The 4 Phase Man (15 page)

“People like this Canvas bastard?” She laughed bitterly. “How many more like him can there be?”

“One, Xenos said as he closed his eyes.” He began to drift off. “Just one, and he was out.”

“Left, left, left,
left!
”

The attorney general of the United States was screaming to his personal aide as the man broke for the open spot on
the field. He threw the football as hard as he could, his aide dived, but the ball bounced scant inches from his fingers.

“Shit.”

“Fourth down, Jeff,” Senator Buckley called from the middle linebacker position of his staff’s team. “You gonna throw another wounded duck, or get surgery on your shoulder first?”

“Up yours.” DeWitt laughed back. “I’ve got you just where you want me.” His staff’s team gathered around him. “Quarterback draw on three,” he whispered.

“Michael?”

“Yeah.” His aide looked up at him in anticipation.

“Think you can knock that fat-assed senator into next week?”

The two men exchanged long, understanding looks. “Follow me, Mr. Attorney General, sir.” They broke the huddle.

DeWitt’s and Buckley’s eyes remained locked as he called out the cadence, then the ball was snapped.

Michael faked to his left, then cut back over the middle. Knowing that his boss was only a step or two behind, he lowered his shoulder, slamming into Buckley’s groin with the full force of his 190 pounds. The chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee doubled over, as DeWitt sprinted past for a touchdown.

“Some touch football game,” Kingston shouted from the sidelines where his team was stretching and preparing for their game against the Commerce Department.

“Justice can be terrible swift,” Attorney General DeWitt called back.

It was a typical fall afternoon in a suburban D.C. park. The usual mix of government workers, students, tourists, and military. The sun reflected off a nearby lake as it began its descent toward the woods on the other side. As the games—interagency or departmental—wound down, the barbecue pits were lit, and the smell of burgers slowly replaced the scent of sweat.

As one of the players started off on his usual postgame
jog through the woods before eating with the merged staffs.

Halfway through the woods, the jogger stopped, falling into step alongside his weekly companion on walks through the Georgetown campus.

“This is fucking dangerous, the jogger said after they’d finished with the security rituals.”

“No more so than usual,” the older man replied calmly. “Just one of the president’s favorites with one of the president’s friends. What could be more natural?”

“I don’t know, Old Man, fifty years to life in Leaven-worth?”

The president’s friend and adviser winced. “A not likely scenario, if we all keep our heads.”

The jogger shook his head. “I can tell you personally,” that’s not happening. Ever since word got out about last night s… The look on the Old Man’s face stopped him. “After last night, a lot of us in the Apple Blossom chain are having trouble staying calm.”

“Have there been specific problems?”

“Not yet,” the jogger said. “But my cell alone is already starting to think crazy thoughts.” He laughed bitterly. “And it’s the smallest goddamned cell in espionage history.”

The Old Man nodded. “My reason for this meeting.” He checked his watch. “How much longer can you give me?”

“I don’t know. Ten minutes maybe; then I have to get back. I’ll be missed.”

“Very well, then, let me bring you up-to-date. The field controllers are dead. As are many support personnel. Canvas has begun search operations and expects to have the situation back under control within seventy-two hours.

“There has been no direct exposure of you or any others in the chain. The only one at risk is me, and the sword over her children’s heads should keep the good woman silent.”

“For the moment,” the jogger added.

“For the moment,” the Old Man agreed. “The toothpaste will be back in the tube in short order, I assure you.”

The jogger took then exhaled a deep breath. “Sure,” he said without confidence.

“What we need from you,” the Old Man said carefully, “is to keep things on track, right? Keep everyone calm, everyone working, everyone on schedule. We are no more at risk than we have ever been.
That
is your message and must be your example.”

The jogger bit his lips and nodded. “Okay. Just catch this bitch before anything else happens. I’d like my heart to start beating again in my lifetime.”

The Old Man laughed openly. “As would we all.”

The jogger began to stretch. “When do I meet the new field controllers?”

“You already have.”

“You? How? They trust you that much?”

“Not really,” the Old Man replied. “But they do
know
me. Since a confused twenty-year-old fell into their hands in Korea, more than half a century before.” He hesitated, as if to reveal more would be to reveal too much. But the look of doubt on the jogger’s face convinced him.

“I reached an accommodation with them then, and we have been very good to each other since. They know that I care too much about my payoffs to jeopardize anything. They know they can destroy me quite easily, at a whim, and they know that I am
painfully
conscious of the fact.

“More to the point, though, they have little choice.” He shook his head sadly. “This was a terrible time for this to happen, things are just too close. They can’t risk the delay of preparing new controls, then getting them into place. They are forced into using me, just as I am forced into taking ever greater risk.”

He sighed deeply. “It’s a vicious circle that will one day immolate both sides, I expect,” he said with genuine sorrow. Then he brightened.

“But not today, or in the immediate future, right?”

The jogger studied the Old Man, paused, then started
off down the trail that led back to the picnickers. “I’ll pass the word.” And he was off at a slow trot.

The Old Man watched him go, then turned and watched the sunset until he was completely surrounded by the dark.

As he had been for the last half century.

The Grand Republic
was a resplendent sight on its worst days.

Gleaming white, rising over sixty feet out of the water, the ferry between Bridgeport, Connecticut, and Port Jefferson, New York, had two car decks, an inside observation deck, an elegant formal bar, and a weather deck that could hold over 150 people. It was the pride of the multiferry fleet that serviced Long Island and a virtual historical landmark.

But to Xenos and Valerie, it was simply a place to get to. The world’s largest getaway car.

After parking their car on the murky, gray streets of the industrial section of Bridgeport, they’d walked the last three blocks. Weaving through six lanes of cars waiting to board through the boat’s gaping raised bow, they made their way to the narrow gangway used for the few carless passengers that regularly fled Bridgeport for the fairyland resort of Port Jefferson.

They immediately climbed to the top weather deck, where they both searched the oncoming cars and people that were seemingly devoured by the boat as they drove into its cavernous bowels. Only after the boat had backed away from the dock, made its tight turn around Bridgeport Granite Inc., and given its passengers a view of the fetid dying land around the harbor did they finally give up their watch and go belowdeck.

“Who are we looking for?”

Xenos shrugged. He’d slept a little on the trip over and was now experiencing his fifth wind of the day. “Just stay alert. They said we’d be met.”

He gave her the last of his money—he didn’t even have
the fare for the tickets he would need to get off the boat—and sent her to the tiny snack bar to buy some coffee. Eventually they settled at one of the incongruous-looking picnic tables with the thin, rickety plastic chairs that groaned their objection to any weight.

Children ran around, people opened some of the large windows allowing cold winds from Long Island Sound to race through the relatively bare deck; some bought snacks and perched on ledges to watch the water go by or the other passengers. Some wandered into or out of the bar or up and down from the car decks. The usual mix for a late afternoon ferry ride.

But to Valerie, they all looked like threats, all sinister, deadly. Each man and woman waiting to catch them up and throw them overboard. Each child a smiling accusation of her failed maternity.

So she wasn’t surprised when Xenos tensed, staring across the wide enclosed deck, and tapped on her tightly clasped hands.

“We have a problem.”

Valerie shook her head. “Has it ever been otherwise?” She followed his gaze, sadly recognizing one of the guards from the building. “You think he’s alone?”

“I doubt it,” Xenos said as his gaze shifted to another man in his forties in an elegantly expensive suit who was smiling as he casually walked over to their table.

“Judging by what’s left of your face, you have to be the man I’m supposed to be meeting.” He pulled over a chair and sat down, as Valerie edged away from him.

“If I told you that I had a gun under this table,” Xenos said conversationally, “you’d talk to me, right?”

The man seemed unfazed. “That’s why I’m here.”

“So convince me.” Xenos’s eyes never wavered from the casual man’s.

“Okay,” the man began after a moment of thought. “Let’s see. What would be the best way to break the ice?” He suddenly brightened. “Franco says don’t worry about transportation. He
never
walks.”

Xenos slid his gun back into his boot. “He’s okay.”

Valerie exhaled deeply, then leaned in to hear the whispered conversation.

“How bad are things?” the man asked.

“Worse than you can imagine,” Xenos answered. “We’re hot, targeted, with no money and fewer options. We need to get out of the country.”

“Not a problem.”

The man’s casual manner, confidence, almost carefree attitude, struck Valerie as just the latest lunacy in her lunatic day. “You do realize,” she said urgently, “that people are trying to kill us?”

“Congresswoman Alvarez, he beamed, “I’m an admirer. Even thought about voting for you once or twice. He paused. “Does that make me a stupid man or a smart one?”

Valerie relaxed for a brief instant and smiled. “Can I let you know in a couple of hours?”

He turned back to Xenos, handing him two ferry tickets. “Call me Gary.” It’ll do for the moment.

He began nibbling on the corn chips Valerie had bought. “First things first. Do either of you have any contraband, any drugs, guns, documents, or anything else that could get you in trouble with the legitimate authorities?”

They shook their heads.

“Mr. Filotimo, before we leave this table, you’re going to have to give me that gun you mentioned. I have a carry permit, so there won’t be any trouble if I have it.”

Xenos raised his swollen eyebrows. “And what about our friends over there?”

“How many do you make?”

Xenos never moved his head, but his eyes took in everything. “One stone pro,” maybe two punks working with him.

Gary nodded. “Local hire,” brought over from Hartford and Queens. And we make it one slick and four pussies.

He began to casually look around the deck. “Pro’s moved over to the snack bar to try and hear what we’re
talking about. Local number one by the starboard staircase to the car deck. Number two’s by the port one. Number three’s in the bar behind us. Number four on the upper car deck.”

Xenos easily spotted the men within view. “And you want me to give up the gun.” It was a sad statement, not a question.

Gary shrugged. “Mr. Filotimo, Congresswoman Alvarez, I’ve been in this business for a long time and I’ve done hundreds of deals like this one. You have to trust me. I’m a straight shooter who’s only looking out for your best interest.”

He smiled again. “Listen, I live on repeat business. Let me impress you on this one and maybe you’ll throw some other deals my way in the future. Right? We’ll all have some fun, maybe make a couple of bucks.”

Valerie looked questioningly at Xenos, who continued to study the man across from him. Slowly he pulled the gun from his boot and handed it—under the table—to him.

“Okay,” Gary said comfortably as he tossed the gun into his open briefcase, “now watch how I look after your best interests.” He brushed some hair out of his eyes.

They watched incredulously as men began to casually move next to each of the identified threats. Reading newspapers, carrying sweaters or gym bags, they each settled next to the armed men—who almost immediately stiffened with surprised looks on their paling faces.

“Step one,” Gary said calmly. “Now if you’d come with me, we’ll adjourn to my office.”

He led them past one of the fuming but frozen gunmen, down the staircase to the car deck; to a large cargo van parked in the very front of the boat. He knocked twice, then opened the door.

“We don’t have as much time as I’d like,” he said as he climbed in behind them, “so if you’d save your questions for later, I’ll answer them all, I promise. Ms. Alvarez, if you’ll join me in the front, I think the doctor will have more room to work.”

Valerie moved into the front passenger seat, leaving Xenos in the back being stripped and tended to by an older man and an assistant. “Who
are
you?” she asked out of genuine curiosity.

Gary pulled a laptop over to him as he settled behind the wheel. “Most of the time?” A real estate attorney. Pretty good one too.

“And the rest of the time?”

He continued to type as he talked. “Whatever my clients require. My partners and I run a full-service firm.” He took a sheet of paper from the dashboard printer. “Would you sign this, please?”

Valerie read the paper, a routine attorney/client agreement combined with a power of attorney granting
Smith, Walker, Corson, and Bruno—a legal corporation—full authority to act on behalf of Congresswoman Valerie Alvarez on any and all matters other than financial transactions.

Valerie signed quickly but looked concerned. “There may be a problem.”

“Okay,” Gary said calmly.