Foreign Influence (9 page)

As a Marine who had seen hundreds of firefights in Iraq, he was no stranger to sleep deprivation. In fact, he’d often joked that he could handle sleep deprivation in combat. It was the sleep deprivation of parenthood that was the real killer.

Because there was no Dunkin’ Donuts near his daughter’s school, he broke one of his hardest and fastest rules and stepped into a Starbucks. The minute he did, he could hear the giant sucking sound of money being vacuumed out of customers’ pockets. Starbucks had good coffee, and as a capitalist, he didn’t fault them for getting the most they could for their product. He just disliked the whole vente/grande, mocha-frappu-B.S.-cino, coffee-as-art shtick. Hot, black, and in a cup—that’s the complete extent of the relationship he wanted with the beverage.

Instead of taking his large cup of house blend back to the car, he found a table and took a seat. His eyes were glazed over as he stared absently out the window and there were probably multiple customers who found the sight of a man with a pistol on his hip and a thousand-yard stare more than a little disturbing.

If people were looking, he didn’t notice. The weapon was so much a part of who he was that he never really thought about it. It was just one of several tools necessary for doing his job.

As his mind wandered, he watched a Yellow taxi drive by outside. He watched as it neared the corner and slowed to a stop. A uniformed crossing guard directed the cab to stay where it was while she crossed a group of kids with backpacks and skateboards.

He had never liked cabbies very much. The fact that they were predominantly immigrants wasn’t what bothered him. As long as they had come in the front door like everybody else, he was okay with it. What bothered him was what lousy drivers they tended to be.

It didn’t make any sense. A rational person would be correct in thinking that the more one performed a task, the better one would become at it. But that didn’t seem to apply to cab drivers.

He seriously doubted the cab would have even stopped for the kids if the guard hadn’t been there.

At that moment, he got an idea. Pulling out his notebook, he turned to a fresh page and clicked his pen. He removed his cell phone and dialed the main number for the CPD. When the operator answered, he asked to be connected to the Public Vehicles Division.

“Public Vehicles. Officer Brennan,” said the voice who answered.

“Good morning, Officer Brennan. This is Sergeant John Vaughan from Organized Crime.”

“It was all my wife and mother-in-law’s idea. I had nothing to do with it. Put me in the witness protection program and I’d be happy to testify.”

Vaughan loved working with cops. No matter what, they all had a pretty good sense of humor. “I’ll send someone down to take your statement, officer. In the meantime, I’m wondering if you could help me out with something I’m working on.”

“For the sergeant who’s going to relocate me to Florida or Arizona, you name it.”

“Part of your responsibility is keeping an eye on the cab companies, right? You make sure the licensing and the medallions are all in line, follow up on criminal complaints involving drivers; that sort of stuff, correct?”

“That’s us.
Miami Vice
without Miami or the vice.”

“I’m looking into a hit-and-run that involved a Chicago Yellow Cab.”

“Do you have a number?”

“Case number or cab number?”

“I’ll take whatever you’ve got,” said the officer.

Vaughan read off the case number. “That’s all we have. We are trying to track down the cab.”

There was the sound of keys clicking as Brennan pulled up the report on his computer. “It looks like Yellow Cab was contacted by our division, but we were unable to get any further information. Yellow claims it doesn’t have any knowledge of any of its drivers being involved in hitting a pedestrian on the evening in question.”

“What about damage to a vehicle consistent with a hit-and-run on the night in question?”

Once again, the keys clicked away. As the officer searched, Vaughan added, “Or maybe there was a driver who failed to return his vehicle.”

Finally, Brennan said, “Sorry, Sergeant. It doesn’t look like we’ve got anything here that can help you. This doesn’t mean you’re going to back out of your promise to get me into the witness relocation program, does it?”

Vaughan chuckled and then was all business. “If your wife was struck by a cab and the driver fled the scene,” he began and then corrected himself. “Strike that. If your mother was struck by a cab and the driver fled the scene, who in your division would you want on the case?”

“Paul Davidson. No question.”

The officer hadn’t even hesitated. “He’s that good?” said Vaughan.

“You asked me who I’d want. I’d want Paul Davidson. Now, if the guy had struck my mother-in-law, that would be completely different.”

“I’m sure it would. Can you pass me over to Officer Davidson, please?”

“He’s up in Wisconsin, fishing.”

“Can you give me his cell number?”

Vaughan absorbed a couple more jokes about the man’s wife and mother-in-law, and after getting his promise to put in the word for him with the witness relocation program, Brennan gave him the number.

Thirty seconds later, a cell tower had located Paul Davidson on Wisconsin’s Lake Geneva. “You have reached the cell phone of vacationing Chicago police officer Paul Davidson,” said the forty-five-year-old cop pretending to be his own outgoing message. “If this is an emergency please hang up and dial 911. For all other matters, hang up and call me when I’m back in my office two days from now.”

Someone in the background then happily yelled, “Hey! Look at that! Hurry, get the net!”

Vaughan was getting the distinct impression that the Department of Public Vehicles didn’t hire people unless they were certified wiseasses. There was the sound of line being pulled from a reel as he said, “Officer Davidson, this is Sergeant John Vaughan from the Organized Crime Division.”

“I didn’t have anything to do with it. It was my wife and mother-in-law’s idea.”

“Brennan already used that one.”

“What a thief. I leave the office for three days and he steals all my material.”

“Is this a bad time, officer?”

“Let me see,” said Davidson as he took stock of his surroundings. “Six-packs, sandwiches, Chamber of Commerce weather, and the last day of my vacation. No, now’s perfect.”

“I can call back.”

“If you let that line snap again,” he said over his shoulder to his fishing companion, “I swear to God I’ll drown you right here.”

“Got your mother-in-law with you?” asked Vaughan.

“No, my priest. Now, what can I spend the last day of my vacation doing for you, Sergeant?”

“I’m working on a hit-and-run. Not a lot of leads. A Yellow Cab hit a young woman about two weeks ago. We know where it happened and approximately what time it happened, but that’s all.”

“Do you have a description of the driver?”

“The two witnesses we have are friends of the victim and were intoxicated at the time.”

“Is the victim still alive?”

“Yes, but she’s got serious trauma and some bad brain damage.”

“I’ve never heard of good brain damage,” said Davidson.

“Touché.”

“So were the witnesses too drunk to give you a description of the driver?”

“They think he was Middle Eastern,” replied Vaughan.

“Okay. Iranian? Iraqi? Jordanian? Palestinian?”

“I have no idea. All I know is that Officer Brennan said that if his mother had been the victim of a hit-and-run like this, you’re the one he’d want on the case.”

“First of all, Brennan doesn’t even have a mother. He was a foundling and there’s lots of times I think he should have stayed lost. But setting aside his penchant for Irish bullshit, he does occasionally get some things right.”

“Then you can help?”

“What’s the Organized Crime angle here?”

“I’m also an attorney. In this case, I’m representing the family, trying to help track down the driver.”

“So you’re getting paid for this?”

“Yes,” said Vaughan. “But when I find the guy, then my lawyer hat comes off and I’m going to arrest him myself.”

“Seeing as how you’re supposed to pursue this as a lawyer and not a cop, I assume you’ve got a licensed private investigator working with you?”

Vaughan hadn’t gotten that far. In fact, he really hadn’t thought about it until now. Normally, he worked his cases alone. “Actually, I don’t have one.”

“You do now. I charge two hundred bucks an hour plus expenses, nonnegotiable.”

“Two hundred dollars an hour? That’s more than what I’m charging as the attorney.”

“The difference between you and me, though, is that it’ll only take two hours of my time to get this guy. And, unlike a lawyer, I don’t charge for simply thinking about cases. I only charge when I am working on them.”

This guy has been drinking in the sun too long
, thought Vaughan. “If you can find this guy in two hours, you’ve got a deal.”

“I said two hours of my time. It might take me forty-eight overall to get a name and a cab number for you, but I’m only going to charge for the two hours I work. Plus expenses, of course.”

“What kind of expenses?” asked Vaughan.

“Don’t worry, Sergeant. I’ll keep it under a hundred bucks. So do we have a deal?”

Vaughan didn’t need to negotiate with him. If Davidson could deliver, and do it that quickly, it would be worth ten times the amount. “You’ve got a deal.”

He gave him the rest of his contact details and asked, “When can you start?”

“How about right now?”

“Are you serious?”

“Of course not,” said Davidson. “I’m on vacation. I’ll call you when I get back to the city.”

Vaughan said good-bye and set the phone down on the table. Davidson reminded him of a cocksure young Marine he’d gone into Tikrit with. Everything was a joke and he never broke a sweat. Twelve hours later, when the Marine went in to clear an insurgent safe house, he zigged when he should have zagged and died on the spot.

CHAPTER 12
 

B
ASQUE
P
YRENEES
S
PAIN

The out-of-the-way route Harvath had chosen meant that it was well after midnight when he drove into the village of Ezkutatu. Like many of the villages he had driven through since entering the Pyrenees Mountain Range, Ezkutatu was composed of rugged, squat buildings made of stone. Its highest point was the steeple of the local Catholic church.

With its tiny, storybook-like railway station, it was as if he had driven back in time. Clear the cars from the streets, and the village would look no different now than it had over a hundred years ago.

Pushing further into the heart of Ezkutatu he came upon its cobblestoned, communal square. According to the route that had been planned for him on the GPS, this was his final destination. He would have liked to have done some reconnaissance, but the village was built along the side of a mountain with only one road in and one road out.

Against the lights illuminating the church facade he saw the silhouette of a man in a long, dark coat. As he slowed the Peugeot, the man began walking toward him. Harvath balanced the sawed-off shotgun on his lap;
his finger on the trigger. He had no idea who the man was and didn’t like that he had apparently been waiting for him.

When he got within forty yards of the church, he realized that the figure was not dressed in a long coat, but rather the vestments, or
soutane
, of a Catholic priest.

Harvath brought the Peugeot to a stop on an angle, powered down the passenger window, and raising the sawed-off said, “That’s far enough, Father. Let me see your hands, please.”

The figure lifted his hands into the air, but kept walking forward. Harvath gripped the weapon tighter and aimed for center mass. Though they couldn’t have looked more dissimilar, the man’s flowing garb reminded him of the robes worn by many Muslim imams and he had learned the hard way how well the costume lent itself to secreting weapons and psychologically disarming opponents.

“That’s far enough,” he repeated. The man was within ten feet of the vehicle and Harvath could now make him out. He looked to be about the same age as him, with dark hair and a clean-shaven face. He held himself ramrod straight, almost military-like, as if he were undergoing an inspection. And while he projected a serene countenance, he was not like any priest Harvath had ever seen before. Something about his eyes put him on edge.

“You seem to be carrying a lot of weight in your trunk,” said the priest. “Should I be preparing to hold funerals tomorrow, or can we release those two men and let them return to their warm beds and families?”

Harvath recognized the man’s voice from the phone call two days ago in Virginia. “That depends. Why were they following me?”

“To protect you.”

“To protect
me
? From whom?”

“From whoever tried to kill Nicholas,” said the priest.

“These are Nicholas’s men?”

“No, I sent them.”

“Funny, they didn’t strike me as altar boy types.”

“Mr. Harvath, it’s late. I’m tired, and because you changed the route those men are long overdue at home.”