Project Northwest (3 page)

James at once brought his hands to the front
of his body and slipped them free. He stretched out on the floor
and waited for the cramps in his legs to ease before he untied his
ankles. He stood and had no idea what to do. He wanted to run. He
wanted to collapse on the bed. Unable to decide, he compromised and
paced from one end of the room to the other, then sat on the edge
of the bed, followed by more pacing, followed by more sitting, all
the while ranting curse words aloud. He was blaming himself for not
seeing these guys coming and also asking the age old question, “Why
me?”

His head was killing him and he couldn’t
think clearly, he resolved to take a look at his wounds in the
bathroom mirror. He came face-to-face with the battered and beaten
reflection of himself and, at first, it was shocking, but as he
looked closely, it wasn’t as bad as he had expected.

He had two cuts above his right eyebrow. They
were fresh, but not serious. He’d suffered far worse in his rock
climbing expeditions. Someone had cleansed the wounds and bandaged
them with butterfly band-aids. The band-aids were barely hanging
on. His right eye had a darkening black ring and his bottom lip had
been busted—he did look like he had been in a car accident, but
would certainly survive.

He saw his cell phone, two Advil, and two
band-aids on the sink counter,
t
hey left me Advil
, he
thought as he read the note the Advil sat on: “Project Northwest,
Blue–Gray Eyes.” The cell phone was dead.

He quickly washed down the Advil with a glass
of water. The first swallow tasted terrible, as the water
rehydrated the dry blood from his lip and filled his mouth with
that distinct metal taste of his own iron. He rinsed and spat out
the bloody mixture and watched as the newly aggravated cut in his
lip dripped blood into the sink. He ran water over his face and
read the note again.

He looked at his reflection in the mirror,
waiting for it to suggest his next move when he saw it—out of the
corner of his eye, on the edge of the sink, a short black and gray
hair.

Mr. Wright had a chink in his armor. He had
primped himself as he marveled in great detail about the attractive
shape of Bridget, and left a little piece of himself behind.

James moved slowly, not wanting to disturb
it, wanting to avert any action that might cause the hair to fall
into the sink or onto the floor. He wet his finger under the
faucet, placed his finger on the hair, and was delighted when it
stuck.

He carefully placed the hair onto the note
and then folded the piece of paper in half and in half again.

“Got ya, you son of a bitch,” he declared as
he looked into the mirror. He placed the folded paper in his wallet
and noticed one visa was missing, the Washington Common Bank visa.
He then scoured the room for other items that they may have used.
He wasn’t surprised he didn’t find any evidence.

He sat in the signature red chair, lifted the
handset of the telephone, and wanted to dial 911. Every fiber of
his being wanted to dial those three simple numbers. Kids do it all
the time and save their whole family from burglaries in progress,
their grandparents suffering from heart failure, or out-of-control
fires.

The dial tone lasted for a minute or so, then
went to a fast busy. He pressed the hook switch down, let it go,
and dialed Bridget’s number. She answered before the phone finished
its first ring cycle.

“Hello?”

“Bridget, it’s me—”

“James, I’ve been worried sick. The police
said you’ve been in some type of accident, but couldn’t give me any
information. What hospital are you at? I’ll come right now.”

“I’m not at a hospital. I’m at an Embassy
Suites.”

“What? You’re at a hotel? Where?”

The questions were coming fast and furious.
James could only focus on the last question, looked at the phone
faceplate, and knew exactly where he was. “Umm, the one near the
Airport, I–405, next to the Amtrak lines.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I just want to go home.”

“I’m on my way.”

James couldn’t tell her what happened, he
couldn’t risk involving her in this, and he couldn’t believe he was
even thinking he had to do it. He, James Spain, was contemplating
helping these bastards steal from a bank and lying to Bridget.
Both, he suspected, would eventually turn out badly.

If he told her the truth, she would insist on
involving the police or worse—think he was dishonest to cover
something up, something sinister and untrustworthy—that as it was,
was too close to the truth. No, he was going to have to lie and lie
well. His story was simple:
He was drugged after the hospital
visit and left, dialed her, but in his physical and drugged
state—most likely dialed the wrong number and just gave up and
needed a place to crash for a while. For some reason, they brought
him to the hospital near the airport and he remembered this hotel.
It was the drugs and he couldn’t think clearly.

It wasn’t the best of lies, but would she
really interrogate him when she saw him in this condition? He was
betting she wouldn’t and hoping he was right. Sure, after a few
days, the questions would become more and more piercing, his
answers subjected to extra scrutiny, but he only needed a few days.
He was sure he could find a way out of this mess. He had to.

He did a final check of room 122, closed the
door, and noted the room was the last room before the side exit. He
opened the side door. The burst of cool air flowed across his face
and felt good, then stung the open wounds. Before letting the door
close, he wondered if he should stop by the front desk and ask for
the phone bill. Would they make any calls from the room phone? He
doubted it and let the door close behind him and waited at the edge
of the sidewalk.

Bridget rounded the corner and saw him. She
jumped from the car, forgetting to put it in park, jumped back in,
slammed the brake, engaged park, and ran toward James. She hugged
him so hard it actually hurt and he let out a groan. She pulled
away, saw his injuries, “I’m sorry, oh my god. James, thank God
you’re okay. We need to get you back to the hospital.”

“No, baby, I’m fine. I just want to go
home.”

“You don’t want me to take you back to the
hospital? You sure?”

“Absolutely.”

As they exited the parking lot, her cell
phone rang. The ID showed “’Unknown’. She answered and James could
hear the one-sided conversation, “Hello.... Yes ... I will.... He’s
in no shape to talk right now,” she answered and hung up.

“Who was it?”

“A Mr. Wright?”

“What did he say?”

“Glad you’re okay and he is looking forward
to working with you Monday or something like that.”

“Okay, thanks baby.”

“He’s crazy. You’re staying home so I can
take care of you. The police wouldn’t tell me anything, kept saying
the records were incomplete and to call back in two hours. I’d call
back in two hours only to be told to call back again in two hours.
It was maddening. Oh, baby, you look terrible.”

James knew he was going to work on Monday,
but didn’t have the strength to battle with her about it.
Just
sit back and let her take care of yo. Monday will be here soon
enough,
he thought.

On the drive home, James got the full account
of her thoughts, feelings, and actions over the last fourteen
hours, all of it in vivid and emotional detail. By the time they
arrived home, he was mentally exhausted and his head was pounding,
but he knew one thing, Bridget loved him to the core.

She had gone through her own version of hell
in trying to find him, her eyes were puffy, and she had been up all
night with worry.

And he also knew something else.

Mr. Wright wasn’t afraid to call Bridget and
had known James was in the car. They were being watched just as Mr.
Wright said they were.

Chapter Two

~ Sunday Morning ~

James woke up Sunday
morning in his own bed to the smell of coffee brewing in the
kitchen, mixed with the heavenly-bakery scent of cinnamon buns. In
his morning haze, he could’ve sworn the whole thing was just a bad,
bad dream. He almost convinced himself it was, but his head ached
and he had the unmistakable earthy taste of metal from the dried
blood on his lip, now healing. It all came back to him—he had the
wounds on his face and the tender concern of Bridget to prove it
was all too real.

Bridget called off from work and nursed him
throughout the day. She bandaged, cleansed his wounds, iced his lip
and swollen face, kissed, and massaged every part that hurt, even
parts that didn’t. She charged his cell phone and deleted
twenty–two messages she had left him during the frantic search. She
felt guilty deleting them, but didn’t want him to think she was too
needy or something.

By Sunday afternoon, he was feeling much
better and with the new butterfly band-aids in place, he didn’t
look too bad. He could definitely go to work and that was exactly
what he was going to do. His headache diminished as the day went on
and he was able to think clearly.

When he finally had the strength to leave the
bedroom, he found Bridget outside drinking a local brew from
Georgetown Brewing Company. James grabbed one from the fridge and
joined her. The beer went down smoothly as he mentally ran through
his options.

He had the hair and it would certainly come
in handy in the near future. He wasn’t sure how useful it would be
but felt that it would prove valuable. He couldn’t call the police.
Wright’s team was able to file a report that convinced the police
investigators Bridget talked to that an accident did happen when it
didn’t. He couldn’t trust anyone at the bank; the albino was
obviously in OTS or some other agency. He was almost certain the
apartment was bugged, as well as the phone and the internet
connection.

He surmised that he didn’t know how far the
rabbit hole went, but it was safest to assume it went deep. After
all, billions of dollars were at stake.

He could only trust people who were not
government related. What about his college roommate? Would they
think to bug him? Would they be following him? How could he get in
touch without being traced? He could go to a local internet
café—was that an option? Would that work? The questions raced
through his mind, but the answers were nowhere to be found.

James leaned in close to Bridget, close
enough to whisper, “Can internet cafés be traced? You know, can the
government tap into your internet communications?”

Bridget contemplated the question, allowing
the cold beer to swirl in her mouth. She pulled the bottle from her
mouth and it made a
plunk
sound. James motioned to her with
a single finger across his lips,
shush
.

Bridget was puzzled by his secrecy, but
whispered back, “Yes, I think so, they would have to know the
internet provider and could probably see what you’re doing, but I
think they would need a warrant. Why? Why are we whispering?”

James made a quick decision. He had to tell
her a little bit of what was going on, but not enough to put her at
risk. He would never tell her of the bank stealing part, but he
needed her to know they were being watched.

He just said it, “We’re being watched.”

“Watched, what do you mean, like spying? Are
you in trouble James?”

James decided to lie. “More like being
investigated. You know, because of the accident.”

She didn’t know and stood in an instant of
anger and distrust. She was hot now, her bull-shit meter pegged off
the graph, and exclaimed in a normal voice, (which was much louder
than the whisper James was hoping for) “What the hell is going
on?”

He grabbed her sleeve and with his best
puppy-dog look, silently begged her to sit down, to hear him
out.

She reluctantly agreed, giving him a fierce
once over while she took her seat and jerked her sleeve out of his
hand.

Skepticism filled the distance between them
and James could feel its coldness roll across his skin like a cold
front from British Columbia. The beer bottle was quickly at her
lips again, as she took a big gulp, trying to swallow her anger.
“They don’t investigate car accidents, James, at least not to the
point where they spy on you. What is going on?”

He paused momentarily, and then lied through
his teeth, hating himself before he even spoke. “There was a little
green in the car. The cops found it and now I’m under suspicion.
Mr. Wright, the one that called when you picked me up at the hotel,
he’s an employee investigator, and I’ve heard stories about how
they take the smallest investigation to unheard of levels. OTS and
bank security are ruthless.”

Bridget wasn’t sure she believed it. It did
ring of truth, and she was sure there were employee
investigators—after all, it was a government agency.

They were back to whispering.

“So why the questions about the internet
café? What does that have to do with this?”

“I have friends I’d like to contact without
even the remote possibility of these investigators knowing. Friends
that may be able to help me keep my job.”

She nodded. She knew James loved his job.
“Okay, then you’ll need a pre-paid cell phone. It doesn’t require a
contract or a credit card and they would never know which one you
purchased.”

“Yes, but I’m thinking of another route.”

“What’s that?”

“I want you to steal a phone from one of your
co–wor—”

She was shaking her head before he even
finished. “No, I will not steal from a co-worker, James. Are you
crazy?”

“Okay, maybe steal was the wrong word. I want
you to borrow a phone—you can even leave a note saying you’ll bring
it right back. I only need it for an hour or so.”