Читать книгу Naked Ambition - Dan Roberts - Страница 11

NICK AWOKE WITH A START. That was followed by a shudder that could be felt throughout his whole body. Looking upward toward the ceiling, Nick blinked his eyes several times as he checked in with himself. Something had just happened. That ‘something’ was terrifying enough to cause his body to shiver and to make his heart pound. With eyes now wide open, he looked around, seeing only the grayish darkness of a room. Knowing that this was not his bedroom, he wondered if he was still in the uncertainty of that ‘something’—at least, some remnant of it.

A few moments passed with Nick not moving. Still feeling a hint of the surreal, he sat up and looked around once again. Although still night, and although the room was dark, there was enough light coming in the window from a nearby street lamp that he could see the faint outlines of several pieces of furniture. At first, he was puzzled as well as disoriented. Then he remembered where he was—safe but too warm in the guest room of the Baker home. Now, with his mind clearer, his eyes darted toward the glowing numbers of the digital clock on the nearby nightstand. It was 3:19 am.

Nick felt the bed sheet beneath him. It was damp. So was his skin. More specifically, it was moist and clammy. It felt as if he had just gotten out of a steam bath. That, he thought, was due to the heat of this summer night. It was way too hot not to have air conditioning. Unfortunately, there was no A/C at the Baker home that night due to the central unit having broken down earlier in the day. That’s why, just before turning out the lights, Nick had switched on the fan that Mr. Baker had brought him. The fan, positioned in front of the open bedroom window, was somewhat of a joke since all it did was blow more hot air into a room that was already horribly stuffy and close. Usually by this time in the morning, Nick, who preferred sleeping naked, would have had, at least, a sheet on top of him, covering him for a bit of warmth. But not this morning, not with the room being so oppressively hot. So, that was how he awoke—naked, hot and perspiring.

In this mostly awake state, Nick recalled the last evening. He remembered being very tired—actually, exhausted—from a day of doing the work of a landscape laborer and an evening of teaching at the volleyball camp. He had been both physically drained and emotionally fatigued when he got into bed around 11:00 pm. His body wanted so much to shut down and rest. But, even though Nick closed his eyes, sleep evaded him. The problem was that he couldn’t turn off his mind.

A host of thoughts popped up, each one bringing a myriad of questions that needed answers. There were thoughts about the new school year that would be starting in a few weeks: the expense of it and how would he pay for it. And, of course, he wondered if he could make the grades needed to stay there. Then there were the thoughts about the Sylvan Acres’ “Summer Shakedown,” a local volleyball competition coming up in a little over a week. Who was coming? Who would he team up with? Would his team take the championship again? Then there was Black Oak’s ‘Super Volley Bowl’ which would be coming up soon. SVB was the mother of all volleyball competitions, one that he had been gearing up for all year. Logistics, travel plans, food supplies—the list went on as he mulled it all over in his head. However, most of his sleepless time had been focused on Coach Clarkson: finding out the truth about him and why he was so friendly with Jack. The latter was his main focus and concern, one that kept his mind occupied for what seemed like hours. Finally, sometime past midnight—and after a lot of tossing and turning—Nick’s mind gave itself over to sleep. That’s when the ‘something’ happened.

Now, as Nick lay in the dark, his bank of memories began to open. He knew what that ‘something’ was. More than a dream, it was a nightmare; one that he had experienced several times before. But not recently, thank god. In fact, it had been almost a year since this nightmare had last interrupted his sleep.

The scenario was almost always the same. Nick is lying on his back as if he is floating on a cloud. A hand, attached to a vague, ghost-like figure, slowly approaches him with fingers flared. The hand hovers over him, emitting a warm glow that is inviting. Then, at the most intense part, the hand finally touches him. The touch is both pleasing and disturbing. It is a touch that eventually causes Nick to gasp with delight. That’s when he would awaken, feeling defiled and dirty. And confused. And that’s how he felt now.

With his eyes wide open, Nick knew that sleep was not in the near future. So, using the light coming in from the street lamp, he got up, put on his boxer shorts and, trying hard not to make any noise, walked to the Baker’s kitchen. Once there, Nick turned on the light over the breakfast bar and made his way to the refrigerator. Within minutes, he had poured himself a glass of milk and was eating some chocolate chip cookies pulled from a nearby jar.

“Hungry, huh?” That was the voice that came from across the darkened room, from a sleepy Zach Baker.

Nick jumped at the sound. “Damn, boy” he said, “you frickin’ scared me!” Then, with a grin, he held up a cookie and said, “Want one?”

“Just some O.J.,” said Nick’s tousled-haired friend as he opened the refrigerator door.

Once the juice was poured, Zach walked to the breakfast bar and sat across from Nick who was now on his third cookie. After a long yawn, Zach said, “So, you couldn’t sleep either?”

“Naw. Too much to think about.”

“Clarkson?” asked Zach.

“Yeah. Can’t get him out of my mind.”

“Dude, if this thing is too much for you…”

“It’s cool. No problem. Just thinking, that’s all.”

“Thinking about what?”

“Thinking how fucked up these guys are who do this kind of stuff. You know, screwing around with kids.”

“Yeah,” said Zach, “shit like that can really mess a boy up.”

Nick immediately looked off into the darkness of the room. Then, softly, he said, “Yeah. Believe me, I know.”

Zach picked up on Nick’s last sentence. “What do you mean by that?”

Nick dropped his head for a moment and then, looking back up at his best friend, said, “I’ve never told anyone this but…but I know what it is to be messed with.”

Zach’s face reflected shock, as did his one word response. “Damn!”

A momentary silence followed Nick’s revelation. For a few seconds there was no eye contact between the two young men. That changed when Nick began to speak.

“I was twelve years old. It was in the summer. Mom was going to an artist workshop for the weekend, and my brother was on a camping trip, so I was supposed to stay with my grandmother. But she got sick. So my mom asked a neighbor if I could stay with them for a couple of days.”

Over the next several minutes, Nick shared with Zach the story of a night that will stay in his memory for the rest of his life. He told of being excited about going to spend time with the DeBlasio family, especially their sixteen-year-old son, Tony, who Nick looked up to.

“He was a cool dude. And a really good athlete. Played several sports, including volleyball. He was on my brother’s high school team. And he really took an interest in me. Treated me like a little brother.” As he remembered that part, Nick said, “In fact, he treated me better than my own brother did.”

Nick then spoke of how Tony’s parents were out late at a party one night. That left Nick and Tony alone at the house. Unknown to Nick, Tony had asked a friend of his to stop by.

“Tony had put on a movie for me and said he and this guy were going outside to talk. After awhile I smelled something strange.”

There was a bit of a smile on Nick’s face when he said, “I remember going outside and seeing Tony and his friend smoking pot. By that time they were giggling and laughing a lot. Both were really fucked up. When they tried to send me back inside, but I told Tony I would tell his parents unless he let me take a few puffs. It was my first time. Damn, that was powerful stuff!”

Nick went on to tell Zach of how he got so buzzed that he ended up lying on the lawn in the backyard. “I remember looking up at the sky and seeing the stars swirling around. And around. And around.” He chuckled at this point as he said, “I started getting like woozy. I thought I was going to get sick.”

Nick, looking at Zach, saw that his friend was following the story with interest. “At that point, I closed my eyes and just laid back. It was a hot night so I just had some shorts on. Nothing else. I was feeling so nice, like, warm and mellowed out. You know? Just floatin’ along. And I remember this feeling. It was like I was feeling something wonderful, yet weird, happening to my body. It was like somebody was touching me and then… then it become more like, well, sorta like someone fooling around with me. You know, real personal like.”

“You mean like foolin’ around with your…”

As if lashing out at Zach, Nick broke into his sentence, almost yelling, “Yeah, some fucker was fooling around with my penis!”

Nick, seeing that Zach looked a little scared by the sudden outburst, calmed down and said, “Sorry. I just get a little upset when I think about it.”

Zach nodded as he said, “Yeah, I noticed.” Then he followed with, “Was it Tony?”

“No. It was the other dude.”

“So what happened?”

“Well, the next thing I heard was Tony’s voice somewhere in the distance say something like, ‘Dude, what the fuck are you doing to him?’ That’s when everything changed. The mood went from mellow to one that got real intense. I mean, real intense. I heard Tony screaming, ‘Get the fuck away from him!’ The other dude was saying, ‘I’m not hurting him!’”

“So, Tony came to your rescue?”

“Yeah, he did.”

“What did he do?”

“Not real sure but I remember hearing a pop. Like someone got hit. And then another pop like the one before. It was like the two dudes were fighting it out.”

Nick stopped the telling of his story and didn’t say anything for awhile. Zach, literally on the edge of his seat, said, “What happened after that?”

Nick had a blank look on his face. “I don’t know. I mean I really don’t remember anything after that.”

“Did you talk with Tony about it later?”

“Yeah, I did. But he said nothing happened. He said it was just in my mind. Tried to tell me that it was all a dream. He said shit like that happens when you smoke pot.”

“But you don’t think it was a dream?”

“No,” said Nick emphatically. “I damn well know it wasn’t a dream.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, first of all, I saw that Tony had a swollen jaw the next morning. He told his mom that he had fallen down the stairs. But I knew that wasn’t true. And then, after I went home the next day, Tony treated me, like, different. In fact, I didn’t see him much after that. It was like he disappeared off the face of the planet. I think he knew exactly what had happened. And I think he was scared to talk to me about it.”

With a real sense of sympathy, Zach said, “Damn, dude. Sorry to hear about that.”

“It’s all cool now. I don’t really think about it much. Just when I get this damn dream like I did tonight.”

It was then that a third voice was heard in the kitchen. It was Mr. Baker. “Hey, guys. I don’t mind you being here. But can you keep the noise level down. I really need my sleep.”

“Oh, man,” said Nick. “It was me, Mr. Baker. I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, sorry, Dad.” Taking a last swig of his orange juice, Zach said, “We’re done here anyway.” He then looked at Nick and added, “Aren’t we?”

Nick nodded in agreement. “Yup, we’re done.”

In less than a minute the kitchen was dark again as all three denizens of the Baker house headed back to bed.

IT WAS A BUSY DAY at the Naval Criminal Investigative Service field office in Anacostia. At least it was for NCIS Special Agent Joe Larson who had spent most of the morning at his desk doing what he least liked—writing a report. It took every ounce of discipline, and a reprimand from his boss, to get him to sit down and type up the summary of his last case, one that he was supposed to have turned in several weeks ago. The lateness of that report was what had sparked a phone call from Doug Gosner, the department head and Larson’s supervisor, a call that lasted less than a minute and ended up with Gosner saying, “I want that damned report on my desk ASAP!” With the order barked out as only Gosner could do it, the phone went dead. So it was with a tremendous sense of relief that Larson pushed the print button on the computer, sending his several hours of work to the printer. He was just about to get up from his desk to retrieve the ten-page report when his desk phone rang. He answered in his usual professional manner.

“Special Agent Larson.”

“Hi, Joe,” said the caller with familiarity. “Got a minute?”

In a more friendly tone, Larson said, “Is this a business call or social?”

“Totally business,” said the voice on the other end of the line.

“And what business does the FBI have that includes me?”

The caller’s voice lowered in volume. “Joe, I really don’t want to talk about it over the phone.”

“Oh, one of those cloak-and-dagger cases, huh?”

“Actually, it is.” At this point Larson recognized that Tom Davis, an FBI agent who was also a very close friend, was dead serious. Davis continued with his request. “Joe, I need to talk to you about it… ASAP.”

Damn, thought Larson, seems like everything around here is ASAP today. “When were you thinking of?”

“You doing anything for lunch?”

“Well…,” Larson was thinking about the lovely secretary who he had been noticing in the cafeteria over the last few days. “Actually, I was planning something.”

“Is it a luncheon at the White House?”

“No.”

“It’s 11:15 now. How about meeting me at Farley’s in fifteen minutes.”

“Jesus, Tom. You know I can’t get there in fifteen minutes. It will be at least twenty. And that’s if the traffic’s good.”

“Okay. Make it twenty. See you there.”

“What I don’t do for you federal boys,” Larson said with a chuckle.

“Thanks, Joe.” With that said, Larson’s phone went dead for the second time that morning.

THE DAY WAS A GORGEOUS ONE, one of those extraordinarily beautiful days in the nation’s capitol that beckons everyone to come out of the air-conditioned concrete caves that some call an office. With the multitudes of people trying to sneak out for an early lunch, it took several times of circling the block before Larson found a space just around the corner from Farley’s Bar and Grill.

Within moments after leaving his car, the NCIS agent saw someone very familiar seated at the sidewalk café outside the restaurant. The man was checking his watch. The face, and the watch, belonged to Tom Davis. All six foot, four inches of him was trying desperately to sit inconspicuously at one of the small umbrella tables. Upon seeing this sight, Larson thought once more that it was a good thing that Davis hadn’t joined the CIA as he had originally planned. He smiled at the thought of any secret missions abroad that would have required Davis to blend in with the local population. It just wouldn’t have worked. That’s because Davis, tall, with sandy hair and an athletic build, would stand out in most any crowd as being a very typical American.

A natural overachiever, Davis had been successful in both academics and sports in high school and college. Davis especially loved sports. Starting his freshman year in high school he played soccer and volleyball and was named captain of the volleyball team in his senior year. At his alma mater, George Mason University, he was captain of the volleyball team and was named “most valuable player” two years in a row. Add to that the titles of high school homecoming king, editor of the school’s newspaper, captain of the college debate team, honors student, and voted ‘most likely to succeed’ by any group of people who knew him. Those were just a few of the many labels that had been associated with this most brilliant FBI agent. And then there was the more personal label that Larson knew so well from last month’s all-nighter: king of the poker table.

As Larson approached the agent, Davis looked at his watch once more and then back up at his friend. “Well, it’s about time.”

“Three minutes late. What can I say? It’s the traffic!” was Larson’s legitimate excuse.

Once Larson had seated himself, Davis leaned forward. With an anxious voice, he said, “Joe, I don’t have a lot of time. Not even for a bite to eat. And neither do you.”

Larson, who was fond of Farley’s corned beef on rye, was more than disappointed that lunch was being called off. “What the hell’s so secret that you dragged me all the way out here to tell me? Especially, under the false pretense of having lunch. And,” he added with a tinge of irritation, “why don’t I have time to eat?”

A waitress—tall, skinny and brunette—appeared at the café door and walked to the table. “Hi, guys. Welcome to Farley’s. What can I getcha?”

Davis looked up and blurted out, “An iced tea for me.” Then, looking at Larson, he added, “And one for my friend, too.”

“Two cold teas coming up!” the young lady said with enthusiasm as she turned to go. Larson’s eyes followed the young, long legs until they disappeared into the building. Then, turning back to Davis, said, “Damn, Tom. You know I don’t like iced tea.”

“Too bad,” Davis said bluntly and with no real concern. He might as well have said, shut up and listen!

For a moment Larson wondered if he was being played. Davis’ brisk retort, which may not be unusual for an FBI agent when he was on duty, was a strangely different behavior than Larson had ever experienced before. At least, coming from Davis. As much of a friend as Larson was with Davis, he now recognized that this meeting was certainly not a social one. That meant that Davis had put on his professional game face.

Larson followed up with the question. “What’s this all about, Tom?”

Leaning even closer, Davis said, “Joe, there’s something going on at the Bureau that is of the highest priority. It’s one of those ‘eyes only’ type cases.”

“Okay,” Larson said in a more appropriate, almost whispered tone. “You’ve got my attention. Now, what the hell is so special about an FBI case that you have to meet with me? Here?”

Speaking softly Davis said, “Joe, our intelligence guys have intercepted some communication from…,” Davis’ eyes swept to the left, then the right before proceeding. “It’s communication from a Russian group.”

“You mean, the Russian snoops?”

In an even lower tone of voice, Davis said, “No, it’s the Russian mafia. And it was through that phone call the Bureau became aware of a potential leak in security with a Navy contractor.”

Mentioning that it involved the Navy got Larson’s keen attention. He nodded toward Davis as he said, “I’m all ears. Go on.”

“The Bureau only got wind of this last night. And our department got the news first thing this morning.”

“How? Wire tap?”

“All I can tell you is that the Bureau has some Russian up in New York City under surveillance.”

“Okay. So, this information came to you this morning?”

“Yes. A small group of us were called into a meeting about two hours ago. After hearing the report, we talked about how to proceed.”

“Well, that’s easy,” Larson said. “If it has to do with the Navy then the Bureau has to call in NCIS.”

“Yeah, they are. In fact, I’m sure your director knows about this by now. If he doesn’t, he will by this afternoon.”

“Okay. So why are you here talking with me? I mean, this will go through official channels like every case does where there’s overlap of our agencies.”

“Yes, but...” Davis was hesitant.

“But, what?” Larson asked.

“Well, there are complications that I don’t quite know what to do about.”

To hear that last statement coming from the lips of one of the most intelligent, capable law-enforcement officers Larson had ever known was puzzling to him. “Complications?”

“Yes. And it has to do with my family.”

Larson knew that Davis’ father was the U.S. representative for his home district in Pennsylvania. “Is it your father?”

“Actually it my father’s brother-in-law. My Uncle Steve Mason.”

Larson waited rather impatiently to hear more as Davis put one hand to his forehead, rubbing it as if he had a headache. The FBI agent’s eyes were now looking down at the table.

“Look, this isn’t easy for me,” Davis said with apprehension in his voice, revealing a new, more vulnerable side that Larson had never seen. “I’m on totally new ground here. And that’s why I called you.”

Larson began letting down his guard as he saw his friend struggle with his thoughts. And then with his words.

Davis’ eyes crept upward and, looking at Larson, he said, “I’m out of my agent suit now, Joe. I’m talking to you privately. As a friend. This conversation is totally off the record. And, if you were ever to reveal this to anyone, I’ll…” Davis’ was now looking sternly into the eyes of his friend. “Joe, if you say anything to anyone about what I’m about to tell you I’ll deny that it ever happened. Do you understand?”

Larson agreed.

With a sigh, Davis continued, speaking softly as he did so. “My Uncle Steve—he’s my mother’s brother—is the founder of an engineering company that designs and oversees the manufacturing of a variety of items for the military. The name of the company is M/X Technologies, formerly known as Mason/Wilcox Engineering. It’s located near Reading, Pennsylvania. That’s where I’m from, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ve been there, remember?”

There was no acknowledgement of the several visits by Larson to Davis’ home when they were in college. Davis bypassed that as he went on with his information. “Well, the company has been working on a new guidance system that’s been ordered by the U.S. Navy for their submarine missiles. What I’ve heard from my uncle is that this system is a great improvement over the current one. They’ve just completed all the testing and now they’re waiting for final approval by the Department of the Navy. In other words, it’s ready to go to the manufacturer. According to information I have, once DON signs off, that system could be in use by the Navy sometime in the next two years.”

Davis paused, looking at Larson as if waiting for approval to continue. He got it when Larson nodded his head and said, “Okay.”

“When I was called into the meeting at the Bureau this morning I was informed that the communications intercepted involved someone from my uncle’s company and...” Again, Davis looked around before he continued. “…and a representative of the Russian mob up in New York. The information was specific enough that it made the Bureau aware of a breech of security at M/X Tech.”

“So your saying that the Russians are trying to get their hands on this new missile-guidance system?”

“Yes. At least, the plans for it. And they have made contact with someone working at M/X Tech.”

“Wow,” Larson said with true feeling as he responded to the information he had just been given. “Serious stuff.”

“Very serious.”

“Does the Bureau have names?”

“They have a name on the Russian side. But not on the M/X side.”

Larson tapped his fingers on the small café table, a sign that he was now thinking about what he had just heard. “Do you think your uncle knows anything about this?”

“I doubt that he does. I just got the information awhile ago.”

The next question was a delicate one. “No, I mean…” How should he phrase it? “I mean, do you think he is involved?”

“Not at all,” Davis said empathically with his head shaking. “Uncle Steve’s an American through and through. A real flag waver, loyal to the values and beliefs of this country. I could never see him giving or selling any plans or devices to a foreign government, especially anything that would jeopardize the military of his own country.”

“So, did you reveal this to the Bureau? I mean, that this is your uncle’s company?”

Davis once more put his hand to his temple and rubbed. “No. And that’s my dilemma. I’m going to have to do that. According to Bureau protocol I will have to tell my superiors of my connection with M/X Tech. And I have to do that as soon as I get back to the office. But…”

There was a long pause. It was long enough to bring about a tension that Larson could hardly stand. He so much wanted to say, but, what? But he didn’t. He just sat quietly and patiently waited for Davis to reveal more.

That revelation was forthcoming when Davis said, “But I…” He struggled with his words. “I guess I feel torn. I mean, here I am an agent for the FBI and wanting to be loyal to my oath to the Bureau—which I will do. On the other hand, I’m also thinking of my family. My uncle, of course. And then there’s my father.”

At that moment, the long-legged waitress interrupted the flow of conversation by bringing out two large glasses filled with iced tea. “Here you go, guys. Sorry for the wait. We’re really busy today.” After setting the glasses on the table, she asked, “So, anything else I can getcha?” Both men shook their heads, with Davis saying, “No, thanks.”

After the waitress turned away Davis went on to give Larson more information, details that deepened Larson’s understanding of the situation that Davis had labeled ‘a dilemma.’

“You see, Joe, my father sits on the House Appropriations Committee. More specifically, he’s a member of the Appropriations Committee’s subcommittee on Defense. That’s the committee that allocates money for the various branches of the military, including the Navy.”

Larson was familiar with the job of this committee, a fact that he revealed when he nodded his head and said, “Yeah, I know that it is one of the most powerful and influential committees in Congress.”

“Sure is,” Davis said with a strong voice. “That committee holds the purse strings for all military spending. All the major expenditures have to go through them. So, the members are quite important in the startup of any new military project. If they don’t vote approval for funding, the project dies.”

Nodding his head, Larson said, “But what does that have to do with this espionage case?”

“If my father hears that there has been any compromise of this missile-guidance system, he would be loath to vote for the next round of expenditures. By that I mean the money needed to manufacture the system. And probably so would the other members.”

Larson was now starting to get the picture; to understand more the personal implications that Davis was now being challenged by.

Davis sat back a little and said, “Let me back up a moment. First, my uncle is no longer an active partner of M/X Technologies. He retired from any day-to-day involvement with the company about five years ago. He does, however, still have a major financial interest. And he’s still on the board. Now, from what I know, when my uncle stepped down from his position as president, the company was doing quite well financially. In fact, over the last twenty years—that’s during the time my uncle was president—the company grew by leaps and bounds. When he left M/X was worth tens of millions of dollars. However, since that time there were some pretty big projects that they had put a lot of time and money into that didn’t pan out. So, the present project, this new missile-guidance system, is one that they are very much counting on. If their system isn’t produced, for whatever reason, that means a substantial loss in revenue.” Davis looked out at the passing cars as he said, “That could be a disaster for my uncle’s company.”

After that was said there was silence as both men looked at each other. The gravity of the situation was now beginning to weigh heavily on both agents. It was only moments later that, almost simultaneously, they picked up the glasses in front of them. Each took a long drink of the contents. It was Larson who finally broke the silence after setting his glass down. “So, Tom, why are you telling me this?”

“I guess because I don’t know who else to talk to. I felt that you would be someone I could trust and who would appreciate the scope of this thing. I think you would best understand the dilemma I’m in.”

Larson’s forehead showed some wrinkles as he thought about the situation. “I guess I am okay with you talking to me. It’s a little in the gray area, but not out-of-bounds since I am with NCIS and will hear about this at some point. Probably sooner than later.” Larson then looked at his friend and said, with all seriousness, “But you need to let me know what you’re going to do now. I have to know that.”

Davis sighed. “Well, obviously I need to let my supervisor know the situation. I mean, all that I have told you I need to tell the FBI.”

“What do you think they will do?”

“You mean with me?”

Larson nodded.

“Well, because there’s a conflict of interest, I’ll be taken off the case. And, of course, I won’t be able to talk with anyone about it. Not with my uncle. Not even with my father.” Davis then looked more firmly at Larson and said, “But you... I can talk with you since you are part of NCIS.” Larson noticed that, at this point, Davis’ fingers were fidgeting. “I’m thinking and hoping that you will be part of the investigation. You’re still on the counter-intelligence/counter-terrorism team, aren’t you?”

“That’s my job,” Larson said with a nod.

“Knowing that, I guess I just wanted you to know what’s going on. A heads up so to speak.”

At that moment a young lady’s voice could be heard. “How’s the tea, guys?”

Larson looked up at the waitress. “It’s fine, thanks.”

“Can I get ya anything else? A refill?”

“No,” said Davis. “Nothing else.”

With that the waitress put the check on the table and wished them both a good day.

After watching the waitress’s backside walk away, Larson said, “Anything else I need to know?”

“No, I think that covers it.” Davis looked at his watch. “Now, I’ve got to get back to the office.”

Larson replied with, “Yeah, me, too. Given what you’ve told me, I’m sure Gosner will have some more work lined up for me.” With that he stood up, dropped some money on the table, then put his hand out to his friend. “Tom, thanks for the information. I’m not sure how things will proceed but, if I can, I’ll keep you in the loop from the NCIS side of it.” He then emphasized that statement by repeating, “If I can.”

Davis reciprocated by standing and shaking the NCIS agent’s hand. “Thanks, Joe. Thanks for the tea. And for listening.”

The fact that Davis held the handshake longer than normal showed Larson that Davis was, in fact, very appreciative. And very worried.

LARSON WAS WALKING BACK TO HIS CAR when he heard his cell phone ring. The caller ID identified Gosner as the person calling. “What’s up?”

Gosner was direct and to the point. “Wherever you are I need you back here ASAP.”

There’s that word again, thought Larson. “Sure. Just finished lunch,” he lied. “Shouldn’t be more than 20 minutes.”

“Make sure you come directly to Keeler’s office,” Gosner commanded. Larson was going to respond but, suddenly, there was no more Gosner. Just the buzz of a dead line. Something was up at headquarters. And, thanks to his friend, Davis, Larson thought he already knew what it was.

TUESDAY EVENING CAME NONE TOO SOON FOR NICK. After a long day of mowing lawns, Nick was finally in his element: volleyball. Playing volleyball, coaching volleyball, just touching a volleyball was, like music is to the ears, an amazing experience that brought comfort and healing to Nick’s sometimes weary, sometimes distraught soul.

It was with a great sense of joy that Nick arrived at the Scott Recreation Center on this balmy summer evening. After a few words of direction from Coach Clarkson, Nick walked onto the field and called his group of young athletes together. With a volleyball held in his left hand, he surveyed the lineup of young faces before him. These adolescent males—the ones that Clarkson liked to call ‘my boys’—were in various states of concentration. Some eyes totally focused and ready for instruction while others were looking anywhere and everywhere but where they should be—on Nick and the ball. That’s when Nick used his best interpretation of a coaching voice. “Okay, guys,” he said rather loudly and a bit gruffly, “Listen up.” Immediately, all eyes zoomed in his direction.

“We worked on serving yesterday,” Nick said as he continued. “Today we’re going to try improving your skill in hitting the ball. A very important thing in volleyball is not just to be able to hit the ball but return it with control. Now, I know you all know how your arms need to be for a return hit. Right?” Not a single head nodded; not a mouth opened. “Okay,” Nick said with an edge of frustration, “then let’s go over it again.”

At this time Nick asked Jack, whom he knew to be the better player of this group, to step forward. Nick then had Jack put his two arms together in demonstration of the proper position. “Now, guys, look at how Jack’s arms are. They’re together. This is the proper form. The way you should be as the ball comes toward you. Every time.” Nick, again, was watching the eyes of the boys. He still had them involved. “The important thing is to make sure you return the ball from your platform.” To make sure they knew specifically what he was talking about, Nick pointed to Jack’s forearms. “This is the platform. This is where you have both power and control for a good return.”

Nick now had Jack walk to a position about eight feet away. “I’m going to hit this ball toward Jack and he’s going to return it to me. We’re going to do this several times to show you the proper form.” Nick looked toward Jack. He was ready. Nick then tossed the ball into the air, put his arms together as instructed and hit the ball toward Jack. In like fashion, Jack returned the ball to Nick. Back and forth the ball went, slowly, gently, very much controlled as both young men held the proper form. Finally, Nick spread out his fingers, grabbed the ball as it came toward him and said, “That’s the way it’s done, guys. Any questions?”

Nick looked over the gaggle of young faces. There was no response. “Okay,” he said to his awaiting student athletes, “Now, it’s your turn. Buddy up with someone and make two lines about eight feet apart so that each one of you is facing a partner.” The boys did as they were told. Nick then went to a netted bag filled with volleyballs and started throwing them to each boy standing in the line on the right. As he did so he said, “Once I give the word, you’re going to hit the ball back and forth, the way I just showed you, until I tell you to stop.” After the last ball was thrown out, Nick yelled, “Go to it, guys.”

Immediately, volleyballs started being hit from the right line to the left. Some balls arced high, some not so high. Some balls reached their destination while others completely missed their mark and went bouncing into the field with a partner chasing after it. Frustrated, Nick yelled out, “Keep your eyes on the ball, guys. Eyes on the ball!”

From the sidelines Coach Clarkson had been viewing the three groups of ‘his boys’ as they received instruction from Nick and two other instructors, one being Max Fisher. He was so proud of these groups and their coaches. He was especially happy with how well Nick was doing in his teaching of some basic skills. Clarkson’s thought was that he was looking at a gifted young man, one who looked and acted much more mature than his age—sixteen.

Over the next 30 minutes, Nick led his group in some basic drills that included passing the ball in a variety of situations. Then, for the next hour, the boys were divided up into teams and sent to the nets to play. By the end of that hour most of the boys were drenched in sweat and slowing to a pace that reflected a state of immense weariness. At approximately 7:50 pm, Coach Clarkson’s whistle blew. “Okay, guys. That’s it for today. See you tomorrow. Same time.” He then pointed to an ice chest located on the sidelines. “Make sure you get plenty of water before you leave. Gotta keep you guys hydrated.” After grabbing a cold water bottle from the chest, some of the boys would call out, “Later, Coach,” or “Thanks, Coach” or “See ya tomorrow, Coach.”

Even as those parting words were being said, there were slight, but growing, rumblings of thunder coming from a group of dark clouds that were building in intensity along the horizon. Given these substantial indicators of a possibly severe storm gathering strength, it did not take long for the field to empty of people. Most of the boys were picked up by a waiting parent. However, some headed in a dead run toward their bikes for a quick, and hopefully dry, ride home. The other coach, Harold Stoudt, left as soon as all of his team members were gone.

Coach Clarkson was one of the few people still left. He was talking with Max Fisher as Nick approached him. When Clarkson saw Nick he put his hand on this young assistant’s shoulder, drawing him into the circle of conversation.

Clarkson further acknowledged Nick’s presence by saying, “Max, have you met my new helper?”

“No,” was Max’s reply.

With that, Clarkson introduced Nick to Max. “Hey,” was Nick’s response. Max, a bit aloof, nodded his head and said, “Hey,” in return.

With a sense of parental pride, Clarkson patted Nick on the back and added, “Nick’s doing an excellent job. A really excellent job.”

Nick’s eyes lowered a bit as his face winced, revealing his uneasiness with the coach’s statement, especially since it was said in front of a peer.

Without any comment on Clarkson’s observation of Nick, Max looked heavenward and then toward the parking lot nearby. “Looks like a storm brewing, Coach. I’d better get going.” Max then turned and walked away.

Nick looked at the parting Max and said, “See ya tomorrow.”

Max nodded his head and said, “Later.”

Almost immediately, Nick turned toward Clarkson and said, “Hey, Coach. I’ve got a little problem.”

“What’s that?” said Clarkson with concern.

“Zach was supposed to pick me up tonight. He just texted me and said he can’t because his replacement at work is running late. So,” Nick paused and then said, “I was wondering if you could....” Nick’s voice trailed off.

“Could take you home?” said Clarkson, completing the sentence.

“Well, yeah.”

“Sure. No problem.” The relaxed look on Clarkson’s face showed that he was totally fine with it. “You’re talking about the Baker’s house, right?”

“Yeah. I’m staying with them for the rest of the week.”

“That’s what George told me. He’s asked me to take you home tomorrow night, too.”

“Yeah, I heard. I really appreciate your help.”

“Glad to do it, Nick,” was Clarkson’s reply. With a light pat from the hand that had not yet been removed from Nick’s shoulder, the senior coach smiled and said, “Looks like I’m turning into a chauffeur for my boys.” He then added, “I’m taking Jack home, too.”

Clarkson, along with Nick, looked suddenly at the sky as they both heard an extremely loud clap of thunder. It was so intense that it seemed to shake the earth beneath their feet. That clap was followed by a streak of lightening that zigzagged low in the sky. Since it was the responsibility of Nick’s team to put away the equipment, Jack and a couple of the other boys were just finishing up when Clarkson said, “Better get the lead out ‘cause the rains are coming. Don’t want to get soaked, do we?”

Once the equipment was in the storage shed— and after feeling a few heavy raindrops—Jack, Nick and the coach ran toward Clarkson’s Lexus sedan. Seemingly very familiar with the car, Jack hopped into the front passenger’s seat, leaving no doubt about where Nick was to sit—in the back. It was only seconds after the last door closed that the occupants of the car both saw and heard the rain. It came in sheets, pounding the car with bullet-like pellets, almost as if they were drops of molten lead being sprayed from a canon. So much rain fell so quickly onto the windshield that Nick said that it looked like they were in a car wash.

“Storm’s pretty bad,” Clarkson said looking at the waterfall of rain that completely obstructed his view. “We’d better just sit here for a little while and wait this thing out.” That sentence was followed by a long period of silence that soon grew to be more than a bit uncomfortable. At least, for Jack. Without looking anywhere but straight ahead, he asked, “Can we get some music?”

“Sure,” said Clarkson as he turned the key, switching on the car’s electrical system. Immediately, Jack’s finger was on the radio dial, trying to find his favorite radio station. It was not long until music with a heavy beat was soon booming loudly out of the Boise speakers that seemed to be placed all over the interior of this luxury car. The beat was quite pronounced and so forceful that it could be felt against Nick’s chest.

“It’s too loud,” Clarkson said, as he reached over and turned the volume down. At this point, his tone was more like a parent than a coach. As Nick watched from the back seat, he noticed that neither the coach nor Jack looked at each other. In fact, he didn’t remember them looking at each other at any time since entering the car.

Several minutes passed with no one talking. There was just the sound of the heavy rain and the beat of the rhythmic music. However, once the rain let up, Clarkson said, “Looks like we can go now,” as he started the engine. In less than a minute the Lexus was out of the parking lot and onto the main road, headed toward the Baker house. Even though the rain was less intense, the car’s windshield wipers were on full speed. Back and forth they flew across the glass, throwing off a significant amount of rain with each swipe of the blades.

It was Nick, wanting to break the silence, who said, “I hear that the forecast is for rain tomorrow. Hope it doesn’t ruin our scheduled class time.”

Clarkson responded with, “Me, too, ‘cause we need to get all our scheduled time in this week. If we can keep on track I think your group has a good chance of winning Saturday’s exhibition game.” Clarkson’s eyes went to the rearview mirror. He was looking directly at Nick as he said, “That’s all thanks to you, Nick.”

After once more looking back to the road before him, Clarkson said, “Nick’s doing a great job, isn’t he, Jack?”

There was no response from the young man sitting next to the coach. With a hint of irritability in his voice, Clarkson followed up, saying, “Isn’t that right, Jack?” For the first time, Clarkson looked at Jack, as if expecting—even demanding—an answer.

“Uh, yeah,” was Jack’s offhanded response. His eyes were still looking forward.

Trying his best to connect with Jack, Nick said, “And, thanks to you, too, Jack. You’re doing great out there. Are you enjoying it?”

Jack remained quiet as Clarkson drove on. Noting that nothing was being said in response, Clarkson looked once again at Jack and, with a twinge of harshness in his voice, said, “So, are you enjoying it, Jack?”

The word ‘yup’ came from Jack’s tightly held lips. It was obvious that disinterest was at the heart of that single word response. Nick noted the reply and the way it was said. For Jack, there was no thought of taking part in this conversation.

Nothing was said for the next several miles. Nick, familiar with the Baker’s neighborhood, saw that they were nearing the street where Zach lived. Finally, as the Baker house came into view, Nick prepared to get out of the car. “It’s not raining much now, Coach. You can just let me out at the curb.”

Clarkson did as instructed, pulling off to the side of the street in order to let Nick out. “See you tomorrow,” said Clarkson as Nick opened the door.

“Sure thing, Coach,” was Nick’s reply. He then added, “See ya, Jack.”

For just a brief moment before closing the door, Nick waited to see if there was any acknowledgement of his words to Jack. There was nothing. Feeling some raindrops on his shoulders, Nick slammed the door shut and ran toward the house. Once on the porch he looked out at the Lexus that was just pulling away from the curb. He saw Jack, looking toward Clarkson. They were, in fact, looking at each other. And talking. Loudly.

THE TIME WAS 8:45 PM. THE SKY was already black, the result of the dark clouds that hung low overhead. The rain that had been coming down in torrents was now starting to lessen in intensity. That was good news for the man sitting in the red Porsche convertible parked just outside the Rose of the Orient, an Asian restaurant located in an upscale mini-mall just off I-78, not far from Newark International Airport. Because of the rain, he had been sitting in his car for over ten minutes. Up until now, he just couldn’t imagine not being soaked to the bone within seconds if he had attempted to make a run for it.

However, now that the rain was somewhat lighter, he thought more seriously about making his way toward the restaurant, called The Rose by the local patrons. After grabbing his umbrella, he exited—or tried to exit—the Porsche quickly, which was, unfortunately, not quick enough. Because of his height—he was over six feet tall—extricating himself from the sports car was more than a little difficult. In fact, because of the cramped interior, he caught one knee and then the handle of the umbrella on the steering wheel, making him more exposed to the rain that was now pelting his elegant, beige silk sports coat. With visions of ruin in mind, the man spoke to himself as a sudden gust of wind blew rain into his face and onto the jacket. “Damn,” he said out loud as he finally slammed the Porsche’s door shut, “And I just bought this coat.” With the umbrella now open, the man ran the sixty-or-so feet to the canopied front of The Rose, splashing through a series of puddles as he did so.

Once inside the restaurant’s lobby, the man shook off the rain from the umbrella and placed it in a stand near the door. To the side of the stand was a mirror where he checked himself, looking to see how much damage there was to his expensive jacket. Not bad, he thought, as he straightened his tie. However, as he glanced downward, there was a sudden thought of regret—regret that he had chosen to wear this particular pair of custom-made Italian shoes. They were more than wet. They were saturated. Soaked. Ruined. As he began to wallow in self-pity over the loss of five hundred dollars worth of creamy beige leather, he saw a petite, rather pretty Asian woman walking toward him.

“Reservation?” she asked with a heavy accent.

“Well, I guess so,” he said in return. “I’m to meet a man named Chen. Do you know if he is here?”

“Come this way,” said the lady in broken English.

As he followed the hostess through the restaurant, the man found the establishment much larger than it had looked from the outside. The two made their way through several nicely decorated, well-appointed dining areas, including the regular bar and the sushi bar with all its delicate delights on display. The hostess finally stopped when she reached a small, private dining room with only a few tables. All were empty. “This your table,” said the hostess with a slight bow. “You want drink?” she asked haltingly.

He could have used a whiskey sour but said, “Just water for now, thanks!” Maybe a stiff drink later, he thought.

“Lemon?” asked the Asian lady with a pleasant smile.

“Yes, please.”

The hostess turned and walked out of the dining room, leaving the man with the soggy Italian shoes sitting alone. That, however, was for only a few moments for it was no more than a minute later that a rather large, bald-headed man—a well-muscled man—of Asian origin stepped through the portal. Of average height, he was dressed in a nondescript black suit with a white shirt and a black tie. He stopped and stood by the entry doorway, looking like a soldier guarding something or someone of importance. He was soon followed by another man, less Asian in appearance, who entered the room briskly, with an air of authority. Unlike his predecessor, the second man was rather tall and slim to the point of being wiry. The man, probably in his late 40s, was casually dressed, wearing a Hawaiian print shirt and tan slacks. As if entering a stage with determination, his pace was quick and solid as he made his way toward the table and the awaiting man.

The man in the silk jacket started to get up from his seat but was stopped from doing so by the Asian man who spoke only one word, said firmly, as if he was spitting it out: “Sit!” It was said as a command. Obeying, the now half-seated man in the silk jacket quickly resumed his previous position.

Without any pleasantry whatsoever, the casually-dressed man pulled out a chair and sat down. He then scooted the chair closer to the table as he looked directly into the eyes of the man across from him. In a not-so-calm voice, he said in perfect English, “You’re a real screw-up, you know that?”

The cold look in the Asian man’s face coupled with the anger in his voice, surprised the taller man. The words ‘screw-up’ were followed by ‘fucked-up’ and ‘asshole.’ Like a slap in the face, those words, said so directly and bluntly, brought to him the stark reality of his situation, one which produced a sense of vulnerability. For just a moment, the man in the silk jacket felt pathetically weak—physically and emotionally. It was then that he responded with humility and heartfelt sincerity. Leaning slightly forward, he said quietly, “Mr. Chen, I’m so sorry. So very, very sorry.”

Chen’s face showed no sign of softening as he said, “Not as sorry as you’re going to be if you don’t do as we had agreed.” With that, Chen began to tell the man across from him just what he had to do to correct his ‘screw up.’ In addition, Mr. Chen, in no uncertain terms, told the taller man what the repercussions would be if he didn’t do exactly as instructed.

“Do I make myself clear?” asked Chen as his dark eyes targeted the eyes of the man seated on the other side of the table.

“Yes, sir. Totally clear, sir,” was the response.

For Chen, there was no need for more words. So, without excusing himself, he pushed back his chair, stood up and walked away from the table. What happened then was the reverse of the earlier scenario: Chen quickly disappeared through the doorway, followed by the well-muscled man in the black suit. At that point the only person left in the room was the tall man dressed in a silk jacket and wet Italian shoes, wearing a solemn expression on his face.

It wasn’t long until the man with the rain-soaked shoes, seeing no need to stay, got up from his chair and walked to the entry door of The Rose. As he looked through the glass, out onto the parking lot, he noticed that the rain had mostly stopped. After retrieving his umbrella from the stand, he felt there was little need for it. Besides, he thought, what difference do a few more drops of rain make at this point?

With shoulders slightly hunched against the elements of the night, the man pushed on the door and walked briskly toward his car. Because of the dim light, he didn’t notice anything different. At least, not at first. However, once he was within a few feet of his Porsche, he stopped. And gasped. His shoulders dropped when he saw that something was indeed different. His shoulders sagged even more when, upon closer examination, he saw the dented fenders and doors, the broken side windows and mirrors and the long slit cut in the convertible top. Immediately, he looked up and around. From the left to the right he scanned the parking lot for movement. He saw no one. Looking once again at his ruined sport car, the man stood in the drizzle, alone with his thoughts which could be summed up in the one word he muttered to himself: “Fuck!”