Retribution - Fiction

Retribution

By

Carl Cortez

It was a typical Saturday night at Club XS with more people outside waiting to get in, then there were inside the club. A Ferrari and an Aston Martin had been conspicuously parked by the valets at the front of the parking lot where traffic driving down Westheimer Blvd could see them. In the back of the parking lot several limos and a Bentley sat elegantly, waiting for their masters to beckon.

Inside the club the music lay like a thick carpet over everything making almost anything, except movement and drinking, impossible. All of the bodies in the place undulated together in the dim smoke filled light, appearing to be some type of a giant single organism. Even the people at the bar and at tables seemed to move in tempo. People were gathered in several large and small groups throughout the club, usually around tables, but sometimes just in the middle of pathways or along the dance floor. The main bar extended out about 60 feet from the wall opposite from the front doors and patrons sitting and standing at either side of the bar could see what was happening in the club. Blue neon ringed the top of the bar where all sizes of glasses hung down, and around the bottom. At the front of the bar was a large station where waitresses could order, receive and garnish their drinks. To the left of the bar was a hallway that led to the restrooms. Along the wall, perpendicular to the hallway and parallel to the bar was a landing that was accessed by stairs. On the landing were five plush dark red leather booths against the wall. The edge of the landing, opposite the booths, was bordered by a double brass rail about five feet high.
Two men, one in his fifties and the other about 10 years younger, sat in the center booth with two attractive young women. The men were fair skinned and appeared to be of European descent. Both of the men wore tailored suits, one dove grey and the other navy blue with a pinstripe. The ties and pocket hankies were silk. The men exuded wealth and success. If one paid attention to such things, there was also an aura of intrigue, perhaps criminality about the men. These were not celebrities or simple businessmen. The two young women were in their early twenties, expensively dressed in spectacular clothing and jewelry and were definitely there for decoration and entertainment. Two well dressed and dangerous looking men sat in the booth next to foursome. The other booths were empty and no one tried to climb the stairs and sit in them. A large muscular man, well over 6 feet tall, and dressed in an expensive suit, stood in front of the stairway to the landing. A second well dressed man, smaller, but athletic looking, stood at the back of the landing. All of the bodyguards were alert and watched the entire club and all of the people. The two men in the booth leaned very close into each other and talked while the women sat and looked at the celebration that roiled before them.

On the opposite side of the bar from the landing a man sat drinking, and watching everything and everyone, but only to hide that he was really watching the group on the landing. He was in his mid-forties, a little over-weight and dressed in an average navy blue sport coat and charcoal slacks. He had light brown hair and a matching mustache. You would only know that he was alone if you noticed that he wasn’t talking to anyone or paying attention to anything in particular. You wouldn’t notice that though, because he wasn’t a man you would notice. He just sort of blended in. Even the bartenders didn’t notice him and he had been drinking the same drink for over an hour.

The older man with the girls turned to the two men in the booth next to him and motioned with his hand and then pointed to the hallway. Both men stood up and walked along the landing, and down the stairs. One man stayed at the entry to the hallway while the second man went down and into the men’s room. A few minutes later several men came out of the restroom looking annoyed, startled or both. They were followed by the bodyguard who nodded to his partner standing by the landing who turned and nodded to the older man. The older man then left the booth and went to the men’s room. The one bodyguard remained outside the restroom door while the other remained on guard just outside the entry to the hallway.

The average man, who had been sitting at the bar and watching, stood up at the same time as the older man and walked around the bar and towards the hallway. He was intercepted by the bodyguard, who stepped in front him, shaking his head no, and pointing back to the bar. The average man smiled and looked over his shoulder at a man sitting at the bar and then back at the bodyguard. As his head turned back to the bodyguard, who had followed the average man and glanced at the bar, the average man’s right hand struck out quickly and with power, turning from palm up to palm down as it extended. The man’s hand was shaped into a spear with the index finger and third finger straight out and the middle finger drawn slightly back and the thumb locked tight into the side of the palm. The arm and hand completed their torque as the hand hit its target; the bodyguard’s diaphragm above his solar plexus. The diaphragm was momentarily paralyzed and the bodyguard could no longer breathe and could barely move. The bodyguard bent slightly over and the average man then chopped on the side of his exposed neck. The arm of the average man moved like a piston; out, down and then back in. His arm and hand continued past his waist pushing his sport coat back and exposing a gun holstered on his hip. He drew the gun, aimed, and shot the big bodyguard standing at the stairway of the landing as he had just begun to move. He shot the bodyguard who was standing at the far end of the landing as he was drawing his own gun and he then shot the bodyguard at the restroom door who was just becoming aware of what was happening, and was trying to react. The gunman then pivoted, took aim, and shot the younger man, who had been sitting in the booth but was now desperately trying to climb over the women and escape. The women were frozen, in shock, and hadn’t begun to scream. When the body of the younger man fell across them the screams began. Finally, the average man looked down at the bodyguard who was just beginning to get his breath and senses back and shot him in the head. The whole attack took less than a minute. Most people in the bar didn’t even know that anything had happened until the screaming began.

The average man walked down the hallway, past the dead bodyguard, and into the restroom.The older man was standing at a urinal, reading the front page from the Wall Street Journal that had been placed in a frame above the urinal. He turned when he heard the door open, expecting to see his bodyguard. When he saw the gunman he knew he was dead. His heart-rate increased and he could feel his anus tightening up. His mouth went dry. He stood there holding himself, feeling very vulnerable, and unsure of what to do.

“$1 million dollars.” He said.

The gunman smiled at him and shook his head.

“You do this for money. I walk out and I’ll pay whatever you ask. You have my word.” The older man was putting himself away and zipping up as he spoke.

“Your word isn’t worth what just went down the drain. Mine is worth a great deal more. This is for Tanya”

The older man started and froze, his hand on his zipper, the zipper half way up. His heart was thudding and his anus was closed so tight it hurt. “Tanya,” he thought; “He knows about Tanya.”
“Who the hell are you?” he screamed and the gunman put a bullet into the his heart and then, as the man crumpled to the floor, the gunman put a bullet into his head. Looking down at the now lifeless body crumpled in front of the urinal, he continued smiling and holstered his gun. He was pleased about where the man had died, it was exactly where he deserved to be. The average man walked calmly out of the restroom and down the hallway. A crowd had gathered around the bodyguards at the mouth of the hallway and at the stairway, but no one had come down the hall. The gunman walked past the crowd and through the club, and out the door. Once out the door he walked down the walk that led to the valet area. He walked as if nothing had happened and everything was normal. He ignored the valet who ran to him with an outstretched hand expecting a receipt so he could go retrieve a car. He walked to the sidewalk that ran along the street and turned left on the sidewalk. He walked past the front of the club and down the street to the first corner, about a block away, and turned left again. He was on a street that had a convenience store, a cleaners, now closed, and several apartment complexes. He crossed the street and continued walking. He crossed two intersections and at the third intersection he turned right. This street was residential with mostly older, two story houses. He walked down past three houses to where a silver Honda Civic sat at the curb. He tapped a remote with his thumb, as he walked up to the car, unlocking the doors and starting the engine. He climbed into the car and drove away. Back at Club XS six people were dead, there were no witnesses to the killing, and by the time the police got there only a puzzled valet had seen the killer and he didn’t know that is who he had seen.

When the gunman flew out of Houston the next morning he didn’t look the same as he had at the club. His hair was shorter and darker, his eyes were their natural blue instead of brown, his mustache was gone and he appeared to be about 20 pounds lighter. The weight change was the result of removing padded clothing and make-up. He would, of course, look different just being outside the dark, smoky club. In the club he had been careful of what he touched, but there would be no fingerprints anyway, not even on his drink glass, because he had sprayed a special latex on his fingers. The latex obscured his fingerprints for around four hours before body heat and acids dissolved it. He had removed the latex with acetone before then, when he changed his appearance back to normal in his hotel room. As he flew out of Houston he leaned back in his seat, drank a scotch and thought about how his business was concluded.
Tanya had gone to work for a big bank in Houston. She had met a lot of people and eventually the head guy. She had fallen in love, he probably hadn’t. He was a user. He was a rich and powerful man who used people and then discarded them. Tanya was bright and she probably figured out what kind of guy he was. A year after she had moved to Houston she was found dead in her apartment. The police had few clues and guessed it was an intruder. He might have thought so too, but he wanted to know for sure. He had methods and contacts other people didn’t have. He found out about the banker. He found out the banker sometimes had a problem discarding people. He found out that the banker had a bodyguard that took care of this type of problem. He found out which bodyguard. The bodyguard was a medium size guy with an athletic build who always watched the banker’s back. He thought about He thought about the banker and the club until the plane landed.

“We don’t know his name. All that we know is that we have been using him for key assassinations and special killings for almost 20 years.” The man who was speaking was sitting in a leather wing chair holding a cup of coffee. He was in a large office with two other men and a woman. One of the men was fat with several chins. His tailored suit helped a little, but he still looked fat. He was in his fifties and had begun to have health problems because of his weight. He was Keith Newkirk, the C.I.A. Director of Counter-Intelligence and they were in his office. The man speaking was Walter Dawson, Deputy Director of Counter Intelligence and Covert Operations. The third man was Dan Reilly, an assistant to the White House Chief of Staff and the woman was Karen Whittig, from the Justice Department. They all sat in chairs that were sitting on the four sides of a large oriental rug facing in towards each other. There were small mahogany tables next to each chair and a large mahogany coffee table in the center. A tray on the coffee table held a large carafe of coffee, a large tea pot and a carafe of water. There was one empty cup on the tray and three empty glasses. One of the men was drinking water, one was drinking tea, and Walter, along with the woman, was drinking coffee. Across the office from them was a large antique desk and armoire. Against one wall was a bar with the top up revealing crystal decanters and glassware. Walter was looking at the bar and wishing he could have a drink. A nice scotch on the rocks. He couldn’t though, it was too early, this was too important, and he hadn’t been offered a drink. Walter always tried to do what was right.

“Walter” Keith Newkirk said, “We have a CIA asset who appears to have killed six people in this country, down in Houston, Texas. You have assured me that he was not working for us when the killings took place. You have also told me that you don’t know who he is or how to find him. That isn’t very helpful.”

“We used to contact him through an exchange in New York, but now it’s all done through email.” Walter said and took a drink of coffee. The cup was almost empty and he reached over for the carafe and refilled it. He motioned with the carafe to the woman, who shook her head no, and he set the carafe back down. “As I was saying, it’s all done through email now. When we contact him he is referred to as Joe or as the consultant, that’s all. It was Mr. Newkirk’s predecessor, George Anderson who first hired him. At that time there was an industrialist who specialized in weapons electronics and who was rumored to be helping Ghadaffi. Some of you know who I am talking about. Anyway, the industrialist couldn’t be prosecuted, he wasn’t American, and he was too wealthy and powerful to pressure. There was a lot of talk about something needing to be done, we saw Ghaddafy as a real threat back then, but no one seemed to have an idea of what to do. Then, out of the clear blue, we received an unsolicited offer to eliminate the industrialist. The offer included a price and payment instructions. The payment was to take place, according to the instructions, after the contract was fulfilled. The industrialist was powerful and well protected and it seemed unlikely that anyone could get to him, but we decided; “what the hell!” There was no connection to us if things went bad and if things worked out, the problem was solved. We accepted the offer and a couple of weeks later the industrialist fell off his yacht and drowned while everyone was sleeping. The official report was accidental death, but we were able to circulate rumors it was suicide, along with rumors of malfeasance and of a mystery woman. The smear paid off in many ways, including as a warning to Ghaddafi. We paid the contract and kept the connection. Since then this person has been an asset. That is all I know. If we tried to trace him, and frankly I believe that would be stupid and dangerous, all we would probably find would be dead-ends. This man is a professional and has had a lot of time to perfect his operation.”

“And you believe the killings in Houston were done by him?” Karen Whittig asked. She was looking directly into Walter’s eyes as she asked the question and it made Walter feel like it was more of an interrogation than a question. She sized Walter up as a glorified gopher. He was an average size man, average looking, in his mid-forties. He had probably had gone to a state University. He was definitely not Ivy League and now he worked for the CIA doing research, running errands and protecting his boss. She doubted his opinions carried much weight.

“I know he was responsible for the killings in Houston, because he told me he was.” Walter said. He stopped looking at Karen Whettig and stared down at his coffee cup.

“Why would he do that? Dan Reilly asked.

Walter continued to look down at his coffee cup. The coffee was good, but he probably shouldn’t have any more. He wanted to look at his watch, but that would be rude and a violation of protocol or something. It must be getting close to lunchtime. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t think this was an emergency or a problem. As a courtesy he had told Keith, his boss, about the contact from Joe and about the killings. Keith was the one who panicked and involved the Whitehouse and the the Justice Department. It was major ass covering time. Keith wanted the Whitehouse to know that he and his department didn’t have anything to do with the killings. The Whitehouse wanted to be assured that nothing led back to them and that no laws, other than the murders, had been broken. The Justice Department was probably having fun. Everyone wanted deniability.

“He wants protection.” Walter said. “He sent me an email telling me about the killings. He said there was no contract, that it was personal. He wants us to exert enough pressure or influence to assure that the victims get a lot of bad press and that the investigation goes no where.”

“I’m not clear on who the victims were.” Reilly said. “Are they really bad people?”

Keith Newkirk leaned over his substantial stomach and poured himself a glass of water. He looked at the water for a moment and then drank most of it in one swallow. He looked at Dan Reilly with contempt.

“Yes they were bad people. How bad is open to interpretation. Jason Allbritton is . . .was the CEO of Sunshine Bank Group. Robert Swift was the President of Sunshine Bank in Houston, the flagship of the bank group. The other four men were bodyguards.”

“Not very good one’s evidently.” Karen Whittig said and pointed her interrogator’s eyes at Newkirk. “And why do bankers need bodyguards?”

“Actually madam, they were, in fact, very good bodyguards, but there are matters of degree and they were no match for this Joe person. Also, they may have been complacent since mostly they stood around and watched the bankers work or play. As to why bankers need bodyguards.” Keith Newkirk finished his water, put the glass back on the tray and looked around at the group and then continued; “The information I am about to give you came to this office through Homeland Security after 9/11. The Sunshine Bank Group was involved in money laundering several years ago and was unfortunate enough to get caught. I don’t know all of the details, but Jason Allbritton, Robert Swift and others were facing more than fines. Their luck changed with 9/11. Prior to the attacks of 9/11 the investigation of Sunshine Banks was in full force and most of the bank’s hierarchy knew about it, but there had been nothing reported to the press. Everything was still very hush-hush while the government perfected its case. Then, 9/11 happened and the government started tracking down and seizing terrorist money. Jason Allbritton mentioned to the investigators that some of the Bank Group’s major stockholders were Middle Eastern and that he had been approached to help with some “financial problems”. Well, all of you know how these things work. The investigation went away and Sunshine Bank and its key personnel began to work with the U.S. government in the fight against terrorism. That is until now, because now Mr. Allbritton and Mr. Swift are dead. The question is, were they killed for personal reasons as we have been told or were they killed for helping the government? My feeling is the latter. It is just too big a coincidence that there would be this kind of over-lap; a personal killing of two men who are also involved with terrorism. This Joe is a professional and has been a professional for a long time. People like him don’t get personal.”

So, Walter thought, I was wrong, it is more than ass-covering. That explains why the Whitehouse and Justice are involved.

“Do you think Mr. Allbritton’s and the bank's ties to the government were discovered and that is why they were killed?” Karen Whittig asked. She was still focusing on Newkirk. Newkirk looked at Walter. Karen Whitig turned to Walter. Walter realized they were all looking at him and it made him nervous. He reached for the carafe and poured more coffee. To hell with it, he decided.

“No, I don’t believe Mr. Allbritton and Mr. Swift were killed because the bank’s ties to the government were discovered.” Walter said. He paused and drank some coffee. He thought about Joe. “We would have had no way of knowing that Joe was involved if he hadn’t told us. Hell, even if the FBI thought the killings were connected to terrorists they wouldn’t tell us.” Walter looked at Karen Whittig to see her reaction. There was none. “If there was a Middle Eastern or terrorist connection, the last thing that the terrorists would want is their connection to Joe exposed or for us to get involved. They would have no reason to have Joe contact us. No, I believe Joe, it was personal. In his email, when he asked that we leak information about the victims to the press, he mentioned drugs and money laundering, but not terrorists. I don’t think he knew about terrorists. These bankers had done something to somebody and didn’t even know what they did or to who. The who was Joe.”

Newkirk shook his head. He stood up slowly and waddled over to the bar where he poured himself a scotch. He didn’t offer anyone else a drink. He waddled back to his chair. Walter was tempted to follow Newkirk and get himself a drink. Should he? But the moment passed, Newkirk was talking.

“The terrorists would know that the FBI would be involved immediately and probably Homeland Security. Having Joe contact us and claim the hit was personal would make a lot of sense to them and would appeal to their type of mentality. A puzzles and riddles sort of thing. At the very least they get a nice distraction.”

“So what do we do now?” Reilly asked. He was looking at the bar as he spoke. He wondered if there was any bourbon. Someone like Newkirk would have expensive bourbon, but he probably wouldn’t share it.

“I would like copies of everything that you have on this person you call Joe. I will discuss this aspect of things with the Director so that he can make sure the investigation proceeds accordingly. I do not see how this Joe person can be prosecuted without a lot of problems that all of us would like to avoid. Unless of course Joe isn’t an American, in which case we can send him down to Guantanamo where he can rot in silence.” Karen Whittig smiled as she mentioned Gitmo and noticed all three of the men flinched. She also knew that all of the men knew when she said “the Director” she was referring to the Director of the FBI. Damn couple of spooks and a Whitehouse wimp. As an afterthought she said: “When you talk about Joe you keep saying “he”, do you know for sure we are dealing with a he or could it be a she?”

Newkirk was startled and looked at Walter who stared at Karen Whittig. Reilly stood up and walked over to the bar. There were four crystal decanters with silver labels hanging by silver chains around their necks; scotch, bourbon, vodka, and gin. He picked up a cut crystal glass and hefted it up and down. Nice masculine weight. He poured himself an almost full glass of bourbon and took a drink. There was an ice bucket, but he didn’t want any ice. He sat back down. Newkirk had turned to watch him, glaring, but didn’t say anything. One of the perks of being from the Whitehouse was being able to do mostly what you wanted.

“Would you like to get a drink too Walter, before you answer my question? Karen Whittig asked in a mocking voice. Walter did want to get a drink, but not here and not with these people. Maybe later when he was alone.

“I don’t know what Joe’s gender is, all I can do is guess, and I would guess male, based on emails that I have received, things that were said, syntax, that type of thing. Also, there have been contracts in certain parts of the world where a woman couldn’t operate, not like that. Yes, I believe Joe is male.”

“Don’t be too sure about how a woman could or couldn’t operate in certain parts of the world.” Karen Whitig sneered. “Women can do a lot of things that men don’t believe they can do. Women do have certain advantages. In the meantime I will accept your opinion that Joe is male. Mr. Newkirk, what about the copies I have asked for?”

Keith Newkirk met Karen Whittig’s piercing gaze and smiled into it. She was important only to herself, not to him.

“I’ll have everything delivered to your office before the end of the day.”

“Thank you” she said.

No one said a word, but it was as if an end to the meeting had been announced and they all stood up and left, all except Walter. He had stood up, but Newkirk motioned for him to wait a minute.

“Would you like a drink Walter?”

“Yes, please, scotch.” Walter was surprised. He wondered what was coming.

“Well, help yourself.” Newkirk said a little gruffly and got up slowly and even more slowly walked across the room and sat behind his desk. Walter poured his drink and went to sit in one of the chairs that were facing the desk.

“Walter, I think it is time we stop using Joe. No more contracts, nothing. agreed?”

“Yes, of course.” Walter said, and he was relieved. The whole assassination thing had become a great worry for him. He had been an analyst when he had brought the first contact from Joe, the offer to eliminate the industrialist, to the previous Director, George Anderson. After that he had spent more and more time with the Director and they had even become friends. Eventually he had been promoted to Deputy Director of Counter-Intelligence and Covert Operations. It was an exciting job and allowed him to see much of the world, but it also took him away from his family too much. When George Anderson died from a heart attack and Newkirk had been appointed to replace him, things changed. Newkirk wasn’t close to anyone and was very careful in whom he promoted. Anyone with connections or who might be a threat to the new Director was kept in their place and at arms length. Everything the new Director did had political over-tones, including the assassinations. Well, that’s fine, Walter thought, he was very careful of what he told the Director anyway. And after all that has happened, Walter thought, it is time to retire soon anyway.

“My first thought was to try to cover up all of the negative information about the bankers and make them martyrs in the war against terrorism,” Newkirk said, “but I think now, given the FBI’s involvement and their desire to control the investigation, that perhaps we might want to leak out a good bit about the banker’s past crimes. Maybe highlight the FBI’s failures in the war on drugs. I have no doubt that Ms. Whittig and Mr. Reilly will both be running over to the Whitehouse with tales of CIA hit-men that can’t be controlled. We’ll need to have a counter-offensive which probably should include protecting Joe. What do you think Walter?”
Walter was tired. He finished his drink, looked at the empty glass and then stood up and carried it over and put it on the tray on the table with the other glasses and cups so it could be washed. He walked back and sat down. The excitement was long gone, along with any illusions about patriotism. It was all mostly just politics now.

“I can leak a good bit about the money laundry and the dirty bankers to the press. I can make it look like the bankers played the FBI for fools to save their asses. There probably is some truth to that anyway. I can make the bankers dirty enough that the FBI will back away.” Walter rubbed his eyes. He was getting a headache. “You’re right, we will need to protect Joe. He, and I’m sure he is a man, has been a major asset for us. If the Whitehouse makes inquiries about “out of control CIA hit-men” I can mention a couple of contracts that were made at the Whitehouse’s request. The White House were discreet in their requests, but not that discreet. Also, I can take the heat on this one. You can stay clean. If it comes back to you just blame me and your predecessor. You might want to take the role of a white knight for the Whitehouse. If necessary I’ll resign. A scapegoat should make everyone happy. In the meantime I will put the word out to Joe that he is retired. No more jobs from us or anyone else. I will let him know that if he takes another job, from anyone, he will become a target instead of an asset. That should be enough. He’s got to be getting old and feeling it. I am sure that he knows now that a personal hit was foolish. Retiring him will be better, quieter and less dangerous than trying to find out who he is and trying to eliminate him. Now, if that is all, I’ll go and begin work on smoothing this whole mess out.”

“That’s fine Walter. I like the whole plan. I won’t forget that you’re taking the heat for me on this one.” Newkirk began to go through some folders on his desk. Walter got up and walked to the door. Newkirk thought of something and looked up. “Walter, I never got a chance to tell you how sorry I was about your daughter. My wife did send flowers, but I never got a chance to say anything to you. I am so very sorry; it had to be a terrible thing.” Newkirk seemed genuinely moved.

“Thank you sir, I appreciate that. We did get the flowers, thank you for that also.”

“What was your daughter’s name? Tanya, wasn’t it?”

“Yes sir. Thank you again. Let me get to work now on smoothing things out and retiring Joe.”

“You do that Walter.” Newkirk said and bent back to the important files on his desk.