Halon-Seven (6 page)

Speaking of which…

Cyrus walked to the massive picture window overlooking the Chicago skyline. His eyes were fixed on a rooftop several city blocks distant. The details of the roofline were indistinct at this distance but it didn’t matter. He already knew what was there.

He knelt down and pulled a small wad of C4 plastic explosive away from the base of the pane of glass. Then, rather casually, he pulled the silver “pencil” detonator from the wad of clay. Slipping the lump of C4 into one pocket of his Dockers and the detonator into another pocket, he looked out the window once more.

“I owe you one, Hondo.” He was speaking very casually to the empty room while facing the window. “It’s always good to know that someone I trust has my back. Next round of drinks is on me.”

—————

A man in
a floppy jungle hat stood sighting down the barrel of a sniper rifle several blocks away. The rifle was mounted on a bipod that rested atop a large aluminum air-conditioning vent. Beside the rifle was a small black box atop a miniature tripod. The black box beamed a laser into the distance. A set of headphones attached to the box were worn by the sniper.

“I owe you one, Hondo,” said the voice from the headphones. “It’s always good to know that someone I trust has my back. Next round of drinks is on me.”

The man chuckled and rose up from behind the rifle. He pulled off the headphones and snatched the cell phone from his hip pocket. He tapped out a quick message and hit send:

> No problem, mate. Least I can do for an old friend!

The man immediately pocketed the phone. Without a moment’s hesitation, he set about breaking down the rifle and laser listening device. There was no one to shoot today. His job was done. It would be eighteen-hour flight back to Australia but it really was the least he could do for the man who has saved the life of his wife. One thing was certain. Cyrus hadn’t lost his edge. That son-of-a-bitch would do anything for a story!

Oak Park, Chicago Illinois

Sunday, 3:12 pm

Finishing the final revision of his new article, Cyrus sat back in his chair. He was alone in the office of his two-bedroom apartment. Over the last half hour he had put the finishing touches on the second in a three part series of stories that the
Chicago Tribune
was referring to as the Chicago PD’s Murder-for-Hire Program. It was a tasteless title but that much was beyond his control. The title grabbed attention and sold papers, something that was becoming increasingly difficult as readers continued to migrate toward online news sources.

Scattered around Cyrus’s massive antique desk were dozens of lose scraps of paper. They were notes he used while writing. The practice was largely organizational. One of the benefits of his eidetic memory was virtually perfect recall of the contents of every piece of paper. Retaining information was easy. Organizing it and putting it to paper in a clear, concise manner was the challenge. The notes helped him plan the story and immerse himself in the content. The solitary experience of writing was something he enjoyed, particularly after a harrowing operation such as the one against the rouge police detectives.

His desk faced the center of a largely empty office. Two small, sturdy wooden chairs faced the desk. They were also largely ceremonial. Few people knew he had a home office—let alone its location—so visitors were few and far between. The wall to Cyrus’s back was entirely covered in corkboard. That board was blanketed from end to end with thumbtacked photos, notes, and photocopied documents. But whereas his desktop was a functioning morass of the story he was currently engrossed in, the corkboard contained a series of more neatly arranged sections. Each segment was devoted to a story he was developing or monitoring in some way.

Such was the life of a freelance writer.

Cyrus tapped out the last few words of his story and took a long hard look at the screen of his laptop. Finally, he hit print. He always preferred to proofread a hardcopy. It was another ritual. The wall opposite his desk was dominated by a large bay window that overlooked the city street several stories below. A laser printer sat by the corner of the window. After a few moments it began to buzz with signs of life, the beginning of its warm-up routine.

The door to his office was tucked in the far left corner. The remainder of the left wall and the entire right wall were dominated by floor to ceiling built-in bookshelves. The shelves were virtually packed end to end with hardcover volumes. He had collected them over the course of many years. He was a writer, but like most writers, he was first an avid reader. And every one of these books was one with which he had spent quality time. And again thanks to his photographic memory, virtually all of their imparted wisdom was squirreled away in some corner of his mind.

He glanced at the checklist written on a notepad beside his MacBook Pro and ran through it one more time. The
Los Angeles Times
had picked up his story for their web edition. That was covered. In fact he had already submitted it via their website. The same went for a pair of newspapers in New York. One of those papers was running the story on its site and in the print edition. It was convoluted these days, each paper trying one scheme or another to shuffle readers either to or from the print version or web site. The only thing they seemed to know for sure was that they didn’t want their subscribers reading the other guy’s paper. The print world certainly wasn’t what it used to be. But that was why Cyrus was making a killing with investigative journalism. When he could break a big story, he could sell it all over the country. The papers were in chaos but they were still buying his work.

Looking back at his list, he considered the additional stories that were sure to follow. Once the case made it to court, headlines would be made all over again. Plus he had already heard from Agent Shaw. Two of the four members of the kill squad had flipped on their mysterious fifth associate within an hour of being hauled into interrogation. The remaining two corroborated the fifth member’s identity before the day was out. Shaw hadn’t been forced to make hard choices when it came to cutting a deal. The FBI would seek a change of venue as Illinois didn’t currently support capital punishment. Cyrus wondered if it was the threat of the death penalty or just the promise of being placed in general population that had done the trick. Then again, for a Chicago cop going to prison, those options were likely one and the same.

All in all, this was going to be a good month’s work. And Hondo was due compensation for his support on the roof a couple of days back. Cyrus knew the man would be offended if offered cash. Their relationship didn’t work that way. Fair enough. Cyrus had set up a college fund for Hondo’s four-year-old-daughter. He started it with a hefty deposit, and planned to contribute to it over time. Truth be told, freelance writing wasn’t even Cyrus’s bread and butter. It would be good to do something constructive with the extra money.

The chime of the front door bell pulled Cyrus from his contemplation. It took a moment for him to realize the buzzer was his. It was almost never used. No one visited his home.

Pressing the intercom button on the panel beside the front door, Cyrus answered simply, “Yes?”

“Mister Cooper? My name is Allan Underwood. I’ve come to speak with you regarding Mister Walter Meade.”

Cyrus felt his jaw tighten at the mention of Meade. This was unexpected, and he’d never heard of Allan Underwood. “I’m sorry,” Cyrus said after only a moment. “I don’t know a Walter Freed.” Why not mess with the last name? Maybe it would sell the lie.

“Ah, no. I was told to expect as much,” the man chuckled. “Mister Cooper, I’m sorry for the intrusion. If I could have a moment of your time I’m sure I can explain everything.”

Alright
. He wasn’t going away that easily. Cyrus was going to have to see it through. “Ok. Come on up.” He hit the button to release the lock on the street level entrance out front.

Cyrus returned to his desk where he saved the document that was still up on the computer’s screen. With a tap of the keyboard, he activated the software screen lock and secured the machine. Pulling out the top left desk drawer, he retrieved a 9mm Springfield. A quick check of the magazine and a press-check of the chamber confirmed it was locked and loaded. He stuck the gun down back of his jeans before grabbing a flannel shirt from the back of his office chair. Pulling it on, he headed back to the front door. The shirt would be enough to hide the gun but it wouldn’t get in the way if he needed to use it.

A few minutes later there was a knock at the door. Cyrus opened it to find a weathered old man in an expensive dark suit. The man was about five foot six and must have weighed 190 pounds. He was very nearly as big around as he was tall. It must have made for an interesting challenge for his tailor. Still, the man had kind eyes. The patient sort that hinted he was here to deliver bad news. Cyrus judged the man to be in his early seventies but he might have been off a decade one way or another.

“Mister Cooper,” the old man said with an outstretched hand. It was a statement, not a question. He seemed to know Cyrus on sight and felt no need to confirm his identity. “I’m sorry I didn’t telephone first. My name is Allan Underwood. I’m the attorney for Professor Meade’s estate.”

Tentatively, Cyrus shook the old man’s hand. “Estate? Ah…please, come in?”

Cyrus showed Underwood into the office and over to one of the chairs opposite his desk. He sat in the matching chair, choosing not to take his customary place behind the desk. If this man was whom he claimed, this was a matter of some delicacy.

“You said you’re a lawyer for Meade’s estate?” Cyrus asked cautiously, starting the conversation where they’d left off. “Am I to assume that Walter is…” He let the statement hang rather the finish it himself.

“Oh, my! I’m sorry. You didn’t know! You haven’t heard?” Underwood looked aghast, as if he had just made the most unforgivable mistake in the business. “I’m so sorry—I suppose you wouldn’t have heard. Walter said you only spoke sporadically. I’m sorry, yes, he passed several weeks ago.”

“Meade—err—Walter, he spoke of me?”

“Oh, yes! Frequently!” The old man chuckled. His smile was warm and Cyrus could see something more there. A deep regard for Meade, perhaps? “We spoke often about a great many things. Your name often came up in conversation. I hope you know, Walter held you in very high regard?”

This brought a grin from Cyrus. “Well, I don’t know about that. We didn’t know each other all that well. We’ve only spoken a few times. He was a very interesting old fellow. But I can’t say I knew him all that well.”

In part this was true, but to a larger extent Cyrus wanted to vet Underwood’s knowledge of the old man and their relationship. Much of what he and Meade discussed was sensitive in nature and he wasn’t comfortable discussing Meade’s business with anyone. Walter Meade had told him things in confidence, some of it fairly outlandish and difficult to believe but private just the same. Cyrus had never been sure if the old man was on the level, off his rocker, or somewhere in between. But Walter Meade had been brilliant, there was never any question about that. And he certainly was a person of importance in Washington. Cyrus had witnessed a demonstration of that first hand. He’d never seen the wheels of bureaucracy move so swiftly as when Walter Meade had been in trouble. Still, he didn’t know Underwood and this could be a snipe hunt. Early in their relationship Meade had asked for discretion pertaining to their discussions and Cyrus would honor that. Information here would flow in only one direction. But if Meade had indeed passed, arrangements would need to be made.

“Didn’t know each other all that well?” Underwood asked. He gave Cyrus a sly and appraising glance. “I was Walter’s friend first and his attorney second. He would dine at my home several times a month. He loved my wife’s cooking. Anyway, the way he told it, you had a mind that was uniquely open to the mysteries of the universe.”

“That does sound like something Meade—err, Walter would say.”

“Walter had access to the greatest minds of our time and he had some very interesting opinions in regards to each and everyone of them. It would have made for an amazing memoir,” he cast Cyrus a knowing glance. “Were such a thing not subject to treasonous consequences.”

Ok, maybe this guy did know the old man as well as he claimed.

“But of all these so called ‘great minds,’ he was most impressed with you! He said you were the only person he ever met that would see him when he would show up out of the blue, day or night. You would let him throw absurd hypotheses about, and you would converse with him as frankly as you would discuss the day’s weather. I can tell you one thing with absolute certainty. He was impressed that you never asked where he was getting his crazy ideas and never considered him mad for being serious about them.”

Cyrus had to laugh. Ok, he was buying it. Underwood had him convinced, he surely must be a close friend to Meade if he knew about those conversations. His description was right on the money. It wasn’t uncommon for Meade to show up unannounced. And they would have lengthy discussions about the strangest subjects. But each and every talk seemed of vital importance to the old man so Cyrus dug into the meat of each matter and they would kick the issue of the day around. More often than not, when all was said and done, the old man left with that excited glint in his eye. That urgent and anxious look, like a kid who just woke up on Christmas morning. A kid who couldn’t wait to get downstairs and play with his new toys. Cyrus never really understood what it was all about, but the conversations were never dull and always proved to be an intellectual challenge.

“He was just a crazy old man who had a very active imagination,” Cyrus concluded. He always suspected there was more to it, ever since the day they first met in Washington. Still, he had never broached the subject. He smiled thinking about DC. Had they really met that day? He was certain that Meade didn’t remember ever seeing him in the coffee shop. But after all that had happened, it had been the events of that afternoon that brought Walter Meade to Cyrus’s door. Fate was funny that way.