Olympus Device 1: The Olympus Device (34 page)

Grace heard someone walking down the hall toward her cell, an unusual activity at this hour. She’d been given a stack of books, reading the only thing that had allowed her sanity to remain intact during her incarnation.

The lights went out at 10 p.m. sharp, the advanced ritual and control of every aspect of her life a constant reminder that she wasn’t a free woman. She couldn’t imagine how anyone could spend years in confinement without insanity. Maybe that’s why there were so many repeat criminals, she had decided.

Now someone was wal
king through the detention area after lights out. This hadn’t happened the entire time she’d been locked up.

Her heart rate increased slightly when the lights in her cell came on, her pulse rising even more when a key entered the lock on her door. The face of a female jailer appeared in the small, chicken wire
, reinforced window set in the door – a procedure to make sure the prisoner wasn’t hiding in wait to attack the guard. Grace remained on her cot, a curious expression on her face.

The door opened
, and a woman’s voice said, “Grace Kennedy, you are to come with me.”

“Where are we going?”

“You are being released. Now please come with me.”

At
first, she thought it was a joke – another cruel technique dreamed up by overzealous FBI agents – a weak attempt to get her to talk. Studying the guard’s stoic face, Grace decided the woman deserved an academy award for acting if it really was a joke.

Fine
, she resolved.
If they’re resorting to sleep deprivation as a method of interrogation, they must be getting desperate.

As she walked in front of the jailer, her faith in the guard’s words increased with every step. By the time they entered a locker-room type facility, her heart was soaring.

On a counter lay the box containing her personal possessions that had been taken away the day of her arrest. The guard made her re-inventory its contents and sign the receipt, then she was left alone to “clean up and dress in street clothes.”

It didn’t take her long.
Then she was escorted to another conference room where a young man waited, a stack of papers sitting on the table in front of him.

He introduced himself as a lawyer from the Department of Justice, here to expedite the necessary paperwork for her release.

The man droned on and on, warning Grace not to leave the country without notifying the authorities, warning her not to speak publicly about her case, as it had not been dismissed. She was given worthless instructions on how to hail a cab, in case she needed a ride home. He handed her a list of women’s shelters in the Houston area, in case she didn’t have a home to go back to.  

Grace didn’t care about any of it, listened to even less of what the man was saying. She had her car keys, purse, wallet and cell phone. She was going to be free.

Twenty minutes later, she was let out a door on the side of the federal building. She remembered where her car was parked and made for the garage. The streets were deserted, the area badly lit. She wasn’t scared.

The Mercedes started without protest. Her cell was dead, but the car charger had the battery strong enough to call Maria before she hit the interstate.

“Maria, this is Grace. They’ve let me go. I hope I’m still welcome at your home.”

“Oh
, my gawd! Grace, that’s such good news. Yes… yes of course you’re welcome here. Eva and I were just having a cup of decaf.”

“I’ll be there soon. I’m dying for a lon
g shower and change of clothes. A cup of good coffee sounds pretty good, too.”

“I’ll have it ready for you. This is such
a wonderful turn of events!”

“Any word on Dusty? I’m wondering if they let me go because he was captured… or worse.”

“You’ve got a lot to catch up on, but no, as far as I know, he’s still on the loose. There’s been another incident, a bad one. But he’s still on the dodge the last I’ve heard.”

After disconnecting the call, Grace’s excitement began to fade. Why had they let her go? Why now? She was sure that Agent Monroe hadn’t orchestrated her release without a
reason; she doubted it was his kind nature. There had to be a motive.

Dusty woke on the roof, the sun not yet clearing the horizon in the east. He took his time before standing, giving his stiff body a bit to circulate the blood and loosen tight muscles. He wanted coffee.

After checking the area and finding he was the only thing moving so early, he climbed down and entered the bin. After a quick brushing of his teeth using a few gulps of bottled water, he decided to walk back to the burger chain and buy a cup of coffee.

He arrived without drama. Glancing at the condiment counter, he spied a stack of small plastic cups, normally filled with ketchup from a hand pump mounted nearby. Making sure he was unobserved, he snatched one of the containers before entering the men’s room.

After finishing his busines
s, he filled the little ketchup cup with soap from the dispenser and sealed the lid tight. He’d use the suds later. 

He was the first customer in, as far as he could tell.
His order of hash browns, an egg sandwich, and the biggest cup of java offered was ready when he exited the restroom.

The walk back passed without incident, very little traffic y
et on the road. He dined behind the wheel instead of sitting on the tailgate, his backside appreciating the softer seat.
The Maître’ D gave you a better table this time
, he mused.
It pays to tip generously
.   

Sipping his hot brew, Dusty picked up where he’d left off the night before
– plotting like a rat desperate to escape his trap. It all seemed so much simpler now – the sleep had helped. Again and again he worked through it, step by meticulous step.

He glanced at his watch, the time
piece indicating it was 6:50 a.m.
There’s still time to do this before it gets busy around here,
he decided.

Starting the truck, he drove the short distance to the strip mall and pulled around to the back. He removed the Russian’s cell phone from its tinfoil cage and replaced the battery. Sergei answered on the second ring.

“Da,” sounded the sleepy voice on the other end.

“This is Dusty. I’ve decided to take you up on yo
ur offer, but this is not going to be a dime store transaction. I will need resources to survive independent of my past life. Do you still want to do the deal?”

“Yes,
yes of course. What is it that you ask?”

“I want
a Canadian passport, driver’s license, and supporting documents under the name of Anthony Maxwell Booker. Throw in 200 South African gold Krugerrands, one million in US dollars, and one million Euros, cash. Also, a .45 Glock pistol, two spare magazines, and 100 rounds of quality ammo.”

For a moment, Dusty
worried that he’d asked for too much, nothing but breathing coming through the earpiece. Finally, the accented voice said, “The gold will take a little bit of time, but it can be done. The rest is not such a problem. I will need two days.”

“Two days is acceptable,” Dusty replied, trying desperately to keep the nervousness out of his voice.

“Call me back in 48 hours. We’ll make arrangements for the exchange at that time,” and the line went dead.

Dusty repeated the process of removing the battery and sealing the phone in tinfoil, and then drove back to his garage-hideout. Step on
e had gone as planned, perhaps better. Now it was going to get tricky.

He had spotted a
pawnshop on his way in. After parking in a secluded spot and waiting a while, the small business finally opened. Dusty walked out with a used laptop and a cheap riflescope a short time later.

He returned to
the burger joint, the place advertising free Wi-Fi. It took him a bit, but he finally figured out how to connect his new computer to the service. Remaining in the truck, he began researching the next phase of his plan.

He needed someplace that would provide cover and yet allow for a reasonable chance of escape if things went wrong. He wan
ted the FBI to know the Russians were in the game, but the timing of their awareness was critical. As the old saying went, timing was everything.

The internet’s capability to display satellite maps was a savior. The high-tech, bird’s eye view of his surroundings an invaluable tool for his scheme. Patiently
, he scrolled around images of Houston and the surrounding areas, a checklist of features in his mind. Notes were scribbled, locations bookmarked, the laptop’s processor burning hot in his lap.

Inspired by the e
asy source of coffee, Dusty sat for hours in the parking lot. Twice he drained the laptop’s battery – a situation that required a trip back to his storage-hideout to recharge his primary tool. He was okay with it, venturing away from the restaurant’s lot keeping the manager from becoming suspicious. It also provided a chance for him to stretch his legs and walk around.
How do these people who work in an office all day long do this?
He wondered.

It was almost
6 p.m. when he finished, his back sore from sitting in the Chevy’s non-conforming front seat for so many hours. He had one last task to accomplish before the stores started closing. Verifying his cup of coffee was still half-full, he started the truck and exited the parking lot. The game was about to officially begin, and once the clock stated, there was no turning back.

The driver smiled at Paula, taking back his mobile terminal after she’d signed for the packages. She’d flirted with him practically every day for over a year now and he just wasn’t taking the bait. Shrugging her shoulders, she looked at the three next-day envelopes he’d delivered and began tearing open the perforated ends.

The first contained a marked-up contract from a perspective buyer Maria had been courting for over a month. The man was from Seattle, completely anal over every minor detail of the home he was buying. She grimaced at the number of changes he’d requested on the document.
The boss wasn’t going to be happy.

The next package brought a frown to her face. A hand-lettered, common white envelope was inside, sealed and addressed as; “Personal and confidential – Maria Weathers only.”

“Now, that’s odd,” she whispered. “Why would anyone do that?”

Shrugging her shoulders, she placed the item in Maria’s inbox and continued on to the third delivery.

True to her word, Maria arrived at the office shortly after 10, her workout clothes evidence of the morning’s activities. The broker stood at the corner of Paula’s desk, shuffling through messages and then picking up the mail. The plain white envelope drew its second frown of the day.

Picking up her gym bag without another word, Maria entered her office and closed the door.
She recognized the block print on the letter, and it made her stomach churn.

How clever
, she reasoned.
No way the cops would intercept a next day package
.

She sat at her desk before opening it – looking at the letter
as if it was a snake about to strike. Gently tearing open one end, she pulled out two sheets of paper and began reading:

My Dear Maria,

I wanted to drop you one last note before I depart. I have arranged for transportation on a foreign-flagged freighter leaving the United States. I’m saddened to be leaving my country forever. I will miss you, our son, and my land.

I know this news is probably welcome. I’m sure the authorities are pressuring you. I know you probably won’t, but if there is any chance you can g
et away, my boat leaves from pier #19 tomorrow at 10:30 a.m., the Houston Ship Channel. I would like to see you one last time if you can push our history aside.

Tell Anthony his father loves him and is proud of him. One day, please tell him the truth about me – what I stood for, how I lived my life.

Yours Truly,

Dusty

What is he doing?
He’s up to something
, she wondered as she turned to the second page. It, again, was another note, the block printing that was so Dusty scrolling across the page.

Maria – The first letter was for you to hand over to the authorities. I want them at the ship channel tomorrow. Turn me i
n for the reward. I want you to. I need you to. When the Dust (y) settles, you’ll understand.

The letter was signed with a smiley face – a cute little secret code they had used during the marriage to let the other know everything was okay. He hadn’t used it for years.

Exhaling, she separated the two pages and gathered herself. Pulling a pair of scissors from her drawer, she quietly cut the second page into small bits and then flushed them down the toilet.
Let the FBI men go swimming in the sewer if they want to see that
, she mused. The first page was folded and placed in her purse.

Paula knocked on the door
and then stuck her head inside. “Are you okay?”

“No,” the boss replied. “Something has come up, and I’m going home for a bit.”

“You don’t look good. Is there anything I can do?”

Maria considered her response for a bit, deciding to practice her act before a friendly audience first. Conscious that federal ears were probably listening, she reached into her handbag and withdrew the letter. “This is what was in that envelope,” she said.

Paula scanned the note, her lips moving as she read. After finishing, she looked up at Maria and simply whispered, “Oh my God,” followed shortly by, “What are you going to do?”

“I’m sick and tired of my ex-husband interfering with my life. I can’t risk my business
or reputation any longer. He’s killed people and hurt the city of Houston badly. It will take years for the Medical Center to recover. That note is proof – he’s gone completely over the edge. I think I’m going to call the FBI.”

Nodding, the assistant handed the page back. “I don’t blame you,” she said, a supportive tone in her
words. “I was worried you were going to actually go and meet him.”

“No, I’m going home. I’m sure the police are going to want to see that letter
, and I don’t want a bunch of cops hanging around here and scaring off customers. Hold down the fort – I’ll be back in after I’ve turned everything over to them.”

Then as an afterthought, Maria added, “Get me the nu
mber of that cute lawyer up in The Woodlands. I’m going to have him meet me at the house – just in case.”

Maria stood to leave, her friend and co-worker coming around the desk
to hug the troubled woman. “Good luck – you’re doing the right thing you know.”

Grace’s confidence grew every day, recovering quickly after being released. Her spirit and sense of injustice motivating her to invest all of her energies in order to obtain Hank’s freedom. Since being let go, she’d drained the battery in her cell phone three times, calling every judge, attorney friend, and law school professor she knew. Agent Monroe had surprised her once, she was determined not to let that happen again.

Eva had helped as much as she could. Taking on the persona of a law clerk, the woman seemed competent with internet searching, happy to look up any subject and filter useless results. Grace was building a case, but it was a tedious, lengthy process.

Her progress was slowed by high emotions, both hers and Eva’s. After reading reams of web-based news reports covering every angle of Durham’s escapades downtown and at the Medical Center, she had struggled to correlate what was being said, with what she knew about the man. A man, she admitted, she cared deeply about.

Often she woul
d find her mind wandering off Hank’s case – wondering what had really happened… how it had changed Durham. The vision of a frightened man, all alone and being chased by the whole world pulled at her heart. The fact that people had died, apparently due to his actions, confused the issue and frustrated her.

The two legal eagles had converted Maria’s breakfast nook into w
hat they had taken to calling “the war room.” The large table completely covered with papers, two laptops, legal references checked out from the local library, a phone charger and coffee cups completed the effect. The sound of their host’s car pulling into the driveway was unexpected, both women looking up with concern.

Maria entered her home, walking past the nook on her way to the master bedroom. Grace could tell something was wrong
immediately. “Everything okay?”

“Yes… yes… everything’s fine. I’m going to work at home today, ladies. I’ll use my office so as not to interrupt your efforts. I may have some visitors stopping by later.”

Odd
, thought Grace.
The woman is out of character. Something is going on.
Shrugging it off as most likely something to do with Maria’s real estate business, she returned to study the legal opinion displayed on the laptop’s screen.

A few hours later, a young man rang the doorbell. Again, Grace noticed Maria carried herself differently, rushing to greet the gentleman. Rather than introduce him to her guests, the hostess guided the new arrival directly to her office and closed the door.

Don’t make too much of it
, she concluded.
We’ve been intruding here for days now, and I’m sure Maria has private dealings as much as anyone else.

Grace continued with her work, the behind-closed door meeting
passing without either party so much as exiting the private space to use the powder room. The doorbell rang again.

Now, her curiosity spiked, she rose from the table quickly, determined to answer the new call. Again, Maria beat her to the punch. Grace’s heart froze when she saw Agent Monroe standing in the threshold.
Am I going to be arrested again?

Just like the first visitor, Monroe and another of his henchmen was escorted into the home office. The door was closed behind them.

Grace’s mind raced with the possibilities, but couldn’t settle on an explanation for the weird goings on. She decided to do a little sneaking around herself. She stood and stretched as if the hours of study left her body extraordinarily stiff. Turning to Eva she announced, “I think I need to move around a little and get my blood circulating again. I’ll be right back. I have to run upstairs anyway and retrieve a file I fell asleep reading last night,” and headed for her second floor guestroom. Ascending the stairs as quietly as possible, she walked carefully across the floor, hoping to pass without any squeaking. She entered her temporary bedroom and closed the door gently.

Going to her hands and knees, Grace put her ear to the heating register installed in the floor. She’d heard Maria’s voice once before
, not surprising since her room was right above the office.

She could hear the conversation below clearly, but didn’t believe the words that reached her ears. Maria was turning Dusty over to the FBI! For a reward!

She listened with a growing anger as her host’s lawyer outlined the documents he’d created – legal papers that gave Maria immunity and outlined a trust account where the electronic payment of $25 million was to be deposited. The entire conversation made her sick.

She was about to storm downstairs and barge in. She wanted to grab Maria by the hair and slap
some sense into the woman. What she heard next stopped her from going on the offensive.

“I also want you’re guarantee that Hank Barns will be released immediately.”

Agent Monroe’s voice floated through the vent. “Yes, as soon as Mr. Weathers is no longer on the streets, I will release Mr. Barns.”

Maria
responded, “Then we are in agreement. I have a letter here that I received from Dusty this morning via next day delivery. As you can see, he has suggested that I meet him down at the Houston Ship Channel, before 10:30 a.m. tomorrow morning – pier #19. He claims he has found transportation out of the US.”

Grace didn’t hear the rest of the conversation, the blood rushing through her ears canceling all sensory input. She couldn’t believe Maria was doing this, yet she didn’t want to
take any chance on jeopardizing Hank’s release.

She sat with her back against the wall, trying to sort it all o
ut.

Finally composing herself, she reached a determination. She’d get Hank out on her own – she had to warn Dusty of Maria’s treachery.

Sergei stuffed the cigarette into the ashtray, bending the filter over the cherry to extinguish the smoke. The bathroom door opened, a younger, blonde haired woman crossing into the main part of the suite. She showed no sign of embarrassment that he was awake, casually walking past while drying strands of damp hair with a towel.

“They have an ingenious device called a blow dryer, I believe. It is used by females after taking a shower.”