Austin Camacho - Russian Roulette

“That bastard.” Gana’s face turned from bright to threatening as if someone had flipped a switch. “You must understand that the enemies of my family have sent this man to find me. If the local ayatollah receives a clear photo that proves my location, he will send his zealots to kill me. I must defend myself against these jackals.”

Hannibal went to his car wondering if he was adding to the pressure on a man who was already being persecuted. The parking space he had found faced away from his next destination, so once he started his Volvo up he had to drive a block the wrong way, turn left and go over a block, then turn left again. Now he was aimed the right way, but moving slowly on a side street that was too narrow to have cars parked on both sides. This didn’t discourage any of the local residents from parking there, daring any passers-by to ding their vehicles on the way through.

Had he been able to drive any faster he might have missed it. As it was, he had to ride the brake to ease past Ben Cochran’s brown Saturn, distinctive in its inconspicuousness. It seemed that at least one person was still pursuing Gana. Cochran must still have been trying to get a good photo.

Thumbing his steering wheel controls to bring up Led Zepplin, Hannibal considered the possible significance of this otherwise insignificant man. Gana had given a very convincing performance in his kitchen, but something still didn’t feel right. If the Algerian religious establishment had the resources to send spies all the way to America in pursuit of their infidel, would they hire someone as amateurish as Cochran appeared to be? That aside, wouldn’t they find a Muslim to do their spying? Would they hire a man who was so white? Hannibal knew it was dangerous to judge a person by his appearance, but he could not imagine Cochran turning out to be a disciple of Allah. It just did not seemed likely that an angry ayatollah would trust followers who were not of the same faith.

If Gana was who he said he was, who was really after him and why? Hannibal pulled his little notebook from his inside jacket pocket. Gana had come to Washington upper society with an official endorsement. Muting his music to dial his telephone, Hannibal decided to find out just how valuable that endorsement was.

“Good morning. Leon Martin, please.”

Irritations seemed to come to Hannibal in clumps. Trying to reach Leon Martin, vice president of the Chemical Banking Corporation, was getting on his nerves. He lost track of how many times he was transferred and put on hold. When his frustration level reached “slap somebody,” he hung up and called Raisa Petrova.

“Mrs. Petrova, it’s important that I speak with your banker. Would he recognized your name.?”

“I should say so,” she said. “We have spoken several times. I handled much of the family financial matters while Nikita was out handling business.”

“Then I need you to get me on the phone with him.”

“And why should I want to do that?” Mrs. Petrova asked. “You are only looking for evidence that will hurt my Viktoriya and her man. You think he’s some sort of fake.”

“Yes, ma’am. And don’t you want to prove me wrong?”

This was the kind of twisted reasoning that Raisa understood. In conference call mode, Hannibal used her as a battering ram against the bastions of New York capitalism.

This verbal battle had taken place mostly while Hannibal was parked under a towering ash on a quiet and shady street about ten minutes west of Gana’s house in the equally upper class Crestwood area. Hannibal had tucked his car in behind a Lexus parked down the block but within sight of the elegant blue-and-white home Cindy would view soon. Hedges fronted the house, and a large dogwood with its arms akimbo rose up out of the front lawn, waving off unwanted visitors. The Realtor’s sheet lying on his passenger seat called it a “spacious, immaculate 5BR/3.5BA home” with a modern kitchen, huge den and family room, beautiful secluded garden, patio, screened porch, and two-car garage. It was huge and beautiful and forty-five years old with “character” and pegged oak floors. It was, in short, Cindy Santiago’s dream house.

A two-car garage, when the girl didn’t even have a driver’s license. What could a single woman possibly do with all that space? He might never know. But even if he could not be seen with Cindy or have a conversation with her, he could observer her reaction to the house. It was as close as he could get to spending time with her until he had satisfied Ivanovich that the case was over. Under normal circumstances he might feel funny spying on his woman this way, but he knew that three or four other observers were out there. In this situation, one more person watching her made little difference.

“Leon Martin. How can I help you?”

The voice prompted Hannibal to pull himself back into business mode. Martin needed to believe he was sitting in his office, not out in his car. He explained that he was a professional investigator vetting a new potential investor for some major corporation.

“Sir, we are in possession of a letter of introduction written by you to a Mrs. Raisa Petrova, confirming the credentials of one Dani Gana of Algeria.”

“Yes, well, as I told Mrs. Petrova a few minutes ago, the letter is from our bank. I was simply the officer authorized to sign it.”

“I see,” Hannibal said, holding a pen over a pad while one eye monitored the driveway down the block. “Now sir, do you have personal knowledge of Mr. Gana? Have you met and spoken with this gentleman?”

“This is highly irregular. If Mrs. Petrova hadn’t personally asked me to speak with you…”

“Yes, but she did,” Hannibal said, adding a little edge to his voice. “I’m sure you understand that with these kinds of sums involved, my clients want to be very certain of the people they do business with.” No need to specify what kinds of sums. The banker would mentally fill in whatever he thought was a lot of money. “Did you handle Mr. Gana’s accounts personally?”

“Yes, I handled his accounts, but no, we haven’t met. However, understand that Mr. Gana is one of our more substantial foreign customers. He was recommended to us personally by a United States senator whom I’m afraid I cannot name.”

Hannibal watched a midnight blue Lincoln Towne Car ease down the street from the opposite direction and slide into the target house’s driveway. “I quite understand, sir. Did you have the opportunity to speak to the senator yourself?”

“No, but I have his letter here. It is a glowing testimonial.”

Hannibal’s mind was elsewhere before he politely ended the conversation. Gana had come to Washington with a recommendation from a New York banker, but that letter was written based on a letter of recommendation from a Beltway insider. Why not cut out the middleman? Why was it so important for him to be accepted by the Washington inner circle? That certainly wouldn’t protect him from a fanatical jihad.

Up the block, the passenger side door opened. Hannibal assumed there was a lot of conversation in the car while the real estate agent explained how much Cindy was going to love this house. But now the showing would begin. To Hannibal’s surprise, the showing started as the Realtor stood up outside the car.

Hannibal thought of real estate agents as retired schoolteachers or bored housewives. This one was very male, black, and built like a running back. Hannibal judged him at that distance to be about six feet three but the black pinstriped suit made him look even taller. This was the guy she had been following around for several weeks, walking in and out of vacant houses. He walked around the car and opened the passenger door. Cindy swung her legs out onto the asphalt and stood quite close to him. She looked up into his eyes while they exchanged a few more words and shared the smile that Hannibal thought of as his.