Chapter 17

A techno jazz beat swirled softly in the background as Griffen absently watched the two girls pleasure each other. He idly fondled a breast as the brunette slowly drew him in and out of her pouting mouth, moaning as her young friend set her tingling with her tongue while probing deeper with the humming vibrator. Tanya and Sophie, both from Guadeloupe, with charming French accents, and here in the big city with a burning ambition to break into theater. Tanya was a singer, and he forgot exactly what Sophie’s claim to fame was, other than a shaved mons. It didn’t really matter. They had a double-trouble thing they marketed to gentlemen of discriminating tastes, and Griffen was currently enjoying the proficiency of their performance.

Neither could be more than eighteen years old. All the better. Tanya, the brunette, shifted and shuddered, her pace becoming more urgent as Sophie expertly brought her nearer and nearer to climax.

His cell rang. The distinct ring he’d programmed for Sergei. Great timing, Sergei. He disengaged from the delicious tangle of appendages and reached over to grab the phone.

“Your problems are over. Have a nice night.” Sergei’s voice rang flat and unemotional. He hung up.

Griffen considered the words. He smiled, and tossed the phone onto the floor.

Sighing, he ran his eyes over the two hard-bodied island girls in his bed, the empty champagne bottles, the mirror with the dusting of powder.

“Now, where were we…?”

Steven slowed to a steady jog after the first half hour of running, realizing he was somewhere in the hills of Mission Viejo – a staid suburbia, where lawns were trimmed with regularity by hard working gardeners as soccer moms delivered their charges to private schools in tinted-windowed Range Rovers. The evening breezed cool, for summer, with the traffic thinning out as the dinner rush wound down.

He approached one of the never-ending strip malls and rested on the bench in front of a fruit smoothie place that was still doing reasonable business. He bought a faux pina colada concoction, found a seat outside, and watched the high school girls come and go for their evening libations, chatting about boys, music and the other mundane stuff of youth.

The calories and the run had helped clear his head, although he was still at a loss as to what to do next. He had no place to sleep, no plans, no computer, and couldn’t show his driver’s license anywhere – which would be a requirement at any hotel. And the credit cards were obviously unusable. The government had unknown powers of surveillance, and he wasn’t going to put them to the test. He’d overestimated his ability to remain anonymous once already, and he’d learned his lesson; a lesson that had presumably cost Todd his life, Lone Star their livelihood, Avalon his head, and him at least a hundred and fifty grand, his relationship, and potentially his life.

He retrieved his cell from the bag, and dialed Stan using the calling card.

“Stan, it’s me. Don’t say anything. Today got much worse since we talked. I got back to the boat, and it had exploded and killed my boat-cleaning guy. It wasn’t an accident. And the place hosting the website burned to the ground this morning; supposedly an electrical fire, but I’ll bet it’s arson. People are dying, Stan.” Steven paused, waited for a response.

“Are you on a secure line? In a safe place?” Stan always approached things methodically.

“On a disposable cell, via a calling card.”

“Hang up and call me from a pay phone.”

“Done.”

He walked over to a public telephone on the far side of the strip mall, called his card’s 800 number, then dialed Stan.

“Stan, I’m on a pay phone.”

“What’s going on? Homeland doesn’t blow up boats and commit murder.” As always, Stan had hit the ground running, already piecing together the incongruities.

“I thought about that. I don’t know what to expect or believe anymore,” Steven said. “But I do know a friend is dead because someone thought he was me.”

“Presumably. We don’t know that for sure. But let’s assume you’re right. What are you thinking?”

“I need somewhere I can be anonymous now that I’m dead,” Steven said. “Someplace low profile to use as a base, where I’m not endangering anyone if I’m found. Any suggestions?”

“I’d offer to have you stay here, but that seems imprudent to say the least. I’ll go rent a room and pay in advance for a week at the Best Western down the street. I’ll leave the key somewhere you can find it. Call me when you get into town.”

Regardless of the apparent danger, Stan sounded like he was game to help. Steven had hardly doubted it, but it was still good to hear. The stakes had gone up since morning, and he hadn’t been completely certain he could count on Stan’s continued good humor.

Steven had another, bigger request, and he needed to make it sooner rather than later.

“Stan, I also need a foreign passport, preferably in a different name.”

The line went quiet; he could almost hear Stan thinking.

“Well,” Stan finally said, “there’s no law against an American citizen having dual citizenship, so no problem there. The issue is one of time, expense, and logistics. Let me nose around and see what’s available. A formal name change could take a while; that might be a problem…and I don’t think you want to wait the eight to twelve weeks a front door program from Dominica or such would take – nor the scrutiny through Interpol. I’ll put out some feelers and have more info tomorrow.” He paused. “Anything else?”

“No…but, Stan…thanks for going to bat for me.”

“Call me when you get here.”

“I don’t have a car,” Steven explained. “It’s in the lot with the boat. I figured it was best to leave it there – another dead-end.”

“Take a cab to the Denny’s off the freeway in San Juan Capistrano, then switch to a different taxi company and catch it at one of the bars a few blocks away in town – then take it to the Sandbar cafe in Carlsbad. It's just at the bottom of the hill from the motel. Are you good on cash?” Stan asked.

“For now. I’ll be there in a few hours.”

Steven hung up. He was lucky to have Stan. As an asset protection attorney, Stan was well versed in second citizenship programs, offshore banking, and a myriad of other specialized topics. There weren’t many people he could ask to procure a new passport or citizenship on a rush basis and expect results.

He called a cab company, to be told there’d be a car there in fifteen minutes. He was on his way. Strange how he’d gone from inhabiting a comfortable house, owning a boat, a car, possessions of all shapes and sizes, to a man with a duffel bag and a cell phone. He felt uneasy, but unusually free. Maybe the whole ‘passport, credit card and travel bag’ lifestyle had merit. If the world’s most powerful government and parties unknown weren't trying to find and kill him it would almost be an enlightening adventure.

He crossed the street and waited for his cab.

It took the best part of an hour to reach San Juan Capistrano, where he dutifully called another cab company and waited for the taxi’s arrival in front of a biker bar a block from the restaurant. Ten minutes later it pulled to the curb. Steven got into the car and gave the address of the cafe in Carlsbad. Tonight really was the driver’s lucky night; it must be an easy forty-dollar fare.

They drove south in mutual silence. When they reached the cafe, Steven paid the driver in cash. Once on the sidewalk, he dialed Stan’s number.

“Stan. I’m here.”

“The key’s in a red planter a couple of feet away from your room. Number 202. It’s not the Ritz, but it’s large enough so you won’t be noticed if you keep a low profile. I threw a six pack of soda and some granola bars in the room in case you want a snack.”

Steven smiled to himself; Stan loved granola bars, and assumed everyone else did as well. “Thanks again, Stan. I’ll call tomorrow.”

Steven kept alert as he sauntered up to the motel and located the colorful planter and key. Once inside, he flopped on the bed and thought for several minutes about the day’s events and the items needing attention tomorrow. His body was still pulsing with nervous energy from his flight from the boat, so he decided to put it to use by compiling a to-do list. He fumbled in the bedside end-table until he found a pen and a few sheets of hotel stationary, which he carried over to the small teak desk. As he sat staring blankly at the sheets of paper, wondering where to even start, the reality of his predicament threatened to overwhelm him with a sense of helpless despair. Yeah, it's a bitch, Steven, but you don't have the luxury of falling apart, do you, so better get busy, his inner voice commanded. It was true. The time for regret or recriminations was past. He'd have to be proactive, and throwing a pity party wasn't on the agenda. His brain focused on the task at hand, and he began making notes.

He needed to get a laptop and a car, convert watches into cash, let Peter know what had happened, get into contact with the Group and give them a heads up, and figure out how to get the site back up and a server set in place without alerting his adversaries that he was alive. And buy some clothes.

That made for a full agenda.

Steven checked his watch; one in the morning. Too late to call Peter, or do any of the rest of it. Still restless, he counted his cash. Sixty-five hundred dollars. Figure a grand, worst case, for the laptop by the time he was done, and two grand or thereabouts for a beater car. Five hundred for miscellaneous BS. That left him a few grand. Pretty thin.

He needed to sell at least one of the watches in the next few days. The Patek 3970 was probably worth a hundred thousand, which meant he could probably get eighty thousand from a dealer, but that was a hard piece to move quickly. The 3940 was worth half that, and the platinum Rolex would bring twenty on a fire sale. That gave him a lot of firepower in terms of value. He decided to sell the 3940, as that way he could carry maximum cash value on his wrist with the 3970, and have an easy-to-sell piece with the Rolex if he ran into another bind; portability would be critical if he was going to stay mobile.

He didn’t know how long it would take to get the ATM card, but he wanted to have options, and cash bought options. Steven was okay wearing the 3970, as it looked like an ‘old man watch’ according to Jennifer, and didn’t shout big money to the average person. It was just a yellow metal watch on a strap, low profile, discreet. He didn’t need attention at the moment.

Any. At all.

Feeling slightly better about his future, he collapsed onto the mattress and was out cold within three minutes.

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