Authors: Fiona Quinn
“Maybe she borrowed her ensemble, like I did.” I said.
“Nope. The jewelry was her Christmas gift last year from hubby, and the dress she found at the same boutique where I bought the dress you’re wearing now.”
“You are thorough. Did you get her shoe size, too?”
“Doing my part for national security.” She smiled.
The maître-d announced dinner, and we made our way to our assigned tables. I was happy they scheduled speakers; I had some major thinking to do. I pulled out my phone and sent a quick text to Striker
.
Won’t be home tonight. Catch up with you in the a.m. Love you
.
Watch your six.
I’d stay with Celia. I didn’t want to know what time –or even if – Striker would get home tonight.
I
got up at dawn, dressed, and left a note on the silver tray that sat on the entryway table. Celia already knew I’d be gone before she woke.
After tucking my car into the public garage, I shadow-walked the two blocks to Spyder’s, practicing my martial arts skills of moving in plain sight without being seen. I needed to make sure no one followed. Pushing through the rusted industrial door, I moved into the calm energy of his apartment to find it empty. I checked my watch; I was ten minutes early. My gaze moved around the room, where I didn’t see any telltale signs the place had been occupied for the last few days – no mail sitting on the counter, no trash in the bin. I checked the fridge. It stood empty except for a bottle of water and a bottle of soy sauce.
I was glad I had picked up a few things for breakfast – fruit and baozi from a Chinese street vendor. I set them on the counter, then grabbed a knife from the block to cut bottoms off the stems from my flower bouquet. Spyder slipped through the door just as I placed an arrangement on each side of the altar. Without a word, he kissed my forehead, and we folded ourselves into position for morning meditation.
Centered and peaceful, I stood at the sink, filling Spyder’s bright red kettle with tap water to make our tea. “Where have you been? You didn’t tell me you were going out of town,” I said as I moved toward the stove and turned the element to high.
Spyder opened the tea canister and inhaled the aroma deeply before offering it to me to smell. “I needed to transfer a prisoner to a new safe site and have an important conversation.”
“That’s yummy, what is it?”
“Gyokuro, a new favorite. And to answer your next question, he is a man named Brody Covington.”
“Brody Cov. . .? You transferred — wait. I thought he was comatose and under arrest on two counts of capital murder.” I stood with a kitchen towel stretched between my hands, blinking at Spyder.
“He was indeed. And many people were anxious about this turn in his health. Some because they wished him to become well so they could interrogate him; others wished he would pass peacefully away and no longer pose a threat.”
“Why do you care about Brody Covington, though? He was just a worker bee at one of Sylanos’s factories.”
“How did you get that information?” Spyder asked.
“I guess I assumed that was his role from what I saw in the tape of his arrest, and because when Julio Rodriguez was questioned in prison, he didn’t seem to know Brody’s name. Julio only knew that Brody showed up and thought it was Maria Rodriguez who hired him.”
“Your assumptions are your windows on the world. Scrub them off every once in a while, or the light won’t come in.”
“Eleanor Roosevelt?”
“Isaac Asimov.” His eyes crinkled at the corners as a gentle smile spread across his face.
“So I got played. What was his role in the Sylanos Cartel structure? You said that Sylanos turned the rudder and the ship headed in a different direction. Before, the direction was a distinct triangle from the US to Honduras to Columbia and back. The US sent pirated software and music to Honduras, because Honduras was the South American distribution center. Honduras paid money. The money was spent in Columbia on guns and, in a limited way, human trafficking and drugs, which were then brought to America and turned into even more money. That money was laundered through fronts and transferred around.” I searched through Spyder’s utility drawer until I found the tea strainer and filled it with loose leaves from the canister. This gave me a moment for a new thought to bubble up. “Striker is paired with a Secret Service agent, code named Scarlet Vine, watching Maxx Schwartz, a customs agent. Are these all related data points?”
“I see you used your time at the ball well.”
“You sent me to the ball so I could watch Striker in the field, kissing another agent to see if I could take it. Didn’t you?” I raised an eyebrow. “One of your ‘throw her into the deep end and see if she can swim’ lessons?”
“I have never thrown you into the deep end of any situation. But yes, this is a conversation you need to have with Striker, and he with you. These types of conversations cannot be in theory only. Theory is formed in a rational mind. Feelings refuse to follow along quietly and rationally. You had to experience the threat to understand your reaction. Does this sound familiar to you?”
“Yes. And you’re right. As always.”
“It is not my wish that I should be right always. I am merely exercising my role as your mentor. What was the outcome of your experience?”
“I didn’t like it.”
“And. . .”
“I can live with it. Other women live with things they don’t like about their spouse’s careers. This particular aspect happens to be like being a fishmonger’s wife – where Striker has to put his hands really stinks.”
Spyder patted my knee. “As long as your eyes are open, you will not walk unwillingly into a corner. Now, let’s spend a moment on what Vine and Striker are doing. They are observing and tracking the shipping containers that come in through the port in Baltimore. Specifically, the containers that Maxx Schwartz processes. The Secret Service believes he is taking payments to facilitate entry.”
“Secret Service, not customs. What do they think is coming in?”
“The software side of Sylanos’s operation now takes place in Indonesia. They are still shipping to the very lucrative South American market. The money in South America gets paid in American dollars, coming in from the drug trade by other cartels. Sylanos moves the money to various sites where workers count, roll, and put the cash into cans with false bottoms. That is to say, the money is placed into a water tight bottom portion of the can, then a food product, such as beans or tomatoes, is placed in the top portion, and the can is sealed and labeled. They ship the cans of product to the United States, where the money launderers disperse the cash into various businesses. This is but one means by which they are hiding and moving the cash.”
“This laundered money is then filtered into the political system and to the Assembly, thereby ensuring that little will be done to stop the flow.”
“Indeed.”
“Maxx Schwartz seems like a minnow in a shark tank.”
“This is true; however, much information is presented to him in the documentation that he receives. If Striker is able to turn him to state’s evidence, it could be a very useful resource for ongoing intelligence. And Schwartz seems greedy enough to want to triple dip with payments from his job, from Sylanos, and from the Secret Service.”
“This conversation started with Brody Covington regaining consciousness,” I reminded him.
“Brody worked alongside Julio in developing and maintaining the software required for expanding and running Sylanos’s work.”
I let a low whistle blow between my teeth. “Wow, they’re good actors.” I spun my chair so we were face to face.
“A good operative verifies. Verifies. Verifies.”
“Yes, Spyder.” I kissed him on the top of his head, and he grinned at me. “However, Julio was dead and Brody was in a coma, so. . .”
He lifted his brows.
“So I should wait before I make assumptions. How’s Brody feeling? Talkative?”
“Finding himself playing the role of punching bag in Miami and then in the Honduran prison convinced Brody that it would be wise to share his information with those who offer him protection.”
I propped my elbow on the table, and my body thrust forward with anticipation.
“As you learned from the bizarre exchanges between Julio and his wife, and then Julio and Brody, there was a coded system in place to protect the information that Julio had been amassing against Sylanos, and by extension the Assembly, and Omega. Brody found the software code that allowed Julio to send all of the data to his backup account in California. Brody thought it would be an excellent idea to follow suit and do his own backup.”
“Did you get access to the data?” I asked, excitement brightening my voice.
“Brody anticipated issues with storing data in the cloud or on a device the way Julio attempted. Someone dexterous with cybersecurity could easily trace and hack into such storage. Brody did not feel his abilities to mask and hide the information met the standard necessary, but that was three years ago when he began.”
“What’s changed since then?”
“Brody began using the Darknet.”
“Smart. He realized that anyone doing network surveillance would miss this completely. It’s almost impossible to monitor someone on the Darknet with its onion encryption and relays.”
“Exactly.”
“And he’s done this for three years? Did he give up his onion address?”
“He did, and I am processing through that data now.”
“With that data in hand, this should be a closed case.”
Spyder smiled. “The businesses he documented have an air of legitimacy. Gaining access to the earlier information will expose their true nature.”
“Ah. And did Brody share that location as well?”
“This is actually quite clever. Brody discovered one day that Julio and Maria received an invitation to a political fundraising cruise. Sylanos often had his upper echelon workers go to political fundraisers so that they could buy the tickets and thus syphon money into the Assembly’s political war chests. Just one of their laundering schemes. Brody recognized the name of the cruise ship company on the invitation because he had a friend who worked on that boat as a party planner. Brody approached his friend, suggesting that door prizes be given away, and that he could get them for a very good price from a jeweler he knew. At five thousand dollars a head for going on the evening cruise, the politician agreed that a trinket offered as a prize would make people happy.”
“Who was the jeweler?”
“Someone of no consequence. Brody commissioned six necklaces — similar in style — be created for the event. The single thing that the necklaces had in common was a hidden compartment that would hold a single high quality micro SD card.”
Anticipation sent a jolt of energy up my spine. “Brody copied Julio’s files and hid them in the necklaces? So even though Julio’s data was burned, and we thought the evidence was gone forever, Brody made duplicates?”
“Exactly. Each chip holds a different set of data. One would be helpful. All six? That would be our Hercules’ sword.”
“While it’s handy to use Hydra and Hercules as analogies, Spyder, let’s chat about that for a minute. When Hercules set out to accomplish his second task, he went to Lerna to hack off the heads of the nine-headed beast. Thank goodness our monster only has the four heads. They seem daunting enough. But in the myth, each time a head was slashed off the monster, two grew in its place.”
“That’s why it took two warriors to thwart the monster. Hercules slashed the heads and his friend, Lolaus, held the burning stick to the wound, cauterizing it so that there could be no regeneration. The Hydra had terrorized the village, and the villagers thought that was the way they’d always have to live until two people stood together against it.” Spyder pointed back and forth between us.
That was crazy. How were we going to pull this off? I stared at Spyder, dumbfounded.
The kettle screeched, making me jump. I got up and went to finish making our breakfast. “You’re forgetting an important part of the story, though. One of the heads was immortal, and there was nothing that Hercules could do about it. I mean, he chopped the head off its body, put it in a hole, and covered it with a big rock.” I stared out his window, letting my mind wander, then shook my head to bring myself back.
“Finish your thought.”
I turned, leaning my hips back into the counter and scowled. “When I was a kid I once cut the head off a copperhead. The separated body still wriggled; the head still bit the air. The pieces were dead. But still, they were active. I dug a hole and used a stick to push the head inside, covered it with the dirt, and stomped it down. Within minutes, out popped the head, like something from a zombie apocalypse, mouth filled with dirt, still biting and chomping, still able to kill with the venom in its glands. But scientifically dead.” I shook my head. “I don’t know, Spyder. I think this is going to take one hell of a strategy.”
A
fter breakfast, Spyder and I took a walk through a nearby park, our feet kicked through the fallen leaves. The crunch under our boots punctuated the otherwise soundless landscape. Early morning walks were a ritual for Spyder. He believed that in the quiet of the morning, when thoughts were still fresh and uncluttered from the day’s events, was the best time for insights to show themselves. Soon the commuters would be on the road, the stores open and busy. Spyder believed that when humanity cluttered the ether with their words and actions, it became harder to pull clarity from behind the energetic pollution.
I didn’t know if I agreed with his reasoning, but I did find some of my best thinking happened on my early morning runs, and when that wasn’t possible, then through any kind of walking meditation, which was an intellectual way of saying pacing back and forth – one of my favorite pastimes.
I held my tongue until we were back at his apartment.
“I’m interested to hear your strategy for finding the necklaces. I’m assuming that’s what you’re up to now. Or do you need me involved with that task?”
“I prefer that you’re not involved with field work unless it is of an extremely benign nature until your health, especially your brain injuries, have had time to heal more thoroughly.” He tugged his black hoodie over his head and hung it in the hall closet. “I asked Brody how he was keeping track of the necklaces, and he said that he had befriended all of the women on Facebook and then created a group so he could monitor them and find them when necessary. Unfortunately, when he pulled the page up for me, his timeline had been hacked into and permanently deleted.”
“You believed him?”
“I find that the sudden ashen complexion of shock and dismay is almost impossible to pull off on demand.”
“Any chance that Facebook would retrieve the information?”
“Facebook is very protective and non-compliant, often siting the Stored Communications Act. I would try to get a subpoena, but going through normal channels without someone from the Assembly becoming involved with the process is very unlikely. I want nothing to tip our hand.”
“So now what?”
“I hacked Potomac Cruise’s computers and found a roster of the donors’ names. The problem with this information is that we do not know who showed up for the fundraiser, or if the names on the roster are actually the people who presented themselves on deck. Donors need only show their tickets, not their identification.”
“Can I see the roster?” As Spyder opened his browser, I asked, “Did you run the names by Brody? Did he recognize any of them?”
“Yes, one,” He rose from his chair and indicated I should take his seat.
I ran my finger down the screen as I perused the list. Julio and Maria. . . Hmm. Nope, I didn’t hear a ding when I read past the other names.
“Twenty-three women’s names. And it said that only the women’s names would be placed in the jar for six chances at winning the prize.”
”Booby prize is more like it. Brody recognized which name?”
“She’s listed there as Mrs. Shelby Laurence – on Facebook she’s Mary Laurence.”
I flipped through the next files. The menu, the speaker’s performance order, the accolades, the prizes, and then pictures of six necklaces. All six were similar in size, featuring a large pendant of semi-precious, opaque gemstones. They were quite pretty — pretty enough that someone would hang on to their prize and not send it home with their housekeeper as a bonus, or re-gift it along the way.
“What would have happened if the women didn’t keep their prizes?”
Spyder nodded with a satisfied smile that told me he was proud of my question. “I asked Brody this very question. This line of thought took him by surprise; he had not considered this possibility or the ramifications of the potential movement of the necklaces. He said he guessed he’d have to confront the women and find out where they were.”
“And Brody didn’t realize how specialized that skill is? Who in their right mind would tell the truth and endanger someone else? I’d just say I pawned it or sold it on Craigslist or something.”
Spyder tapped his head. “I am hopeful that none of these scenarios play out. It would make tracking the prizes very difficult.”
“Did you get hold of the one from the Laurence woman?” I could tell by the glimmer in his black eyes that he had. I smiled. “SD card or necklace?” I asked.
“The whole necklace. Mary happened to be wearing it when I came across her, and she lost it, poor thing.”
“Sleight-of-hand? What? That’s crazy. She didn’t notice the weight change as it left her neck? Can I see it?”
Spyder stood. “Alcohol is a very convenient drug. When I arrived, she was already partially sedated.” He shifted a panel on the wall and pulled out the necklace in a plastic evidence bag. He reached in a drawer and handed me a pair of nitrile gloves.
I sat with the necklace. This just seemed so darned familiar. I leaned over the computer to look at the page of other designs, my gaze travelling back and forth between the image and the evidence I held in my hand. I turned it over, looking for the catch that would open the storage space. Spyder pointed with the tip of his needle-nosed forceps, then he flicked the side and the back opened. The cavity carved into the gemstone lay empty.
“What are you thinking, Lexicon?”
“I’ve seen something like this before. I would swear it. This one.” I pointed to the picture on the bottom right of the screen. “But I can’t remember where or on whom.”
Spyder regarded me for a moment then asked, “Would you care to try hypnosis?”
Spyder set up a digital recorder, and I settled into a more comfortable chair. Spyder had hypnotized me many times during my training so that I could understand what it felt like and would not succumb without my consent. Some people, like myself, are predisposed to being hypnotized. They can’t go to a live show or even watch hypnotism on television without descending into a trance state along with the intended subject on stage. People who have dexterity with meditation and psychic connections are often easy marks for hypnosis.
Being hypnotized wasn’t like in the old movies. No one holds up a pendulum to swing back and forth, back and forth. You are getting sleeeepy, verrrrry sleeepy. No. That just doesn’t happen. Being hypnotized can be as simple as the tone of voice and the slow rhythmic blink of the hypnotist’s eyes.
My teammate, Axel, had a hypnotic tempo and tone quality to his voice that I swear was like listening to the Pied Piper. The bad guys fell under his spell, and Axel could lead them where he needed them to go, along any path of his choosing. Scary stuff. I’d never let Axel get me into a one-on-one like that. Spyder, though—I had no secrets from him.
Spyder tapped my wrist. “Your body feels comfortable and safe,” he began. A few more taps on my pulse point, a few more suggestions about how good I felt, how sleepy and relaxed, floating comfortably, and I was deep enough for us to begin.
“Lexicon, if at any point you wish to come back to the present, you do not need me. You will simply open your eyes, and you will be awake, refreshed, and remember everything that was said during our session. Today, you looked at the picture of a necklace on the computer screen. Was this the exact same necklace that you have seen before, or was it a lookalike?”
“Exact.”
“Good. Now I want you to move in your mind back in time, back, back to the point where you saw this necklace. Tell me when you are there.”
“There.”
“Where are you? What do you see?”
“I am at the Iniquus safehouse. I am sitting on the couch next to Striker Rheas. I see his dimples and his beautiful smile. He has a five o’clock shadow, and I want to run my hand over the sharpness. He’s –”
“Okay, good. You are sitting on the couch with Striker. Is he showing you the necklace?”
“No. We are looking at a photo album.”
“Tell me about this album.”
“It is a picture puzzle that I worked to uncover today. I am explaining the pictures to him. There is a picture taken on a boat. There are cocktails. I am trying to figure out the names of the players and where they might be hiding in the present moment from the pictures that I see in the album.”
“Are you successful?”
“Yes.”
“What were the names?”
“Catherine and Jason Clemmons. Their river house was 3564 North Shore Drive.”
“Very good. Now you are looking at all of the photographs available to you in this album. One of them also has a picture of the necklace. Is this correct?”
“Correct.”
“I want you to go to that image now. Squeeze my hand when you get there.”
I squeezed his hand.
“What do you see?”
“There is a woman in a green dress. Her nametag reads Catherine Clemmons. Next to her is a woman in a white dress. Her name tag reads Lynda.”
“Who is wearing the necklace?”
“Lynda.”
“Look at her face. Do you recognize this woman? Do you know her last name or where we could find her?”
“Lynda Rheas. She lives in Miami. She just moved to 5561 Ocean Breeze Street.”
“You may come back now. I will count you back up to here and now. Ten, with each number you rise up in your conscious state. Nine, you are aware of your body. Eight. . .”
I stared at Spyder. “Striker’s sister. She has no idea that she has this and that she’s in danger.”
“Nobody knows about these necklaces other than Brody. The danger is miniscule.”
“Somebody could hypnotize him, or torture him.” I sat at the very edge of my seat my, legs glued together, my hands on my knees.
“They would have to know the data existed for them to take that line of questioning. And he would probably make up random names because he doesn’t remember any of them except Mary’s. Once he put them in the group on FB, he left them there and thought that the information was safe. That was three years ago.”
“We have to tell Striker.”
Spyder raised an eyebrow.
“I’m serious, Spyder. I have to tell Striker. I can’t keep something like this from him.”
“Lexicon, you have been involved in many cases, many with me and many with Striker. Are you ever apprised of the danger? Or is it held back as need-to-know, and it is very rare that you need to know?”
“Held back. But in a case like this –”
“You have been in danger’s way. You might have been safer knowing the information. Did Striker give it to you, or did he simply believe that you should trust your team to handle it?”
My mind went to a particular night at the Halston Ball when I played the role of Babcock’s date, all dressed up like an Italian woman named Gabriella Ricci. My sixth-sense warning system went off, and I had a “knowing” that said “Hydra Marionette.” I had waited, fuming, through the entire car ride to the mansion where Babcock would pick me up. Striker told me nothing. Just before I popped my door open, I specifically asked if he had anything he needed to tell me, and Striker looked confused. No. In fact, Striker never ever
ever
shared even a droplet of information that I absolutely didn’t need to know. He wanted me to trust the team to keep me safe.
I flopped back in the chair completely deflated. I felt like a traitor. I knew I wasn’t going to tell Striker anything about his sister. “This is another relationship test, isn’t it? I will have to split my loyalties and prioritize them, right? Striker is my priority, and I truly believe I am his. Loyalty to my code of ethics, loyalty to my job and country, they have to stand first when it comes time to make decisions that belong in a work box.” I flexed my neck to the left and right and listened to the vertebrae pop.
Boxes make life simpler. My life was anything but simple. This conversation seemed so familiar. I remembered back to the night I went to the Halston Ball to put the listening device in Babcock’s pocket. Angry, ready for a fight, I walked into Striker’s apartment, and there he was, his warm eyes drinking me in. I loved him so much, and I was trying so hard to understand him and who we were to each other. Boxes. He wanted two of me: Lexi for his Lexi box - a girl to date and enjoy. And Lynx for his Lynx box - a colleague that got the job done. So naïve. So incredibly naïve. I didn’t understand all of the angles and complexities. Could we do this? Could we marry and make a life together? Even with all the secrets?
“What’s the plan?” I asked. My throat was dry and raspy.
“I’ll fly to Miami tonight. I should be home in the morning. And you? Do you have a direction you wish to explore?”
“Yes. There is an artist named Dyozo Tsukamoto. There were three people in all of the United States who owned his works. All of them live in the DC area. One is Babcock. One is Iniquus. And one is unknown. It’s made me curious.”