POISONED
ZERO PLUS THREE
UNITED STATES EMBASSYLONDON
The Marines at the gate had been dispassionately courteous to Al, even after he displayed his credentials. Much like the men who had escorted him from the airport. Most people in their position are that way when the little hand's on the six and the big hand's on the two.
Unfortunately that was the time that Al's watch was on – here it was ten-thirty in the morning.
Al was greeted at the foyer by a weighty bald man who wore his glasses low on his bulbous nose. "Sorry I couldn't greet you at the airport. I trust your flight was all right."
"There was some bad weather to fly around," Al explained, looking about, trying to keep his eyes open. It was a surprisingly cold interior design – sparsely furnished, with marble columns and the occasional American flag. Perhaps if he weren't so exhausted he'd appreciate it more. "Plus the peanuts were stale, and all they had to read were leftover Hare Krishna pamphlets," he added.
"First time in the London Embassy?" the man asked.
"First time in London," Al replied. "So where is he?"
The man's shoulders slumped. "The attache? He's been quite ill the past few days. The doctor ordered bed rest," he stammered. Sensing Al's impatience, he quickly added, "But, per his instructions, as soon as you arrived, I sent a Marine to retrieve him. He shouldn't be more than a few minutes. If you would follow me, Mr. Maxwell, we have a private room ready for your meeting."
Al nodded, and began to follow the somewhat lumbering fellow into the private room, which was really the receiving room of a receiving room, he discovered. A few less-than-cushy chairs, one uncomfortable looking loveseat, and a well-thumbed copy of Time magazine on a coffee table. This isn't to say the furnishings weren't tasteful – or inexpensive, either. It just seemed to Al that they could've sprung for something more…upholstered. The man looked over at Al. "I am sorry again for the inconvenience," he said. "Would you like some coffee? Something to eat, perhaps?"
Al's stomach rumbled. He hadn't even thought about food until now, and remembered that he hadn't eaten in quite a while. It also might help him stay awake. "Yes, black coffee, and plenty of it," Al said. "And maybe a sandwich, Mister…" he said, fishing for a name from his greeter.
"Gardner," the man replied. "I'll check the kitchen, see what's available. If you don't mind waiting here, of course," he said, just as he disappeared from the room.
Al did mind. He hated waiting. Especially after an endless, exhausting flight. And he minded even more that he had to take that endless flight to meet with
"Sloane?" Al had asked Jack hours before. "You want me to meet with Sloane?"
"Al, you've got to hear me out," Jack replied.
"And you need a CAT scan," Al shot back.
"I know you don't like him." Jack's voice was conciliatory.
"I also don't trust him. That's a potent combination." Al started pacing the floor.
"And you think I trust him?"
"You don't?" Al was incredulous. "So why him?"
Jack sighed. "He's the only man I can think of who knows people within the system…"
"For cryin' out loud, Jack," Al said, knowing that he had to argue if he wanted a chance to pull Jack away from this suggestion. "I know people. You know people. We can go with someone else."
Jack's reply was quiet, and persuasive. "Not with his connections, and not nearly as fast. He has highly placed MI-5 and MI-6 informants, plus Scotland Yard and Interpol. If there's anything to find there, he's the best chance we've got."
Al knew he was losing the fight, but tried to hang on. "Jack, the man's bpersona non grata/b here. That's why Langley shipped him to London, remember? Gave him that phony-baloney attache post just to keep an eye on him."
"I'm aware of that."
"There's enough stink on that guy to…well, pick your own metaphor."
"And he'll help us."
"Why?" Al asked. "Why would he even consider giving us help on this?"
"Because," Jack said, "he still thinks I'm his best friend."
"Mr. Maxwell," a familiar voice was saying as Jack's words still rung in Al's ears. He looked over at the door and noticed the short, trim figure in a jogging suit, with the close-cropped hair and the sprouts of a salt-and-pepper beard. "It's been some time, hasn't it?" he asked brightly.
"About a year, Mr. Sloane," Al replied, not brightly at all.
"You make it sound so grim," Sloane said. "I gather you weren't looking forward to visiting me."
Al tried not to sneer. "Let's just say I'm not here to share your air."
Sloane chuckled at that. "You are still a quick one with the barbs."
Al shook his head. "Can we cut the shit? I've got a plane to catch."
"Of course, Mr. Maxwell," Sloane said, with his infamous inscrutable smile. "Follow me."
THE BRISTOW RESIDENCE
LOS ANGELES
Sydney woke with a start. She could have sworn that someone had been stroking her forehead. But her door was still closed, and as her eyes adjusted to the light, it was clear that no one was there.
Her mouth was sticky and dry. She slipped from underneath her bedcovers and made her way out of her room. The hallway leading to the stairs seemed longer tonight. She passed her father's bedroom, and as she was creeping by, she noticed that his room was deathly quiet.
She reached for the doorknob and turned it slowly, hearing it rattle just a bit. Then she pushed lightly on the door, and peeked her head in.
His bed was empty. And still made.
Sydney's ears began to hurt from the quiet.
SEASIDE COURT APARTMENTS
LOS ANGELES
Jack was awake again. He felt the soft curves and peaks pressed against his bare back, noticed the arm draped lazily over him, listened to her breaths. He looked at the bedside clock again. Three-fifteen. Al was likely in London by now, meeting with Arvin, even though that was something he hadn't wanted to do. From Jack's perspective, he understood Al's reasoning – even agreed, maybe – but the fact remained that Arvin Sloane, even with his deceitful nature, had the connections they needed to exploit.
But time was of the essence here. That's why Al had ultimately agreed with him.
"No, Jack," Irina said from across the room. "He agreed to do it because he saw you wouldn't be denied"
Jack snorted at that, and was about to respond when he felt a hand stroking his chest.
"I can't believe you called me," the blonde said, her voice muffled a bit.
"You said that if I enjoyed the hospitality, I could come back," Jack replied, taking her hand in his. Kissing it.
"Speaking of denial," Irina muttered. "Look at you."
"And bringing me Chinese food at eleven at night. Downright noble," she said, pressing her lips against his neck. "You're lucky I was feeling peckish."
He rolled over onto his back, just to get Irina out of his eye-line. The younger woman's eyes were liquid blue, and had a glow in them, even in the dark. "And now how do you feel?" he asked.
She gave him a sexy smirk, and crawled on top of him, straddling his stomach. He reached up to touch her, and she intercepted his hand. "Well, it has been two hours," she said, enveloping one of his fingers with her warm, wet mouth.
"Wow, Jack, she's clever," Irina groaned. She stood up and walked over to the bedside. "You must introduce her to Sydney. Since they're so close in age, I'm sure they'll be fast friends."
Jack held his gaze on the blonde. "Then what should we do?"
A sexier smirk was her reply, as she shifted her weight onto his hips.
Irina appeared over the blonde's shoulder. "Don't do this to me, Jack."
She rolled her pelvis against his. It felt good to Jack - it always did - but not at all like with Irina. That woman could unleash him with just a word. He wondered if it would work with someone else. "Say my name," he said, feeling a tingle of electricity low in his belly.
"Don't you dare, Jack. Don't you fuck her the way you used to fuck me," Irina growled.
"Jack," she whispered, positioning herself on him.
"Slow," Jack said playfully. "Say it ssllloooww."
Irina's face twisted even further. "You vicious fucker."
She giggled. "Jaaaack." And then slowly she began to rock her hips.
A flush of heat poured over his body, and the wave caused him to close his eyes. She was so…so…
…cold…
…and as he opened his eyes, he saw Grace Donnelly. Ashen, bruised flesh on her skeleton. A bursting-apart belly. And blackness flowing from her maw. Yet she lived, astride him. Not in the throes of ecstasy, though. Instead, a grim parody: the violent spasms of death. He could hear her teeth cracking as her jaw clenched. Grace's hands brushed his arms, but didn't grip. Her touch was not a lover's, but someone who was desperately clutching for something to hold on to.
He began to see Grace's abdomen swelling and splitting, and seeing her eyes roll over and slowly blacken, and as he did, he became aware of laughter – peals and peals of raucous, derisive laughter.
In the direction of the laughter, there was Irina…
…and the light in the room grew brighter and brighter…
…and her laughter was disappearing behind a rhythmic pounding…
…and the walls of the apartment began to dissipate as did Grace and the bed and everything…
…and Jack realized that he was
SOMEWHERE ON THE 405
"Sir?" a voice from outside the car was asking. A fist knocked on the window. "Sir? Are you all right?"
Jack turned his eyes to the window. A highway patrolman was blocking the just-risen sun. Jack cleared his throat and rolled down the window. "Yes. Yes, sir."
"We had a call about someone asleep in their car. You know that's not allowed."
Jack's memory came tumbling back. He had called the blonde about going to see her, after about half a bottle of Scotch. Her phone was busy, so for some reason, he decided to see if he could find her apartment – which, of course, he'd only been to the one time. He smelled the Chinese food that was in cartons next to him, and fought a wave of nausea. The boxes said DYNASTY PALACE on them, and the nausea was replaced by embarrassment from last night's dinner. Real "Father of the Year" material, you are, he scolded himself. "I'm sorry," Jack said. "I was out late last night, and I pulled over to rest my eyes…"
"License and registration, please," the uniformed officer said.
As Jack was fumbling with his wallet, and handing it to the patrolman, his pager went off. Jack felt each electronic tone stick a needle into his brain, but he set his expression in stone. He held his palms up, and looked at the younger man, whose hand shot to his hip. "It's in my breast pocket," Jack said. "I'll take it out slowly."
The man nodded his approval, and Jack withdrew the pager. 911, it said.
He looked over at the cop, who was staring at his ID. "Is something happening?" the patrolman asked.
CIA credentials are a nice thing to have sometimes, Jack mused. "I need to get to a phone," he said.
The patrolman nodded. "Use mine."
MCDONALD'S
LONDON
Al shot Sloane a puzzled glance as the embassy car stopped in front of the window with the Golden Arches painted across it. "If you don't mind, I think I'll be Super-Sizing it today," Al said sourly. "Unless, of course, that'll put a strain on your expense account."
Sloane laughed. "Not at all. I thought that you might enjoy something American. British food is something of an acquired taste," he said, climbing out of the car.
Al shook his head and followed, slamming the car door behind him. "Seeing as I'm not here for the sights, you could have at least taken me to Burger King," he said with a grimace. "Would've made for a better story for the folks back home, having lunch with royalty and all."
"No," Sloane said. "The story you're going to get in here is far, far better." He pushed open the swinging door, and held it for Al.
Pearls before swine, Al thought.
As he made his way in, and the warm, heavy scents of frying oil and greasy meat overcame his nostrils, he noticed that Sloane had slipped past him and was gesturing to a booth where two men of widely varied type were seated. The small, skinny man in the tailored suit looked almost ill, and certainly ill at-ease, pressed against the back of the booth, while the bigger man in the almost matching jacket-and-tie seemed rather comfortable.
"Al Maxwell, meet Glen Halliwell, head concierge of the Windsor Hotel, and Jeff Parker, the daytime Security Chief," Sloane said, sitting down. "Gentlemen, this is Al Maxwell. He's here to help me."
Al narrowed his eyes at Sloane, who gave him that inscrutable smile once more.
Sydney didn't feel well today. She put her hand on her queasy stomach. Maybe it was last night's dinner. The Chinese food wasn't as good as usual – it was even a little greasy. Maybe that was why her dad just picked at his plate.
Maybe that's why she hadn't seen him since then.
"It doesn't taste right, does it?" she had asked, sniffing at one of the carry-out boxes. "I knew I shouldn't have ordered from Dynasty Palace. They always get it wrong."
"No, it's fine, Sydney," Jack replied. "It's just been one of those days again."
"Those contracts?" she asked.
"That's part of it." Jack had put his chopsticks down and looked into his daughter's eyes. "The vice-president of international sales, he called me in today. Told me that he had a project for me, and that I was the only one he could trust to do it right."
Sydney offered her dad a smile. "That's good, isn't it?"
Jack nodded. "I thought so. But, as it turns out, there's a – personal – complication, just between the two of us."
"You don't like each other?"
Jack smiled a little himself. "I'll put it like this: in a boardroom, we get along famously," he said.
Sydney laughed. "Yeah, just like me and this other girl. She was on the trip with me, and she's really smart, but – like you say – there's a personal thing."
Jack sighed. "That's how the world works, I suppose."
They went back to eating in silence for a moment, then Sydney looked at her father again. "I wish Karen could be here. To see you like this."
"Like what?"
"She thought you were kinda – chilly." Sydney knew that she'd stepped wrong, and tried to avoid wincing.
Jack had looked up at her. His face was blank. "Chilly. And this concerns her?"
Sydney tried to dig her way out of the conversation. "Well, she said she thought you needed a girlfriend," she wheedled.
Jack laid his chopsticks across his plate. "And what did you say? When she called me chilly."
Sydney frowned. "I said that we aren't as close as we used to be."
Jack nodded wordlessly at his daughter. Then he picked up his plate and carried it to the sink in silence. "Please inform Karen that I apologize for not being more outgoing towards her," he said, without turning around. Then he headed for his study. "I have work to catch up on," he had muttered.
And that was that. She hadn't bothered him all night. But would he have even been around to bother, she wondered.
It was strange. She still wasn't sure what his reaction had been to Karen's words: anger, sadness, disappointment. He was so good at being a serious professional man, even his moods were riddles most of the time. When he had smiled, and let her in on his life, the serious Jack Bristow was gone. In his place, the father she had flashes of memory about: the one who made funny faces when she was sick, and laughed at silly jokes, and led the sing-along on one car trip or another.
She found herself staring out the front window of the house they lived in, but didn't seem to share. And she wondered where he was right then.
Jack was in the back seat of a CHP cruiser, door open just a bit, clutching a bag phone on his lap. "When did you get this?" he asked, his attention on the young officer outside.
"About two hours ago," the voice he recognized as Steinman's replied. "A Japanese chemist named Hiro Rikku was found with two bullets in his head – and about a dozen more in the rest of him – outside a house in Kyoto. Cops there are saying he was trying to pass off some faked designer drugs to the Yakuza, and they popped him before the police could."
"Shot to death? That's not our boy's MO."
"Yeah, but here's the thing. This chemist, at one time, worked with Grace Donnelly."
Jack's eyes narrowed. "Is that confirmed?"
"Apparently, he had a dossier about six inches thick with the Japanese authorities. One of our inside people found Donnelly's name on the most recent surveillance transcripts."
"How recent?"
"Two weeks."
Jack glanced out the window at the cars whizzing by again. "In what context?"
"Just in passing, like she was a mutual colleague."
"Colleague? That doesn't make any sense," Jack said. "Grace Donnelly's records are spotless. No indication of any relationship like this one."
"I know, sir. But these records are verified by three independent sources."
"Do we have someone going to Kyoto?" Jack asked.
"Already on it," Steinman replied. "A half-dozen agents were dispatched to comb through this guy's office and his apartment. If there's something to find, they'll find it."
"Okay," Jack said. "Bring Kendrick up to speed – "
"I already am, Jack," Kendrick said, like the words were stale.
It was a surprise to hear the man's voice. Had he been listening the whole time? "Good," Jack said, with as much enthusiasm as he could pretend to muster.
"Where are you calling from?" Kendrick asked. "The phone trace shows you on the 405."
"I'm in a police car," Jack said. "Engine trouble."
"You haven't heard from Maxwell, have you?" His voice was cold, distant.
"No, not yet," Jack said.
"Make sure he checks in with us if he makes contact with you first, okay?" Kendrick asked.
"Sure," Jack replied.
"Talk to you later, Jack," Kendrick said. And with that he was gone.
Jack leaned out of the car again. "I need your help, patrolman," he said.
"With what?"
"I need you to drive me to a payphone," Jack said, handing the bag to the other man.
The young officer looked confused. "Can't you use the cell – "
"Not for this call," Jack replied.
HEATHROW AIRPORT
LONDON
Al's suit was a mess now – he wished he'd thought to bring a change of clothes. He studied his appearance in a dark glass door. His suit was scuffed and scraped, with patches of concrete dust down his arms, a popped shoulder seam, and a rip in the knee of the trousers. His face and hands weren't much better. He had cuts and abrasions on his knuckles that were crusty with drying blood, and one side of his jaw was beginning to purple. But he was walking just fine, and a newspaper found on a bench in the terminal would cover the injury from most casual observers.
Whenever he made eye contact, he said, "Tripped on the stairs in the parking garage," then he'd add, "Looks a lot worse than it is." And most everyone nodded and moved on. There were a couple of security guards that eyed him suspiciously for a moment, but then he gave them his best weary traveler expression, and they let him pass.
He was kicking himself, though. He couldn't believe he'd missed so many of the signs. Recognizing the face on the videotape should have been his first warning. And now, with the parking garage thing, he had confirmation. This was a whole new shitstorm of trouble. And not just for him, either.
The isolated phone booth Al needed to use was at the end of a long terminal. He grimaced at that discovery. His ribs were sore enough; he didn't need to do a lot of heavy breathing. He decided to walk as quickly as he could without having to feel the whine of his ribcage.
SUN-RAY MOTOR HOTEL
LOS ANGELES
The man with the dark beard and mustache in room 17 woke to a ringing phone. He snatched it up, and growled a sleepy, "Yeah," into it.
He listened for a moment. "I was up late," he said, scratching his head. "Tight little redhead. She took off around three."
He listened again, looking at the closed curtains that couldn't quite hold the sunlight back. "Real fuckin' funny," he said. "So what do you need?"
He reached for a cigarette from the pack on night table, and then his antique silver lighter. "Nope. Not gonna happen for two grand." He took a drag, then snorted smoke. "Four. Half of it in our usual place."
He seemed placated. "I'll check around seven. No dough, no show, you know."
A wide grin. "Company policy. Right."
He hung up the phone, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He took his first deep breath of the day, cigarette still between his lips, and opened the night table drawer. There he found his .40-caliber pistol and a fresh box of shells, and carried them into the bathroom with him.
"Time to get ready for work," he said.
TO BE CONTINUED…