Sleeper's Run

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The spare key I had taped to the bottom of a fire extinguisher in my hallway is still there; I hate locking myself out. No words can describe the feeling I get when I walk into my apartment. I never thought I would see it again.

I know the only way I'm going to stay ahead of Scarface and friends is to keep on moving, especially now that I'm in unfriendly territory. I have to keep a low profile and make sure not to repeat the same tricks to avoid creating a pattern my pursuers can track.

My first order of business is to secure my place. I open my studio's closet and take my rock climbing rope and harness. I tie the rope to the balcony and place it on the ground with the harness attached to it. If my exit is compromised, this will give me a quick alternative escape route from my apartment. No more pillow cases. I find an old wireless computer camera and place it inside the air vent by the hallway. The image is a little dark, but it'll do. Then, I take the glass pane from my diploma, hide it underneath the welcome mat and place a quarter under each corner. I don my wetsuit, fasten my regulator to my air tank, which is already attached to my weighted buoyancy control device, and haul it downstairs along with my fins and mask. With nobody around, I jump in the bay and leave the gear ready at the bottom, making sure my fins point in the direction of downtown, a short distance across the bay. Back in my apartment, my last security measure is pushing my dresser against the main door. That should buy me some time in case the lock is breached. I take my Sig Sauer P220 and an extra magazine from my nightstand. There's five hundred dollars in my safe, which will come in handy. The rest of my survival kit includes a multi-tool and a small flashlight. My laptop and smartphone are clear of bugs, so I secure them just like I did back in Caracas.

An old email gives me Tony's computer IP address. The machine is running, but it has more protection than I thought it would. Most people have mediocre security, if any, at home, but then again, most people don't work for the CIA. Regardless, I find an unpatched hole in his security program and I'm in.

An hour later, I find no incriminating files or emails. Tony probably erased everything knowing he would be investigated after the assassination. But not everything is lost; using a different credit card from Corso in Caracas, I get an online service to track his phone. I also open an online backup service and an email account so I can save all my findings on the web. Even if I have to flee at any given second, I'll always have access to the information. It's time to work on an escape plan.

Tony's contact list gives me an idea. I write an email on his behalf: "I have a good friend who needs your help immediately. His name is John Miller; he'll be dropping by tonight. Sorry that I can't call you, but as you know, things are a little busy right now. I appreciate your help in this matter and I'll consider it a great personal favor. I'll talk to you as soon as things slow down."

I change into casual clothes and remove my contact lenses. Since my look will have to change again, I think ahead and use some hair gel to spike my hair up and darken it. I also shave the mustache off and trim my sideburns. Not bad, I think as I look in the mirror. I definitely look younger now. I take a passport picture using my laptop camera and print a couple of copies. Down at the garage, I switch my car license plates with those of the car next to it and head to the Red Square Club.

It's as busy as ever. I approach one of the bouncers at the door. Good, I've never seen this guy before.

"You have to get in line, Sir."

"I'm looking for Ilich," I say.

"Everybody is looking for Ilich. Go to the back of the line."

"I'm a friend of Tony Montenegro," I say. "He said he contacted Ilich and that he's expecting me. It's very important."

"What's your name?"

"John Miller."

The bouncer talks into his mic and a few minutes later, a man in a suit shows up. This guy doesn't look like a bouncer.

"You Tony's friend?" he says with a thick Russian accent.

"Yes."

"Come with me," he says and lets me in.

We squeeze our way to the back of the club, where another guy is guarding the door. My escort gives him a nod and we walk inside an office where Ilich is sitting behind his desk. He's got another guard standing at the other side of the room.

"Please, sit down," Ilich says. "How do you know Tony?"

"We used to train together at the same martial arts studio," I say.

Ilich lets out a dry laugh. "He loves that mixed martial arts shit. Me, I like good old-fashioned boxing; Ali, Foreman, Tyson. Now any tattooed thug with a shaved head thinks he's an artist in the ring. There's no class anymore. Anyway, I just read Tony's email."

"He sends his apologies for not coming," I say. "But he thought it would be better for him to stay out of this."

"True; Tony has problems of his own. "So what can I do for you?"

"I need a passport."

"This is a club, not the post office."

This is going to be harder than I thought. "I need a passport from the European Union, a good one, and I need it fast."

"Are you a cop?" Ilich says. I can feel his men closing in behind me.

"No."

"Then you won't mind this," he says as his men grab my arms.

One of them puts a gun to my head, while the other frisks me. When he gets to my chest, he rips my shirt open. The bodyguard even checks out the passport pictures I carry in the pocket of my shirt.

"He's clean," he says.

It's a good thing I left my gun in the car.

"He only has this." The bodyguard places my multi-tool on the desk.

The goon also takes my wallet from my back pocket. "There's no ID; just some cash," he says, searching my wallet.

"What kind of trouble are you in?" asks Ilich, browsing through my things.

"The kind you need to leave the country for," I say.

"I'm a businessman, Mr. Miller. I don't like anything messing with my business."

"I owe some guy some money."

"Then pay him. You need a check book, not a passport."

"The problem is, I beat him up pretty good," I say. "Now he wants to bury me."

Ilich takes a good long look at me. "Let him go," he says. The henchmen back off, but remain close. "I don't know what people have told you about me, but like I said, I'm just a businessman. Now, because you're Tony's friend, I'll forgive this misunderstanding... once. Show Mr. Miller out."

The bodyguards pick me up and escort me out of the club through a side door. I'm ready for the worst. The men push me out to an alley, throw my things on the ground and slam the door shut.

That went well. I kneel down gathering my things. Something is missing. I check my shirt pocket and realize my pictures are gone. Instead, there's a hand-written note that says: "Come back in three days with $5,000."