“Who is the guy anyway?” asked Robert.
Agent Sams eyed them suspiciously and sighed. “His name’s Lucas Garland, an Aryan Nation thug.”
Thorne’s face lit up with recognition. “I remember him. Murder, right?”
“Right,” said Sams, crossing his arms. “Judge Shaw gave him life about a year ago. He escaped from the West Virginia State Penitentiary last month.”
“Guess he was looking for a little payback,” said Robert. “Trying to make it look like our guy.”
“Look,” said Agent Sams, pointing his finger at Robert. “Next time call us. If you don’t want to play ball with the team, then take your blood money and leave.”
Robert smiled and leaned forward. “You’re just a field hand Agent Sams, remember that. It’s not your call.” Agent Sams’ rugged good looks twisted with contempt and he stormed away. Robert and Thorne slipped through the sea of reporters assembled outside and jumped into her Rover.
Well past midnight, the frigid capitol slept. A few cars, limos, and taxicabs inched their way through the icy streets. A light snow fell.
Robert stared out at the well-lit monuments visible from the freeway, sank back into the new leather, and closed his eyes. Wynton Marsalis poured soft tones through the speakers. He relaxed.
When he signed up to work for Uncle Sam, Robert never imagined he’d be chasing down international criminals, terrorists, and killers for money. After a stint in the Marines, he ended up working as a Special Forces Black-ops Field Commander. Thorne was his second in command. They figured they’d spend a few years as spooks, and then grab a couple of lucrative security gigs with Fortune Five Hundred companies. It seemed a plausible plan, until Desert Storm.
They were assigned to locate and capture members of Saddam Hussein’s chemical weapons team, including scientists and military personnel. They found them working in a Syrian Desert compound, fifty miles outside of Baghdad, just west of Karbala. Orders came down from on high, interrogate and execute them all. Robert and Thorne refused, walked away from the assignment into a court marshal, and out of government service.
After that, they opened up their own shop handling private investigations and security for corporations and the wealthy. Compared to the action they were used to, it was mind numbing, so they quickly acquired a taste for hunting down the worst the world had to offer. They scored big on a couple of high profile captures, and it didn’t take long for the boys in Washington to come calling. Robert and Thorne were given shots at the tough cases, and the hard to solve. They worked off the books, giving the government complete deniability. Some in federal law enforcement scoffed and complained. Robert didn’t care. He enjoyed making them pay.
Wynton gave way to Miles Davis, with Ron Carter on bass. Robert dozed off. His cell phone intruded. It was Evelyn Hollis, their office manager. She caught wind of the commotion at the judge’s house on the police scanner, and cursed under her breath when Robert confirmed reports the Bear still remained at-large.
Robert checked his watch. “You’re still in the office?” Thorne gave a curious look.
“I had to stay,” said Evelyn. “You have a visitor.”
“A visitor?”
“Yes, an old homeless guy showed up around eight o’clock. Said he had an appointment with you and refused to leave. Says his name’s Charlie. Charlie Ivory.”
Robert, silent, watched the city zip by. “Right,” he finally said. “The old guy who sleeps in the alley behind our building sometimes. I remember, but I didn’t think he was serious. I was just humoring him”
“Oh, he’s serious alright,” said Evelyn. “When it got late I tried to get him to come back tomorrow, but he refused. He’s been sitting in your office all this time. Seems harmless enough.”
“Did you ask him what he wants? It can’t be much.” Evelyn kept quiet.
“Evie?”
“Robert, he says he killed someone, and he’ll only talk to you.”
2
Thorne pulled onto Massachusetts Avenue, passing Embassy Row.
Impressive and mansion-like, most of the foreign embassies stood along the boulevard like royalty, French and Italian marble accented, back and under lit with floodlights, some stationed behind high metal gates.
Massachusetts Avenue flowed into Dupont Circle, which passed the Dupont Plaza Hotel, curving 160 degrees to the five-story building that housed their office. Thorne drove into the underground garage and they caught the elevator to the fifth floor. Evelyn gathered her coat and purse when she saw them.
“Okay, here are your messages,” she said, handing each of them a pile of scribbled pink slips. “I’m tired, I’m going home, and don’t expect me until late tomorrow.”
“Is our guest still with us?” asked Robert.
“You better believe it. Hasn’t moved a muscle. He’s sitting there in front of your desk. I gave him a cup of coffee, which is fresh by the way. I have a feeling you guys are going to need it.”
“Thanks Evie,” Thorne said, giving her a hug. “You go home and get some rest.”
“In fact, take tomorrow off,” added Robert. “We can handle things for a day.”
Evelyn smiled, and headed for the door. “You don’t have to tell me twice. Just make sure things stay the way I’ve left them.” She glared at Robert sarcastically. “And don’t touch anything on my desk.”
“I know, I know,” he said. “I haven’t forgotten what happened last time.”
Evelyn and Thorne laughed as she closed the door behind her. Robert poured two cups of coffee and handed one to Thorne.
“Let’s go see who our homeless friend has killed,” he said.
“I bet it’s nothing,” said Thorne. “These guys make stories up all the time. He’s probably just glad to be out of the cold.” Down a short hall to Robert’s office, their feet pounded the hardwood floor like hooves, past black and white photos of men who died fighting by their side in some of the worst places the world offered.
One photograph showed a group of ecstatic Columbian soldiers kneeling over the bullet-riddled body of drug czar Pablo Escobar, a mission they found particularly satisfying, even though they knew it made not so much as a dent in the fairy tale war on drugs.
Charlie whirled around when they entered, stood, and greeted them, nervously wiping his hands on crusty, filth stained work pants. Robert shook the old man’s hand, said hello, and gave him the once over. A putrid odor he couldn’t quite identify assaulted his nose. If he wasn’t use to smelling much worst, he might have vomited.
Thorne smiled and nodded at Charlie, then positioned herself behind him on a worn black leather couch. She always sat in a position of advantage when they questioned someone unknown. Robert did the talking while she watched and listened.
Robert sat down behind his large oak desk and leaned back in the chair. Charlie stood nervously for a moment then eased down into his seat. A dingy blue blanket wrapped around something long, like a curtain rod, leaned up against the desk in front of Charlie. A large black duffle bag rested on the floor at the side of his chair.
“You didn’t have to wait so late for us Charlie,” said Robert. “We could’ve seen you tomorrow.”
Charlie’s head dropped and water filled his eyes. “I know Mr. Veil, but this matter has waited long enough.”
Robert and Thorne gave each other curious, playful looks.
“Exactly what is this urgent matter?” asked Robert.
Charlie fidgeted and squirmed in his chair. Sweat beaded on his crusty wrinkled forehead. He looked up. “Murder is the matter Mr.
Veil.”
They listened to Charlie unravel a tale, unbelievable and outrageous.
The old man’s a raving lunatic, thought Robert. Thorne did all she could not to laugh.
“I’m afraid what you’re saying is impossible,” Robert told him. “Is there somewhere we can take you? Someone we can call?” Like the nuthouse.
Robert had agreed to see Charlie as an after-thought. A few days earlier, he parked in the alley behind their building and paid Charlie a dollar to watch his car, his mind elsewhere when he accepted the old man’s request for
