Wallbanger (7 page)

All was quiet, the church practically empty
save a few people toward the front deep in prayer. He averted
walking down the nave—again, the luck thing—and crossed the
anteroom toward the set of stairs that would put him in the Juliet
balcony one story up.

A memory surfaced of him being a shy little
boy in the choir; his mother believing it would be a good way for
the reclusive Phil to make friends. It didn’t help. He wasn’t much
for talking, less for singing, and when he whispered the director
told him he had to sing louder so God could hear him.
“It’s the
only way to save your soul.”

Phil went on murmuring.

It was an unlikely schoolyard fight with a
then six-year-old Xander that made Phil find his voice, and his
talent. The two had been running together ever since. Souls were
overrated. Besides, he liked to think he and The Big Guy had an
understanding….

Mounting the steps, Phil came to the landing
and paused, not expecting to see anyone there. A woman stood
polishing a beautiful mahogany organ, the scent of lemon strong in
the air. Humming a soft tune, her eyes widened when she looked up,
clearly shocked at his arrival.

“You scared me,” she said in Finnish.

He didn’t speak the language so said nothing.
This could be a problem. People often remembered men like Phil; the
height, the build, the tanned skin and deep scar that crossed his
eye and cheek. Glasses and a beanie might not be enough to conceal
his identity.

She cocked her head. “English?” He nodded and
she said, “You come to help?” pointing to the brass pipes rising
high toward the heavens.

Phil nodded again, uncoiled his hand from the
grip of the sound-suppressed Glock in his pocket. He approached the
instrument and took the rag from the woman, positioning so he could
look out the window. Two taps to a tiny button on the arm of his
sunglasses zoomed the built-in camera lens, bringing the license
plate of the car a bit closer; pushing the bridge up on his nose
activated the ‘record’ function. The wireless transmission went
directly to his phone.

He watched as two men exited the vehicle, the
passenger his only true concern. They were too far for his naked
eye to distinguish, but he knew the camera would pick up all the
action. Someone exited the chateau to greet the guests, and all
three figures mounted the steps and disappeared inside.

Having gathered what he needed, Phil ended
the recording by sliding the glasses down his nose a hair. He’d
process the info and get it to Xander before they went to the party
later that evening.

“You not hellllpiiiing,” the woman sung
sweetly.

He smirked, checked his watch—plenty of time.
Better to stick around and be sure no more unexpected visitors
showed up between now and then. Plus, just in case that
understanding wasn’t clear, he could use a couple brownie points
with the Man Upstairs.

Adding more polish, he pushed the cloth
against the wooden frame, rubbing in small circles.

5

McLean, Virginia

Daniel Gilbert held the door for the exiting
couple, and then stepped into the loud establishment. The Pub was
exactly what a small dive bar should be—lively atmosphere, cheap
drinks and a quirky mix of locals and first-timers all out enjoying
one of the few places in McLean open until the wee hours of the
morning. The air was so filled with smoke it barely passed for
breathable, and since he’d decided to quit smoking just a few weeks
before, it was always a welcome balm to his nicotine-starved
lungs.

He took a breath deep into his body—
Damn,
that feels good
—and pulled a square of original flavor
Nicorette from the pack in his pocket, popped the gum into his
mouth. The taste was horrendous, but he figured it increased his
odds of never wanting to go through the cessation process again,
ergo he wouldn’t go back to the smokes. Smoking was risky. He
shrugged out of his wrinkled suit jacket and shifted onto a
barstool.

“Hey, Danny.” Shirley raised her voice to be
heard over the bustle of the jukebox and the crowd. She slid a club
soda across the lacquered bar and wiped up the trailing water with
a cloth.

Nodding in both greeting and thanks, he
lifted the clear liquid to his lips. Club soda wasn’t his favorite,
but since he’d given up drinking as well, it was all he allowed
himself to have. Vices weren’t a thing a man of his newly appointed
importance needed.

Daniel Gilbert’s life was risk management,
and up until a few months ago, he’d lived his life “look before you
leap”. Every decision he made went through a rigorous five-step
process of threat identification, assessment, risk determination,
reduction strategies and implementation of those strategies to
maximize the outcome. He often joked that selecting toothpaste was
a bitch, but at least his teeth were white. Even when playing the
odds, there was no such thing as luck—only the meticulous five
steps could bring about success.

That orderliness was something he picked up
before the military, and was how Daniel came to take a position as
a company clerk. He still found himself in dangerous situations,
but it was, by his calculations, the least risky of the available
options. Truth be told, his heart pumped Kool-Aid, but his family
expected him to serve, so serve he did.

His obsession—and it was an obsession—with
risk reduction was simply the way he operated. It was also the
reason why he made far less money than his contemporaries working
in the financial field. Daniel could have gone to Wall Street and
made a fortune; would have been living in some posh Manhattan loft
with a nice car and a gorgeous blonde arm-piece he’d bang steady
every night. But according to his diligent computations, he’d have
burned out by 36, the probability of a breakdown due to stress was
in the 98
^th
percentile, and he imagined his blonde
fucking the doorman since Daniel was spending all his time at
work.

So instead, he’d chosen the path of least
resistance while continuing to serve his country as a risks manager
with the CIA. 36-years of age, burned out, same title, tiny
apartment in the quiet town of McLean, not so flashy car. Gorgeous
arm-piece also absent, as was the sex. For once in his life he’d
miscalculated, and the grievous error then drove his ambitions
now.

Daniel had been on the safe side of risk for
too long. Now he wanted to see the view from a slightly more
dangerous perch. In a month, he would resign from his post leaving
the security and stability he was accustomed to, and step out to
see the world. The knowledge emboldened him, made him walk a little
taller, but after years of being safe he still treaded carefully.
After all, 90% of screw-ups came from basic human error.

He took a sip of his club soda and scanned
the crowded bar.
I’m putting all this behind me.
It couldn’t
happen soon enough.

A loud noise erupted from the area of the
dartboards, and someone shouted, “She kicked your ass again!”

He turned his attention to the laughing
crowd. An angry man, the loser he assumed, stormed out of the sea
of bodies, yanked his coat from the tree by the entrance and left.
Cool night air crept in before the door swung closed again. To his
right, someone brushed against him and he swiveled his head.

“Excuse me,” the woman said. “Still a little
excited about my victory.”

“No problem.”

“Another Heineken, Shirley.” She bopped to
the music while waiting for the drink.

He looked her over—Georgetown sweatshirt,
fitted blue jeans and hiking boots. She had a cute face, tanned
skin, and, if he had to guess, she was just old enough to be in her
third or fourth year at the University.
Likelihood of getting
shot down—fifty-fifty.
Feeling good, he decided to take a
chance. “How much did you get him for?”

“Sorry?” She looked at him with big brown
eyes.

Daniel sipped his drink and jerked his head
toward the door, trying to affect an air of coolness he’d never
tried on before; wasn’t quite sure fit. “Tommy—the guy whose ego
you just bruised. How much?”

A half smile graced her lips. “Six hundred
and eighty.”

His eyes widened and he whistled. “You two
really had a game going. He’s one of the better players in
town.”

She angled her body toward him, propping one
elbow on the bar. “Am I looking at the best, then?”

“Damn straight.” He grinned. By the look on
her face she wasn’t impressed. “Daniel Gilbert,” he said, hand
extended.

Even odds she’d walk away.

“Lana James.” Her grip was firm, unexpected
from someone so small, but the confidence in her smile backed it
up. “Want to put your money where your mouth is, Mr. Gilbert?”

He let his hold on her last a little longer
and shook his head. “Don’t gamble at darts anymore. People stopped
lining up to play.”

“You can’t be
that
good,” she
challenged. “What are you drinking?”

He noticed a ring on her left hand when she
accepted the beer from the barkeep.
Middle finger—not engaged.
Probability of having my ass kicked by a fiancé: zero. By a
boyfriend…
. “Club soda.”

Lana’s tiny brow knit. “Stopped drinking
too?” She giggled. “Loser buys the next round of sodas, then.”

Daniel’s gaze landed on her mouth, studying
the way it moved while she spoke. She trapped her tongue lightly
between her teeth, and he looked up to catch the flirtatious gleam
in her eyes.

“We could wager something else…if you want….”
She let that hang on the air, her gaze making a trip down his body
before returning to his, and for once in Daniel’s risk-assessing
life it seemed someone had done the computing for him. He thrummed
with excitement as he always did when the odds were firmly in his
favor.

Her beer went on the countertop beside his
club soda and she stepped into his personal space. Mouth at his ear
Lana breathed, “Come play with me, Danny.”

* * * *

Helsinki, Finland

Sacha Sokoviev slammed the painting back in
place and then cleared every item from his desk with an angry swipe
of his arm. Fist balled, he slammed the exposed wood, letting out a
frustrated growl. He dragged his shirtsleeve under his nose and
sank into the leather, button-tufted chair. The latest update was
no different than the others: Fedot, his guard, hadn’t found the
girl. That would disrupt his overall plan.

And then there was the
Amerikanskoy
.

On principle, he distrusted Americans. Sacha
had learned well the history of Mother Russia, and her downfall
could be traced directly back to those sneaky snakes. Throw in the
greedy, inflexible Japanese and Russia had no one she could trust
at her back. Akio Takata should have been satisfied with the deal
as it stood, but instead he wanted to undercut Sacha on the split
and
control production and distribution of Harvey after a
year. They weren’t dealing with his father. It was Sacha’s
technology now, and the sooner everyone got that through their
heads the better off they’d all be.

Removing a silver tray and a business card
from his desk drawer, he dumped an eight ball of coke onto the
shiny surface, using the square of thick paper to separate two neat
rows from the mound of white powder. An empty pen shaft to one
nostril, he pinched off the other and inhaled deeply, tracing a
line.

“Stupid Nikolay,” he muttered, sniffing. He
switched holes and repeated the process. “You and that fucking
Amerikanskoy. And the fucking Yaponskaya?” He thumbed his nose,
feeling the white work it’s magic, then gripped both cheeks with
his fingers and sucked in a lungful of air.

This was all his father’s fault. Nikolay had
a history of working with the most deplorable of the world, the
first of which was the American woman that had born him. Raised in
the Marlboro projects in New York, any money she got turning tricks
or that Nikolay insisted he’d sent rarely went toward something to
put in little Sacha’s belly. Birthdays found him asking for toys
that never came, and winter found him with few clothes to keep him
warm.

She was not his mother. Just another useless
cunt Nikolay knocked up and ran out on. The only thing Sacha
Sokoviev ever got from that bitch was her coke habit.

At sixteen he was shipped back to Russia to
live with an uncle, and the conditions weren’t much better. But it
was then he realized the true power of his father’s roots. He was
mesmerized by the influence of the Sokoviev name, and set out to
prove just how much better than Nikolay he could be. There were
those who reminded him he was a half-breed, but he didn’t feel like
one at all. The strength of the Russian blood coursing through his
veins had years ago washed away the stink of American from Sacha’s
skin.

Unfortunately, another of Nikolay’s
three-decade-old infractions had come back to haunt his eldest
son.

Vision blurry, Sacha eyed the babushka dolls
lined up on an occasional table, a gift from his father once Sacha
had gotten out of jail and moved back into the chateau.
To
remind you it is all about family,
Nikolay had said,
one day
you will understand
. Sacha hadn’t given it much thought. He was
no more family-oriented than his bastard of a father.

The nine rotund wooden toys denoted the
lineage of the Sokoviev men, each one hand-painted with some
feature of the person it was meant to represent; the name engraved
on the flat surface of the base. He recalled his old man unpacking
the dolls—opening the largest and removing the one hidden inside
only to open that one and find another—repeating the process until
he’d lined them up in order of height, droning on about the
greatness of the Sokovievs that had come before them. At the time,
Sacha busied himself with admiring the patterns of the thick
Persian rug his desk sat upon.