Hidden Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure Page 16

  “Really?” Bella asks. “At nine o’clock in the morning?”

  “That’s what I said,” I laugh. “He should still be there. He left a half hour ago. It’s called the Cato Street Pub.”

  “I know that place,” chimes Mack. “Spencer took me there. It’s a dive, but it’s popular. I saw Ted Cruz there. He was having a friendly conversation with Harry Reid. Weird.”

  Mack guides Bella to the bar.

  The red brick two-story building is squeezed between a drug store and a Vietnamese restaurant. It has the look of an 18th century London home. The two windows on the second floor are twelve panels with white paint on the trim and sheer white draperies drawn on the inside.

  Bella finds an empty spot at the curb across the street and pulls in. “Are we all going in?” she asks. “Or you think you’re okay by yourself?”

  “Let’s all go,” Mack says.

  “Let’s,” I say, hopping out of the car and leading our trio across the yellow brick road to visit the wizard. If I only had a brain.

  The large, solid wood doors at the entrance are painted brothel red. Affixed to the brick, to the left of the doors, is an engraved brass plaque bearing the bar’s name and its hours of operation. Surprising, it is open at nine o’clock in the morning.

  ***

  I pull open the door on the right, expecting to walk into a Stanley Kubrick film, and let Bella and Mack walk ahead of me. It takes a moment to adjust to the dark interior, which is wall-to-wall hickory. There’s a long, lacquered wooden bar to the right. About a dozen matching tables dot the dining portion of the space. Opposite the bar, on the far left wall, are four red velvet booths. On the walls are black and white photographs of some of the politicos who’ve spent time imbibing, or deal-making, or both, atop the brass and leather stools. There’s one great shot of former House Majority Leader Tom DeLay chatting with Speaker of The House Felicia Jackson. Another photograph features Tip O’Neill. There’s Strom Thurmond and Robert McNamara with a much younger former Attorney General Bill Davidson.

  Behind the bar is a slight, thin man with even thinner hair. What’s left of it is a smoke stained white. He’s sucking on a cigarette, a pack of camels in his shirt pocket. His cheeks and nose are redder than the rest of his face. He looks unhappy.

  “What is Zimbabwe?” he snaps at the television hanging above the bar behind him where there’s an episode of Jeopardy! on the screen. “Idiot! Everybody knows it’s Zimbabwe.”

  There’s a younger man, maybe in his twenties, sitting at the bar nursing a beer. He’s hunched over, his suit jacket riding up his shoulders and back. He hasn’t shaved and his eyes are bloodshot. He looks as though central casting sat him at the bar and told him to stay put. Next to him is a young woman in a black hoodie. She’s on a laptop.

  Sir Spencer isn’t here.

  The man behind the bar notices us in the commercial break before Double Jeopardy. “Can I help you? You need a drink?” He eyes Bella and Mack, who’ve taken a seat in one of the booths.

  I sidle up to the bar. “I’m good right now, but I am looking for someone.”

  “Yeah?” The Camel hanging on his bottom lip wiggles while he talks. “Who you want?” He walks toward me, flipping a bar towel over his shoulder.

  “I’m Liho Blogis,” I tell him, offering my hand.

  “Blogis?” He warily grabs my hand and shakes it. “What kinda name is that?”

  “Ukrainian.”

  “Hmmph.” He lets go of my hand and takes a drag. Smoke swirls into his nostrils. “I’m Jimmy Ings. This is my place. I know everybody who comes and goes.”

  “I’m looking for a British man,” I start, but I don’t have to finish. Ings’ eyes grow wide between his crow’s feet. He glances across the bar at Bella and Mack again.

  “They lookin’ for him too?” He nods in their direction.

  “Yep. You need a name? I haven’t told you—”

  “Nah,” he sucks on the cancer stick. “I know who you’re lookin’ for. I’ll get him.”

  Jimmy Ings walks to the other end of the bar and picks up a phone. He punches some numbers, mumbles something I can’t hear, and cradles the phone in his neck. “He’s on his way down.”

  “I’ll take that drink then,” I smile. “Single malt, whatever brand you have. My friends will have the same. I’ll be over at the booth with them.” I slap a twenty on the bar.

  Ings turns to the liquor shelf. “Scotch, eh? You must be a friend of the man,” he snickers.

  I slide into the booth next to Bella, leaving Mack with the open seat. “He’s on his way down.”

  “You ordered scotch?” Bella looks surprised but thirsty.

  “Another message to our friend. You don’t have to drink it.”

  Bella smiles. “Oh, I’ll drink it.”

  “As will I,” Mack adds. “A Marine never turns down a drink, especially when he’s about to a face the man who nearly killed him.”

  “Funny,” I respond, “I’m facing the man who nearly killed me.”

  Mack’s smile fades and Ings struts across the bar toward us. He slides a tray onto the table, sloshing the scotch in the glasses. “No ice,” he says. “You didn’t tell me you wanted it on the rocks.”

  “That’s good,” Mack says, gripping his glass the instant Ings puts it on the table. He toasts the barkeep and takes a swig. “Oooooeeee!” He smacks his lips.

  “Aberfeldy,” says Ings, unloading the other glasses in front of Bella and me. “Twelve year. Single malt, like you asked.”

  “The twenty-one year variety is far more satisfying,” chimes a familiar, distasteful voice from behind Ings. His eyes dance across us as though he’d expected us. “It’s a bit more pricey, and Jimmy here doesn’t carry it, but it’s quite worth the expense.” He slaps Ings on his back hard enough to break him. “I’ll take a Glenfiddich twenty-one. It’s on your top shelf, to the left.

  Ings trudges back to the bar.

  “May I?” Sir Spencer asks, motioning to the empty seat next to Mack.

  Mack slides over without saying anything.

  “You look good, Mack,” he says, exhaling when he relieves the weight from his aging knees. “As do you, Bella. But Mr. Blogis, good man, you have changed so. I liked you better before the plastic surgery.” He laughs at himself.

  “You knew it was me.”

  “Of course,” he scoffs. “Jackson, as I’ve told you before, I know you better than you know yourself. Though I must admit I’m taken aback at how early in the morning it is for you to have ordered a drink.” He leans back against the booth, giving his girth more room to breathe. He’s wearing a dark three-piece suit, tailored to his size. His golden tie pops against his pale blue shirt.

  “Where’s Blogis?” I ask, not interested in niceties.

  “That’s complicated, Jackson. Where is he now, where was he this morning, where will he be tonight? Specifics untangle the complexity of it.”

  “Help us then,” Bella interjects. “Give us specifics.” Bella swirls the caramel colored liquid around in the glass but doesn’t drink.

  “He’s here on the East Coast,” Sir Spencer offers. “Looking for the same pot of gold we seek.”

  “Where is the pot of gold?” Mack asks, drawing the last of his drink to his lips.

  “This is information I should just give you? I’m still not certain I should be placing my proverbial eggs in your basket.”

  Jimmy Ings delivers the Glenfiddich. Sir Spencer thanks him and the barkeep returns to his post.

  “Jimmy is a good man,” Sir Spencer says, raising his glass in Ings’ direction. “He’s trustworthy. He keeps secrets. He’s of the same… ideological mindset.”

  “Is that so?” I remark.

  “He’s not betrayed me,” Sir Spencer says, pulling a sip between his lips. “He’s not abandoned me or threate
ned me. He’s a team player, Jackson.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Aside from my distaste for ending a sentence in a preposition,” he says condescendingly, “I can’t be at all certain you are the right man anymore.”

  Mack runs his finger on the rim of his empty glass. Bella leans forward on the table but says nothing. The man at the bar is laying his head on the lacquered finish. It’s too early in the morning for this, too late in the game not to play along.

  “Listen, I’m sick of the platitudes. Let’s be straight up here, Sir Spencer. You need me. If you could get the process without me, you would have done it.”

  “That’s assuming I know where it is.”

  “You know where it is,” I say.

  He doesn’t bite. Instead he aggressively swigs from the glass.

  I dangle another hook. “C-H-1-0-0-2-3-0-0-0-A-1-0-7-2-3-4-3-6-4.”

  The glass still to his mouth, his eyes grow wide. For a moment there’s a hint of panic before his calm takes control. He slowly lowers the glass to the table.

  A knowing smile slowly spreads across Mack’s face. He gets it.

  “I know,” I say, just above a whisper. “Dramatic.” Stanley Kubrick would have loved it.

  “Dear George,” says Sir Spencer. “He couldn’t keep things between us. Just as well. He’d have been good as dead to me anyhow.”

  “How could you say that?” Bella snaps loudly enough that it draws Ings’ attention at the bar. “That’s heartless. The poor man’s been dead less than a day.”

  “Heartless?” laughs Sir Spencer. “Please. There’s no room for hearts in this game. That’s your problem, you know,” he aims his glass at Bella and then me. “Your heart’s involved. It’s going to get both of you killed.”

  “Back to the subject,” I say, “we need what you have on Blogis. Before we risk everything to get the process for you, I need that collateral.”

  “So you have my Swiss bank account number,” he says. “You think that’s enough to force me to jump in the boat with you and paddle merrily in the same direction?”

  I remain silent and keep my eyes squarely focused on his until he blinks.

  “What is your preoccupation with Blogis?” he asks, releasing a sigh of resignation. He knows he needs my help, and he doesn’t like it.

  “He killed my parents.” I still haven’t looked at Mack’s thumb drive. I haven’t had the time or, frankly, the constitution to find out what information it holds about my parents’ deaths. If what Mack told me is true, that Sir Spencer had them killed, he’ll bite on this hook, line, and sinker.

  Sir Spencer draws a final sip from his glass and sucks an ice cube into his mouth. He’s on the rocks as much as his drink at the moment, trying to measure me. Is he nibbling?

  “I never knew how to tell you that, Jackson,” he says, his voice softening. “I was afraid it might cloud your judgment, make it difficult for you to see the task at hand. I understand, though,” he says. “I really do. Vengeance is a very powerful motivator. It’s second only to survival as a practical application to success.”

  “So what do you know?”

  “I know he was looking for you. He followed you west before you disappeared for a bit. I understand, however, the governor’s mates located you without too much trouble.”

  “He keeps finding us,” Bella says.

  “Such is the way of the sword,” says Sir Spencer. “Discipline to one’s task.”

  “Go on,” I say, trying to keep him on the hook.

  “Yes,” he says, refocusing. “Blogis. He’s here in Washington.”

  What?

  “He’s here?” all three of us say at the same time.

  “For now,” he says, rubbing the slight scruff on his chins, “he’s visiting some venture capitalists. I use that term loosely, of course. They’re more like civilized mercenaries, really. But I digress.”

  “Is he trying to assemble a team?”

  “Perhaps. He had a team in Japan.”

  “Japan?” I ask. “Why there?”

  “T2K,” answers Bella.

  “Exactly.” Sir Spencer raises his empty glass to her.

  “It’s a huge antineutrino beam project in Japan,” Bella explains. “They’re not interested in the nuclear aspects of neutrinos like Nanergetix was. The team there is looking to explain the origins of the universe. They’re looking at matter and antimatter. It’s a whole different approach to the neutrino problem.”

  “They created a neutrino beam that stretched two hundred ninety-five meters across Japan,” adds Sir Spencer. “And then they had the accident.”

  “Accident?” asks Mack.

  “In 2013 the poor chaps suffered a radiation leak. A beam was too strong and it leaked radiation into the labs. That exposed some workers to the radiation. Then, a researcher restarted the beam and caused a bigger problem. The radiation got out, contaminated the environment around the facility. They shut down the project for more than a year.”

  “But they reopened,” Bella says. “It was incredibly fast. Most thought it would take a lot longer to get back up and running, especially in the wake of Fukushima and the radiation concerns surrounding that facility.”

  “It was incredibly fast because of our mutual friend,” Sir Spencer tells us. “Blogis believed the closest thing to the process existing on the planet was T2K. So he found ‘investors’ who paid large sums of yen to get that facility up and running. In exchange for his generosity, he was granted access to the research.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing,” shrugs Sir Spencer. “They weren’t producing the results he needed. His venture capitalists, who I understand were promised a tidy return on the investment, were not happy.”

  “Does he know about Brookhaven?” Mack asks.

  “Ahhh,” Sir Spencer nods. “Brookhaven. Clearly George did tell you everything. I thought this was merely a financial shakedown, what with my bank account number committed to your memory. You really do want the process.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” I say. “I told you. I owe you the process. In exchange, we get back some semblance of a life and whatever you know about Blogis. Then we go our separate ways. Forever.”

  Sir Spencer looks at me as though this is the first time he’s considered the proposition. He must have thought I was bluffing, or lying, or playing him in some way.

  “What makes you think the process, as it were, is still in Brookhaven?” he asks. “What makes you believe it’s not gone already?”

  “Nothing,” I admit. “I don’t know it’s still there. But we know Blogis doesn’t have it, right?”

  “I’d have heard from my business partners if he had it in his possession.”

  “And you’d have already told me if you have it, right?’

  Sir Spencer tilts his head to crack his neck and raises his hand to get Jimmy Ings’ attention. Ings has his back turned, his eyes on Final Jeopardy.

  “Ridiculous,” mutters Sir Spencer. “Him and that silly game show of his.” He raises his voice to get the barkeep’s attention, “James! Another, please.”

  Ings waves at his friend without turning around, then he holds up a finger asking Sir Spencer to wait a moment. He’s engaged in whatever query Alex Trebek has posited. The girl in the hoodie turns around. She’s got big, round eyes, almost like an anime character, and a big diamond poked into the side of her right nostril. Her skin is as pale as velum and a shock of fluorescent green hair is spilling out from under her hood. She turns back around to her laptop.

  “You are correct in your assumption, Jackson,” he says. “I do not have what it is I seek.”

  “A soul?” Bella retorts.

  “Perhaps that too, Bella,” he says before leaning in and lowering his voice. “But I wouldn’t be so quick throw stones, Miss Buell. Your mean
s are a result of your daddy’s willingness to blur the lines of morality. No man of success, of wealth, reaches such heights of power and influence without a rationalized compass.”

  Bella bristles, grabbing my leg under the table. She grips hard to maintain her composure. “I had no idea you were so thin skinned, Sir Spencer. If I’d known the depth of your insecurity, perhaps I would have never partnered with you in the first place.”

  He throws his head back and laughs heartily. “It’s not insecurity, dear girl. I’ve no illusions about my weaknesses. I’m merely not one to let hypocrisy go unrecognized.”

  Bella’s grip tightens, her fingernails digging into my thigh. I bite the inside of my cheek. Both of us are now concealing our pain: mine physical, and hers emotional.

  Ings arrives with a fresh glass of scotch and then floats back to the bar. It’s the commercial break before the answer to the final clue.

  “Back to the point at hand, Jackson,” he shifts his heft toward me, away from Bella. “I do not have the entirety of the process. I do, however, believe there is an exact copy of it within the well-guarded walls of Brookhaven.”

  “Why haven’t you gone after it already?” Mack asks. “And why doesn’t Blogis know about it?”

  “Second question first,” Sir Spencer answers after a sip of his drink. “He may know about it. He considered, as do I, that Brookhaven is too heavily guarded to attempt the theft. For him, Japan was an easier target.”

  “First question?” Mack prompts.

  “The same reason Mr. Blogis hasn’t tried. That’s not to suggest I haven’t offered a king’s ransom in exchange for the effort.”

  “Nobody’s willing to do it?” I ask.

  “Not to this point. George was the intermediary. He completed much of the research on my behalf. I’d provide him with some of the classified information, of course, but he did a yeoman’s job in completing the picture. It was he who convinced me the rest of the process is there.”

  “What about Corkscrew?”

  “What?” Sir Spencer’s ego melts into a puddle on the floor. I’ve surprised him for the second time in minutes.