Berg shook his head. “Not that I can think of.”
“Exactly. They’re all professors at colleges. Working for think tanks. Advising corporations. All kinds of cushy stuff. Some of them might even be sitting on their asses, retired. Imagine that,” said Jackson, holding the last piece of his dinner up with his fork. “All you have to do is follow your own advice. Keep your head down, don’t make any waves, slowly fade into the background.”
Berg feigned a smile, nodding stiffly, then taking another long pull of the velvety-smooth wine. Jackson studied him while taking the last bites of his meal. The rapidly expanding warmth of the wine did little to ease his underlying tension. His friend of many years shook his head almost imperceptibly.
Busted.
“You fucked it up, didn’t you?” said Jackson.
“I might have been passed some information I couldn’t ignore,” Berg admitted.
Jackson put his hand on the bottle of wine. “Should I tip this back right now? I hate to see it go to waste if the restaurant is about to blow up.”
Berg laughed softly. “I don’t think it’s that bad.”
Their waiter appeared, offering to pour the wine for Jackson, who graciously released his grip on the bottle and let the waiter fill his glass.
“Are you sure? You look a little — let me rephrase that—a lot out of sorts,” said Jackson. “I was just busting your chops earlier, thinking it was retirement nerves. How bad is this? Really.”
“It’s something our new overlords would prefer to remain buried. But the information could seriously help them throw some more dirt on that certain something.”
“Then this is a good thing. Maybe get you bumped up a retirement tier or two as a thank you,” said Jackson, holding up his glass for a toast.
“I’d be happy to get out of there without a bull’s-eye painted on my back,” said Berg.
“Well, it doesn’t sound like something you need to worry about.”
“Maybe not from that angle. The information itself is another story.”
“I assume it’s highly classified and completely inappropriate to share in public, especially over an expensive wine, which you’re ruining.”
“I apologize for the dour mood. Here’s to you having enough money to retire after paying for college,” said Berg, clinking his glass.
“I’ll drink to that,” said Jackson.
They declined dessert, earning a momentary look of confusion from the waiter. The prix fixe meal included dessert. They opted for a fine cognac instead, instantly redeeming themselves in the establishment’s eyes, particularly at thirty dollars a glass. After another twenty minutes or so of purposefully, and sometimes awkwardly, avoiding the topic of their jobs, Berg paid the bill without looking at it. He didn’t trust his eyes not to freeze on the total, and the last thing he wanted to do was make his friend uncomfortable. The iconic Georgetown restaurant wasn’t the most expensive in town, but it gave the Michelin-star establishments a run for their money. His money. He treated himself at least once a week to an exquisite meal, an expense he could afford without kids in college.
They’d walked halfway to Darryl’s car, parked just past Thirty-Fifth Street on Prospect, when Berg realized they’d left the bottle of Barolo at the restaurant. Despite Jackson’s protests over not having paid for the wine, he’d convinced his friend to take the rest of the bottle back to his hotel.
“I forgot the wine,” said Berg. “I’ll be right back.”
“Don’t go back and get it on my behalf,” said Jackson.
One way or the other, he was leaving it with Jackson. Money really wasn’t an issue for Berg, but the thought of leaving fifty dollars of wine behind didn’t sit well with him.
“You’re not getting out of taking the wine,” Berg insisted.
Jackson held up his hands. “I wasn’t trying. You don’t have to twist my arm too tightly. I’ll pull the car up. See you in a few.”
“Yep,” said Berg, turning on the red brick sidewalk and heading back toward the restaurant.
The streets were quiet, mostly Georgetown students moving from friends’ apartments or returning from happy hour at one of several dozen bars or nightclubs within easy walking distance of the university. The closer to the weekend, the more hectic and chaotic the streets would get. He reached Thirty-Sixth Street, the restaurant’s entrance visible just past an annoyingly oversized black Suburban blocking his way. The SUV stayed in place, the driver’s silhouette barely visible through the tinted glass. He waited a few moments, deciding to walk behind the vehicle.
Some self-important asshole in the back was no doubt distracting the driver. Even the most modest homes in Georgetown often housed diplomats, politicians, or generationally wealthy families. None of whom cared the slightest about a man on a mission to retrieve fifty dollars’ worth of Italian wine.
The Suburban’s rear cargo doors sprang open, unleashing a blur of darkly dressed figures wearing ski masks. Before Berg could react, a hood was jammed over his head, turning his view pitch black. He pulled fruitlessly hard against the strong hands gripping his arms. A quick sideward jab from his right foot connected with something solid, producing a snap and an agonized groan. The grip on his right arm instantly tightened, his attacker’s weight pulling Berg toward the street.
Berg’s body locked in place, an incredible pain radiating from his stomach. The pain continued, along with an inability to voluntarily move. All he could do was fall to his knees. When his knees hit the pavement, he was lifted and pulled into the back of the Suburban by multiple hands. He heard the doors slam shut and somebody yell, “Let’s go!” The Suburban lurched forward.
Despite the residual pain and the oversized man literally sitting on him in the rear cargo compartment, he had enough mental clarity to determine that they had turned left, heading in Darryl’s direction. Berg genuinely hoped he hadn’t inadvertently killed his friend by inviting him to dinner.
“What about the other one?” said a voice.
“Negative. Get us out of here. I guarantee we had a witness or two,” replied a voice from the front of the SUV.
A few seconds later, the team leader spoke again.
“Scorpion, this is Stinger. Grab successful. Primary target undamaged. No collateral business.”
Undamaged?
He didn’t like the sound of being delivered undamaged. That implied someone else wanted to damage him.
“Possible street-level, passerby detection. No cameras in vicinity.”
Jesus. How long had they been watching and waiting for the perfect opportunity? He couldn’t have set it up better for them unless he’d opened one of the rear passenger doors and invited himself inside.
“Copy that. We’re about thirty minutes out,” said the voice.
Thirty minutes until his status would most likely change from undamaged to damaged. Very damaged. He hoped Jackson acted fast. His friend had nearly died laughing when Berg explained the details of the insurance policy he had arranged. The laughing stopped when he explained the steps and passed along the information Jackson needed if he disappeared.
Berg wasn’t sure if he stopped laughing because he took it seriously, or he’d written Berg off as clinically paranoid. Either way, he prayed that Jackson hadn’t tossed the information in the trash. Karl Berg hadn’t been grabbed for a stern “talking to” by True America goons. He was ultimately headed for permanent retirement, in a crematorium, plastic tub of acid, or tied to a block of concrete in the middle of the Chesapeake Bay. In his contorted, pretzel-like position, he managed to inch one of his hands along his right shin. It was all in Jackson’s hands now.