| |
The Pentagon—Two weeks later
––––––––
Maddock looked up at the sound of an opening door, prepared to jump to his feet if he spied brass. When the door to his left—the one that exited into a corridor on the B-Ring—swung open and he spied Willis, looking impressive in his immaculate dress blue uniform, Maddock relaxed, but only a little. Willis was alone.
“Where is he?” Maddock whispered. “Is he coming?”
Willis stepped inside the small waiting room, closed the door and came over to sit beside Maddock. “Couldn’t find him. His place is cleaned out. I think maybe he went back home to the Res.”
“Damn him.” Maddock slumped in his chair. He had covered for Bones a lot in the past, mostly in the early days, before they had become friends. As the years had piled up, Bones had matured—in his own way at least—and while he had never completely lost his irreverent edge, he had always been able to tone down his puerile impulses when orders or the mission required it. But since returning from Russia, Bones had spiraled into something that a psychiatrist would probably have diagnosed as depression. He’d been drinking more and showing up less. Three days previously, he had not even bothered to call in.
They had all been in a holding pattern, uncertain of what fate awaited them professionally, to say nothing of personally. Their Agency handler had not been at all happy to learn that they had returned without the Blutfahne—Maddock had not provided a full account of Bones’ unique solution for disposing of it, but had only indicated that it had been destroyed in the raid and was unrecoverable. He didn’t think the CIA would take punitive action against them for this perceived failure, but no sooner had they offloaded their gear in the team room at Dam Neck when Maxie called them into his office and took them off operational status. Maddock had told Maxie the whole story, but that had not changed anything. From that point forward, they had been more or less on their own, required to report daily to the team room. No training, no special duty—just show up and sit there until day’s end.
This was not exactly a punishment. Maddock had already submitted his letter of resignation prior to leaving for Moscow, and everything that had happened subsequently had only deepened his conviction that it was time to move on. Bones and Willis had both expressed similar disillusionment with their military careers. Like Maddock, they had grave doubts about who the good guys were. Unlike Maddock, they were contractually obligated to serve out their term of service—two more years for Willis, sixteen months for Bones. There were other jobs in the navy, duty stations where they could mark time until their enlistments were up, provided of course that the brass was willing to let them go.
Maddock was beginning to wonder about that however. The things they had discovered, the dark secrets they knew—like the identity of the bodies that were buried under the rubble of a Cape Cod on Savile Lane—were things that the government dared not allow them to reveal. They were of course legally prohibited from sharing classified information with anyone, even after leaving the service, but keeping them under orders, under the government’s thumb, was one way to ensure their compliance. Sending them off to rot in the disciplinary barracks at Fort Leavenworth was another.
Maddock suspected this meeting they had been summoned to would resolve his doubts, one way or another. Bones’ decision to ignore orders and drop off the radar all but guaranteed a bad outcome for him.
The interior door—the one on the opposite side of the room opened, and both Maddock and Willis jumped up and snapped to attention. Maxie backed through the doorway, his gaze on the unseen figures inside. He maintained this orientation until he was clear of the doorway, as if afraid to turn his back on the room’s occupants, and then closed the door firmly. Only then did he turn to face his subordinates. There was a manila folder in his left hand. He stared at Maddock and Willis for a moment, his face an unreadable mask, then spoke. “Where the hell is Bonebrake?”
Maddock swallowed, then gave the only answer he could. The truth. “UA, sir.”
UA—Unauthorized Absence—was the navy’s equivalent of AWOL—absent without leave. It wasn’t as serious as desertion, but could still result in fines, reduction in rank, or confinement.
Maxie stared back at him, gave a grunt of acknowledgement, then turned his attention to the folder. He opened it to reveal several type-written pages, collated into three packets. He passed one each to Maddock and Willis, and then, after a moment’s consideration, handed the remaining packet to Maddock as well. “When you see him, give him this.”
Maddock looked down at the cover sheet. It bore the Seal of the Navy, and looked very official. He skimmed it, looking for words like “ordered to report” and “Leavenworth,” but if they were present, he did not see them. The formal legalistic language contained in the body of the missive defied comprehension at a glance.
“Sir, what is this?”
“Your golden ticket,” Maxie said, and for the first time since their return from Russia, Maddock saw his CO smile. “Effective immediately, you three jokers are civilians again.”
Maddock glanced over at Willis, unable to believe his ears, then returned his attention to Maxie. “Honorable discharges?”
Maxie chuckled and shook his head. “Even better. You’re retired. Full pension and benefits.”
“That’s...” Maddock was momentarily speechless.
Willis was similarly dumbfounded. “But I’ve still got six more years on my twenty.”
“Not any more you don’t.” Maxie let that settle in, then went on. “Technically, the DOD reserves the right to recall, but I wouldn’t worry about that too much.”
Maddock’s elation at the good news was dampened a little at this caveat. “And I suppose this is all contingent on us keeping our mouths shut about what really happened.”
Maxie shrugged. “You’d have to do that, regardless. This whole thing is classified and compartmented. Talk about it and you lose more than just your health insurance. That said, there is another NDA in there which you will have to sign and notarize before you leave this building.” When Maddock didn’t respond, he sighed. “Dane, this is a win. You got what you wanted. You’re out. Go live your life.”
Willis grinned and gave the papers a dramatic snap. “Hells, yeah.” Then, as if remembering who he was talking to, he returned to attention. “Permission to depart, sir?”
“What are you asking me for? I’m not your boss.”
Willis snapped a salute, then did an about face and exited the waiting room.
Maddock continued to stare at the papers in disbelief. Finally, he met Maxie’s gaze. “Doesn’t it bother you? Keeping this a secret?”
Maxie seemed to think about his answer for a long time. “Yeah. It sucks.”
Maddock didn’t know how to respond to that, so he didn’t. He just shook his head and turned for the door.
“Hey, Dane!”
He paused, looked back.
“Keep in touch, okay?”
Once the ink on the notary stamp affixed to the exhaustive non-disclosure agreement was dry, Maddock exited the Pentagon and started walking toward the bus terminal to the southwest, even though he had no idea where he was going next. He considered catching a ride across the river to the National Mall. Maybe he would drop in and surprise Melissa with his news. She would, he knew, be overjoyed to learn that he was no longer going to be risking his life on a daily basis.
Maybe that was the thing that had always kept him from putting a ring on her finger.
He decided to wait. He’d tell her over dinner. Somewhere swanky.
Then again, now that he was unemployed, he’d have to think a little more frugally, at least until he figured out what he was going to do.
What am I going to do?
He wished he could ask his father for advice, regretted that he could not, but then realized that he already knew what Hunter Maddock would have said.
Let’s work together. Find Kidd’s treasure.
The thought brought a smile.
Why not?
He dug out his mobile phone, and scrolled through his call history until he found a received call from almost a month earlier. The number belonged to Allan Cole, the attorney who had acted as the executor of Maddock’s parents’ will. He dialed the number, and when the receptionist at the other end picked up, he identified himself.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Maddock. Do you want me to put you through to Mr. Cole?”
“That won’t be necessary. Can you just give him a message? Tell him I’d like to sell.”
“Okay.” There was a pause, presumably as the woman recorded this brief note. “Anything else?”
“Nope. I’ll be up there later in the week to pack everything.” He exchanged a few more pleasantries before ending the call, then immediately dialed another number.
It rang a few times and then a booming voice sounded in his ear. “Dane! How’s it going, my boy?" And then, with a note of concern added. “Are you doing okay?”
Maddock smiled and answered truthfully. “Never been better, Coach. Listen, are you still thinking about selling your boat?”
––––––––
Cape Idokopas, Russia
––––––––
Alexander Shamalov was a carpenter and woodworker, who specialized in hand-turned spindles and antique restoration. He had been called out to the dacha at Cape Idokopas to bid on repair work for a damaged section of the balustrade on the second story landing.
Shamalov had heard rumors about the incident, rumors of how a band of armed men had attacked in the middle of the night, gunned down the house’s former owner, notorious crime lord Sergei Telesh, along with his mistress and a small army of bodyguards. As he pulled up in front of the house, the only evidence he saw that anything was amiss was a piece of plywood covering one of the upper story windows.
A stout man with a florid complexion emerged from the house and came down to greet him. “Mr. Shamalov, good afternoon. I am Mr. Ponomarenko, the property manager.”
Shamalov shook hands with him and followed Ponomarenko inside. He wondered if he would see bloodstains and bullet holes. There were none, though the hardwood floor and carpets looked brand new and the walls still smelled of fresh paint.
“It is up there,” Ponomarenko said, gesturing to the staircase.
Shamalov grimaced when he beheld the damage. “What happened?”
“The former owner threw a party one night,” Ponomarenko said with a dismissive air. “Things got out of hand.”
Shamalov did not challenge the obvious fiction. Instead he climbed up to the landing and began taking measurements. “I will need to remove an undamaged section to use as a template,” he said, and then added, “provided of course that we can come to an arrangement.”
“Of course.”
Shamalov calculated the amount of time required for the job and the cost of materials, then tacked on a reasonable amount for labor—far less than he would normally have asked.
He had heard other rumors about this place, rumors that there would soon be a magnificent mansion built on the property, a lavish private retreat for the Prime Minister, paid for by generous donations from wealthy oligarchs. And why not? Hadn’t he made them all rich?
Shamalov loved the Prime Minister, and hoped he would become President someday. The man would make Russia great again.
He told Ponomarenko his price. The man seemed pleased with the quote. “Write it up, and take what you need.”
Shamalov nodded. “I’ll need to get some tools from my truck.” He hesitated and then decided to take a chance. “I am curious about something. I have heard that there are plans for new construction soon.”
Ponomarenko frowned as if disturbed by such gossip. “You should not believe everything you hear.”
Shamalov raised his hands in a placating gesture. “I only ask because I am interested in more work in the future.”
The other man appeared to think about this for a moment, and then, in a conspiratorial whisper, admitted, “This is just between us.”
“Of course.”
“There are plans. Big plans. It will be beautiful. A palace worthy of the Tsars. But that won’t be for many years. That is why I am fixing up this old dacha. The architect will live here while he works on the project.”
“Well, I hope you will find my work satisfactory.”
The sharing of the secret seemed to have reduced the distance between the men. “I will provide you with a key so that you may come and go as you please. One thing though. If you need to use the toilet, use the one downstairs or out in the garage. The one upstairs is backed up and I have not yet arranged for a plumber to come take a look at it.”
“Plumbers,” Shamalov snorted. “Who needs them. Let me take a look at it.”
Ponomarenko raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”
“I insist. I will have it clear for you before I leave today.” It was a bold boast, but Shamalov felt certain that the problem was not as serious as the property manager believed. Then, with a wink, he added, “No extra charge.”
The other man inclined his head. “Very well. And I’m sure we’ll be able to find more work for such a talented craftsmen in days to come.”
As Ponomarenko went to find the key he had promised, Shamalov went upstairs to get a look at the blocked commode. The bathroom was an extravagant affair, larger than Shamalov’s workshop, with an enormous Jacuzzi tub on a raised platform at one end, and a walk-in shower big enough to accommodate two or three people at once—just thinking about it brought a smile to Shamalov’s face. But the opulence could not disguise the foul smell that hovered in the air, and there seemed little question as to its source.
He approached the toilet cautiously, holding his breath in anticipation of the stench that would be released when he lifted the lid. His precautions spared his olfactory senses, but the vile-looking brown soup that filled the bowl was revolting enough to make him gag. He closed the lid and headed back downstairs. When he found Ponomarenko again, he inquired about tools for general maintenance.
“I hadn’t thought of that,” admitted the other man. “There might be something in the garage. Feel free to look.”
Shamalov did exactly that, and in short order, found exactly what he needed—a handheld plumber’s snake with ten meters of wire in the drum. He hurried back upstairs and, after another deep breath, opened the toilet lid, pulled out a meter of the coiled wire, and stabbed it into the murk. The device had a pistol grip below the drum, and he held it firmly in his left hand as he began rotating the knob on the back of the drum, feeding out more of the wire. He could feel a little resistance as it hooked around the turns in the plumbing, but nothing to justify the clog. He kept playing out meter after meter of wire until it came to an abrupt halt.
“There you are,” he muttered. He was still taking shallow breaths through his mouth, though he was getting used to the smell.
He worked the drum back and forth, trying to clear the blockage, but was unable to make any more forward progress. After a few minutes of this, he began reeling in the wire. He grimaced as the nasty liquid dribbled out of the drum and ran down his hand—maybe he should have let Ponomarenko call a plumber after all—but then felt a mild surge of elation when the end of the wire came out of the water, with something caught in the spiral at the end.
It was a piece of red cloth.
––––––––
––––––––
If you enjoyed Bloodstorm try Destination Rio- A Dane Maddock Adventure!
––––––––
Want to keep up with David’s work? Join his mailing list for updates, new release announcements, and book giveaways, and receive a free ebook when you confirm your subscription.
––––––––
For more information on Sean Ellis and his work, visit his website.