Favors and Lies (26 page)

“And then what?”

“He said he thought he was recognized.”

Alex watched as Dan's anticipation rose. He slowly poured himself another shot and took a sniff, his nose near the rim of the glass.

“And did you ask the barber any further questions at this point?”

“No.”

“You weren't curious as to how these people got to the airport, or how they got home?”

Dan's thoughts came to a screeching halt. He shut his eyes and shook his head.

Alex leaned forward in his chair. “Yes. The answer you seek was not about an airplane. It was about a car. For some reason, a CIA operative was driving a personal car to a private terminal at a public airport. Why? We may never know. Perhaps ego. Perhaps the person was late. Perhaps there was a mechanical malfunction of another vehicle. For whatever reason, a CIA employee drove their personal car, a very identifiable car as it turns out, and they just happened to be seen by a civilian employee.”

“And that led you to discover something.”

“That led us to a relatively big fish.”

“And . . .”

“It is the big fish you are looking for.”

“What does the big fish have to do with my nephew?”

“Everything.”

“I want the person responsible.”

“And I am providing a means for that. The first time we met, when I asked you those questions about your nephew, it was not random. I was trying to see if I could indeed help you. Do you remember what I asked you?”

“You asked me if my nephew was rare?”

“Yes, unquantifiably rare. Don't you find this to be an interesting question? What could it mean? Mathematically speaking.”

“That there are only a handful of similar people in the US.”

“No. Not in the United States. In
the world
.” Alex started to raise his glass and stopped. “Out of this small handful of people, this tiny population, three of them are Russian. Russian Jews. Ashkenazi Jews from Saratov.”

“The Americans tried to reach them,” Dan said, beating Alex to the conclusion.

“Yes. Our spies followed them. They entered Russia. They went to the outskirts of the Saratov and they started asking questions at the synagogue. They were looking for other children similar to your nephew.”

“Did they find them?”

“They would have. But we interceded.”

“Did you apprehend them?”

“No, we followed them.”

“And the first step in identifying and following these American spies was a car from the Manassas Regional Airport.”

“Correct.”

“So all I need is the car?”

“All you need is to find a gray BMW M5. Model year 2010. Virginia tags.”

“Thank you.”

“Now, I have another question for you.”

“Sure.”

“How did the call girl know I was someone who could help you?”

“She said you talked in your sleep.”

“Ahh. I should have imagined. My wife mentioned that once. I think it's something that has gotten worse as I have aged. My own countrymen would have killed me in the 1980s had they known.”

“They still might,” a heavy baritone voice interjected over Dan and Alex's shoulder.

Dan and Alex turned to see Detective Wallace pulling up a chair.

“Oh, good. The police,” Dan said.

“I think this is my excuse to return to work,” Alex replied, moving slowly to stand.

Detective Wallace flashed his badge and ordered Alex back in his seat. The barrel-chested Russian bellowed a lung-racking laugh and slowly reached into his pocket. He pulled out his diplomatic passport and handed it to Detective Wallace. “I am an official representative of the Russian Federation. I have committed no crime, and if I had, you would be able to do nothing about it.”

Detective Wallace flipped through the passport in the dim light of the club while an old song by Usher pulsed from the speakers. He took one last look at the photo and compared it to Alex, then handed the document back to its rightful owner. “Have a good day.”

Alex nodded at Dan and walked towards the daylight squeezing through the frame of the front door.

“Detective Wallace.”

“Dan Lord. The man without fingerprints.”

“You've been following me?”

“Since you stopped by to take a look at the remains of the art gallery beneath your office. Quite a mess. I figured you would show up to see it for yourself, sooner or later. From there I followed you.”

“A little out of your jurisdiction.”

“I can stake out any location I wish.”

“Including strip clubs?”

“Seems like a good place to find you. You don't seem to discriminate in the company you keep. Strippers. Call girls. District Attorneys. Russian diplomats.”

“I've even been seen with an ornery old detective who threw me in a cell full of convicts.”

“I think we are even. Sorry about the eye.”

“We aren't even. I didn't try to kill you. Yet.”

“No, but you did thwart my investigation. An investigation that is important to me and my colleagues. To a mother and a father. To a sister.”

“Then you can help me.”

“How?”

“I need to find a gray BMW M5. Year 2010. Virginia tags.”

Detective Wallace looked up at the gyrating entertainment and then over his shoulder at the club entrance. His eyes fell to the table and the bottle standing in the middle. “You drinking?”

“You want to join me?”

Detective Wallace glanced around at the barflies hidden in the shadows, the strippers shaking their assets. “Nothing more depressing than a strip club during daylight hours.”

Dan shrugged his shoulders.

“Make it a bourbon.”

Dan raised his finger at the waitress who shuffled over. He whispered the order into her ear and she disappeared and returned a few minutes later, gently placing the glass on the table. “Drinks for law enforcement are on the house,” she winked, wiggling her bunny tail before vanishing again to the far side of the club.

Detective Wallace picked up his drink and touched his glass to Dan's. He slowly tilted his head back, tasting the drink, admiring the streaks on the inside of the glass as he lowered it back to the table.

“A man who enjoys good bourbon,” Dan admired.

“My father told me if you aren't enjoying the taste, then you probably shouldn't be drinking it.”

“Not sure the Russians agree with that.”

“What do you want with this car?”

“It may lead me to the man responsible for killing your partner.”

“The killer is driving around in a gray BMW M5?”

“Someone is. And I need to find them.”

Detective Wallace reached down for his glass, took another slow sip, and then reached in his pocket. He pulled a twenty out of his money clip and raised it between his fingers. The dancer on stage shifted her full attention to Wallace, bits and goodies gyrating as she closed in. Wallace shook his head and simply handed her the cash.

“I like you, Detective. Help me out. I'll make it worth your while.”

“Before I help you, tell me what you have on the gray BMW.”

“Nothing. Hearsay.”

“I'm going to need more than that.”

“I don't have the time or the whiteboard diagram I need to explain it.”

“You are aware I am still a police officer. For the information you want, I have to go to the station. I can run license plates from my car. But you don't have a license plate number, so I have to run a query on the DMV database for all gray BMW 5 series. That, I have to do from the station. Especially for an out-of-state tag, of which Virginia is one. And, even that I can't do legally without a case number.”

“Detective Nguyen's death must have a case number.”

“It does, but I'm not working the case.”

“You mean you are not allowed to be working the case.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Yes. If you're not allowed to be working the case and you still are, then I like you even more.”

“It's called loyalty.”

“That is what friends do. Loyal friends are hard to find.”

Dan pulled another twenty from his wallet and removed a tattered business card. He held out the twenty for the dancer and then turned to the detective. “I assume you still have my number. But just in case,” Dan said, threadbare business card in hand.

Detective Wallace patted his detective's notebook in his chest pocket. “I have your information.”

The two men shook hands.

“Did we just smoke a peace pipe?” Dan asked.

“I think we did. But don't confuse that with a post-coital cigarette. I'm still a detective. I'm still on the job.”

—

Detective Wallace walked up Wisconsin Avenue and danced his way across the four lanes of traffic to the large square building on the hill. He looked above at the cameras perched on the security wall, certain his every move was being watched. And his every move was getting harder with every passing year.
I have to lose some weight,
he thought, marching onward and upward, step by step up the natural incline to one of the highest points in the city. At the large metal gate, adorned with bars and bollards thick enough to stop a runaway rig, Detective Wallace turned the corner on the sidewalk. The large square building stared down at him as if daring him to pursue his line of questioning. A young, fit, uniformed man stepped from a large concrete block security booth onto the bricked pavement on the public side of the gate.

“The embassy's visitor's entrance is to the rear. Off Tunlaw.”

Detective Wallace pulled his badge and politely handed it to the security officer. “I know my badge has no jurisdiction on the other side of that wall. I only ask that you make a phone call on my behalf. I would like to speak with Alexander Stoyovich. I met him down the street a few moments ago. We have a mutual friend.”

The security guard examined the police badge, nodded, and stepped back into the security booth, leaving the door open. A second man sat on a stool in the booth, both hands on a large automatic weapon with the safety off. The young man with the police badge in his hand picked up the phone and proceeded to have a brief conversation in Russian. He hung up, made another call, and then stepped from the booth to hand the badge back to Detective Wallace.

“Please wait here. The person you requested to see will be down momentarily.”

—

Gary Raven's forearms melted into his oversized wrists. A real life Popeye with tattoos and scars. His hands and feet were mangled. Pieces of anatomy that no longer resembled any diagram in any medical book. For a living, he wielded a welding torch and cranked oversized wrenches. For his passion, he ran the dojo upstairs, directly over his car conversion shop. In a former life he had been a diplomatic security officer, a private body guard, and a home and office security specialist with a penchant for creating safe rooms and ultra-secure residences.

Dan walked into the second-floor dojo and Gary Raven rose from the wooden chair behind the wooden desk near the door. A shelf of trophies and photos sat perched on the wall.

“Dan Lord, it has been a while. You here to practice?” Gary Raven asked, eyeballing the cut above Dan's eye.

“Not today, Sensei.”

“I think I surrendered that title the last time we fought.”

Dan smiled. “I cheated.”

“Let's say you didn't follow the rules.”

“I was fighting. You were practicing.”

“I heard about your business. Guess all that security you paid for worked out.”

“You did a good job. It worked as designed. The bomb was small. Meant for me. Not meant for collateral damage.”

“So they were close. And they were watching.”

“Probably still watching,” Dan said.

Gary Raven shrugged his shoulders unconcerned with the possibility of a threat looming outside. “Sure you don't want to spar? This is my Friday noon class. Open mat. Only black belts. I have a few students who may give you a run for your money.”

Dan looked around the dojo and inhaled deeply. The smell gave him peace. It transported him to other places, to past friends. There was something about the permeation of sweat in the mats. A hundred dojos in twenty countries with the exact same scent. It became part of the makeup of the dojo, the experience. It was absorbed into the walls, sucked into the heavy bags hanging in the corner.

Dan spoke. “I'm here on business. I need a car.”

“That's a first.”

“And probably a last.”

“What are you looking for?”

“Something special.”

“Five minutes with my new third-degree black belt and you can have anything you want.”

“Are you blackmailing me, Sensei?”

“Offering my assistance.”

Dan thought for a moment. He looked down at his attire. He was still wearing his CVS cargo pants and t-shirt ensemble. His old shoes were blackened. He couldn't say a quick spar would ruin his outfit. He casually rubbed the back of his head and felt the pronounced knot. He made a quick mental note to keep his skull off the mat.

“Five minutes or until someone taps out,” Dan relented.

“This kid is a tornado and you aren't getting any younger.”

“He'll be done in less than one. Then I want my car.”

“We'll see.”

“What's his specialty?”

“Everything,” Gary Raven said, smiling broadly. The teacher walked across the mat to the group of young men practicing various routines on each other.

Dan removed his shoes and bowed on the mat. He performed a few standing stretches, touched his toes, and tilted his neck from left to right.

The half-dozen students in the dojo lined up along the far wall, sitting on their knees under hooks on the wall that supported various weapons ranging from knives to wooden swords. Dan's competition stepped on the mat and bowed in Dan's direction. Dan returned the formality and then began his assessment.

A third-degree black belt, likely in his early twenties. A fairly high rank for someone so young, meaning he has to have some natural talent.
The young man with the buzz cut did a roll on the mat as part warm-up and part intimidation.
He's wearing a double-weave jacket, which means he likes to grapple. He has on karate pants, allowing more room for kicks.
The student did a flying axe kick and then rolled to the center of the mat.
Nice form. But it won't help you.

Gary Raven stepped to the center of the mat. “Five minutes. It is over when either person taps out, or when I decide I have seen enough.”

Both Dan and the young student bowed at the teacher and then again at each other. The teacher stepped away and the two men began circling each other.

The student made the first move and came in low for Dan's knees in a lightning-fast take down attempt. Dan responded with simultaneous blows to both sides of the exposed neck. Not hard enough to cause damage, but hard enough to know he could. The young man rolled his neck and shook his head to remedy the effects of the concussive blows. Dan let the young man stand and his opponent wasted no time in his second attempt at the knees. Dan rolled over the back of his opponent, using his opponent's rear side as a platform. With Dan's legs no longer in their previous location, the student grasped at air before meeting the floor for a second time.

Again on his feet, the student changed tactics and fired off a series of straight kicks and punches. Dan intercepted the onslaught and countered with smacks to the face with the open palms and the backs of his hands. The smacks landed with more sound effect than impact and for the first time the student realized he was being toyed with. Low kicks came next and Dan blocked them with his own legs, raising his shins and meeting the young man's feet in painful collisions.

The young man grunted in frustration and Dan knew the final assault was next.

His opponent disappeared into a whirl of punches and kicks, high and low. Backfist. Elbow. Waiting for the knockout attempt, Dan bent his knees just as the opponent launched his spinning back kick. Dan moved under his opponent, grabbed the man's groin through the karate uniform, and threw him into a painful fall, head and shoulder crashing into the mat, his balls squeezed in Dan's left hand. Within a second of impact, Dan had the man's elbow in an extended arm bar, his heel on the young man's carotid. Seven seconds later, the man succumbed to unconsciousness.

“He didn't tap,” Dan said, rising off the mat.

“He never does,” Sensei replied.

“Bad habit.”

“Skill he has. Wisdom cannot be hurried.”

Dan looked over at the seated students who were stunned at what they had just witnessed. A middle-aged man walking in and besting the top martial artist in the dojo.

Sensei took the opportunity to drive home an educational lesson. “And that is why you don't fuck around with people you don't know. Martial arts are for defense. You never know if someone is going to have a weapon, friends, or if they are just plain more trouble than you are capable of dealing with.”

“You owe me a car,” Dan said, turning to walk off the mat.

—

Behind the dojo, on the first floor, Dan waited for Gary Raven to open the lock. “I have three cars in for customization,” Gary said, stepping through a large metal gray door into a spotless mechanic garage. The garage room had six bays and a center repair area with thirty feet of immaculate concrete flooring. There were four cars in the shop. Three were nearly identical black four-door sedans. The oddball of the group was a black Mercedes SUV. “You said three cars.”

“The SUV is the company demo vehicle.”

“And I can have any color as long as it's black,” Dan replied.

“Just like Henry Ford and the Model T.” Gary Raven pointed at the SUV in the nearest bay. “You can have the company car for as long as you need it.”

“Does it have the usual accoutrements?”

“Bulletproof glass. Bombproof undercarriage. Run-flat tires. Has a higher-than-normal ground clearance in case you have to go over a curb or two. It also has a few other technical advances. Hell, even the headrests are bulletproof.”

“Perfect.”

“And this baby has been tested. I have shot at it myself. I even sat behind the wheel while a prospective client threw a grenade under it.”

“That is a hell of a way to guarantee your work.”

“Bet your ass,” Gary Raven said, slapping Dan on the shoulder. “Get it?”

“Yeah.”

Gary Raven turned serious. “Why do you need it?”

“Being cautious.”

“You are always cautious, but you've never asked for one of my cars.”

“I have thought about it, for what it is worth.”

Dan walked around the car parked in the second automotive bay. The doors were missing. The windshield had been removed. New pieces ready for assembly were neatly stacked on foam in the corner. Dan noticed the diplomatic tags in the license plate frames.

“Whose car is that?”

“French Embassy.”

“How long is it in for?”

“Until I finish.”

“Another favor. Let me borrow the tags. I'll bring them back when I return the car.”

Gary Raven rubbed his chin and then stepped to the toolset on the work counter and picked up a screwdriver.

Dan's cell phone started to ring and he fished it out of his cargo pants as Gary Raven removed the tags.

“Dan, it's April.”

“What's up, Doc?”

“She is gone.”

“What do you mean,
gone
?”

“Sue is gone. I stepped out for a delivery on a woman with twins and when I came back the room was empty.”

“Did you check the bathroom?”

“Of course.”

“The other call rooms? Maybe she got confused when she came out of the bathroom. The rooms do look similar.”

“I checked all the call rooms.”

“Shit.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Let me know if . . .” Click.

Dan looked down at his phone. The display indicated the call was terminated at the thirty second mark. The phone vibrated again in his hand and a text message filled the screen. Dan read the text and shook his head slowly in disbelief. Time to pay your bills, Dan. This phone will begin working again when I get my money. Sorry, rules are rules . . . Tobias.

Dan whispered vulgarities as Gary approached, two diplomatic license plates in hand.

“Who was that?”

“Sensei, I wouldn't know where to begin.”

“Here are your tags. Bring them back in pristine condition or don't bring them back at all. I can always report them as stolen. I can't so easily explain how they got damaged without the car getting damaged. You know, these diplomatic tags are hot commodities. A free pass to shenanigans. They are also expensive. Special reflective paint. Rumor has it they contain a traceable wire mesh. Return them in perfect condition or throw them in the Potomac.”

Raven handed him the keys to the demo car. Dan reached into his pocket, removed Sue's car keys, and tossed them into the air. Raven snatched them in one smooth motion.

As Raven examined the key ring, Dan explained. “Those keys are to the car in front of the dojo. A Honda Civic. It's not mine. It belongs to a girl who has been interning with me. I'll be back for it later.”

“Sure thing.”

Dan walked to the demo SUV and opened the five-hundred-pound door. He slipped behind the wheel, inserted the Mercedes Benz key and started the ignition. Raven nodded at Dan through the windshield and pushed the red button on the vertical support beam. The large garage door behind the car opened. Dan flicked the door locks and checked the mirrors before rolling down the driver's side window. “I have another automotive question for you.”

“What's that?”

“How many gray BMW M5s do you think there are in Virginia?”

“What year?”

“2010?”

“A handful at the most. BMW only sold eight thousand or so BMW M5s between 2005 and 2010.”

“That would equal about 1,600 each year.”

“That's about right. But I am pretty sure they offered them in black, gray, white, and burgundy.”

“So maybe four or five hundred gray ones for the year 2010 . . .”

“Something like that. And that number is for the entire US. For Virginia, you have to figure ten, maybe fifteen.”

“You know your cars.”

“The BMW M5 is a good car for security modifications. We've seen a few of them in the shop. It has a lot of horsepower so it can handle all the extra weight that comes with armor plating.”

“I'm not sure that is good news.”