A Man Overboard Page 12

  “Hey, Don?” he hollered again while drifting to the door. But Donny didn’t answer, and a cold finger of worry traced his spine. He knew Donny was in great shape, but even he wouldn’t just take off on a random three-hour run. He put an eye to the peephole.

  And there Agent Johnson stood, impatiently looking up and down the street as if he didn’t want to be seen by the ice cream truck approaching from the next street over, some obnoxious jingle trying to pull kids from their video games.

  Jack opened the door. “Hey.”

  Johnson walked past him without reciprocating the greeting.

  “Are you looking for me or Don? Because I’m not sure where he is. He went for a jog, and I fell asleep out on the patio—”

  “Let’s go,” Johnson commanded, not waiting for Jack to finish. His face was pulled tight with stress.

  Jack shook his head, confused. “What do you mean? Where?”

  “Just get whatever you need, and let’s go.” There was no flexibility in his voice.

  Jack hesitated.

  “Go, damn it!” Johnson shoved him.

  “All right,” he mumbled. He went to the couch he’d slept on the night before and reached beneath it, pulling out the Smith & Wesson and tucking it into the back of his borrowed jeans. When he got back to Johnson, the agent was looking out the window.

  “What’s going on?” Jack asked.

  “Come on.” Johnson opened the door and led him to a blue Dodge Intrepid.

  “This your car?”

  “Just get in.”

  Minutes later, they were on Broad Street and headed for PA 309.

  “Give me your phone,” Johnson ordered.

  “Why?”

  “Just do it.”

  Jack pulled it out and handed it over. Johnson had the SIM card out in two seconds and then tossed it out the window. Before Jack could protest, Johnson sent the rest of the phone after it. “They shut us down,” he stated, not needing to explain to “Jerry” why he would ever throw a cell phone out the window. There was no missing the anxiety in his clipped voice or the way he was nervously glancing at the rearview mirror every five seconds.

  “Who?”

  “CIA.”

  Jack paused, the sound of the road passing beneath them a soothing soundtrack at odds with the happenings of their world. “Why?”

  “Apparently Vadim has a unique relationship with the Agency.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Johnson stole a quick glance at him while tapping against the steering wheel. “Your wife was born in Russia, 1974. Her real name is Anna Aleksandrov, born to parents Natasha and Dmitri Aleksandrov. Dmitri was the KGB man in the photo. He died in 1982, a couple years after Natasha left the country with Anna. They were Stacey and Viktoriya by the time they showed up here in New York.”

  Jack couldn’t seem to get his mouth to move.

  Johnson continued. “Vadim Sidorov came over in the mid ’90s and was activated by the SVR in ’98. Whether Anna was aware of that or not, I wasn’t able to find out. He and Anna were married in 1999.”

  Jack’s world dropped into an abyss more confusing than the one he’d been rescued from a week ago. His mind went numb, and his tongue fell impotent. He just stared at the road flying toward them, not really seeing the cars Johnson was circumnavigating.

  “Sorry,” Johnson said, acknowledging the information overload short-circuiting his passenger’s brain. But he went on anyway. “The CIA turned Vadim in ’05—the same year Stacey and Viktoriya showed up in Philadelphia. Obviously, the Agency doesn’t want other departments sorting through their double agent’s laundry. They’re protecting his identity and whatever they’re planning on using him for.”

  Jack finally turned his head. But though the news that Stacey had been married before was devastating to him, it didn’t explain why they were flying north up Broad Street in a car that, judging from the girly magazines littered across the back seat and the stuffed animals positioned against the rear windshield, was not Agent Johnson’s personal vehicle. So suppressing the suffocating tentacles of this new nightmare, Jack squeezed out a more relevant question. “What happened?”

  “Donny’s dead.”

  And the world just kept spiraling away.

  “Hit and run this morning.”

  Shock crushed him. But the size of the revelation was too large to fit through the space of comprehension, so the information was momentarily sentenced into a cloud of orbiting satellites all containing the news and waiting for an opportunity to transmit its fullness.

  “Your friend Ivan is missing, too,” he added.

  Jack stared ahead, not blinking, not moving, not breathing. And then, as if some invisible restraint was snapped, he exploded into a fit of rage, throwing his fists into the dashboard, swearing loudly with each strike.

  When he was finally done striking the car, Jack put his head in his hands and wept, angry, bitter drops racing down his cheeks. The broadcast, though edited due to time limitations, had offered a preview of what the revelation had in store for him.

  Johnson waited three miles before interrupting him. “I don’t know if this is the CIA or the Russians cleaning up, but you need to lie real low for a while. I’m taking you somewhere you’ll be safe. You’ll stay there until you hear from me. I know you want to find your son, but right now you need to worry about staying alive.”

  Forcing a deep breath, Jack pushed the satellites further away from his planet, weakening their signal for the time being. “You think the CIA’s cleaning up after Vadim?” He couldn’t figure out why the Russians would be knocking people off.

  “Remember when the FBI caught those guys who were planning on blowing up a bridge in Cleveland?” Johnson asked.

  Jack snorted with disgust. “Yeah, after recruiting and supplying them.” He looked over at the driver and shook his head. “Way to go.”

  Johnson didn’t say anything.

  But Jack was angry, and venting with his mouth came naturally when his target was something he couldn’t touch with his hands. “Even the New York Times reported on it! They find the dumbasses, recruit them, train them, supply them, and in some cases even drive the damn van to the target! And then, they bust them at the last second and parade themselves like heroes for the mainstream media. And the stupid public eats it up with praise while handing over all their rights. Let me ask you something, FBI man, if terrorism is such a real threat, why do you have to fake so much of it?”

  Agent Johnson again checked the road behind them. “Look, I know all that. Which is why I brought it up. You’re right. Cleveland, Massachusetts, New York, Portland…” He sighed. “It looks like Vadim could be in the middle of a similar situation.”

  Jack’s eyes narrowed into slits. “You mean they’re setting him up for something? Or they’re keeping their scapegoat from making front page news before they can pull off a black op?” If the CIA had Vadim pegged as their fall guy for some false flag operation, then Jack being a “monkey wrench” was a massive understatement, his surviving the dip in the big drink clogging their conspiratorial toilet with something much larger. “You talking some kind of Northwoods thing? A false flag meant to incite a war with Russia?”

  Johnson understood the reference, which involved the Joint Chiefs of Staff drawing up plans to commit terrorist acts in the US to garner public support for a war against Cuba, and shook his head. “All I know is that anyone who knows about your wife’s previous husband is having a hard time staying alive right now.”

  The car fell into silence for ten miles. At which point, Jack’s laughter couldn’t be contained.

  “What the hell is so funny?” Johnson asked.

  “Operation Ajax is funny.”

  Johnson looked confused.

  “1953, the CIA-led coup on Mossadegh to keep him from nationalizing Iran’s oil…”

  “I know what it is. Why is it funny?”

  “Because it was the closest Iran ever came to being a democracy, and we go in and
install the Shah which led to the rise of Islamic fundamentalism and anti-Americanism in the Middle East. Then we use that fundamentalism by creating and training Al-Qaida to fight the Soviets in Afghanistan…” He laughed some more. “And now, after the Cold War and the collapse of the Soviet Union, here we are fighting an endless war against our own creation while the very ones we created them to defeat have been nursing their wounds in the background, gaining power while waiting for us to suffer the same fate!” He sneered, “Blowback is a bitch, ain’t it?” He continued laughing at the insanity of it all.

  When Johnson didn’t respond, Jack looked back out the window. “Problem-Reaction-Solution, right?” he mumbled, staring into the returning numbness. He saw in the window’s reflection Johnson turn toward him. “Create a problem that causes a reaction, the reaction being the people begging for a solution, the solution the government’s true agenda all along. You think anyone could’ve foreseen their government burning Jews in ovens? Hitler only had to burn down his own Parliament building and blame it on his enemies in order to incite a wave of blind, national patriotism that swept the Nazis to within an arm’s length of world domination.”

  “Are you suggesting the US government is made up of Nazis?”

  “Wouldn’t be surprised. Operation Paperclip was hatched by our government, wasn’t it? The Tuskegee Experiment. Besides, governments will always be made up of men. And men will always be corruptible. That’s why there’s a Constitution. And the right to bear arms. And the balance of powers. And the right to assemble. And free speech.” And, as if pulled from the rut his mind had rolled into, he stared back at Johnson. “You really think they’re plotting another false flag?”

  They both understood the term to be derived from the military practice of flying false colors, a ship hanging the flag of its enemy before targeting one of its own, the attack falsely blamed on the attacking flag in order to justify a reaction against the enemy. There were many historical instances on which they could both draw. Nero’s burning of Rome, Operation Himmler, the burning of the Reichstag, the KGB bombing their own in order to justify war with Chechnya, the CIA’s Operation Ajax in Iran, the USS Liberty incident, Operation Gladio, the US’s Operation Northwoods that planned terror attacks on US soil meant to be blamed on Cuba, the Gulf of Tonkin incident, the anthrax notes in the wake of 9/11, and so on and so forth. There were countless incidents throughout history, and even more so recently. Whether Johnson would agree with all of the attacks Jack believed to be a false flag or inside job didn’t matter; there were enough out of the bag now to make the conversation frighteningly plausible.

  But Johnson just shook his head again, not saying a word.

  22

  Johnson pulled the Dodge onto a stone path, the path resting partially concealed between the green walls of a dense forest. The canopy above was so impenetrable that long rays of light could be seen poking through small openings. They were somewhere in the mountains. Jack didn’t know exactly where. After more than a dozen turns down small streets and uneven back roads, he’d given up keeping track of their location.

  The narrow path led to a small cabin, and Johnson pulled up beside it. Flinging the door open, he said, “Come on.”

  Jack stepped out and stretched, kneading his knuckles into the small of his back. “Whose place is this?”

  “Friend of a friend of a cousin.” He tried the front door. Locked.

  “Anyone live here?”

  “Not at the moment.” He walked around back and tried the other door. It was locked, too.

  “You didn’t tell anybody we were coming?” Jack asked.

  He shook his head. “Not a soul.” Walking across the overgrown yard and to a wooden shed that sat nestled against the tree line, he bent over and flipped a rock. When he stood back up, he had a set of keys in his hand. Wiping them off, he walked back to the door and unlocked it. “Come on,” he said.

  Jack followed him into the house and found himself standing in a dusty kitchen that hadn’t been used in a long time.

  “Stay here.” And Johnson went to check the rest of the house. When he came back a minute later, Jack was running his finger through half an inch of dust that had settled over the stove. Johnson frowned. “I thought you’d be smarter than that.”

  Jack withdrew his finger and swept his gaze up to the water-stained ceiling. “Not that anyone’ll ever know I was here, right?”

  “That’s the idea, but still…” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a cell phone. “It’s prepaid.” He tossed it to him. “Don’t use it unless it’s an emergency. You only get one call, and I may not be able to drive back out here. Otherwise, I’ll call you when I find out what the hell is going on.”

  Jack scratched an itch on his forehead. “So, I’ll be here for a while?”

  “Probably.”

  “What about food?”

  “I got stuff in the trunk.” He led Jack back to the Dodge and opened the trunk. A few grocery bags were lined up beside a 12-gauge double-barrel shotgun and boxes of shells. Johnson took the bags out one at a time.

  “You know how to work a shotgun?” he asked Jack.

  “Yeah. Where’d you get it?”

  “It’s my uncle’s.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Stay on top of the prints. There’s a box of gloves in one of the bags. Wear them, it’ll be easier than trying to remember what you touched. There’s a backpack in one of them, too. I didn’t have time to load it myself, but you should keep it ready. If you have to run, you won’t have time to pack. If anyone shows up, you grab the gun and the bag and you take off into the woods. If you can’t get away in time, then…well, if a person doesn’t have a key, then they’ve got no business being here. Shoot first.”

  “And what do I do once I’m in the woods?”

  Johnson shrugged. “Stay alive.”

  Again, all kinds of movies came playing back in his mind. The only problem was that John Rambo had a legendary background with the Special Forces, and all Jack could boast of was a game-winning touchdown run in high school. “Yeah…” he mumbled. Then he said, “Will you look for Ivan?”

  “I’ll keep my eyes open, but I need to lay low on this stuff, too. I’m sorry.”

  Thinking of Ivan led to another thought. “Is it true that the FSB is more ruthless than the KGB?”

  “That’s the rumor.”

  “Do you think there’s any chance this could be SVR?”

  “A chance? I guess. But I don’t know why they’d care about Donny and Ivan.” Then looking at his watch, he mumbled, “I have to get back. I’ll call as soon as I can. I’m sorry about Donny. He was a good friend.” For a moment, it seemed Johnson might shed a tear.

  Emotion grabbed Jack, too. “He was going to propose,” he whispered.

  “What do you mean?” But there was a look of unbelief on the agent’s face that said he knew exactly what he’d meant.

  “Yeah, I found a ring in one of his drawers while I was looking for clean clothes.” He pulled at the T-shirt.

  Johnson swore under his breath, and a small smile tugged the corner of his mouth a couple of times as a tear did fall. “Donny married…” He laughed a sad laugh. “That I would’ve liked to see.”

  Jack grew angrier at the unfairness of it all. “They’re going to get away with it, aren’t they? Whoever’s behind this?”

  “They always do.”

  “It’s not right.”

  “Never is.”

  Jack stared at the ground. “Do you think my son is alive?” Again, he pushed the looming questions surrounding his word choice away from him.

  “If Stacey’s involved in some way, then yes, I’m sure he’s doing just fine.”

  “And if she’s not?”

  “I don’t know, Jack.”

  They stood silent for a while, listening to unseen birds whistle from their branches.

  “If I don’t call by Saturday…” Johnson finally said. But he didn’t finish the thought. Instead, he
shrugged and closed the trunk. “If this is CIA, and the attention on Vadim has compromised them, then it’s likely the whole thing might blow over.”

  But even if it did blow over, Jack was unsure of where it would leave him and Stacey, Vadim and Viki. “So I’m just supposed to hide out here until things settle down and…”

  “If you want me to drive you back, I will. But where are you going to stay? And what do you think you’d accomplish? You think maybe Joseph is going to call you one day, tell you where he is? We’re way past that now, Jack. People are dying. Someone is covering their tracks, and you’re the one exposing them. You need to stay out of the picture until I can figure out what’s really going on.” He walked to the driver’s side door and got in. Once seated behind the wheel, he told him, “It can get cold at night up here.” He handed him a long, black coat.

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ll call you.”

  “What am I supposed to do?” he complained.

  “I don’t know. Pray.” He shut the door.

  “Yeah, thanks.” And he watched the taillights flicker on and off as Johnson navigated the car away from him.

  Thirty seconds later, he was standing alone in the middle of nowhere, a prepaid cell phone in his pocket, a pistol down his pants, a coat hanging over the crook of his arm, and a shotgun and grocery bags lying at his feet. He took in the new environment and wondered how he’d ended up in this place.

  * * * *

  It was dark out, and with no watch on his wrist or working clock on the wall, it was the only thing in the world right now that Jack knew for certain. He was positioned by a window in the corner of the room, sitting in an old rocking chair—all its joints reinforced with webbing from some arachnid artist that hopefully died years ago. He had the loaded shotgun across his lap just in case.

  A candle burned from atop the makeshift table beside him, its flickering light casting itself in a reflection against the dirty window he was facing. He could see nothing but the dark impression of night beyond it and his own ghostly silhouette doing some form of dance in rhythm to the flame. Scratching an itch on his head that may or may not be imagined, he was instantly bothered by the feel of the probing latex. Wearing the gloves reminded him of Jerry Fletcher keeping his coffee in combination-locked thermoses inside a padlocked refrigerator. But it was Johnson that had suggested it, and if the CIA was after him, he figured no precaution was too extreme.