Storm Front: A Derrick Storm Thriller

  “Specifically, I’m sitting on a bench at the northeast corner of the National Mall. I was thinking about going to the Air and Space Museum and seeing if I could seduce one of the male tour guides into giving me your country’s aerospace secrets.”

  “You probably won’t even have to sleep with the guy. Just offer him some freeze-dried ice cream and he’s yours. You’ll learn everything you ever wanted to know about Apollo 11. Just be warned: There’s no gas left in the tank, so don’t think you can use it to get ahead in the space race.”

  “Yeah, you know we won that one, right? We Communists put a man up in space while you capitalists were still messing around with sending monkeys up there.”

  “Yes, but think of how much fun the monkeys had.”

  She laughed. Storm liked the sound of it.

  “So I’ve got you set up with Senator Whitmer at eight o’clock to night,” Storm said. “His staff should be gone by then. He thinks he’s going to have an important, one-on-one, face-to-face meeting with Dianne Feinstein. But at the last second ‘Senator Feinstein’s office’ is going to call and cancel. That’s when you’ll move in.”

  “Got it.”

  “From there, just work your magic. We need to know who wanted that appropriations rider and/or who the mysterious donor behind the Alabama Future Fund is. Although, more than likely, it’s the same person.”

  “Right.”

  “Good.” Storm paused for a second, then said: “Now what are you wearing?”

  “Are we really going to play that game? Come on. I’m in public.”

  “No, no, I mean it. What are you wearing? Or, rather, maybe I should say: What is Jenny Chang wearing?”

  “Same thing I wore yesterday, unfortunately. You may recall I didn’t exactly have time to pack when I left Paris.”

  Storm flashed back to the last outfit he had seen Xi Bang in. It was lovely, but… the pants made her legs something of a well-kept secret. And the turtleneck?

  “Yeah, that’s not going to work for Jenny Chang. She needs something a little more… youthful. Something that announces innocence, a lack of sophistication, and, above all else, availability. You said you’re on the northeast corner of the mall? Near the American History Museum?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, start walking north. I know a place.”

  Xi Bang followed his instructions, which Storm didn’t mind admitting he enjoyed. It was like having his very own remote control girl spy. Talk about the most awesome toy ever.

  Storm proceeded to guide her from the Mall to a mall. It was a store that specialized in making sixteen-year-old girls look and feel like twenty-five-year-olds, even if the only people they fooled were themselves—and old men who could no longer tell the difference. Which is what made it perfect for what Storm had in mind.

  “I’m in,” Xi Bang said.

  “Okay, first step, the skirt. The skirt is key. I’m thinking pleated. And short. You think you can handle that?”

  “Am I going to have to get pom-poms with it, too?”

  “Only if they have them on sale. Remember, Uncle Sam is footing the bill for this.”

  Storm could hear the squeal of wire hangers being moved on racks.

  “Okay. Pleated skirt. Got it,” she said. “Next?”

  “Blouse now. Something simple. With buttons. It must have buttons.”

  “Of course,” she said. “Let’s see what we’ve got here…. How’s white cotton with just a hint of spandex?”

  “What kind of cut is it? Fitted? Kind of snug?”

  “Yes. And it has cap sleeves.”

  “Perfect. Do they have shoes there?”

  “As a matter of fact, they do.”

  “Do they have black patent leather shoes?”

  “You are such a dirty old man.”

  “Dirty, yes. Not sure I qualify as old yet. But I aspire to it.”

  “All right. Uhh, yes, I have visuals on a pair of black patent leather shoes. They look like Mary Janes all grown up.”

  “Brilliant. Acquire them, please,” Storm said. He heard Xi Bang ask a sales clerk for size nine.

  “While she’s looking for those, they do have tights there, yes?” Storm asked.

  “Yes. Black, white, or gray?”

  “Let’s go gray. White is a little too Sunday School.”

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Xi Bang said.

  “Aww, come on, it’s fun. It’s like having your own personal long-distance shopper.”

  “I never knew you were so metrosexual.”

  “I’m not. Trust me. But I’ve known guys who are, and I’ve learned about their tendencies in the process of making fun of them.”

  Xi Bang was talking to the sales clerk again. The shoes had arrived. Storm listened as Xi Bang confirmed that, yes, they were the right size.

  “Okay, I’ve got shoes, tights, skirt, and blouse. What’s next?”

  “You have underwear?”

  “Same stuff I was wearing yesterday.”

  Storm’s mind immediately went to the black lace bra and matching pan ties Xi Bang had been wearing. “Yes, that will do nicely, actually. Time to hit the fitting room. I want you to try all this on.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  “I like the sound of that.”

  “Don’t get used to it. I have to put you down now. Hang on.” Storm peered out the window again. They were over Toledo now. Or perhaps Cleveland. Who could tell the difference, besides Toledoans or Clevelanders?

  “All right, I’m back,” Xi Bang said.

  “How do you look?”

  “Like a naughty Catholic schoolgirl who’s about to audition for her first porno flick. That’s the look you’re going for, yes?”

  “Naturally. Now please take a picture of yourself and send it to my phone. I need to make sure it’s authentic. We can’t have you risk blowing your cover again, Agent Xi Bang.”

  “You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?”

  “A little,” he said. “Okay, a lot.”

  Storm waited for the picture to arrive. Thirty seconds later, his phone displayed an image that might have stirred certain yearnings in him. He might have felt a little ashamed about that, but he was fairly certain any other straight male beyond the age of puberty would have felt the same way.

  “Fantastic,” Storm said. “Just a few finishing touches. Put your hair in a ponytail.”

  “You’re sick, you know that?”

  “Just paying attention to detail. Have you done it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very good. Now I’m sorry, but you’ve got to go one button lower on the blouse. He has to be able to get a little glimpse of that bra of yours every now and then. But it has to look sort of like a wardrobe malfunction, like you don’t know the button is undone or that you’re giving him a little peep show.”

  “This is so over the top,” Xi Bang complained.

  “This is America. Wardrobe malfunctions happen here.”

  “All right. I feel like such a slut.”

  “Another picture, please.”

  “Fine. But before you even think about putting these on the Internet, you should remember that with just one phone call, I can arrange for you an absolutely humiliating death. And just to make sure we’re on the same page: Yes, it will involve sheep.”

  “That sounds baaaaaad,” Storm bleated.

  Xi Bang groaned. The photo of the new, even trampier, Jenny Chang appeared on Storm’s phone.

  “Got the pic. I do believe I’m looking at the real Jenny Chang. All right. Why don’t you pay for this stuff, then let’s talk about your backstory.”

  As Storm crossed the remainder of the eastern quarter of the nation, he and Xi Bang brought Jenny Chang alive, creating her history with the ease of two seasoned liars. Storm loved the banter with her, the mix of serious moments and silly ones, her sense of adventure. It was sort of like talking with Clara Strike, except Storm didn’t have the feeling that Xi Bang was hiding a mea
t cleaver behind her back the whole time. For reasons Storm couldn’t quite explain, he trusted her.

  His plane was coming in for a landing at Westchester County Airport when it came time to end their call. He had to make contact with G. Whitely Cracker V. She had a job to do as well. He just wished it weren’t so. As they said their good-byes, she stopped abruptly and said, “Hey, Storm? It’s great working with you. Thanks for your help.”

  Storm just smiled and said, “Always.”

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPPAQUA, New York

  He had been able to rent a Mustang, which meant that for all the turmoil, there was at least one thing right in Storm’s world—the throaty, American-made V8 engine at his command.

  It was shortly before eight o’clock by the time the Mustang’s GPS told him to depart the main drag, King Street, and point himself toward a WASP playground called Whippoorwill Country Club. Downshifting rather than braking, he made the turn and was just starting to enjoy the twisty, back country roads, when the GPS told him he was 250 yards from arriving. He slowed, looked left, and saw nothing. He looked right and saw a narrow driveway that disappeared into the trees up a hill. He twisted the wheel to the right.

  Partway up the driveway, he encountered a gate with a call box next to it. Storm didn’t feel like having a conversation with a piece of plastic, so he rolled down his window, popped the facing off the box, and hotwired it. “Open Sesame,” he said as the gate swung out of his way.

  He continued up the drive until he reached the circular end, which fronted a stone-faced Georgian Colonial that resided just barely on this side of ostentatious. The property that surrounded it felt like at least twelve acres. If Storm had had to put a price on the whole thing, he’d have said seven million. That was tip money to a guy of Cracker’s wealth. He must have been one of those rich guys who didn’t like to get too flashy with his dough. Or maybe his wife refused to upgrade.

  Storm parked the Mustang in front of a detached garage that looked like it had room for at least five vehicles. He gave his own car a longing glance as he left it, then walked up to the front door. He rang. Unsurprisingly, the Cracker residence had one of those doorbells you expected to be answered by a butler.

  Instead, the man of the house answered, opening the wooden inner door wide but leaving the outer, half-glass, half-screen door closed. He was still wearing his suit pants and a blue button-down shirt, but he had replaced his suit jacket with a cardigan sweater. Welcome to Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood.

  “Can I help you?” he asked through the screen, looking somewhere between bewildered and awestruck. With good reason. A big chunk of man had showed up unannounced on his doorstep in the dark of night.

  Storm had been having a debate with himself as to how much he should tell Cracker and how much he should leave out. He took a look at him, gauging the man. Maybe it was the blond hair or the cardigan, but Storm’s first impression was that he was a lightweight. Then Storm looked again and something told him Cracker was made of stern enough stuff. He could handle the truth. What’s more, he would insist on it.

  “Mr. Cracker, my name is Derrick Storm. I’m working for the CIA on a case that may involve you. Is there somewhere we can talk about a sensitive matter?”

  Cracker just stared at him some more. “But… how did you get up the driveway? There’s a gate.”

  “Did you miss the part about the CIA?”

  “No, no… Of course. I’m sorry. Come in. Come in.”

  Cracker opened the door for Storm, who entered the house. The moment he did, his eyes began scanning the foyer, the hallway, every corner and crevice. It was part of Storm’s training to notice things that were out of place, a reflex that had become nearly as automatic as breathing. In this case, all it took was one glance to notice a few things that made him suspicious that Whitely Cracker’s house was not as private as Cracker thought. Once in the living room, Storm confirmed it: His hand swept the underside of the coffee table and quickly located a microchip not much larger than a pen tip.

  Cracker was oblivious, still trying to play the role of gracious host: “Can I offer you anything to drink, Mr…. I’m sorry. I’m a little out of it. What did you say your name was?”

  “Dunkel… Elder Steve Dunkel…. It is so wonderful of you to invite me into your home so I can tell you all about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I’d like to talk about God’s plan for you. There are some simple steps you and your family can take to find powerful spiritual protection. Have you ever heard the name Joseph Smith?”

  As he spoke, Storm had pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and was scribbling furiously. Whitely Cracker was in serious trouble. Click’s model had given it an 87 percent chance that Whitely was the next target. The Storm model had just upgraded it to 100. When he was done writing, he turned the note to Cracker, so he could read: “KICK ME OUT. THEN WALK OUTSIDE W/ ME.”

  Cracker, who finally realized what was happening, played his part perfectly.

  “I’m sorry, young man, but we already attend a church,” he said. “But why don’t you leave that magazine with me so I can read it at my leisure. I wish you all the best of luck on your mission. Have a nice night, now.”

  “Thank you for your time, sir,” Storm said as he pushed through the screen door and back outside. Cracker lagged about ten feet behind. Storm kept walking until they were in the middle of the expansive front lawn, but still a distance from the trees that ringed the property.

  “I’m sorry, I really didn’t get your name.”

  “Derrick Storm.”

  “Right, right. And you’re with the CIA. I don’t suppose there’s any way I can confirm that?”

  “I could have a tactical team land in your yard and surround your house, if you like,” Storm said. “Would that do it?”

  Cracker looked hard, to see if Storm was joking. He wasn’t. “Okay, so we’re going to proceed as if you’re CIA,” Cracker said.

  “That’s probably the best course of action. Especially since your house is bugged.”

  “Is that what you pulled out from under the table?”

  “Yes. Your house is rotten with bugs. I didn’t see any cameras. But the place is all ears.”

  Storm had never known Volkov to bother with electronic surveillance this elaborate—he usually just did his reconnaissance the old-fashioned way. What’s more, the bug Storm had pulled from the coffee table was not the cheap kind he had gotten familiar with in his private investigator days. It was top-of-the-line. But perhaps the setup of the house, with all those trees and all that land around it, had required it. Or perhaps Volkov was changing, growing more sophisticated.

  Cracker was struggling to keep up. “So how did you… I mean, you just walk into my house and… What? Could you smell them or something?”

  “I saw a few things that made me concerned the moment I walked in. I’ve bugged a few houses in my time. You have to know what to look for. Whoever did it was very good, but they weren’t perfect. For example, as I walked in the house, I saw a piece of wallpaper that had been recently peeled back and then reglued. But whoever did it was a little hasty about it and the glue didn’t entirely take. I guarantee you’d find a bug tucked in there. There are probably a dozen others on the first floor alone. Under furniture. In light fixtures. All over. They’re all small, which means they’re not very powerful, which means you have to use a lot of them. They’re likely transmitting to a unit that’s hidden somewhere in your house. If we went up into your attic, we’d probably find it buried in some insulation. That’s where I’d put it anyway. Depending on what they’re using, the transmitter could be as small as a fist and yet powerful enough to send the signal anywhere within a mile of here.”

  “But how is that… Who would bug my house?”

  “Quite possibly the same person who’s trying to kill you,” Storm said.

  “What?!?” Cracker exploded.

  “Mr. Cracker, are there children inside the house?”

&
nbsp; “Yes, they’re upstairs. Their mother… my wife, Melissa… she’s putting them to bed, but…”

  “Forgive the bluntness of this question, but I don’t have time to be polite: Your wife, can she handle herself? Or is she a trophy?”

  “Oh, she’s whip smart,” Cracker said. “Much smarter than me.”

  “Then you should bring her outside and tell her to get ready to leave. And, naturally, she should take the kids with her,” Storm said.

  “Yes, of course, but… I’m sorry, could you go back to the part about someone wanting to kill me? I’m still sort of stuck on that.”

  “Let me put this as plainly as I know how: We have a strong reason to believe your life is in grave danger. A Russian assassin named Gregor Volkov is on his way to your house right now to kill you. But before he kills you, he will torture you for your MonEx Four Thousand password, which he is providing to someone who wants to trigger a worldwide financial catastrophe.”

  Storm expected to see some demonstrable reaction to this news, but Cracker’s face betrayed no emotion.

  “I see,” he said. “And you expect me to believe this… why?”

  “Think hard, Mr. Cracker. Have you noticed anything unusual in the last few days? Someone following you, perhaps? I’ve tangled with Volkov before. He’s the best of the best and leaves nothing to chance. He doesn’t normally use bugs, but they’re evidence of his presence. His normal procedure is to have advance teams in place to perform surveillance anywhere from a day to a week ahead of when he strikes. Maybe you noticed a car behind you on your way to work?”

  “No, no, nothing like that. You said the man’s name was VolKoff?” Cracker said, over-pronouncing the name. “And he’s Russian?”

  “That’s correct. Don’t bother trying to place him. You don’t know him. Volkov is working for someone else. We just haven’t figured out who yet.”

  “Ah,” Cracker said. That was it. Just “Ah.”

  Storm surmised the man must be in shock. A perfect stranger had waltzed into his life and told him he was about to be murdered. He just wasn’t processing it yet.

  “This is serious, Mr. Cracker. Volkov is a brutal killer. There are five investment bankers dead already. We have reason to believe you’re going to be the sixth.”