Favors and Lies (34 page)

“More than most.”

“You could sell this for a lot of money,” Dan said.

“As soon as I mentioned that book to anyone, I would be dead.”

“It might have the same effect on me.”

“Then burn it.”

“Not a bad idea.”

“It's yours now. If anyone ever asks me about it, I will deny I ever saw it. Don't know anything about it.”

“Thanks, I think.”

“Do whatever you want with it. I am sure Haley would smile knowing you had it.” Ginger checked her watch and pushed her chair away from the table. “I gotta run. Somewhere to be.”

“You know how to reach me.”

—

At halftime, Dan left the comfort of his corner table in the bar area and crossed the restaurant to the private dining room on the opposite side of the establishment. He pulled the burgundy drapes to the left and slipped into the room through the arched doorway. Tobias and Joseph Cellini looked up, the top of their round dining table covered in papers. Two laptops were opened and plugged into the outlets at the base of the wall. Thick notebooks full of data sat in stacks near the front table leg. Cellini's neckless accomplice was staring up at the television on the wall, cursing at the results of the games as they flashed across the screen.

Dan approached the table and Joseph Cellini and Tobias both smiled. “Look at the happy couple. Does that mean the two of you were able to work something out?”

“I think we have a mutually acceptable agreement,” Cellini responded.

“And you, Tobias? Are you happy with the arrangement?”

“Not the billion dollars I was looking for, but retirement is in my immediate future.”

“So we are even? Clean slate?”

“Your debt is cleared. We are good.”

“Glad to hear everyone could walk away happy.”

“And Mr. Cellini, are things between us on the up and up?”

“You keep an eye out for my daughter and you won't have any problems with me.”

“Good.”

Dan looked over at Mr. Neckless, who raised his wrist to show off his new gift. He pulled on the face of the watch and smiled at the wire as it unfurled. “Thanks for the watch, Danno.”

“Don't mention it. Well, if we are all satisfied, I have a date with a doctor tonight. Take out in the hospital's doctor's lounge.”

Joseph Cellini spoke. “Danno, we are planning to do a little fishing later this afternoon, if you are interested. Head out on the Chesapeake Bay for a couple of hours. I hear the rockfish put up quite a fight. You are welcome to come with us.”

Dan stared into Cellini's eyes and he could see the flicker of the devil dancing. “Fishing?”

“Yep. We've got our tackle in the car.”

“Deep-water tackle?”

“Something like that.”

“I'll pass. I've been known to have motion sickness.”

Dan shook hands with the three men and nodded at various staff members on his way to the front door. A minute later he strolled to his car in the parking lot and started the ignition. He drove around the restaurant and eyed the large black sedan with New York plates parked in the corner of the lot, not far from the Dumpsters. A large, well-dressed man with dark sunglasses stood at attention next to the rear of the car, smoking a cigarette, scanning the environment. As Dan drove by, the man stepped forward away from the car. For an instant Dan was certain he saw the rear of the vehicle bounce, the rear shocks under the trunk rocking slightly.

—

Dan wiped the new front glass window of the art gallery as Lucia sat behind her massive stone desk giving him directions to the last streaks. Dan allowed the nit-picking, the fiberglass cast on Lucia's arm a reminder of what he owed her.

“Anything else?” Dan asked.

“Nope. That wraps it up. This place looks as good as new.”

“New was a hundred and sixty years ago. It looks better than new.”

“Have you started painting again?” Dan asked.

“I have been dabbling. Business has picked up. The little explosion we had in here has put this place on the map. People are curious. The newspaper did an article on the gallery. I've sold most of the art that was hanging on the wall when the explosion occurred.”

“Who knew that shrapnel was the key to a good promotional campaign?”

“I am thinking about adding it to my art repertoire.”

“I will leave the art decisions to you,” Dan said, followed by a long moment of silence. “I am sorry for everything that happened. For the explosion. Your arm. Levi.”

Lucia nodded. “And I am sorry I lied about my father. About who I was. I know he can be a problem. Difficult.”

Dan thought about his mother. “Let's agree not to talk about our parents.”

“Done.”

Lucia turned her head as the front door to the art gallery opened. Sue Fine, dressed in professional attire, approached the desk, managing to flash a meek smile. Lucia returned the smile and then looked over at Dan who was staring stoically ahead.

“I'll leave you two alone,” Lucia said, excusing herself to the rear of the gallery.

“I quit,” Sue blurted before Dan could say anything. “Retired. Officially. The paperwork has been processed.”

“Why did you quit?”

“The job wasn't what I expected it to be, after all. I didn't want to look back in twenty years and be proud that my greatest asset was my ability to lie.”

“I think it's OK as long as you cloak it as patriotism.”

“OK for some. Not for me.”

“You were good at it.”

“Thanks.”

The front door to the art gallery opened again. A man hidden under a scarf and a hat, walking arm-in-arm with a woman in a fur hat, entered the room and began to move around the perimeter wall, admiring the artwork on display. Dan glanced at the backside of the patrons, poked his head into the rear of the gallery, and let Lucia know she had customers. A moment later she engaged the couple in the far corner of the gallery as they discussed a large piece of shrapnel art hidden in a painting of a girl riding an old-fashioned tire swing.

Dan turned back to Sue. “So what's next?”

“I'm not sure. I am still weighing my options. I was thinking about getting a private detective's license.”

“Unsavory characters. Unusual hours. Low pay. Not sure that would be my first choice.”

“It's the only experience I have, other than being a spy.”

“That is a short resume. You have any references?”

“Not really.”

“Maybe I can offer you an internship. Unpaid.”

“For how long?”

“Until I trust you. Come back in a couple of weeks and we will see if you're still serious.”

—

Dan watched Sue through the front window as she disappeared into the sidewalk crowd. He sighed deeply and a voice boomed behind him, shaking him from his focus. “Can you trust her?”

Dan turned and smiled. “Alex Stoyovich.”

“As far as you know.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to check on you. See how you were doing. I also wanted to bring you a gift.” Alex opened his long overcoat and pulled out a bottle of vodka plastered with Russian letters. “You can't get this outside of Russia. It is made in a small town three hours from Moscow. Made with the best water in the world.”

Dan took the bottle. “I'm not sure why you're giving me a gift. I should be giving you one.”

“I am giving you a gift for being the impetus to my retirement. My wife has been patient for forty-two years.”

“You said your wife died. That you only had a cover wife. You couldn't have been married for forty-two years.”

“And you believed me? If you did, then I failed as a teacher.”

“Or I failed as a student.”

“You were an exceptional student.”

“I still have one remaining question.”

“I hope it is a question about art or vodka. Those are my new passions. Well, one is an old passion. One is new.”

“I would believe these are your new interests, if not for the fact you just reminded me not to trust you.”

“What is your question? I will try not to lie.”

“As you probably know, one of the people involved in my nephew's death escaped. I would like to locate her.”

“The woman.”

“Yes. I believe she was the big fish you referred to when you mentioned the gray BMW.”

“Da. What do you want with this woman?”

“You don't know?”

“Don't know what?”

“Who she is?”

“I know who she claims to be. I know what name she traveled under on her trip to Russia. I can assure you it is not her real name.”

“She is my mother.”

Alex began to laugh, big choking bellows heavy enough to get the attention of his wife and Lucia still in the far corner of the gallery. “Oh, dear. That I did not see. I am sorry for laughing. The greatest thing about this profession is the surprises.”

“I have reached my quota on surprises.”

“When you get older you will once again look forward to them. When the days begin to blur into one another.”

“Can you find her? Tell me where she is?”

“I am sorry. I cannot. What I can tell you is what the Americans are likely to do under the circumstances. This woman, your mother, will be offered reassignment or early retirement. If she receives a reassignment, she will be transferred overseas to a small diplomatic post for a couple of years. Nothing too extreme, just a nice cushy assignment in a small embassy or consulate for a couple of years to let her career wind down. If and when retirement comes, she will be permitted to select a suitable location, provided that location is outside of the DC area. I doubt seriously the Agency would allow her to choose Washington. Not in her case. Not for her sins. Think medium-sized town in the Midwest somewhere. That is far more likely.”

Dan absorbed every word of the advice. “So she is gone?”

“She can be found. But it will take time and money. And luck.”

“What would you do if you were me?”

“Let it go. Move on. Sometimes a victory doesn't have to be a total victory. You proved your nephew wasn't on drugs and that your sister-in-law didn't commit suicide. That is what you set out to do. You had an article in the
Post
that exposed an illegal domestic intelligence operation conducted on American soil. You pulled back the curtain of the puppet show. You have nothing left to prove.”

“Thank you,” Dan replied. “For your help and for the vodka.”

“You are welcome.” Alex looked over at his wife who had moved on to the next picture on the wall and was receiving personal input from the artist. “So . . . Where are you going to start?”

“Start what?”

“Start looking for her?”

Dan smiled. “I was thinking about taking a trip to Namibia. She always liked Namibia.”

Fast, acerbic, wise and endlessly exciting,
Love Thy Neighbor
marks the unforgettable debut of a startling new voice in suspense fiction.
Here's an excerpt from
Love Thy Neighbor
:

AUTHOR'S NOTE

(This part is true.)

In late 1999 a woman from Vienna, Virginia, a suburb ten miles from the White House as the crow flies, called the CIA. The woman, a fifty-something mother of three, phoned to report what she referred to as potential terrorists living across the street from her middle-class home. She went on to explain what she had been seeing in her otherwise quiet neighborhood: Strange men of seemingly Middle-Eastern descent using their cell phones in the yard. Meetings in the middle of the night with bumper-to-bumper curbside parking, expensive cars rubbing ends with vans and common Japanese imports. A constant flow of young men, some who seemed to stay for long periods of time without introducing themselves to anyone in the neighborhood. The construction of a six-foot wooden fence to hide the backyard from the street only made the property more suspicious.

Upon hearing a layperson's description of suspicious behavior, the CIA promptly dismissed the woman and her phone call. (Ironically, the woman lived less than a quarter of a mile from a CIA installation, though it was not CIA headquarters as was later reported.)

In the days and weeks following 9/11, the intelligence community in the U.S. began to learn the identities of the nineteen hijackers who had flown the planes into the World Trade Towers and the Pentagon. In the process of their investigation they discovered that two of the hijackers, one on each of the planes that hit the World Trade Towers, had listed a particular house in Vienna, Virginia as a place of residence.

The FBI and various other agencies swooped in on the unassuming neighborhood and began knocking on doors. When they reached the house of a certain mother of three, she stopped them dead in their tracks. She was purported to have said, “I called the CIA two years ago to report that terrorists were living across the street and no one did anything.”

The CIA claimed to have no record of a phone call.

The news networks set up cameras and began broadcasting from the residential street. ABC, NBC, FOX. The FBI followed up with further inquiries. The woman's story was later bounced around the various post 9/11 committees and intelligence hearings on Capitol Hill. (Incidentally, after 9/11, the CIA closed its multi-story facility in the neighborhood where the terrorist reportedly lived. In 2006 the empty building was finally torn down and, as of early 2011, was being replaced with another office building).

There has been much speculation about what the government should have or could have known prior to 9/11. The answer is not simple. There have been anecdotal stories of people in Florida and elsewhere who claimed to have reported similar “terrorist” type activities by suspicious people prior to 9/11. None of these stories have been proven.

What we do know is that with the exception of the flight school instructor in Minnesota who questioned the motive of a student who was interested in flying an aircraft without learning how to land, and an unheeded warning from actor James Woods who was on a plane from Boston with several of the purported terrorists while they were doing a trial run, the woman from Vienna, Virginia was the country's best chance to prevent 9/11. To date, there has been no verification of any other pre-9/11 warnings from the general public so far in advance of that fateful day in September.

For me, there is no doubt as to the validity of the claims of the woman in Vienna.

She lived in the house where I grew up. She is my mother.

Mark Gilleo. October, 2011. Washington DC.

* * *

Ariana turned on the nightlight and closed the door to her daughter's room. She walked down the carpeted hall towards the light stretching out from the plastic chandelier over the dining room table. Her husband's chair was empty and she quietly called out his name. No response. As Ariana turned the corner to the kitchen and reached for the knob on the cabinet over the counter, eight hundred pages of advertising crashed into her rib cage, sucking the wind from her lungs. As his wife doubled over, Nazim raised the thick Yellow Book with both hands and hit her on her back, driving her body to the floor.

“Don't you ever disobey me in front of others again.”

Ariana coughed. There was no blood. This time. She tried to speak but her lips only quivered. Her thick-framed glasses rested on the floor, out of reach. Her brain fought to make sense of what happened, what had set her husband off. It could have been anything. But every curse had its blessing, and for Ariana the blessing was the fact that Nazim didn't hit her in front of Liana. A blessing that the child didn't see her mother being punched. The reason was simple. Nazim was afraid of his daughter. Afraid of what she could say now that she could speak.

The curse was that Ariana never knew when she had crossed the line. She never knew when the next blow was coming. She merely had to wait until they were alone to learn her fate for past indiscretions.

Ariana gasped slowly for air. She didn't cry. The pain she felt in her side wasn't bad enough to give her husband the satisfaction.

“When I say it is time to leave, it is time to leave. There is no room for negotiation in this marriage.”

Ariana panted as her mind flashed back to the Christmas party. She immediately realized her faux pas. “I didn't want to be rude to Maria. She spent days making dessert. She is old. Do we not respect our elders anymore?”

Nazim pushed his wife onto the floor with his knee, a reaction Ariana fully expected. “You are my wife. This is about you and me. Our neighbor has nothing to do with it.” Nazim looked down at Ariana sprawled on the linoleum and spit on her with more mock than saliva.

“Maria is my friend.”

“Well, her son is coming home and she doesn't need you.”

Nazim dropped the yellow book on the counter with a thud and went to the basement. Ariana gathered herself, pushing her body onto all fours and then pulling herself up by the front of the oven. She looked at the Yellow Book and her blood boiled. It was like getting hit by a cinderblock with soft edges. When it hit flush, it left very little bruising. As her husband intended. For a man of slight build, Nazim could generate power when a beating was needed.

Ariana took inventory of herself, one hand propping herself up on the counter. She had been beaten worse. Far worse. By other men before she met her husband. Her eyes moved beyond the Yellow Pages and settled on the knife set on the counter, the shiny German steel resting in its wooden block holder. She grabbed the fillet knife, caressed the blade with her eyes, and then pushed the thought from her mind.

Her husband called her from the basement and she snapped out of her momentary daze. “Coming,” she answered, putting the knife back in its designated slot in the wood. She knew what was coming next. It was always the same. A physical assault followed by a sexual one. She reached up her skirt and removed her panties. There was no sense in having another pair ripped, even if robbing Nazim of the joy would cost her a punch or two.

Christmas, the season of giving, she thought as she made her way down the stairs into the chilly basement.

When Jake Patrick took a summer internship at his estranged father's corporation, he anticipated some much-needed extra cash and a couple of free meals from his guilty dad. He would never have guessed that he'd find himself in the center of an international scandal involving a U.S. senator, conspiracy, back-room politics, and murder. Or that his own life would hang in the balance. Or that he'd find help – and much more than that – from a collection of memorable characters operating on all sides of the law. Jake's summer has turned into the most eventful one of his life. Now he just needs to survive it.
From the sweatshops of Saipan to the most powerful offices in Washington,
Sweat
rockets through a story of crime and consequences with lightning pacing, a twisting plot, an unforgettable cast of characters, and wry humor. It is another nonstop thriller from one of the most exciting new voices in suspense fiction.

Here's an excerpt from
Sweat
:
As the van pulled away in a small cloud of dust, the senator inspected the main guard booth and the now present guard. Lee Chang took Peter by the arm and stepped away. The sweatshop boss dropped his voice to a whisper and looked over Peter's shoulder as he spoke, “Interested in the usual companionship?”

Peter, in turn, looked over at the senator who looked back and nodded in approval to the conversation he couldn't hear but fully understood. “Is Wei Ling available?” Peter asked as if ordering his favorite wine from the menu.

“Yes, of course. Wei is available. Shall I find a companion for the senator as well?”

“Yes, the senator would enjoy some company. Someone with a good command of English. I don't think he wants to spend the evening playing charades,” Peter responded.

“No, I'm sure he wouldn't.” Lee Chang smiled, nodded, and barked at Chow Ying in Chinese. The large subordinate walked across the front lot of Chang Industries, down the side of the main building, and vanished into the seamstresses' two-story living quarters. The CEO, senator, and sweatshop ruler went upstairs to wait.

Traditional Chinese furnishings cluttered Lee Chang's living room.

“Nice piece,” the senator said, running his hands across a large black cabinet with twelve rows and columns of square drawers.

Peter spoke. “It's an antique herbal medicine cabinet. The Chinese characters written on the front of each drawer indicate the contents.”

“Tattooed reminders of a former life,” the senator said with poetic license.

Lee Chang stepped over and pulled open one of the drawers. “And now it holds my DVD collection.”

“Modernization never stops,” Peter added.

The three men found their way to the living room and Peter and Senator Day sat on the sofa. Lee took a seat on a comfortable wooden chair, small cylindrical pillows made from the finest Chinese silk supporting his arms.

The middle-aged woman who entered the room to serve tea didn't speak. She had standing orders not to interrupt when her boss's guests were wearing suits. The senator watched the woman skillfully pour tea from a blue and white ceramic teapot. He wondered if the woman was Lee Chang's lover. Peter knew Lee's taste ran much younger.