Zero Sum, Book One, Kotov Syndrome (15 page)

He jumped back. A cat tore by in hot
pursuit of an errant pigeon.

His heartbeats pounded in his ears. He
kept walking, reached his car, opened the door. No light overhead,
as it was an older convertible. Thank the Germans for small
favors.

He reached behind the passenger seat
and grabbed the duffel. So far, so good. He pulled the phone
charger out of the lighter socket and pocketed it.

Done.

Steven looked around. All quiet. He got
out of the car, softly closed the door, and locked it with his key.
He walked away, heart still racing, feeling like he’d just
succeeded in doing a prison break; Steve McQueen in
The Great
Escape
, sans motorcycle.

The evening blew a soft, cool breeze
but his shirt was soaked with sweat. He edged back to the bike
path, scanning the lot a last time to confirm nobody was
watching.

And then Steven began to
run.

He ran hard, and he didn’t stop for a
long time.

* * * *

A techno jazz beat swirled softly in
the background as Griffen absently watched the two girls pleasure
each other. He idly fondled a breast as the brunette slowly drew
him in and out of her pouting mouth, moaning as her young friend
set her tingling with her tongue while probing deeper with the
humming vibrator. Tanya and Sophie, both from Guadeloupe, with
charming French accents, and here in the big city with a burning
ambition to break into theater. Tanya was a singer, and he forgot
exactly what Sophie’s claim to fame was, other than a shaved mons.
It didn’t really matter. They had a double-trouble thing they
marketed to gentlemen of discriminating tastes, and Griffen was
currently enjoying the proficiency of their performance.

Neither could be more than eighteen
years old. All the better. Tanya, the brunette, shifted and
shuddered, her pace becoming more urgent as Sophie expertly brought
her nearer and nearer to climax.

His cell rang. The distinct ring he’d
programmed for Sergei. Great timing, Sergei. He disengaged from the
delicious tangle of appendages and reached over to grab the
phone.

“Your problems are over. Have a nice
night.” Sergei’s voice rang flat and unemotional. He hung
up.

Griffen considered the words. He
smiled, and tossed the phone onto the floor.

Sighing, he ran his eyes over the two
hard-bodied island girls in his bed, the empty champagne bottles,
the mirror with the dusting of powder.

“Now, where were we…?”

Steven slowed to a steady jog after the
first half hour of running, realizing he was somewhere in the hills
of Mission Viejo – a staid suburbia, where lawns were trimmed with
regularity by hard working gardeners as soccer moms delivered their
charges to private schools in tinted-windowed Range Rovers. The
evening breezed cool, for summer, with the traffic thinning out as
the dinner rush wound down.

He approached one of the never-ending
strip malls and rested on the bench in front of a fruit smoothie
place that was still doing reasonable business. He bought a faux
pina colada concoction, found a seat outside, and watched the high
school girls come and go for their evening libations, chatting
about boys, music and the other mundane stuff of youth.

The calories and the run had helped
clear his head, although he was still at a loss as to what to do
next. He had no place to sleep, no plans, no computer, and couldn’t
show his driver’s license anywhere – which would be a requirement
at any hotel. And the credit cards were obviously unusable. The
government had unknown powers of surveillance, and he wasn’t going
to put them to the test. He’d overestimated his ability to remain
anonymous once already, and he’d learned his lesson; a lesson that
had presumably cost Todd his life, Lone Star their livelihood,
Avalon his head, and him at least a hundred and fifty grand, his
relationship, and potentially his life.

He retrieved his cell from the bag, and
dialed Stan using the calling card.

“Stan, it’s me. Don’t say anything.
Today got much worse since we talked. I got back to the boat, and
it had exploded and killed my boat-cleaning guy. It wasn’t an
accident. And the place hosting the website burned to the ground
this morning; supposedly an electrical fire, but I’ll bet it’s
arson. People are dying, Stan.” Steven paused, waited for a
response.

“Are you on a secure line? In a safe
place?” Stan always approached things methodically.

“On a disposable cell, via a calling
card.”

“Hang up and call me from a pay
phone.”

“Done.”

He walked over to a public telephone on
the far side of the strip mall, called his card’s 800 number, then
dialed Stan.

“Stan, I’m on a pay phone.”

“What’s going on? Homeland doesn’t blow
up boats and commit murder.” As always, Stan had hit the ground
running, already piecing together the incongruities.

“I thought about that. I don’t know
what to expect or believe anymore,” Steven said. “But I do know a
friend is dead because someone thought he was me.”

“Presumably. We don’t know that for
sure. But let’s assume you’re right. What are you
thinking?”

“I need somewhere I can be anonymous
now that I’m dead,” Steven said. “Someplace low profile to use as a
base, where I’m not endangering anyone if I’m found. Any
suggestions?”

“I’d offer to have you stay here, but
that seems imprudent to say the least. I’ll go rent a room and pay
in advance for a week at the Best Western down the street. I’ll
leave the key somewhere you can find it. Call me when you get into
town.”

Regardless of the apparent danger, Stan
sounded like he was game to help. Steven had hardly doubted it, but
it was still good to hear. The stakes had gone up since morning,
and he hadn’t been completely certain he could count on Stan’s
continued good humor.

Steven had another, bigger request, and
he needed to make it sooner rather than later.

“Stan, I also need a foreign passport,
preferably in a different name.”

The line went quiet; he could almost
hear Stan thinking.

“Well,” Stan finally said, “there’s no
law against an American citizen having dual citizenship, so no
problem there. The issue is one of time, expense, and logistics.
Let me nose around and see what’s available. A formal name change
could take a while; that might be a problem…and I don’t think you
want to wait the eight to twelve weeks a front door program from
Dominica or such would take – nor the scrutiny through Interpol.
I’ll put out some feelers and have more info tomorrow.” He paused.
“Anything else?”

“No…but, Stan…thanks for going to bat
for me.”

“Call me when you get here.”

“I don’t have a car,” Steven explained.
“It’s in the lot with the boat. I figured it was best to leave it
there – another dead-end.”

“Take a cab to the Denny’s off the
freeway in San Juan Capistrano, then switch to a different taxi
company and catch it at one of the bars a few blocks away in town –
then take it to the Sandbar cafe in Carlsbad. It's just at the
bottom of the hill from the motel. Are you good on cash?” Stan
asked.

“For now. I’ll be there in a few
hours.”

Steven hung up. He was lucky to have
Stan. As an asset protection attorney, Stan was well versed in
second citizenship programs, offshore banking, and a myriad of
other specialized topics. There weren’t many people he could ask to
procure a new passport or citizenship on a rush basis and expect
results.

He called a cab company, to be told
there’d be a car there in fifteen minutes. He was on his way.
Strange how he’d gone from inhabiting a comfortable house, owning a
boat, a car, possessions of all shapes and sizes, to a man with a
duffel bag and a cell phone. He felt uneasy, but unusually free.
Maybe the whole ‘passport, credit card and travel bag’ lifestyle
had merit. If the world’s most powerful government and parties
unknown weren't trying to find and kill him it would almost be an
enlightening adventure.

He crossed the street and waited for
his cab.

It took the best part of an hour to
reach San Juan Capistrano, where he dutifully called another cab
company and waited for the taxi’s arrival in front of a biker bar a
block from the restaurant. Ten minutes later it pulled to the curb.
Steven got into the car and gave the address of the cafe in
Carlsbad. Tonight really was the driver’s lucky night; it must be
an easy forty-dollar fare.

They drove south in mutual silence.
When they reached the cafe, Steven paid the driver in cash. Once on
the sidewalk, he dialed Stan’s number.

“Stan. I’m here.”

“The key’s in a red planter a couple of
feet away from your room. Number 202. It’s not the Ritz, but it’s
large enough so you won’t be noticed if you keep a low profile. I
threw a six pack of soda and some granola bars in the room in case
you want a snack.”

Steven smiled to himself; Stan loved
granola bars, and assumed everyone else did as well. “Thanks again,
Stan. I’ll call tomorrow.”

Steven kept alert as he sauntered up to
the motel and located the colorful planter and key. Once inside, he
flopped on the bed and thought for several minutes about the day’s
events and the items needing attention tomorrow. His body was still
pulsing with nervous energy from his flight from the boat, so he
decided to put it to use by compiling a to-do list. He fumbled in
the bedside end-table until he found a pen and a few sheets of
hotel stationary, which he carried over to the small teak desk. As
he sat staring blankly at the sheets of paper, wondering where to
even start, the reality of his predicament threatened to overwhelm
him with a sense of helpless despair.
Yeah, it's a bitch,
Steven, but you don't have the luxury of falling apart, do you, so
better get busy,
his inner voice commanded. It was true. The
time for regret or recriminations was past. He'd have to be
proactive, and throwing a pity party wasn't on the agenda. His
brain focused on the task at hand, and he began making
notes.

He needed to get a laptop and a car,
convert watches into cash, let Peter know what had happened, get
into contact with the Group and give them a heads up, and figure
out how to get the site back up and a server set in place without
alerting his adversaries that he was alive. And buy some
clothes.

That made for a full agenda.

Steven checked his watch; one in the
morning. Too late to call Peter, or do any of the rest of it. Still
restless, he counted his cash. Sixty-five hundred dollars. Figure a
grand, worst case, for the laptop by the time he was done, and two
grand or thereabouts for a beater car. Five hundred for
miscellaneous BS. That left him a few grand. Pretty
thin.

He needed to sell at least one of the
watches in the next few days. The Patek 3970 was probably worth a
hundred thousand, which meant he could probably get eighty thousand
from a dealer, but that was a hard piece to move quickly. The 3940
was worth half that, and the platinum Rolex would bring twenty on a
fire sale. That gave him a lot of firepower in terms of value. He
decided to sell the 3940, as that way he could carry maximum cash
value on his wrist with the 3970, and have an easy-to-sell piece
with the Rolex if he ran into another bind; portability would be
critical if he was going to stay mobile.

He didn’t know how long it would take
to get the ATM card, but he wanted to have options, and cash bought
options. Steven was okay wearing the 3970, as it looked like an
‘old man watch’ according to Jennifer, and didn’t shout big money
to the average person. It was just a yellow metal watch on a strap,
low profile, discreet. He didn’t need attention at the
moment.

Any. At all.

Feeling slightly better about his
future, he collapsed onto the mattress and was out cold within
three minutes.

* * * *

Steven was awakened by the roar of a
leaf blower a few yards from his window. Momentarily disoriented,
he looked around, trying to get his bearings. Then he remembered.
The motel. Todd dead. On the lam.

He lay back. So it wasn’t just a bad
dream. That would have been too easy.

He went into the bathroom to rinse
himself back to life, then threw on a new shirt and yesterday’s
pants. No time for a run today. It was already 8 a.m.. He’d grab
breakfast at the restaurant down the hill and take a walk into
town. There’d inevitably be an area where cars were parked with
For Sale
signs on them, and this close to the border he’d
likely encounter quite a few inexpensive clunkers; the trick would
be to find one that ran well enough so he didn’t wind up broken
down on the freeway, chatting with the Highway Patrol – that would
be compromising, to say the least.

While unpacking his clothes and putting
them into the drawers he found several of his CD-ROMs. A bit of
luck – finally. He’d backed up the website on them recently, so it
was still uploadable; he’d totally forgotten about stuffing them
into the duffel in his rush out the door.