Headhunters (13 page)

I walked a few blocks and caught a cab, paid cash and was
deposited five miles away, within walking distance to a little bodega that I
knew on a street corner. Outside there was a pay phone. Pay phones were
becoming fewer and fewer in the age of cell phones, but in some neighborhoods,
throwbacks like this weren’t unheard of. I strolled down the street and saw no
one out and about at this hour. The sun would rise soon and the day would begin
again.  I needed time to get my head wrapped around what I needed to do next.

How difficult would it be to just run? Pack up everyone and
relocate to Switzerland or Brazil or somewhere even more remote. Could I do it?
It was possible. Was it worth disrupting the kids lives even more than they
already had been? I didn’t think so. It was one thing for me to be a fugitive,
but I didn’t want that life for my kids. They’d already lost their mother; I
wasn’t going to make them live without a father as well.

No, in the end, I’d have to stand and handle this situation.
It may not be what I wanted it to be but it was something that I could handle.
I had a solution to this entire DHS/Blackthorn thing brewing in the back of my
mind. I just needed to run it past a friend.

I stopped in the bodega first. I waved to the Hispanic man
behind the counter. He was probably five and a half feet tall, thin but built
from a life of labor. His hair was cut short, close to his scalp. He raised a
hand to greet me and I saw the calluses on his palm. Here was a guy who busted
his hump to make a living. To build a small market, run it, stock it, keep it
in business. He struggled to make a living, but he made it. He worked hard and
I could imagine that at the end of his shift, he played hard as well. I envied
him that and I’m sure he would have laughed at the gringo in the suit envying
him his life. But in truth, there was an honesty to what he did. He worked, he
lived, and one day he’d die, probably at a ripe old age. He probably had few if
any secrets. He had a simple battered gold wedding band on his finger. I bet
his wife knew where he was every night.

There are things you can change and some things you can’t. I
could not change the events of my life, only the way that I reacted to them. I
could not have this man’s life. That’s not what I was chosen for. I was made
for something else.

I shopped quickly, grabbing what looked important, knowing
that I’d have visitors soon.

I walked to the checkout and deposited my items. The man
asked me how I was and I said fine. It was the dance of clerk and customer and
we knew the steps. He wouldn’t have believed me if I told him how I truly was
anyway. He bagged the groceries and I paid in cash, then asked for change for
the phone. He gave it to me and I stepped outside.

I set the bag on the sidewalk at my feet and dropped the
coins into the pay phone. I dialed quickly, having already retrieved this
number from my memory although I hadn’t used it in years.

It rang once, then again, then it was picked up and there
was a long pause before I heard, “Sinclair.”

“Director Sinclair, I apologize for waking you,” I said. I’d
called NSA Director Jack Sinclair at his home number.

“Who is this?” his voice was groggy was rousing quickly from
his interrupted sleep. This was not the first time he’d been woken at home.

“Simon Parks, sir,” I said.

Silence filled the line for a moment.

“You’re a wanted man, Mr. Parks,” Sinclair said coldly.

“And you have a mole in your organization, sir,” I said.

“That’s what I understand.”

“No,” I replied. “Not me, Randall Kendrick. He set me up.”

“You’re not the first criminal to claim your innocence, Mr. Parks,”
Sinclair said. “You’re wanted by the Chicago Police Department, FBI and the
NSA.”

“Hey, Jack…” I replied. “Cut the bullshit. I was there when
you needed me. If I really stole Homeland Security files and killed a man, do
you honestly think I’d be calling the Director of the National Security Agency
at home?”

He thought about that a moment.

“Maybe you know you can’t get away and want to make a deal,”
Sinclair shot back. He was testy, but he knew me well enough to know I wouldn’t
lie to him. Had no reason to lie to him.

“Jack… where am I right now? Hmm? Chicago? New York? Paris?
Zurich? Do you know?” I asked. “Your man Kendrick had me dead to rights at the
LaSalle. He should have had me. But I slipped through. That’s what I do, Jack.
I get away. I left behind the PD and NSA and Blackthorn, so please tell me that
you don’t honestly think that I’m worried about getting caught.”

In truth, I was scared shitless. I looked over my shoulder
even now, but the shadow in the doorway down from the bodega was just a drunk,
on his way home from the bar, too tired to keep walking, only resting for the
moment.

Sinclair sighed and I could almost feel his resignation.

“Alright, Simon…” he said at last. “Tell me what you know.”

“Randall Kendrick was setting up Max Donovan here in
Chicago. Donovan was using his contacts to crack the Department of Homeland
Security database and steal internal files relating to operational budgets and
how those funds were used. It gave him a backdoor into the capabilities and
operations of the DHS. The information could be sold and used against us by
al-Qaida or any other foreign or domestic terror group. Donovan was going to
sell the information. Kendrick posed as a buyer. When he got close to sealing
the deal, Kendrick approached me and asked me to come back into Blackthorn.
When I refused, he killed Chris Swenson and framed me for the murder.”

“So, where does that leave the sale?” Sinclair asked. “Who
is the buyer?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“You don’t know?” Sinclair repeated. “I thought you were the
inside man on this op.”

“Jack, just to be clear, I don’t work for you,” I said.
“Kendrick was supposed to be the buyer, but when I tried to flush him out to
Max, he called my bluff. Now Max and Kendrick are tighter than ever and we’re
running out of time.”

“So, do you think Kendrick is trying to broker the deal? Or
take down Max?” Sinclair asked.

“Both.”

“Both?”

“Kendrick is a predator. He’s going to broker this deal,
make some money and then bury Max to cut loose ends,” I said.

“Why did he bother coming back to try to recruit you then?”
Sinclair asked.

That was an excellent question. I had no answer.

“Hell if I know,” I said.

“Alright, Simon,” Sinclair said. “I have to ask this
question. How do I know that you don’t have the DHS files? How do I know that
you’re not doing what you say that Kendrick is doing?”

“Because I never would have left Blackthorn if I wanted to
turn renegade. Because if I had the files, I never would have called you.
Because if I truly had the files, you’d be reading about them on the Aljazeera
network.”

Sinclair pondered this for a moment.

“Did they really discover files on my home computer?” I
asked.

“We had our guys in Tech-Ops scan the hard drive,” Sinclair
said. “There’s evidence that something was there, but not the actual files
themselves. There were residual packets of information. Enough to be
incriminating to anyone else, but nothing of substance.”

“I think Kendrick promised to set up the buyer, but when I
wouldn’t come back to Blackthorn, he folded on the buyer and promised something
better,” I said. “A scapegoat. Kendrick provided me as the fall guy in the
whole affair and protection for Max. Now the DHS, NSA, FBI and Chicago police
are all looking for me. Not for Max.”

“So, who is providing the buyer now?” Sinclair asked.

“There’s only one person I know that could have those kinds
of connections and the ability to broker that deal,” I said.

“Who?” Sinclair asked.

I ignored his question.

“Jack, I helped you when you needed it. I was discreet when
the times required it. I need to know… can you help me?” I asked.

“Simon… I can’t,” Sinclair replied. “I cannot officially
turn NSA assets in your direction to assist you. Not as it stands right now.
What I can offer you is this… bring me proof that the allegations that you’re
making are true, and I’ll do what I can.”

“You’ll do what you can?” I asked. “You’ll do what you can?”

“Simon…”

I hung up and stepped back into the bodega. I asked the man
if he could call me a taxi. He agreed. I stood looking at the stack of
newspapers inside his door. On the front page, in the bottom corner, there was
a report that a man in his 50s had been attacked and killed in the city.
According to the report, he’d been both stabbed and shot.

Ellis.

Tom Ellis.

I paid for the paper and tucked it under my arm. I saw the
cab pull up and jumped inside. I directed the driver to take a roundabout route
and he dropped me a few blocks from the brownstone.

 I let myself into the brownstone and quietly closed the
door behind me, snicking the deadbolt into place. I deposited the groceries in
the kitchen then kicked off my shoes and ascended the steps to the bedroom.

Jessica was still there, in bed, unmoved from where I’d left
her. She snored in soft breaths, quiet and reassuring to me. I put the Beretta
on the dresser and descended the stairs.

While I waited for the coffee to brew I cracked eggs in a
bowl, whisked in some milk and started making scrambled eggs in a pan on the
stove. After grating some cheese over the eggs I made toast while the eggs
finished cooking.

I thought about my discussion with Sinclair while I poured
the coffee. It had been a calculated risk to call him at all, but he was my one
remaining ally inside the organization. I considered Kendrick, Max and the buy
and who might be helping them to broker the deal and how much I truly knew
about her.

I reread the story about Ellis’ death… how he’d died… how it
had been covered up. His death was in the media, covered by the news sources,
but it was nothing that it seemed to be.

I plated up the eggs, buttered the toast and poured the
coffee. I had a minor moment of panic when I considered trying to carry
everything until I found a tray in the bottom cabinet, the kind made for just
what I had intended, breakfast in bed. I tucked the paper under my arm again,
lifted the tray and made my way upstairs. I nearly forgot about my ankle injury
until I stepped on the first step and felt a twinge of pain. I’d have to
remember to take something soon to keep the swelling down

The sun was shining through the window now and long slats of
light ran across the bed and Jessica in it.

“Good morning,” I said and she peeked an eye open at me. She
flipped over and covered her head with a pillow.

“Come on now,” I said. “My eggs aren’t that bad.”

“You didn’t put ketchup on them, did you?” Jess asked from
under the pillow.

“Ketchup! I forgot ketchup… wait right here,” I said and
made to walk out of the room. She sat up quickly causing the sheet to fall 
away; she had my attention.

“No, no, that’s okay, I’ll live,” she said with a smile.

She stretched then, arms up over her head and yawned and I
nearly dropped the tray.

“Sorry,” she laughed and pulled up the covers.

I set down the tray over her lap and pulled my plate and
coffee off of it so that she could enjoy her own space.

“I love your eggs,” she said and gave me a peck on the
cheek.

“Good, I’m glad.”

“Did you do what you had to do?” she asked.

I nodded.

“Picked up a paper,” I said and pointed to the article about
Tom Ellis.

She read it without saying a word until she was done.

“God, that’s so sad,” she said at last.

“Yes.”

We ate in silence for a bit.

“I called the Director of the NSA,” I said at last.

Jess had just put a forkful of eggs in her mouth. Her eyes
opened expectantly and she nodded, wanting me to go on.

“I think he believes me,” I said. “But he can’t help us. Not
yet.”

Jessica thought about that, turned it around in her mind,
considering it from every angle.

“So, what are we going to do?” she asked.

I sipped my coffee and smiled.

“We’re going to do the very thing we’ve been accused of,” I
said. “We’re going to steal the DHS files…”

Chapter Thirteen

I must have been twelve years old
the day that my father hit me for the last time. It had been a regular thing.
Hardly a day would pass without a swat from his hand. I remembered… his hands were
thick, the fingers short and stubby and powerful. I knew because when I tried
to get away, he’d lock his hand on me and there was no hope of fleeing. No
chance to run, better to just get it over with sometimes. On his knuckles were
scars. Scars from brawls from “when I was in the Army” as he always said.  I’d
come to hate “the Army” by the age of twelve. Whatever “the Army” had done to
my father between 1968 and 1972 when he had served had turned him into one
malicious son of a bitch. So whatever “the Army” had done to my father, I
thought in my 12-year old mind, he was not like the other kids’ dads.

I had feared him early on, but wisdom comes slowly as young
men enter adolescence and my mouth was sometimes faster than my forethought.
And the only thing faster than my mouth was my father’s hand. I saw it coming
only rarely. Could duck out of the way even less. And when it connected, the
side of my head would erupt in a screaming siren of pain, ringing in my ears
and the flesh would be angry and red. Although he did seem to be careful enough
not to leave a mark often. I don’t know if that made it better or worse.

Often my father traveled for his job. In retrospect, he was
a sales engineer or technician of sorts, but at the age of twelve, I didn’t
give a damn what he did. All I cared about was being left along for the week
that he traveled. But that fateful day at the age of twelve, my father wasn’t
traveling. He was home doing yard work and had indentured me for some
father-son time.

He was using a shovel and I was helping him to sweep up the
lawn clippings that dared to stray onto the sidewalk. I was pushing a broom,
trying to help him, but I couldn’t stop staring at the shovel. He’d used a
shovel like that the last time he’d come home. We were digging around the
garden when a garter snake  slithered out between the pavers at my father’s
feet. The snake had chosen the wrong direction, toward my father, rather than
away. And in a second, I saw my father move faster than he ever had before and
brought down the sharp edge of the spade on the snake’s neck, severing it. Not
cleanly mind you, tore it more than anything and the snake still flipped its
body over twice in a death roll, blood leaking out of it. I couldn’t help but
stare in fascinated horror.

Now, my father stood in the same lawn using a shovel again
while I helped him clean up the lawn clippings. But my mind had wandered,
thinking of the snake and I pushed the clippings too far into the shovel,
making it overflow out the back. I don’t know what my father took it for if not
a child’s clumsiness. Disobedience? Recklessness? Regardless, my father lifted
his shovel and hit me in the shoulder with it, the backside of the blade
clubbing my shoulder, glancing off and cuffing me in the ear. Lawn clippings
and dirt flew onto me and a feeling of embarrassment poured into my guts like
cold water.

The time that passed after he hit me was no more than a
second, but in that second, I formed the thought that to him, I was no better
than the snake. I was an annoyance to him, on his property and he’d treat me
like the snake in the grass. My reaction was swift and while he may have been
able to stop me, he never lifted a hand, never expected me to react. I punched
my father in the chest so hard that I heard the air rush from him. He stumbled
back a step, then two and clutched at his heart where I’d hit him.

“Leave… me… alone…” was all that I said. I turned and walked
into the house and we never discussed the incident again. He never touched me
again either and I never knew if it was out of fear of what I’d do or out of
regret for what he’d done.

I still talk to my father. We’ve become friends in fact and
I visit him in Wisconsin when I have time. We work in his garage workshop and
build benches and birdhouses and the like. He’s still my father after all.

I took something away from that day. Something aside from
the obvious. I learned that it’s one thing to let the beast have its way and
act the way that it will, but when that snake comes into your yard, you need to
deal with it.

I needed to deal with Kendrick and Donovan. It’s one thing
if I could leave them to the policemen of the world, but they were in my yard,
threatening me and mine. And God help me if I didn’t want their heads.

***

“You want to steal the DHS files?”
Jessica repeated. “Why?”

“I know, I know it sounds nuts,” I said. “But I’ve thought
about it. One, the NSA and everyone else assumes that we have the files and
that if they catch us, they’ll get the files back…”

“But we don’t have the files…” Jessica interjected.

“Right, but if they think we do, no one is looking for them
in Max’s offices.”

“So, Max could sell them and we’d get blamed,” Jess said,
figuring it out.

“Exactly. Secondly, if we bring the DHS files back in with
documentation where we took them from, we can implicate Max and possibly
Kendrick,” I said.

“Which means that the Director will arrest Max and Kendrick
and not you and me, is that right?” she asked.

“Right.”

Jessica thought about that a moment.

“But you don’t know how to be a burglar… do you?” Jess
asked.

Like a lot of things in my life, the answer to this question
wasn’t simple. I knew the rudimentary methods of lock picking, I understood how
to use a tension rod and how to lift the tumblers with the secondary tool
called a pick… I knew that it often took minutes and not just seconds like on
television. I had the capabilities to bypass some security systems and avoid
armed guards. But I was no burglar.

“No,” I smiled. “But I know people who can help. Our
advantage here is that Kendrick and Max expect us to be running, not
recruiting. So, you ready to go to work?”

Jessica loosened her grip on the sheets she held bunched
around her.

“I think I’m a little underdressed,” she purred.

“Must be a casual day,” I said.

***

Jessica and I met back downstairs
after showers. We’d need to shop, for clothes, shoes, equipment… but first
things first. Jess came down the stairs in a T-shirt and jeans. She was drying
her hair with a towel.

“Nice,” I said. “Where did you get that?”

“Oh,” Jess looked down at her new clothes, pleasantly
surprised at how well they fit. “Shelly and I are about the same size.”

She gave me a quick peck, began to move away, came back and
kissed me again, deeper this time. She moved away then.

“Mm, God…” she said under her breath.

“Thank you,” I said. “For last night.”

She blushed a little at that. I cleared my throat.

“Okay, let’s get to work. Do you have a pen and some paper?”
I asked.

Jess got up to find some and I stared out the window,
thinking. Director Sinclair had asked me why Randall Kendrick had come back for
me. It had been a good question. A better question that I had realized at
first. Kendrick seemed to have put me in a position where whether I returned or
not made for a tipping point for him… If I came back, we’d take down Max Donovan
together. But if I didn’t, Kendrick went into business with Donovan. Why would
he do that? There had to be a reason. Something there I wasn’t seeing. I just
couldn’t get my head wrapped around it. Jess returned with pen and paper.

“Alright, I’m going to call people and I need you to help me
organize… what we need, who can get it and how do we set it up,” I said.

Jessica was already writing on the paper.

“Okay,” she said. “What’s first?”

I was dialing my new cell phone.

“I’m calling the FBI,” I said.

“What? Why?” Jess asked.

“Good morning,” I said. “Mr. William Bender, please. Thank
you.”

A moment later, I was connected.

“This is Bill,” came a young voice over the phone.

“Billy Bender,” I said. “Simon Parks.”

I heard Billy curse to himself. Why did everyone have that
reaction when I called? I chuckled anyway.

“Long time,” he said.

“Not that long,” I replied. “How’s the trainee status going
for you?”

“Good, I guess,” he said hesitantly. “Just trying to stay
out of trouble.”

That was a minor jab in my direction.

“Billy, I’ve got a project. I need to borrow you.”

“Really?” Billy replied. Billy couldn’t help but be hopeful.
Working on a Blackthorn project was something only whispered about, but it made
for a reputation. If a person were good enough to be recruited, agencies would
want to retain that person, use them more internally, promote them. It proved
worth. It was in their own best interest to work with Blackthorn. And for now,
that was the cover I was operating under.

“Billy, pick up your gear and catch a cab,” I said. I gave
him directions to a nearby coffee shop. “Call me back on this number when you
get there.”

Jess and I worked and called people for half an hour until
Billy called me back. I could hear the clink of dishes and table conversations
in the background.

“Simon, it’s Billy.” I knew he hated it when I called him
Billy. He wanted to be taken seriously as an FBI field agent one day, but Billy
Bender was in his early 20s with a mop of blond hair and looked like a track
star. I couldn’t imagine ever calling him Special Agent William Bender. To me,
he was Billy and for now he was just fine with that.

Billy had been assigned to the Bureau’s Computer Crimes
division as a trainee in the Chicago field office. I’d used him remotely in the
past when I’d lived in Virginia but now he was in my backyard. Billy had an eye
for numbers, a talent for schmooze and a taste for the latest electronics.

“Billy, we’ve got a Blackthorn op going on right now in
town, here in Chicago,” I said. “I need your help.”

“Sure, Simon. Whatever you need, man.”

“We need financing,” I said and my eyes met with Jessica’s.
She’d been a little nervous when I’d called the FBI field office and I couldn’t
blame her, but now she’d settled back to watch me work. Learning how I did what
I did.

“Billy, I need you to set up a funds transfer out of Banco
Del Pacifica in Panama,” I said. I gave him the account number and routing
information and told him to call me back when he was ready to make the
transfer.

“You have money in Panama?” Jessica asked. I nodded.

“Blackthorn was a self-financed operation,” I explained. “We
literally ran more like a corporation than anything. We didn’t receive federal
funding. We had no budget that was directly attributable to any government
agency.”

“So where did your funding come from?” Jessica asked.

“We were tracking terrorist operations and often following
their banking transactions,” I said. “Once we had the information to stop their
immediate operations, we seized their assets and used them internally at Blackthorn.”

“You were using terrorist money to fight… terrorists?” Jess
asked. “Doesn’t that make it dirty money?”

“Money’s money, Jess,” I said. “The money itself isn’t
tainted, it’s what you do with it. If we stole funds from Osama bin Laden’s
bank account and gave it to survivors of the 9/11 attack, would that be wrong?
We used the money to do good things.”

Jess nodded.

“I was in charge of recruiting the talent to track
transactions,” I said. “By extension, I hid the assets in offshore accounts
where we could easily access it whenever we needed it. Kendrick had me keep an
account for personal expenses.”

My phone rang then and I picked it up.

“Hello? Yeah, Billy… no, it’s okay. Go ahead transfer the
whole amount. Somewhere local. Yep… no, the whole five million. Thanks… call
you soon.”

I hung up. Jess was staring at me.

“You have five million dollars for personal expenses?” she
asked.

“Yup.”

“I need to buy some new shoes…” she suggested.

***

Jess and I walked in the park that
afternoon. It didn’t take us long to find our next contact. Her name was Nancy.
Nancy McNally. But everyone called her Nan, which as she was fond of saying was
short for nanosecond, which was exactly how long it took her to hack into most
bank accounts and other secure files. Nan’s hair was black with unnatural blond
highlights. Her fingernails were black too and just then they were flying over
a keyboard on a wireless laptop computer while she sat on a park bench. Her
face was intent, eyes focused behind the heavy makeup. Unconsciously, she bit
her pierced lip. Nan had just turned nineteen years old.

“Hello, Nan,” I said as we approached.

She looked up suddenly. She hadn’t noticed our approach. Her
eyes were wide taking us in. I could never forget Nan’s eyes. They were the
cold, pale blue color of autumn skies. She looked me up and down, then Jessica,
a little longer then I’d like, then turned back to her laptop.

“Oh… hi,” she said noncommittally.

I’d used Nan in the past. I would have liked to have used
her on the DHS project when I was working for Max but Nan’s criminal past was
deep and dark and she never would have passed the background check. Now, it
didn’t matter much.

“Have you got anything for me?” I asked.

I’d talked to Nan earlier in the day and she’d begun a
research project for me. I just had to see where we were now.

“Isabelle Athabasca,” Nan said, reading from a report on her
monitor. “Before two years ago, Ms. Athabasca does not have any history
whatsoever. Betcha she’s using an alias.”

“Isabelle?” Jess looked at me.

“Isabelle works for Max,” I said. “She speaks seven
languages. And the night that we went out for dinner, she was watching us. I
didn’t think anything of it at the time, but now… I’m wondering if she works
for Kendrick as well.”