Operator - 01 (20 page)

“How deep is my predicament, sir? I was looking for the black Chinook outside…” That’s a nervous reference to the helicopter that supposedly appears to spirit you away after you’ve made one too many mistakes in the Special Ops community. I’m straight with Alpha because there’s no point posturing with the man. He holds all the cards and he knows it. He’s also a shrewd enough player not to throw his weight around arbitrarily. He will convince me of the rightness of whatever he wants me to do.

“It’s a difficult situation. The FBI has nineteen bodies and no suspect in custody. That doesn’t count the men in your hotel room. Breaking up the human trafficking ring has gotten them a lot of good publicity, so that weighs in your favor. But they’re not inclined to tolerate vigilantism.” He lets this sit with me for a moment before continuing.

“On the other hand, they may be willing to accept a convenient alternate theory of the crime. It was wise of you to spare the accountant. He is cooperating, and shedding a great deal of light on the extent of the gang’s activities. He also described the attack on the building in vivid terms. He believes that a rival gang, the
Solntsevskaya Bratva
, stormed the building. Several of the other eyewitness accounts bear this out, describing gunfire coming from multiple locations. There was also a weapon used in the attack recovered from the facility. It is undeniably of Russian origin.” Here Alpha eyes me for a moment, as if he might discern where I’ve gotten hold of a Vintorez by looking in my eyes. I keep my mouth shut, figuring that I’ve gotten Don Miller in enough trouble for one week.

“I believe I can convince the FBI to accept the rival gang theory and focus on the human trafficking ring – particularly the question of whether this was confined to Conestoga or if it’s a more widespread issue. I believe they can also be persuaded to accept some outside help investigating the counterintelligence angle, particularly if they receive credit for any arrests or expulsions. Your friend, Supervisory Special Agent Menetti, has already done some good on your behalf. Without him, the FBI might already have picked you up.

“It would be useful if you could confirm Mr. Drubich’s connection to the Tambov activities, but the more interesting question is whether Ms. Ryan’s instincts are correct about a highly placed, redheaded American man. We’ll look at this on our end – but while the hair color narrows the possibilities, it’s not enough. You’ve already pulled the line and found the first fish on the hook. Now you need to follow it the rest of the way. You need to find out who this man is, and whether Drubich has compromised him. Given her connection with Mr. Drubich, I’m sure you’ll want Ms. Ryan to assist you to make sure you hook the right fish.” This is not a casual suggestion; it’s as close as Alpha will come to giving me a direct order. Instead of going back to her life, Veronica will have to help me get information from Drubich and identify the redheaded diplomat. She might have been better off staying with the Tambov thugs than becoming bait. Alpha is already having an effect on me because I find myself agreeing with him, at least in that overdeveloped part of my brain that solves problems with no regard for human consequences.

“Sir, with due respect to the gravity of the situation, I do not plan to rejoin the unit.” I’m putting it out there because it needs to be said. All things considered, I’d rather go to Alaska or even Leavenworth than back to the Activity.

“I’m not suggesting that,” Alpha replies quickly. “We can help each other informally. I can run interference for you with the FBI and supply you with intelligence and support. You can determine how far the activities of Mr. Drubich and the Tambov Gang extend.”

“What about the Conestoga sheriff’s department?” I ask. “They’re the ones who already named me to the press.”

Alpha shakes his head. “I can’t help you there. But the FBI raided the Vanderhook offices early this morning and they recovered the journal you described along with a sizable amount of cash. They also have the cooperation of the Tambov accountant, one of the few gang members you did not kill yesterday.” He pins me with another significant look. “So I imagine they should be able to connect the dots from the gang to the sheriff’s office as you did, but it may take some time.” This I translate to mean,
you’re on your own
. In case I don’t completely grasp that, he makes it explicitly clear: “Please be aware, Orion, that you are completely off the books on this assignment. If you are caught breaking any more federal or state laws, you’ll be disavowed.” I nod. It’s not unexpected. If things work out, the FBI will owe Alpha a few favors. If they don’t, he’ll feed me to the wolves. At least he can keep the feds off my back in the meantime. That’s all I expected.

“In order to proceed, we’ll need to take your vehicle and any weapons you fired last night,” Alpha says. Without hesitation, I pull two sets of keys from my jacket pocket, laying them in front of me on the table. Then I reach behind my back and withdraw the Kimber custom from the loop holster inside the back of my belt. I eject the clip and clear the .45 ACP round that is chambered, catching it in the air. I lay the gun, clip and round on the table in front of Alpha.

“These are the keys to the blue Crown Victoria outside. It belonged to one of the Russians,” I say, pointing to the Ford keys. “These are for my GTO.” I tell him where I’ve parked it in Conestoga.

“I understand you have some history with this sidearm,” Alpha says, nodding at the Kimber.
He remembers the story
, I think, momentarily surprised. Alpha continues, “And I believe we can replace the firing pin and rework the barrel and return it to you. Nobody at the Activity has forgotten your contributions,” the older man assures me. Then Alpha picks up the Kimber and its spare clip gently and puts them in a padded gun case. Next he pulls a tan leather Hartmann briefcase from the floor, lays it on the table and slides it over to me. I do not move to open it. “The briefcase contains the usual items,” he says.

Then Alpha reaches into the pocket of his olive blazer and fishes out a set of keys. “These are for the black Pontiac G8 parked outside. If at all possible, I would appreciate the return of this vehicle to us intact.” He hands the key ring to me then withdraws a slim Blackberry from another pocket. “This is an encrypted device that will send and receive files securely. There’s a second one of these in the briefcase. We’ve also put fresh clothing and some other items you may need in the trunk of the Pontiac. Is there anything else that you require?”

“No, sir.”

“Good luck, Orion,” Alpha says, extending a hand. It is only the second time the old man has ever offered me his hand. The first time was when he first persuaded me to join the Activity. We walk out of Sweet Sue’s together.

Veronica is chatting with the two Activity men on the porch. She seems to have put them at ease. They straighten up instantly at the sharp look they get from Alpha. He tosses the keys to the Crown Victoria to one of the operators and hands the gun case to the other. I follow the first man, an imposing former Tae Kwon Do instructor whose call sign is Sleeper. As I recall, the man was found fast asleep standing bolt upright in the barracks shower during Ranger school. The nickname stuck and eventually became his call sign at the Activity. I tell Sleeper that I lifted the plates on the Crown Victoria and show him the load-out bag with the P90 and the other items I’ve taken from the Russians and from Stokeley’s. I pull my personal bag from the trunk with Veronica’s, and the case with my father’s rifle.

“Be careful, Orion. You must be into some h-eav-y shit to bring the old man up here,” Sleeper says quietly as I close the trunk to the Crown Vic.

“You don’t know the half of it.”

I toss the two bags into the back seat of the Pontiac G8 then take a walk around the car. The G8 looks like a family car, but it’s not. The plain Jane, four-door Australian-sourced sedan conceals a powerful 8-cylinder engine transplanted from a Corvette. It is a brilliant vehicle that appeared with spectacularly bad timing at the height of the recession just before GM’s bankruptcy, and never got a foothold in the US market. It was discontinued when General Motors killed Pontiac but there are still rumors that it may return under the Chevy badge. Alpha must have gotten a huge bargain on G8s and I chuckle to imagine him negotiating with a bunch of auto execs when the company was in government hands. As I make one more circuit around the vehicle, Alpha hops into the passenger seat of a black Chevy Suburban, which immediately peels off with a screech of tires, followed closely by the Crown Victoria. They are undoubtedly headed to a helicopter that will whisk Alpha back to Virginia.

I open the trunk of the G8 and see that in addition to a suitcase of clothes, Alpha has stocked the trunk with enough weapons to get me locked up indefinitely if I am pulled over for speeding. I lay my father’s rifle in its padded zip case among them. Climbing into the car behind the wheel, I take a moment to familiarize myself with the black G8, which is the manual transmission-GXP model with an up-rated 415 horsepower V-8 engine. I turn the interior light to the off position so that it will not illuminate when I open the car doors. Then I pop the hood and step out to take a peek underneath. I immediately see that the technicians at the Activity have made some of their usual modifications. Satisfied, I hop into the G8 and we head south, past a closed river rafting shop and over the Esopus creek. Veronica lays her hand on mine for a second as I pull the G8 into third gear.

* * *

Sheriff Buddy Peterson awakes to an acrid smell in his nose and he flinches away from the source instinctively. I can see him pull away from the ammonia as I push the broken capsule under his nose again. He regains his senses gradually. First, he feels soft flannel sheets under his palms as his hands suffuse with blood. The comfortable bulk of his wife Dorothy is resting against him and he realizes he’s in bed. Then he panics for a moment, unable to see, and wonders if he’s having a stroke. His eyelids finally flutter open and his tear ducts begin to work on lubricating his dry eyes. He sees that it’s dark outside, but the lamp beside his bed is switched on. Now he knows that it’s the middle of the night. Then his ears begin to tingle and he hears breathing in addition to his and his wife’s. Mine. He knows he’s not alone. His eyes bulge as he strains his neck to scan the room.

Presently, his eyes find me. I’ve sat back into a rocking chair, which I’ve pulled beside the bed. My legs are crossed and I’m rocking slowly. When Buddy sees me, a glint of recognition sparks in his eyes, accompanied by more fear. He turns his head painfully toward his wife.

“She’s fine,” I say before he can ask. “But she won’t wake up until morning.”

It takes Buddy a moment to compose himself, but he does. He starts to rise, but I hold a hand up, and he sinks back into the bed, sitting a little more upright. “What do you want?” he croaks, his voice not quite working yet.

“I wanted to tell you that your days as Sheriff in this town are over. The FBI has gotten the accountant from the warehouse talking and they have a ledger from Charles Vanderhook’s office detailing the places where the Tambov gang operated and the money he received. I’m going to bet he’ll be anxious to cut a deal. They’re already cross-referencing calls to your office with complaints about those locations. Either way, they have plenty to tie you to the gang. You’re going down.”

I see the steel in Peterson’s eyes as he considers this. “You’re a wanted man. You killed that banker. You’ll be in jail sooner than I will,” he bluffs.

“Perhaps,” I agree, “but maybe not. You did me a favor by putting my name out as a person of interest. The FBI will eventually confirm that I put them onto the warehouse location where they unfortunately didn’t arrive until after a terrible turf war had played out between two rival Russian gangs. It’s well known that I haven’t been in town for over a decade, so I obviously have nothing to do with this mess. I stumbled into it when the reporter convinced me that my ex-girlfriend was murdered. And the odds are that a forensic examination will be able to tie George Jeffrey’s murder to one of the guns the FBI recovered from the mobsters in the warehouse. When it comes out that you and your department were corrupt, in bed with a gang procuring underage girls for child molesters, I think your credibility will pretty well be shot, don’t you?”

I can see the wheels in Peterson’s brain turning. He’s always been a booster, always anxious to support the winning team. He’s trying to find an angle, a way to help himself.

“What do you want from me?” he says gruffly.

“Help,” I say. “I know this operation extends past this little town. I’m willing to bet that you know a man named Constantine Drubich.”

I see the flicker of recognition in his eyes. He can’t hide it, and he knows I’ve seen it. His shoulders slump.

“Do you have a way to contact him?” I ask. Buddy nods. “How?”

“His cell phone.”

“You’re going to call him now and tell him that you need to meet him tomorrow in this area. Tell him you’ll text him the location in the morning, and that he’s to meet you at noon. Tell him it’s urgent.” Peterson considers this for a moment more, but I can see the fight has gone out of him. He looks to his nightstand. His phone isn’t there, but I hand it to him and after a moment of fiddling with it, he dials a number. Constantine doesn’t answer, so Buddy leaves the message as I’ve spelled it out.

I get up to leave but pause just as I reach the inlaid wood frame of his bedroom door. I turn back toward him casually, almost as an afterthought.

“You’ve let some terrible things happen in this town,” I say, enunciating slowly. “Melissa was murdered because of you.”

Buddy considers this for a minute and I watch him struggle with it. In his heart, Buddy knows he is going to jail. A part of him wants to come clean and be forgiven. I know what I represent to Buddy, even though I’m not the man he thinks I am. I’m counting on that.

“I’ve been living with that every day, son,” Peterson finally responds, his voice catching.

“How did this start? How did you get involved with these people?”