The Fugitive's Trail (20 page)

Satisfied, he exited the vehicle and walked north up the steep road until it made a sharp turn to the east. A hundred feet past the turn, it took another turn to the north and continued up toward the compound. He found a spot just inside the tree line on the east side of the road with a good visual of any car or truck trying to exit the area. Finally he pulled his Glock, made sure there was one in the chamber, and patted his vest to double-check the location of his extra magazines. Leaning against a tree, Kruger relaxed and waited.

A minute later, JR called. “I’m at the end of a gravel road, the trees have been cleared to my south. I’m getting out.”

Kruger heard two clicks in his left ear and said quietly into his cell phone, “Everyone is in place—go.”

Five minutes passed, during which time all Kruger heard was a combination of wind rustling leaves, birds chirping, and the occasional small creature scurrying through the dense underbrush. The place smelled of cedar and rotting leaves. His thoughts drifted from the task at hand to Stephanie. He smiled, wondering where she was and what she was doing. In his left ear he heard a quiet voice say, “Stand by. We have something.” The smile disappeared and he brought his attention back to the present.

Kruger hit the transmit button twice and waited.

Then he heard Sandy Knoll say, “We’ve found Mia’s car. She’s tied up in the back seat and appears to be unconscious. The doors are locked and the engine is idling.”

Kruger’s eyes widened. He straightened and yelled, “Break a window. Get her out of there.”

“Roger. Wait one—”

New York City

Abel Plymel’s eyes snapped open at the sound. Where was he? He couldn’t remember. Wherever it was, it was pitch black. All he could see was a sliver of light outlining what he assumed was a window on a far wall. Disorientation and confusion swept over him, and then the sound shrieked again. What was it?

He glanced toward the sound and saw the digital clock on the nightstand next to him. Realization of being in his hotel room suddenly flooded back to him. Dizziness and a slight sense of nausea accompanied his reaching for the shrilling phone next to his bed. The effects of too many single-malt scotches consumed during the previous evening remained. He moaned and mumbled, “Who the hell is calling me at eight in the morning?” He sat up and lifted the handset. “Yes?”

The voice on the other end said, “Mr. Plymel, this is Robert at the front desk. There appears to be a problem with the method you gave us for settling your account.”

Plymel leaned forward and supported his head with the palm of his hand, elbow on his knee. “There shouldn’t be any problems. Check with American Express.”

“Uhhh… Sir, unfortunately, you personally will have to do the checking. We would not have the ability or authority to contact American Express for you. Perhaps a quick phone call will straighten everything out.”

Plymel was silent for a few moments. He sighed. “Very well, I’ll give them a call.”

He slammed the handset back onto the phone base and lay back down. The disorientation was fading, but the nausea remained. After lying there for several minutes, he got up and went into the restroom. He stared at his image in the bathroom mirror. His thinning hair was disheveled. The dark half-moon circles under his eyes were more pronounced, and his face was gaunt. Splashing cold water on his face didn’t help. He barely recognized the person staring back at him in the mirror.

Returning to the bedroom, he sat back on the bed, took the American Express Black Card from his wallet and called the number on the back. After several unsuccessful attempts to talk to a real person, a woman calling herself Joan said in a heavily accented voice, “How may I help you today, sir.”

“I need someone to find out why my card has suddenly been rejected.”

“I would be most happy to check that for you, sir. Can you give me the number?” After giving her the number, there was silence on the line for what seemed liked minutes. When she spoke again, her cheeriness was gone, she said, “This card was reported stolen.”

Plymel was quiet, his anger starting to surface. “That’s incorrect. I’m holding the card in my hands right now.”

“I’m sorry, sir, you will have to speak to our card security department.”

The call was transferred and answered by a live person with a Texas drawl. “Card services, this is William, how may I help you today?”

Plymel took a deep breath. “There seems to be a mistake. My card has been reported stolen, but it wasn’t.”

“If you will read the card number, sir, I will be glad to help you.”

Once again, Plymel read the number and was told to hold for a minute. One minute later, William returned. “Sir, can you give me your authorization code and pin number?”

Plymel knew the numbers and recited them to the voice on the phone. There was more silence. “I’m afraid those numbers don’t match our records, sir. There’s nothing I can do at this point. Thank you for calling.” The call ended abruptly.

He stared at the now silent handset. The nausea he had experienced earlier intensified as he rushed into the restroom to bend over the toilet. When he was finished heaving, he stood once again over the sink and used a washcloth soaked in cold water to wipe his face and mouth. As he stood there, a horrifying thought occurred to him. He hurried to the room’s computer and accessed one of his remaining bank accounts. The balance was two cents. Wide-eyed and sweating, he accessed the second of his two accounts. The balance was also two cents.

The sound he emitted was not quite human.

***

Alton Crigler sat at his desk studying his computer screen. His assistant opened his office door half way and leaned in. “Abel Plymel’s on three, says it’s an emergency. He demanded to talk to you and you only.”

Crigler frowned; talking to Abel Plymel was not a task he needed at the moment. He picked up the phone. “How can I help you, Abel?”

“That son of a bitch computer hacker stole more money from me! What the hell are you doing about it, Crigler?”

“I’m personally not doing a damn thing about it. He stole the money from you, not me. You’re the one who should be doing something about it.”

Silence was his response. Finally Plymel said, “I have no access to funds. He’s even stolen my Amex Black Card.”

“I’m not sure what you want from me, Abel. You’re no longer associated with this firm. Now if you need a personal loan—”

“Absolutely not.” Plymel was silent for a few moments. “Sell some of my shares in the company and transfer the settlement.”

“May I suggest you sell all of them. The board will request it eventually. They want nothing to do with you, Abel. You embarrassed them.”

There was silence again on the call. “Fine, sell all of them. I’ll email you the account number. Thanks for the support, Crigler. Just remember who nominated you for your position with the company.” With that comment, Plymel ended the call.

Crigler smiled. With his stock sold, Abel Plymel would have no further ties to P&G Global. Finally, after being passed over for the top spot all these years, Crigler would take his rightful place as the head of an organization.

***

Abel Plymel stared at the wireless handset. He started shaking uncontrollably and threw the phone at a wall. It hit, dented the drywall, flew apart, and fell in pieces on the carpet.

Breathing hard, he could feel his heart pounding. He stood, walked to the window, and then back to the bed. He did this for five minutes until he sat on the corner of the bed, put his elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands. He stayed like that for fifteen minutes.

Finally, he got his breathing under control and sat up. He stood, walked into the living area of the suite, and turned on the laptop. After emailing the account number to Crigler, he showered, dressed, and checked to see how much cash he had. Two-hundred dollars remained in his billfold—enough for taxi fare.

By noon, everything was arranged at the bank. While funds were not available yet from his stock transaction, the bank issued a Gold Visa Card tied to the account and would cover any transactions until the funds arrived. He took another taxi back to the hotel, paid for the damaged wall in his room and the destroyed phone. After packing his new clothes purchased the day he checked in, he went back to the front desk and checked out.

It had been a week since he’d set foot in his apartment. Numerous police searches had left the space cluttered and disheveled. He didn’t care. The reason for returning to the apartment was hidden in the master suite closet. If the police had not discovered the contents of the safe, he would be out of the apartment within the hour, never to return.

In a corner of the master bedroom closet, the carpet was not tacked down. Kneeling on the closet floor, he pulled at the loose section, revealing a panel cut into the floor. As he slid the panel aside, a hidden safe was exposed, its door facing up. He dialed the combination and opened the door. The contents of the safe were still there. Smiling, he took a deep breath and extracted three items.

He stood and carried two cigar boxes and a nine-by-six envelope from the safe to his bed, laying them down with reverence. One of the cigar boxes contained twenty thousand US dollars and twenty thousand Euro notes. Tipping the envelope up, a Czech Republic driver’s license, a Czech passport, and several credit cards slid out onto the bedspread. The passport and driver’s license had been kept current by traveling back and forth to Europe over the years. Toronto, Canada, was his normal starting point.

Opening the passport, he smiled and stared at the picture, it was a younger version of the man who held the passport; the man in the picture was identified as Alexei Kozlov, his real name. As of this moment, the man known as Abel Plymel ceased to exist. Finally he opened the second cigar box and took out the Makarov nine-millimeter automatic pistol and five magazines of ammunition.

Alexie Kozlov had been sent to the United States in 1980 with the intent of being heavily involved in the financial markets. His assignment was to learn about, understand, and report back to his KGB handlers on methods to undermine the economy of America. He had a natural talent for stock trading and started building a reputation within the industry. The semi-annual trips back and forth from Europe to pass information to his handler became a ritual. The trips were made under his old name, thus diverting unnecessary attention away from Abel Plymel.

After the Soviet Union collapsed in 1991 and the KGB ceased to exist in its pre-1991 format, Kozlov learned his handler had died of a sudden heart attack. No records of his mission had ever been committed to paper; they were only in his handler’s head. With the news of the man’s death, Kozlov realized he was a free man and could pursue whatever he wanted to in the US. Twenty years later, he had made a small fortune and was planning a clean exit. But now, his fortune had been ripped away. It was time for retribution.

He pulled out a fresh dark gray suit, white silk shirt, and a red-striped tie from his closet and changed. The Makarov, the old passport, and money were placed in a leather briefcase. As he glanced around the apartment, a thin smile came to his lips. He stood straight, walked to the front door, and left the apartment.

A taxi ride and an hour later found him in the Starbucks across from the P&G Global building. It was a little after five in the afternoon, and he watched as the building disgorged its workers. He sipped his coffee and waited. He had at least another hour to wait.

At ten minutes of six, he discretely opened the briefcase and slipped the Makarov out and into his side suit coat pocket. He then threw a twenty-dollar bill on the table, left the Starbucks, and walked back across the street to the front entrance of the building. At five minutes after six, a black Mercedes sedan pulled up to the curb in front of the building and sat with the engine idling. Ten seconds after the car stopped, Alton Crigler walked out of the building heading directly toward the car. Plymel reached into his suit coat pocket, pulled the Makarov out, and caught up with Crigler as he opened the back passenger door of the Mercedes.

He placed the barrel in the small of Crigler’s back. “Get in.”

Crigler stopped, looked around, frowned, and did what he was told.

Once inside the car, Crigler said, “Are you crazy? Aren’t you in enough trouble without creating more for yourself?”

“Shut up and tell him to drive.” Plymel pointed the gun at Crigler and nodded at the driver.

“Where should I tell him to go?”

“Your place.”

The driver looked nervously at the rearview mirror, his eyes staring at the gun and then at his boss. Crigler said, “Bob, please take us to my apartment.”

The driver nodded and accelerated away from the curb. Once they were in traffic, Crigler turned to Plymel. “Would you like to explain yourself, Abel?”

Plymel smiled. “How long have you been planning this, Alton?” He paused and stared at the man. After several moments without a response from Crigler, he said, “You’re not smart enough to plan this step by step. You just took advantage of the situation, didn’t you?”

“One has to be ready to act when opportunity arises. You gave me the opportunity.” He shrugged. “I took it.”

Plymel nodded. “As would I. But I can’t let you get away with it.”

“I’m sorry. Just exactly how are you going to change anything? You’re the one out on bail. You’re the one facing prison.”

Plymel shrugged. “We’ll see.”

The car entered the underground parking facility for Crigler’s apartment building. Bob drove the Mercedes to its designated slot, put the car in park, and shut off the engine. He sat and stared at the rearview mirror. Plymel shook his head, pointed the Makarov at Bob’s head, and pulled the trigger. The noise was deafening. The force of the bullet slammed Bob’s head into the driver’s-side window, coating it in gray brain matter and blood. The lifeless body slumped forward, restrained only by the seatbelt.

His calm demeanor gone, Crigler stared at Plymel, who was once again pointing the gun at him. He shrieked, “Why the hell did you do that?”

Plymel shrugged. “No witnesses.”

“I found the hacker!”

Plymel was quiet for a few moments. “If you want to live, tell me.”

“Not till I’m out of this car. Alive.”

Plymel shook his head. “Not going to happen.” He raised the Makarov, pointed it at Crigler’s forehead and pulled the trigger. The man’s head snapped back against the C-pillar. His eyes remained open and his body twitched. Plymel reached inside Crigler’s suit coat and found his wallet and cell phone. As he opened the car door, he noted the look on Crigler’s face: surprise and disbelief.

Grabbing his briefcase, he exited the car and discreetly looked around for witnesses. Seeing no one, he slipped the Makarov back into his suit coat pocket. Just as quickly, he placed the cell phone and wallet, liberated from Crigler, inside the briefcase. With this accomplished, he calmly walked to the elevators and pressed the up button. Ten seconds later, it opened and an elderly man exited. Plymel, keeping his head down, quickly stepped in and pressed the button for the lobby. Once on the street, he hailed a cab and said to the driver, “JFK.”