Call Me Joe (39 page)

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I pulled up in front of Art's office at 10:40 a.m. The girl had fallen asleep around Pullman and stirred groggily as I yanked open her door.

I unhooked the cuff from the door handle and snapped it around my wrist.

"Get up," I growled. "We're here."

She stumbled out of the car and stretched creakily. I yanked on the cuffs and she stumbled along behind me.

"You're hurting me!" she whined.

"I'm trying to," I replied.

I dragged her through Art's foyer, past a gaping Bettijean who could only nod and point.

The conference room was a full house. Art and three of his clerks were at the far end of the huge table, with Jack and Aaron immediately to Art's left.

Gene and Abigail Kasten, Clayton and Jane Wright, and two obvious lawyer-types, were to Art's right.

One of the lawyer-types started speaking as we came in the door.

"Let the records show that Ms. Kasten is…" he began.

"Shut up," I said quietly.

"Mr. North," the other attorney began.

"You shut up, too," I sighed.

I unlocked the cuffs and shoved Katja into a chair. She slumped down, doing her best to convey her profound boredom.

"Art, I really must…" the first attorney began.

I pulled out the Eagle and pointed it at the attorney.

"Shut your stupid face," I said slowly. "Nobody speaks in this room but me, until I'm done. You want to piss around with legalese after that, knock yourselves out. Right now, I have the floor."

"This meeting is over," the first attorney said flatly. "Gene, let's…"

I cocked the Eagle and walked around the table. I pushed the barrel into his ear and twisted it a bit. His knees went watery and he started to wheeze.

"You gonna listen?" I asked.

He nodded and sank into the chair.

“I'm not putting up with any lawyer shit, any rich-guy shit, any feminist shit, any political shit…anybody sensing a theme here?"

Aaron chuckled quietly. I ignored it.

"I watched a poor, bewildered fool commit suicide last night. He did it so fast I couldn't stop him. It didn't have to happen. It was set into motion by people in this room, who misled a guy who had operated, for over 30 years, in the service of this country, however fucking stupid and wrong his orders may have been."

"I have a vague idea how this came about. I'm going to tell it. You're going to listen."

I glanced over at Art, whose eyes were the size of two storm drains.

"You ask them any of this last night?" I said quietly.

"I was waiting for you," he shrugged, "I just covered the resort crap."

"Thanks," I nodded.

I walked over to Art's phone and dialed up Rod Hooks in London. I got him onto the speaker phone and told him who was present.

"Joanna Kasten?" he sputtered. "Is she…"

"Otherwise known as Katja Saren," I replied. "You alone, Rod?"

"Anthony Pembroke is with me," Rod answered.

"Good," I said loudly. "Rod…or Tony. Whose idea was this development in Colville?"

"Umm…" Rod began, "well, the short answer is…ummm…it came from…three people."

"It came from Clayton Wright first," Tony Pembroke interjected. "I mentioned it to my wife, who researched it for a few days and then laid out a proposal."

"So Clayton Wright brought the idea to you?" I repeated.

"I've known Clayton since my wife introduced us in '97. She was his patient."

"Do you know how your wife researched it?" I asked.

"She said she had a friend who had grown up in Spokane," Tony replied. "It was the friend who proposed the current site…more or less, of course. It changed a bit as we negotiated the leases."

"She ever give you the friend's name?"

"Katie Sarver," Pembroke replied. "I'm sorry, but what's this  ab…"

"I'm getting there, Mr. Pembroke," I interjected. "I'm betting you never met this woman and that your wife has never met the Wrights?"

"That's…that's correct," he answered, clearly puzzled.

"Did your wife pay the woman for this research?" I asked.

"No, and I thought it odd, frankly," Pembroke said emphatically. "Ms. Sarver described herself as a real estate speculator but wouldn't take a farthing for the rather voluminous presentation she gave my wife. I asked to meet her, but Annika said she was in Belgium on business.

"I'm going to guess that Katie Sarver is going to turn out to be one of the known aliases of Joanne Kasten," I said, staring at Katja. "Wanna bet on that one, Katja?"

She sighed heavily, feigning boredom. Her parents, Jane Wright, Art and Jack had been sneaking surreptitious glances at her all along and were now openly staring. Jane's face held an odd mixture of tenderness, puzzlement, and outright fear.

"How long you been in contact with your sister, Jane?"

The Kastens gasped and clutched each other's hands. Jane sat back and sighed heavily.

"A little over three years," Jane murmured.

Gene Kasten swore sharply, under his breath. Art shifted uncomfortably in his chair, a scowl darkening his usually boyish face. Jack looked like a man engrossed in a very complicated chess match.

Clayton Wright was checking out his nails.

"So, here's Janie Karsten," I continued. "Poor little girl whose sister was yanked away at a very early age, who's always felt that loss in her life, and who's tried to fill the void with sex, romance, money, adventure… But nothing really worked, huh, Janie? So, one day, Joanna calls—I'm guessing, since Jane sure as shit wasn't gonna find you, was she, Jo-Jo?"

"My name is Katja!" she snarled.

Aaron got up, walked over behind Joanna and smacked her in the back of the head.

"Shut up," Aaron growled. "You're interrupting the story."

He remained standing behind Joanna. She squirmed in her seat while Aaron winked at me.

"So, Joanna goes a little soft around the edges. After Serge Dageneau snatched her in Quebec, she grew up with him as apart of the Basque separatist movement.  Lots of living in caves, not a lot of eating, home schooling that included explosives and weapons training. She grew up hard but she still had that soft core…and she never really forgot her twin."

"So, she gets in touch. It wouldn't be hard. Little Mrs. Wright's in the paper at least weekly. Jane's overjoyed, Joanna's savage breast is soothed, everything's great. But there's a major problem:  Joanna—or Katja Saren, as she's now known—is a wanted woman. She's been keeping bad company—the I.R.A. Hamas, Al Quaida, Brigata Rosso, pretty much any bunch of homicidal twistos who'll have her. She can't just show up in Spokane. She'll get scooped up by the F.B.I., especially now, post 9/11. So, it's telephones and e-mails for the Kasten twins."

"Somewhere along the line, Jane confides to her sister her biggest secret. She's struck it rich. Literally. She has this box of golden rocks they gathered up when they were girls and, lo and behold, it turns out to be actual gold. Couple million dollars worth, with just what she had in the one box...and the two more boxes at home. She went to an assay office and had it certified and then hooked up with a guy who helped her mine more of it from where she found the rocks. She was smart. She kept her mouth shut, never cashed in enough at once to arouse suspicion, and banked it all in amounts below the federal reporting limit."

"Problem, though:  The gold was on land that didn't belong to her. She thought, in fact, that the land belonged to the Colville tribe. So, how to get at it?"

"I don't think Clayton Wright was the one who came up with what is now Coyote Creek Resort. I think it was his wife who first put the bug in his ear."

Clay Wright was staring at Jane, mouth agape, looking as if someone had plugged him with a baseball bat.

"It was what you call your basic confluence of interests."

Wright's head swiveled slowly toward me.

"Done with your nails, Doc?" I smiled. "Trying to get the blood out from under them?"

He turned red and started to get out of the chair.

"Sit your punk ass down," Aaron said quietly. "Right now."

Wright took a long look at Aaron and slowly settled into the chair.

'Interesting story," I nodded. "Young combat medic named Wright, a surgeon, newly-minted from U.C.L.A., gets sent to a M.A.S.H. on the Vietnamese border with Laos. While he's there, he digs some bullets out of a young C.I.A. operative named Joe. Just Joe. Doctor Wright and Joe turn out to be extremely sympatico. This makes C.I.A. antsy, since Joe is an uncannily gifted marksman, a sniper. He's perfect. No friends, family long gone, and, to boot, he's this simple kind of guy. Not a lot of independent thinking about Joe, no conflicts about orders. They say 'shoot these guys,' Joe shoots 'em. Never misses, never gets caught, never asks questions and a naturally cautious guy, to boot."

"But he's not a linear thinker. He can carry out orders just fine but he couldn't plan a dinner for one. The doc, according to his psych profiles, is a bang-up strategist. Intelligent, good with people…and Joe has imprinted on him like a baby duck. So C.I.A. just hires the Doc. He's got one job—handle Joe. Pass along his assignments, help him plan, and otherwise his time is his own. Joe works maybe eight times a year. It's perfect. Doc can go back and take a Doctorate in Reconstructive Surgery. He can go into high profile practice, cut 'n' paste the hoi-poloi, make zillions, and keep everybody pieced off in D.C. Joe, purely by chance, even winds up an hour up the road. The resort was the crowning touch. Now he owns a lease on Joe's own land! It's not ownership but it's access and C.I.A. can keep tabs on Joe by the simple expedient of putting a field agent on-site, which they did. His name is Allen Simmons. He tried to kill Joe and me last night. We sorta foiled him."

"You can't prove any of this, of course," Clayton Wright smiled.

"Sure I can," I smiled. "See, I don't care about proving anything to a judge and jury. For my purposes, the court of public opinion will do just fine."

I nodded to Aaron, who pulled a clunky, black wireless phone out of his pocket. Wright went a sickly green and started to get up.

"Sit, asshole," Aaron growled. "If I come over there, you're leaving in an ambulance."

"This is a satellite phone," I explained. "I push this button, it calls Joe. Joe can't come to the phone right now. If I push this one, it calls a certain number in Langley, Virginia."

I pushed the button and laid the phone into Art's adaptable speaker cradle.

"Field desk," came a flat, Midwestern voice.

"Don't talk, just listen," I said clearly. "Your boy, Clayton Wright, has been outed. Your shooter, Joe, is dead. Self-inflicted G.S.W. As I speak, Dr. Wright's special arrangement with you—and Joe—is in the hands of C.N.N. Turn your T.V. on in 15 and you'll see it. Your field agent, Allen Simmons, should have reported in by now. He's injured and his cover is blown. This arrangement is over. You recording?"

"Since I picked up," the voice said calmly.

"Then here's a message for the D.C.I:  You people have become pathetically lame and sloppy. Fix it. Now."