Judas - Thirty Pieces of Silver
He picked up the glass of whiskey and stared as the sweat dripped down the side of the glass. Slowly he raised the glass and set the cool glass against his throbbing forehead. With a small sigh, he rolled the glass against he temple and wondered how he had gotten to this point. When things had gotten so twisted and wrong and how he had got so mixed up. He tried to remember back to the point when he made the decision, the one that had changed everything and he had gone over to the dark side.
And Walter Bash decided that he really didn't want to remember at all.
He drank down the last of the whiskey with an audible gulp and signaled the bartender for another. He watched hungrily as the amber liquid filled the glass. The envelope in his pocket was burning a hole clear through to his soul and the whiskey temporarily stopped the burning. And again he wondered where this slippery slope to hell started.
Was it when Paula left him and took the kids to Phoenix with her new husband? Was it when the office reorganized and he was taken out of the field? Was it when his drinking put his career and life in danger by getting arrested for DUI? Or was it when he started gambling uncontrollably? Whenever it was, his weakness left him vulnerable and they took full advantage of that.
Their first request seemed like nothing, just a confirmation of a mission or a location; then a phone number or an address. And soon they were asking for an organization chart of the CIA office. The more he tried to get out, the more them brought him back in. That's when the alcohol and the gambling and the depression really went to work on Walter and he finally reached the point of not caring.
He was jolted out of his reverie, "Red, can I get you another one?" the bartender picked up the empty glass and swiped the glass' sweat off the bar. Everyone called Walter "Red", not because he was a redhead, but because of the red heart tattooed on his right forearm. He pointed to his glass to confirm the barkeeps request and reached for the bowl of peanuts.
Walter looked up from his newly filled glass and saw her reflection in the mirror behind he bar.
"Well, well, well. The Reds finally send me someone I can appreciate. Hey there honey, come sit by me." He patted the barstool next to him several times, missing the actual seat half the time.
"No thank you," the leggy brunette tersely replied.
Irina was beginning to doubt this exchange would be as easy as Khasinau had indicated. One thing Alex was right about, though, was that this was a greasy, pitiable shell of a former agent. Had he not been a good supply of information, Irina doubted that this man could even function normally in real life. His clothes were wrinkled and soiled from not enough washing and the smell of alcohol seeped from his pores.
"I suggest that we take our business into a more private location."
"What ever you say darlin'. Lead the way," he slurred.
Irina made her way back to a corner booth, as secluded as one could get in this run-down dive. She guessed that they could have gone into a backroom or bathroom, but she had no desire to fight off the advances of a drunken fool.
"Mr. Bash, I believe you have some information for my superiors?"
"What's with the Mr. Bash stuff, honey? Call me Red. I say we get the pleasure out of the way first before we get down to business." He leaned over the table and put his beefy hand on hers. Irina said nothing, but her look said volumes. Red shrugged and pulled his hand away. In that brief, nearly silent exchange, Red determined that this was not someone to take lightly. She was tough and in no mood to put up with a half-soused lout.
He straightened up and tried to act as business-like as he could under the circumstances and began to explain.
"When this request first came, I hesitated on getting the information. Not because it was difficult to get, but because of the actual information requested."
"You are being amply compensated for your information Mr. Bash. I do not believe that my superiors..."
"No, that's not it. I'm not looking for more money, though it would be nice. It's just that this list...these are people I work with every day. It's not like some schmuck in Washington who pushes pencils at headquarters. I know these people, their families, my kids used to play with their kids. And I don't want any of them to get hurt."
"Well Red, I will say that your streak of loyalty is commendable, though untimely. I can only promise you this, I know of no reason these people would be harmed. I was informed that the list would only be used to help identify those we should be watching more closely."
Irina spied beads of sweat forming on his upper lip and figured that she was pushing him too hard, though in her estimation, she wasn't pushing at all. She signaled the waitress to bring him another whiskey. Red's eyes lit up as if he were in a desert and just spied an oasis and reached for the glass as soon as the waitress returned. As he downed the liquor, Irina softly asked the waitress to bring over the remainder of the bottle. Irina figured the best way to get through this exchange was to keep Red drunk and fuzzy.
After another drink or two, Red began asking more questions.
"If these people are so harmless to Russia, why keep an eye on them at all? What have you got to fear from the lot of them?" It seemed as if he were trying to work the logic out for himself.
"Tell me, Red, if you were asked to get your superiors a list of all of the KGB agents say in California, would you question that request?"
"No. But if you were asked to give over that list to me, would you so eagerly jump at the chance?" he said, leaning his head onto his hand like it was being served up on a platter.
"For the amount of money you are getting, yes I would."
"Well, you are a heartless bitch," he spat.
"Yes, and you are a hopeless drunk who owes some nasty people quite a bit of money." Irina was getting tired of this mission, for it had gone on much longer than anticipated and it was making her think too much.
"Fine, fine" Walter sighed and reached into his pocket for the envelope and handed it to Irina.
Irina, in return, gave him a brown manila envelope with the specified amount. He quickly opened the seal and his face filled with relief at the sight of the money. Now that he could pay off his debt, he swore to himself that this would be the last time. The last time for gambling and the last time for betraying his county.
He noticed that the woman had not even opened the envelope to look at the list, but kept her gaze on him. She wore a puzzled expression. He hesitated to say something, but soon she shook herself out of the mist.
Irina had briefly put herself in Walter's place, wondering if she really could have turned her friends, her family over to the enemy for money. What bothered her most was that it really didn't bother her, except for the brief image of her grandmother being manhandled by imposing policemen. One thing that the KGB had instilled in her was the ends always justify the means. She guessed that she had now realized that it was not always true.
She slid out of the booth and nodded to Walter and walked, maybe a little less regally, out of the bar.
Walter sat in that red vinyl covered bar for a long time, staring at the manila envelope and half bottle of whiskey on the table in front of him. Much to his surprise, the need for drink wasn't there. The weight of the money was putting out the fiery need for whiskey. He started to slide out of the booth and stopped himself, preferring to sit there, his glance shifting regularly between the bottle and the money.
An hour or so later, he finally got up and headed for the front door, leaving the manila reminder sitting on the table. He had almost reached the door and a new beginning when he was gripped by panic, turned around the reached the table in two swift strides. He grabbed the envelope and sighed either in resignation or relief or both.
Each step towards his car felt weighted and crushing. The exertion it took to put one foot in front of the other became oppressive and Red started huffing, gasping for air like a beached fish. Irina sat in her car and watched. She had been instructed to keep an eye on him for a while to make sure he didn't get nervous and call the CIA and confess.
Red got to his car and slumped into the seat, each breath more difficult. He wiped the sweat from his brow and looked in the rearview mirror. His face was flush with color and his lips were blue and he knew that something was wrong. He looked around for a payphone to call for an ambulance, but didn't see one. He put his hands on the steering wheel and saw his knuckles whiten. Pain shot through his chest and down his arm and he instinctively put his hand to his chest. He looked for someone to help and made eye contact with Irina.
Irina watched him as his heart stopped and his breathing stopped. His eyes remained on her even in death. She waited several more minutes, inspected the contents of the envelope and then drove off.
He picked up the glass of whiskey and stared as the sweat dripped down the side of the glass. Slowly he raised the glass and set the cool glass against his throbbing forehead. With a small sigh, he rolled the glass against he temple and wondered how he had gotten to this point. When things had gotten so twisted and wrong and how he had got so mixed up. He tried to remember back to the point when he made the decision, the one that had changed everything and he had gone over to the dark side.
And Walter Bash decided that he really didn't want to remember at all.
He drank down the last of the whiskey with an audible gulp and signaled the bartender for another. He watched hungrily as the amber liquid filled the glass. The envelope in his pocket was burning a hole clear through to his soul and the whiskey temporarily stopped the burning. And again he wondered where this slippery slope to hell started.
Was it when Paula left him and took the kids to Phoenix with her new husband? Was it when the office reorganized and he was taken out of the field? Was it when his drinking put his career and life in danger by getting arrested for DUI? Or was it when he started gambling uncontrollably? Whenever it was, his weakness left him vulnerable and they took full advantage of that.
Their first request seemed like nothing, just a confirmation of a mission or a location; then a phone number or an address. And soon they were asking for an organization chart of the CIA office. The more he tried to get out, the more them brought him back in. That's when the alcohol and the gambling and the depression really went to work on Walter and he finally reached the point of not caring.
He was jolted out of his reverie, "Red, can I get you another one?" the bartender picked up the empty glass and swiped the glass' sweat off the bar. Everyone called Walter "Red", not because he was a redhead, but because of the red heart tattooed on his right forearm. He pointed to his glass to confirm the barkeeps request and reached for the bowl of peanuts.
Walter looked up from his newly filled glass and saw her reflection in the mirror behind he bar.
"Well, well, well. The Reds finally send me someone I can appreciate. Hey there honey, come sit by me." He patted the barstool next to him several times, missing the actual seat half the time.
"No thank you," the leggy brunette tersely replied.
Irina was beginning to doubt this exchange would be as easy as Khasinau had indicated. One thing Alex was right about, though, was that this was a greasy, pitiable shell of a former agent. Had he not been a good supply of information, Irina doubted that this man could even function normally in real life. His clothes were wrinkled and soiled from not enough washing and the smell of alcohol seeped from his pores.
"I suggest that we take our business into a more private location."
"What ever you say darlin'. Lead the way," he slurred.
Irina made her way back to a corner booth, as secluded as one could get in this run-down dive. She guessed that they could have gone into a backroom or bathroom, but she had no desire to fight off the advances of a drunken fool.
"Mr. Bash, I believe you have some information for my superiors?"
"What's with the Mr. Bash stuff, honey? Call me Red. I say we get the pleasure out of the way first before we get down to business." He leaned over the table and put his beefy hand on hers. Irina said nothing, but her look said volumes. Red shrugged and pulled his hand away. In that brief, nearly silent exchange, Red determined that this was not someone to take lightly. She was tough and in no mood to put up with a half-soused lout.
He straightened up and tried to act as business-like as he could under the circumstances and began to explain.
"When this request first came, I hesitated on getting the information. Not because it was difficult to get, but because of the actual information requested."
"You are being amply compensated for your information Mr. Bash. I do not believe that my superiors..."
"No, that's not it. I'm not looking for more money, though it would be nice. It's just that this list...these are people I work with every day. It's not like some schmuck in Washington who pushes pencils at headquarters. I know these people, their families, my kids used to play with their kids. And I don't want any of them to get hurt."
"Well Red, I will say that your streak of loyalty is commendable, though untimely. I can only promise you this, I know of no reason these people would be harmed. I was informed that the list would only be used to help identify those we should be watching more closely."
Irina spied beads of sweat forming on his upper lip and figured that she was pushing him too hard, though in her estimation, she wasn't pushing at all. She signaled the waitress to bring him another whiskey. Red's eyes lit up as if he were in a desert and just spied an oasis and reached for the glass as soon as the waitress returned. As he downed the liquor, Irina softly asked the waitress to bring over the remainder of the bottle. Irina figured the best way to get through this exchange was to keep Red drunk and fuzzy.
After another drink or two, Red began asking more questions.
"If these people are so harmless to Russia, why keep an eye on them at all? What have you got to fear from the lot of them?" It seemed as if he were trying to work the logic out for himself.
"Tell me, Red, if you were asked to get your superiors a list of all of the KGB agents say in California, would you question that request?"
"No. But if you were asked to give over that list to me, would you so eagerly jump at the chance?" he said, leaning his head onto his hand like it was being served up on a platter.
"For the amount of money you are getting, yes I would."
"Well, you are a heartless bitch," he spat.
"Yes, and you are a hopeless drunk who owes some nasty people quite a bit of money." Irina was getting tired of this mission, for it had gone on much longer than anticipated and it was making her think too much.
"Fine, fine" Walter sighed and reached into his pocket for the envelope and handed it to Irina.
Irina, in return, gave him a brown manila envelope with the specified amount. He quickly opened the seal and his face filled with relief at the sight of the money. Now that he could pay off his debt, he swore to himself that this would be the last time. The last time for gambling and the last time for betraying his county.
He noticed that the woman had not even opened the envelope to look at the list, but kept her gaze on him. She wore a puzzled expression. He hesitated to say something, but soon she shook herself out of the mist.
Irina had briefly put herself in Walter's place, wondering if she really could have turned her friends, her family over to the enemy for money. What bothered her most was that it really didn't bother her, except for the brief image of her grandmother being manhandled by imposing policemen. One thing that the KGB had instilled in her was the ends always justify the means. She guessed that she had now realized that it was not always true.
She slid out of the booth and nodded to Walter and walked, maybe a little less regally, out of the bar.
Walter sat in that red vinyl covered bar for a long time, staring at the manila envelope and half bottle of whiskey on the table in front of him. Much to his surprise, the need for drink wasn't there. The weight of the money was putting out the fiery need for whiskey. He started to slide out of the booth and stopped himself, preferring to sit there, his glance shifting regularly between the bottle and the money.
An hour or so later, he finally got up and headed for the front door, leaving the manila reminder sitting on the table. He had almost reached the door and a new beginning when he was gripped by panic, turned around the reached the table in two swift strides. He grabbed the envelope and sighed either in resignation or relief or both.
Each step towards his car felt weighted and crushing. The exertion it took to put one foot in front of the other became oppressive and Red started huffing, gasping for air like a beached fish. Irina sat in her car and watched. She had been instructed to keep an eye on him for a while to make sure he didn't get nervous and call the CIA and confess.
Red got to his car and slumped into the seat, each breath more difficult. He wiped the sweat from his brow and looked in the rearview mirror. His face was flush with color and his lips were blue and he knew that something was wrong. He looked around for a payphone to call for an ambulance, but didn't see one. He put his hands on the steering wheel and saw his knuckles whiten. Pain shot through his chest and down his arm and he instinctively put his hand to his chest. He looked for someone to help and made eye contact with Irina.
Irina watched him as his heart stopped and his breathing stopped. His eyes remained on her even in death. She waited several more minutes, inspected the contents of the envelope and then drove off.