Russell Blake - Jet

“Good morning to you, too, Rani. And how are you this beautiful day?”

“Never better, Mrs. Veldt, never better.”

Rani trundled to his sensible sedan and opened the door, tossing his briefcase into the passenger seat before wedging himself behind the wheel.

“You go cure someone today, do you hear?” the old woman called to him.

“I will. You can count on that!” he replied with false cheer, then shut the door and started the car.

He backed out of his driveway with customary care, slowly, methodically, as he did everything in life.

Rani didn’t notice the car a hundred yards down the street as it joined him on his eight-minute journey to his office building. Even if someone had pointed it out to him, he wouldn’t have been concerned. Rani was a man who bore nobody a grudge, and who had gone through life without making any enemies. The last thing he would have believed possible was that he could be in any sort of danger.

He made it to his office parking lot in good time. As he closed his door, he sensed a presence immediately behind him, and turned as quickly as his girth would allow. Facing him was an extraordinarily beautiful woman with a neutral expression on her face.

“Rani?”

“Hmm. Yes? And who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?”

“Do you have a moment?” she asked, ignoring the question.

“Well, hmm, actually not. I have patients waiting…”

“Then I’ll be brief. I need to know when you last saw David, and where.” Jet spoke softly, eyes roving over the other vehicles in the lot to confirm they were alone.

Rani had a terrible poker face.

“David? I…I don’t understand. What are you talking about?” he stammered.

“Rani. I know David. We’re…close. I know he’s hurt, and I know you’re his friend,” she explained. “And I know you’re a doctor.”

He blanched. “There’s no law against being a doctor…”

“True. But David’s in trouble, and I need to find him.”

“I told you I have no ide-”

“Cut the shit, Rani. You went to university together, and he was your roommate. He told me about you. That’s how I know,” she explained.

He seemed surprised, but relaxed a little.

“Oh, that David? He — he told you about that?”

“Like I said. We’re close.”

Rani swallowed, his fleshy throat bobbing in a walrus-like manner.

“He warned me not to tell anyone, under any circumstances.”

So Rani did know where he was .

“David didn’t realize I was going to show up.”

He eyed her warily. “Look, assuming I knew how to get in touch with him…let’s say I could call him or something. Who would I say was asking for him?”

She debated forcing him into the car, and then thought better of it. Perhaps a little gentle persuasion would be more effective. She could always use more drastic methods later if he didn’t cooperate.

“Tell him ‘his angel’ is looking for him. Describe me to him.” She debated saying more, but decided against it. “I’ll see you later, Rani — have an answer for me when I do. I’d hate for this to deteriorate into something unpleasant, but it will if you don’t tell me where to find him. You have one hour.”

He nodded, beads of sweat beginning to form on his brow.

Jet turned and walked away, Rani staring at her as she left. He shook his head and muttered to himself, then felt in his jacket for his cell. He dialed a number then spoke in a hushed voice as he slowly approached his office.

Terry Brandt swiveled his Herman Miller Aeron chair around and leaned back, rubbing his face with both hands before groaning softly and rising, his prosthetic leg making a small clicking sound as he did so. He needed to get it adjusted again, he decided as he surveyed the maudlin decorations of his office. The linoleum under his feet popped in the loose spot that always annoyed him, and he made his one thousandth mental note to have it repaired, then scooped up a folder on his desk and pulled his tie tight before setting off for the meeting room.

The air was always a perfect sixty-eight degrees in this section of CIA headquarters in Langley, day or night, summer or winter. It made his wardrobe easy — medium-weight suits, one hundred percent cotton long-sleeved shirts, wingtips. Terry prized consistency and simplicity, and derived satisfaction from the thought that he had his entire career’s clothing already purchased, and could put that chore behind him for the rest of his life.

Oliver Cummins was waiting for him when he strode through the door with his signature lopsided gait and sat at the oval cherry wood table. Oliver was dressed carefully, as usual, in a tan suit and pale blue shirt with yellow tie, his curly black hair graying, giving him a vaguely Denzel Washington look absent any of the good humor or charm. An analyst sat on either side of Oliver, who took every opportunity to trumpet his position in the hierarchy by dragging personnel around and forcing them to sit through hour-long conferences that could have been knocked out in an e-mail in minutes.

Terry did his best to maintain a neutral expression while he waited patiently for Oliver to begin his questions. Of course, it was never that simple. There was inevitably a lengthy oration that rehashed all known facts before he got to the point.

Surprisingly, this time Oliver varied from the predictable script.

“Terry. The Belize situation — the assassination. What do you make of it?” Oliver began without any of the usual pomp. Terry was momentarily taken aback, but quickly recovered.

“We’re still trying to figure out what group is responsible. It’s unclear since nobody’s taking credit, but the suspects are all the usual ones. Disgruntled business interests. Criminal syndicates. Political enemies.”

“Other than it could have been anyone, have we been able to make any progress narrowing it down?” Oliver countered.

“I’m afraid not. I have someone working it, but as you know, the death of a minor functionary in a fourth world Central American backwater hardly justifies a full-court press.”

“What about assets on the ground?”

“We have a few friendlies that gather information for us from time to time, but nobody permanent. Again, it’s a question of priorities and strategic value.”

Oliver glanced at the analyst on his right, a birdlike young woman with hair the color of wet straw and darting, slightly bulging eyes that belied a thyroid issue. She cleared her throat.

“Malcolm Foxweather was the assistant petroleum minister for Belize. The current administration appointed him almost four years ago, and he looked good to hold the position for the duration. He had no known affiliation with any criminal factions, and was an unremarkable bureaucrat, with the notable exception that he had a reputation for honest dealings — something all too rare in that area of the world, I think we’d all agree.” Oliver made a hurry up gesture with his hand. “His murder is currently listed as unsolved, and the local police have no leads. No replacement has been named.” She closed her manila folder and sat back.

Terry didn’t like how the meeting was shaping up. Why the hell was Oliver having his staff dig around in this? Was he missing some larger play here?

“Yes, he was the world’s last honest man,” Terry agreed. “None of which affords us any illumination on why he was killed, or who pulled the trigger.”

“Terry, you know I try to take a hands-off approach,” Oliver began in his best reassuring tone, “and I don’t want to be backseat driving on your turf, but I’ve been receiving pressure to take a harder look at the shooting. Belize has no history of this kind of violence, and certain factions in our power structure have expressed concern that this could be some kind of a move by the Mexican cartels to destabilize the government so they can make inroads there.”