Favors and Lies (17 page)

“Are you worried about him?”

“Not really. He knows how to disappear. And he has the means. He knows the risk of what he does. Thus, he charges accordingly for that risk.”

“So how do we find the guys in the pictures?”

“I'm working on that.”

“Are you sure the white guy isn't the attorney you met at the building on Wisconsin Avenue? You said you may not be able to identify him.”

“He's not tall enough. Height—particularly for men—is one of the parameters difficult to alter. Heels are obvious on a man. Ditto for hats. A combination of lifts inside the shoes and a baseball cap may provide an inch or two of discrepancy that is not too obvious. Otherwise, it is tough for a man to hide his height.”

“You know anyone else who can help identify them?”

“I know someone who has access to military records, but he is out of the country. And of course, even if he were around, we would have to go through thousands of photos.”

“That would take forever.”

“Indeed. My attorney friend, Clyde Parkson, is another story. I am reasonably confident he is not military.”

“Someone in intelligence?”

“Very likely. One with a high-level security clearance and a big set of balls.”

“What makes you say that?”

“If I am right, he has orchestrated the killing of four Americans on American soil. That is a very big no-no.”

“So how do you find him?”

“I call in another favor.”

—

In the basement of the Octagon building in Tysons, an agitated Reed Temple watched as Ridge wrapped the last strap to his lower left leg and stood. The exoskeleton looked like scaffolding for the body, an outer frame of space-age composite bone layered over real flesh and blood.

“How does it feel?” Major asked.

“Effortless,” Ridge replied.

“Then give it a test drive.”

Ridge started easy with lunges and deep knee bends. The hinges on the exoskeleton slid smoothly and silently.

“Any resistance?”

“None. It's like I'm not even using my own muscles.”

Reed Temple grinned. “So it works as designed?”

Major responded. “Indeed. The exoskeleton picks up the user's body movements as they occur. There are hundreds of sensors in various locations and several microchips with backup redundancy. The microchips process the data in real time and translate it into exoskeleton movement. The exoskeleton assists the user's own muscles with the task it is performing, supplying power to the user's intended movement. Pretty awesome, really. And of course there are all kinds of practical applications if you are concerned with non-military scenarios. Physical assistance for the elderly. For the paralyzed. Once the sensors can accurately read brainwaves, the system will bypass the body's muscle movement, or lack thereof, entirely.”

“I am only concerned with the military application.”

“Imagine a team of special forces parachuting behind enemy lines and strapping on these skeletons. Preliminary estimates indicate that a team of special forces soldiers could cover one hundred miles a day on foot, in total silence, without exertion. Add body armor and you are talking about a truly dominating force. With the added strength assistance of the exoskeleton, we could load additional gear. Biohazard suits. Radiation protection. Scuba gear. Anything you can imagine.”

“How strong is it?”

Major turned to Ridge. “You ready to lift some weights?”

Ridge smiled and walked to the corner of the concrete-walled room. The large barbell on the floor had six forty-five pound plates on each side.

“We have been testing it with just under six hundred pounds,” Major said.

Ridge bent over and lifted the weight to his waist as if beginning a clean-and-jerk routine. He held the weight at belt height for a full minute before setting it down.

Ridge provided his assessment as Major and Reed whispered to each other. “Hurts the hands a little. My body can support the weight, no problem, but a barbell requires grip and the exoskeleton does not currently assist well enough with that.”

“We are working on it. Try a squat.”

Ridge moved two feet to his left and stood under a weighted bar that was shoulder height.

“Six hundred again?” Reed Temple asked.

“Affirmative.”

Ridge bent slightly to position the weight on his shoulders and then flexed his own muscles to stand. The bar bent on each end, the weight pushing the limits of the steel. Ridge began doing deep knee squats. Once again, he was smiling during what would have otherwise been crushing exertion. “I can do this all day long.”

“Try the treadmill,” Reed Temple said.

Ridge followed orders and moved to the treadmill, the large bar still arching in its position. With the bar resting on his shoulders, Ridge freed one hand and pressed the start button. Seconds later, the treadmill, with Ridge and an additional six hundred pounds, came to life. For ten minutes Ridge ran on the treadmill, six hundred pounds on his shoulders, the bar bouncing gently with the natural rhythm of the running motion.

“Jesus. Look at that. He's hardly sweating.”

“I know,” Major said. “A thing of beauty.”

“Can't say the same for the treadmill. I think the engine is burning.”

“I smell it. I'll turn it off. I think we have seen enough.”

Ridge dismounted, returned the weights to the rack, and joined Reed Temple and Major in the corner.

Major was holding up a throwaway phone in a zipped bag.

“That is the phone?” Temple asked.

“Yes.”

“Did you see who put it there?”

“No. It was obviously a plant. A ruse at our expense. It is a low-quality, throwaway Chinese model. Goes by the name of GoodBuy.”

“I am sure the uncle was behind this,” Reed Temple replied.

“Probably. We were in and out in a few minutes, but the location had some complexities. If it was a stakeout, then I am sure we were captured in photos.”

“Which means we have all been seen.”

Major replied. “We have all been seen, but Ridge and I were not benefitted by a disguise. You were the hunter. We were the hunted.”

“Any prints on the phone?”

“Two sets of prints. It would be easy enough to match with the uncle through typical surveillance and dusting.”

“Easy enough? Didn't we try this with the DC police already?”

“Yes. We provided a gun—a murder weapon—with the uncle's prints to the police.”

“Obviously, there was a hiccup.”

“According to the now deceased mugger-for-hire, the uncle's prints should have been on the gun used to kill the police detective. The hired help indicated that during the confrontation on the stairs of the promenade, the uncle possessed the gun, held it, dismantled it, and threw it over the wall. That is where we found it, and where it was used on the Asian detective when he surprised us. The weapon was white gloved. We left the gun five feet from the detective's body. We can't do the police's job. We gave them the evidence. We can't force them to use it.”

“We better figure out something. The uncle is on to us. I'm not sure how, but he is making progress. He is becoming a potentially serious hazard to operations and career longevity.”

Major smiled. “We were told not to kill the uncle. Does that still stand?”

“For now.”

“What about other collateral damage?”

“Not my concern, as long as it doesn't come back to us.”

Major held up the bag and eyed the phone before smiling even wider. “Christmas may have come early. We just need to decide where to hide the present.”

—

Dan parked in front of Prospect House, a massive white condominium in Rosslyn. The fourteen-story building had been constructed in the seventies and was the proud owner of one the finest views in the DC area, if not the entire East Coast. The front of Prospect House conjured little envy. The west façade peeked down on sprawling blocks of low-rise apartment buildings that ran down the still-affordable side of Route 50 between the Potomac and Courthouse. Low-rent Latino strongholds mingled with swanky townhouses and blocks of squat brick apartment buildings heavy with military and student clientele. It was a prime example of real estate owners embracing their middle class tenants until they received an offer too good to refuse, finally forcing the under-financed to locations further afield.

The east-facing side of Prospect House was another matter entirely. Balconies and two-story windows perched over the Iwo Jima Memorial, in perfect alignment with the Mall on the other side of the Potomac. The Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument stood at attention. The Capitol, over three miles away, was the cherry on the visual sundae. Dan's date for the evening lived on the top floor of residences, on the sexy side of the building.

Dan walked through the glass doors of the lobby and approached the front desk. “I'm here to see Haley Falls. Apartment 1212.”

The man behind the desk did a quick measure of Dan and nodded in the direction of the intercom on the lobby wall. “Punch in the name.”

Dan ran through the names and found Haley's number. The speaker crackled after a quiet beep.

“I'm in the lobby.”

“I'll be down in five.”

Haley Falls strolled from the elevator in a leather skirt and a tight-fitting white sweater that left little to Dan's imagination, other than the question of whether it was the chilly air or his mere presence.

Dan opened his arm and Haley, a leggy brunette, walked into his embrace. The man behind the desk looked up and then eyed the monitor on the desk, scanning the feeds from the other security cameras.

“You up for a walk?” Dan asked.

Haley looked down at her red heels. “How far are we going?”

“Two blocks.”

“The Quarterdeck?”

Dan winked.

“I'm wearing a white sweater.”

“I will get you a bib.”

Haley Falls, formerly known as Lena Pavlovna, whispered a curse in Russian, her rusty native tongue.

—

The Quarterdeck was an Arlington institution. Nestled on the corner of two residential streets that ran along the north side of Fort Myers and Arlington Cemetery, the Quarterdeck wasn't on the tourist maps. The faux 7-ll next door, with which the Quarterdeck shared its parking spaces, had been there nearly as long as the seafood and crab shack. Rumor hinted there was once a strip club in the back, but any patron old enough to have firsthand knowledge wasn't talking. As men get older and wiser, they learn wives never forget. And there was no sense in dredging up suspicion from decades ago.

Dan and Haley stood in line on the back deck for a couple of minutes before the waitress led them inside to a quiet corner. The waitress plopped down a stack of newspapers, a pair of wooden mallets, and a scratched-up laminated menu. “Y'all having crabs?” she asked, the presumption already made.

“And two beers,” Dan added.

Haley Falls waited until the waitress walked away. “I got a call about you. Ginger was out at Good Time Charlie and a DC detective was asking questions about you. A lot of questions.”

“Good old Ginger. Always keeping her ear to the ground.”

“She is a good friend. And she always liked you. What about the detective?”

“I figured he would ask around.”

“Are you in trouble?”

“Not yet, but I am working on it.”

The waitress dropped two light beers off on the table without breaking stride.

“I should have asked for the best American beer in the house.”

“It's a crab shack.”

“I'm trying to balance snobbery without drinking piss-water.”

“You take a woman to a crab shack, you have to lower your expectations.”

“Isn't the saying you can take a woman out of a crab shack but you can't take the crabs out of . . .”

“Careful.”

Dan made a quick toast in Russian. “To another year alive.”

The crabs came, steaming hot, and the wooden mallets were put to work, bits of shell rocketing from the table onto the worn tile floor. Beer mixed with crab meat dipped in butter sprinkled with Old Bay. When they were finished, Haley and Dan pushed their chairs against the wall and sat parallel to the table.

“A whole meal and you didn't ask for a single favor,” Haley said. “It must be important.”

“Are you saying I can't have dinner with a friend without something in it for me?”

“No, I'm saying you were never much for small talk, so the last hour must have killed you.”

“You have no idea. Seventy-two minutes of crabs and chit-chat. I deserve a star.”

“We shall see,” Haley said, slugging her beer with a flip of her hair.

Dan noticed Haley's radiant skin and perfect brown hair. Her smile warmed the table. Smiling himself, Dan finally succumbed. “I have a favor to ask.”

Haley looked at her watch. “Seventy-three minutes.”

“Eighty-eight minutes since we left your front door.”

“But who is counting?”

“I need help from one of your girls.”

“Dan, darling.
Women
.”

“Women then.”

“What kind of help?”

Dan looked around the room and lowered his voice amidst the din of crabs being pounded by hammers. “I'm looking for a particular kind of customer.”

“Someone with a little foot fetish?”

“No. Someone with certain knowledge of the intelligence variety.”

Haley sighed and swigged another mouthful from her beer. The room was emptying, the mix of office workers and neighborhood couples heading home for the evening. “What about the Dan Lord rule book? No spooks was at the top of the list, if I remember correctly.”

“Good memory. No spies, no mafia. Those are my rules.”

“I also recall you touting that those rules keep you alive.”

“They have.”

“So if you have rules that keep you alive, and those rules state you are not to do business with intelligence personnel or members of organized crime, what are we discussing?”

“This time it's personal.”

“Conner?”

“Yeah.”

“His death was not an accident?”

“It is currently labeled as an overdose. The official test results have not come back yet.”

“I don't know, Dan. You have rules. I have rules too. Rules that will keep
me
alive. A woman has to think about her future.”

“I'll make it up to you.”

“Yes, you will. For starters, the next time I need a check on one of my
girls
, or a client, you'll do it gratis.”

“The next five times.”

“Ten,” Haley added.

“Russian negotiation tactics?”

“The first rule of negotiation is that nothing is agreed to until everything is agreed to.”

“Then I will stop talking before I owe a debt I can't repay.”

“What exactly are you looking for?”

“Someone who can be compromised. Someone who has been around the block. I don't want some wet-behind-the-ears rookie. I'm not looking for a desk-jockey. I'm not looking for a computer whiz. I already have one of those charging me more than I can afford. I'm interested in someone long in the tooth. Someone with real experience.”

Haley cursed in Russian and then switched back to English. “Jesus, Dan. You are not ordering from a catalog.”

“We've done this drill before.”

“Not with this type of clientele.”

Dan lifted his beer and drained his bottle. “I'm trying to find a ghost. I need someone who can help me find someone without a name. Can you help?”

“I have a client in mind, though it is hard to say for certain. Remember
my
first rule: people are generally full of shit. Cab drivers claim they were once doctors in their home country. Office workers who have trouble ambling up the stairs claim they are former athletes. High school dropouts claim they have PhDs from Harvard.”

“Politicians who claim to be honest.”

“Exactly.”

“So what about this client makes him more believable than the rest? Why is he not a liar?”

“This client talks in his sleep. I haven't met anyone who lies in their sleep. Yet.”

“Brilliant.”

“You have to come up with a plan that doesn't implicate me or my employee. And if you compromise this guy and he stops seeing one of my employees, you are going to need to pay for the lost income. Regular customers are becoming rarer. This guy has been a regular for a long time.”

“How much compensation?”

“The going rate for services is three hundred an hour. So if this guy has weekly appointments, you are looking at somewhere in the neighborhood of seven thousand for, say, six months of compensation.”

“Not a problem. What else can you tell me about the client? Married? Potentially angry wife?”

Haley just smiled.

“Nothing else?”

“Be prepared. That is all I can say. Remember, there is a reason you have your rules.”

Haley took a slow sip of her beer and then ran her finger around the edge of the glass bottle neck. “You want to come back? Have a nightcap?”

Dan felt a tingle below his waist—an old tingle but one without complications.

“Is that part of the deal?”

“No Dan, not with you. Paybacks, favors—those were never part of the equation when it came to you.”

“I might not have my A-game. I have a lot on my mind.”

“I'll take your B-game.”

“I'll get the check.”

“I'll make a call and get you the latest information on your spy.”

—

Dan put his shoes on in the living room, overlooking the flickering lights of the city and the illuminated National Mall.

“Great view,” Dan said aloud.

Haley was in the kitchen wearing only her sweater, talking on the phone. She stopped at the kitchen counter to scribble on a piece of paper then walked into the living room, her long legs and exposed derrière shining in the reflection of the glass wall.

“Another great view,” Dan added as Haley ended her phone call.

“Thanks, Dan.” She handed him the piece of paper. “Here is the address and the time.”

“Standing weekly meeting?”

“Regular as clockwork.”

“Thanks, Haley.”

She bent over and kissed him on the neck. “Walk me down to my car. I have to go into the city. Have an employee issue to straighten out.”

“One of your girls get busted?”

“Not yet. And I was hoping to keep it that way.”