay out of it.” And with that she hung up on him, leaving the Boss stunned and confused.

“Well, shit,” the Boss said. “It seems they've got him down in D.C.” He filled them all in on what Fritz had told him. “She certainly wasn't interested in hearing anything I had to say. Damn.”

“Thank God they found my dad!” Susannah said with a heavy sigh. “I had a hunch that it wasn't him—that it never was—”

“Truly, Legs,” the Boss said, putting a hand on her shoulders, “that was absolutely abominable. I'm sorry.”

“I've got to call Chas,” she said.

“Okay,” said the Boss. “But not just yet. Let's figure out where we go from here.”

“Hang on a sec,” Jackson said. “If BS is in D.C., then who the fuck is this?”

“I don't know,” the Boss replied. “But I'll say this much—I don't know where to turn now.”

“Well,” said a voice that came from one of the computers on the desk, “I don't think you'll have the privilege of turning anywhere.”

“
What the fuck?
” Jackson said as they all pulled their weapons.

“Really, Bod Squad? You think I wouldn't have surveillance in my apartment, attached to my computer?” At this, all the lights went on, and classical music began to play. “Pretty cool, eh? That's not the half of it. Writing Casablanca in the sky above that wedding in Virginia was child's play. Forging contacts to plant in Buzz's home in Alexandria was merely an entertainment. I'll have you know this house is rigged to burn down if I need it to. But I think it'd be more fun to play, don't you?” At that, the music went out, the side door opened, and a short, balding man with glasses walked in using Tyka as a body shield. “Hello, John.”

“You're Patrick, I assume.”

“Don't assume anything,” he said with a slight smile. “I haven't been Patrick for many years. Now drop your weapons or the blonde gets it.”

“I don't think so,” the Boss said, holding his ground. Following his lead, the others kept their guns trained on the man at the door.

“Do you really want to play like that?” he asked, jabbing his gun into Tyka's ribs and eliciting a gasp of pain. “Well . . . let's have some fun.” Sliding his gun to the side before anyone knew what was happening, he shot Jackson in the leg.

“Aaaah! Fuck!” Jackson cried, falling to the floor in a heap. Lisa Bee dropped her weapon and ran to his side.

“Whoa!” the Boss said, trying to regain control. “That wasn't necessary.”

“Maybe not. But it
was
entertaining. Especially since you all have compromised my plans so greatly. Tell me, how did idiots like you get the better of me? How did
the Bod Squad
threaten to expose Baba Samka? It sounds to me like a bad episode of
Scooby-Doo
. Put all the remaining weapons on the floor,” he said, more sharply. “
And
the phones. We'll have a bit of fun now, shall we?”

“We need to take care of Jackson,” the Boss said, his gun and Susannah's still trained on their mark. “We'll need towels, warm water, and an ambulance.”

At this, Patrick let out a long laugh. “Oh, you're so very charming when you're scared,” he said. “But no. You're all going to die, so there's no need for heroics. Surely you know that, right? Now, unless you want me to kill the Ukrainian, put your weapons down.”

There was a further standstill, broken by Patrick putting his arm around Tyka's neck and cutting off her air supply. With his other hand, he continued to point his gun at Susannah and the Boss. “By all means,” he said as Tyka struggled, “continue with this foolish game. We'll all just stand and watch as she chokes to death.”

After another minute the Boss looked at Susannah. Jackson was moaning on the floor, Lisa Bee was next to him, and Tyka's face was getting redder and redder as she struggled to breathe. “We need to drop our weapons,” the Boss said. “Now.”

“Dammit,” Susannah replied, and tossed her gun in the center of the room. The Boss followed.

Patrick let go and Tyka dropped to the floor, where she retched and coughed, her hand around her throat. “Now, was that so hard?” he said with a smile.