A Spoiled Game: A Jack Swift Case

By Carl Knauf

The most prized diamonds in the world aren't just a representation of flawless beauty, they also serve as an untraceable form of payment. After international criminal Jack Swift's heist for the Hope Diamond is thwarted, he soon realizes he's in the pocket of genius radicals threatening to frame him for genocide--unless he follows their orders.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Universal Butterfly
• Release date: May 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9780578292335

Book preview

TRAVELOGUE

The metro train sped through its usual tunnel, the passengers aboard just as routine as its schedule. A few random irregulars and drifters dotted the crowd of black and dark blue suits, but plenty of distance was given between familiar groupings and unrecognizable visitors.

Jack Swift sat and leant against the dirty plastic. People gave him his space, unimpressed with his tight tattered jeans, faded baseball tee, and disheveled hair and beard. He glared past the smudges on the glass in search of the emotions he displaced, counting each dim light that rhythmically guided the train to its next stop. He caught the eye of a young woman on her phone eager to reach the office and share what gossip was streaming in her ear. He smirked and nodded. She shifted her eyes up and down before turning, disgusted.

As the cars emerged in front of a crowded platform, like a bullet from the black, the rails screeched to a halt, drowning out the muffled announcement on the old speaker. Black and navy was replaced with more of the same as the passengers exiting rushed past museum and event posters, sleeping vagrants, and annoying buskers.

Swift smiled. Beggars, the bunch of them. One for survival, the other for negotiations, both masking their shame. He watched the woman as she hurried out of sight with her phone still glued to her ear, calves flexing beneath the hem of her skirt, eyes disregarding anyone she considered beneath her. Good riddance, my dear. May your arguments be taken seriously.

He earned a few suspicious glares but motioned his hand to assure his intentions were proper. Just wishing my friend well. This place is a different animal than what I’m used to.

There was no response except for a few breathy scoffs. A woman with pale skin under colorful permanent sleeves entered the car just before the doors closed. Dark red highlights rested just atop thick black frames with very thin lenses. The strap of her messenger bag filled the valley that divided the Avengers on her white tee. She plopped her faded black jeans next to Swift in the outcast waiting area.

Nice shirt, Swift said.

Uninterested, the woman offered a polite simper before diving into her graphic novel.

He said, ‘The Korvac Saga.’ That’s a good one. The power of being human.

Unexpectedly impressed, she asked, You know the Avengers?

The crappy clothes and hair didn’t give it away?

She giggled and tucked her stray sleek strands behind her ear.

Swift reached into his leather courier and removed a gem mint comic protected by a sturdy plastic. You remind me of someone. Natalia Romanova… or Natasha Romanoff as most know her.

Black Widow. I’m flattered.

As you should be. Check this out. Swift presented Tales of Suspense #52.

Amazed, the woman flexed her knowledge. Her first appearance. May I touch it?

He handed her the comic. By all means.

She handled it as if it was an infant, inspecting each corner and admiring the art. This is priceless.

Unfortunately, everything has a price, especially when fallen on hard times. I’m on my way to sell it.

Childishly distraught, she pleaded, pressing the plastic against her chest, No, you can’t!

I’ll tell you what; it looks like we may be heading to the same place. Perhaps you can convince me on the way.

Fantom Comics?

That’s the spot.

She pressed her tongue against her top front teeth. I can probably argue a case. We’re in D.C. after all.

D.C.? I thought you were a Marvel fan.

She held her hand to her mouth and laughed at the innocent wit. The two bantered until the Red Line arrived at the next stop. They navigated through the sea of gloomy conformity and got off at Dupont Circle. The conversation continued up the escalator and onto the street. Swift and his new companion arrived at Fantom Comics and she led him in with the strut of a regular—or a poised woman among the usual boyish clientele and staff.

Anna, the clerk called with a squeak in his voice, so nice to see you. He noticed Swift and his tone shifted somewhere between disappointment and an attempt at intimidation. And you brought a friend.

Excited, she announced, Yeah, this is…

Swift interrupted the introduction, approaching the clerk with his hand extended, Michael… Michael Hickis.

The worker fidgeted with the loose open flannel draping over his busy superhero shirt. Nice to meet you, Michael. They shook hands. What are you a fan of?

Marvel, primarily.

Yes, the movies. The clerk snorted. "They’ve certainly brought out many fans."

His co-worker at the other end of the glass counter snickered, his belly and frizzy strands bouncing, his metal chair struggling to keep balance.

Maybe you can help me out with something.

Anna looked at Swift, begging him not to make the transaction with her pouty gaze.

He lifted his hand away from his bag, and asked, I’m looking for a certain comic.

The beginner bin is in the back, the hefty worker joked from a distance.

Swift surprised the two, saying, Actually, maybe something more gem mint, like in that fancy display behind you. I’m obsessed with flawless objects—and flawed people. ‘Marvel Premiere #1.’ You know it?

Of course, the first appearance of the soul gems, the frailer clerk said. We have a mint copy, but it will run you close to $10,000.

Anna sent him a piercing glare while Swift noted, The record I believe was eight grand or so in June of ‘18. I hope you’re not trying to rip me off.

Oh, no, I’m not, I swear. Um, how about… $5,000?

What’s the grade?

The clerk checked his inventory on the computer. 9.7.

Still doesn’t seem fair, gem mint is $5,500, but I don’t want to waste any more of your time, and I have somewhere to be later. Swift retrieved a clamped wad of crisp bills from a zippered pocket and counted out $5,000. He handed the worker the money.

The other employee, no longer immersed in his app, waddled to the secure case against the wall and fetched the comic. He passed it along with a receipt to Swift who nodded his head, then smiled at Anna. The woman, skeptical but enchanted by the transaction, waved goodbye to her admirers and accompanied Swift out the door.

Anna said, When I didn’t think you should sell ‘Tales of Suspense,’ I didn’t mean buy another one! I thought you said you’d fallen on hard times.

Hard times aren't always about finances. What are your plans now?

I’m suddenly free, it appears.

Good. How about we check out the Smithsonian? He held up his new issue. There’s a wonderful display of gems—some rocks in the good old U.S of A.

Sure. She smiled. It’s about a 40-minute walk, 10-minute cab.

I prefer the company of the former. He cocked his elbow to the side. "Anna, or should I say, Natasha."

Michael. She accepted his invitation by sliding her arm through his.

1

Swift and Anna shuffled out the Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History. They clenched hands and stood stiff in their gait, trying to avoid eye contact with any guard or fellow visitor. The two rushed down the front steps of the building while attempting to confine their guilty giggles until reaching the sidewalk and turning the corner.

Anna pressed Swift against the building, and then her lips against his. Short of breath, she seductively confessed, I never thought I could learn so much in a museum.

And I never thought security would be so oblivious, Swift said.

She chuckled and kissed him once more.

I’m running a tad late, but it was worth the delay. Swift checked his watch before fetching a pen and the receipt he was given at Fantom Comics. Jotting down his number, he said, "Give me a call if you ever want to take another tour, Natasha." He winked and gave Anna a kiss on the cheek.

She held the receipt as if she just found the last golden ticket to the chocolate factory. Will do, Michael.

Swift walked off. Before turning onto Constitution Avenue, he glanced back at Anna who found her gift while storing away his number. She removed Tales of Suspense #52 and Marvel Premiere #1 from the main pocket of her bag. Before she could send her shocked stare of glee Swift’s way, he had already vanished from sight.

He turned onto 12th Avenue, and before dropping down the Federal Triangle metro stop, he huffed at the Trump International Hotel. Man, that was some sort of crazy.

Swift took the Blue Line to Foggy Bottom, and then the short 12-minute walk to the Watergate Hotel.

Man, this was some sort of crazy as well.

As he walked through the spotless lobby, past spiraling silver pillars and wavy golden walls, he observed, This is rather fitting.

The hotel clerk raised his brow, unimpressed, and smugly asked, Checking in?

Swift approached the sleek desk. Yes. That’s a nice suit, I must say. I feel quite underdressed, been traveling all day, you know.

Yes, sir, the clerk said with little interest and much doubt. Name, please.

Hickis, Michael Hickis.

After a few exaggerated taps on the keyboard, he verified, Here you are, Mr. Hickis. Just the one night?

I believe that’s all I’ll need.

And it looks like you prepaid. He handed Swift his room keys. Enjoy your stay, and let us know if you need anything. The clerk offered a fake smile.

Thanks. Don’t worry; you won’t even know I’m here.

Swift snatched the key, brushed shoulders with history and political enthusiasts, visitors, and networking lawyers, and took the elevator to his floor. Inside the room, he bolted the door and unpacked his own black suit, ropes and hooks, and tiny flasks. After a thorough prep and a flowing stretch, he poured himself a neat two fingers and enjoyed the darkening view over the Potomac River from his balcony.

This feels too easy. What a beautiful country.

Swift sat and placed his feet on the railing and drafted a message on his cell phone. An unsaved number popped up on the screen. He knew it was Anna and his thumb quivered between answering and ignoring the call. For a moment, the vulnerability of loneliness widened, but soon subsided with the realization that there was work to be done. Swift swiped the red circle with guilt and sorrow. 

He finished his note and sent the email. Damn crazy, but beautiful.

2

Though it has been a tumultuous year, crime didn’t take a break, Charles Fleming said to the Interpol staff. With that being said, you all have done a fantastic job, but there’s one detective who truly went above what was asked. We wouldn’t have had such a successful close rate if it wasn’t for Detective Iris Augusta, and that’s why we’ve gathered here today to celebrate her promotion to assistant director. He raised his glass, and the staff followed suit. To Augusta, you’ve earned this moment.

To Augusta! the staff choired and collectively took a sip of their respective drinks.

Iris Augusta blushed and felt the pressure to say a few words. Thank you so much, everyone. I couldn’t have come this far without the help of each and every one of you, especially my partner, Detective Beckett. She looked at Jim Beckett and he returned a nod and slight tip of his whiskey. I’ve learned so much, and I look forward to learning more while making the world as safe as we can make it. She held her glass in the air and shouted, Cheers, this one’s on Charlie!

Cheers! the mob hailed.

Fleming added, "And this is the only one on Interpol’s tab, by the way. We’re not paying you to get drunk, but you’re allowed to do so on your own dime."

Stop being such a cheap-ass, Charlie! Beckett joked and the crowd laughed. That’s okay, though, Augusta can get the next one!

The assembly laughed again before transitioning into smaller conversations. The bar was tiny enough without the entire New York Interpol staff crammed on the sticky floor between pub tables and stools that lined the long counter. Beckett and Augusta found an open table and seized the tall chairs. They leant against the dark wood between windows and let the dust of light finish its drop behind the soaring buildings.

Beckett peeked outside and said, The sun always sets early in the city. You better get everyone that round before happy hour ends.

Thanks for the tip. Got any more for a new assistant director, partner? Augusta asked, letting the responsibilities of her new role pile on her shoulders and push her into a slouch.

Don’t be vulnerable, people always take advantage of the vulnerable, especially criminals. You can start by sitting up straight.

She smirked and adjusted her bearing. You mean criminals like Jack?

And you can stop thinking about Jack, Beckett said, pointing a finger while keeping the rest of his grip around his glass.

And when will you?

A chortle escaped through Beckett’s nose. He finished the rest of his whiskey in one gulp. I think I’m ready for that round you owe us.

Augusta finished her drink as well and glanced at the bartender, ordering two more with a simple shake of her empty. She turned back to Beckett. In all seriousness, thanks for showing me the ropes. You’ve meant a lot to me.

Whoa, whoa, whoa, now, Beckett held up his hand. No vulnerability… but, you’re welcome. I’m proud of you.

Augusta smiled as an alert dinged from each of their cell phones. They checked the message. It read:

The Gang,

As I watch the sunset here, I remember it goes down earlier in the city, so I thought I would reach out before the happiness of Toodles’ party flirts with being forgotten. Congratulations on the promotion, my dear! You’re one of good character and flawless edges. Unfortunately, I can’t attend; I have work tonight like many of the black and blue suits that network in the hotel bar stories below. I prefer the latter style if I had a preference, and a much smaller gathering, but I don’t want to get too close because eavesdropping hasn’t had the best ending in this place.

And whatever your progress, I know you’ll be fine.

Warm Regards,

Jerry

Beckett said, So much for not thinking about him. And here I was hoping for a fun, not-so-quiet night.

Fleming scooted through his coworkers and placed his phone on the table. I assume you’ve read the email.

No, Charlie, we’ve just been screwing around on some app. Of course we saw the email. Iris here can’t stop thinking about Jack.

Oh, give me a break, Jim, Augusta responded. I’ve never seen a grown man be more obsessed with another grown man as you are with him.

There’s the Iris I know and love. I knew that soft shit you were saying early was all for show.

Fleming interrupted their banter, Any ideas of where he could be?

Yeah, Jim answered, I think he’s right down the coast in D.C.

How do you figure?

Sun going down around the same time, black and blue suits, networking in bars. I’m picturing nothing other than a swarm of lawyers. And he may have booked a room at the Watergate from his little ‘eavesdropping’ comment.

What about the song?

I know it. ‘I Hope You’re Happy’ by Blue October, Augusta said.

Fleming observed, I didn’t picture you as an emo kid.

And I didn’t picture you as a director who wastes time. Something’s going down tonight; he wouldn’t bait us like this if he knew we couldn’t get there in time.

Why is he in D.C.?

Beckett asked Augusta, Pull up the lyrics, would you?

Her eyes scrolled the screen, searching for a clue. Just a lot of hope and remembering.

Hope. We’ve heard that before from D.C. Wait a minute… he talks about you having a good character and flawless edges.

Fleming furthered, He’s paraphrasing a diamond in the rough.

Augusta thought out loud, Blue October… blue… the Hope Diamond! It’s on display at the Smithsonian. He must be after it.

Beckett agreed, It’s certainly in his price range. It must be worth hundreds of millions.

Augusta shot her stare at Fleming. We need to get down to D.C. now. Can we keep it quiet, though? That’s what he seems to want. We can’t make a scene, we have to catch him in the act or we’ll lose him again like we did in Brooklyn.

It’s too time-sensitive and too big to go at it alone, plus we’re not in the business of giving criminals what they want. D.C. is probably prepared well enough for this.

Beckett snickered. Right. They got everything in order down there.

We can get there, but it’s not going to be quiet.

Beckett raised his fresh drink. Now we’re talking. He swallowed the copper in one swig.

Jim! Fleming scolded, I warned you about drinking on the job.

"Well, Charlie, we were already drinking before the job, and I can sober up on the plane."

Augusta downed her drink. Let’s move, director.

The two detectives rushed to the door. Fleming trailed, tugging at the receptionist to follow in order to make arrangements. He announced to the staff as they scurried outside, One more on me, folks. Cheers!

Cheers! the group sang.

3

The Interpol jet soared south. Augusta studied a map of the Smithsonian’s exhibits as well as the metro lines and historic surroundings. Fleming sat next to her and conversed with his CIA contact over the phone, and Beckett breathed heavily with his eyes closed across from the two.

Turbulence jolted Beckett to coherency. He cleared his throat and brushed his tongue around his gums.

Augusta said without straying from her work, Glad you could offer some input finally.

You’re the big shot now, all you had to do was delegate, Beckett responded.

It’s hard to get a word in over your snoring.

Maybe that’s why I do it.

She looked at him and wrinkled her nose, arguing, You can’t purposely snore when you’re sleeping. That makes no sense.

Fleming interjected, Okay, you two, I’ve spoken to the intelligence director at the CIA. We’re going to meet with him and his team before making any move.

Augusta said, I don’t think that’s a good idea, sir. I think Swift wants us to keep this quiet.

Yeah, Charlie, Beckett concurred.

Fleming countered, Of course he wants us to keep it quiet so he can escape easier. Unfortunately, this is not our jurisdiction now. Director Anderson has made that clear. He glanced out the window, spying sparkles of lights in the black below. It appears we’re almost there, so I suggest you both get prepared so we can catch Swift. We have little time to waste and no room for mistakes.

It won’t matter, Beckett said with pessimism, gazing at the same city specks. He’s already blended in just fine.

***

The elevator doors glided open and Swift stepped onto the glossy floor with his brown wingtips, his luggage rolling in tow. He swaggered in a slim royal blue suit—a slight variation from the conformism in the lobby and bar, but one that was catching. The front desk clerk from earlier, though tiring on the latter end of a double shift, gave him a polite smile as if he was a different guest.

A bar patron consumed Swift’s peripheral. The man was at the counter, hunched over a dark pint and staring at nothing in particular with a lot on his mind. He had a solid build, and with the combination of a shaved head and stubble covering nicks and scars on his tawny mug, he was left alone. Swift knew he wasn’t there to network, however.

He noticed a Celtic cross tattoo climbing up the man’s neck from under the collar. Well, if it isn’t Oscar O’Brien. I find it quite suspicious you’re here. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you later, so I may as well relish the challenge.

Swift entered the bar area and rested one hip on a stool at the other end of the counter.

The bartender asked, What can I get you, sir?

Thank you. A finger of your finest whiskey, and also give my unsavory comrade at the opposite end there another of those dark heavy stouts.

Yes, of course, sir.

Thank you. Swift stared at Oscar O’Brien, his brute criminal rival. The grubby gentleman locked in his gaze in response.

The server placed a fresh pint in front of O’Brien who didn’t bother to even offer a nod. His attention was dedicated to his foe. A whiskey glass filled just above the bottom emerged next to Swift.

Thank you, he said, and placed a few crisp bills on the slick top. No change needed.

I appreciate that, sir. Thank you.

Swift extended his drink toward O’Brien who gulped the remainder of his beer without letting his eyes move, not even a blink to savor the taste. He sneered, revealing a gold tooth on the top line. Swift consumed the smooth whiskey, appreciating the notes and slight burn. He placed the glass near the edge of the bartender’s side and left the bar. 

Swift shuffled out the front entrance. It was dark out and most businesses were shutting down for the evening, which meant last call would soon put O’Brien back on his tail. He trekked to the Foggy Bottom stop and took the last Blue Line to Federal Triangle. He found himself gazing at the passing shadows as the train raced through the tunnel, thinking of Anna, thinking of diamonds. The passenger car was quiet for the short duration, and the platform was empty except for a few vagabonds resting under newspaper sheets and thick coat blankets.

He ascended to the streets which were less busy than the underground. The nation’s capital was heavy in the silent darkness. Swift could feel the stone judgment flowing from the Mall, but found validation in the hypocrisy that filters from the Capitol and White House. He arrived at the Smithsonian for his second visit of the day, and removed his blue outfit for a black tactical suit, blending in with the night. With vials resting securely in his tight pockets and a thin bag strapped around both shoulders, he shot a grappling hook to the top of the building and scaled the wall. Using his tablet, he hacked into the surveillance system and disarmed most security measures.

***

Augusta, Beckett, and Fleming were escorted from the airport to CIA headquarters in Langley. Director William Anderson and a few trusted staff members and officers sat opposite the three, weighing down one side of the long conference table. Anderson leaned in from his chair, his hands folded on the wood top, his stare intense off a walnut face.

Anderson