Russell Blake - Jet

So that’s what this was all about. Laurel Rodgers, Oliver’s superior, had a thing for the cartels and saw Mexicans conniving behind every palm tree in Central America. She had nothing to do this week so the trickle-down effect of wild goose chasing was making itself felt.

Terry slowly shook his head. “I’m extremely sensitive to any possible cartel involvement. But this has none of their signature on it. This was one bullet, no clues, clean. When the cartels target someone, they generally go in and mow him down in a hail of lead. There’s no subtlety to it. Or he shows up beheaded by the side of the road. No, while we’re keeping our eyes open to that possibility, this looks more like some sort of an internal power struggle. Or it could be something more mundane — a jealous husband with a hunting rifle, or someone who tried to bribe him but got rebuffed. The truth is that we have no idea what’s going on down there, but nothing has changed politically since the shooting, so it’s a non-issue from that standpoint. Besides which, it’s not like Belize is Saudi Arabia. Their oil reserves are tiny compared to Mexico or Venezuela, and they’re dwarfed by ours…”

“Again, I’m not trying to get into your sandbox here.”

“May I ask why you’re devoting some of your staff’s considerable talents to a parallel examination of this event?” Terry asked, eyeing the blonde as he did so.

“I want to be able to say that I have full confidence that no stone’s been left unturned, Terry. Nothing more. I’m not questioning your group’s diligence or competence.” Oliver had started down the more familiar political-speak Terry was used to. Reassurances and deflection — the tools of the career bureaucrat.

“Very good, then. I’m on it, we’re focusing on the developing situation and are actively working every angle. I’ll ensure you’re kept in the loop as we move forward. I didn’t want to bury you in minutiae, but if you’re interested in the case, by all means…” Terry offered.

“Do that, Terry. I’m sure this will blow over in no time, but I’m getting heat, which means more pressure on you. No hard feelings.”

Terry’s stomach churned as he made his way back to his office. Out of all the possible things that could have drawn Oliver’s interest, why did it have to be this? The man was a boob, but a dangerous one. He had the reputation of being a snake, and Terry had seen firsthand how that could manifest as trouble for his rivals and subordinates.

Terry had thought he had the situation under control, and now Oliver stumbles onto the scene like a bull shopping for chinaware.

He’d have to be disarmed, but delicately.

When he got back to his office, he shut the door, activated his scrambled phone and dialed a number from memory.

“Doctor Stein? You have a call on line one.” Rani’s secretary always used a carefully-modulated voice, conveying tranquility and calm.

Rani frowned and put down his pen, pushing the small pile of examination notes and patient files to the side. He punched the intercom button.

“I’m kind of busy right now. Who is it?”

“She said to tell you Golda was on the phone.”

Golda was his late mother’s name.

Rani picked up the handset and depressed the blinking line. “Yes?”

“Gabe’s. Five minutes,” Jet said.

Gabe’s was a delicatessen two blocks away.

Rani began sweating. He hated deadlines of any kind. Had since he was a child. He always felt like someone was imposing their will on him, controlling him, when he had a deadline, and it rankled.

Rani had spent two years in therapy exploring this and other issues, with no clearly defined resolution. He still hated them, still got anxious, and had added self-loathing to the mix now that he fully apprehended how silly hating deadlines was — another reflection of a fatal flaw in his character to accompany his inability to control his appetite. He abandoned the comfort of his desk and moved his considerable bulk through his office door to the reception area.

“I’m stepping out for a soda. You want anything?” he asked his pert young secretary.

“Thank you, Doctor. No, I’m fine. Remember you have Mister Solberg in fifteen minutes.”

“How could I forget Artie? I’ll be right back. Like lightning. Like Ali.” He threw a few air punches that looked more like a bear swatting at a beehive than the famous boxer.

She returned her gaze to the computer screen without comment.

Rani reached his car and unlocked it, taking care to fasten his seatbelt before backing out of his reserved stall. After pulling out of the parking lot, he coasted to a stop at a light one block away and tried some of the self-talk his therapist had recommended. There is nothing to be anxious about. You have all the time in the world. This is your movie, and everyone else is just a spectator.

The light changed, and he rolled forward, careful with the gas. Within another minute, he was at Gabe’s.

He waited outside, wondering what was expected of him, then decided that he might as well get a snack. A guy had to eat. No point in letting his energy wane.

Inside, he was browsing the chip selection when Jet sidled up beside him.

“Rani. What have you got for me?”

“He’s not in great shape, but he wants to see you. Here’s the address. It’s a cottage in one of the suburbs. Been in my family for years. He said to knock on the door the same way you used to.” He slipped a small piece of folded paper to her in what he imagined was sterling spycraft, eyes roving around the empty deli as he did so.

She wordlessly took the paper and unfolded it.

“Got directions? How do I get there from here?”

So much for his vision of how a clandestine rendezvous would work.

“Head to the main boulevard three blocks north and make a left towards the sea, go down until you hit a big supermarket on the right, make a right at the next street. It’s three blocks down. Can’t miss it.” Rani paused, studying her face. “It was nice meeting you. I wish it was under better circumstances.” He tried a smile.

“How badly hurt is he?”

“Gut shot. I had to do some fast and complicated surgery, but he should recover, with a little luck. All I had was local anesthetic in the office. The pain must have been incredible…”

“He’s always struck me as brave about things like that.”

“Not always. If he cut himself shaving when we roomed together he’d cry like a newborn.” Rani hesitated. “That was a while ago, I guess.”

“You’re a true friend. Now do yourself a favor, Rani. Forget you ever met me. Don’t tell anyone about me, or about David. Your life depends on you knowing nothing. Whoever shot David is still out there. You don’t want any part of this.”

And then she was gone, leaving only a lingering fragrance of clean, sweet skin.

Chapter 15

The little house was unremarkable, one of countless bungalows in the neighborhood, close enough to the beach to smell the sea. She found a parking place on a side street and performed her customary stealthy perusal of the area to ensure there were no obvious threats — no suspicious vehicles, no questionable loiterers. This kind of area was a nightmare for counter-surveillance, with few places to hide and a lot of single and multi-story buildings with plenty of windows, any of which could hold a watcher or a sniper. She adjusted her new sun hat and oversized dark sunglasses, and ambled slowly down the sidewalk, past the cottage and to the corner, where she ducked into a market and bought a half-liter bottle of mineral water. When she emerged, she took her time drinking it, eyes methodically scoping out the block from behind her colored lenses.